Roughly rectangular and four or five inches long, it looked as if it had been split away from a bigger whole.
A card was propped against it. Purbright read the five words typed on the card.
Fragment of the True Cross.
The odd thing (if all this were not odd enough) was that he could see no way in which the exhibit might be withdrawn. All the bars were set solidly in cement. None was hinged. There was no sign of an opening at the back of the recess; in any case, even if one existed, it could be reached only by climbing some fifteen feet up an outside wall.
The “Fragment” clearly had been intended to remain a permanent and inaccessible exhibit. Purbright shrugged and turned away; he was aware that the zeal of collectors was liable to outstrip rationality.
Cars were being started in the Market Place. The mourners, or some of them, would soon be on their way to Flaxborough for the short ceremony at the Crematorium. Others might be calling back at the house. Purbright had no wish to be trapped into giving account of himself.
Before leaving, he pulled the heater’s plug from the wall socket. Then he took hold of the cane chair with the intention of moving it to a safer distance from the heater.
It was surprisingly heavy.
A number of underclothes had been heaped untidily in the chair. Purbright pulled one or two aside. He felt something hard. He removed more of the clothing and saw a squat, red-painted cylinder. It was a bottle of propane gas.
Cautiously, Purbright eased the valve open a fraction. There was an immediate lively hiss. He screwed the valve shut and carried the propane downstairs. He found the kitchen again and placed the bottle on a big, wooden-topped table.
Near the window was a telephone. He rang Flaxborough Police Station.
Detective Sergeant Sidney Love sounded sympathetic. Funerals he considered only marginally less tedious than weddings, but at least they generally were over more quickly. To be delayed at one—and one, moreover, that was entirely someone else’s pidgin—struck him as the worst kind of luck. Yes, of course he would tell Mrs Purbright; and yes, he would go round to Market Street and ask if he might have a copy of the Citizen’s list of mourners.
“What do you know about bottled gas, Sid? In particular, the difference between butane and propane?”
“Isn’t butane the one for house heaters? I think propane’s the high-pressure one. Welding, that sort of thing.”
“I take it, then, that it would be pretty foolish to put a propane bottle on the fire.”
Love thought, but was not sure, that he had been presented with a rhetorical question, so he returned an all-purpose answer in the form of a throaty puffing sound—a “pwhu-urr!”
“Oh, and Sid...”
“Yes?”
“When old Loughbury last submitted a list of the property in his house at Mumblesby, do you remember if it included a religious relic of some kind?”
“There was a chalice that he’d got marked up at a couple of thousand.”
“Not a chalice,” Purbright said. “A relic. Something supposedly holy.”
“A bone?” Love suggested, dubiously.
“A bit of wood, actually.” The inspector knew when he had hit a dead end.
“Don’t recall any wood,” said the sergeant.
“Never mind.”
It was nearly an hour before Purbright heard a car draw up before the house and a key turn in the front door. He went at once into the hall.
Zoe, entering first, looked surprised. She was followed by her mother. Mrs Claypole glanced at Purbright’s feet. He wondered if he were suspected of having had them up on the furniture.
Zoe began to pull off her gloves. No one had spoken.
“I must apologize,” Purbright said, “if I’ve overstayed my welcome but—”
“That’s all right. Any time,” Zoe interrupted him. She stuffed her gloves into the pocket of her coat. “My God, I’m dying for a cuppa.”
Mrs Claypole said she would make one after she’d been upstairs. She began, ponderously, to climb them.
“I was saying I’m sorry to be still here, but there is a matter I think I ought to talk to you about,” Purbright said to Zoe.
“You’d better come in the lounge, then.” She opened a door. “Is Mum to bring you a cup?”
He said that was kind of her. Zoe waved the inspector to a deep armchair. He stood by it, regarding her, waiting for her to sit.
When she moved to a chair, it was to kneel in it, one arm hanging over the back. The attitude put Purbright in mind of a schoolgirl too big for her age.
“I should like you to tell me,” he began, “what ideas you have concerning this bathroom business.” He saw a sudden upturn of the eyes in exasperation. “I am not asking without a very good reason.”
“Oh, dear, trust my blessed mother to find a policeman without even looking. I should think you were the only one in ten miles.”
“That’s quite possible.” He sounded rueful.
She smiled, then frowned, looking away. “Ideas? No, not specially. Bloody stupid trick. I suppose someone thought it was funny.”
“An odd occasion, I should have thought, for practical jokes, Mrs Loughbury? A funeral.”
“Queer village.” She said it without emphasis, almost dismissively.
“Is it, indeed?”
That won no response. He asked her: “How many people—other than Mr Bradlaw and his staff—were in the house when you were getting ready to go to church?”
“Not very many.” Zoe saw that a pencil and a piece of folded paper had got into the inspectors hand. She stared at them blankly.
“The names—do you remember them?”
“Does it matter? Don’t tell me they’ve made locking doors a crime.”
“Not in general, no. The people in the house, though—do you recall who they were?”
Memory cracked the impassivity of her face with a smile. “There was old Jehovah and his two witnesses. Dickies brother from Chalmsbury. He always called him that. Old Jehovah. Stan, actually. Miserable old prick. I can’t remember what the sons are called. They never came over until today and that was too bloody soon.”
“Zoe! Just you watch your language!” Mrs Claypole, tractoring a laden tea tray into the room, paused to glare. “Whatever would your hubby have thought?” And her eyes switched to Purbright, as if in hope of his being privy to the opinions of the late solicitor.
“He wants to know who was here this morning,” Zoe said to her mother.
Mrs Claypole busied herself with pouring milk into three cups. Her “Oh?” was restrained.