"When a British subject is born in the colonies, who issues the birth certificate?"
"The nearest district officer, I expect."
"So your father made out your birth certificate?"
"Perhaps he did. I'll look and see when I get out of hospital."
"I was asking about your father's age. Have you any evidence handy at the moment—a photograph, for instance?"
Impudence! Unmitigated gall! The bounder had gone through Edward's wallet when he was unconscious! The urge to try and take him down was becoming dangerously close to irresistible.
"I have a photograph."
"Will you show me that photograph, please?"
Glowering, Edward opened the drawer and took out his wallet. “Be careful of it, please. It is fragile and it is the only picture of my parents I have."
Leatherdale hardly glanced at it.
"This shows you and your parents in Africa?"
"Yes. It was taken by a visitor who had a portable camera. He sent it to us just before I left."
"So it was taken around when?"
What the devil was all this leading to?
"In 1908. I would be eleven, almost twelve."
"And how old would you say the man in this picture is, sir?"
Without releasing it, Leatherdale held the photograph out for Edward to see.
"Around forty, I suppose. Not fifty. More than thirty.” It was hard to tell. The image had always been blurred, and six years in his wallet had worn it almost blank, as if a heavy fog had settled on that little group on the veranda. His mother's face was in shadow. He was standing in front of his parents, his father's hand on his shoulder, and he was grinning shyly.
"Your father was Cameron Exeter, son of Horace Exeter and the former Marian Cameron, of Wold Hall, Wearthing, Surrey?"
Edward was completely at sea now. He had a strange sensation that the bed was rocking. This was worse than a geometry exam. Prove that angle ADC equals angle DCK....
"I think so. I don't know where they lived, except it was somewhere in Surrey. I'm not even certain of their names."
Leatherdale nodded as if a trap had just clicked. “Their eldest child, Cameron, was born in 1841, Mr. Exeter. That would make him sixty-seven in 1908. How old did you say this man seems to you?"
Edward desperately wanted a drink of water, but he dared not reach for one in case his hands shook. “Forty?"
"His mother, your grandmother, died in 1855, almost sixty years ago."
"You've made a mistake somewhere. Tricky stuff, maths."
"Has your uncle seen this picture?"
"I have no idea. I may have shown it to him when I first came Home. I don't recall."
"Try."
"It was a long time ago. I really don't remember, sir. What are you suggesting?"
"I am suggesting that the man in the picture is either not your father or else your father was not who he said he was."
This conversation made no sense at all! It must be a ruse to rattle him. Bemused, Edward ran a hand through his hair and realized that it was soaked—he was soaked. He turned his head to ease his neck, and watched the sergeant finish writing a sentence, then look up, waiting for more.
He turned back to Leatherdale, who was impassively twirling his mustache again. That, apparently, was a bad sign. But the man could not possibly be as confident as he was pretending.
"You've been busy, Inspector!” He was ashamed to hear a quaver in his voice. “Unfortunately, you've been misinformed. Yesterday was Bank Holiday. I suppose you telegraphed to Somerset House first thing this morning, or the Colonial Office, perhaps? Whitehall must be in turmoil just now with war about to break out. Someone has blundered."
"I obtained the information from your uncle."
Oh, Lord! Edward reined in his tongue before it ran away with him. “I suggest you obtain confirmation of anything he says. Check with the Colonial Office."
"Ah, yes. Can you give me the name of someone to get in touch with there, sir?"
With a rush of relief, Edward said, “Yes! Mr. Oldcastle. I'm sorry I don't know his title. I always wrote to him at his home."
"His full name?"
"Jonathan Oldcastle, Esquire."
"And do you remember his address?"
"I should do! I've written to him every week or two for the last couple of years. The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."
Leatherdale nodded and eased himself on the chair. “That was the address in the school records, Sergeant?"
Pages rustled. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.
"And this Mr. Oldcastle replied to your letters, sir?"
"Religiously. He was very kind—and generous."
Again the thick fingers caressed that gray mustache. “Exeter, there is nowhere in Kent called Druids Close. There is nowhere in Great Britain by that name."
"That's impossible!"
"Sergeant, will you confirm what I just told the witness?"
"Yes, sir."
After a moment Edward said, “I think I need a glass of water."
From then on it got worse, much worse. Having succeeded in rattling him, Leatherdale gave him no chance to recover. Suddenly they were back in Greyfriars Grange—
"Did you stab Timothy Bodgley?"
"No!"
"You're sure of that? You remember?"
"No, sir, I don't remember, but—"
And back in Africa—
"Who is ‘Jumbo'?"
"Who?” Edward said furiously. Bounder! The letter!
"Is there anyone in England now who knew your father?"
"I don't know."
And back in the Grange—
"Had you ever been down in the cellar before?"
"No, sir. Not that I remember."
"Would a schoolboy forget visiting a fourteenth century crypt?"
"Probably not. So I suppose I never—"
"You heard people banging on the door while the woman was still screaming? How long did she scream at you? How long did you hold her off with the chair?..."
Eventually, inevitably, Edward blundered.
"Do you recognize this, Mr. Exeter?"
"Oh, you found it!” Oh, you muggins!
Leatherdale pounced like a cat. “You knew it was lost?"
"That's a key. I don't know what it's the key to, though ... No, I don't recognize it.... Lots of keys look like that, big and rusty...” Avoid, evade, distract ... “I assumed that since you asked earlier about the door...” It was hopeless. In ignominious defeat, the suspect told of the message Ginger had sent him. Traitor! Snitch! Nark!
Leatherdale followed up his victory, slashing questions like saber blows.
"Why did you kill him?” “Why did you argue with him?” “Why were you shouting?” “What were you shouting?” “What secret had he discovered about you?” “Describe the kitchen."
"Big. High. Very old. Why?"
"How high? How high is the ceiling?"
Edward wiped his wet forehead. “How should I know? Fifteen feet?"
"Twenty-one. Do you remember the shelves on the wall under the bells?"
"I remember shelves, and dressers, I think bells...” A long row of bells, one for every room in the house.
Leatherdale smiled grimly. “Yes, this is the key to the kitchen quarters at Greyfriars Grange. We found it, Mr. Exeter, in a pot on the topmost shelf."
"Oh."
"Twenty feet up in a poor light. There were no marks in the dust on the lower shelves, Mr. Exeter. What do you say about that?"
"What do you say about it, sir?"
"I say that the only way it could have been put in that pot was to throw it up there and bounce it off the wall just under the ceiling. Whoever managed to do that first try in a poor light must be a very expert thrower indeed. A bowler, perhaps?"
When at last the ordeal ended, Edward watched in misery as Ginger's books were impounded as evidence, along with his cherished photograph, the most precious thing he possessed in the world. The policemen departed.