Dover Strikes Again

by Joyce Porter

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Manual strangulation.’ Superintendent Underbarrow sighed. ‘That put the cat amongst the pigeons, I can tell you.’ 'The Land-Rover stopped with a jerk and a skid. Dover came abruptly out of the Land of Nod and stared disconsolately about him.

  The police driver turned round to report. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said to Superintendent Underbarrow, ‘but this is it. I can’t get any farther.’

  ‘Right!’ The superintendent grinned at MacGregor and confirmed his worst fears. ‘Come on, sergeant! It’s shanks’s pony now.’

  ‘What?’ Chief Inspector Dover came roaring back to full consciousness with both fists up.

  ‘It’s only just up the hill,’ Superintendent Underbarrow assured him genially. ‘Shouldn’t take us more than half an hour. What size shoes do you take?’

  ‘Shoes?’ Dover’s piggy little eyes popped.

  ‘You’ll need gum boots and I’ll try and borrow a couple of oilskins for you. Rowney, you’d better come up with us and help with the luggage.’

  ‘Very good sir.’ The police driver switched his engine off and got out of the Land-Rover.

  Superintendent Underbarrow and MacGregor began to extract themselves from the rear but Dover sat firm.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said.

  Superintendent Underbarrow paused. ‘Time’s getting on,’ he warned. ‘It’s no joke, getting up there in the dark.’

  ‘Earthquakes,’ said Dover. ‘Suppose there’s another one?’ Superintendent Underbarrow eyed him with mild dislike. This joker was a right specimen and no mistake. ‘Not much chance of that,’ he lied blandly. ‘Like lightning, you know. Never strikes twice in the same place.’

  Dover sniffed suspiciously. ‘You sure?’

  MacGregor opened his mouth but, at a glance from Superintendent Underbarrow, shut it again.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow.

  Eventually, gum-booted and festooned in oilskins, the little convoy set off up the hill. A group of council workmen, knocking off after another day’s unrewarding struggle with the mud, cheered and whistled them on their way. Police Constable Rowney and Superintendent Underbarrow carried the luggage between them. The suitcases were heavy but they were as nothing compared to Dover. The task of getting him up to Sully Martin was dropped squarely on MacGregor’s shoulders. The rain tippled down as they slipped and scrambled along. Here and there somebody had tried to improve the going by arranging chunks of masonry as stepping stones but the tide of mud was already engulfing them.

  Dover, never an enthusiast for physical exertion in the choicest of circumstances, slithered and panted and blasphemed. Before long he got one arm round MacGregor’s neck and hung there with the grim tenacity of an obese and cowardly limpet. MacGregor’s protests that he couldn’t breathe fell on deaf ears.

  ‘If we go, laddie,’ promised Dover with a snarl, ‘we go together!’

  Onwards and upwards. At long last MacGregor hauled his chief inspector’s seventeen and a quarter stone as far as a line of partially submerged duckboards where Superintendent Underbarrow, his good nature getting the better of him once again, was waiting for them with guidance and encouragement.

  ‘Not much farther now!’ he called.

  ‘Bloody oaf!’ muttered Dover into MacGregor’s left ear. ‘I’m warning you, laddie! Much more of him and there’ll be another murder!’

  The duckboarding was only a foot or so wide and further progress could only be achieved in single file. With some difficulty MacGregor managed to wean Dover from his stranglehold and get him to lead the way. Superintendent Underbarrow brought up the rear and, finding himself next to MacGregor, resumed their interrupted conversation.

  ‘Aye,’ he began, ‘manual strangulation.’

  MacGregor spoke back over his shoulder. ‘The murderer must have been a bit of an idiot, sir.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, if he’d just battered Chantry’s head in with a piece of wood or a brick, you’d probably be none the wiser, would you, sir? It would have just gone down in the book as an accident.’

  ‘Hm.’ Superintendent Underbarrow decided after a moment’s reflection that it wasn’t worth taking offence at this implied slur on his colleagues’ efficiency. ‘He probably never thought of that.’

  ‘Killed in a moment of blind passion, you think, sir?’

  ‘Well, it can’t have been premeditated, can it? Nobody could have foreseen there was going to be an earthquake.’

