Dover Three

by Joyce Porter

  ‘But why should he keep it quiet?’ asked MacGregor with a puzzled frown. ‘Why wouldn’t he tell us where he was? There’s nothing to be ashamed of, is there?’

  ‘Ah, but you don’t know Thornwich, do you?’ said Mrs Poltensky. ‘You’ve got to realize that everything the Tompkinses do is news. Mrs Tompkins was born and bred here. Most of us knew her and her family when she was a girl, and a pretty poor lot they were, too. Her father drank like a fish and her mother was the biggest slut I’ve ever seen in my born days. Why do you think she came back to Thornwich when she got all that money? Just to rub our noses in it, and she did! Many’s the odd plate of left-overs my mother’s given to Mrs Bragg and her glad to take it. Now, I’m working – or I was – for Winifred. They’re the richest people in the village, you know – and that’s counting Dame Alice who’s not badly off herself. Well, naturally, everybody in Thom- wich’d jump for joy if they came a cropper. I wouldn’t stop laughing myself for a week and I don’t bear them any particular ill-will. Arthur’s not much of a fellow – they like ’em rough and tough in Thornwich – and, of course, all the other men make fun of him. What do you think they say when they hear he’s bought himself a cowboy outfit to wear when he’s shooting his pistols? Oh, Arthur’s learned the. hard way. They’ve pulled his leg unmercifully in The Jolly Sailor about some of the daft things he’s taken up. He keeps his mouth shut about them now.’

  * * *

  ‘Well,’ said Dover as he and MacGregor plodded their way back under a sky darkening with cloud to The Jolly Sailor, ‘I hope you’re satisfied. Brrh! This perishing wind’s cold. It’s cutting right through me. If it hadn’t been for your bloody pig-headedness we could have stopped in the pub and kept warm. Damned waste of time, that’s what it’s been!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ said MacGregor, pulling his hat down over his ears. ‘I found Mrs Poltensky’s evidence a bit long winded but very valuable. What she had to say about Mrs Tompkins trying to adopt a baby under the counter – that was most interesting, I thought.’

  ‘Did you?’ growled Dover.

  ‘Well, don’t you see, sir? It explains the missing three hundred pounds – the money Mrs Tompkins drew, in cash, out of the bank the other day. I’ll bet that was the money to pay for the baby.’

  ‘Three hundred smackers?’ yelped Dover derisively. ‘You want to grow up, laddie! There’s cheaper ways of getting a baby than shelling out three hundred quid.’ He sniggered.

  ‘Not for Mrs Tompkins, sir,’ said MacGregor primly, refusing to be drawn into an exchange of bawdy with his superior. ‘It was the only way she could get one, and I don’t suppose in their financial circumstances she considered it was too high a price. And there’s another point, sir. You told me that Mr Tompkins told you that he wanted his wife to burn the poison-pen letters she’d received.’

  ‘Well?’ snarled Dover.

  ‘Well, sir, Mrs Poltensky said that it was Mrs Tompkins who wanted to burn the letters and Mr Tompkins who insisted that they should be preserved and handed over to the proper authorities.’

  ‘Good God!’ Dover rolled his eyes upwards and searched the grey skies for strength. ‘What the blazes are you blethering on about now? Look, laddie, let’s keep a sense of proportion, shall we? All we’re concerned with is this Tompkins woman’s suicide. How she spent her life and what she did with her money and who wanted to burn what is no concern of ours. All right, you go off like a threepenny rocket and say maybe it wasn’t suicide and maybe her husband killed her, and I went along with you. I’m not the man to blunt your enthusiasm, you know that – but enough’s enough! We’ve crossed Mr Tompkins off the list of suspects, not that there ever was a list because it’s an open and shut, text-book case of simple, straightforward suicide if ever I saw one and it’s high time . . .’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ – MacGregor interrupted earnestly – ‘but we certainly haven’t crossed Mr Tompkins off the list. This business of the French lessons will need checking. There’s a bus into Bearle in about fifteen minutes, if I remember correctly. We’ve just got time to call in at The Jolly Sailor and get the name and address of this teacher off Mr Tompkins and then catch the bus.’

