Four Strange Women by E.R. Punshon

Oxley said, “but thought it better not to.”
    â€œMuch better not,” agreed the colonel, “can’t be too careful with the press—a touchy lot, journalists. Too big for their boots most of them.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” agreed Oxley with a touch of ancient bitterness in his voice. “Think all they need do is to say ‘Press’ and then you’ve got to go down on your knees. He told us straight out he was going to play it up big. ‘Mysterious Forest Tragedy—Is it Murder?’ Nothing to show it isn’t accident, but he had the cheek and impudence to say an accident was only worth a par., while a murder, especially when mysterious, was worth a column and more. He said the torso murder was worth hundreds to some of those who were in on to it early.”
    â€œDid he know who the caravan belonged to?” the colonel asked.
    â€œOh, yes, had it all pat; it was he gave us Mr. Baird’s name. Said he had tea with him last week and looked him up afterwards in Who’s Who . Political gentleman it seems. Of course, it may turn out to be someone else and not Mr. Baird at all. Identification won’t be too easy. Mr. Eyton said he was going to risk that. It wasn’t libellous to say a man had been murdered.”
    â€œDid Mr. Eyton say what he was doing here?” the colonel asked.
    â€œSaid he was doing a series of articles on the forest at night time,” the superintendent explained. “Going to make a book of it seemingly. Said he was going to call it Ghosts of the Forest . Well, after this there ought to be a ghost about here all right.”
    The colonel asked a few more questions. Oxley answered them, appealing now and then to Morris for further details. Bobby took no part in the conversation. He was content to listen, and he felt, not without amusement, that this modesty was making a good impression on his future colleagues.
    â€œWe rang through to Mr. Baird’s London address,” Oxley added, “but there was no answer. We can’t do much more till morning. I’ll have the debris raked over again when it’s daylight. There were just a few things we got together. There’s a photo, of a lady that’s not been damaged at all.” 
    He pointed to where a small pile of miscellaneous objects lay, none apparently of much importance, some so damaged by the fire as to be almost unrecognizable, mere melted lumps of metal. The photograph to which Oxley referred had somehow escaped all damage. Bobby picked it up carefully by one corner, using his handkerchief to make sure he disturbed no possible finger-prints. It was an almost mechanical action. There was a small gold badge, too, which also seemed to have escaped damage, though gold melts easily. Like the photograph, it must somehow have escaped the heat of that blaze which had destroyed so much. Odd, Bobby thought, and more odd still, he thought it, when, on inquiry, he learned that both objects had been found close to, but apart from, the heap of charred and twisted wood and metal that was all that remained of the caravan. He went back to where the colonel was standing and showed him the photograph.
    â€œI thought you ought to see this, sir,” he said.
    The colonel looked at it. He did not show any surprise, but it was a minute or two before he spoke. Then he said:—
    â€œMay Grayson, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, sir,” agreed Bobby.
    â€œWould that be a relative, sir?” asked Inspector Morris.
    â€œI don’t think so,” the colonel answered, “but I believe she was a friend of Mr. Andrew White’s.”
    The name did not seem to convey anything to either Oxley or Morris, nor had there been anything in the colonel’s slow, indifferent tone to attract their attention. Only Bobby thought he could detect an undercurrent of a deep unease. The colonel noticed the gold badge Bobby was holding. He put out his hand, took