"He took us up river afterwards," said Crosby.

"He took Ridgeford out too," said Sloan, "to collect it."

"And that Mr. Jensen from the museum. Don't forget him."

"I haven't," said Sloan drily. "And I haven't forgotten The Clarembald either."

"He could have seen the boathouse doors, too," said Crosby. "We did."

"He did see Elizabeth Busby by the grave," said Sloan. "She said so."

"But," reiterated Crosby, "Boiler didn't know that the man in the water..."

"Peter Hinton," said Sloan with conviction. He was sure of that now.

"Peter Hinton then had been pushed over the edge of somewhere, did he, so what was there for him to get so excited about?"

"Your guess, Crosby," said Sloan solemnly, "is as good as mine."

Interviewing Mrs. Boiler had been an unrewarding business in every way, and now Sloan and Crosby were with Mrs. Veronica f.e.c.kler. It was impossible to tell whether she knew that she was being asked to provide an alibi for a man.

"Yesterday evening?" she said vaguely. "Yes, Mr. Mundill was here yesterday evening."

Detective Constable Crosby made a note.

"He came down after tea," she said.

"I see, madam."

Sloan was favoured with a charming smile. She was a personable woman and she knew it. "To measure up my cottage, you know."

"So we gather, madam."

She sketched an outline with a graceful hand. "I need another room building on. Frank-Mr. Mundill-he's an architect, you know..."

"Yes, madam." That much Sloan did know by now. Of the fire station, of the junior school, of Alec Manton's farmhouse and of a multi-storey car park.

And a multi-storey car park.

That was funny.

Frank Mundill hadn't mentioned that to Sloan. It had been Inspector Harpe who had told him about that multistorey car park. Not Mundill. Even though he had got an award for designing it.

Mrs. f.e.c.kler said, "He's going to do my extension for me."

"How long was he with you, madam?" A thought was beginning to burgeon in Sloan's mind.

"Until just before supper." She wasn't the sort of woman who frowned but she did allow herself a tiny pucker of the forehead. "He left about half past seven. Is it important?"

It was strange, decided Elizabeth Busby, how heavy one's body could feel. She had almost to drag one leaden foot after the other. And yet she weighed the same-rather less, if anything-as she had done the day before.

When the inspector had left the house to go back to the shed she tidied away the cleaning things that she had brought out into the hall. There would be no more work done in Collerton House that day. She went into the kitchen and set about making coffee. That, at least, would be something useful to do and all those men out there would be glad of something to drink.

Time-even the most leaden-footed time-does eventually pa.s.s. And in the end the body of Horace Boiler was borne away, the tumult and the shouting died and the photographers and the police-the captains and the kings-departed.

Frank Mundill came back indoors looking years older. "I'll be in my office," he said briefly, going upstairs.

She nodded. There suddenly didn't seem anything to say any more. She went and sat in the window-seat, her shoulders hunched up and unable to decide whether or not to take the tablets Dr. Tebot had left for her. He really did look as if a frock coat would have suited him, but he had been kind.

Even the hunching on the window-seat seemed symbolic. There was no leisurely resting in a chair for her today while she waited for Inspector Sloan to come back. The inspector had hinted-ever so delicately-but hinted all the same that he might have some more news for her later on and that he would return if he had.

"About Horace Boiler?" she had asked.

"Not about Horace," he had replied.

Now she understood why Dante had had a place called Limbo in his portrayal of h.e.l.l...

It was quite a long time after that that she picked up the morning paper. It had been lying unregarded on the hall table since it had been delivered. It wasn't that she wanted to read it particularly, just that after a certain length of time she needed to do something with her hands. Not her head. That didn't take in any of what she was reading. Not at first, that is.

There is a certain state of alertness rejoicing in the grand name of thematic apperception which describes the attraction to eye and ear of items that the owner of that eye and ear is interested in. It explained how it was that Elizabeth Busby was able to read almost the whole paper without taking any of it in at all-until, that is, she turned to that page of the daily paper which dealt in-among other things-short items of news from the sale rooms.

"Bonington Sells Well" ran the headline.

"This previously known beach scene," ran the text underneath it, "thought to be of the Picardy coast and authenticated as being by Richard Parkes Bonington (1802-28), fetched the top price in a sale of nineteenth-century water-colours yesterday..."

Above the report was an ill.u.s.tration of the painting. It was the same one that had hung over the bed in the spare bedroom of Collerton House as long as Elizabeth could remember. It was the same one that Frank Mundill had said that Peter Hinton had asked for and been given.

She heard the tiniest sound on the stair and looked up quickly. Frank Mundill was standing there.

"Frank," she said at once, "you know that picture that Peter took..."

"What about it?" he said.

"It wasn't by Grandfather at all. Look!" She pointed to the newspaper. "It's here in the paper."

He strode over. "Let me see."

"There's a picture of it. It was worth a lot of money."

He said, "Well, it stands to reason that your grandfather had some good paintings, doesn't it? To copy."

