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dough. It’s an important point; it supplies a motive at once, and the spirit stuff may be eye-wash.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking a lot about that, Heather, but it doesn’t seem to me at present to be of much consequence. Still, we must dig deeper. We’ve got a lot to learn.”
    â€œWere Martin and Thurlow friends?” asked the inspector after a pause.
    â€œCertainly not after Martin found that Thurlow was his rival. But we mustn’t jump to hasty conclusions. On the face of it, it looks as if Martin had been shot through the shoulder by Thurlow, and in return slammed Thurlow over the head with the iron bar. It’s not as simple as all that. In the first place, the blow that smashed Thurlow’s skull was delivered from behind, and must have been dealt with considerable force. The iron bar, called a fold-drift in these parts, because it’s used for fixing up sheep folds, is a very heavy instrument. Martin certainly couldn’t have swung it after being shot with a Webley .45. I’ve had a long chat with Cornard on the subject, and he’s thoroughly mystified about the cause of Martin’s death. The wound was not what you’d call a deadly one, though he may have died of subsequent shock. But there are other points which need clearing up. Cornard says that there are marks on Martin’s wrists and ankles which show that he’d been bound hand and foot prior to death. As far as I can gather, your great expert, Sir Donald McPherson, will have to be called in to make an autopsy, and probably portions of the body will have to be submitted to the Home Office analyst, to see if poison enters into the business of Martin’s mysterious death.”
    â€œLooks as if we’re up against a first-class mystery, Mr. Vereker,” remarked Heather, rising and preparing to leave the inn.
    â€œYou’ll get a fuller account of the police findings from the local inspector, this afternoon, Heather. I’ll expect you to stick to our rules, and not hide any vital information from me. I can’t rise to brilliant intuitions out of a vacuum.”
    â€œI’ll play the game fairly, Mr. Vereker. I daresay, when you were left at Cobbler’s Corner by Godbold, you weren’t idle. You’ve spotted a thing or two you’ve not told me about, but that’s part of the contract. You’ve not said one word about this man, Ephraim Noy, who found the bodies. What about him?”
    â€œNow, Heather, you’re getting hot. The very name Ephraim is a deadly pointer, nearly as incriminating as Silas. He’s a mystery even to the village. He lives entirely alone in his new bungalow, and is about as communicative as a brick wall. His vocabulary doesn’t get much further than yes and no. No one seems to know where he came from, what he is or has been. Apparently he lives on investments, and is as free with his money as a Yorkshireman. Godbold was very suspicious about Ephraim’s chance discovery of the bodies, and looked handcuffs at him straight away. When questioned by the constable, he said he had nothing further to say about the matter, which didn’t concern him. If he were forced to make any further statement, he’d make it to a ‘responsible officer.’ Godbold exploded in choice Suffolk dialect, of which I couldn’t understand one word, but it didn’t upset Mr. Ephraim Noy.”
    Inspector Heather glanced at his watch, and as he left the room, remarked cheerily: “Au revoir, Mr. Vereker. I’ll see you some time this evening. In the meantime, while I’m getting the facts of this business from the Suffolk police, I hope you’ll work up a few of your best intuitions. You’ll need them all, if I’m not mistaken. What are you going to do this afternoon?”
    â€œYou ought, as Oscar Wilde said, ask me what I’m going to think, Heather. My best intuitions come to me when I’m doing absolutely