  Dover mounted the two steps leading up to The Jolly Sailor in a grim and moody silence. Some mothers certainly did have ’em! At the top he turned and addressed MacGregor. ‘Not we, laddie,’ he said with that outspokenness which was so integral a part of his character, ‘you!’

  There is a saying about the best laid plans of mice and men. It happened to Dover. Mr Tompkins had gone up to the Vicarage and would not be back for some considerable time as he had been invited to dinner.

  ‘He’s talking about putting up a stained-glass window in memory of Mrs Tompkins,’ Mrs Quince told Dover as he stood warming his bottom by the gas stove in her kitchen, ‘but he’s not sure if old Grotty’ll stand for it — with her committing suicide, you know. Some vicars won’t bury suicides in the churchyard, but, as I said to Bert, if you can’t bury ’em proper, what are you supposed to do with ’em? Have ’em stuffed and keep ’em on the mantelpiece? And, Mr Dover, if you want one of them little cakes, I’d be obliged if you’d ask for it. You can have one and welcome, but there’s no need to try and pinch one when you think I’m not looking. Oh, and a policeman brought this letter for you. It’s the post-mortem report. The police surgeon says all the evidence points to suicide. She must have taken an enormous dose of sleeping tablets first, and then turned the gas on. It was a bit of a race, seemingly, which’ one would kill her, but the police surgeon is pretty sure it was gas poisoning, and he’s put that in his report.’ Dover took the envelope and passed it on to MacGregor. There wasn’t much point in bothering to read it. ‘Well,’ Mrs Quince rambled happily on, ‘Winifred Tompkins never was one to do things by halves, I’ll say that for her. Once she set her mind on something it’d take more than wild horses to put her off. Oh, and speaking of wild horses, Dame Alice rang up. I told her you were out so she said she’d come down here to see you at half past seven.’

  Dover buttoned up his overcoat, a desperate, hunted look coming into his little, close-set, black eyes. ‘Come on, MacGregor, we’ll be missing that bus.’

  ‘But there’s no point in going into Bearle tonight, sir, we haven’t got the address.’

  ‘There’s no bloody point in stopping here, either,’ snapped Dover. ‘We can always ask at the police station and, if they can’t tell us, we’ll go to the flicks.’ He started to leave the kitchen. MacGregor looked at Mrs Quince and disloyally shrugged his shoulders before following the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Here, what about your dinner?’ shouted Mrs Quince. ‘I’ve spent the best part of two hours getting it ready.’

  A suggestion was thrown back by a rapidly disappearing Dover which, mercifully, Mrs Quince did not quite catch.

  ‘I shall have to tell Dame Alice I gave you her message!’ she screamed as the outer door slammed shut. With a sigh she wiped her hands on the tea towel, and went into the bar and picked up the telephone.

  The Station Sergeant at Bearle police station had a well-earned reputation for being a bit of a wag and he spent a large part of his time, both on and off duty, burnishing this image.

  ‘Scotland Yard, eh?’ he rumbled, examining MacGregor’s warrant card as though he’d never clapped eyes on one before. ‘Oh, yes, we got special instructions sent round about you. Gave my boots an extra shine only this morning, just in case you decided to come slumming, eh?’

  ‘We’re looking for somebody in Bearle who gives French lessons,’ said MacGregor curtly. Dover was temporarily absent, availing himself of the station’s toilet facilities.

  ‘French lessons?’ The Station Sergeant’s eyes twinkled and he scratched leisurely at his head with his pencil. ‘In Bearle? I should have thought you’d have done better in London – a good-looking young spark like you. We don’t go in much for foreign languages up here.’

  ‘I don’t want to learn it. I want to contact some
body who teaches it.’

  ‘Oh, well now, they might teach it at the local school. Have you tried there, eh?’

  ‘I want somebody who teaches it privately,’ said MacGregor.

  ‘Privately, eh?’ said the Station Sergeant, fighting to keep a broad grin from spreading right across his face. ‘Well, now, if you’d said that to begin with I’d have known what you were talking about, wouldn’t I, eh?’ He gave MacGregor a knowing wink. ‘You’re a bit of a fast worker, aren’t you, eh? You can’t have been up here more than a couple of days and here you are, bold as brass, walking right in here asking for private French lessons. You’ve got a nerve, some of you young bucks!’ He leant matily over the counter. ‘Who put you on to it, you dirty dog, you? The Chief Constable, eh?’