That wasn't what was bothering Elizabeth. "Peter asked for it, you said."

Mundill frowned. "He did. It's the same one all right. Look, Elizabeth, I think there's an explanation for all this but there's something I would have to show you first."

"He hasn't been seen," she said dully. "The police said so. And they've asked me for a photograph."

"Come along with me," said Mundill. "I want you to see something. Something to do with Peter."

"There's no one here," said Detective Constable Crosby. "Nonsense, man. Try again."

"I've tried," insisted Crosby. "The front door and the back. There's no answer."

"Mundill's car..."

"Not in the garage," said Crosby.

Detective Inspector Sloan took a swift look round the outside of Collerton House. There was no sign of life there at all.

"They've gone," said Crosby superfluously.

"Where?" barked Sloan.

"And why?" added Crosby. "I thought they knew we were coming back."

"They did," said Sloan gravely.

"Something's happened then."

"But what?" Sloan scanned the blank windows of Collerton House as if they could provide him with an answer. "And where the devil have they gone?"

"The river?"

"Not by car," said Sloan, adding under his breath a brief orison about that. The River Calle was too near for comfort. He would rather conduct searches on dry ground... "No, they've gone somewhere by car. Get on to Control, Crosby, and get that car stopped."

Crosby picked up the hand microphone in the police car and gave his message. Seconds later it came back to him and to every other police car in the county. "Calling all cars, calling all cars... Attention to be given to a dark blue Ford Zephyr, registration number..."

"It may be too late," said Sloan, although he didn't know for what.

"If seen," chattered the speaker, "stop and detain for questioning."

Frank Mundill drove over Billing Bridge and then gently along the Berebury road. He was quite quiet and Elizabeth didn't press him into speech. He drove carefully, glancing now and then into his rear-view mirror. What he did-or did not-see there evidently caused him a certain amount of satisfaction because he went on driving with unimpaired concentration.

She tried once to draw him out about the picture.

"Wait and see," he said.

"Where are we going?" she asked presently. .

"Berebury," was all he said to that.

She tried once more to draw him out about the picture. "All in good time, my dear."

Thus they came to Berebury. Rea.s.sured by yet another glance in his rear-view mirror, Frank Mundill steered the car towards the centre of the town.

"Frank, I don't understand..."

"You will. I've just got to park the car. It won't be difficult. It's early closing day."

He made for the multi-storey car park. Entrance was by ticket from a machine. He took the ticket and the entrance barrier automatically rose to let them through. He placed the ticket on the dashboard and nosed the car up to the first level. There were plenty of parking s.p.a.ces there but he did not stop. Nor at the second level. It being a quiet afternoon there were no cars at all above the third level. The fourth level was empty too.

"Frank, where are we going? Why are we going right to the top? You must tell me."

"Upward and ever onward," he said, a smile playing on his lips now.

The car swept round the elliptical corner at the end of the building and up onto the highest level of all.

"Frank..."

"Soon be there," he said, accelerating. There were no other cars in sight now-just the bare ramps and parking places. He gave a swift tug at the steering wheel and soon they were in the open air again on the very top of the car park. He pulled the car neatly into a parking bay and got out.

Elizabeth followed him.

"This way," he said. "Do you know that on a clear day you can see Calleford?"

"I don't want to see Calleford," she said. "I want to know why the picture you said Peter wanted has been sold."

"You shall," he said softly. "You shall know everything soon. But first come this way..."

He walked away from the edge of the car park to the very centre.

"Follow me, Elizabeth. I designed this place, remember. I know what to show you..."

"Faster," said Sloan between gritted teeth.

Crosby changed up through the gears with demonic speed. "Which way?"

"Berebury," said Sloan. There was just the one hope that he was right about that.

The constable raced the car through the gates of Collerton House. With dressage and horses it was walk, trot, canter. With a souped-up police car it was a straightforward gallop from a standing start.

"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall," said Crosby. "Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall."

"Let's hope that we find the right wall," said Sloan tersely.

Crosby concentrated on keeping one very fast car on the road. He took Billing Bridge faster than it had ever been taken before, narrowly avoiding caroming off the upper reaches of one of its stanchions.

"The car park in Berebury," said Sloan in a sort of incantation. "The multi-storey car park. It must be."

"What about it?" asked Crosby, cutting round a milk-float. The milkman was used to imprecations from faster drivers but not to being overtaken at that speed.

"It's the right height," said Sloan.

"So are a lot of things," said Crosby, crouching over the wheel as if he were a racing driver but in fact looking more like Jehu than any denizen of the race-track.

"Mundill designed it," said Sloan. "Two spirals round a central well. Come on, man, get a move on."

Crosby put his foot down still farther and the car ate up the miles into Berebury. They shot through the main street and swung round into the entrance of the car park. It did nothing for Sloan's blood pressure that they had to pause at the entrance like any shopping housewife to collect a ticket and allow the automatic barrier to rise.