They drove along Wilbraham Crescent, turned to the right up Albany Road and then to the right again along the second instalment of Wilbraham Crescent.

‘Simple really,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Once you know,’ said Colin.

‘61 really backs on Mrs Hemming’s house-but a corner of it touches on 19, so that’s good enough. It will give you a chance to look at your Mr Bland. No foreign help, by the way.’

‘So there goes a beautiful theory.’ The car drew up and the two men got out.

‘Well, well,’ said Colin. ‘Some front garden!’

It was indeed a model of surburban perfection in a small way. There were beds of geraniums with lobelia edging. There were large fleshy-looking begonias, and there was a fine display of garden ornaments-frogs, toadstools, comic gnomes and pixies. 

‘I’m sure Mr Blandmust be a nice worthy man,’ said Colin, with a shudder. ‘He couldn’t have these terrible ideas if he wasn’t.’ He added as Hardcastle pushed the bell, ‘Do you expect him to be in at this time of the morning?’

‘I rang up,’ explained Hardcastle. ‘Asked him if it would be convenient.’

At that moment a smart little Traveller van drew up and turned into the garage, which had obviously been a late addition to the house. Mr Josaiah Bland got out, slammed the door and advanced towards them. He was a man of medium height with a bald head and rather small blue eyes. He had a hearty manner.

‘Inspector Hardcastle? Come right in.’

He led the way into the sitting-room. It evinced several proofs of prosperity. There were expensive and rather ornate lamps, an Empire writing desk, a coruscated ormolu set of mantelpiece ornaments, a marquetry cabinet, and ajardinere full of flowers in the window. The chairs were modern and richly upholstered.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Bland heartily. ‘Smoke? Or can’t you when you’re on the job?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Don’t drink either, I suppose?’ said Mr Bland. ‘Ah well, better for both of us, I dare say. Now what’s it all about? This business at Number 19 I suppose? The corners of our gardens adjoin, but we’ve not much real view of it except from the upper floor windows. Extraordinary business altogether it seems to be-at least from what I read in our local paper this morning. I was delighted when I got your message. A chance of getting some of the real dope. You’ve no idea the rumours that are flying about! It’s made my wife quite nervous-feeling there’s a killer on the loose, you know. The trouble is they let all these barmy people out of lunatic asylums nowadays. Send them home on parole or whatever they call it. Then they do in someone else and they clap them back again. And as I say, the rumours! I mean, what with our daily woman and the milk and paper boy, you’d be surprised. One says he was strangled with picture wire, and the other says he was stabbed. Someone else that he was coshed. At any rate it was a he, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t the old girl who was done in? An unknown man, the papers said.’

Mr Bland came to a full stop at last.

Hardcastle smiled and said in a deprecating voice:

‘Well, as to unknown, hehad a card and an address in his pocket.’

‘So much for that story then,’ said Bland. ‘But you know what people are.I don’t know who thinks up all these things.’

‘While we’re on the subject of the victim,’ said Hardcastle, ‘perhaps you’ll have a look atthis.’

Once more he brought out the police photograph.

‘So that’s him, is it?’ said Bland. ‘He looks a perfectly ordinary chap, doesn’t he? Ordinary as you and me. I suppose I mustn’t ask if he had any particular reason to be murdered?’

‘It’s early days to talk about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What I want to know, Mr Bland, is if you’ve ever seen this man before.’

Bland shook his head.

‘I’m sure I haven’t. I’m quite good at remembering faces.’

‘He hasn’t called upon you for any particular purpose-selling insurance or-vacuum cleaners or washing machines, or anything of that kind?’

‘No, no. Certainly not.’

‘We ought perhaps to ask your wife,’ said Hardcastle. ‘After all, if he called at the house, it’s your wife he would see.’

‘Yes, that’s perfectly true. I don’t know, though…Valerie’s not got very good health, you know. I wouldn’t like to upset her. What I mean is, well, I suppose that’s a picture of him when he’s dead, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘that is quite true. But it is not a painful photograph in any way.’

‘No, no. Very well done. The chap might be asleep, really.’ 

‘Are you talking about me, Josaiah?’

An adjoining door from the other room was pushed open and a middle-aged woman entered the room. She had, Hardcastle decided, been listening with close attention on the other side of the door.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ said Bland, ‘I thought you were having your morning nap. This is my wife, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’

‘That terrible murder,’ murmured Mrs Bland. ‘It really makes me shiver to think of it.’

She sat down on the sofa with a little gasping sigh.

‘Put your feet up, dear,’ said Bland.

Mrs Bland obeyed. She was a sandy-haired woman, with a faint whining voice. She looked anaemic, and had all the airs of an invalid who accepts her invalidism with a certain amount of enjoyment. For a moment or two, she reminded Inspector Hardcastle of somebody. He tried to think who it was, but failed. The faint, rather plaintive voice continued.

‘My health isn’t very good, Inspector Hardcastle, so my husband naturally tries to spare me any shocks or worry. I’m very sensitive. You were speaking about a photograph, I think, of the-of the murdered man. Oh dear, how terrible that sounds. I don’t know that I can bear to look!’

‘Dying to see it, really,’ thought Hardcastle to himself. 

With faint malice in his voice, he said:

‘Perhaps I’d better not ask you to look at it, then, Mrs Bland. I just thought you might be able to help us, in case the man has called at this house at any time.’

‘I must do my duty, mustn’t I,’ said Mrs Bland, with a sweet brave smile. She held out her hand.

‘Do you think you’d better upset yourself, Val?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Josaiah. Of course I must see.’

She looked at the photograph with much interest and, or so the inspector thought, a certain amount of disappointment.

‘He looks-really, he doesn’t look dead at all,’ she said. ‘Not at all as though he’d beenmurdered. Was he-he can’t have been strangled?’

‘He was stabbed,’ said the inspector.

Mrs Bland closed her eyes and shivered.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘how terrible.’

‘You don’t feel you’ve ever seen him, Mrs Bland?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Bland with obvious reluctance, ‘no, no, I’m afraid not. Was he the sort of man who-who calls at houses selling things?’

‘He seems to have been an insurance agent,’ said the inspector carefully.

‘Oh, I see. No, there’s been nobody of that kind, I’m sure. You never remember my mentioning anything of that kind, do you, Josaiah?’

‘Can’t say I do,’ said Mr Bland. 

‘Was he any relation to Miss Pebmarsh?’ asked Mrs Bland.

‘No,’ said the inspector, ‘he was quite unknown to her.’

‘Very peculiar,’ said Mrs Bland.

‘You know Mrs Pebmarsh?’

‘Oh yes, I mean, we know her as neighbours, of course. She asks my husband for advice sometimes about the garden.’

‘You’re a very keen gardener, I gather?’ said the inspector.

‘Not really, not really,’ said Bland deprecatingly. ‘Haven’t the time, you know. Of course, I know what’s what. But I’ve got an excellent fellow-comes twice a week. He sees the garden’s kept well stocked, and well tidied up. I’d say you couldn’t beat our garden round here, but I’m not one of those real gardeners like my neighbour.’

‘Mrs Ramsay?’ said Hardcastle in some surprise.