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someone else. But he had come to the town to see his family.”
    â€œYes. It’s very, very tricky. From what you’ve already learned about him, would you say that Rafter might have been blackmailing anyone?”
    â€œNot, strictly speaking, from what I’ve learnt. But it seems to me that a man who would collaborate almost voluntarily, before there was any sign of torture or anything of the sort, would do pretty well anything.”
    â€œI agree. I think we should know a great deal more about Ernest. The family doesn’t sound promising.”
    â€œYou’ve got no suggestions, Carolus?”
    â€œOn what you’ve told me, none at all. But I have a feeling that I may be spending Christmas in Selby-on-Sea.”
    Moore was silent.
    â€œYou know,” he said presently. “If you do come you’re on your own. This is a private chat, but if you’re in the town you get no information from us. It has to be like that. I can’t discuss the thing with you again.”
    â€œOf course I realize that.”
    â€œOn the other hand I don’t deny I shall be glad if you do come. We can’t work together but this is a case where I’d be glad of one of your startling theories. I’ve got noneat all at present, startling or otherwise. In fact there’s only one thing certain in this case.”
    â€œAnd that?”
    â€œIt was murder. In other cases I’ve tackled it could be suicide or an accident.
This was murder.”
    â€œYes, Mrs Stick?” said Carolus, for the little woman had come quietly into the room.
    She glared at the two men, her lips tight and her small figure drawn up taut.
    â€œYour dinner, sir,” she brought herself to say.
    Neither Carolus nor John discussed the matter which interested them till they were back in the study with their brandy and cigars.
    Then Carolus said—”You mentioned some people seen by your man. Any of them interesting?”
    Moore smiled.
    â€œInteresting? You don’t know Selby in winter. It’s a parish pump sort of place. He saw four people in all, at least according to his report, and knew them all quite well. There was the Vicar of one of the town’s four churches, the Reverend Theo Morsell and his wife.”
    Carolus sighed.
    â€œThere’s always a parson,” he said. “Who else?”
    â€œCharacter called Bodger. Sort of professional Old Salt. Takes the visitors out in his boat in the summer. Troublesome but nothing serious known against him. Little bits of trouble, I believe. If we’re going to be far-fetched I would add that his son died on the Burma Road. But he says that he had never heard of Ernest Rafter and I don’t for a moment disbelieve him. There was also a man called Stringer, an assistant in an ironmonger’s shop.”
    â€œI must say I don’t envy you, John. And there’s been plenty of publicity given to the case, I don’t quite see why. The coal hammer, perhaps. It’s always some detail like that which appeals to public imagination. They’ll leave it in your hands?”
    â€œI think so. But I’ve got to produce what are oddlycalled ‘results’ fairly soon. When does your school break up?”
    â€œOn December 19. Early this year. I’ll be there on the 20th.”
    â€œYou’d better stay at the Hydro. It’s supposed to be the best hotel.”
    â€œWhat about the Queen Victoria? That’s where Rafter stayed, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes. It’s possible. Old-fashioned commercial.”
    â€œIt’ll suit me. I’ll book a room.”
    Carolus returned once more to the matter of the murder by asking a direct question on policy.
    â€œWhat line are you working on, John? You must have the beginnings of a theory.”
    â€œScarcely even that. But it’s obvious that the murderer could not have been at that shelter by chance, or have met Rafter there by