“Winnie—the big gentleman facing the bar.”
“Why should he mean me?”
“It’s a question he puts to everybody, actually. He really is quite sweet. You mustn’t mind. Being asked that is a sort of compliment round here.”
“Hey. That copper. Babbychops. Ar reckon ’e’s nivver addis legovver.”
“I don’t think that’s supposed to be a compliment,” Love observed to Mrs Whybrow.
“Never mind, here’s an absolutely perfect gentleman for you. He’ll be able to talk about stolen property for absolutely hours. Who better poor darling? Robin—come and have colloquy, or whatever one has on these occasions, with this fearfully understanding policeman.”
Whatever the expectations of Mrs Whybrow, who, at this stage, temporarily quit the bar, Mr Robin Cork-Bradden made it plain to Sergeant Love that he knew of nothing of value ever having been stolen from his premises or wrested from his possession by force or guile. He then courteously excused himself.
By the time Mrs Whybrow returned, she seemed to have forgotten the sergeant. The hoots and brays of her conversation rose from within a group that had formed near the fireplace. No one else showed sign of wanting to adopt her late protégé. He certainly was in no danger of being bought more beer. That did not distress him. The only beverage of which he could be said to be fond was raisin wine.
Love sat on in his isolation, listening to what he could make out of the conversation. Mr Bishop was telling Mr Cork-Bradden about protocol at Marlborough House. Mr Palgrove enthused to Farmer Spencer Gash on the subject of his “old girl”—not, it seemed, his wife, but an Aston Martin motor car. Spence rejoindered whenever he was able with references to his own favoured means of transport, which he called “the Murk”. Horses were being discussed by two younger men with pale eyes and hair cut in a very straight line at the nape; their lady companions wore headscarves and very dirty, narrow-legged trousers, and flicked the ash off their cigarettes every time they said “Oh, God, yes,” which was fairly often. Another farmer—short, fat and with a salami-like complexion—had docked with Winston Gash at the bar and both now were exploring the subject of “gittin’ legs ower” with sidelong references to every woman in the company in turn.
Love decided reluctantly that the Barleybird had not been a good idea. He began making his way, as unobtrusively as he could, towards the swing doors.
Some twenty people now were present. None took the slightest notice of his departure, save Mrs Whybrow, who, on catching sight of him, shut her eyes tight and displayed her front teeth as if she had been kneed in the groin: it was her version of a farewell smile. Before slipping through the doors, he looked back, meaning to nod a goodbye to the woman behind the bar. He couldn’t see her.
In the lobby, he heard a quick step behind him.
“Mister...” He turned.
Sadie, rather out of breath, had entered the lobby by another door.
“I just slipped out for a second. That lot won’t tell you anything. Were you asking about Detty?”
“Betty?”
“No, Detty. Bernadette. Mrs Croll.”
Perplexity lent Love a slightly comic expression. The woman looked disappointed, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I thought...” She turned.
“No, don’t go. Why did you think I was asking questions about Mrs Croll?”
The woman paused, her hand on the door knob. Swaying slightly, she stared at her own hand as it caressed and leaned upon the knob by turns.
Her voice was an anxious murmur. “They aren’t on about my little old boy again, are they? About taking him away?”
Voices. Somebody was coming down the stairs. Quickly, Sadie tugged open the door and was gone.
Chapter Seven
Detective Sergeant Love having decided that half a day in Mumblesby was enough to manage in one go, he presented himself in Purbright’s office soon after lunch.
“I expect,” he said, “that you’ll want a debriefing session.”
He saw Purbright’s stare of innocent bewilderment.
“You’ll want to know how I got on in Mumblesby.”
“Ah.” The inspector looked relieved. “Yes, Sid, of course.”
Love had made some notes, which he now assembled on his knee. He looked up.
“They’re a very queer bunch.”
“So I believe,” said Purbright. He had been making some notes himself. They were pinned to the list of mourners at Richard Loughbury’s funeral.
“There’s an old cove who calls his landlady Booboo,” said Love. He added: “That’s for starters.”
Purbright glanced down his names. “Would that, by any chance, be Mr Bishop?”
Love nodded, then considered. “I’m not sure now that he is a chiropodist. His landlady mentioned surgeons. I think the Royal Family bit is right, though.”
The inspector glanced up, one eyebrow raised. With undiminished blandness, Love added: “It didn’t shake him when I offered to put him in touch with the Special Branch.”
“Where did this conversation take place, Sid?”
“In that pub they call the Barleybird. People talk in pubs. And they’re not suspicious—not as they would be at home.”
“Not even when invited to assignations with the Special Branch?”
Love said: “The trouble is, it’s hard to get people like that to talk about what you want them to talk about—if you see what I mean.”
“I do, indeed.”
“That Mrs Whybrow would go on all day and night, but only when it’s something that she’s interested in. I’ll say this for her, she’s not easily shocked.”
Purbright said he hoped Love had not been indelicate in his approach.
“Oh, no, it’s the farmers. They don’t seem to care what they say in front of women.”
“That,” said the inspector, “is because they don’t keep stock any more. The purely arable farmer is no longer in the habit of restraining his language for the sake of the milk yield. Cows used to have a civilizing influence on farmers.”
The sergeant glanced through his notes quickly once more in search of such instances of modest success as they contained.
“Point one,” he announced. “There’s not much grief in Mumblesby over Rich Dick’s death. Well, not among the drinking set, anyway. They seemed quite offhand about it.”
Purbright waited.
“Point two. They don’t think much of his widow, if that’s what she is. Mrs Whybrow called her”—and the sergeant made close reference to his note—“La Claypole. Almost as if she was foreign.”