'No,' she answered. 'I didn't know him then.' Her tone was genuinely surprised.
I nodded and left them there. I took a taxi to the offices of the Morning Record. There I got the inquiry people to dig out from the library the file of the Record for the month of August, 1939. The trial of George Farnell was covered very fully. There were pictures of Farnell and of his partner, Vincent Clegg, a picture of Farnell with his father and one of Farnell working with a divining rod — the same picture that Sir Clinton had included in the batch he'd sent me.
But though I searched through every paragraph of the reports I could get no line that could conceivably have a bearing on his death. No extraneous characters had appeared as witnesses on either side. It was a simple, straightforward story. Farnell and Clegg had set up as mining consultants in 1936. They had operated successfully for three years. Then Clegg, who handled the business side, found that certain cheques had been cashed of which he had no knowledge. The signature on the cheques appeared to be his. The amount involved was nearly £10;000. Farnell pleaded guilty to the forging of his partner's signature. In evidence he stated that prospecting work in Norway, not on behalf of the firm, had involved him in considerable expenditure. He was convinced that valuable minerals did, in fact, exist in the mountains of Central Norway. His partner had refused to finance him. He had, therefore, acted on his own in the matter. In mitigation, his counsel said that he honestly regarded the money spent as being in the form of an investment. Apart from Farnell and Clegg, the only witnesses called were members of the office staff and Pritchard, who was called in as a metallurgist to give his views on Norway's mineral potentialities. The judge in his summing up described Farnell as a 'man obsessed with an idea.' Farnell was sentenced to six years.
That was all. I closed the file and went out into the chill bustle of Fleet Street. I jumped on a bus going west and as we moved along the Strand I wasn't thinking about the trial. I was thinking about the girl. Could be helpful if you gained her confidence. Maybe Sir Clinton was right. Maybe she did know something. I got off at Trafalgar Square. At the offices of the Bergen Steamship Company, I talked with a man I'd met several times at public functions. He gave me introductions to men in Bergen and in the Norwegian Government which might prove useful. Then I went out and got a complete set of Admiralty charts and sailing directions for the Norwegian coast.
It was late afternoon before I took a bus up to the City and walked across Tower Bridge. I paused for a moment by the parapet and looked down at Diviner. The tide was in now and she lay with her decks almost flush with the wharf. To me she looked very beautiful with her tall masts and blue hull. I could understand how all the City people had felt who stood where I was standing, gazing down at her. Up the river the light was fading and the sun, setting in a livid streak, gave an orange glow to the cold, damp air. Lights were still on in some of the big office blocks. Clocks began to strike and I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock. I hurried on then.
As I turned in between the tall warehouses, a taxi passed me and stopped at the wharf. A man got out and paid the driver off. As I came up he was looking uncertainly about him. 'Excuse me, please,' he said. 'Can you tell me if that is the yacht, Diviner?' And he nodded towards the slender clutter of spars that towered above the wharf. He was a slim, neatly dressed man. He looked like an American business man. And he spoke like one, except for a peculiar preciseness and the trace of what seemed to be a Welsh accent.
'Yes,' I said. 'What do you want?'
'Mr Gansert,' he answered.
'I'm Gansert,' I told him.
His rather heavy eyebrows rose slightly, but his leathery features remained entirely expressionless. 'Good,' he said. 'My name is Jorgensen. You have heard of me, perhaps?'