“Too professional, my dear man. Altogether too professional.”
“I see, sir.” Purbright forbore from asking Sir Arthur to cite his credentials in this delicate field of judgment. He suggested instead that such facts made it less easy to ascribe Grail’s kidnapping to outraged local opinion.
Heckington, QC, concurred.
“I am far from happy,” he went on, “about this abduction, or whatever it was. My clients I must own to be intelligent, talented and by no means naïve young people; but are they, I ask myself, proof against the machinations of the publishing world? Nearly all of us, alas, inspector, are capable of being misled, if only for a very short time.”
Purbright noted in this declaration of the general principle of human frailty the insertion of a typical Heckington personal escape clause. Blandly, he repeated it. “Ah, yes, sir. Nearly all of us.”
“I have represented newspaper interests long enough,” Sir Arthur continued, unabashed, “to know that there is no limit to the extremities wherewith rival claims are promoted. This could be just such an instance. After all, the story has been suppressed—or so I am assured—and corresponding damage has been done to the reputation of the Herald. For such a result, the unorthodox and unlawful means might well have been considered worthwhile by some.”
“Including a man’s death?” Purbright asked, softly.
“Ah, as to that, I fancy that it will be found that the element of pure coincidence has—most unfortunately—entered this sad story, inspector. Food-poisoning is an ever-present menace in these times.”
Purbright changed the subject. “Would there be any objection on your part—or on Mr Becket’s, perhaps I should say—to a further adjournment of his driving case tomorrow, sir? It would seem to be a diversion we all could do without at the moment.”
Sir Arthur puffed his cheeks in a picture of amiable compliance. “But of course, my dear Purbright; I agree absolutely.” A short pause for rapid thought. “I do not doubt but that when this somewhat trivial case does come before the court, the prosecution will offer a quid pro quo in respect of my client’s inconvenience...” The eloquent brows rose like inverted scales of justice.
“Who knows?” replied the inspector (“Very dry, is my boss,” Love had more than once informed his young lady).
The re-installed Mrs Patmore was preparing lunch for all but policemen. Her employer, who was nothing if not a naturally inquisitive man, had called to make himself one of the number in order to observe from a position of privilege the conduct of a criminal investigation. What he had not reckoned upon, perhaps, was the possibility of his being questioned himself, so when a constable appeared to conduct him into the presence of Inspector Purbright, Farmer Stamper’s visage set at once, like concrete, into those lines of rural intransigence which town dwellers erroneously suppose to proclaim the half-wit.
Purbright’s opening was gently malicious. “Nice house, Herbert. The missus must be pleased with it.”
“Suits me.”
“Sort of lodgers, are they, these London people?”
“Ah.”
“The one who died. Know anything about him?”
“Know nowt about any of ’em.”
The inspector scratched an ear lazily. “Mr Grail, though—you’d done some asking around to oblige him.”
“Oh, ah?”
“A couple of names. Harry Pearce—was that one?”
“Could’ve been. Who says?”
“I forget now. It just came up. They do, you know, Bert.”
“He was interested in photography. Grail was.”
“So I believe. What about Alf, though?”
“Alf?”
“Alf Blossom. At the garage on the South Circuit.”
“No idea. I did wonder.”
“Anyone have it in for Grail, do you think? Anyone round here?”
“No. Why should they?”
“As you say, why should they. Right, then, Bert—you’ll be wanting to go down for a look at your beet. Hey—by God, but have you seen old Mawksley’s?”
The stone face cracked at last. “Aye, I bloody have. By Christ, he came arse uppards with that bloody lot, didn’t he?”
“By Christ, he did.”
Stamper paused at the door. “That mucky film,” he said, casually. “I reckon you might be wasting your time talking to Harry Pearce.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Aye. You could have a word with Joss Kebble, though. About his number plate.” With which enigmatic suggestion, Mr Stamper slammed his conservatory door behind him and wandered in the direction of the kitchen.
“What on earth did he mean by that?” asked Love, who had been listening to the conversation between inspector and witness with growing disapproval.
“I don’t know, Sid,” said Purbright, “but I think it falls into the category of what Sir Arthur calls a quid pro quo.”
Chapter Sixteen
Purbright returned to police headquarters in Fen Street shortly before four o’clock. He was on his own. He wished to make a telephone call to London and to enjoy at the same time the slightly corroborant effect of police station tea that he felt would be helpful during a conversation with the kind of man who gets appointed to the managing editorship of the Sunday Herald.
Richardson granted him audience without demur, but wanted to know why the inspector could not address his questions to Sir Arthur Heckington, the man on the spot.
“Because I seriously doubt if he could answer them, sir. The matter is of some urgency—and possibly of delicacy, also. I need the co-operation of a person in authority.”
“And you’re called, what? Purbright? Purbright—is that right?
“That is so, Mr Richardson. Detective inspector is my rank, and I am in charge of the inquiries into the sudden death of Mr Clive Grail.”
“Grail...y-e-e-s...” Richardson dragged out the word dubiously, as if unwilling to reveal that the Sunday Herald was about to decide that Grail had never existed. Then he seemed to give a start. “Delicacy? What’s this about delicacy?”
“Let me explain, sir. I do know something of the nature of the story that Mr Grail and his colleagues were working on. And it is my understanding that the original information—the tip-off, I suppose one should call it—came from someone in this locality.
“I recognize a newspaper’s desire to protect its sources of information, and it is in this context that I have used the word delicacy. You see, I believe a link may exist between Mr Grail’s informant and whatever caused his death. It is most important that this person be identified. And as quickly as possible.”
There was silence at the Fleet Street end. Purbright supposed the managing editor to be grappling with the ethical implications he had raised. In fact, Richardson was moving a poised fore-finger along a row of multi-coloured buttons on a desk console while he peered, hang-jawed, at their identifying tags. At last he found the one he wanted and jabbed it.