Everything in Its Place

By the time six clues were pinned to the lining paper on the Bell Street wall, Jonah had stopped pretending the case was about one man. He had cut index cards for everyone you had sat across from and pinned them in a ring, and in the middle, in red felt tip, he had written a single question: WHO WAS TOLD? A tin of drawing pins stood open on the filing cabinet beside half a packet of custard creams, and the kettle, as ever, declined to boil.

“All these people,” he said, “and each of them has told us what kind of town this is. Ward says a body. Rudd says an arrangement. Vera says a habit. Not one of them has told us what they left out.”

“A town keeps its order by what it agrees not to ask,” you said, and took a pin from the tin. “Every one of them knew something on Thursday night that they haven’t offered, and each has a perfectly good reason for keeping it, which is exactly why I don’t trust it. We go back, and this time we ask the second question.” You looked at the card Jonah had left blank at the top of the ring. “And there’s a bookkeeper in a chapel who hasn’t been asked anything at all.”