  ‘Bit of an opportunist, eh?’

  ‘It looks like that to me. And damned lucky, too. Chantry’s body was found over there somewhere.’ The superintendent pointed through the sheeting rain and the encroaching twilight. ‘Looks like the back of the moon, doesn’t it? Chaos,’ he observed sadly. ‘Sheer, utter and undiluted chaos. If you lot rely on footprints and fingerprints and things like that, you’re in for a pretty thin time.’

  Dover had reach the end of the duckboards.

  ‘Turn right, chief inspector!’ called Superintendent Underbarrow. He poked MacGregor between the shoulder blades. ‘See that, sergeant?’

  ‘That heap of stones, sir?’

  ‘The old Sally Gate – or what’s left of it. Stood here for centuries and now it looks for all the world like a pile of hard core for a motorway. They’re talking about rebuilding it, but I don’t know.’ He put a spurt on and overtook Dover. ‘We’re in West Street now,’ he told him, ‘and just along here is the line of the fault where this part of the cliff cracked. It runs right across the village. All the damage was on this side – see?’

  Dover couldn’t have cared less about the blasted damage. He was too busy staring in dismay at a couple of narrow planks that had been thrown across the gaping ravine in the road. ’Strewth, they weren’t expecting him to . . . ?

  They were.

  Dover was rapidly reaching the end of his not very lengthy tether. After a short and completely futile argument he simply closed his eyes and left it to MacGregor and Superintendent Underbarrow to guide his hesitant feet across. They’d got him just about midway when there was a dull, heavy rumble from behind them. Even MacGregor went white.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked apprehensively. He was down on his knees trying to force Dover’s left foot in front of his right.

  Superintendent Underbarrow hastened to reassure him. ‘They’re still knocking a few of the wrecked houses down. It’s too dangerous to leave ’em standing. Pity, really. Sully Martin was quite a pretty little place before all this happened.’

  They reached the end of West Street and turned right into Cherry Lane. Superintendent Underbarrow began stamping the great clods of mud off his feet. ‘Soon be there now,’ he informed them cheerfully. ‘We’re over the worst. We’ve had to come a bit of a long way round, of course, but another couple of minutes should see us in the Blenheim Towers. And not before time, eh?’

  A kindly darkness masked the sneer on Dover’s face and the superintendent looked around for something else to interest his guests.

  ‘There’s the church,’ he said, indicating a noble mediaeval pile on his left. ‘It’s a blessing that’s still standing. There’d have been some glum faces knocking around if that had gone. You’ll see where the steeple fell when we get round the comer into East Street.’

  Chief Inspector Dover stumped wearily on. For all he cared, you could take every mediaeval church and steeple in Christendom and stuff ’em. He’d more serious problems on his mind. His feet and his stomach, to name but two. Both, of course, were always with him but at the moment they were causing him even more anxiety than usual. His stomach had been rumbling menacingly for some time and what those bloody Wellington boots were doing to his feet didn’t bear thinking about. Everybody knew rubber drew your feet something cruel and the last thing Dover’s feet needed was drawing.

  MacGregor, too, had other preoccupations though his were of a less personal nature. ‘What sort of man was this Chantry fellow?’ he asked.

/>   ‘Walter Chantry?’ repeated Superintendent Underbarrow. ‘Well, I didn’t really know him, of course. Sat on the same committees with him once or twice but that’s about all. Middle-aged. Widower. Lived here in Sully Martin with his married daughter and her husband.’

  ‘A professional man?’

  ‘A builder. In a very good way of business, too, by all accounts. Tragic, really. He’d have made a packet out of this lot, wouldn’t he?’ Superintendent Underbarrow chuckled softly to himself. ‘Ah, well, that’s life! We turn left again here, sergeant. Yes, a builder he was. Had his offices and yard over at Keilet Sands. Look – that’s where the steeple came down. Right across this road – see? It blocked it completely for several hours but they’ve cleared it away now, of course. By the way, sergeant, you’ll see what this means from your point of view?’

  ‘Er – not exactly, sir.’

