“And they’ve searched everything—everything,” said Harriet, shocked right through with awful fear.
“Well, there was nothing to find. They must have been disappointed,” said Richard.
But it was a shock to him also: great consternation at the farm.
“It must have been something connected with Sharpe—it must have been that,” said Somers, trying to reassure himself.
“Thank goodness the house was so clean and tidy,” said Harriet. But it was a last blow to her.
What had they taken? They had not touched Somers’ papers. But they had been through his pockets—they had taken the few loose letters from the pocket of his day-jacket—they had taken a book—and a sort of note-book with scraps of notes for essays in it—and his address book—yes, a few things like that.
“But it’ll be nothing. It’ll be something to do with Sharpe’s bother.”
But he felt sick and sullen, and wouldn’t get up early in the morning. Harriet was more prepared. She was down, dressed and tidy, making the breakfast. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Suddenly Somers heard her call:
“Lovat, they’re here. Get up.”
He heard the dread in her voice, and sprang into his clothes and came downstairs: a young officer, the burly police-sergeant, and two other loutish looking men. Somers came down without a collar.