The sergeant had known Miss Maynard since her mother had first come to live at Ashlingsea fifteen years ago. He had seen her grow up from a little girl to a young lady, but the years had increased the gulf between them. As a schoolgirl home from her holidays it was within the sergeant’s official privilege to exchange a word or two when saluting her in the street. Her development into long dresses made anything more than a bare salutation savour of familiarity, and the sergeant knew his place too well to be guilty of familiarity with those above him.
With scrupulous care he had always uttered the name “Miss Maynard,” when saluting her in those days, so that she might recognize that he was one of the first to admit the claims of adolescence to the honours of maturity. Then came a time with the further lapse of years when she reached the threshold of womanhood, and to utter her name in salutation would have savoured of familiarity. So the salute became a silent one as indicative of Sergeant Westaway’s recognition that his voice could not carry across the increased gulf between them.
“I have something very important to tell you,” said Miss Maynard, in reply to his intimation that the full extent of his official powers were at her disposal.
“Ah!”
The sergeant realized that a matter of great personal importance to Miss Maynard might readily prove to be of minor consequence to him when viewed through official glasses; but there was no hint of this in the combination of politeness and obsequiousness with which he opened the door leading from the main room of the little police station to his private room behind it.
He placed a chair for her at the office table and then went round to his own chair and stood beside it. There was a pause, due to the desire to be helped with questions, but Sergeant Westaway’s social sense was greater than his sense of official importance, and he waited for her to begin.
“It is about the Cliff Farm murder,” she said in a low voice.
“Oh!” It was an exclamation in which astonishment and anticipation of official delight were blended. “And do you—do you know anything about it?” he asked.
“I am not sure what you will think of my story—whether there is any clue in it. I must leave that for you to judge. But I feel that I ought to tell you all that I do know.”
“Quite right,” said the sergeant. His official manner, rising like a tide, was submerging his social sense of inequality. “There is nothing like telling the police the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It is always the best way.” His social sense made a last manifestation before it threw up its arms and sank. “Not that I suppose for one moment, Miss Maynard, that you had anything to do with it—that is to say, that you actually participated in the crime.”