“It’s not so easy as all that, Craddock. We’ve been checking up. On what we’ve got, Patrick and Julia seem definitely to be out of it. His Naval record is genuine—quite a good record bar a tendency to ‘insubordination.’ We’ve checked with Cannes, and an indignant Mrs. Simmons says of course her son and daughter are at Chipping Cleghorn with her cousin Letitia Blacklock. So that’s that!”

“And Mrs. Simmons is Mrs. Simmons?”

“She’s been Mrs. Simmons for a very long time, that’s all I can say,” said Rydesdale dryly.

“That seems clear enough. Only—those two fitted. Right age. Not known to Miss Blacklock, personally. If we wanted Pip and Emma—well, there they were.”

The Chief Constable nodded thoughtfully, then he pushed across a paper to Craddock.

“Here’s a little something we’ve dug up on Mrs. Easterbrook.”

The Inspector read with lifted eyebrows.

“Very interesting,” he remarked. “Hoodwinked that old ass pretty well, hasn’t she? It doesn’t tie in with this business though, as far as I can see.”

“Apparently not.”

“And here’s an item that concerns Mrs. Haymes.”

Again Craddock’s eyebrows rose.

“I think I’ll have another talk with the lady,” he said.

“You think this information might be relevant?”

“I think it might be. It would be a long shot, of course….”

The two men were silent for a moment or two.

“How has Fletcher got on, sir?”

“Fletcher has been exceedingly active. He’s made a routine search of the house by agreement with Miss Blacklock—but he didn’t find anything significant. Then he’s been checking up on who could have had the opportunity of oiling that door. Checking who was up at the house on the days that that foreign girl was out. A little more complicated than we thought, because it appears she goes for a walk most afternoons. Usually down to the village where she has a cup of coffee at the Bluebird. So that when Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner are out—which is most afternoons—they go blackberrying—the coast is clear.”

“And the doors are always left unlocked?”

“They used to be. I don’t suppose they are now.”

“What are Fletcher’s results? Who’s known to have been in the house when it was left empty?”

“Practically the whole lot of them.”

Rydesdale consulted a page in front of him.

“Miss Murgatroyd was there with a hen to sit on some eggs. (Sounds complicated but that’s what she says.) Very flustered about it all and contradicts herself, but Fletcher thinks that’s temperamental and not a sign of guilt.”

“Might be,” Craddock admitted. “She flaps.”