INVESTIGATIONS
"To come straight to the point, my dear Entwistle," said Peter
Barcroft. "I may say that I have two reasons for looking you up. The
first is purely a matter of form--to inquire after your injured
ankle. Judging by the way in which you crossed the room I think I am
right in concluding that your recovery has been rapid and, I hope,
permanent. No, don't limp, old man. That won't do. The second is to
make inquiries respecting a donkey--to wit, one Butterfly."
"Oh!" remarked Entwistle. "Anything wrong? What are the symptoms?"
"A bad form of absentitis," replied Peter grimly. "Don't you know?"
The vet shook his head.
"Continue," he said, as he handed his tobacco-pouch to his caller.
"The brute never came back. In his hurry my son forgot to mention
it--he was recalled by wire, and the young bounder never even
dropped me a postcard. Now I'm on Butterfly's track. Can you assist
me in my quest?"
"Sorry," replied Entwistle, taking the pouch and deliberately
filling his briar. "Stay. I did mention to Billy that the animal
ought to be shod. Why not inquire of the various blacksmiths on the
way to Tarleigh? Let me see: there's Schofield's in Cook Street,
Barnes's in Forge Lane, and Thomas's in Dyke Street--they are all
just off Chumley Old Road. How did you come into Barborough--by
train?"
"No, I walked as far as the tram terminus," replied Barcroft Senior.
"If you like I'll run you back in my car," suggested the vet. "We'll
look the blacksmiths up on our way. Any news of your friend Norton?"
"Not a sign or a word."
"H'm!"
Entwistle shrugged his shoulders. Peter looked at him keenly.
"Why that 'h'm'?" he asked.
"Only--by the bye, have the police been informed?"
Barcroft shook his head.
"Not by me," he replied. "I'm inclined to think that he'll turn up
again in a day or two. It may be a form of eccentricity encouraged
by the excitement of the raid."
"Yes," agreed the vet. "Three days ago. Yes, it is quite about time
he put in an appearance. Well, excuse me a moment. I'll tell Jarvis
to bring the car round."
"Sure I'm not putting you out?" asked Peter.
"On the contrary--delighted. As a matter of fact, I have to see a
horse belonging to a farmer over Windyhill way, so it will be
killing two birds with one stone. Now for this bad case of
absentitis."
Inquiries at two blacksmiths were without satisfactory result. The
third, who happened to be the man who had shod the refractory
Butterfly, could only state that the last he saw of the animal was
that it was scampering along Jumbles Lane, and that the trap still
remained in a shed in his yard.
"Th' oughtn't ta' be much trouble to trace yon animal," concluded
the smith. "A champion she were-a right down champion, mark you.
They may clip her coat or dock her tail or change her colour, but
'tis her size as they can't alter. Meantimes I'll keep a look-out,
master, and if I hears aught----"
"Going to report the matter to the police?" asked Entwistle, as the
pair re-entered the car.
"I think not," replied Peter. "It might end in the representative of
the law running in every itinerant donkey owner on sight. I think
I'll enlist the services of the Press to the tune of an
eighteenpenny advertisement."
Outside the newspaper offices a crowd had collected to read the
latest bulletin:
"Destroyer Action in the North Sea. German torpedo-boats destroyed.
British Naval Airmen rescued from sinking enemy craft."
Making his way through the throng Peter entered the office, gave in
his advertisement and bought a paper.
"That's great!" he ejaculated as he read the brief report. "Billy's
pals, Fuller and Kirkwood, saved by one of our destroyers. By Jove,
Entwistle, who says that the British Navy is sitting tight in
harbour? Whenever there's an opportunity our lads in navy blue are
on it."
"Then why the deuce confine the facts to a few bald lines?" asked
the vet. "The job's done properly, and a stirring story it would
make! Something to buck up people at home. Instead, you have to rely
upon your imagination, which is apt to let you down."
"Give it up," said Peter the optimist. "All I know is that we are
top dog, and everything will pan out all right in the end."
"Granted," agreed Entwistle. "The Navy's all right; the New Army is
splendid--we'll muddle through somehow, in spite of the miserable
legacy of the Wait and See crowd. There's a hymn beginning 'A people
who in darkness sat.' That sums up the whole state of the civil
population of Great Britain. To my mind the nation resembles a mass
of iron filings spread out on a sheet of paper--all sixes and
sevens. A magnet will instantly cause those particular pieces of
metal to fly into orderly formation following the lines of magnetic
force: a Man will be able to do the same with the nation, only,
unfortunately, we haven't yet found the Man. We as Britons trust too
much to chance--to a sort of voluntary organisation of labour.
