“I don’t think he meant to sleep the Tuesday night at the Hatcheries. He had transferred his base somewhere else—to London, I suppose—and his visit to Paston Whitchurch, on the pretext of picking up something he had left behind, was merely meant to establish, in our eyes, the fact that he was a different man from Brotherhood.” “There’s one more thing, though,” said Marryatt; “I’m afraid it’s a kind of professional objection. Is it possible that a man who was really an atheist would be at the pains to go over every Sunday to Mass at Paston Bridge? Davenant, you see, was very regular about that. Or, granted that he was really a Catholic, could he bring himself to get up and preach atheist doctrines on the village green?” Carmichael pulled a wry face. “I’m afraid, Marryatt, you are altogether too confiding. Don’t you see that he was a Catholic, and was doing the work of his own Church by turning the villagers against you and your doctrines? Don’t you see that if he managed to make atheists of your people, it would be all the easier for the priest at Paston Bridge to make Romans of them?” “In fact,” said Gordon, “what it comes to is this: we have got to look for a criminal still; but it’s no use looking for Davenant?” “You would be chasing a phantom,” said Carmichael. Chapter VIII The Inquest, and a Fresh Clue The inquest was held on the following afternoon (that is, the afternoon of Thursday) in the village school at Paston Whitchurch. As he sat waiting to give his evidence, Reeves found his mind dominated, as the mind is dominated at such moments, almost entirely by irrelevant sense-impressions. There was the curious smell of the schoolroom, which always suggests (it is hard to know why) ink and chalk. There was the irritating pant and hoot of motors and motor-bicycles outside the open windows. There was the inevitable series of animals represented round the walls, looking like the religious emblems of some strange, totemistic worship. The one opposite Reeves had a caption underneath it in very large letters, THE PIG IS A MAMMAL, as if to clear up any possible doubts which might be felt by the youth of the parish as to what a pig was. There were the names cut and inked on the desks; especially intriguing was the signature of “H. Precious”—how did people in the country get such odd names? And why were there so few names like that in the London Telephone Directory? Carmichael would probably have a theory about this. . . .