“Well, lad,” said Savage, eyes bright with frantic, nervous energy. “What have they been doing while we’ve been out on that bloody island? Solved the case for us, have they?”

“Not quite, sir.”

Savage motioned Connibear to sit down, pushed the plate of sandwiches towards him.

“Go on then, lad. Tell me what they have been doing.”

“There’s a copy of the will, sir. That’s quite interesting.”

“Well?”

“The island, with all its buildings, the Land Rover and the dinghy that’s kept there goes to the Observatory Trust.”

“We knew that. Go on.”

“The remainder is to be divided between his nephew and niece, Jonathan Todd and Pamela Marshall.”

“How much is the remainder?”

“About £1000 in bank and building society accounts, and there’s a cottage towards the Storr Valley, which has been valued at about £30,000. He lived there before he bought the island, still used it in the winter and let it out to holidaymakers in the summer.”

“So Pamela Marshall was lying. Or could she really not have known what was in the will? Did the rest of the family know the contents of it?”

“Albert, the old man, did. I don’t know that they’ve spoken to the rest of the family.”

“Well, they should have done. Is there anything else?”

“They’ve checked Charlie Todd’s movements in that week when he was off the island. He was up staying with those young people with the narrowboat in the Midlands. He promised them the moon, apparently. I gather that they thought he was just a bit of a loony. They didn’t think that he would really come up with the goods. They were quite surprised to know that he really meant it.”

“He didn’t seem worried, frightened at all?”

“Quite the opposite, sir. Very enthusiastic. They say he enjoyed every minute.”

“When can we expect to hear from forensic?”

“Preliminary report first thing in the morning.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Mr. Ernest Todd has been in, apparently, asking to see you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone else. There was no one of sufficient superiority available—or so he said. He did say that he’d be in all evening, if you want to see him.”

“I do want to see him. Have you got the address there? Come on then. We’ll go.”

The address was in a village just inland from Gillicombe. They drove down the narrow roads with a controlled frenzy. Savage was driving—just a little too fast. The lanes were lined by trees, and leaves blew in drifts across the road and were piled against the banks in a brown, soggy mess. The Todds had a flat in a white, square house at the end of a well-kept gravel drive. Expensive cars were parked outside. The Todds’ flat was on the ground floor and they used the original front door at the top of a short flight of white stone steps. A woman answered the knock. Connibear recognized her. He had often seen her in court, though he had not connected her with Ernest Todd. She invited them in. Savage looked around him with eager and undisguised curiosity. There was a wide, carpeted hall, a table with a copper bowl of flowers, then the woman opened a door into a big room, conventionally, comfortably furnished. The place was stuffily centrally heated, and Ernest sat in his shirt, slippered feet in front of him, watching the television. Helen switched it off. Ernest tried not to mind and stood to greet them. A large whisky was on a coffee table near his chair, and he smelled faintly of alcohol.