by Joyce Porter
‘They certainly had. It wasn’t long, you realize, before poor Chantry knew he had made a terrible mistake. It wasn’t only the fact that they weren’t paying their rent. There was the public scandal of the way they were living.’ Wing Commander Pile looked cautiously round to make sure that his next remarks would not be overheard. ‘The woman is cohabiting with both the men!’
‘Go on!’ said Dover.
‘They make no secret of it. And sometimes’ – the wing commander had another quick glance round – ‘they all three sleep in the same bed! *
‘Never!’ said Dover, successfully repressing a chuckle.
‘Then there’s their nudity. Half the time they wander around without a stitch of clothing on.’
‘That must liven village life up a bit!’ snorted Dover.
Wing Commander Pile regarded him severely. ‘Some of us do not find such licentious behaviour amusing, chief inspector. We have to think of its effect on the younger generation.’
‘Oh, quite,’ agreed Dover smarmily. ‘Do they get up to any other high jinks?’
‘They have orgies,’ said Wing Commander Pile. ‘Drunken orgies. Practically every night. Their record player is blaring until the small hours three or four times a week. I imagine they take drugs, too. They are typical degenerates in every conceivable way. Mr Chantry, with my full support, was determined to get rid of them. Just asking them to go had proved to be a complete waste of time.’
Dover had a one-track mind. ‘Drunken orgies?’ he murmured thoughtfully to himself.
‘Just before he died, Mr Chantry had embarked upon more drastic action. He had consulted his solicitor. Decent, law-abiding, God-fearing people still have some rights, you know. Mr Chantry was determined to exercise them. You can take it from me, he would have left no stone unturned. Oliver and his crew realized this, of course, and they removed Chantry before he, poor fellow, had time to remove them.’
‘Drunken orgies!’ muttered Dover, hardly able to believe his good luck.
Wing Commander Pile misunderstood his interest. ‘You may well be shocked, chief inspector. One doesn’t associate Sully Martin with hippies.’ He pronounced the word with evident distaste.
‘One certainly doesn’t,’ agreed Dover absently. ‘Tell me, what do they drink? Beer or the hard stuff?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea. Does it matter?’
‘No,’ said Dover, ‘I don’t reckon it does, not really.’
The arrival of Miss Kettering with Dover’s afternoon tea broke up the session and Wing Commander Pile, having unbeknowingly disgorged a vital piece of information, was allowed to take his leave.
‘That’s a rum kettle of fish,’ said Dover, slobbering happily over the goodies on his tray.
Miss Kettering had sat down to recover her breath and was thrilled at being made the recipient of the Great Detective’s confidences. ‘Poor man, I feel so sorry for him,’ she sighed, knowing how well the sympathetic little woman went down with most men. ‘He’s taken Mr Chantry’s tragic death very much to heart.’
‘Can’t think why,’ said Dover, licking the jam spoon nice and clean before replacing it in the pot.
‘Oh well, they were birds of a feather, dear! They both thought the world was hurtling to eternal damnation and it was so nice for them to have somebody to talk to about it. Wing Commander Pile is going to be very lonely now, I’m afraid. He’s not a very good mixer. Of course, he’s got Linda but she can’t really be much of a companion, can she?’
‘Where’s the wife?’
‘She died when Linda was just a tiny baby, I believe, dear. He’s had the whole burden to bear by himself. What that man has sacrificed just doesn’t bear thinking about. We mustn’t be surprised if he’s a little difficult every now and again.’
‘I’ve got past being surprised at anything,’ said Dover as he wiped the crumbs off his chin with one comer of the sheet.
‘Ah,’ cooed Miss Kettering admiringly, ‘that’s because you’ve got such a well-balanced personality.’
Dover found himself warming to Miss Kettering. ‘That’s very perceptive of you,' he rumbled. ‘It’s not everybody who notices.’
‘I doubt if I would myself a year or so ago,' admitted Miss Kettering modestly. ‘It’s only since I took up the study of the occult that I’ve found true insight. Take the tarot cards, for instance. You’ve no idea how rewarding a session with those can be, and how comforting. Then there’s numerology. Of course, I haven’t actually got to that – it doesn’t come till Lesson Fifteen – but I’m certain it’s going to be a tremendous experience. I suppose,' – she looked at Dover rather wistfully – ‘I suppose they don’t encourage you to use divination in your work?’