  ‘We got on to it during the course of our investigations,’ said MacGregor, consulting his watch with an impatient flourish.

  This perfectly normal remark had the Station Sergeant in creases. He rocked merrily on his heels behind his counter, tears of pure bovine mirth filling his eyes.

  Before MacGregor had the chance to demand an explanation of such peculiar behaviour there was the sound of flushing in the distance and Dover came stumping along the passage.

  ‘Right!’ he said, scowling as a matter of principle at the Station Sergeant. ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ admitted MacGregor through clenched teeth.

  ‘Well, what’s the matter?’ Dover swung round irately on the portly figure still rocking easily behind his counter. ‘Have I said something funny, Sergeant?’

  The Station Sergeant rocked to an unobtrusive halt. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, what the hell have you got that stupid grin on your face for? Now, are you going to give me the information I want, or do I have to rout out somebody who will?’ Dover scowled pugnaciously.

  ‘I think I can help you, sir.’ The eyes stopped twinkling and assumed a surly look.

  ‘I hope so, Sergeant,’ said Dover nastily. In his opinion there was only one way to deal with the local police : kick ’em where it did most good before they got the chance to put the boot into you. It didn’t produce much in the way of willing co-operation, but Dover was philosophical enough to realize that you can’t have everything.

  The Station Sergeant recognized he was going to get no change out of the fat one and sullenly tore a piece of paper out of his Occurrences Book. Laboriously he wrote down a name and address. In answer to Dover’s barked request he gave directions, as complicated and inaccurate as he dared, about how to get there.

  ‘And may I suggest, sir,’ he added recklessly, ‘that if you lose your way, you should ask a policeman?’

  By the time they found the address they had been given Dover had calmed down a little. As he told MacGregor, he wasn’t going to stand insolence like that from anyone, never mind a twopence ha’penny, overweight yobbo of a sergeant with hay seeds in his hair.

  ‘We ought to have a national police service,’ fumed Dover as he started at a little hand-written notice pinned to the door. ‘It’s the only solution. Make some of these peasants out in the wilds pull their socks up. I suppose you have rung that bell, MacGregor?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said MacGregor and stuck his finger on the button again. ‘Mademoiselle Louise de Gascoigne. French Lessons. By Appointment Only’ was certainly taking her time.

  Chapter Ten

  A SMALL CROWD had gathered before Mademoiselle de Gascoigne opened her door. She hadn’t chosen the most select area of Bearle to live in, and the neighbouring row of small, grimy houses gradually disgorged their curious inhabitants. On the whole their mood was antagonistic, Dover and MacGregor having been well and truly recognized for what they were. A ring of evil-eyed, grubby-faced kids edged gradually closer. One or two of the bigger boys had efficient-looking catapults sticking out of their hip pockets. Some remarks, uncomplimentary to the police, were exchanged and Dover swung round fiercely, ready and willing to clip any ears he could lay his hands on. The crowd retreated out of range. A woman standing in the doorway of a house a little farther up the street pushed the man’s cap she wore up off her forehead. ‘Disgusting!’ she shouted. ‘That’s what it is, disgusting! Men!’ She spat accurately into the gutter. ‘They make me sick!’ She shuffled back into the house and slammed the door.

  ‘Charming neighbourhood, sir,’ remarked MacGregor nonchalantly. He was keeping a wary eye on a little girl pushing a battered toy pram containing what looked like a tommy gun. She was staring at MacGregor’s legs in a speculative way. MacGregor tensed himself, ready to take evasive action should she charge.

  In the nick of time for MacGregor’s dignity, and possibly his trousers, the door at which they had been ringing was flung open and a young woman, scantily dressed in a scarlet négligé, appeared on the step. Her face was heavily, even exotically, made-up and she had a huge construction of untidy black hair piled up high on her head. She took one look at the group of eager spectators and advanced a couple of paces, both hands before her flashing with long scarlet fingernails. She curled her lip back in a snarl before screaming,

  ‘Fichez le camp! Allez-vous-en! Sales cochons! Vaches puantes!’

  Obviously, Dover and MacGregor had found the French teacher.

