by Colin Watson
“There was a quarrel, though, Mr Purbright. I don’t think we should let ourselves be led too far away from that fact by chaps with microscopes.”
“Oh, yes, there was a row,” Purbright agreed. “Periam didn’t deny that, as he could very well have persisted in doing. But I think I told you that he said it was a very one-sided affair, with Hopjoy doing all the shouting. If we accept that, might we not consider whether the noise had a special object—to disturb neighbours and put in their minds the presumption of a quarrel?”
“And were they disturbed?”
“Those I’ve spoken to myself say they heard nothing. But Sergeant Love is making inquiries in the houses that back on to Beatrice Avenue. The people there are far more likely to have heard whatever there was to hear; the sound would travel straight across the gardens.”
The Chief Constable nodded. “All right. Now about this business of the body—how do you explain that away? The stuff in the drains and all that.”
“Have you ever read anything about cannibalism, sir?”
“Not avidly, Mr Purbright, no.”
“Well, it seems that human flesh quite closely resembles pork.”
“Indeed.”
“And I learned more or less by chance yesterday that half a pig carcass was stolen recently from a farm where Hopjoy had been a regular and quite intimate visitor. In the boot of that car of his, and in one or two places at the house, Warlock turned up traces of animal blood.”
For nearly a minute, Mr Chubb silently regarded an earwig’s progress along one of the trellis spars.
“I suppose we have to remember,” he said at last, “that tom-foolery of that kind was just the fellow’s line of country. It’s perfectly disgraceful, though, when you think of all the money that’s being spent on the intelligence service. The trouble is, they live in a world of their own. I can’t see that there’s anything we can do about him. I mean there’s nothing we can charge him with.”
Purbright pursed his lips. “Conduct likely to lead...”
“...to a breach of the peace?” Mr Chubb capped the phrase with a sort of sad derision. “You can see his people letting us go ahead with that one, can’t you? Worse than the blasted Diplomatic Corps. He’ll turn up somewhere else with a cock and bull story and start working up a new set of creditors, just you see.”
“There’s rather more to this,” said Purbright slowly, “than mere debt-dodging. A man can arrange his own disappearance without leaving somebody else to face a murder charge. In this case, a great deal of trouble and ingenuity was spent specifically on the incrimination of Periam. But the only thing poor old Periam wasn’t carefully provided with was a motive. Why should he have wanted to kill Hopjoy? If anyone had a motive for murder it was Hopjoy himself—the man whose girl Periam had appropriated.”
Mr Chubb considered. “I see your point. But surely Hopjoy was a bit of a blackguard where women were concerned. Would he have been all that upset about one in particular?”
“Promiscuity and jealousy are by no means incompatible, sir.”
The Chief Constable raised his brows.
“In fact, the more sexually adventurous a man is, the more violently he tends to resent trespass on his own preserves.”
“Oh,” said Mr Chubb, meekly. “You think then...”—he turned to see where the earwig had got to—“we should be wrong to let the whole thing drop?”
Purbright rose. “I quite agree with you, sir; we should keep an eye on things a little longer. Hopjoy certainly ought to be traced, even if Major Ross tries to go against your judgment.”
Mr Chubb resolutely picked the earwig from the trellis and trod on it.
“After all,” said Purbright, “there has been, in a sense, one attempt on Periam’s life. When it is seen to have failed, there may be another—on less unorthodox lines.”
Chapter Fourteen
To the multitude of elusives for whom watch is proclaimed to be kept at British ports, rail termini and airports, was added the name of Brian Hopjoy. If encountered, he was to be asked simply to get into touch with the Chief Constable of Flaxborough. The request had been difficult to frame. “What do we say we want him for?” Mr Chubb had asked; “...to collect his hat?” He had carefully refrained from mentioning the matter to Ross or Pumphrey, although he did ask, at Purbright’s suggestion, if he might borrow from them the photograph of Hopjoy which, as far as anyone could find out, was the only one in existence. Pumphrey, looking as if he had been casually requested to assassinate the Prime Minister when he next happened to be in London, had emphasized with some asperity the topness of the secrecy involved and begged him to be more circumspect.
The withholding of the photograph made local inquiries more difficult, too. Purbright prepared a composite of descriptions offered by the next-door neighbours, Mr Tozer, and the manager of the Neptune Hotel—who seemed especially eager to help—and gave it to the two plain clothes men who could be spared for visits to railway stations and bus depots and taxi firms within a radius of three or four miles. The usual feats of memory were forthcoming: Hopjoys had entrained for London, Birmingham and Newcastle simultaneously with their journeys by road to Lincoln, Cambridge, Swindon and Keswick.
Sergeant Love, conscientiously but fruitlessly urging the residents of Pawson’s Lane to recall sounds of angry altercation in a house ‘over the back’, found time to present the inspector with a theory he had evolved on his own.
“This chap was in hospital fairly recently, according to Bill Malley, wasn’t he?”
“He was. A lover’s tiff, I gather—with the husband.”