Result, every man is asking why some one else doesn't do his bit and
tries to persuade himself that he is a sort of indispensable
himself, I shouldn't be surprised if the war ends in a patched-up
peace."
"No fear," asserted Barcroft firmly--so emphatically that Entwistle
almost relaxed his grip upon the steering wheel and narrowly avoided
collision with a brewer's dray. "There'll be nothing of the sort.
The men who are now fighting mean to see the business through and
not leave the horrors of war to be repeated with triple violence as
a legacy to their children and their children's children. It's got
to be done--and done it will be, even if it takes another two
years."
When in due course the car arrived at the narrow lane leading to
Ladybird Fold, Entwistle, somewhat to his companion's astonishment,
insisted upon driving right up to the house.
"No hurry," commented the vet. "I like taking a car along a tricky
path. Hullo! there are your dogs, Barcroft. They seem to know that
I'm something in the animal line, and wish to be run over in order
to give me a job."
The car came to a standstill at the house. Peter descended, to be
overwhelmed with the noisy and frantic attentions of Ponto and Nan.
"Come in," he said, "May as well have tea with us."
"Thanks, I will," replied Entwistle; then pointing in the direction
of "The Croft," the tiled roof of which was just visible above the
ridge of a hill, "Is that where Norton hangs out? I've heard of the
place. What sort of a show is it?"
"Come and see for yourself," said Barcroft. "There'll be time for a
stroll before tea. I have the key, thanks to the magnificent
condescension of Mrs. What's-her-name, Norton's generalissimo and
domestic help. Why are you anxious to see the place? Thinking of
renting it and being my nearest neighbour if Norton fails to
return?"
"Perhaps," laughed Philip Entwistle. "When I retire, and I cannot
see myself doing that yet."
"I wouldn't," said Peter gravely. "Retirement is a rotten state for
a professional man to enter into. Sudden dislocation of his routine,
nothing to occupy his mind--result, he generally pegs out in a
couple of years. I've noticed it scores of times."
"It's all very well for you literary fellows to talk," protested
Entwistle. "You can never complain of overwork."
"There you are mistaken," said Barcroft. "I admit I slack off a
little now, but at one time I dare not. It may seem easy for a
fellow to knock off a couple of thousand words a day, but try it for
a year and see how it feels. Remember, it isn't the actual work of
putting pen to paper. One has to think, and think jolly hard. Do you
remember some years ago a man tried to cover a thousand miles in a
thousand consecutive hours? One mile an hour day and night. Doesn't
seem much, but imagine what it means."
"You seem to have done pretty well out of it," remarked Entwistle.
"It took some doing," confessed Peter. "I can recall a certain
Christmas Eve when, with two other congenial spirits, I sat in a
fireless attic in Town. We were literally on our beam ends--too
jolly proud to sample the fatted calf that awaited us in our
respective parents' homes. I think we had sevenpence halfpenny
between us."
"Sounds cheerful."
"Precisely. However, being fresh-air fiends even in those days, we
had left the window open----"
"And some philanthrophic soul threw in a big parcel of provender?"
"Into the attic window of a six-storeyed house? Hardly. No; a pigeon
flew in. It never flew out again, for in less than twenty minutes it
was roasting in front of the landlady's kitchen fire. That same
evening one of my companions in distress received an unexpected
guinea for a pot-boiler, and there was no longer famine in the
land."
The two men had now climbed the hill and were outside the front door
of The Croft. The house was considerably smaller than Ladybird Fold,
although built on the same principle. At one time it had been a farm
house, but most of the outbuildings had been removed. Standing on
higher ground it commanded even a more extensive outlook than that
enjoyed by the Barcrofts; in fact, almost the whole of Barborough
could be discerned.
Within, the place was plainly furnished. The ground floor consisted
of stone flags on which were spread large mats. The fireplace was
large and at one time boasted of a chimney corner and settle. In the
grate a fire had been laid in anticipation of Mr. Norton's return.
