"Well, of course. Anything at all..." The boy was obviously vastly flattered. "And to think my Sheil was working… And I never suspected a word! It was connected with the Tor, I suppose?"

"Indirectly," Mark said, with a glance at April.

"Ah. That accounts for it, then. She was always on about taking walks up on them blasted moors. Spent half her time up there, it seemed at times... That's where she met him up there."

"Him?"

"Sir Flipping You-know-who, Mister Blooming Right," the boy said scornfully. "Chatting her up with his blah voice; taking her to Falmouth and Truro and buying her expensive dinners; setting her against me, just because I don't have his crust or his arrogance!" He made as though to spit, thought better of it, and contented himself with a derisive shrug.

"He took her out often?"

"When it suited his book. When he wasn't living it up with every army and air force officer in every mess from here to Exeter."

"Oh, he visited lots of army messes?"

"All of 'em, Oh, very popular with the top brass, Sir Gerald was — and still is, for that matter. He was always being invited to this station and that camp. I suppose they thought he added tone...Tone!" he added scornfully.

"Who else did Sheila see — when she wasn't with you, I mean?" April asked, "Did she have any special friends? Any girlfriends, for instance?"

"I don't think so. She was quite chummy with Sara — my sister, that is — though of course Sara's much older. And I think she had a friend who used to be a nurse with her, over by Redruth. I never paid special heed."

"Who do you think killed her?" Mark Slate demanded abruptly.

"Who?" The Bosustow face darkened suddenly in fury. "Who d'you think killed her? He did, of course! Who else could — or would — have killed her? Who else had the motive, the opportunity? Who was the last to be seen with her? Who else was that sort of dirty, rotten, stinking —"

"All right, all right, all right," Slate cut in peremptorily. "That's quite enough of that. We understand you have cause to dislike this man. That's still no proof that he's a murderer, you know. What do you mean by motive?"

"He wanted her out of the way. He ––"

"Why?"

"Why? Because he had tired of her, I suppose. He wanted to get rid of her. Once he'd had his way... he was afraid she'd spill the beans to his wife. He had to shut her mouth once it was over."

"Oh, then there were beans to spill? His attentions were not — er — unwelcome?"

"He'd dazzled her all right, if that's what you mean. There'd been some kind of an affair between them. I'm not denying it."

"Did she deny it, though? And so far as the wife was concerned, do you know that she knew all about this friendship and didn't mind at all? She told me so herself."

"Ah, yes," the boy sneered, "that's what she says now. Ask her if she knew about it a week ago, a fortnight! She's saying that to make it look better for her husband, to protect him."

"But if she didn't know about the friendship, if in other words she might be expected to object when she did find out — then why should she wish to protect him anyway?" April asked reasonably.

"Those kind of people aren't like you and me," the boy said. "Anyway, she'd do it because she wouldn't want to lose a good meal ticket, wouldn't she?"

"Leaving the actual motive aside for the moment," Mark put in, "what's the strength of the opportunity bit? And how do we know he was the last to see her alive?"

"Well, we had this blazin' row, see, her and me — and the upshot of that was that she walked out on me. We were in my caravan at the time. And then she met him: he'd called by her booth, the way he sometimes did. They left the field together and they arranged to meet later. Several people waiting for the bus heard them. Then he went off down the hill and she caught the bus. And that's the last...nobody ever saw her..." He choked on his words.

"He claims she never turned up for their date. She stood him up the way she sometimes stood you up. That's what he says," Mark pointed out.

"Well, wouldn't you?" the boy demanded. "What else could he say? And talking of excuses, I still don't see why you're here. I understand who you are and what you're doin' — but I don't understand what you're doin' here... in my brother's caravan."

"Finding out about Sheila, of course," April said smoothly. "Since your poor brother seems to have been murdered too, we thought that if we could find out something about that, it might help us solve the mystery of her killer."

"No mystery about that, like I said." Ernie Bosustow paused. "He was a bit surly and he had his faults, but he was a good enough bloke, Harry. Me and the old man don't get on too well — it was Harry did the things for me that the old man should of done. Like a father, I mean... If you find out anything about who killed him..." His voice tailed away once more.

"Don't worry," April said. "We'll pass on anything of interest that we find out — and for your part, you can standby and be ready to help us in our hunt for the murderer of Sheila, eh?"

"Of course, of course. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing yet, Ernie. But keep alert. If we want you to help, it will be in a hurry and you must come running; okay?"

The boy's eyes had brightened. "Anything you say," he replied.

"There's just one thing more," Slate said. "When you're up at your hut on the moors, Ernie, working the Serpentine concession or turning up the souvenirs, how do you make the lighthouses?"

"How do you mean 'How'?"

"What way do you fabricate them? How do you do it?"

"Well, I get a suitable piece of the rock, chip it roughly to shape and then fix it to the lathe spindles. Once she's spinning, I advance the cutting tool and take off more or less as required — for the gallery, you know, and the lantern, and the part where it swells out below."

"You don't ever make them in two parts, with a top that screws into the bottom?"

"Not even the big ones. I don't see the point. Costs more to make, it's more difficult to produce — and what's the advantage? No spindle scars, that's all... Kind of people buy these things, you must realise, couldn't care less about spindle scars. Even so, we usually fill them and polish over, just in case."

"That's clear enough," April said. "You have never turned a double lighthouse — and, I suppose, you've never turned a Porphyry one in black?"

"Porphyry?" the boy said, astonished. "Not a lighthouse. Neither in black nor any other colour. That's a new one, I must say: a black Porphyry lighthouse!" He chuckled.

"Sir Gerald Wright thinks so too. He even sent his wife to get hold of one the other day, just after the murder. There was nothing for her, though."

"You know what I think of Sir Bleeding Gerald," the boy said.

"I know," the girl replied. "But I don't know what I think of him. Since he's a man of so many parts, with so many conflicting opinions about him, I think the least I can do is manoeuvre a chance meeting with this Lothario!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A WALK OVER THE CLIFFS

THE following day was a Saturday. For the present, the weather seemed to have cleared: after the rainstorm which had lasted all night, a Force Seven gale had blown away the clouds and whipped the breakers along the cliffs into a battlefield of exploding foam. Inland at the head of the valley, however, where the bare trees took the brunt of the wind's fury, the circus field was relatively sheltered and there was quite a crowd of locals profiting from the pale winter sunshine.