But the best of all Clappers reasons for sanguinity lay in a locked drawer in the Church Close offices of Loughbury, Lovelace and Partners.
It was an envelope containing a number of foolscap pages that Loughbury had personally and privately covered with his tight, meticulous lawyers script nearly twelve months before—shortly after his marriage, in fact. (You might well consider that significant, members of the jury.)
Sealed with the green wax that the Partners reserved for especially confidential items of business, this envelope had been consigned to Buxton’s keeping, with the injunction (humorously expressed, he remembered, for Mr Richard was quite a droll old gentleman) that it be opened only in the event of his dying suddenly.
What was Clapper now to do with it? He could simply pass it on to one of the Partners. Or destroy it unread, for the knowledge of its existence was his alone. He was strongly tempted to open the envelope and judge of its contents himself, but he doubted if he could re-seal it convincingly.
For a long while after the Partners, and the two ladies who wore woollen jumpers and typed, and Mr Loughbury s temporary replacement, young and pernicketty Alexander Scorpe, had gone home on that Monday evening, Mr Buxton sat in the seclusion of his own cubby-hole of an office and gazed at the well-filled packet and wondered if it contained the means of bringing to book the disrespectful widow.
At last, he put it into the case in which Buxton QC daily carried his imaginary briefs and his real sandwiches. He telephoned the police headquarters in Fen Street. Was the chief constable by any chance still upon the premises? Robert Buxton, of Loughbury, Lovelace and Partners. No, the sergeant would not do. Yes, he would hold the line.
Mr Chubb was not at Fen Street. He was in the company of his Yorkshire terriers, geraniums and wife at his home in Queen’s Road. But as he knew Mr Buxton to be a solicitor’s clerk and hence likely neither to petition nor to canvass on his own behalf, Mr Chubb magnanimously suggested that he “call on his way home” (Clapper dwelt in a semi-detached villa at the better-but-not-much end of Jubilee Park Gardens, off Queens Road.)
Entrance to the chief constables house was through a big conservatory-like porch. All the woodwork was painted white. The outer doors were plainly glazed, the inner ones had frosted panes, bordered by stained-glass segments. Within the porch, four white urns held plants with clusters of pink flowers. Mr Buxton did not know what they were.
Response to his ring—it was by Mrs Chubb—was prompt enough, but both sets of doors seemed difficult to open. Her plump, good-natured, motherly face reddened as she pushed, pulled and rattled.
“It’s the boys, you know,” Mrs Chubb said, when at last a way into the house had been won. “The dogs. We use the back as a rule. Then there’s no problem. Never mind, Father’s expecting you.”
Mr Buxton sniffed secretly. There was a distinct smell of kippers. It did not seem right. Common. Dog food, perhaps?
“We’ve had tea,” remarked Mrs Chubb, cheerily, “so you can go into the lounge.”
Which is where the chief constable was already installed, his spare, almost frail, figure propped lightly against the wall by the fireplace.
Upon Buxton’s entry, Mr Chubb withdrew his hand from the pocket of the long grey cardigan that was his domestic livery and indicated a chair. He did not exactly greet his visitor, but he looked relaxed and tolerant.
“And what can we do for you, Mr Buxton?”
The chair was submissive as a quicksand. Clapper’s backside sank so deeply and his knees were left so far overhead that his struggle to open his briefcase made him look like an escapologist rehearsing a new trick.
Mr Chubb waited patiently, then stepped forward to receive the extricated package.
“You say you want me to open this? It is sealed, you know.” He turned the envelope about in his hand and looked at it without enthusiasm.
Clapper climbed out of the embraces of his chair and perched himself on its edge.
“It was sealed by Mr Richard,” he said. “I have full responsibility for its custody and disposal, naturally.” His original intention to address the chief constable with professional familiarity as “Chubb” seemed now less commendable.
Mr Chubb laid the package gently on the mantelshelf. “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better tell me all about it.”
Buxton QC outlined the case for the prosecution. It took considerably less time than he had supposed it would. Mr Chubb heard him out without interruption.
There followed a silence. Clapper cast a few exploratory glances about the room, hopeful that they might reveal a decanter. He was disappointed.
The chief constable frowned at his finger nails. “There is one strong objection to what you suggest, I’m afraid, Mr Buxton. Mr Loughbury was having medical care over a period of weeks; he died in hospital, and the doctors were quite satisfied as to the cause of his death.”
Buxton QC, thwarted spirits fancier, countered: “My position is simply this, chief constable: I should not feel happy if Mr Richard’s confidence in his friends on the police force failed to prevail over a formality such as a medical certificate.”
Mr Chubb tried to work that one out. He asked: “Do you mean that Mr Loughbury expressly wished his letter to be opened and read on his death, irrespective of circumstances?”
It was a good question, and the Silk allowed his Junior to answer. “Well—yes and no,” said Clapper.
In some distant part of the house, the opening of a door initiated a tumult of barking and scampering, with which a woman’s cries competed in vain until the same door slammed.
Soon afterwards, Mrs Chubb appeared, rosy and out of breath. She beamed at the visitor.
“I expect you’d like a nice cup of tea.”
She waited for him to taste it. It was lukewarm and much diluted. “Lovely,” said Clapper.
When his wife had departed, the chief constable picked up the envelope, felt it, and tried its weight. There was, he judged, an awful lot of reading matter inside. Dick Loughbury always had been inclined to long-windedness.
“I think, you know,” said Mr Chubb at last, “that my Mr Purbright is your best bet. He knows the district, you see.”
A man who could solemnly imply personal ignorance of a locality of which he had been chief constable for over thirty years was too much even for an eminent Silk.
“If that is what you would prefer,” murmured Mr Buxton, looking about him unhappily for somewhere to set down his cup.
Chapter Sixteen
Whereas I, Richard Daspard Loughbury, of The Manor House, Mumblesby, solicitor, have reason to believe that my life may be in danger by reason of my knowledge of such facts as shall be set forth in this, my statement following, I hereby declare that the said statement is true to the best of knowledge and belief.