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examine the remains as soon as possible. In the meantime let's get the body to the mortuary in Truro. Chief Inspector Butts will fix it with the local coroner.” An incipient snort from Butts at this breach of protocol. “Sir Reginald Quick,” Powell added for the benefit of Dr. Harris, “is the Home Office pathologist.”
    Harris looked at Powell with penetrating blue eyes. (Sailor's eyes, Powell fancied.) “I sincerely wish him luck. And you, as well, Chief Superintendent, because I cannot emphasis strongly enough the necessity of getting to the bottom of this foul business with all due haste or, mark my words, there will be a price to pay!” And with that ominous pronouncement he turned on his heel and strode to his car.
    They stood in silence as Harris drove off in a spray of gravel. Something Harris had said stuck Powell as rather curious. He turned toward the guesthouse, his train of thought interrupted. This time he was certain; the curtain in one of the upstairs windows had stirred slightly.

CHAPTER 6
    The Head was doing a modest business that night, and from the odd snippet of conversation Powell overheard, the discovery of the body on the Sands the previous night was the hot topic. Tony Rowlands seemed agitated about something as he went about his business delivering drinks and food orders and snapping commands at the long-suffering Jenny behind the bar. Powell sat with Jane Goode and Sergeant Black at what had become their regular table in front of the fire. They had just finished a decent meal of rabbit stew served with local new potatoes.
    Jane Goode sipped her wine eagerly. “Now, I'll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Powell inquired modestly. Nothing like a good double entendre to liven up an evening.
    She smiled, mildly exasperated. “Your
day
, I mean.”
    Powell affected an air of disappointment and then drained his pint. “Oh, I see. You first, then.”
    “Not much to tell really. First thing this morning I showed Butts's men where the body had washed up, but the tide had been in and out, so I don't think they foundmuch. Then I filed a story with my newspaper and spent the rest of the day working on my book.”
    ‘That's it?”
    “A fairly productive day, I'd say, all things considered. I'd be interested to hear how yours stacks up.”
    Powell summarized the results of Dr. Harris's examination of the body. “A bit of a riddle,” he concluded dryly.
    “Careful! I've got a proprietary interest in the use of that word.”
    “Looking at the thing dispassionately,” he continued, “there is still no evidence that a crime has been committed. An accident of some sort is the most likely explanation.”
    “Dispassionately is the only way to look at anything,” Jane Goode said pointedly. “But you can't be serious! Have you forgotten that it's had both its legs sawn off, not to mention the fact that it glows in the dark?”
    “There is that,” Powell admitted, “and I'm trying to keep an open mind. “But we need to do more forensic work before—”
    “You saw it yourself on the beach last night. There's something very weird going on and I don't need some geek in a white coat to prove it to me.”
    “It's possible that the body has been tampered with, but—”
    “Tampered with! That's the understatement of the year. I'm not sure what the proper legal term is, but I thought it was against the law to desecrate a human body. Look, Powell, I think I'm onto something big here and I'm not going to let you or anybody else put me off the scent.”
    “So
that's
it,” Powell rejoined.
    “What else did you think?” she snapped back, tossing her head haughtily.
    Sergeant Black seemed to be taking considerable pleasure in the proceedings. His head swiveled back and forth as if he were the umpire of a particularly spirited tennis match.
    ‘Tm just saying that we need to look into it a bit more before we rule out the more obvious explanations. I've