Dover choked over his tea.
Miss Kettering nodded understanding^. ‘There’s a lot of blind antagonism about. I come across it myself, you know. You should hear Mrs Boyle on the subject. Talk about prejudice! Do you know, I once went to a great deal of trouble to concoct a really powerful charm against rheumatism for her and what did she do? She flung it back in my face! Nasty old cow! From the way she went on you’d have thought I was trying to put the evil eye on her.’
‘You can take the tray,' said Dover. Miss Kettering might be a woman of rare understanding but he wasn’t going to have her galloping her hobby-horses round his bedroom.
‘Good heavens, have you finished already?’ Miss Kettering jumped up and obediently accepted the tray. ‘Well, that’s a good sign. You must be feeling better if you can eat like that.’
Dover plumped up his pillows. ‘I might get up a bit later on,' he said as he snuggled down.
Miss Kettering glanced at him anxiously. ‘You don’t want to overdo things,' she warned, ‘not with your responsibilities.’
‘I’ll watch it,' promised Dover drowsily.
Sully Martin’s church clock was striking a quarter past five when MacGregor came striding up the driveway back to the Blenheim Towers. He found it most inconvenient, breaking off his investigations like this, but Dover tended to get very niggly if he was left alone for too long. For the umpteenth time MacGregor pondered on the progress that could be achieved if only he hadn’t got the dead weight of that lump of lard tied round his neck. Well – take this afternoon, for instance. All that careful questioning of people who had, quite understandably, been too bewildered and frightened almost to know what day of the week it was. The patience, the professional skill that had been needed to trace their movements and establish times. The endless checking and cross-checking. Could Dover have done it? Would Dover have done it? Like hell!
What would he have made of the Burkes, for example? Mr and Mrs Burke, having slaved away like demons, were sure that they had got Grandad outside by a quarter past two. Grandad, pinned down by the wardrobe across his bed, was vindictively certain that it was a good half hour later – and only then when they’d rescued the television set.
Or Jamie Pearson? He insisted that he’d been pulled clear by the Archangel Gabriel but his brother reckoned it was only their next-door neighbour armed with a tyre lever. What, MacGregor couldn’t forbear from asking himself, would Dover have made of Jamie Pearson? Or of any of them, come to that?
MacGregor couldn’t forbear from providing the answer, either: sweet Fanny Adams, that’s 'what Dover would have made of it. Dover liked a straight answer to a straight question and could turn very nasty if he didn’t get it. Not for him the patient sifting through muddled statements and vague impressions. He preferred a more direct approach. Such as picking on somebody who wouldn’t fight back and thumping a confession out of him.
Oh well, MacGregor comforted himself, on this occasion at least the old fool did seem to be confining himself to a comparatively passive role. Provided his imaginary cold didn’t get better and the rain didn’t stop, there was an outside chance that the murderer of Walter Chantry might actually be brought to book. For one of Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover’s cases, it would make a welcome change.
Pausin
g only to find out from Mr Lickes what was on the menu for supper, MacGregor bounded up the stairs to Dover’s room and knocked on the door. From inside came a sound akin to that of a blue-nosed whale clearing its blowhole and MacGregor obediently entered.
Dover was putting his trousers on. It was not a very edifying sight and MacGregor, who was rather squeamish, averted his eyes.
‘You’re getting up, sir?’ he asked with a foolishness that was meat and drink to Dover.
‘No, you bloody fool,’ came the sparkling reply, ‘I’m stripping off to fight for the World Heavyweight Championship!’
MacGregor counted up to ten. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, sir.’
‘I’ll bet! Shove my shirt over!’
‘This, sir?’ MacGregor picked up a garment which seemed to have developed a bad case of fungi round the armpits.
‘Those artists that live in the Studio,’ said Dover, abandoning the unequal struggle with the top button of his trousers and grabbing his shirt from MacGregor’s fastidious fingers.
