Purbright intervened. “Mr Wellbeloved, our aim is simply to establish one or two facts concerning the late Mr Arnold. Matters of record. Firstly, how long had he been a resident of Twilight Close?”
“Four years.” The answer came without hesitation.
“Thank you, sir. Secondly, how old was he?”
Another folder was disinterred, without enthusiasm but not noticeably grudgingly. The long, sharp pencil went seeking.
“Born 1898, or so he said.”
“A local man?”
“We think not, though he had worked in the locality for many, many years. He claimed to be an Australian.”
“Was he married?”
“No.”
“Children?” asked Bradley.
The little man in the chair made no reply. He was now looking exclusively at Purbright.
“I take it,” said Purbright, “that he had no close relatives, so far as the welfare authority is aware.”
“Correct.”
“Did he leave a will, sir?”
“If he did, it was not lodged in the custody of the Department.”
“Does that explain why his property—such as it was—came to be sold by auction after Mr Arnold’s death?” This question was slipped in by Bradley and Purbright much feared that it would be forfeit as coming from a persona non grata. After consideration, however, Mr Wellbeloved issued a reply.
“The Department serves these old souls in many capacities, you must understand. Lawyer—trustee—undertaker. In most cases, it is a tidying-up operation that is called for. Tiresome, but necessary.”
“The funeral, do you mean?” The mild tones of Bradley again.
“No, I do not mean the funeral, inspector. I mean the considerable trouble taken by myself and my staff to recoup a few coppers of public funds through the sale at public auction—and under public supervision if you like—of the worthless bits and pieces that we are happy to allow our sentimental old magpies to collect about them, bless their hearts.”
“Provided,” said Bradley, “that they are intestate magpies, I presume?”
“Of course,” snapped Mr Wellbeloved.
Purbright took over. “You will have heard, I expect, sir, that the sale of Mr Arnold’s possessions realized nearly four hundred pounds. Can you imagine what prompted someone to pay such a high price for what you term worthless bits and pieces?”
“Not for a moment. A preposterous sum.”
“Which will go into public funds,” softly added Bradley before Purbright could head him off.
Wellbeloved, though, was not to be drawn again. Ignoring the provocative interloper from London, he favoured the native policeman with the nearest thing to a friendly smile that the Department strictures upon subjective attitudes permitted, and said: “Inspector Purbright—you, I know, will appreciate the funny...no, not funny—droll, rather—the droll side of what we have been discussing. That picture, you see—the thing that people must have been bidding for—didn’t belong to old Arnold at all, bless his heart. It was council property. He made it in our little workshop here in the Close. Occupational therapy. Thanks to public funding, gentlemen. Public funding.”
“Ashes to ashes,” murmured Inspector Bradley.
“Did Mr Arnold ever have any visitors?” asked Purbright.
“If he did, it was very rarely. Very rarely indeed. Of course, that is not to say that he had no communication with the outside world. He was free to go out, you understand. In the PPs.”
“The PPs, sir?”
“Perambulation periods,” explained Mr Wellbeloved.
Before Bradley could deliver the question that he was giving signs of gestating, Purbright asked: “Was Mr Anderson a friend of Mr Arnold’s?”
“I think,” said Mr Wellbeloved, in whom an antipathy towards Inspector Bradley seemed to be inducing a corresponding affectation of helpfulness for Purbright, “that I may safely claim that all our residents are friends, one to another, bless them.”
“Yes, sir, but I mean those two special friends—in the sense of confiding in each other?”
“Were they buddies?” amplified Bradley.
“Buddies,” murmured Mr Wellbeloved to himself, with infinite distaste. He told Purbright no, he was not aware of any particular liaison between Arnold and Anderson.
“Never mind, sir. Mr Anderson will doubtless be able to deal with that point when we talk to him.”
Mr Wellbeloved said nothing.
“Which will be?” Purbright pressed.
The superintendent looked gravely regretful. “That is not in my hands, Mr Purbright. You will have to take the matter up with Dr Gule.”
“Gule?”
“Dr D. Gule—D. for Damion, I believe.”
“He is your resident doctor?”
Wellbeloved smiled thinly. “Dr Gule is a consultant physician with specialized application to geriatric psychiatry. He is not a resident, but we are fortunate in having the benefit of his retained attendance.”
“He is not upon the premises now, I take it,” said Purbright.
“Oh, no.”
“Can you tell me when he is likely to be available?”
“Monday possibly. If not, it will almost certainly be Tuesday afternoon.”
“The prognosis is very vague.” The observation was Bradley’s, but he was addressing his colleague, who nodded and turned back to Wellbeloved.
“I’m afraid that inquiries cannot be delayed that long, sir. Perhaps it would be better if I were to approach the doctor directly. May I have his address?”
Wellbeloved scowled at Bradley, who was not looking, then quickly donned a more conciliatory expression for Purbright’s benefit. “It’s possible that I could get you an appointment for Monday,” he offered.
“I prefer not to put you to that much trouble, sir. His address will be sufficient. Or his telephone number, perhaps.”
The superintendent reluctantly consulted the back pages of a pocket diary. He read out a Chalmsbury number.
After making a note of it, Purbright conferred quietly with his proscribed companion. Again he faced Wellbeloved.
“Would it not be possible,” he asked, “for you to ring Dr Gule now and ask if he would agree to our having a very short interview with Anderson before we leave? It would save time and trouble for everybody.”
The superintendent shook his head emphatically and began to tidy his folders.
“The doctor may be telephoned from this office only in case of emergency. I cannot make an exception to that rule. In any event, I know exactly what his reply would be.”
“Oh? What would it be, Mr Wellbeloved?”