Dead Easy for Dover

by Joyce Porter

Dover’s dandruff-flecked moustache twitched in disgust. ‘I’ve told you before, laddie,’ he pointed out sarcastically. ‘What you know about married life could be written on a silver threepenny bit and still leave room for the Lord’s Prayer. Husbands and wives just don’t go on like that.’

  ‘All right, sir.’ MacGregor wasn’t prepared to argue the point. ‘Well, perhaps there’s something wrong with both of them. That’s not impossible, is it?’

  ‘The odds are six million to one against!’ retorted Dover, doubling the number he first thought of to be on the safe side. He knew even less about infertility within marriage than his sergeant did, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. ‘No, old What’s-his-name was trying to give himself the perfect let-out and his fool of a wife, unconsciously and accidentally, blew the gaffe on him.’

  MacGregor thoughtfully chewed his lip. ‘In other words, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘Brigadier Esmond Gough was trying to tell us that since he is sterile, he couldn’t in any circumstances be the father of the dead girl’s unborn child. And, if he wasn’t the father, he wasn’t presumably the murderer either.’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ agreed Dover. ‘It may take you a long time, laddie, but you get there in the end. And that’s not all, either!’

  MacGregor swallowed his annoyance as best he could. ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Why bring up the question of babies at all?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Look, we only found out ourselves about half-an-hour ago that the girl was in the Pudding Club. It can’t possibly be common knowledge yet, not even in this village. So, how come the Brigadier knows she was pregnant if he’s innocent, eh?’

  MacGregor was trying to follow the logic of this. ‘But are we sure he did know, sir?’ he asked hesitantly.

  ‘Of course he bloody well knew!’ Dover’s heavy jowls wobbled with exasperation. ‘He wouldn’t have brought up the whole question of his inability to father kids otherwise, would he? You want to pull your flipping socks up, you do!’

  There is no doubt that MacGregor would have gone on trying to get Dover to see the flaws in his line of reasoning, but he wasn’t given the opportunity. Their tete-a-tete was interrupted once again by the arrival of Inspector Walters. This time he was careful to remain outside the car and stand well back.

  ‘We’ve just had a bit of a break-through, sir,’ he said, addressing Dover through the window which MacGregor had obligingly leaned across and wound down for him.

  ‘Go on!’ Dover flicked his cigarette stub out of the window and was so diverted by the sight of Inspector Walters trying to take evasive action that he quite forgot to point out that breakthroughs were no longer of significance. The case had been solved without them.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Inspector Walters when he was quite sure that all the sparks had been extinguished. ‘The ticket collector at Chapminster railway station.’ Dover’s pasty face remained as innocent of comprehension as ever. ‘Chapminster is our nearest town, sir. It’s about three miles away. Er – I’m stationed at Chapminster, actually, sir.’

  ‘Bully for you!’ drawled Dover. ‘And it’s my lunch-time so get your bloody skates on!’

  Inspector Walters went rather red but he managed to deny himself the satisfaction of planting the toe of his boot where it would do the most. . . ‘My men have been out, showing the dead girl’s photograph all round the area, sir, in the most likely localities. This chap at the railway station recognized her. He can’t remember the exact day, unfortunately, but she came of! the London train late one afternoon a week or so ago. He probably wouldn’t have noticed her, except that she was hanging around after all the other passengers had gone, waiting to get into the telephone kiosk. Somebody else was using it at the time, it seems. Well, she got in eventually and Mr Brewer – he’s the ticket collector – thinks he remembers seeing her leafing through the telephone directory.’

  MacGregor’s eyes narrowed. ‘The directory would contain Frenchy Botham numbers, I take it, sir?’

  Inspector Walters agreed that it would. It was comforting to know that there was somebody who appreciated the import of what he was saying. ‘Mr Brewer can’t actually recall whether the girl made a phone call or not, but he thinks not because, a minute or two later, she was back asking him how to get to Frenchy Botham. He suggested her best bet was a taxi, but we’re pretty certain she didn’t actually take one. We’ve had a word with most of the local men. My guess is that she hitch-hiked. There’s a bit of a snack bar opposite the station and she may have found somebody to give her a lift round there. All this, by the way, more or less fits in with the time Mr Plum saw her at The Laughing Dog.’

