The chief constable managed to keep puzzlement out of his expression; he looked instead like a priest hearing confession of a heinous but interesting sin.
“It may be, of course,” Purbright went on, “that kidnappers patronize Chinese restaurants like anybody else and even bring a snack back for their victims, but I think such an explanation in Grail’s case would be pushing coincidence a bit far. You see, sir, his colleagues at the house last night obtained and ate just such a Chinese meal as would have included the items that Spenser found in Grail’s stomach today. And we have learned that the order was specifically for four, not three, people.”
Mr Chubb considered for some moments while he unfolded a very white handkerchief. “So you consider the kidnapping story to be just so much moonshine, do you, Mr Purbright?”
“I suppose you could put it like that, sir.”
“But what possible object could have been behind such an invention?” Chubb shrugged. “Oh, yes—money—that’s easy to assume—a spurious ransom demand—all that sort of thing. But the fellow’s dead. That puts a different complexion on it. And I can’t see what anyone had to gain.”
“Might there, perhaps,” Purbright suggested, “have been quite distinct and independent motives at work, sir? I can think of two.”
With his handkerchief, the chief constable made a small, gracious gesture of invitation. “Oh, yes, so can I, of course. But don’t let me steal your thunder, Mr Purbright.”
“No, sir. Well, you have already named one of the possible motives—hope of gain. I understand that the Sunday Herald was prepared to shell out fifteen thousand pounds and keep the whole thing hushed up. A nice reward for a little ingenuity, cool heads and straight faces. I’m not sure, though, that I see a famous and extremely well-paid journalist in Grail’s category taking the risks that must have been involved simply for his share of the money.”
“Yes, but he did enter the conspiracy—if that is what it was. For one thing, he helped to make that tape recording we heard. Or do you suggest he acted under duress?”
The inspector shook his head. “Not really, sir. Although we can’t altogether discount the possibility of the others having had to kill him because he refused to go through with the scheme.”
Mr Chubb gazed anxiously at Purbright. “Is that what you think?”
“No, sir.” The inspector turned aside to where a cup of cocoa—Mrs Chubb’s kindly meant contribution to his survival of duty on a chilly evening—was cooling on a tray. He peeled back and discarded in the saucer the skin that had formed, then stirred the remainder thoughtfully.
“As I understand it, the story on which Grail and his friends were engaged proved to be much less sensational than they had expected. In fact, it was a dead duck. Faced with such a situation, it is quite conceivable that an egocentric and fairly ruthless writer might take drastic measures to protect his reputation.”
“Yes, but to invent a kidnapping...”
“It would not be the first case by any means of trying to hide a professional lapse behind some faked crime, sir.”
Mr Chubb continued to look unhappy. “And the money motive, Mr Purbright?”
“One might look to the others for that, sir. Grail’s status as columnist would have been of secondary concern to them. Which brings us”—Purbright resolutely attacked his cocoa at last and diminished it by half—“to what, in Grail’s world, would doubtless be called the mystery motive.”
“For the spurious kidnapping, you mean?”
“No, sir. For the genuine murder. And I’m sure we are going to find it the least obvious but most powerful of all. The least obvious, because it springs from a happening in the past that was not understood then and has been largely forgotten since.”
The chief constable’s gaze had wandered to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was of black marble, fashioned in the likeness of a Greek temple, and had been presented to him on his completion of twenty-five years’ chairmanship of the Flaxborough and District Tailwaggers’ Society. He tried to think whether this was the night when the clock was due to be wound up.
“And the most powerful?” prompted Mr Chubb, suddenly aware that Purbright had paused and was awaiting his attention.
“Vengeance,” said the inspector.
Mr Chubb considered. He crossed the room to the clock, felt beneath it for the key, and very carefully prised open the glass cover. He inserted the long-stemmed key, which he began to turn only after having tested and taken the strain of the mainspring, while steadying the case with a bridge of long, finely-boned fingers. Had God not called him to the Colonial Office, Purbright reflected, Mr Chubb would have made a singularly adept safe-breaker.
“Not a very English attitude,” said the chief constable. “But less squalid, of course, than money. You have someone in mind, I suppose?”
“Only tentatively, sir. But the field is narrow and inquiries are afoot that should reduce it even further. My main concern in the meantime is to guard against anyone else falling victim to this person.”
Mr Chubb looked at him sharply. “Is that likely?”
“There are two candidates. I have set a man on watch over each, but that sort of thing is a luxury we can’t afford for long.”
“Indeed, we can’t, Mr Purbright. Let us hope our quarry breaks cover very soon.” The chief constable turned away to withdraw the clock key and gently, fastidiously, to close the glass.
A moment later, the clock began to strike ten. The inspector took his leave.
Chapter Eighteen
It was another hour before Sergeant Love arrived back in Flaxborough after what Purbright had told him encouragingly would be a nice visit to the seaside. He telephoned the inspector at once.
“No wonder we got no joy from the directories. The girl’s mum had re-married and it was her second husband’s name that got into our records—probably from the girl’s marriage lines—registrars aren’t always very fussy, apparently.”
Purbright frowned painfully. “Sid, it is late, and I have had many tribulations today, including a goodnight chat with the chief constable. Let me just get clear what you have been saying in such cryptic terms. By directories, you mean the trade directories of Brocklestone-on-Sea...”
“For the late 1940s actually, yes. You remember there was no professional photographer listed with a name that tallied with what we thought was Edie Bush’s maiden name. There was no Capper, in fact.”
“So we noticed.”
“That’s because Mr Capper, who died a couple of years ago, wasn’t her dad, but her step-father. Edie’s real father died much earlier, of course, and he was a photographer. In partnership with someone called Clawson. They kept a shop on the Esplanade. Or studio, he would have called it. Very old-fashioned. Oh, and here’s something interesting—the old beach photographer I was talking to remembers Edie when she and her brother were kids. Always dancing up and down the sands, the pair of them, he said...”