She shrugged. ‘Foul play? I suppose that’s the only other alternative.’
‘Occam’s razor, Dora. Isn’t drowning the simplest explanation?’
‘Simple– obvious– maybe too obvious? What about the thief?’
She was right. One crime had already been committed against Barton. An investigator mustn’t turn a blind eye to other possibilities when they had not even questioned Barton’s friends as to his state of mind. Jacob squeezed her fingers in lieu of a kiss.
‘Very well, we’ll keep looking. Ride safely. I’ll send a message if we find…’ He glanced at Hartley. ‘Anything.’
* * *
The boats started their search in the dripping grey dawn. Spiders’ webs sagged on the wild rose bushes and the grass bent under the weight of the dew. Mist rose from the ground, making the lake murky but leaving the hilltops clear. The volunteers pushed their little vessels off the beach, wading in the water until it grew deep enough not to ground when the passengers got in. They started in a line from Elter Holme, sounding the water with long poles. Every available boat was deployed. News had spread quickly about the disaster and Barton’s friends had rushed to offer their assistance. Jacob had manoeuvred matters so that he could share a boat with Moss. The mysterious man from the Alien Office demonstrated that he was adept at the oars. With his dark looks and flashing black eyes, body hunched over the oars in the mist, it would be easy to picture him as a debonair smuggler or pirate in another setting. He was certainly more useful than Knotte who was moping on the shore where the clothes had been left, and Wright who had already lost a grappling hook in the water and was now being assisted to retrieve it. Fletcher, Langhorne and Crawford were out in another boat but appeared to be spending more time going in circles than searching.
Jacob lifted the pole from his latest sounding. The water ran down his sleeve to his elbow. The tactile memory reminded him of punting in Cambridge many years ago, a golden day on the River Cam so different from this grim one.
‘Did you know Barton from college?’ he asked the oarsman.
‘Not me, doctor. That’s Langhorne and Knotte. The rest of us became friends later.’
‘Take her out another two yards.’ Jacob pushed down with the pole, half fearing, half hoping to meet with an obstruction. ‘How well do you know Mr Barton?’
‘A recent acquaintance. He’s a capital fellow.’ That sounded like the stock praise a man would give a gentleman about whom he thought very little. ‘You?’
‘We have mutual friends in the Wordsworths.’
‘You’ve been away, I hear.’
Moss had been checking up on him, had he?
‘That’s correct.’
‘You were in Bedlam when Sir Fletcher Vane was killed.’
Cards were being laid on the table. ‘Unwillingly, yes, I was. Did you know him?’
‘I used to work under him. A great man.’
Was he? Jacob had heartily to despise the Illuminati leader. Was Moss one of his followers? If so, he’d bear close watching. ‘You were a friend of Vane’s?’
‘No!’ Moss laughed at the thought. It sounded genuine. ‘Sir Fletcher Vane being friends with the likes of me? My origins are far too humble for that. I’m from Newcastle. My people are mining engineers.’
‘It’s a long way from London. How did you get to work for the government?’
‘Usual way.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I was in the navy. Someone spotted my potential. They recommended me.’
Jacob’s attention was taken from this very interesting line of conversation by feeling something under his pole. ‘I think…’ He stirred it and it broke apart. Nothing but waterweed. ‘False alarm.’
‘Want to move on?’
‘Yes, another two yards.’ He lowered the pole.
‘Who are you investigating, Dr Sandys?’ The question was abrupt when it came, so much so that he almost dropped his pole.
‘I beg your pardon?’
