A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird Page A

then?”
    Sloan cleared his throat. “A British bullet, sir.”
    There was a pause. Then.
    â€œI see, Sloan. Not death by action of the King’s enemies after all.”
    â€œNo, sir, I’m afraid not. Not the—er—common enemy at all, sir, but a personal one, I should say. Dr. Dabbe thinks the point of entry was the upper aspect of the fifth left rib.”
    Leeyes grunted down the line. “Trying for the heart.”
    â€œIt lodged in the spinal vertebrae anyway, sir. That’s where Dr. Dabbe found it.”
    â€œThis bullet …”
    â€œA .303, sir.”
    â€œHa! That’s a good clue, Sloan.”
    â€œIs it, sir?”
    â€œDad’s Army.”
    â€œPardon, sir?”
    â€œDad’s Army, Sloan.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought you said, sir. What,” asked Sloan cautiously, “was Dad’s Army?”
    â€œDon’t you remember, Sloan?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWhat did you do in the war then?”
    â€œWent to school, sir.”
    â€œWhat? Good Lord, Sloan, are you as young as all that?”
    â€œNot as young as all that,” murmured Sloan demurely, “but not old enough to know about Dad’s Army.”
    â€œThe Home Guard, man. In case of invasion. The people who came after the Local Defense Volunteers. L.D.V.’s they were known as at first.” He chuckled sardonically. “The Look, Duck, and Vanish brigade we called them at the time.”
    â€œReally, sir?” That must have been a great encouragement.
    â€œThe Home Guard had .303s to begin with. They had some Canadian issue rifles later but it was .303s first.”
    Sloan wrote that down. Dr. Dabbe had promised him a full report on the bullet as soon as possible but all information was grist to a good detective’s mill.
    â€œAfter the pikes and pitchforks,” said Leeyes reminiscently. “You’d be surprised how many pillars of society reckoned they could take someone with them when they went.”
    â€œReally, sir?”
    â€œGentle old ladies talking fit to make your blood run cold. It’ll be different next time.” He grunted. “What else have you discovered?”
    â€œThe skeleton was recovered from the cellar of a bombed house occupied by some people called Waite and later sold to a man, Gilbert Hodge. I’m on my way to see him now. It had been buried roughly the same length of time as the house has been bombed …”
    â€œYou’re getting pedantic, Sloan.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Sloan went sturdily on. “Neither son of the house was married at the time of the bombing though both were of marriageable age then …”
    â€œWere they?”
    â€œThere were no daughters. The woman could have been another relative or a friend …”
    â€œVery friendly she must have been, Sloan, seeing as how you said she was pregnant …”
    â€œOr she might have had no connection with the Waite family at all and been buried in the ruins later.”
    â€œJust good friends, Sloan,” declared Leeyes. “That’s what you’ll find it will have been. It always is.”
    â€œI couldn’t begin to say, sir,” said Sloan austerely.
    â€œNot at this stage.”
    â€œWell,” said Leeyes irritably, “you’d better find out.”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s something else, sir,” said Sloan, and told him about the museum curator’s pegs having been moved.
    The response was immediate.
    â€œAre you trying to tell me, Sloan,” roared the superintendent down the telephone from the police station, “That there’s still some monkey business going on on that site now?”
    â€œI don’t really know, sir, yet,” admitted Sloan unhappily. He had barely taken in what the pathologist had said before the implications of the archeologist’s moved pegs started to hit him.
    â€œWell, why haven’t you