by Joyce Porter
‘Sampson. Miss Sampson.’
It meant Sweet Fanny Adams to Dover, of course, who’d difficulty knowing what day of the week it was, but MacGregor was quick to pick it up. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘You’re a member of Mr Liddle’s congregation, aren’t you?’
Miss Sampson, grateful for being addressed as though she was a human being, shyly admitted that she was.
‘Well,’ said MacGregor kindly, ‘if you’ll just tell us what’s in the parcel, I’m sure we needn’t detain you any longer.’
Miss Sampson was not one to stand on her rights. Indeed, she was quite willing to help such a nice young man. ‘It’s some medicine.’
‘Medicine?’
‘A herbal remedy, of course. From my own recipe. Everyone says it is most efficacious and I’m sure it will clear up Mr Tiffin’s little complaint in no time. I would have brought it round first thing on Monday morning, of course, but I found I had run out of supplies and it takes several days, you understand, to brew up a fresh quantity from scratch. It all has to be infused, you know, and then articum lappa is not at all easy to come by these days.’
‘Mr Tiffin’s complaint? And what’s that when it’s at home?’
Miss Sampson flinched pitifully at finding herself once more the object of Dover’s attention and swallowed hard. ‘Well, it’s his – er – bladder, I believe,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ groaned Dover.
Miss Sampson turned back to MacGregor. ‘Poor man, I felt so terribly embarrassed for him on Sunday night. I mean, fancy having to slip out right in the middle of Evensong! He was away such a long time, too, and he looked so simply dreadful when he crept back in again. He must have been in agony. I …’
‘Just a minute!’ There were some things so obvious that even Dover could see them. ‘Are you saying that Arthur Tiffin sneaked out of church?’
Miss Sampson blinked at the vehemence with which the question was fired at her. ‘That’s right.’
‘Last Sunday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long was he gone?’
‘Oh, ten minutes. A quarter of an hour, perhaps. He missed most of dear Mr Liddle’s most excellent sermon, I’m afraid.
‘’Strewth!’ Dover’s face broke into an evil grin. ‘Go get him, laddie!’
MacGregor was less impetuous. ‘Oh, but don’t you think, sir, that we ought to …?’
‘What are you belly-aching about now?’ demanded Dover furiously. ‘That’s Tiffin’s alibi busted wide open! You gone deaf or something? This old biddy here has put the kibosh right on him.’
‘But – don’t you remember, sir? – Mr Liddle said he was present throughout the entire service. If Miss Sampson saw him leave, why didn’t the Vicar? Or anybody else, for that matter?’
‘Trust you to start nit-picking!’ snarled Dover before letting fly with another blast in Miss Sampson’s direction. ‘Well?’
‘Well, – er – what?’
‘You heard the bloody question!’
‘Oh, I see.’ Miss Sampson cringed back fearfully but managed to keep hold of enough of her wits to find an answer. ‘Well, I suppose nobody else noticed.’
‘Blind are they?’ sneered Dover. ‘And bloody deaf, too?’
‘Oh, Mr Tiffin made his exit most reverently. Well, you would expect that of him, wouldn’t you? I would never have seen him myself if I hadn’t been sitting right at the side of the church. Our old family pew, you know,’ she explained proudly. ‘I know Mr Liddle likes to have everybody sitting right in front of him so that he doesn’t have to strain his voice but, as I told him, I have sat in that pew ever since I was a tiny child and I really don’t see why …’
Dover was no longer listening. He glared at MacGregor. ‘Well?’
‘But, wouldn’t Mr Tiffin know that Miss Sampson could see him, sir?’
‘I don’t usually attend Evensong,’ twittered Miss Sampson nervously. ‘Not in the winter. It’s the dark nights, you know.’
‘Satisfied, now, moron?’
MacGregor shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘There’s no bloody suppose about it!’ bellowed Dover. ‘Tiffin knew to the minute what time Marsh would be on that path on his way to the station and he slipped out of the bloody church to kill him. We’ve got motive and opportunity. This old trout’s fixed him.’
MacGregor sighed. ‘Very good, sir. I’ll go and get him.’
‘And you stay there!’ said Dover to Miss Sampson.
‘Here?’
‘Right there!’ said Dover, starting off down the path towards the car. It was coming on to rain again and he’d no intention of catching his death for all the Arthur Tiffins in the world. ‘You move an inch and I’ll have you for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty and for attempting to withold vital evidence.’
‘Oh, dear!’ wailed Miss Sampson.
Dover hesitated. ‘This stuff of yours any good for the bowels?’ he asked.
Miss Sampson swayed. The …? Oh, no, I don’t think so. I think you would require something quite different for …’
‘I’ll risk it,’ said Dover, coming back to relieve a trembling Miss Sampson of her burden. ‘It might do some good though, with my constipation, I reckon it’s a stick of dynamite …’
MacGregor hurried off into the Tiffins’ cottage and left Miss Sampson to Dover’s tender mercies. The moving account of some of his difficulties had just reached a truly nauseating climax when it was interrupted by the arrival of a small, shabby car which came roaring up to the garden gate. The cub reporter from the local newspaper came tumbling out, terrified that he was going to miss the scoop of a lifetime.
‘Is it true,’ he panted, running up the garden path and catching Dover by the arm, ‘that you’re about to make an arrest in the murder of Gary Marsh?’
Dover fended him off. ‘Who told you?’
The reporter dragged a fresh supply of air into his aching lungs. ‘Lady Priscilla!’ he gasped. ‘ She makes a point of tipping us off. Publicity for Beltour, you know.’ He took another gulp. ‘Have you caught the murderer?’
‘I always get my man,’ said Dover demurely.
The cub reporter dragged his notebook out. ‘Can you give me a statement, chief inspector?’
Dover was just about to repel the young pup with a well chosen flea in his ear when the sheer beauty of the situation suddenly struck him. His face creased up and several stones of surplus fat began to wobble in a most alarming manner. The young reporter’s mouth dropped open.
‘I can’t,’ chuckled Dover as the tears spurted from his eyes and began to trickle down his podgy cheeks, ‘give you any names at this stage but …’ – he broke off as the desire to laugh overcame him – ‘ but … you can tell your readers … it was the butler what done it!’
Copyright
First published in 1973 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © Joyce Porter, 1973
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