“Yes, well if it was something serious he might still need treatment. You know—you hear of fellows on the run who have to nip into a doctor’s when they use up their special pills.”
“That field’s a bit narrow, Sid. We should have heard if Hopjoy were a diabetic, surely. Still, it’s worth a try; that description badly needs strengthening, if only with a scar or two.”
The sergeant, one of whose private dreams accommodated Editor Love, waistcoated and dynamic, appraising a re-plated page one, set off again for Pawson’s Lane with his mind embannered by SCARFACED PLAYBOY SOUGHT IN WARD TEN: MUST RENEW MIRACLE DRUG.
No such dramatic and socially desirable potentialities appeared to have occurred to Sister Howell, in charge of the male surgical ward at Flaxborough General Hospital. She was a cool, smooth, stiffly laundered woman, with an indestructible smile guarding the pink sugar fortress of her face while her eyes were absent on their continual darting quest for faults. Purbright delivered his inquiry with the sense of being accounted no more important than one of the dust motes that submissively descended through a shaft of sunlight to the level of Sister Howell’s sensible shoes.
She heard him out. Then she slightly re-arranged the smile (the eyes still could not be spared, even for the briefest introduction) and told him that much as she would like to be obliging, he would, of course, understand that it was quite, quite impossible to divulge confidential medical matters even to an inspector of police.
Purbright assured her that he did appreciate and respect her loyalty, but wondered if perhaps she could modify it in the wider interests of justice. It had, unhappily, become the task of the police to trace her former patient, who had disappeared, and knowledge of his late injuries or ailments might be of considerable assistance.
“I’m sorry,” said Sister Howell, folding fingers devotionally over her apron.
“Then perhaps if I were to refer to Mr Harton personally...”
The eyes, instantly obedient to recall in appropriate circumstances, were trained upon him at last. “Mr Harton is a very busy man. He’s probably in theatre. I really couldn’t...”
The door at the end of the corridor swung open abruptly. A procession bore down upon them. Sister Howell plucked Purbright’s sleeve and drew him against the wall. “There’s Mr Harton now,” she whispered urgently. Purbright wondered if he were expected to kneel.
The surgeon a
dvanced with a slow, easy stroll. Keeping precisely level with him were the short, sturdy legs of the Matron, to the rhythm of whose ponderous trot her cassock-red dewlap rose and fell. Harton and his consort were closely followed by a young nurse who carried a stack of folders and gazed idolatrously at the back of the surgeon’s head. Then came a pair of house physicians in white coats, unbuttoned and trailing black tentacles from the pockets. Seven or eight students, murmuring to one another and looking at their hands, shuffled along in the rear. Every now and again the parade was halted while Mr Harton paid particular, head-inclined attention to the Matron’s commentary and rewarded her with a mellifluent ring of laughter.
As the procession was about to wheel off into the ward, Purbright politely but firmly removed Sister Howell’s restraining hand and stepped forward. He smiled apologetically at the Matron, then introduced himself to Harton. The surgeon, imperturbably gracious, took him aside into the empty duty room. Through the closed glass door Purbright saw the retinue congeal into attitudes of respectful patience.
Harton, whom Purbright had thought it politic to give fairly fully the reasons for his inquiry, nodded with good-humoured sagacity. Nearly as tall as the policeman, he had skin the colour of an advertisement for tinned ham. This slightly incredible wholesomeness of complexion was emphasized (quite horridly, some thought) by strong, disciplined waves of prematurely white hair. His were the bright, steady eyes of one who has learned to render charm intimidating. The flawless cheeks flanked an unexpectedly tiny, drawn-in mouth, his only unrelaxed feature, which ambition had prinked like a flan edging. When he spoke, which he did most musically, his lower teeth were displayed more than the upper.
“My dear inspector...”—he felt behind him for the table and leaned against it with some of his weight supported upon spread fingertips—“you mustn’t take all this medical etiquette too seriously. It’s designed to give our dear old girls something to occupy them.” He grinned boyishly through the window at the Matron.
“So you’ve no objection to giving me this information, sir?”
“None whatsoever.”
Purbright waited, but Harton merely continued to regard him placidly.
“Well, sir...?”
“Well, inspector?”
“You were about to tell me the nature of the operation you performed upon Mr Trevelyan.”
“Oh, no; that is not so.”
Purbright stared. “Perhaps we’ve misunderstood each other, sir.”
“Ah, possibly we have. What I said was that I, I personally, you understand, have no objection to telling you what you wish to know. That is quite true. But I did not say that no objection existed, did I?”
The inspector sighed. Here, he reflected, was the type of man who would enjoy confusing shop assistants with pedantic pleasantries.
“The fact is, inspector”—Harton thrust a hand deep into his trousers pocket and energetically stirred some coins—“that I simply am not at liberty to follow my personal inclination to tell you what was the matter with our mutual friend.”
“Oh, you do know, then, sir?”
Harton smiled away the calculated impertinence. “Certainly I know. Surgeons do occasionally remember what they have done and why. In their own way they are possibly as methodical as policemen.”