  Having cleared the decks a little, Mademoiselle de Gascoigne turned her attention to her visitors. She smiled. It made her look a trifle more alluring than when she snarled, but not all that much. She flashed dark, mascara-rimmed eyes at MacGregor.

  ‘Et vous?’ she asked in dulcet tones. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, messieurs?’

  It was all Greek to Dover. He looked at MacGregor. MacGregor smiled confidently and raised his hat. ‘Mademoiselle de Gascoigne?’ he asked politely. ‘Nous sommes de la police.’

  Mademoiselle de Gascoigne’s smile lasted for the brief moment it took her to work out what MacGregor was saying. Then it faded and the snarl came back.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ she screamed in a voice which could be heard at La Petite Roquette. ‘Encore des drauperes? Mais j’ai deja paye!’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said MacGregor, floundering on manfully. ‘Ce n’est pas comme ça. Nous voulons vous poser . . .’

  Mademoiselle de Gascoigne wasn’t listening. She continued to scream in what was, for MacGregor at any rate, unintelligible French. Occasionally she raised her hands to the heavens and appeared to be calling down horrifying Gallic curses on the heads of the two detectives who stood, somewhat at a loss, in front of her.

  ‘What the hell’s she going on about?’ Dover hissed irately at MacGregor.

  ‘I’m not quite sure, sir,’ said MacGregor unhappily. ‘I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.’

  Dover scowled at him and then dealt in his own inimitable way with Mademoiselle de Gascoigne. He grabbed the flailing hands and held them firmly in his massive fists. ‘Shut up!’ he bellowed and gave her a shake which loosened one of her false eyelashes.

  Louise de Gascoigne shut up. Her mouth stayed open but no sounds came out.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Dover complacently. ‘Now then, we are from the police, savez? Mr Mulkerrin, the Chief Constable, has sent us. Savez?’

  ‘Meestair Mulkerrin? But zat ees different! Vy deed you not say so beefor? But,’ – she waggled a finger reprovingly at Dover – ‘you naughtee boy, you should ’ave telephoned! Mais cela ne fait rien. Je vous pardonne, cette fois, eh? You vant to come een?’ Red lips parted in a fetching smile as Mademoiselle de Gascoigne jerked her head towards the open door. She also waggled her hips.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dover.

  He and MacGregor started to follow Mademoiselle de Gascoigne into the house when she stopped them in some surprise.

  ‘Tous les deux? Boz of you? Togezair?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ explained MacGregor with a jolly laugh, delighted to find that English was spoken here. ‘We always like to have a witness, you know.’

  Mademoiselle de Gascoigne raised her eyebrows as far as they would go. S
he seemed about to say something but changed her mind and shrugged her shoulders with a wealth of expression. Then, with hips swaying to near dislocation point, she led the way up a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Ma foi!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Quelles especes de sales cochons, ces rosbifs! Us sont tous de vieux vicelards! Et ces poulets, ils sont encore pire que les autres.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Dover asked MacGregor in a low voice.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that either, sir,’ admitted MacGregor. ‘She seems to have a rather unusual accent.’

  ‘It’s probably a French one,’ said Dover scathingly, not caring, as usual, how low he had to descend for a laugh. ‘Well, you’d better leave the questioning to me since she obviously doesn’t understand a word you say.’

  Mademoiselle de Gascoigne stood aside for them to enter what must qnce have been a front bedroom. Apart from the fact that there was a large divan up against the window, the rest of the room was furnished, mostly in black, as a kind of sitting-room. Two feeble-watted standard lamps with yellow shades provided illumination, but there were a number of large mirrors scattered about the room. There was even one fixed on the ceiling over the divan which gave quite a continental touch to the decor.

  ‘Shall I take your ’at and coat?’ asked Mademoiselle de Gascoigne.

  ‘No, thank you, miss,’ said Dover stepping gingerly across the threshold and groping towards the most comfortable arm-chair. He plumped down into it and loosened the laces of his boots to ease his aching feet. With a sigh he surveyed the room. ’Strewth, black carpet! He’d never seen that before. He looked up to find Louise de Gascoigne staring curiously at him. Her négligé had slipped somewhat round the top but this didn’t seem to be bothering her.

  ‘You keep your ’at on, and you take your shoes off?’ she asked in evident bewilderment.