But that's what murderers are supposed to be good at, isn't it?
That same afternoon I had a cup of tea ready for the post girl, a pleasant tubby lass who worked the village with her brother. He kept a smallholding and sold plants from a stall on the London road bypass.
"I brewed up, Rose. Come in."
"Whatever do you do with all these magazines, Lovejoy?" She propped her bicycle against the door and brought a handful of catalogues and two letters. She was a plain girl, long-haired and young. They seem so active these days and full of talk. "I've just had a terrible row with the Brownlows. Oh, you should have heard them going on at me! As if I have anything to do with how much stamps cost." She sank onto the divan thankfully.
"Been busy?" I knew she had two spoonfuls of sugar.
"Don't ask!" She grinned.
"What time do you start your round?"
"Five, but then there's the sorting."
"Do you do that as well?"
"Sort of. Get it?"
"Super pun," I agreed, stony-faced. She grinned and settled back. There's this shed in the middle of the village where the post comes.
"I was worried in case you had one of your birds in with you."
"You're too young to know about such matters."
"You're a hoot, Lovejoy, you really are." I tell you, youngsters nowadays must learn it from the day they're born.
"What's funny?"
"The whole village can hear you making… er, contact with your lady visitors some nights. And some mornings."
"They can?" That startled me.
"Of course." She giggled. "We're all terribly embarrassed, especially those of us who are still in our tender years and likely to be influenced by wicked designs of evil men." A laugh.
"Well the village shouldn't be listening."
"Face it, Lovejoy." She began to look around. "You've something of a reputation."
"That's news to me." And it was.
"Is it really?"
"Yes." She turned to eye me. "You're our most exotic resident."
"Pretty dull place."
"Pretty exotic character," she countered.
"I can't be more exotic than our musician." We have a man who makes an extraordinary musical instrument of a hitherto unknown pattern. Needless to add, it cannot be played—which for a musical instrument is some handicap.
"Compared with you he's a bore."
"Then there's the preacher." This is a chap who preaches somewhat spontaneously at odd hours of night and day. Very praiseworthy, you might say, to have deep religious convictions in this immoral world. Well, yes, but to preach to trees, fence-posts, and assorted bus stops is hardly the best way of setting a good example.
"Even the preacher."
"What's special about me?" I was fascinated. Rose seemed surprised at my astonishment.
"You collecting old pots."
"Thanks," I said ironically. So much for years of study.
"And that crazy old car. It's hilarious!"
"Go on."
"And your… lady visitors."
"Well," I said hesitantly, "they've diminished of late, apart from the odd dealer. I was ill, in a way. I expect you noticed."
"Yes." She poured herself another cup and stirred sugar in. "You had one special bird, didn't you?"
"Sheila."
"Better than that blousy brunette with all those teeth."
"Which was she?"
"About four months ago. You remember—she shared you with that unpleasant married lady with the nasty manners."
"You keep my score?"
She grinned. "Hard not to, when I'm coming here every day."
"I suppose so."
"Did she give you the sailor's farewell?" she asked sympathetically.
"Who?"
"Sheila."
"No, love." I drew slow breath. "She… died, unfortunately."
"Oh."
"It's all right."
"I'm so sorry. Was that why you… ?"
"Lost control, my grandma would have called it," I said to help her out. "Yes, it must have been."
"Was it over her you… ?" She hesitated.
"I what?"
"You were going to kill somebody?" Word had spread, then. Not really surprising, the way I'd behaved.
"How did you hear that?"
She leaned forward excitedly. "You mean you are?"
"Do I look in fit state to go on the prowl?"
She looked me up and down. "Yes, probably."
"Well you can think again." I offered biscuits while I got myself another cup.
"The whole village was talking about you."
"Even more than usual?" My sarcasm hardly touched her.
"We were all agog."
"Well you can de-gog then. I'm better."
"Oh." Her disappointment should have been a bright moral glow of relief at salvation from dastardly sin.
"Sometimes I wonder about you women."
She beamed roguishly. "Only sometimes?"
"I mean, you're all interested when you think I'm going to go ape and axe some poor unsuspecting innocent"—the word nearly choked me—"yet when I'm going straight again you're all let down."
"You must admit, Lovejoy," she was reprimanding, so help me, "it's more, well, thrilling."
"You read too many books for your own good. Or letters."
She accepted the jibe unabashed. "No need to read letters, the way some people carry on. You found quick consolation, Lovejoy."
"What do you mean?"
"I nearly saw her the other night, and her natty little blue pop-pop." She poked her tongue out at me.
I gave a special sheepish grin but shook my head. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, no," she mocked. "Just good friends, I suppose."
"It must have been the district nurse."
"Like heck it was. Nurse Patmore doesn't go shoving her bike in the hedge. It's been here twice. I saw it."
"One of the forestry men," I suggested easily.
"On a woman's bike?" She fell about laughing. "You're either kidding or you've some funny friends, Lovejoy. It's an old-fashioned bike, no crossbar."
"You're mistaken." Keeping up my smile was getting very hard.
"Can't she afford a car, Lovejoy? Or is it just that it's quieter in the dark and easier to hide?" She snorted in derision. "You must think we're dim around here."
I surrendered, grinning with her. "A little of what you fancy," I absolved myself.
"They run a book on you down at the pub."
"In what race?"
"The Marriage Stakes."
"Out!" I said threateningly, and she went giggling. "You're probably being raped, according to that nosy lot of Nosy Parkers."
"That an offer?"
"Don't be cheeky to your elders!"
"Any particular cheeks in mind?"
I waved her off, both of us laughing. She pedaled down the path and was gone. I went in to clear up.
Now, Rose starts her work about five, but her actual round only begins once the sorting is ended. That could take up to an hour. So she was around my place no later than six-fifteen in the morning. Her afternoon round was much more variable on account of the number of chats she had to have between the sorting shed and our lane. She must have glimpsed the woman's —if it was a woman—bike at the "ungodly hour" of six A.M. or so. How much light was there at that time? I couldn't remember whether the clocks had been put ahead an hour or whether we still had that to do.
Rose would be out of our lane by now. I locked up, chucked the robin some bread and cheese, and walked down to the lane. It's a curving road no more than twelve feet across, with high hedges of hawthorn and sloe on either side. My own length of it is two hundred feet, dipping slightly to the right as you look at it from the cottage. A house is opposite, set a fair way back from the lane like mine. I hardly ever see him, an ascetic chap interested in boats and lawn mowers, while she's a devotee of amateur opera. As I said, it takes all sorts. They have two grownup children who periodically arrive with their respective families.