“I suppose that what you really mean to say, sir, is that you have received instructions to divulge nothing concerning Mr Trevelyan’s stay in hospital?”
“I must say I do not much care for the word ‘instructions’ but, roughly speaking, that is the position, inspector. Dare I whisper that old cliché ‘national security’?” Elegantly, Harton drew himself erect and stepped to the door. “Incidentally, we found Mr Trevelyan a most charming fellow; I do hope your anxiety regarding him proves to have been groundless.”
Placing a hand lightly on Purbright’s shoulder, he opened the door with the other. “I am sure it will, you know.” He patted him out and jauntily gestured the procession to re-form.
Purbright drove at once to Brockleston.
Among the cars in the Neptune forecourt was Hopjoy’s Armstrong, which he had ordered to be placed again at the disposal of Mr and Mrs Periam. The honeymooners he found playing clock golf in the hotel grounds. Doreen, her coiled plaits looking like some kind of protective sporting gear, wore a long pink cardigan over a flowered dress. Her husband was in flannel trousers and the dark brown blazer of the Flaxborough Grammar School Old Boys’ Association.
When he saw the inspector, he picked up his ball and led the girl forward. “Has Brian shown up yet?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Periam.”
“Oh. We thought that’s what you’d come to tell us.” The solemn, femininely smooth face turned to the girl. “Didn’t we, darl?”
Periam grouped three of the bright canvas chairs at the edge of the putting green. They sat.
“No, Mr Hopjoy has not returned. I rather doubt if he will. But I think it’s only right for me to relieve your minds on one point.” Purbright glanced from one to the other. “It now looks as though we were mistaken in assuming that your friend was dead.”
Doreen seized her husband’s hand. “There! What did I say?” At Purbright she pouted in mock indignation. “And fancy chasing us with that ridiculous story when we hadn’t been married five minutes? It wasn’t what I’d call tactful.”
“It wasn’t, Mrs Periam. I’m sorry. But in the circumstances we hadn’t much choice.”
Periam looked at the handle of the putter he had laid across his knee. “That’s all right, inspector. It hasn’t been very nice for us—I mean we should have felt rather responsible if anything awful had happened to Bry—we did let him down, you know, darl—but the police couldn’t be blamed for that.” He raised his head and smiled wryly at Purbright. “Now you know what sort of capers you ask for when you run off with your best friend’s young lady.”
Doreen sighed and pressed Periam’s hand to her stomach. Hastily he withdrew it. “Oh, there’s one thing, inspector...the house. You have finished there, haven’t you? You see, we...”
“If you can wait just a couple of days, sir, everything will be put straight again. We’ll see to that for you, naturally.”
“And thanks for letting us have the car back.”
“Was it covered in blood and fingerprints?”
Periam cast a quick glance of rebuke at his wife. “Doreen, really...”
“I suppose,” Purbright said, “that you’ll settle down in the house when your holiday’s over. Or are you thinking of a change now you’re married?”
“No, we shan’t move. Not yet, anyway. It’s been home for so long, you know, and I am rather a home bird. Anyway, I’m sure mother wouldn’t have wished strangers to take it over.”
“I expect you know there are various odds and ends belonging to Mr Hopjoy. We’d rather like to hang on to them for the time being, but if you do hear from him perhaps you’ll let us have a forwarding address; would you mind doing that, sir?”
“Not at all.”
“There’s one other matter I’m mildly curious about, Mr Periam. A short while ago Mr Hopjoy was in hospital. I believe I know the circumstances in which he was injured—we needn’t go into them now—but I wondered if you could tell me what his injuries actually were.”
Periam ran a finger thoughtfully round his heavy, globular chin. “Well, not in doctor’s parlance, I can’t. But he had what I’d call a gammy foot.”
“How serious was it? I mean was there any permanent effect—scars, disfigurements, anything of that sort?”
“My goodness, no. He came home right as rain. Between you and I, I think old Bry had been coming the old soldier in hospital. He’d probably been giving the glad-eye to some pretty nurse.”
“He wasn’t disabled in any sense, then?”
“Not a bit of it, inspector. It would take more than a tumble to put Bry out of action, wouldn’t it, Darl?”
“Rather,” agreed Doreen. She had coyly abstracted a packet o
f biscuits from Periam’s pocket and was nibbling one after having prised it open to inspect its filling.
“He’s as strong as a horse,” Periam went on. The theme seemed to intrigue him. “I shouldn’t care to tangle with Bry when he’d got his dander up.” Purbright reflected that Hopjoy must have been sadly off form on the occasion of his tangling with Farmer Croll. Or was it in the matter of danders that Croll had enjoyed a decisive advantage?
Periam grasped his putter and looked inquiringly at the inspector.
Purbright rose. “I don’t think I need interrupt your game any longer. I’m sorry if I’ve been something of a...” He faltered, suddenly averse to making even conventional apology.
“...a skeleton at the feast?” suggested Periam, almost jocularly.