‘Oh, yes, sir. I interviewed them this afternoon.’ MacGregor pulled his notebook out and flipped over the pages. ‘Two men and a woman, wasn’t it? They turned their place into a first-aid shelter and . . .’
‘I’m going to see ’em after I’ve had my dinner.’
‘Tonight, sir?’
‘No,’ snarled Dover, the wit still scintillating, ‘a week come Pancake Tuesday!’
‘But I fixed up for the Hoopers to come in to see you this evening, sir.’
‘Then you’ll have to unfix it, won’t you? I’ll deal with them tomorrow, after lunch.’
‘I’m not sure if that will be convenient, sir,’ said MacGregor doubtfully.
Dover was busy scraping the varnish off a chair as he tied his bootlaces. ‘It’ll bloody well have to be!’
MacGregor frowned. What was the gibbering idiot up to now, for heaven’s sake? The artists – Oliver, Lloyd Thomas and Wittgenstein – had seemed innocuous enough. Why was Dover suddenly taking an interest in them? If he had been dealing with anybody else, MacGregor would simply have asked but it was no good trying to do things the easy way with Dover. Extracting information from him required the subtlety of a Machiavelli. MacGregor got his cigarette case out and offered it as a preliminary sweetener.
Dover, who would have accepted a buckshee fag from a bloodstained multiple murderer (and on one occasion actually had), flopped back on the bed and puffed happily away while he waited for his soft nancy of a sergeant to make his next move.
‘Perhaps,’ began MacGregor, very nonchalantly, ‘we ought just to bring each other up to date on the day’s activities, sir? We’ve got half an hour or so before supper and then I can write the reports up later on tonight. Now’ – he opened his notebook again – chow many people did you see this afternoon, sir?’
‘Three,’ said Dover amiably. ‘Lickes and his better half, and that chap, Pile. How many did you get through?’
‘Er – twenty-four, sir, actually.’
Dover ground the odious comparison ruthlessly out of sight. ‘You must have done a pretty skimpy job.’
‘Not really, sir. I was able to eliminate most of them after a couple of minutes.’
‘Didn’t you turn up anything interesting?’
MacGregor reluctantly shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Of course I haven’t had time to correlate my findings properly yet but it does look as though we can forget about ninety per cent of those I saw. Whole families can alibi each other, you see, and then some of the people were hurt in the earthquake and in no position to walk, never mind go around strangling Mr Chantry. And then, when you take into account all the children and the old people . . . Unless we’re up against a conspiracy, sir, I’m sure most of them can be eliminated.’
‘And those who can’t?’
‘Well, funnily enough, sir, those artists you want to see couldn’t produce much in the way of alibis. Under the prevailing conditions there’s nothing surprising about that, of course. They were wandering around, helping with the rescue work. Theoretically, one of them could have slipped off and killed Chantry. It needn’t have taken more than a few minutes. Everybody’s so vague about whom they saw and when they saw them, you see. I didn’t come across much in the way of motive either.’ MacGregor paused expectantly. ‘Er – did you, sir?’ Dover was too leery a fish to be caught on that hook. He did a bit more angling on his own account. ‘What was the general impression of Chantry?’
MacGregor stifled a sigh. Oh God, they weren’t in for another bout of the psychological approach, were they? He tried to remember what had been on the telly recently. If there’d been a repeat of that Maigret series, they were sunk. After a lifetime of wielding his fists to get results, Dover had been intrigued by the idea that some detectives (albeit fictional ones) solved their cases by just sitting and thinking. For a time he had actually adopted the technique – or a slight variation of it. He did away with the thinking bit.
‘Cat got your tongue, laddie?’
MacGregor tried to collect his wandering thoughts. ‘Sir?’
‘I asked you if you’d dug up any motive for Chantry’s murder. You got cloth ears or something?’
Motive? MacGregor winced. It was such an unprofessional approach. Means and opportunity – that’s what a proper detective should be concerning himself with at this stage. Only when you’d established those did you start looking round for motives. Trust Dover to began at the end and work backwards. ‘Nothing in particular, sir,’ said MacGregor, endeavouring not to sound too disdainful. ‘I was more interested in finding out who, in a time-and-space context, could have done the killing.’
