But the day that followed the opening of the Lucillite promotion campaign was not normal—or certainly not to a degree that would have permitted Inspector Purbright and his colleagues to remain inoperative.
For one thing, Edna Hillyard had not yet made a reappearance at her lodgings or her place of work or, as far as the police were aware, anywhere else in the town.
For another, the wife of Mr Bertram Persimmon, of 3 The Riding, Flaxborough, had reported her husband missing since Wednesday.
A third thoroughly disconcerting circumstance was the arrival at the police station of five journalists from London papers anxious to know about a Black Magic Cult which had turned Flaxborough into a Town of Fear.
Purbright sent word to the duty sergeant that if the five gentlemen would be good enough to await him in the station recreation room they would be rewarded with a press conference.
Sergeant Love expressed apprehension but Purbright brushed aside his doubts with the observation that the newspaperman of the present day was no longer all hip flask and trespass but a civilized practitioner who would respect confidences and reciprocate helpfulness. Thus whistling in the dark, so to speak, he led Love downstairs to the recreation room.
Purbright took stock of the waiting five and was a little surprised to find that they did, indeed, look different in type and temperament from national pressmen as he supposed Love would recall them. The dirty raincoats with epaulettes and leather buttons had gone; as had the scuffed brown brogue shoes, the underarm clutches of early editions, the blue ribbon of smoke ascending from the mouth-cornered cigarette past the permanently closed eye that gave the face its abiding expression of quizzical world-weariness. These men looked less abusive and less abused. Purbright guessed that they ate more expense-account lunches than their predecessors and fewer railway pies. For a moment, he wondered if the old habits of thought had been jettisoned with the shabby coats and the chain-smoking.
“Inspector, what are the police doing about all these black masses that are going on down here?”
Purbright sighed. Plus ça change... “Ah,” he said brightly, “I’m glad you asked me that...”
To the home of Mrs Gloss on Orchard Road went Detective Constable Pook, primed by Purbright to ask further questions about Edna Hillyard and to bring her car back to police headquarters.
Mrs Gloss did not look particularly pleased to see him but she invited him into the lounge. “Another cup, Edie,” Mrs Gloss called through the kitchen door as they passed.
A very short, plainly dressed woman was sitting beside the table on which coffee and a plate of biscuits were already set out. Pook recognised her as a teacher from the Dorley Road junior school.
“Morning, Miss Parkin,” he said.
Amy Parkin’s convergent eyes were trained at points in space a little beyond and to each side of his head. She wished him good morning.
“Mr Pook is a policeman,” explained Mrs Gloss, “and he has come to take Edna’s car away.”
She held out her hand for the cup and saucer which a sallow, straight-haired young girl wearing an apron had brought in.
“Help yourself to a biscuit, officer.”
He did so.
“I understand,” Pook said, regarding the KreemiKrunch Kookie that would release the real taste of the country at the first bite, “that Miss Hillyard was last seen on Wednesday night.”
“Well, that was when I personally last saw her. I cannot speak for other people, naturally.”
“You saw her then as well, did you, Miss Parkin?”
“I?” Miss Parkin sounded surprised. Then she noticed the folded copy of the Flaxboroagh Citizen which Pook had taken from his pocket and was smoothing, napkin-like, across his knee. “Oh, yes. Certainly I saw her. At our little function. But only very briefly.”
Pook nibbled the KreemiKrunch Kookie and allowed his taste buds to be beguiled by a country-style combination of dehydrated milk solids, soya rusk, sodium monostearate and saccharin.
“I see she won some sort of a prize,” he said.
“A title only,” Mrs Gloss said quickly. “Nothing tangible.”
“Not a cup, then? It says here ‘Maypole trophy’.”
“You shouldn’t take things in newspapers too literally,” Miss Parkin said.
“That’s true,” added Mrs Gloss. “ ‘Trophy’ in this case isn’t used in a material sense, you know. It’s a sort of honour, that’s all.”
“The members know what it means, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
Pook nodded at Miss Parkin’s sapience and looked again at the Citizen report while he drank some coffee and demolished the rest of the KreemiKrunch.
“What’s a faggot-master?” he inquired.
Mrs Gloss frowned. “If you must know, we generally have a little bonfire to brighten up our outdoor meetings, and Mr Cowdrey looks after it. He has had experience with the Scouts.”
“I know,” Pook said, without looking up from the paper. He somehow made the acknowledgement sound like a notice of impending prosecution. The two women glanced at each other.
“What time was it when you last noticed Miss Hillyard?” Pook asked Mrs Gloss.
“I really couldn’t tell you. It was towards the end of the meeting. Elevenish, perhaps.”
Pook looked at Miss Parkin.
She waved a hand vaguely. “About then, yes.”
“Dancing, was she?” asked Pook, having referred again to the newspaper report.
“I believe she was.”
Miss Parkin nodded agreement.
“It says here,” the policeman went on, “that there were refreshments. What sort of refreshments, Mrs Gloss?”
Mrs Gloss’s expression hardened. “Is that relevant, officer?”
“It could be, madam.”
“How?”
“Well, it’s not for me to speculate, but the lady did leave her car here. Perhaps she had reason to think that it was the wisest thing to do.”