“I told him Stan and the wet dreams. Who else was there? Mr Croll. He was here, wasn’t he, Mum?”
“Croll?” Purbright repeated.
“The farmer,” said Zoe. “Ben. The one whose wife done herself in.”
Again a frown of deep disapproval from Mrs Claypole. “Zoe, there was no call for that.” Purbright was beginning to wonder at what age her mother would deem Zoe brought up.
“Ah, yes,” he said.
“Then there was Winnie Gash and Spen. They were both here.”
“They’re farmers, too,” Mrs Claypole explained to Purbright. “Brothers, Winston and Spencer. They have a big place. Ever so big.” She turned to her daughter. “Isn’t it a big place, Zoe? The Gashes?”
“Are those gentlemen married?” Purbright inquired of Zoe.
“Oh, yes; both married.”
So there had been present the two brothers and their wives—was that right?
Both women shook their heads. No, no—not the wives. It was nearly harvest time. There would be too much to do.
The husbands then. Anyone else?
“There was Mr Palgrove and his wife. Len—that’s Mr Palgrove—he’s got the restaurant but it doesn’t open until the evening,” Zoe explained. “So they popped in for a sherry.”
Purbright’s brow rose very slightly as he made a note on his piece of paper.
Mrs Claypole noticed.
“There was refreshments,” she said, archly, “as I’m sure my daughters late hubby would have wished.”
“Mr and Mrs Leonard Palgrove,” Purbright confirmed. “Anyone else?”
“Some more of his family were supposed to be coming,” said Zoe, “but they never turned up. They was all told.”
Mrs Claypole smirked disapprovingly.
“Of course, the Flaxborough lot stayed pretty much together and went straight in the church,” Zoe said. “The lawyers and councillors and that. Well, there wasn’t room here for a full do. It was just friends from round about.”
“Mr Cork-Bradden,” supplied Mrs Claypole, with a touch of pride.
“Yes, that’s right. Him and her ladyship.” Zoe watched Purbright’s pencil. “Hyphen,” she said. “I suppose you could say he’s the squire. Sort of. He goes hunting and all that, anyway. Churchwarden. Cons Committee. And well heeled.”
“Does he,” the inspector asked, “have an E on his Cork?”
They did not know, but thought not.
Two more names came up. Mrs Whybrow, summarized somewhat scantly by Zoe as “the horsey old cow Dickie used to screw tenants for”, and Mr Raymond Bishop, who lodged with her in Church Lane.
“So apart from yourselves and Mr Bradlaw’s people, there were nine men present in the house and three women.” The inspector had done his arithmetic and put his paper away. Zoe considered, with the aid of her fingers, then nodded.
Purbright sat a little further back in his chair, looking directly at Zoe.
“What I should be interested to know now,” he said, “is which, among these people, might have wished you harm?”
There was a long silence.
“Me?”
Forgetful of elegance in her perplexity, Zoe had allowed one hand to wander and attend to an itch at the top of her thigh. Mrs Claypole slapped it away, crossly, without taking her eyes off the inspector.
“What do you mean, harm? Nobody’s done any harm. To Zoe, you mean?”
Again Purbright addressed Zoe directly. “Somebody locked you in that bathroom. I should like to know who it was.”
She relaxed, visibly. “Oh, that. How should I know? Somebody trying to be funny, that’s all.”
“You really have no idea who might have done it?”
She shrugged. “Some twit. I really wouldn’t know.”
Purbright turned to Mrs Claypole. Her face blank, she stirred the contents of the teapot mechanically for some moments, then said: “Not unless it was one of that precious pair from Chalmsbury—them or their father.”
Neither woman seemed to think this line worth pursuing. Zoe had finished her first cup of tea and was now eagerly watching her mother pour a second. Purbright had drunk little of his; it was very strong.
He asked if there were any appliances in the house run on bottled gas. Yes, the cooker; had he not seen the big cylinders outside the back door? He had, but was thinking of something smaller, something portable, perhaps. A tubby sort of cylinder had been left, Zoe thought, in a corner of one of the rooms upstairs. The men had used it for a blow-torch when the outside painting was being done.
“Have you recently had occasion to move that gas bottle, Mrs Loughbury?”
The question seemed to make no sense to her. Purbright rephrased it.
“Have you any idea how it came to be in a chair close to the heater in the room where the clothing caught fire today?”
This time, there were two incredulous stares. The older woman found voice first.
“Do you mean to say it would have gone off? All that gas?”
“Not necessarily. But if the fire had taken hold, the risk of an explosion would have been considerable.”
Mrs Claypole looked at her daughter, then back to Purbright. “What, and her locked in...” Falteringly, her hand reached across for Zoe’s.
Chapter Five
One of the harmless fictions whereby Mr Harcourt Chubb lightened his duties as chief constable of Flaxborough might be expressed in parody of Genesis: Before Monday was nothing made that was made. In other words, the purpose and function of the Sabbath was to shut off all that had gone before and to confer upon the ensuing week an absolute innocence of association.
Hence it was that when Inspector Purbright attended upon him in the cool and spacious room he occupied from time to time in the Fen Street police headquarters and announced his misgivings concerning the previous Saturday’s events at Mumblesby, Mr Chubb gazed awhile at his cuff, then at the ceiling, and said:
“Considering that you were very kindly deputizing for me at poor Loughbury’s funeral, I hardly think it fair for you to be burdened with an investigation of these rather questionable matters, Mr Purbright. This lady who purports to be the widow—I take it that she has not made a formal complaint?”
“No, sir. I am still trying to make sense of her attitude. If someone had turned a key on me in similar circumstances I fancy I should show a little more resentment.”
“Yes, but you know it is not always true that women jump to conclusions. They sometimes take a calmer and more cautious view than you might think—a wiser view, indeed, than some men.”
“Mrs Loughbury is not a well educated woman, but she is intelligent. Her wisdom I should be inclined to doubt, sir. Shrewd she is, certainly.”