“Nothing here, Sid. Keep trying.”
He went round to the front of the house and rang the bell.
The door was opened by Mrs Claypole, fluttery and pale, but armed with the protective indignation of the newly-arrived mother.
“I should think so!” she declared, rather as if Purbright were an errant son-in-law who had been sleeping it off in the garden.
Decorously, he stepped inside.
Mrs Claypole’s face came close. “Have you seen what they’ve done to my Zoe’s lovely home?”
“I have, ma’am. And I can understand her being very upset.”
“Her being upset? We’re all upset, inspector. It’s a terrible thing.”
Mrs Claypole was one of those people who detect disparagement in even the sincerest and most eloquently expressed condolences.
Sternly, she shepherded Purbright into the sitting room.
Zoe was telephoning. She smiled at the inspector and waved two fingers. He sat down to wait.
When she had finished the call, she greeted him again, then asked: “Is your house insured against being knocked down?”
“Zoe!” exclaimed her mother.
“Not specifically,” said Purbright. “Why, was yours?”
Zoe shrugged. “The insurance company doesn’t want to think so. But they wouldn’t, would they? They just blab on about riots and acts of God.”
“She’ll not take things seriously,” complained Mrs Claypole.
Zoe drew up her legs into the cushioned recesses of her chair and wrinkled her nose at the inspector.
He sighed. “I think you should, Mrs Loughbury. I think also that you should try and realize that there are people in this village who seem to regard you as some kind of a danger to them.”
They’re terrified they might find themselves riding next to me on one of their bloody hunts, you mean.”
“Language,” muttered Mrs Claypole.
“No, I don’t mean that,” Purbright replied. “Nor that they fear you might be the next president of the Conservative Association.”
“Of course it’s that,” retorted Zoe. “Do you think I don’t know? They’ve looked down their long horsey noses at me from the moment I carried a nightie case up the front steps. If I’d used the tradesmen’s entrance, it might have been different.”
“But you do want to take a place in the social life of the village, don’t you, Mrs Loughbury? I saw you having dinner last night with Mr Gash. Doesn’t he pull weight with the Foxhounds Association?”
“The only weight he pulls is his own pudding.”
Mrs Claypole stared, tight-lipped.
“My mother,” said Zoe to the inspector, “is, as they say, aghast.” She turned. “Mum, why don’t you go and make a nice pot of tea, there’s a love.”
Mrs Claypole, looking hurt, walked to the door.
As soon as she had gone, Zoe swung her feet to the floor and sat erect. The carefree expression had changed.
She said very quietly to Purbright: “I don’t particularly enjoy what is going on, you know.”
“No, I didn’t think you did.”
“Of course, she’s worried silly, poor old bat, so I can’t let on, not in front of her.”
“Naturally. But, really, Mrs Loughbury, we mustn’t waste any more time. It’s too dangerous.”
She shrugged, eyes lowered.
“So you’d better throw some questions, then. The nasty ones first. Before she comes back.”
“Very well. One. Are you blackmailing somebody?”
Surprise, indignation, but an immediate reply. “No, I’m bloody not!”
“Right. Two. Do you think your husband was a black-mailer? I’m sorry about the melodramatic term, but there simply isn’t a better one.”
This time, Zoe’s negative was a fraction delayed. Purbright asked if she would like to qualify it.
“I suppose I would, in a way. Not that I think he went about being a secret criminal. Nothing like that. But people did give him presents. Is that usual with solicitors?”
Purbright said he thought that benevolence in that direction was pretty rare. “What,” he asked, “do you think about those gifts to Mr Loughbury?”
“The same as I’d think about anything that somebody shoves into your hand for nothing. A favour’s wanted—a favour to match.”
“In this particular case, a big favour. You’ve seen a valuation?”
“Sure. Some very pricey artworks come in. Nice.”
“But why did it come in, Mrs Loughbury? Do you know that? Not, I think, in lieu of professional fees.”
“Lord, no. I didn’t know much about Dick’s business—beg pardon, his practice—but when it came to money, it was either cash on the nail or so soon afterwards the sealing wax was still tacky.”
The inspector listened. Distant teacup noises attested to Mrs Claypole’s being busy still in the kitchen.
“You are aware, are you, of the identities of the people who gave your husband expensive presents?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And they are...?”
Zoe pouted. “You know yourself who they are, Mr Purbright. Come on, now.”
“I know some. Four is my score. What do you make it?”
She nodded agreement and began counting off on her fingers. “The Venerable Raymondo...”
“Who?”
“Ray Bishop—the stuck-up old ponce that Ma Whybrow has in tow. That’s one. Then the restaurant bloke, him from Flax. Palgrove. Three, Spence Gash, the friendly farmer. And last but not least, the king of the big givers, Squire Cork-whatsisname.”
“Cork-Bradden.”
“Yep, him.”
“Now here’s another nasty question, Mrs Loughbury. Was it these four gentlemen you had in mind when you put that highly embarrassing notice in the paper that was supposed to convey the thanks of the so-called Mumblesby Relic Committee?” He saw the beginning of a grin, and added more sternly: “In other words, were you warning these people off by craftily dropping my name into the wretched thing?”
Zoe gazed at Purbright, at first contritely, then with friendly resignation.
“You’re not stupid, are you.”
The inspector said he appreciated the compliment, which, he felt sure, was of mutual applicability. “Ta very much,” said Zoe.
“Incidentally,” said Purbright, “I know who it was that knocked your wall down.”