Sloan was glad to hear it. If there was one thing that the law had not really been able to bend its mind round yet, it was s.e.x reversal.

"Can you eat it?" asked Detective Constable Crosby.

Miss Collins gave a hortatory cough while Sloan had to agree to himself that food did come a close second to s.e.x most of the time. She shook her head and said, "Its common name of freshwater shrimp is a complete misnomer."

In the end it was Sloan who cut the cackle and got down to the horses. "What you're trying to tell us, miss, is that this... this... whatever it is... is a freshwater species, not a sea one."

"That's what I said, Inspector," she agreed patiently. "Gammarus pulex can't live in sea water and that's what makes it a good biological indicator."

"So," said Sloan slowly and carefully, "the body didn't come in from the sea."

"I don't know about the body," said the biologist with precision, "but I can a.s.sure you that Gammarus pulex didn't."

"Are you telling me," asked Sloan, anxious to have at least one thing clear in his mind, "that it-this thing here-would have died in sea water then?"

"I am," she said with all the lack of equivocation of the true scientist on sound territory covered by natural laws.

A little hush fell in the laboratory.

Then Sloan said heavily, "We'd better get our best feet forward then, hadn't we?"

Perhaps in their own way policemen were amphipods too.

Or amphiplods.

Gammarus pulex scuttled sideways across the bottom of the gla.s.s vessel as he spoke.

He'd have to prise Crosby away from that jar if he watched it much longer. He was practically mesmerized by it as it was.

"We'll have to go up river," Sloan announced to n.o.body in particular. He turned. "Come along, Crosby."

Detective Constable Crosby straightened up at last. "We might find some Dead Man's Fingers, too, sir, mightn't we?"

"Alcyonium digitatum," said Dr. Dabbe.

"Not in fresh water," said Miss Collins promptly. "Dead Man's Fingers are animals colonial that like the sea-sh.o.r.e."

Sloan didn't say anything at all.

Police Constable Brian Ridgeford was confused. He had duly reported the finding of the ship's bell to Berebury Police Station and had in fact brought it back to his home with him. Home in the case of a country constable was synonymous with place of work. His wife was less than enchanted when he set the bell down on the kitchen table.

"Take that out to the shed," commanded Mrs. Ridgeford immediately.

Ridgeford picked it up again.

"What is it anyway?" she asked. "It looks like a bell to me."

"It is a bell," he said. That sounded like one of those childhood conundrums that came in Christmas crackers.

Question: When is a door not a door?

Answer: When it's ajar.

When was a bell not a bell?

When it was treasure trove. Or was it only that when it-whatever it was-had been hidden by the original owner with the intention of coming back for it? Not lost at sea. He would have to look that up. He felt a little self-conscious anyway about using the words "treasure trove" to his wife.

"It's a ship's bell," he said lamely.

"I can see that."

"It's stolen property, too, I think." He cleared his throat and added conscientiously, "Although I don't rightly know about that for sure." Unfortunately when he'd telephoned the police station he'd been put through to Superintendent Leeyes. This had compounded his confusion.

"Dirty old thing," she said, giving it a closer look.

"I think it could be lagan as well."

"I don't care what it is, I'm not having anything like that in my clean kitchen." She looked up suspiciously. "What's lagan anyway?"

"Goods or wreckage lying on the bed of the sea."

She sniffed. "I'm still not having it in here."

"Mind you," he said carefully, "in law things aren't always what they seem." Being in the police force gave a man a different view of the legal system. "In law an oyster is a wild animal."

"Get away with you, Brian Ridgeford."

"It's true. A judge said so."

"Oh, a judge." Brenda Ridgeford hadn't been a policeman's wife for very long, but long enough to be critical of judges and their judgements.

"Sat for a day in court they did to decide."

"The law's an a.s.s, then," she giggled.

"An a.s.s is a domestic animal," said her husband promptly.

She gave him a very sly look indeed. "So's a wife or have you forgotten?"

In the nature of things it was a little while before the ship's bell was moved out to the shed and Brian Ridgeford was able to concentrate on his duties again. These centred on finding the two boys who had taken the bell into the ship's-chandler in Edsway.

To Mrs. Hopton, "boy" was a species not an individual.

Of their age she had been uncertain.

Of their appearance she could tell him nothing beyond that they had been scruffy-but then these days all boys were scruffy, weren't they?

But she was convinced and Hopton-even with him being the way he was-agreed with her here-that they had been up to no good.

On being pressed to describe them she had advanced the view that one had been taller than the other.

