“Except for the half crown, Sarge. He knew the police couldn’t just have him shovelled away as a vagrant if he had the price of a night’s lodging on him. Them’s the rules! He knows what we know of legal etiquette and left it there deliberately, I’d say. Why else pass up half a crown? It’s a goodly sum for a vagrant. No—Dickie Dunne wanted the body identified as Richard Dunne of Cambridge, logged and buried under that name.

“Then there’s the dining club invitation card. I wonder if he overlooked that or left it in the inside ticket pocket because he wanted some sharp chaps to find it and investigate? I’m seeing a pattern. But the really tricky part was the socks and shoes. He couldn’t expect to pass off as a man of the roads a corpse with manicured, bunion-free feet with—let’s guess—fine wool socks and Trickers handmade half brogues that fitted beautifully. Shoes bearing the maker’s individual last number, which would establish with one phone call the customer’s name. Off come socks and shoes and he replaces them with his own disreputable ones. Except that he puts the worn right sock on the left foot. And—more important—he can’t put the shoes on because they won’t fit!”

“The assistant and I struggled. Couldn’t be done, sir.”

“Do we have any information on the height or size of feet of our second gentleman of interest? Mr. Abel Hardy?”

“Fits the bill, sir. Listed in the notes and service records that came down from Yorkshire. Hardy is tall—six one with size-ten shoes. Dunne smaller—five eleven with size nines.”

“So he leaves the smaller shoes—the size-nine brogues—neatly by the tombstone in a soldierly way. Meanwhile he pulls onto his own feet the socks and the larger shoes of the man he’s just killed. No problems there for a tramp. They prefer a roomy shoe, padding them out with wool and even newspaper. And, tracks covered, or at least, blurred, off he marches into the night in his shiny new city shoes.”

“We’ll be needing a positive ID of our corpse, sir. Teeth? There’s a record of dentistry carried out in Doc Beaufort’s notes. There’s always fingerprints, but dental records are faster.”

“Good thought! Do that first, Sarge. Find out who Hardy’s dentist is and check with him. If we get a match, that will be the moment for you to haul in Mrs. Hardy.”

Two impossible tasks! Remembering what Edith Hardy had said about her ability to disappear, Thoday responded with less-than-eager agreement.

“Teeth first, then Edith,” Thoday reminded himself. Back at the nick, armed with the doctor’s diagram of the corpse’s teeth, he settled himself at the telephone and worked out his plan of attack. How do you locate a possible victim’s possible dentist, with, possibly, a practice in London? He looked again at the plan of the teeth. Several gold fillings—that was the most distinctive feature. A rich man, his dentistry wasn’t going to be done by a suburban bloke who’d fire in cheap fillings from a distance; a hardworking man, he wasn’t going to travel far from his office to get a toothache treated. Thoday calculated that his appointments would be made for him by a secretary from his office phone. He wouldn’t have entrusted care and concern for his teeth to Edith. He thought for a moment then decided that low cunning was his best bet.