“ ’Tisn’t right to disturb places where men lie.” Farebrother stared out to sea.
Sloan said nothing.
“Mark my words,” said Farebrother, “no good comes of it.”
Sloan nodded.
“ ’Tisn’t lucky either.”
“Unlucky for some, anyway,” said Sloan obliquely, bingo-style.
“Didn’t ought to be allowed, that’s what I say.”
“Quite so,” said Sloan.
“They say there was the bones of a man’s hand still clutching a candlestick down there.”
“Down where?” said Sloan softly.
Farebrother’s mouth set in an obstinate line. “I don’t know where. No matter who asks me, be they as clever as you like.”
“Who asked you?”
“Never you mind that. I tell you I don’t know anything…”
“Neither do I,” said Sloan seriously, “but I intend to find out.”
“That’s your business,” said Farebrother ungraciously, “but I say things should be let alone with, that’s what I say.” He turned on his heel and crunched off over the shingle.
Crosby came back with Ridgeford while Sloan was still examining the old fishing boat. Sloan pointed to Farebrother’s retreating back. “The Old Man and the Sea,” he said neatly to the two constables. They both looked blank. He changed his tone. “This bell, Ridgeford…”
“Taken, sir, from a farm up on the Cat’s Back,” said Hidgeford. “Or so the two boys who took it into Mother Hopton’s say. I don’t think they were having me on but you never can tell.” Ridgeford had learned some things already. “Not with boys.”
“Not with boys,” agreed Sloan.
“The farmer’s called Manton,” said Ridgeford. “Alec Manton of Lea Farm.”
“Do you know him?”
Ridgeford shook his head. “Not to say know. I’ve heard of him, that’s all, sir.”
“Heard what?”
“Nothing against.”
Sloan nodded. “Right, then you can stay in the background. Crosby, you’re coming with me to Manton’s farm. Now, Ridgeford, whereabouts exactly did you say this sheep tank was that the boys told you about?”
Few farmers can have been fortunate enough to see as much of their farm laid out in front of them as did Alec Manton. The rising headland was almost entirely given over to sheep and the fields were patterned with the casual regularity of patchwork. Because of the rise in the land the farmland and its stock were both easily visible. The farmhouse, though, was nestled into the low ground before the headland proper began, sheltered alike from sea and wind. It was in the process of being restored and extended. Sloan noticed a discreet grey and white board proclaiming that Frank Mundill was the architect, and made a note.
Alec Manton was out, his wife told them. She was a plump, calm woman, undismayed by the presence of two police officers at the form. Was it about warble fly?
“Not exactly,” temporised Sloan, explaining that he would nevertheless like to look at the sheep-fold on the hill.
“Where they dip?” said Mrs. Manton intelligently. “Of course. You go on up and I’ll tell my husband to come along when he comes home. He shouldn’t be long.”
In the event they didn’t get as far as the sheep tank before the farmer himself caught up with them.
“Routine investigations,” said Sloan mendaciously.
“Oh?” said Manton warily. He was tallish with brown hair.
“We’ve had a report that something might have been stolen from the farm.”
“Have you?” said Alec Manton. He was a man who looked as if he packed a lot of energy. He looked Sloan up and down. “Can’t say that we’ve missed anything.”
“No?” said Sloan.
“What sort of thing?”
“A ship’s bell.”
“From my farm?” Alec Manton’s face was quite expressionless.
“Boys,” said Sloan sedulously. “They said it came from where you keep your sheep.”
“Did they?” said Manton tightly. “Then we’d better go and see, hadn’t we? This way…”
Their goal was several fields away, set in a faint hollow in the land, and built against the wind. In front of the little bothy was a sheep-dipping tank. Set between crush pen and drafting pen, it was full of murky water. Alec Manton led the way into the windowless building and looked round in the semidarkness. Sloan and Crosby followed on his heels. There was nothing to see save bare walls and even barer earth. The place, though, did show every sign of having been occupied by sheep at some time. Sloan looked carefully at the floor. It had been pounded by countless hooves to the consistency of concrete.
“This bell,” began Sloan.
“That you say was found…” said Manton.
“In police possession,” said Sloan mildly.
“Ah.”
“Pending enquiries.”
“I see.”
“Of course,” said Sloan largely, “the boys may have been having us on.”
“Of course.”
“You know what boys are.”
“Only too well,” said Manton heartily.
“We’ll have to get on to them again,” said Sloan, “and see if we can get any nearer the truth, whatever that may be.”
“Of course,” said the farmer quickly. “Did they—er—take anything else, do you know?”
“Not that we know about,” said Sloan blandly. “Would there have been anything else in there for them to steal?”
Alec Manton waved an arm. “You’ve seen it for yourself, haven’t you? Give or take a sheep or two from time to time it looks pretty empty to me.”
“Of course,” said Sloan casually, “the owner of this bell may turn up to claim it.”
“That would certainly simplify matters,” agreed the farmer. “But in the meantime…”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s quite safe in police custody?”
“Quite safe,” Sloan assured him.
“Crosby!” barked Sloan.
“Sir?”
“What was odd about all that?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Think, man. Think.”
“The place was empty.”
“Of course it was empty,” said Sloan with asperity. “The bell must have been tucked away in the corner when those two boys found it. Only boys would have looked there…”
Murderers who thought that they had hidden their victims well reckoned without the natural curiosity of the average boy at their peril. Many a well-covered thicket had been penetrated by a boy for no good reason…
“Yes, sir,” said Crosby.
“What wasn’t empty, Crosby?”
Crosby thought for a long moment. “Sir?”
“What was full, Crosby?”
“Only the sheep-dipping thing.”
“Exactly,” breathed Sloan. “Do you know what month it is, Crosby?
“June, sir,” said Crosby stolidly.
“You don’t,” said Sloan softly, “dip sheep in Calleshire in June.”
“Left over from when you did, then,” suggested Crosby.
“No,” said Sloan.
“No?”
“You dip sheep a month after shearing. Manton’s sheep weren’t shorn,” said Sloan. Policemen, even town policemen, knew all about the dipping of sheep and its regulations. “Besides, you wouldn’t leave your sheep-dip full without a good reason. It’s dangerous stuff.”
“What sort of reason?” said Crosby.
“If,” said Sloan, “you have been conducting a secret rescue of the parts of an old East Indiaman you acquire items which have been underwater for years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taking them out of the water causes them to dry up and disintegrate. Mr. Jensen at the museum said so.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
“So you have to store them underwater or else.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wooden things, that is.”
Crosby nodded, not very interested. “Wooden things.”