Bundle frowned. The name Ronald Devereux awoke some chord of remembrance. She was sure she had heard it before. It was not until she was halfway back to Chimneys in the car that it came to her. Of course! Ronny Devereux. Bill’s friend in the Foreign Office. He and Bill and—yes—Gerald Wade.
As this last realisation came to her, Bundle nearly went into the hedge. First Gerald Wade—then Ronny Devereux. Gerry Wade’s death might have been natural—the result of carelessness—but Ronny Devereux’s surely bore a more sinister interpretation.
And then Bundle remembered something else. Seven Dials! When the dying man had said it, it had seemed vaguely familiar. Now she knew why. Gerald Wade had mentioned Seven Dials in that last letter of his written to his sister on the night before his death. And that again connected up with something else that escaped her.
Thinking all these things over, Bundle had slowed down to such a sober pace that nobody would have recognised her. She drove the car round to the garage and went in search of her father.
Lord Caterham was happily reading a catalogue of a forthcoming sale of rare editions and was immeasurably astonished to see Bundle.
“Even you,” he said, “can’t have been to London and back in this time.”
“I haven’t been to London,” said Bundle. “I ran over a man.”
“What?”
“Only I didn’t really. He was shot.”
“How could he have been?”
“I don’t know how he could have been, but he was.”