Purbright inclined his head, as if satisfied. He turned to Birdie.
“Miss Clemenceaux, I understand from my chief constable that your role in this team is that of researcher. You gather preliminary information, is that so?”
“More or less, yes.”
“That must be a very interesting part of the work. Tell me, in the course of whatever research you did on this particular story, did you hear mention of a rather sad accident that happened here in Flaxborough about a year ago—one associated with film-making, I mean?” Suddenly, the inspector leaned forward and smiled apologetically. “Oh, I don’t mean pornographic film-making, of course. And I am not asking you to betray confidences. I am just mildly curious, that’s all.”
“I do recall,” said Birdie, “something in the national papers. ‘Death in the Darkroom’—that sort of thing. A young woman. But no one I’ve spoken to up here has mentioned it.”
“Indeed? Well, I suppose they had no occasion to. She was a keen member of this local society, though. And her husband, too. A singularly tragic little family—if family’s the word. They had no children.”
After a pause, Lanching asked: “The husband—he still lives here in the town, does he? Although”—he glanced at Birdie—“I’m sure I’m not trespassing on Grail’s territory if I tell you that neither of them is mentioned in the story as it stands.”
“Just as well, sir,” said Purbright, “if only for the sake of whatever relatives there may be. Actually, he was from another part of the country altogether.”
“And he’s returned there?” prompted Birdie.
Purbright looked pained, as if something he had said was being misconstrued. “Oh, but he’s dead, Miss Clemenceaux. Curiously enough, I heard about it only this morning. He died four or five weeks ago. In London, I understand.”
Becket was frowning deeply. “If he died a month ago, how was it you took so long to find out?”
“But I wasn’t trying to find out, Mr Becket, was I?”
Becket shrugged and looked away.
“In that case, inspector,” said Birdie, “I certainly find it curious, to use your word, that this man’s death happened to come to your notice this morning.”
“The inquiries into Henry Bush’s background were being made by people quite unconnected with the police,” said Purbright. “I’m just one of those unfortunates who always get the telephone calls that no one else wants to answer.”
“Are you going to tell us who the interested party was?” Birdie asked.
Purbright smiled, but said nothing.
Soon afterwards, he rose.
“It seems that Mr Grail’s engagement is keeping him a rather long time. Perhaps he’ll be good enough to give me a ring when he comes back. I shall be at the police station until at least six.”
“He only went for a walk,” Birdie said, with a hint of defensiveness in her voice.
“Perhaps,” suggested the inspector, “he was tempted further afield than he meant to go. It’s a very attractive time of year in the country.”
As soon as Purbright’s car had passed from sight of the house, Birdie hurried upstairs.
“Christikins! We’ve got a right rozzer to contend with there, old son. Listen, just what do you know—and have kept to yourself, I don’t have to add—about that Bush woman and her husband?”
Grail was sitting hunched between the bed and the electric fire, both bars of which he had switched on. He spoke with his eyes half dosed, as though in pain.
“For God’s sake, don’t be incoherent. Another hour of being walled up like a nun and I shall lose my reason.”
She sat on the bed, gave the now almost empty gin bottle a frown of disgust, and said slowly: “That man who has just left is a police inspector. He pretends he is interested in preventing mayhem by duelling pistol. In fact—and I’m bloody sure I’m not imagining this—he is most horribly curious about that girl who died of poisoning in a darkroom and about what happened to the widower. This, dear Clivikins, is a complication we could well have done without. Kindly conquer your alcoholic self-pity and lend it some thought.”
Grail released his hold on his knees and moved away from the fire.
“Look,” he said, wearily, “I can’t tell you any more than you know now. I can’t tell you who these Bush people are or were, except that they did belong to this photographic society thing. Nor can I tell you who originally tipped us the story. If I knew, I’d be out there committing murder. Lastly, I cannot tell you how anyone came to appoint as news correspondent a man so moronic as to accept that film at its face value. Now leave me to stay kidnapped in peace until this whole dreadful business is over.”
The girl surveyed him for some moments. “I should have thought,” she said at last, “that some small expression of gratitude wouldn’t pain you too deeply. Bob and Ken and I are the ones who have the dirty work to do.”
“Concocting a spurious phone call doesn’t sound too onerous a task. It should appeal to that sense of humour of yours, Birdie. ‘Oh, Mr Richardson, and they say they’ll send you one of poor Clive’s ears if you don’t agree to their demands.’ ”
“Don’t tempt me, mate. Don’t bloody tempt me.”
Grail turned to see her face unexpectedly pale and tight-featured. He spread his hands in token of contrition. “You’re very sweet, actually. And I do realize what the team’s taken on for me. Great.” He tried to slip a conciliatory hand beneath her skirt.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Clive.” Stepping quickly to the door, she opened it. “Don’t push your luck. Stay put. We’ll bring you something up when we get a meal organized.”
Purbright found the coroner’s officer anxious to talk to him when he arrived back in Fen Street.
“That insurance company has been on the phone again,” Sergeant Malley announced. “Their fire assessor is not very happy about Bush’s accident.”
“We knew that already, Bill. I don’t see how we can help, though.”
“For one thing, they asked if they could have a transcript of the inquest on his wife.”
The inspector pursed his lips. “I suppose so. For what it’s worth. What are they looking for—coincidences?”
Malley compressed a couple of chins against his tunic collar as he peered down into the bowl of the short, black pipe that he was excavating. Breathing seemed a fairly hard job for him.
“Aye, well, one is fairly obvious. They both were mucking about with cine film at the time.”
“Nobody’s suggested that the husband—Henry, was it?—was poisoned, though, surely?”
“Good lord, no. He was incinerated. Plus most of his flat, apparently. It went up in minutes.”
“I presume,” said Purbright, “that the object of the insurance company’s solicitude is to avoid paying out some money. So what does it hope to prove—that Henry committed suicide out of grief for his late wife?”