Free A Shilling for Candles by Josephine Tey Page B

Chris straightaway, but it seemed that they didn’t know her.
They said that when they were picking, early on Friday morning, a lady
passing in a car had stopped to watch and then asked if she might help. The
old boy who owned the place said they didn’t need paid help, but if she liked
to amuse herself good and well. ‘She were a good picker,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t
mind paying her another time.’ Then his grandson said he’d seen the
lady—or thought he’d seen her—one day lately in the post office
at Liddlestone—about six miles away. So I found Liddlestone, but the
post office regular staff was ‘home to her tea’ and I had to wait till she
came back. She said that the lady who sent ‘all the telegrams’—seems
they never saw so many telegrams in their lives as Chrissent—was living
over at Medley. So I set out in the half-dark to find Medley, and ended by
sleeping in a lane. And sleeping out or no sleeping out, that was a better
piece of detective work than you’re doing this morning, Inspector Grant!”
    Grant grinned good-humoredly. “Yes? Well, I’ve nearly done.” He got up to
go. “I suppose you had a coat with you in the car?”
    “Sure.”
    “What was it made of?”
    “Brown tweed. Why?”
    “Have you got it here?”
    “Sure.” He turned to a wardrobe, built in the passage where the sitting
room led into the bedroom, and pulled the sliding door open. “Have a look at
my whole wardrobe. You’re cleverer than I am if you can find the button.”
    “What button?” Grant asked, more quickly than he intended.
    “It’s always a button, isn’t it?” Harmer said, the small pansy-brown eyes,
alert under their lazy lids, smiling confidently into Grant’s.
    Grant found nothing of interest in the wardrobe. He had taken his leave
not knowing how much to believe of Jason Harmer’s story, but very sure that
he had “nothing on him.” The hopes of the police, so to speak, lay in
Tisdall.
    Now, as he pulled up by the curb in the cool bright morning, he remembered
Jason’s wardrobe, and smiled in his mind. Jason did not get his clothes from
Stacey and Brackett. As he considered the dark, small, and shabby interior
which was revealed to him as he opened the door, he could almost hear Jason
laugh. The English! They’d had a business for a hundred and fifty years and
this was all they could make of it. The original counters probably. Certainly
the original lighting. But Grant’s heart warmed. This was the England he knew
and loved. Fashions might change, dynasties might fall, horses’ shoes in the
quiet street change to the crying of a thousand taxi hooters, but Stacey and
Brackett continued to make clothes with leisured efficiency for leisured and
efficient gentlemen.
    There was now neither a Stacey nor a Bracken, but Mr. Trimley—Mr.
Stephen Trimley (as opposed to Mr. Robert and Mr. Thomas!)—saw
Inspector Grant and was entirely at Inspector Grant’s service. Yes, they had
made clothes for Mr. Robert Tisdall, Yes, the clothes had included a dark
coat for wear with evening things. No, that certainly was not a button from
the coat in question. That was not a button they had ever put on any coat. It
was not a class of button they were in the habit of using. If the Inspector
would forgive Mr. Trimley (Mr. Stephen Trimley), the button in question was
in his opinion of a very inferior make, and would not be used by any tailor
of any standing. He would not be surprised, indeed, to find that the button
was of foreign origin.
    “American, perhaps?” suggested Grant.
    Perhaps. Although to Mr. Trimley’s eye it suggested the Continent. No, he
certainly had no reason for such a surmise. Entirely instinctive. Probably
wrong. And he hoped the Inspector would not put any weight on his opinion. He
also hoped that there was no question of Mr. Tisdall being in trouble. A very
charming young man, indeed. The Grammar schools—especially the older
Grammar