Brian Ridgeford had received this gem of observation in silence.

Mrs. Hopton had cogitated still further and eventually disgorged the fact that one of them had called the other "Terry."

As he picked up his helmet and made for the door, Constable Ridgeford reflected that it wasn't a lot to go on. On the other hand with Jack the Ripper they hadn't even had a name.

"The boathouse?" said Frank Mundill when Elizabeth Busby met him in the hall.

"You'd better go down and have a look," she said, putting her flower trug down on the settle.

"What about the boat? Has that gone?"

"I didn't look inside..." Her hands fell helplessly to her sides. "I'm sorry, Frank. I should have done, shouldn't I? The trouble is that I'm still not thinking straight."

"Don't worry." He gave a jerky nod. "I'll go down there now and see what's happened."

"Anyway," recollected Elizabeth, pulling herself together with an effort, "I didn't have a key to the little door on the garden side."

He turned to the drawer in the hall table over which hung Richard Camming's venture into the style of David Allan, the Scottish Hogarth. "That should be here somewhere." He rummaged about until he found it. "Here we are."

"I couldn't see if there was a lot of damage," said Elizabeth.

He essayed a small smile. "Let's hope the boat's all right, anyway. Your father likes his fishing, doesn't he?"

"He'll be looking forward to it," she said. That was quite true. Her father would go straight down to the river with rod and line as soon as he arrived.

In the end Elizabeth walked down through the grounds of Collerton House to the river's edge with him.

"Vandals," Frank Mundill said bitterly, regarding the damaged doors from the river bank. "They must have taken a bar to the lock."

Elizabeth nodded.

"Someone had a go at it last year, too, when we were at my sister's," he said. "I've already had it repaired once."

"I remember," she said, although what she chiefly remembered about the visits of Frank and Celia Mundill to Calleford had been that this year's one had marked the beginning of her aunt's last illness. Frank Mundill's sister was married to a doctor in single-handed general practice there. The architect and his wife Celia had made a habit over the years at each Easter of looking after a loc.u.m tenens for the Calleford couple while the doctor and his wife had a well-earned holiday. Celia Mundill hadn't been well then-that was when she had had a really bad attack of stomach pain and, vomiting, though it hadn't been her first. Then she'd had an X-ray at Calleford Hospital. She'd gone steadily downhill after that...

"Let's go inside," said Mundill.

He unlocked the landward doors of the boathouse and led the way in. His footsteps echoed eerily on the hardstanding inside while the water lapped at its edge. The only light came from a small fan light and the open doors. There was quite enough light though in which to see that the boat was gone.

"Thieves as well as vandals," said Mundill, regarding the empty water.

"Nothing's safe these days, is it?" commented Elizabeth Busby, conscious even as she said it that the remark was both trite and beyond her years. She must be careful. At this rate she'd be old before her time.

"And where do you suppose the fishing boat's got to?" asked Mundill.

"Edsway?" she suggested.

"More likely the open sea," he said gloomily.

"Unless it's fetched up on Billy's Finger."

"We'd have heard," he said.

"So we would."

"No," he said, shaking his head, "we shan't see that boat again."

"Pity."

"Yes," he said, "your father won't be pleased." He sighed. "And neither will the insurance company."

Her eyes turned automatically to the walls of the boat-house. Along them rested the family's collection of fishing rods. "Is there anything gone from there too?"

He looked up and then shook his head. "Doesn't look like it, does it? No, I daresay the boat went for a joy ride."

"When?" She very nearly added "before or after," but she stopped herself in time. In her mind she was still dating everything that happened as before or after that dreadful week of the death of her aunt and the departure of Peter Hinton.

Frank Mundill shook his head yet again. "I don't know when. I don't use the river path all that often. I usually go the other way."

"So do I."

He gave the boathouse a last look round. "There's not a lot that we can do about it now anyway. Come along back to the house and I'll ring the constable at Edsway. Not that that'll do a lot of good. Can't see the police being interested, can you?"

10.

To be hang'd with you.

What at this moment was interesting the police-the police as personified by Superintendent Leeyes, that is-was something quite different.

"Ridgeford rang in," said Leeyes to Detective Inspector Sloan across his office desk, "excited as a schoolgirl."

"What about?" It wouldn't do, of course. Sloan was agreed about that. Being as excited as anybody wouldn't do at all if Ridgeford was going to make a good policeman. Sometimes the very calm of the police officer was the only thing going for him in a really tight situation.

"The wreck off Marby," said Leeyes.