‘The grass, pet. Look at the grass.’
I did as she said and looked down at the grass in front of the big double doors that led into the storeroom. The oily bootprints were still visible, just as they had been on Saturday morning, and they still faded away where the grass had brushed the oil from the soles of the boots. But now, in the low sunlight making the dew shine as though the grass had been dusted with jewels, I could see that the footprints continued. Although the oil wasn’t dark enough to see, there was still enough of it to repel the dew and it was possible to trace the tracks beyond the door and, finally, to see where the burglar had gone. Moving my head this way and that to best catch the light on the grass, I followed the line of the prints as it moved away from the pavilion towards the hedgerow and then, to my astonishment, looped round and returned to the door.
‘He didn’t go anywhere,’ I said. ‘He turned round and went back inside.’
‘So it would appear,’ she said with a grin of triumph.
‘Whatever made you think of this?’ I asked as we continued to examine the prints.
‘It was when you mentioned taking castor oil last evening,’ she said. ‘I thought about how the water runs off when one tries to rinse the spoon. Then I wondered about making the grass wet to see the tracks and realized that just after dawn it would be lightly damp without our having to contrive anything ingenious at all.’
‘You’re a genius,’ I said.
‘Hardly,’ she laughed. ‘But sometimes a little inspired. Come on, let’s get back for some breakfast, then we can call on Sergeant Dobson to see if they still have a key to the storeroom; I think we need a proper look round in there.’
Despite our impatience to get into the storeroom and have a proper snoop around, we forced ourselves to have a proper breakfast back at the house. We knew from experience that neither Sergeant Dobson nor Constable Hancock would be on duty until at least eight o’clock, and possibly later if there was nothing in particular for them to attend to, so there was nothing to be gained by skipping a meal.
Eventually, replete and refreshed, we walked back into the village and knocked upon the police station door. The sergeant answered and was eager to accompany us once we had explained our quest. He had been given a set of keys to the club so that he might continue his investigations, and a mere twenty minutes later we were back at the club and letting ourselves in through the front door.
We went through to the storeroom and threw open the double doors to let the daylight in so that we might begin our search.
‘What are we looking for, my lady?’ I said as we split up.
‘Well, the trophy would be nice,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘In here?’
‘Perhaps. But anything, really. We’ll know when we find it. Something that’s not supposed to be here.’
‘Right you are,’ I said and began my search.
We clattered about, moving groundsmen’s tools, old rugby balls, spare parts for the lawnmower, broken furniture waiting to be repaired, all the while looking for “something that’s not supposed to be here”.
After about ten minutes of fruitless search, Sergeant Dobson let out a cry of triumph. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘And what do we have here?’
I looked over to see him holding a pair of large, well-worn, black boots. He sniffed the soles.
‘Oil,’ he said. ‘I reckon these is our thief’s boots.’
‘I say, Sergeant, well done,’ said Lady Hardcastle. She took them from him and examined them closely. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, folding down the tongue of the left boot. ‘How very obliging of our thief to write his name in his boots.’
The sergeant looked at the name. ‘I’ll get down to the bakery and arrest Lofty Tredegar,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit irregular, but you can come up the station later and have a word with him if you likes.’
‘If it won’t get you into trouble,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I should like that very much.’
An hour later we returned to the police station to be greeted by Constable Hancock. He called Sergeant Dobson and together they led us to the back of the cottage where the prisoner sat in the “cell”. It was a bare room with a bed, a chair, a stout door and bars on the window, but it still resembled the back parlour of a cottage more than a gaol cell. Tredegar was sitting forlornly on the edge of the bed as Lady Hardcastle and I entered. He made to stand up, but Lady Hardcastle waved him back down and sat in the chair. I stood in the corner of the room and the sergeant lurked in the doorway, listening intently.
‘Good morning, Mr Tredegar,’ she said. ‘Are they treating you well?’
‘Well enough,’ he said, without resentment. ‘I’ve been in worse cells.’
‘The sergeant told you why you’ve been arrested?’ she asked.
‘Sommat to do with a pair of me old boots.’
‘Old boots?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, lifting his legs to show off the handsome pair of boots he was wearing. ‘I ain’t worn they old ’uns for months. I used to wear ’em to trainin’, save gettin’ these new ’uns scuffed up on the path, like, but they disappeared one week and I ain’t seen ’em since.’
‘Disappeared?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The lads used to take the mickey sommat rotten, said they was a disgrace, said they was going to chuck ’em. So one day when they wasn’t there after trainin’ I assumed they’d got rid of ’em and went home in me rugby boots. Truth is I didn’t need ’em no more since I got the new ones, so I thought I’d just go along with the joke, like.’
The sergeant snorted disbelievingly from the doorway.
‘It’s the truth, Mr Dobson, I swears. I ain’t seen they boots since February.’
‘Hmm,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well this puts a whole new complexion on things. There’s nothing we can do to get you released for the moment, Mr Tredegar, but sit tight and don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.’ And with that, she rose and swept towards the door. The sergeant stepped aside and I followed her.
After locking the cell door, the sergeant and the constable joined us in the main office.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,’ said Dobson. ‘But what’s goin’ on? We got this fella damn near red-handed. Red booted, at least. Are you sayin’ he didn’t do it?’
‘It just doesn’t make any sense, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Why would a man use his own old boots to commit a burglary and then hide them where he could be sure they’d eventually be found? What would he gain from it? Why not wear his ordinary boots? If he were using his old boots to throw us off the scent – “No, look here, my boots are oil-free” – why hide them? Why not take them home? No, I think there’s more going on here. I think someone is trying to pull the wool over our eyes on this one.’
‘You’re sayin’ someone else wore his boots?’ said Sergeant Dobson. ‘Someone’s tryin’ to make it look like Lofty pinched the trophies?’