  ‘Well, for an hour or more after the actual earthquake, that devastated part of the village where Chantry’s body was found was completely cut off. The main road up through the old Sally Gate was blocked by the landside. West Street, the one we just came along, was cut by that ravine thing and I can’t see anybody scrambling across that in the dark, can you?’

  MacGregor bit his lip and looked thoughtfully around. ‘And this street, East Street, was blocked by the fallen steeple?’

  ‘That’s right. It narrows the field of suspects down a bit.’

  ‘And there’s no other way through?’

  ‘I suppose you could get across this central square area, here, through the churchyard perhaps and over a few garden walls, but it’d be far from easy. There’s spikes and barbed wire and broken glass all over the place. Some of our lads explored it as a possible route this morning but they said it was well nigh hopeless. Well, if a couple of fit young coppers can’t do it in broad daylight . . . Oh, we turn right down this lane here.’ He turned back to call encouragingly over his shoulder to the bulky and glowering figure that was falling farther and farther behind. ‘We’re all but there, chief inspector!’

  Dover’s reply was inaudible but short.

  At the end of the lane they came to a fair-sized house which stood rather primly in its own neglected looking grounds. Wrought-iron gates hung crazily open, their rusty hinges showing that they had not been used for many years. PC Rowney, still carrying his two suitcases, led the way up the short circular drive which swept, rather meanly and weedily, up to the front door.

  Dover, dimly sensing that food, warmth and shelter were at long last within sight, caught up with the others just as they were mounting the short flight of steps.

  ‘Home at last!’ beamed Superintendent Underbarrow as Dover stopped dead in his tracks and stared up at the peeling sign which hung above the front door. ‘You’ll not be sorry to get in out of this rain, eh?’

  The habitual bad-tempered expression on Dover’s face gradually gave way to a scowl of bleak fury. His eyesight not being what it used to be, he read the sign again before exploding with an oath that set even PC Rowney’s ears tingling.

  Superintendent Underbarrow blinked. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That’s the matter, you great gibbering idiot!’ howled Dover and pointed a fat, trembling finger at the sign.

  MacGregor felt an iron hand of apprehension clutch his heart. He scurried back down the front steps to see what it was that had reduced his superior officer to a quivering jelly of wrath.

  Oh, God!

  The sign was blistered and faint but perfectly legible. There was no mistaking its dreadful message, ‘THE BLENHEIM TOWERS PRIVATE HOTEL,’ it read. ‘Unlicensed.’

  Two

  It was a good quarter of an hour before Dover’s boiling rage could be reduced to a more manageable simmering sulk. The handful of residents and guests, who had gathered to have a discreet peep at the exciting new arrivals, retreated in some disorder to their rooms, the more timid ones amongst them going so far as to hide their heads under the bedclothes. Really, the language! It was much worse than the time the Reverend Adalbert Brown’s partner had failed to return his lead when their opponents (vulnerable) were on a little slam in spades, doubled and redoubled.

  The brunt of the vituperation was borne, of course, by a bewildered Superintendent Underbarrow. Even Dover couldn’t hold Sergeant MacGregor entirely responsible for this particular catastrophe, much as he would have liked to. The superintendent, once he had grasped that Dover was not being funny, had hastened to defend himself and the accommodation he had chosen.

  He began, mistakenly perhaps, with an appeal to reason. ‘But there’s nowhere else, old chap,’ he told an empurpled Dover. ‘This is the only available place.’

  ‘A temperance boarding house?’ screamed Dover. ‘This bug-infested chicken coop?’

  ‘We’ve just had an earthquake,' explained Superintendent Underbarrow with commendable patience. 'Every house in the village with spare rooms has taken in refugees. There isn’t a vacant bed anywhere.’

  Dover bared his National Health teeth in a snarl of sheer exasperation. ‘What about the local boozer, dolt? You could have shifted a couple of your bloody refugees out of there, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Sully Martin only had one public house,’ replied Superintendent Underbarrow calmly, ‘and that went over the cliff in the earthquake. It stood just inside the Sally Gate.’

  Dover’s jaw dropped. ‘Do you mean we can’t even get a drink?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Dover illustrated his ability to make a quick decision in an emergency. ‘MacGregor,’ he bawled, ‘get the suitcases!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You don’t think I’m stopping here, do you?’