  MacGregor glanced at Dover to see if the great man felt like taking an intelligent interest in the proceedings. Apparently not. He was still wide awake though, if the malevolent glare he was directing at Inspector Walters was anything to go by. ‘The train she arrived on had come from London?’

  ‘That’s right, sergeant. Non-stop apart from Bottlebury and that’s little more than a commuters’ halt, really. In any case, she didn’t get on there because we’ve checked.’

  MacGregor sighed. ‘London’s a big place. Still, we’ll have what enquiries we can made there.’

  Inspector Walters was even less sanguine. ‘It’ll take a blooming miracle to pick up her trail, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘There was nothing special about her. She looked like thousands of other scruffy kids of her age. Her clothes were all cheap and nasty, too. We’ve got the forensic team giving ’em the once over, but I don’t think they’re going to come up with any clue as to where she came from. I’d be happier if we could find that sling bag she’s supposed to have been carrying. If there is any evidence of identity, I imagine it was in there.’

  Dover shivered elaborately and turned up the collar of his overcoat. ‘It’s getting bloody cold!’ he complained crossly.

  It took Inspector Walters a moment or two to work out that he was being held responsible for the temperature. ‘Do you want to interview the ticket collector yourself, sir? I can easily . . .’

  But the police driver had received a sharp jab in the back of the neck and Dover was gone, leaving Inspector Walters wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with him. He stood in the middle of The Grove and watched the police car drive out of sight in a smelly puff of exhaust and reached a conclusion which many had reached before him. Namely, that Dover was a great, fat, ill-natured, thick-as-two-planks slob!

  But, thanks to Pomeroy Chemicals Limited, Dover was really trying. By half past three he was back on the trail again, raring to go.

  ‘Where now?’ he demanded, breathless from his exertions at a luncheon which had consisted of two helpings of everything.

  MacGregor duly consulted his list. ‘We’ve done Les Chenes and Ilfracombe, haven’t we, sir? That’s the house where the girl’s body was found,’ he explained for the benefit of those who weren’t as quick on the up-take as they might have been and who needed to be told everything at least three times before it stuck, ‘and the one next door. Miss Henty-Harris and the Esmond Goughs,’ he added, just to make absolutely sure. ‘I suggest we go to Otterly House next, sir.’

  ‘No skin off my nose,’ grunted Dover with practised graciousness. He didn’t bother to ask who lived at Otterly House but MacGregor told him anyhow.

  ‘It’s where a man called Peter Bones lives, sir. With his wife. There are several children, too. Peter Bones is listed here as a Sales Manager. I suppose that could involve him in travelling and being away from home a lot. He might have met up with our Miss X somewhere and got involved with her.’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ observed Dover, the strain of digesting all that food making him even more mulish than usual. ‘This it?’ The police car had come to a halt in the roadway opposite yet another of The Grove’s spacious residences. Dover eyed the driveway and the flight of steps up to the front door moodily. Why the hell couldn’t the silly buggers live in ordinary houses like everybody else?
r />   Mr Peter Bone was at home, having been warned like the others by Inspector Walters to keep himself available. He had been taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up with some work, but he broke off amiably enough and ushered Dover and MacGregor into a comfortably untidy sitting room. He immediately got himself enrolled in Dover’s good books by offering his visitors afternoon tea.

  ‘Now, then,’ he said when he came back after having popped out into the kitchen to give the necessary instructions, ‘do you want to see me and my wife separately – or can we be given the third degree together?’

  No doubt Mr Bones was feeling a trifle nervous, but potential suspects should never make jokes about the police. The police have remarkably little sense of humour where their own methods and activities are concerned.

  Somewhat boot-faced, MacGregor indicated that a joint interview would be in order.

  ‘Oh, jolly good!’ At forty Mr Bones still hadn’t quite found his style and hovered uncomfortably between being a trendy young man and someone who epitomized all the good, old-fashioned, solider virtues. ‘I expect the kids will come piling in as well, but I don’t suppose that matters. They’re all far too young to realize what’s going on but we make a point of involving them in all aspects of family life.’

