Becket raised a finger. “Which reminds me. What is old Heckington going to think about the kidnapping of the world’s favourite columnist?”
“He isn’t going to hear about it unless we tell him.”
“We can scarcely avoid it,” Lanching said.
“OK. Well, he’s not going to spend one minute longer than necessary in this place once he gets out of court. He’ll be on the first London train after Bob’s case.”
Upstairs, Grail was slumped despondently across a small bed. His white hair had been tangled and left bunched over one eye by his concealment under the rug. He picked at his teeth with the nail of his little finger, which he sucked from time to time as if it had been collecting nourishment.
Beside the bed was a card table and a chair. There was a two-bar electric fire near the window, the view from which was restricted by the foliage of a large walnut tree about ten yards distant. Apart from the table, chair and fire, and a much worn rug by the bed, the room was unfurnished. It was also bare of decoration. There was a packing case in one corner, and several cardboard boxes had been stacked along one wall. Against another stood the projection equipment from London and the three film containers.
While Grail was gloomily surveying these unpromising surroundings, his gaze was held by the film cans. For several seconds, he glowered at them with an expression of malevolence that might have surprised his readers. Then he sprang to his feet, wrenched open the door and shouted: “Are we never going to get any bleeding food today?”
Chapter Eleven
Mrs Patmore returned on the quarter-past four bus and announced that she was very sorry to be unable to oblige any longer, but her sister in Flax was far from well and blood was thicker than water, whatever Mr Stamper might say, and she therefore would be on the six o’clock back to town and did they want anything cooking first?
Birdie avoided looking relieved. No, she said, there was no need for Mrs Patmore to trouble herself with anything beyond her family obligations. She and her colleagues had arranged to have a meal out that evening. This they would do just as soon as Mr Grail came back from his walk. She, Mrs Patmore, had not happened to see any sign of Mr Grail, had she, since his departure during the morning?
The housekeeper shook her head. “He reckoned he might go out Gosby and Moldham way,” she said. “He’s been a fairish old while, hasn’t he?”
“That’s what we were thinking,” Birdie replied. She tried to sound concerned, but not worried enough to shake Mrs Patmore’s resolution to abandon her post.
“Never mind, he’ll turn up: he looks a gentleman well able to look after himself.” Mrs Patmore took a step towards the stairs.
“Oh, by the way...”
“Yes, love?”
“Just a point I thought I ought to mention, Mrs Patmore. That little bedroom at the back...”
“I know, yes.”
“It’s locked. Mr Grail locked it. There’s some quite valuable camera equipment in there, and it did seem sensible to take no risks with it.”
“You know best about things like that,” observed Mrs Patmore, without overtones, and resumed her journey upstairs.
“Pray God,” said Birdie to Becket and Lanching when she re-entered the sitting-room, “that he keeps quiet long enough for her to get clear. What was he doing when you went up just now?”
Lanching replied. “Nothing, actually. I think he was nearly asleep. Of course, those drinks before lunch will have made him a bit dopey.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if...” Birdie stopped, listened. “Oh, no!” She went to the window. A car was drawing up on the gravel.
“Who is it?” Becket was on his feet.
Birdie gestured him to keep out of sight. “Tall bloke. Fair hair. Middle-aged. Never seen him before. Rather a clapped-out car.”
The bell rang.
“I’ll get rid of him.” Becket was out of the room before Birdie could object. She stared after him. A voice in the hall, friendly, inquiring, exchanging greetings with the departing Mrs Patmore. The front door closed gently. Footsteps approached.
Becket made the introduction.
“Detective Inspector Purbright, from Flaxborough. He would like to talk to Clive.”
Purbright dispensed a smile to Birdie, to Lanching a nod of acknowledgment. He sat in the chair indicated by the girl.
“Mr Becket,” he said, “has told me that Mr Grail is not in.”
“No,” Birdie said, “we seem...” (the very slight pause bespoke rapid calculation of the odds for and against Purbright’s being the sort of policeman who might appreciate a lightness of attitude) “to have mislaid him.”
Purbright gave her another smile. “Mr Grail doesn’t happen to have gone to be measured for pistols, does he?”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Birdie said. “So far as we know, he’s simply enjoying the novelty of a country walk. However”—she shrugged, as if sympathizing with the policeman—“we do get your drift.”
“Is Mr Grail likely to be long?”
“He should be here now, really,” Becket said. Birdie gave him a quick glance of reproof.
“Would you mind my waiting for ten minutes or so?” Purbright asked. “The matter isn’t all that urgent—or I hope not, anyway—and one doesn’t like to make double journeys if they can be avoided.”
“Perhaps we can help.” The suggestion came from Lanching.
“Possibly, sir. At least you will know from all the fuss in the newspapers that your Mr Grail has attracted the attention of one of our more colourful citizens.”
“With a little help, we suspect.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
Becket spoke. “We think your loony mayor was put up to it. By a little plump fellow, for one. Optician, or something.”
“Ah, Mr Barrington Hoole. He comes from Chalmsbury, the next town.”
“Also,” said Birdie, “your local editor, inspector. The one with the Cheshire cat grin.”
“He has, hasn’t he,” Purbright acknowledged fondly, then looked more serious. “But apart from questions of eccentric behaviour and possible breaches of the law by excited gentlemen waving pistols about, you will appreciate that the police must take notice of what Mr Grail apparently intends to allege concerning pornographic films.”
“Nothing’s been printed yet,” Becket said, grumpily.
“Oh, come, Mr Becket. Even a person as unsubtle as myself could be in no doubt after reading Sunday’s piece that the purpose of forthcoming articles is to describe these films and to identify local people responsible for making them. Am I wrong?”
“That is really a question for Grail, inspector,” said Lanching. “We are a team, in a sense, but ultimately he’s the one who’s responsible for the column.”