  ‘But there’s nowhere else, sir.’

  ‘Not in Sully bloody Martin, maybe – but there are plenty of other places, aren’t there? Where’s the nearest town?’

  Superintendent Underbarrow shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to go off the human race. ‘If you want to tramp up that hill through all that muck and mud every day, that’s your affair.’

  Dover’s outburst of righteous indignation evaporated as it usually did when his personal comfort was threatened. He capitulated with characteristic grace and charm. ‘You’ll have to ship a few bottles of booze up,’ he informed Superintendent Underbarrow. ‘Half a dozen bottles of Scotch and a couple of crates of stout’ll do for a start. I have to have the stout for my stomach. You can charge ’em up to incidental expenses.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? ’Strewth, if a blooming superintendent can’t cook a few books, who can?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s the transport problem. Until we get that road clear we’ve got to manhandle all the supplies up by brute force. It’s taking us all our time to bring the basic necessities in – bread, meat, milk for the babies. Damn it all, Dover, you can’t expect me to let little children go hungry just so that you can knock back a bottle of wallop whenever you feel like it.’

  ‘It’s medicinal!’ snapped Dover. ‘Doctor’s orders. Besides, kids these days are all too fat. Do ’em a world of good to go on short commons for a bit.’

  Superintendent Underbarrow eyed Dover coldly. ‘Well,’ he said grudgingly, ‘I’ll see what I can do but I’m not promising anything, mind. And it’s not being put down to any incidental expenses, either. You’ll have to pay for it yourself.’

  There was an embarrassing pause. Dover looked hopefully at MacGregor, but MacGregor was staring with grim determination at the ceiling. An impasse had been reached. Dover resolved it by collapsing sulkily on to a near-by chair and gloomily indicating that he was now ready to have his gum boots removed. With a sigh of relief that they weren’t going to have another nasty scene about money MacGregor carefully hitched up the knees of his trousers and knelt down.

  PC Rowney caught Superintendent Underbarrow’s eye. ‘I think it’s about time we were going, sir.’

  Superintendent Underbarrow nodded. The sooner the bette
r as far as he was concerned. He had, however, one last duty to perform. A small, youngish man had been popping his head in and out of the door which led back to the service quarters of the hotel. At last his acute impatience was rewarded and he bounced athletically forward to be introduced.

  ‘This,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow, without much interest, ‘is Mr Lickes, the proprietor of the Blenheim Towers. Detective Chief Inspector Dover and Detective Sergeant MacGregor,’

  ‘Delighted!’ gurgled Mr Lickes and pirouetted over to the suitcases. ‘Quite delighted!’ He flexed one bicep with evident pride and then flexed the other. ‘May I conduct you gentlemen to your rooms?’

  ‘Not till I’ve had some afternoon tea,' said Dover as MacGregor finished tying his boodaces and stood up.

  Mr Lickes slowly straightened up from the knees-full-bend position he had struck preparatory to picking up the suitcases. ‘Afternoon tea?’ he said doubtfully. ‘But we’re serving supper in five minutes.’

  Superintendent Underbarrow and PC Rowney took their leave while the going was good. Dover didn’t even notice them depart, being too busy browbeating a somewhat less bouncy Mr Lickes.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s only six o’clock,’ admitted Mr Lickes, nervously lacing his fingers across his chest and then trying to drag his hands apart, ‘but most of our guests are rather elderly and they like to eat early. Late meals upset their digestions, so they say. Actually, I suspect the real reason is that they want to sit and watch television all night but it doesn’t make much difference, does it? I am here to serve my clientele and, if they want their supper at six o’clock, mine not to reason why.’

  ‘We’re clientele, too,’ objected Dover, appalled at the prospect of fourteen hungry hours till breakfast.

  Mr Lickes was now pressing his clenched fists into the small of his back. ‘Ah, but you’re only temporaries, you see. It’s our residents I’m talking about. The people who live here. They’re our bread and butter,’ he panted as he swung his right arm round and round like a windmill. ‘You, I’m afraid, are just the jam.’