  There were, as it turned out, no less than three little Boneses, all under the age of four. The baby, Amaryllis, was deposited on a rug in front of the fire while the two older children, Ignatia-Jane aged two and Wayland aged three and a half, made a beeline for Dover. Both they and their parents were happy and secure in the knowledge that all the world loved kiddies.

  MacGregor gave all his attention to the conduct of the questioning and resolutely pretended not to notice what was going on on the other side of the room.

  ‘A week last Wednesday?’ echoed Peter Bones. ‘I’ll have to check with my diary. Wayland, old man,’ he called as he got a slim, gold-cornered engagement book out from an inside pocket, ‘don’t keep putting those rusks in the nice gentleman’s pockets, especially when you’ve been sucking them! Ah, yes’ – he nodded at MacGregor as he found the appropriate day – ‘well, you can cross me off your list, sergeant! That was the evening we entertained my boss and his wife to dinner.’ He chuckled and tucked his diary away. ‘And that was a social engagement, I can promise you, that left me very little time for going around and committing murder!’

  6

  Dover was relieved to hear that disposing of the Boneses as murder suspects was going to be a mere formality. Never much in the way of being a child lover, he was finding the two Bones brats something of a trial and would have brought the proceedings to a much earlier conclusion if the ample nursery tea hadn’t proved more of a temptation than he could resist.

  MacGregor took down the name and address of Peter Bones’s boss so that the events of the evening in question could be confirmed if necessary at a later date.

  Peter Bones was wonderfully relaxed about the whole thing. ‘The Bickertons arrived at about seven o’clock, or maybe a minute or two later. They came by car, of course. Joe drives to their engagements as a rule, and Alice drives them home afterwards. She’s not much of a drinker, you see.’

  ‘She’s not much,’ murmured young Mrs Bones, ‘of anything, come to that.’

  ‘Claws in, my darling!’ Peter Bones accompanied this advice with a humourless smile. He turned back to MacGregor again. ‘My wife and I were busy dressing for at least half an hour before the Bickertons arrived and we’d borrowed Mrs Plum from The Laughing Dog to cook the dinner for us. These do’s are no fun for Maddie if she’s got to spend the whole evening over a hot stove.’

  ‘These do’s are no fun for Maddie, period!’ said Mrs Bones in a sour aside. Her voice softened. ‘Wayland, darling, I do hope I didn’t see you spitting in nice Mr Dover’s cup just then!’

  The infant tearfully and indignantly protested his innocence and the matter was allowed to drop. The Boneses didn’t believe in nagging. Only Dover seemed to be looking for more reassurance than the child’s unsupported word.

  Peter Bones was anxious to get on with his story. ‘Actually we were making a bit more of a fuss than usual,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘The truth is that I’m in line for a pretty big promotion and old Bickerton will have the final word. He’s told me himself that my work’s well up to scratch, but I know he’s very keen on executives having a good solid home life at the back of them. He doesn’t care for people who go racketing around. It may sound rather old fashioned but there’s no doubt about it, a wife and family do give a chap something to sort of work for. They make him knuckle down to it and start thinking about the future. Most big firms these days like to have a look at a chap’s home environment.’

  ‘Actually, it’s called “vetting the wife”,’ explained Mrs Bones in a bored drawl. For some reason she appeared to be in the grip of a desire to embarrass her husband, and MacGregor began to wonder if the marriage really was as domestically idyllic as had at first appeared.

  ‘Was there anybody else in the house, sir? I’ve got you and Mrs Bones, the Bickertons, and Mrs Plum in the kitchen. Is that the lot?’

  ‘Well, the children, of course.’

  ‘I was thinking more of grown-ups, sir.’

  ‘There was Blanchette,’ said Mrs Bones, elaborately off-hand.

  ‘Blanchette?’

  Peter Bones took time off to glare at his wife. ‘Blanchette Foucher, sergeant. She’s our au pair girl.’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ murmured Mrs Bones.

  MacGregor wrote the name down. ‘And she was in the house the night the Bickertons dined with you? Did she eat with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is she at the moment, by the way?’

