“What’s all this nonsense about witches, for heaven’s sake? I thought you were pulling those fellows’ legs just now, but they all looked very serious.”
Purbright explained. Mr Chubb looked more dubious than ever.
“You mean they’ve been going round the town listening to a lot of silly gossip. That’s what it boils down to.”
“To be fair, sir, it isn’t a subject they’re likely to learn anything about without listening to gossip. We don’t normally issue official bulletins or Wanted-for-Witchcraft posters.”
“Yes, but you don’t believe this ridiculous story about Miss Whatsername, do you?”
“Miss Hillyard. No, sir. Nor do they. But it’s not a question of belief. Newspapers are a branch of the entertainment industry, not a research foundation.”
“You say you are not worried about this woman, Mr Purbright.”
“Not unduly. As I told the press just now, she has something of a reputation for unconventional behaviour. But there’s another thing—and this I didn’t tell the press. We learned this morning that a man called Persimmon has also been missing since Wednesday. The possibility of their having gone off together is well worth considering.”
“Not Bert Persimmon, surely?”
“Bertram. Yes, sir. Middle-aged. Store manager.”
“But he’s...” Mr Chubb was about to say “vice-chairman of the Conservative Club” when he remembered his inspector’s perverse inclination to disregard the relevance of social lustre to a presumption of innocence. “But he’s married,” he said instead.
“He is indeed,” the inspector confirmed. Almost zestfully, he added: “Isn’t he vice-chairman of that club of yours, sir?”
“Possibly. I don’t know all the officials’ names.” Mr Chubb was examining his shirt cuff. “By the way...” He looked up.
“Yes, sir?”
“About this unpleasantness at St Lawrence’s. You’ll do what you can to get to the bottom of it, won’t you? Old Grewyear isn’t the easiest chap in the world to deal with, but he means well. It’s not nice to have a lot of dead animals left around in one’s church.”
“I think it was the effigy that annoyed him most. It was an exceedingly good likeness. I’ve asked Policewoman Bellweather to make a few very discreet inquiries among the Arts and Crafts people. There may be a lead there.”
“You say there were pins stuck into the thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
The chief constable shook his head. “Childish tricks some of these people get up to. One wonders sometimes how their minds work.”
The inspector decided that it would only add to Mr Chubb’s perplexity if he were to detail the disposition of the pins. He took his leave and prepared to drive out to The Riding and the home of Mr Bertram Persimmon.
He was going out of the building into the central yard where the cars were kept when the duty sergeant intercepted him.
“That thing, sir...”
The inspector halted and listened courteously.
“Roberts collected it after that woman rang up yesterday and I didn’t know whether you’d want it put among the lost property or what. Not,”, the sergeant added with ponderous drollery, “that I can imagine anybody wanting to get it back again.”
“Perhaps I’d better have a look.”
The sergeant crossed the office and opened one of the doors of the row of cupboards that extended along the opposite wall. There rolled forth, as if from the blade of a concealed guillotine, the great horned head that boatman Heath had retrieved from the river.
Purbright gave an involuntary start, then moved nearer.
The sergeant shifted the head with his boot so that it confronted his superior officer in full face if not with due respect.
“That’s not lost property,” Purbright declared almost at once.
“How do you mean, sir?”
“It was pinched.”
Kneeling, the inspector turned the head about and explored its texture.
“Two or three years ago. From the museum.”
“Oh.” The sergeant looked abashed. The burglarious entering of the Heritage Room of the Municipal Museum in Fish Street by some over-eager legatee had caused much local indignation at the time. It was most remiss of any police officer to have failed to recognise the stolen article.
“Never mind,” Purbright told him. “You can’t be expected to remember every fertility rite outfit that gets lifted from a museum.”
“Is that what it is, sir?”
“So they tell me.”
Purbright turned the head over and peered inside it, then righted it again.
“Good lord, the things people choose to turn into table lamps.”
The sergeant saw that Purbright was looking at an electric bulb holder, set between the two horns. The metal stem of a bulb, still screwed into its socket, held fragments of glass, ruby-coloured.
“I think,” the inspector said, “that we should have this locked up carefully until someone from the museum can come over and see what damage has been done. Can I leave you to arrange that?”
The sergeant grasped the chance of self-redemption. “Oh, yes, sir. Certainly you can.” He sprang for the telephone.
“Incidentally...”
“Sir?”
“Who was the woman who telephoned about that thing?”
“We don’t know that, sir. She wouldn’t give her name.”
Purbright frowned. “Odd. Why shouldn’t she, I wonder? There’s an awful lot of anonymity about just now—had you noticed?”
“I think it’s because of not wanting to get into the papers, sir,” suggested the now desperately helpful sergeant.
“That,” said Purbright, making for the door, “I can well understand.”
Chapter Six
“Oh, God, yes,” said Mrs Persimmon when Purbright spoke her name interrogatively at the front door. “Oh, God, yes,” she said again when he announced his own. Then, “Oh God, come in,” she said, and raised her eyes so that he could see their whites as he stepped past her into a hall perfumed with the lavender of Croon, the only furniture cream containing ionised beeswax. Purbright feared that the interview was going to be a harrowing experience.
On her silent invitation, he entered a room whose big bay window commanded a view of the front lawn and the tall hedge that hid it from the road. Mrs Persimmon closed the door by leaning her back against it. She remained in that position for several seconds, breathing deeply. She put one hand on her breast.
“Oh, God, you’ve found him.”