"I'm just going upstairs to shut those windows," said Peter. "I
suppose Norton's D.T. forgot to close them. Do you want to have a
look round the upper rooms?"
"Not with this ankle. It feels a bit painful," replied Entwistle.
"If you don't mind I'll wait here."
Directly he heard the sound of Barcroft's footsteps through the
raftered ceiling Entwistle stole softly to the desk that stood in
the corner of the room. Slipping on a pair of thin gloves and
producing a bundle of keys from his trouser's pocket he set
deliberately to work to open the locked drawers, for in contrast to
Peter Barcroft's easy-going methods Andrew Norton had locked
everything up, notwithstanding his supposedly temporary visit to
Ladybird Fold on the night of the raid.
In less than thirty seconds Entwistle had the desk open. Deftly he
went through a pile of papers, as brazenly as Andrew Norton had
examined the manuscript on Peter's bureau. In quantity there was
very little: a small batch of tradesmen's receipts, a notebook half
filled with calculations evidently referring to electrical problems,
a few letters that seemed of no interest except to the writers and
their recipient, and an unfinished manuscript written on two sheets
of foolscap, the opening sentences of which were as follows:
"Whenever you have an opportunity of visiting Dartmoor I should
strongly advise you to take it. It is fairly easy to reach from
Plymouth. Even in the depth of winter the rugged uplands have
their charm. When last in that neighbourhood I took coach to
Totnes: Every few hours a boat runs to Dartmouth. If tide permits,
I ought to add. The Dart is a charmingly picturesque river. In
the town itself there is much to be seen. Several of the old
houses, especially in the Butter-walk, are worthy of close
inspection. The castle is open to visitors. Every facility for
tourists and visitors in the town. Some fishing to be had in the
river. Better hauls are to be obtained in Start Bay. It is
advisable to take a professional boatman, as the tide is tricky
and at times dangerous. Sailing boats can be hired by the day or
hour. Zealous devotees of the piscatorial art will have no cause
to regret their choice of this fishing centre. Up the river,
above Totnes, trout abound. Rules and regulations relating to
the close seasons are by no means drastic."
Philip Entwistle chuckled as he perused this document.
"Sort of thing that would easily pass the Press Censor," he said to
himself, "At first sight a kind of extract from a guide book to
Devonshire. Quite harmless--I think not. _Now let me jot down the
first letter of each sentence_: WIE (that's promising) WEIT
(better) IST (better still) ES (now we begin to see light. German
for a dead cert) BIS ZUR KLIPPEN HOHE, which, translated, means,
'What is the distance to the summit of the cliffs?' That's good
enough. I'll take the liberty of borrowing this document. I must
risk friend Norton returning before to-morrow."
Carefully refolding the papers the vet, placed them in his inside
coat-pocket, then having slipped the catch of the window, he awaited
Peter's return.
"Hope I haven't kept you?" inquired Barcroft.
"Not at all," was the prompt reply.
"By the bye," remarked Peter as the pair retraced their steps to
Ladybird Fold, "this might interest you. I meant to have shown it
you before, but somehow I forgot."
He handed Entwistle a copy of the document that had been found on
the body of the German airman.
Philip Entwistle read it carefully.
"Ha! A price on your head, eh?" he remarked.
"I don't take it seriously," said Peter. "It may be genuine. Billy
handed it to me just as the train was leaving the station. He had no
time to explain. Usual family failing, I suppose--leaving things to
the last minute."
Entwistle made no reply to his companion's remarks. He was thinking
deeply, trying to piece together certain items that had already been
brought to his notice.
"I won't tell him just yet," he soliloquised. "Must make sure of my
ground first."
After tea Entwistle drove away, ostensibly to visit a farmer at
Windyhill. As a matter of fact he stopped at the Waterloo Hotel,
retired to a private room and made a careful copy of the document he
had annexed from The Croft.
"So that's how they communicate with him," he mused. "Simple
solution when you've been given the tip. The next point is: how does
he convey his information to them?" Late that night Entwistle
returned from Windyhill by a loop route that passed within half a
mile of The Croft. Driving his car off the road and on to a patch of
waste land he extinguished the lights. This done he walked over the
moor to The Croft, opened the unlatched window, entered the house
and replaced the borrowed document.
Then, conscious of a good day's work accomplished, he went home, to
gather up the tangled skeins of the complicated task in hand.