Thoday felt sorry for poor Edith. Her barely disguised excitement, her French perfume, her coquettish manner were all, in retrospect, due to anticipation of an amorous interlude in a notoriously louche pleasure ground, deep in the middle of the English countryside. Brighton? She’d planted the notion of a flight south in his head, and any other bloke without detective training would have missed that luggage label. She’d turned left instead of right at the railway station and gone north. Thoday had done his job, though with some regrets, and could now in all conscience chuck Edith into MacFarlane’s lap.

The super signalled for him to stay in his place as he reached for his telephone. Thoday’s reward, apparently, for his quick unmasking was to be allowed to hear the clanking of her chains being applied as MacFarlane pursued his quarry up to Lincolnshire.

“You were thinking, Sarge, do they have the telephone up there in the hotel at Woodleigh Spa? They certainly do! It’s in constant use! And always manned by the most discreet, plum-in-mouth desk staff. There is no way through their armour of reticence for the casual enquirer. I have established my own system of blasting through it.”

“But why, sir, would you—”

“Missing persons, Thoday. You’d be surprised how often they fetch up in Lincolnshire!”

He turned his attention to the telephone. “Hello? Ah yes? Cambridge CID here, Superintendent MacFarlane. And your name is? Right, then, Benson. You have a guest at present, a Mrs. Edith Hardy, who is spending time with you. She checked in last evening. Come off it, Sonny! Now listen! I’m giving you a choice. Get her off the golf course, out of bed, prise her fingers off her gin and French—do whatever you need to do to deliver the message I’m about to dictate. The alternative—ask your manager. He knows the routine from experience. If I have to come for her myself, I shall arrive with a squad of policemen in an hour and a half. They will be resplendent in uniform and have big feet and loud voices. They will conduct a disruptive search of your most intimate recesses, Benson. While I am looking through the books . . . The message? ‘Edith, get yourself back to Cambridge police station at once. There’s a train at six-thirty, and an officer will meet you and escort you here. We have very serious news for you involving your husband.’ That’s all. Oh, just one other minor item—Mrs. Hardy’s companion? Benson, don’t be boring! At the moment I’m mildly amused, but if I have to galvanise my squad and come up there and turn over every stone . . . Indeed? Thank you for your cooperation, Benson. I’ll stand the men down.”

“The train, sir? This officer . . . ?”