Dover rolled his eyes eloquently up towards the ceiling.
‘However,’ – MacGregor went on – ‘I did gather that he wasn’t any too popular. He was rather a pushing sort of man and a bit too keen on ramming his views on morality down other people’s throats. Still, I would guess he was a man more disliked than actually hated. Did you come across any strong motive, sir?’
Dover was saved by the dinner gong from the effort of answering that one. He swung himself off the bed. ‘Grub up, laddie!’ he said and wallowed joyfully in MacGregor’s evident disappointment. That’d teach the cocky young pup that some people weren’t so green as they were cabbage looking!
Six
Dover was alone when he presented himself at the front door of the Studio and rang the bell. MacGregor, his curiosity having been fanned to obsessive proportions, had been despatched to the Hoopers to rearrange the time of their interview with Dover. Only when this mission had been accomplished was he to be permitted to occupy a ringside seat at the dramatic confrontation which – or so Dover seemed to hint – was to come.
Not that the earlier part of the evening had been deficient in drama. Dover’s appearance in the dining-room had acted like a red rag to a bull where Mrs Boyle was concerned. Nostrils flaring, she had launched herself into the attack while everybody else sat around in a cringing and embarrassed silence. Although Mrs Boyle frequently boasted that she feared neither man nor beast, she wasn’t quite prepared to risk a head-on collision with Dover. She opted for an oblique assault and in a loud voice addressed her remarks ostensibly to poor Miss Dewar.
‘One appreciates,’ she began, ‘the limitations of the male bladder but that, in my opinion, is no excuse for well-nigh hourly excursions throughout the entire night.’
The male bladder! Miss Dewar died a thousand deaths.
‘Most of us here,' continued Mrs Boyle, carefully avoiding looking at her prey, ‘need our rest. We are beyond the age when we can tolerate havin’ our sleep shattered by the thoughtlessness of others. You would think that some people, especially in view of their supposedly responsible official positions, would show more consideration.’
The loaded fork in Dover’s hand wobbled as the implications of Mrs Boyle’s one-sided conversation began to sink in.
‘Servants of the public, indeed!’ sneered
Mrs Boyle. ‘It would never have been permitted in my father’s day, that I can tell you. He believed in keepin’ the artisan classes in the positions to which it had pleased God to call them. I may have told you, dear, about the occasion when he refused to share a railway compartment with some jumped-up little bank clerk who’d had the insolence to buy himself a first-class ticket. My late husband, the admiral, was forced to be more broadminded, of course, but even he knew where to draw the line.’
‘That cistern is very noisy,’ said Miss Kettering with a temerity that astonished even her.
Mrs Boyle administered a coup de grace. ‘That cistern is perfectly quiet,’ she thundered, ‘if it is not used. I am surprised at you, Miss Ketterin’, taking such an attitude. It is that sort of thinkin’ that has brought this country to the sorry pass in which we find it today. The mechanics of this hotel’s sanitary arrangements have nothin’ at all to do with the problem under discussion. They have been with us for a long time and, in spite of repeated complaints to the management, will no doubt be with us for many years to come. It is the selfish and thoughtless use of those facilities which is causin’ all the trouble.’
Dover leaned across the table and tapped MacGregor on the arm with his knife. ‘If I wasn’t a gentleman,’ he hissed, ‘I’d give that old cow over there a punch up the bracket!’
‘And it is not only the flushin’ of the cistern, as I am sure you will agree, Miss Dewar,’ continued Mrs Boyle, smiling grimly now that she had drawn blood. ‘There is also the heavy trampin’ up and down the stairs – to say nothin’ of the continual slammin’ of doors.’
‘Some people have . . . difficulties,' ventured Miss Kettering.
‘As a married woman. Miss Ketterin’,’ – came the stem rejoinder – ‘I am well aware of that. The late admiral’s bowels were a source of great concern to us both, especially towards the end of his life. But, whatever the discomfort, we would never have dreamed of inflictin’ it upon other people.’
