A Red Herring Without Mustard

But not without cost.

Surely the woman had recognized Fenella’s caravan at the fête? Whatever could have possessed her to enter the tent?

I could think of only one reason: guilt.

Perhaps, in her own mind, Mrs. Bull’s lie to her husband and the police was beginning to come unraveled—perhaps in some odd way she believed that a fresh confrontation would deflect any growing suspicion, on Tom’s part, of her own guilt.

What was it Dr. Darby had told me? “People can behave very strangely in times of great stress.”

“Well?” the Inspector said, interrupting my thoughts. He was waiting for me to go on.

“Well, Mrs. Bull, of course, assumed that Fenella had looked into the crystal ball and seen the drowning. She must have gone home straightaway and told her husband that the Gypsy who had taken their baby was again camped at the Palings. Tom went to the caravan that very night and tried to kill her.

“He still believes his wife’s lie, most likely,” I added. “Even though the baby’s body has since been found, I’ll bet he’s still blaming it on the Gypsies.”

I glanced over at Sergeant Graves for confirmation, but his face was a study in stone.

“How can you be so sure he was at the caravan?” Inspector Hewitt asked, turning to a new page of his notebook.

“Because Colin Prout saw him there. And as if that weren’t enough, there was that whole business about the smell of fish,” I said. “I think you’ll find that Tom Bull has a disease that causes his body to exude a fishy odor. Dogger says that a number of such cases have been recorded.”

Inspector Hewitt’s eyebrows went up slightly, but he said nothing.

“That’s why, as it’s grown worse, he’s kept to his house for the past year or more. Mrs. Bull put about the story that he’d gone away, but he’d all the while been right here in Bishop’s Lacey, working after dark. He’s a foundryman, you know, and probably quite handy at melting down scrap iron and molding it into antiques.”

“Yes,” Inspector Hewitt said, surprising me. “It’s no secret that he was once employed at Sampson’s works, in East Finching.”

“And still is,” I suggested. “At least after dark.”

Inspector Hewitt closed his notebook and got to his feet.

“I’m very pleased to tell you, Colonel, that your firedogs will soon be restored. We found them in the coach house where Harewood kept his antiques.”

I was right! The Sally Fox and Shoppo at Brookie’s had been Harriet’s! Having replaced them with reproductions, Brookie was just waiting for a chance to sell the originals in London.

“There are others involved in what proved to be a very sophisticated ring of thieves and forgers. I trust that, in due time, you’ll read about it in the newspapers.”

“But what about Miss Mountjoy?” I blurted it out. I felt quite sorry for poor Tilda Mountjoy.

“She may well face charges as an accessory,” the Inspector said. “It’s up to the Chief Constable. I don’t envy him his task.”

“Poor Colin,” I said. “He hasn’t had an easy life, has he?”

“There may be mitigating circumstances,” Inspector Hewitt said. “Beyond that, I can say nothing.”

“I knew for certain he was mixed up in it when I found the rope.”

I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“Rope? What rope?”

“The rope that fell through the grating at the Poseidon fountain.”

“Woolmer? Graves? What do we know about this?”

“Nothing, sir,” they said in unison.

“Then perhaps you will favor us by taking yourselves to the fountain immediately and rectifying the oversight.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, and marched, red-faced, from the drawing room.

The Inspector again focused his fierce attention on me. “The rope,” he said. “Tell me about the rope.”

“There had to be one,” I explained. “Brookie was far too heavy to be hoisted onto the fountain by anyone but the strongest man. Or a Boy Scout with a rope.”

“Thank you,” Inspector Hewitt said. “That will do. I’m quite sure we can fill in the blanks.”

“Besides,” I added, “the rubbed spot on the trident showed quite clearly where the rope had polished away the tarnish.”

“Thank you. I believe we’ve already noted that.”

Well, then, I thought, you’ve no one to blame but yourselves if you didn’t think of looking for the rope that caused it. Colin is a Boy Scout, for heaven’s sake. There were times when officialdom was beyond even me.

“One last point,” the Inspector said, rubbing his nose. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to clear up one small question that has rather eluded me.”

“I’ll do my best, Inspector,” I said.

“Why on earth did Colin hang Brookie from the fountain? Why not leave him where he was?”

“They had struggled for the lobster pick inside the base of the fountain. When Colin let go of the thing suddenly, Brookie’s own force caused him to stab himself in the nostril. It was an accident, of course.”