Mr Harrington murmured, rather mysteriously: “Low loaders?”
The inspector conceded that there were, indeed, such things, oh, yes. He did not mention his already having ordered the interception of any heavy machine carrier seen on the road within a twenty mile radius of Mumblesby.
Nor did he share the information passed to him by Patrol Officer Brevitt a few minutes before his return to the restaurant. This was to the effect that Mr Brevitt had just encountered, almost fatally, a general purpose mobile digging and demolition machine known as a Super Delve 48, abandoned without lights on the highway north of the village, and believed to be the property of P. Pritty & Sons, Farmers and Contractors, of Mumblesby.
Chapter Thirteen
The Reverend Tiverton was in a mood of higher elation than usual. A christening...heavens, they had not had a christening in the village since his very first month, and that had been a poor, half-hearted affair from the council houses. Now, though (and Mr Tiverton acquitted himself of snobbery because the district council had since put its eight houses on the market and had even succeeded in selling one to the sitting tenant), the ceremony was for the first-born of young Mr and Mrs Donald Pagetter, who had pots of money and a nice sense of style, and were related to the Lord Lieutenant of the county.
“There’ll be flowers,” Mr Tiverton told his wife, “and silver tokens, and the Moldhams have lent a christening robe that was used for the Duchess of Argyle.”
His wife’s eyes shone. “Oh, lovely! And are we to have a proper font baptism?”
“Rather. Won’t it be a nice change from those awful utility hip-flask affairs?”
And so, on this Saturday morning, instead of joining the small crowd of spectators roped off from the hole in the Manor House wall, the Vicar of Mumblesby set off for the home of his churchwarden, Mr Cork-Bradden, full of ideas on how best to promote a baptism of quality.
Sightseers at the Manor House were thwarted of a view of interior intimacies by a large tarpaulin draped over the gable end. They had to be content with the spectacle of Sergeant Love in command of the sorting and sifting of rubble.
The work was being done by two constables. They were tunicless and with blue shirtsleeves turned up, but retained their helmets, on Purbrights instructions, in case of further falls of debris. They looked as merry as new arrivals in a penal colony.
“What I want you to look for, Sid,” the inspector had said, “is a piece of wood about so big”—he made a span with finger and thumb—“which may, or may not, still be inside a small steel cage. The cage was set in that wall when last I saw it.”
Then he had gone off to ask questions of Mr Pritty, owner of a rogue SuperDelve.
The farm run by the Pritty family consisted essentially of one field (a featureless stretch of soil, three-quarters of a mile square) and a concrete runway. The purpose of the runway was to accommodate not aeroplanes but agricultural machinery and the plant used in the contracting side of the business.
There were big, hangar-like sheds along one side of the runway. Some were filled with sacks of nitrate, for fertilizing the field; in another were stacked drums of herbicides and pesticides. Perched on metal stilts set in the concrete were fuel and lubricant tanks.
Several lorries and pick-up trucks stood about. They were dwarfed by a new, bright orange combine harvester and something that looked to Purbright like an armoured car with a huge scoop at the front. Called a “Hedge-Grouter”, it was capable of riving out all unprofitable vegetation, including small trees.
The inspector walked past the machines and the sheds to the square, grey farmhouse at the end of the concrete. An annexe in raw red brick had been added to the house. Purbright knocked at a door marked “Office” and entered.
A counter divided the room. Leaning against its far side, their backs to Purbright, were two men. Purbright recognized the massive, off-white head of Farmer Pritty. The younger man, who turned his head only long enough to note the fact of Purbrights presence, had sleepy, wet-looking eyes with pale yellow lashes, and a slightly open mouth. His face was the same colour as the brickwork. This, presumably, was one of the three sons.
Purbright waited for more than a minute, but received no further acknowledgment. He said “Good morning” firmly.
The younger man again looked over his shoulder. He gave a small, interrogatory jerk of the head and opened his mouth a little more.
“I should like to speak to Mr Pritty,” Purbright said.
The young man smiled slowly at the elder and indicated the inspector with a nod.
“Oh, ar?” The farmer did not move.
Purbright was becoming accustomed to Mumblesby’s highly developed economy of motion. He waited. After a while, the old man again addressed no one in particular.
“What is it you want, then?”
“I am a police officer, and I should like to know how a machine belonging to you came to be abandoned on the public highway yesterday evening.”
There was a long silence. Very laboriously, Farmer Pritty launched himself from the counter and faced about.
“Belonging to me?”
“Yes, sir; it is registered in your name.”
“Abandoned? What do you mean, abandoned?”
“No one was in charge of the vehicle. It had no lights. There were no illuminated markers on the road to give warning. Abandoned doesn’t seem to me to be an unreasonable description.”
Pritty considered at some length. Then, by a tilt of the head and one sleepily raised eyebrow, he conveyed the message: You’ll have to ask him.
The inspector addressed Pritty Junior. “You are this gentleman’s son, are you, sir?”
The younger man looked with faintly contemptuous amusement at his sire, then at Purbright. “You reckon?”
The old man sniggered.
A small, folded paper had appeared in Purbrights hand. He consulted it, looked up and gave the younger man a bland smile.
“Ah, you must be Lawrence. Is that right, sir?” He glanced again at the paper. “Lawrence Edward...committing nuisance by maliciously urinating over seats of open sports car, the property...”
A sudden gift of speech, very angry. “That was Harry. What the hell have you got there?”
Bewildered, the inspector checked. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. That was, as you say, Henry. Henry Peter, in fact, June 1976... No, here’s yours sir. Unlawful carnal knowledge of a girl of twelve—“
“Bernard! It was bloody Bernard! Why don’t you get the sodding facts right before you—“
The substantial right arm of farmer Pritty swept in an arc to his son’s chest, silencing the rest of his complaint.