Free Bones in the Barrow by Josephine Bell Page B

him a friendly salute and received a friendly smile in return. But he took the next train back to London with a feeling of deep frustration. The whole thing was too simple, too glib. And where was Mrs. Hilton, anyway? As the train passed Wimbledon he began to stare out the window. Bombed spaces, new blocks of flats, mean remnants of slum, grimy curtains, smeared panes. Behind one of these Terry Byrnes had seen murder done. Or had he imagined it? No, Terry knew what he had seen. An otherwise unreported murder. And a reported disappearance. Both in late November, four months ago. Not enough to connect them. But it wouldn’t be a bad thing to find Mrs. Hilton. Not at all a bad thing.
    Boxwood station is no different from a dozen others on the suburban lines of the Southern Region. A low red-brick central block, on each platform, with entrance hall, waiting-room, stationmaster’s office, and parcels room. A sloping roof protecting passengers in front of these buildings. Gardens at the two ends, nicely tended. A single handcart, a few bags of mail, a crate of carrier pigeons to be released at leisure by the station porter, a great many bicycles on a row of bicycle stands. And the station bookstall. This lay on the up side to the right of the main entrance and exit; it was similar in design to other bookstalls, with glass-fronted shelves at the end, carrying a few good editions, and a profusion of magazines and crime paperbacks on the wide sloping counter. Below the counter the usual poster advertisements of papers sold there: Picture Post, Evening Standard, The Times, Economist, Reynolds’s News —a mere selection of the abundance above on the counter. Behind the glass shelves a little office desk, partly concealed, to which the newsagent retreated when business was slack.
    On Monday morning Alastair Hilton turned from the bookstall at Boxwood station to find Basil Sims just behind him. The latter reached past him to take a Telegraph from the outstretched hand of the newsagent, who smiled at his regular customer. Then he turned to join his friend. They stood, leaning against the bookstall, waiting for their train to come in.
    â€œStill paying for the same rag twice over?” said Hilton, affably.
    â€œStill preserving peace in the home by leaving Margaret her copy, and giving myself something to read in the train. And anyway I don’t go in for fancy things like that,” he added, pointing to the learned periodical under Hilton’s arm.
    â€œArchaeology is not fancy,” the latter protested. “Just extremely interesting. You fish. I dig.”
    â€œDone any lately?” asked his friend.
    â€œNo. But I hope to soon. Perhaps the week end after next.”
    â€œSame old place?”
    â€œRoughly—yes. I still have permission. One has to be careful, you know.”
    â€œBy the way,” Basil Sims continued. “Margaret was asking after you only this morning at breakfast. Several people are, you know. We never seem to see you these days. It’s about time Felicity got that friend of hers into a nursing home and came back to look after you. And rout you out a bit. You’ll be turning into a recluse before you know where you are. Locked doors—milk curdling on the doorstep. Bearded face at an upper window.”
    The train, gliding swiftly into the station, put an end to this nonsense. But as they climbed into the same carriage and sat down opposite each other, Basil leaned forward, tapping Alastair on the knee and saying in a theatrically deep voice, “You haven’t by any chance made away with her, have you?”
    Mr. Hilton stared at him, then let his face relax into a gentle smile.
    â€œThat,” he said, “would not be at all an easy thing to do.”
    The banging of doors and blowing of whistles drowned Basil Sims’s reply.

4 The Archaeologist’s Week End
I
    The White Hart, at Duckington, near the edge of the South Downs, was one of