The man he saw, shortsightedly raking amongst the money he had unloaded on the bar top from the pocket of his huge clay-coloured windcheater, was of a size that had to be assessed by instalments. His feet, each a furrow broad, were encased in Wellingtons that would have kennelled a brace of bull terriers. His thighs might have defied comparison with articles of husbandry smaller than long-back porkers, save that they were so proportionately diminished by the belly overhanging them that they actually looked frail. That central, commanding belly-mass detracted, too, from the man’s chest, but it was a big chest for all that, a barn of a chest. One arm hung inert by his side, the gammon-sized hand a few inches from the floor. With the other he shovelled coins forward in negligent prodigality.
The barmaid drifted down-bar. Without consultation, she drew two shots of Haig into a glass and put it before the big man. He left her to take what money she wanted and straightaway swallowed some of the whisky.
Love marvelled at the man’s headpiece. It was round, narrowing at the top, where thin, unnoticeable hair was stranded. In the long ears was more hair, stiffer this, and gingery. The eyes, watchful and evasive by turns, were so pale by contrast with the puce cheeks, nose and neck, as to suggest their having been blanched by the protection of his close, gold-rimmed glasses, in the manner of salad legumes in a forcing frame.
“Winnie, you must meet my nice friend,” declared Mrs Whybrow over Love’s head. Love moved his chair through ninety degrees and donned a conciliatory expression. The big man gave no sign of having heard anything.
Undeterred, Mrs Whybrow conducted introductions.
“This is Mr Sidney Love—I wanted to call him Cupid, of course, but that would be against the law or something so we’d better not—anyway, Love’s rather sweet, don’t you think—and this“ (Love got his hand ready) “is Mr Winston Gash, who farms an absolutely fabulous number of acres, or whatever people do farm, and is dreadfully rich.”
Love declared himself pleased to make Mr Gash’s acquaintance.
Mr Gash vouchsafed the slightest of nods and turned from the rashly offered hand to address the lady behind the bar.
“Now then, dimple-tits.”
Sadie gave sign of neither offence nor pleasure.
“Mr Love and I were just talking,” Mrs Whybrow said to the farmer’s vast back, “about poor Mr Loughbury’s upping and dying so ridiculously suddenly.”
Sounds emerged from the further side of the farmers bulk. “O-ar?”
“Of course, Mr Loughbury rode, you know,” Mrs Whybrow told Love, as if warning him to take the matter seriously.
Mr Gash’s back heaved. He said something to Sadie which caused her to look away sourly.
“He rode,” Mrs Whybrow repeated, “with the Hambourne, actually.”
“Going to let me have a feel, then?” Mr Gash inquired of Sadie, then, without turning round: “Want a gin, do you, Connie?”
Mrs Whybrow’s glass was on the counter, empty, almost before Love was aware of the movement. She signalled him to join in taking advantage of the benefaction while it was going.
Love dispatched the rest of his beer as quickly as he could but without enjoyment, and set the glass beside Mrs Whybrow’s. Mr Gash, who still had not varied his position of leaning slightly inward, four-square to the bar, fingered his own glass forward, then Mrs Whybrow’s. Sadie refilled both and selected some coins from the farmers bar-top exchequer. Finally she picked up Love’s pint glass and looked at him in mute inquiry. He shrugged. Sadie filled it with beer. Love paid.
After a short silence, the voice of Farmer Gash was heard once more.
“Git any last night, then?”
His habit of speaking without the slightest change of posture made it difficult to determine who was being addressed. Love thought it was most probably Sadie. He was also thinking that, unpromising as the conversation was, it was not likely to reach a more useful level unless he did some prompting.
“I suppose,” he said, rather loudly, “that there’s a lot of sympathy in the village for Mrs Loughbury?”
There was a very long pause, then, “Wotsy say?” Mr Gash inquired of no one in particular.
Mrs Whybrow donned a pained smile. “I take it you mean Miss Claypole. The sort of housekeeper or whatever.”
“I mean the lady in occupation of the Manor House,” Love said, policemanishly. He added: “Known as Mrs Zoe Claypole-Loughbury.”
Mr Gash’s shoulders jerked; a short word, deplorably recognizable, emerged from behind them.
“Strictly entre nous,” Mrs Whybrow said to Love, “we are not madly approving of our Zoe.”
“Why is that, madam?” The sergeants face was a picture of innocent curiosity. Mrs Whybrow regarded it for several moments as if in doubt of its reality.
“Why? My dear boy, what do you mean, why! God knows I’m not a snob, but the woman’s a parvenu. Have you met her? A peasant, I promise you. She really is.”
A sudden recollection sharpened Mrs Whybrow’s manner. She leaned closer. “You said you were looking for stolen property...”
“Just routine inquiries,” said Love, hastily.
Someone was entering the bar at the far end. Mrs Whybrow lowered her voice; it became a growl. “No names, no pack-drill, dear boy, but some wickedly costly stuff has found its way into the same house as La Claypole. All very odd.”
The new arrival had been joined by two others. All were men. They remained close to the door, talking; one held the door a little open, as for a companion slightly delayed.
“It really is dreadful of me, to be talking to you like this,” whispered Mrs Whybrow, with a new and considerable eagerness, “but it does so happen that two of the gentlemen who’ve just come in...”
“Gin, Connie?”
With a speed and agility of which Love would not dream him capable, Winston Gash had turned about and was lowering over Mrs Whybrow like a building about to collapse. She grinned at him and handed over her glass.
Two of the new arrivals were now approaching. The larger, Love recognized. It was Spencer Gash, farming brother of Winston. The others addressed him as Spen.
With Spencer’s companion, a man of about her own age but lacking her appearance of healthy preservation, Mrs Whybrow seemed to be on terms too familiar to call for greeting. Love surmised that here was Mr Raymond Bishop, Mrs Whybrow’s lodger in Church Lane.
Mrs Whybrow nudged the sergeant and spoke low. “Mr Bishop is, as they say, my paying guest—except that he doesn’t pay—no, no, no, that’s just my little joke—he really is the most fearfully nice old chap, and I don’t care, quite frankly, if he pays or not. If there were any justice in this world, dear Raymond would be a Companion of Honour or something, but the whole thing’s most awfully sad... Oh, God, Winnie, but how fiendishly kind of you...”