Once more he read through his notes, intending to add to them the details of the information gained that evening. As he sat at the small table in Peter’s bedroom he could hear the young people talking in the room below him and realized that they too would go without sleep. He read the cramped, precise writing of the notes, looked at the plans he had made, then set the paper aside with dissatisfaction. All the facts were important, but he felt, now, that he knew them by heart. He was sure that he was missing something vital, some connection, something which would give a new perspective on the major characters involved. Because he was sure now that he had met all the major characters. He had talked to the murderer.

He was sure that the person who had killed Tom and who had tried to kill Adam was someone he knew. But the details of time and place and opportunity had not helped. All the people he was considering as possible suspects had the opportunity of attacking Adam, and all except Cranshaw could have killed Tom French. Even the exclusion of Cranshaw depended only on Jack’s inconclusive evidence. He took a fresh sheet of paper and made a list of the people he meant to see the next day. He must see Terry. If Terry persisted with his story that he had seen nothing, George must talk to his landlady in the hope that she could get the truth from him. It was ludicrous that they had an eye witness but no information. He must talk to Bernard Cranshaw, whose instability was obvious, and who knew, George thought, more than he was telling. That evening, at the Windmill, George had felt that Cranshaw was hiding something. He would talk to Ella, to anyone who might have been out on the marsh, who might have seen Adam. And he would talk to Adam himself. He dreaded that interview and did not expect much from it. By now the boy would have had time to perfect his story.

It was light and he was very cold when he climbed into the big, soft bed next to Molly. Although he was cold he did not hold her. He was afraid of waking her. He lay straight, on his back, and slept only lightly, allowing his mind to continue its work. So when he woke he knew where Peter Littleton fitted into it all. He had made the vital connection.

The door was opened to them as soon as they knocked. Mrs. Black was a large woman. She wore a flowered apron over her dark clothes.

“You’ve come about Terry,” she said flatly.

“That’s right,” said George. He wasn’t surprised. The whole village must know about his inquiries by now.

“You’d better come in then.”

He was surprised by her lack of hospitality, at the resentment in her voice. She showed them into a spotless, cramped living room.

“Well,” she said. “Have you found him?”