Savage was astounded. Connibear was thirty-five. How could he know what had happened to an unrelated family years before his birth? Even allowing for the curiosity of Gillicombe people, the Todds had made an enormous impact on the folk history of the place.

“But I thought that he bought the island,” Savage said. “ How did he manage that on a not very generous allowance?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of Charlie Todd, sir? He’s famous. He wrote children’s stories. Smashing stories they are, too. My kids love them. But he only became famous about ten years ago. Before then he had a peculiar life-style. I met him once in a pub. I was only a youngster and I thought he was a real character. Every winter he worked as Father Christmas in one of the big London stores. Then he would go to the Cold Research Council place for a few weeks. He had a friend with a smallholding in Cornwall and he’d go and help out there, until the school summer holidays, when he ran a Punch and Judy stall at St. Ives. Autumn was fruit picking in Kent, and then it was back to London for the season as Father Christmas.”

“But he settled here when he started writing stories?”

“I suppose so. He had a cottage down the Storr Valley. I think he still did his stint as Father Christmas. He told me that he loved that.”

“Who’s that?” Savage interrupted sharply. They were approaching the south end of the island. A figure was walking towards them, a scarf around his face to protect him from the blowing sand.

“It’ll be John Lansdown, the warden, I should think. He said that he would walk down to meet us. The route on to the island over the rocks is a bit tricky. He was afraid that we’d get the Land Rovers stuck.”

Savage said nothing.

John had found Elizabeth in the kitchen. He had still been shaking, but when he told her of Charlie’s murder, she had been calm, very practical. She had offered to tell the others the news of Charlie’s death, and had sent him out to meet the police. He had wanted Elizabeth to go with him, but she refused. She would ring the bell, as if for coffee, and when everyone was gathered in the common room, she would tell them. Then she would go out to meet George and tell him. She would be quite safe. She would feel better for telling George.

In the Land Rover Connibear introduced himself and his superior. Savage remained silent, but John was aware of him, and was nervous because of him. He pointed out the track. As they drove past the Wendy House he wondered if he should explain that Charlie had lived there, but somehow he felt unable to speak. He supposed that it was shock.

The Land Rovers stopped at the observatory, but Superintendent Savage went straight to the hide. He sent Mark and Nick back to the observatory. He was curt but not unfriendly. He smiled at them. He did not stay there long. In the hide there was not, after all, much for him to see or do. It was the time for the pathologist and the scene-of-crime team. In the cramped space of the hide he was only in the way, and he could feel that his restlessness and impatience irritated the other officers. The wind was still blowing hard as he walked back to the observatory. He pulled his mackintosh around him and was conscious of a deep, spontaneous happiness, followed immediately by guilt. By an effort of will he drove the guilt away. Why should he not enjoy the investigation? He had been trained for just this sort of case, and he had so little opportunity now to exercise his skill.