“He wants me to go and look.” Sadie sighed at the ceiling, then gave the man, whom she rather liked, a smile.
The man regarded Oggy with an indulgence tailored to please the mother. “P’raps he’ll show me, will he?” Oggy ran to his side. The man winked at Sadie and allowed himself to be towed away through the door.
A quarter of an hour later, the partial demolition of the Manor House’s gable end was being described, discussed and speculated upon by every customer in the Barleybird. Someone had called the fire brigade, from whose base a report went automatically to Flaxborough police. The duty sergeant entered it in the book under the heading “Insecure Premises”.
In the Old Mill Restaurant, Mrs Whybrow was lack-lustredly contemplating her Pêche Arctique (a tinned fruit slice on a slab of ice cream) and telling Mr Pritty about her girlhood devotion to something called a Knickerbocker Glory. “That high and absolutely packed with the most fantastic whatevers...” Mr Pritty leered and said he knew what she meant.
At Mr Winston Gash’s table, Pêche Flambées were proving difficult; Palgrove had left on them too much liquor from the tin, and the brandy topping would not ignite, despite Mr Blossom’s repeated application of matches.
The two anniversary couples also were in trouble; their attempts to consume remarkably recalcitrant Crèmes Caramels looked like a game of skill involving forks and wet falsies.
Miss Teatime and Purbright had chosen nothing more challenging than coffee. Mr Harrington was risking cheese. Zoe, eyed admiringly by Spencer Gash, was still busy with her second portion of the main course, infra-red-electrocuted duck.
“Excuse me, but is the lady from the Manor House here, please?”
All stopped eating. There was something about the sudden materialization of a fireman in full accoutrement, including thigh boots, axe, and helmet the size of a hip bath, that ravished attention even from the cuisine of the Old Mill.
Fire Officer Budge repeated his question. He was joined by Patrolman Brevitt, who had just arrived in his Panda car. Brevitt spotted Purbright. He saluted in an embarrassed way and looked away. A draught of cold night air had entered through the open door.
Zoe rose to her feet, still holding a forkful of duck. She acknowledged that she was the lady from the Manor House. “Christ! It’s not on fire again?”
“No, ma’am,” said Fire Officer Budge, “but a bit of it seems to have collapsed.”
Miss Teatime frowned and leaned towards Purbright. “What does she mean by ‘again’? Has she got poltergeists?”
Leonard and Cynthia Palgrove had arrived in tandem to see what was going on.
Patrolman Brevitt stared at the Jolly Miller as if upon a particularly unsavoury case of transvestism. Cynthia made equally cold appraisal of Patrolman Brevitt. “What seems to be the matter, officer?” Brevitt pretended not to hear.
Zoe fetched her own coat from the lobby, leaving Spencer Gash staring into his glass and scratching an ear.
Purbright stepped past him and helped Zoe on with her coat. “I’ll come across with you.” He turned to Brevitt. “Keep with us; I may want you to use your radio.”
The departure of Zoe with her triple escort was watched by Mrs Whybrow with an expression of wry amusement.
“Gone, have they, Booboo?” inquired Mr Bishop, who was busy arranging on the table some cigarette cards he had taken from his pocket.
Mr Blossom made a joke about not paying bills and his lady companion laughed so much that she spilled some wine.
Winston Gash called to his brother: “You’ll not git yer leg ovver now, Spen—not tonight, you’ll not!” This so amused both lady companions that they had to grope their way, red-faced and whooping, to the door marked YE OLDE MILLSTREAM (LADIES).
Farmer Pritty added his mite of consolation. “I reckons that other bugger’ll be seeing to ’er tonight, me old mate.”
Mr Raymond Bishop smiled knowingly at one of his “Cries of London” and said: “They sound quite happy tonight, Booboo, don’t they?”
Mrs Whybrow was not listening. She beckoned the Jolly Miller to the table and asked him, in gravel-voiced confidentiality, who the gentleman was who had just gone out with that whatsername woman.
A policeman, whispered Mr Palgrove. An inspector from Flaxborough. Quite a decent fellow, actually.
“Good God,” Mrs Whybrow growled softly, half to herself, “not another one.”
At her side, seemingly preoccupied with his cigarette card collection, Mr Bishop stroked his long nose. Farmer Pritty slumped lower in his chair and flicked fragments of cheese at an empty bottle.
Purbright re-entered the restaurant half an hour later. He saw that Spencer had left, as had Mrs Whybrow, Mr Bishop and Peter Pritty. Winston and his party were still there. Mr Blossom, who wished to enliven the evening with what he called his “squirty joke”, was trying vociferously but without success to order champagne. Winston sat drinking whiskies with a steadfast and manifestly lustful regard of Miss Teatime. The lady companions were much wound down and were talking between themselves about electric cookers.
The inspector apologized to Miss Teatime for his absence. He described briefly what had happened.
“No one seems actually to have seen anything. A couple of people living nearby heard a machine go by—a bulldozer, perhaps, something of that kind.”
Miss Teatime looked puzzled. “You mean the vibration could have caused the wall to collapse?” Harrington said he would have supposed the house to be a notably solid one.
“We shall know more tomorrow,” Purbright said. He added, more quietly: “I’m having a man keep an eye on things over there until morning.”
“That is very wise,” said Miss Teatime, soberly. “Tell me, though, is she all right?”
“Mrs Loughbury? Oh, yes, I think so.”
“Upset, though.”
“Naturally. There’s a fearful mess.”
“I shall call to see if there is anything I may do before returning to Flaxborough.”
Purbright nodded. “I think she’d appreciate that. Incidentally,”—he half-turned to include Harrington—“I do hope you’ll have no need to amend that inventory of yours.”
Miss Teatime smiled. “Oh, come now, Mr Purbright—a burglar with a bulldozer?”
He shrugged. “Funny village, Mumblesby.”
“A singularly venereal one,” Miss Teatime murmured tightly, having sent an inadvertent glance into the furnace of Mr Gash’s stare.
“Do you suspect theft, inspector?” Harrington inquired.
Purbright had taken note of Winston’s interest; he moved his chair to block it. “Walls,” he said to Harrington, “do not as a rule fall down by accident when there are valuable things on the other side of them. There is one consolation—a bulldozer is less easy to get rid of than a jemmy.”