He introduced himself: “Hello. Regency Hotel, Cambridge here, and this is the manager speaking: Mr. George Smithson.” He explained that her employer, a guest at present staying with them, had been laid low by a problem with a wisdom tooth . . . impacted, most likely . . . much pain was being suffered along with the not-unexpected fever. An excellent local dentist was being called in to deal with it, of course . . . Mrs. Hardy had left the day before and was unavailable for consultation . . . would Miss . . . er . . . Chapel kindly supply the name and number of Mr. Hardy’s own dentist, whose number he was too confused and feverish to remember, in case the local chap needed to confer with him and check on Mr. Hardy’s dental history? “You know what these dentists are like!” he added confidentially. “Worse than doctors when it comes to territory and discretion. Best to get it right!”

Miss Chapel was all concern. Oh dear! That had flared up again, had it? Of course she could help. The information was right at her fingertips in the Kardex file. A moment later Thoday was in possession of Hardy’s dentist’s name, Harley Street address and telephone number.

“Mr. Sharpe? Cambridge CID here. I have a question regarding one of your patients, Mr. Abel Hardy . . . Now, if I read off to you the contents of his mouth, perhaps you could confirm that they do correspond to your patient’s record? . . . That’s it! Right down to the gold fillings and single porcelain jacket crown.” Thoday tried not to sound too triumphant. He expressed his warm thanks to Mr. Sharpe and somehow managed to dodge the dentist’s concerned question about the state of health of his well-heeled client.

So the chap on the slab was confirmed: Dunstan was Mr. Abel Hardy. And his friend and suspected killer, Dickie Dunne, was out there dancing in the breeze, showing a clean pair of calloused heels. Thoday left a note of that important piece of news for the boss before he set off in pursuit of Mrs. Hardy.

He was off to the railway station, but he didn’t think he would be dashing off to London. Not if he’d read Edith and her dangling luggage label right. Just to be sure, he rang again the number she’d given him. The same carefully enunciating maid answered, “Sorry, sir, the mistress is not available at the moment. She has gone to Cambridge with Mr. Hardy.” Gotcha, Edith! he thought and grabbed his trilby hat.

Midday was a slack hour at the station. Neither of the two porters prowling about in action was the one he was looking for, so he went to the small, tobacco-smoke-filled room at the end of the platform where he thought he might find them with their mugs of tea in hand. The four men of assorted ages assembled in the snug were sullen and suspicious, but willing to hear him out when he showed his credentials.