He turned his attention to the article. He was a fast reader and it was easy to get the gist. The article was intelligent, well written and meticulously researched, and he read it with genuine interest and growing respect. It dealt with cases of plagiarism dispassionately and he thought fairly, some from the distant past, others more recent, some notorious, many new to him. Rhoda Gradwyn was interesting about apparently unconscious copying of phrases and ideas, and the occasional curious coincidences in literature when a strong idea enters simultaneously into two minds, as if its time has come, and examined the subtle ways in which the greatest writers had influenced succeeding generations, as had Bach and Beethoven in music and the major painters of the world on those who followed. But the main contemporary case covered was undoubtedly one of blatant plagiarism, which Gradwyn claimed she had by chance discovered. The case was fascinating because, on the face of it, the filching by a talented young writer of obvious originality had been unnecessary. A young female novelist still at university, Annabel Skelton, had produced a first novel, widely praised and shortlisted for a major British literary prize, in which some phrases and paragraphs of dialogue and powerful descriptions were taken word for word from a work of fiction published in 1927 by a long-forgotten woman writer of whom Dalgliesh had never heard. The case was unanswerable, not least because of the quality of Gradwyn’s prose and the fairness of the article. It had appeared when the tabloids were short of news and journalists had made the most of the scandal. There had been vociferous demands that Annabel Skelton’s novel should be removed from the shortlist. The result had been tragedy: three days after the article appeared, the girl had killed herself. If Candace Westhall had been intimate with the dead girl—lover, friend, teacher, admirer—here was a motive which for some people might be strong enough for murder.

It was then that Dalgliesh’s mobile rang. Benton was speaking and Dalgliesh switched to speakerphone so that Kate could hear. Carefully controlling his excitement, Benton said, “We’ve traced the car, sir. It’s a Ford Focus, W 341UDG.”

“That was quick, Sergeant. Congratulations.”

“Undeserved, I’m afraid, sir. We struck lucky. The Shepherds’ grandson arrived late on Friday night to spend the weekend with them. He was away all yesterday visiting a girlfriend so we didn’t see him until this morning. He was behind the car on his motorbike for some miles and saw it draw in to park at the stones. This was at about eleven-thirty-five on Friday. There was only one person in the car and the driver switched off the lights when he parked. I asked him why he noticed the registration and he said it was because 341 is a brilliant number.”

“I’m glad it caught his interest. Brilliant in what way? Did he explain the fascination?”