  ‘She takes a couple of hours off on a Sunday afternoon. Goes for a walk or something. She should be back in half an hour or so if you want to have a word with her.’

  MacGregor made another note and then got down to some brass tacks. ‘Did anybody else call at the house that night, apart from the Bickertons?’

  ‘No.’ The Boneses’ reply came in duplicate.

  MacGregor produced his photograph of the dead girl. ‘Have either of you ever seen her before?’

  Neither of them had.

  ‘Suppose,’ MacGregor went on thoughtfully, ‘somebody called at the house during the evening. Could anybody have answered the door without the rest of you knowing?’

  The Boneses exchanged glances.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought so,’ said Peter Bones at last. ‘Our front door bell’s awfully loud. Has to be because of the row the kids make.’

  ‘It was a pretty stormy night, though, wasn’t it? And noisy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter Bones broke off to warn young Wayland of the dangers inherent in chewing the nice uncle’s bootlaces. ‘You think perhaps that Mrs Plum . . .?’

  ‘Or the au pair girl,’ said MacGregor, watching carefully for any reaction to that suggestion. ‘You see, we know the dead girl asked her way to The Grove that evening. That rather implies that she knew somebody who lived here. Now, that doesn’t really apply to Mrs Plum, does it?’

  Peter Bones wiped his hands down the legs of his trousers. ‘But it might apply to Blanchette? You aren’t seriously thinking that she could possibly have any connection with your murder, are you, sergeant? Good God, she’s barely seventeen and she hasn’t been in the country for more than a couple of months.’

  ‘We have to explore all possibilities, sir,’ said MacGregor with a sigh. ‘Were you and the Bickertons together for the whole of the evening?’

  ‘Yes. Well, apart from the odd couple of minutes or so when somebody disappeared to powder their nose or something.’

  Mrs Bones had got down on the rug and was playing with the baby. ‘What about when you left old Bickerton alone with the port, darling? He said you were gone for at least half an hour. That would have given him plenty of time to bump into this girl, make himself damned objectionable – he’s a founder member of th
e Wandering Hands Club, sergeant – and kill her. After all, she presumably wasn’t married to one of old Bickerton’s bright young proteges and so she might have objected to being pawed about by the dirty old lecher and threatened to have him up for indecent assault or rape or what-have-you.’

  Peter Bones stared at his wife as though he simply couldn’t believe the evidence of his ears. ‘Well, you bloody stupid bitch!’

  ‘What did you expect, darling?’ asked his wife, her eyes sparkling with venom. ‘Unquestioning loyalty to the old firm?’ Peter Bones’s jaw tightened. ‘I ought to break your bloody neck!’

  Maddie Bones tossed her head. ‘I’m not sure that’s the most tactful remark to make in the circumstances, darling. Not with two policemen as witnesses. I imagine they’re already looking for somebody with a totally ungovernable temper.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sergeant!’ Peter Bones made an effort and calmed down. He even managed a bit of a smile. ‘I suppose I’d better explain what all this is about – before you start jumping to any wild conclusions.’

  ‘That might be as well, sir,’ agreed MacGregor, very much the stolid policeman. He checked to see that his pencil had a good point on it.

  ‘After dinner,’ said Peter Bones, pushing an astonished Ignatia-Jane away quite roughly as she staggered across and tried to climb onto his knee, ‘my wife and Alice Bickerton went upstairs to powder their noses and say goodnight to the kids. Alice Bickerton is very fond of children.’

  ‘She is also very fond of having a good snoop round,’ said Mrs Bones dryly.

  Her husband ignored the interruption. ‘When they came downstairs again, they came into this room where Mrs Plum had laid the coffee out. They didn’t come back into the dining room where Joe and I were sitting over our brandy and cigars. It wasn’t really a case of “shall we join the ladies” . . .’

  ‘Although it may look like it!’ put in the irrepressible Mrs Bones.

  ‘. . . Joe and I simply had a couple of points of business we wanted to discuss and we didn’t want to bore the wives. Well, we’d just sort of got going when I thought I heard something outside in the garden.’