“He was no mug, mind. He knew the business by then and soon started to lay in the cash. Big had more sense than to pay for his wild oats out of capital; wine and women were for after office hours. In those days, at least; he relaxed a bit during the war when he was making more money than he knew what to do with. Of course, the business saved him from being called up.
“When did he get married, now? Oh, it must have been just after the war, 1946 maybe. His missus used to be one of the Jackson girls. Pretty, simpering little thing. I’ll bet you didn’t hear any girlish giggles from her today, though. She’s spent the last ten years cooped up on her own in that whopping great ideal home exhibition out at Broadbeck. Big only used the place for sleeping, and not every night either.”
“Any children?” Purbright asked.
The editor shook his head. Then he picked up his tankard and stared into it, tipping it slowly from side to side. “There’s not much else I can tell you. As a matter of fact, the fellow was rather a dull number when you get down to a straight life story. We’ve quite a few of the same kind here. Not quite old enough to hoard their pennies and become respectable, but too old to play the fool without getting everybody’s back up. You’d never believe the number of bald heads and pot bellies among that Rowing Club mob. One heave at an oar and they’d drop dead. It’s all tankards and totty-tickling, old chap. Bloody desperate, if you ask me.”
“Biggadyke wasn’t in the Forces, you said. What about Home Guard or Civil Defence?”
“No, I think the Observer Corps was Big’s war club.”
“I’m just wondering where he might have acquired his taste for explosives.”
“Can’t imagine, old chap.”
“Has that firm of his any connection with quarrying?”
Kebble looked doubtful. “I’d be surprised if it had. It handles agricultural stuff mostly. There’s not a quarry within ten miles of here.”
Purbright sighed. “You see my difficulty, don’t you, Mr Kebble?”
“Oh, I do. Aye.” The editor regarded him with a slightly too wide-eyed expression of sympathy. “You’re trying to trace the...”
“Biggadyke’s source. Exactly. Chalmsbury probably accepts these little diversions as perfectly normal, or at least in character. But what I must call the Authorities take a somewhat jaundiced view. High explosive, Mr Kebble, is the very apotheosis of un-Englishness. And when someone appears to have been in a position to stick free samples of it all over the place the Authorities are naturally concerned.”
“I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” confessed Kebble. “Perhaps we do tend to be easy-going down here.”
“Do you suppose Biggadyke might have known someone who would supply him with explosive? Or did he dream up all his practical jokes by himself?”
“He didn’t know any safe-blowers, so far as I’m aware. Not that I’d rule it out.”
“Had he any special friends?”
“Couldn’t say. Wait a minute, though”—Kebble’s eye had brightened—“male or female?”
“Either.”
Kebble glanced about him, then beckoned Purbright to lean closer. “I’m going to tell you something, old chap, but for God’s sake keep it to yourself.” Again he looked quickly round the room. “That caravan was no more an office than this pub: you probably guessed that. Aye, but I bet you’ll never guess who the totty was that old Big played gypsies with...Mrs Chief Inspector Hector bloody Larch, none other!”
He jerked back in his chair to enjoy the effect of his revelation.
At first, Purbright gave no sign of having heard. Then his lips slowly protruded in a soundless whistle. “Mr Kebble,” he said at last, “this little township deserves to be administered by the Sodom and Gomorrah Joint Sewerage Board.”
The editor nodded delightedly.
“You’re not pulling my leg, are you?” Purbright was suddenly grave.
“Good heavens, no. Poor Leonard’s too dumb to make up a story as good as that.”
“Leonard?”
“The lad you’ve seen in the office. He’s my reporter, or what I try and use for one.”
“And what does he know about it?”
“He watched them together. It was very wicked of him and I fancy he feels rather guilty about it now, but I’m perfectly certain he was telling the truth. He even wrote what he called an ‘exposure’.” Kebble shuddered and reached for his drink.
“When did he see these...goings on?”
Kebble considered. “It was a Tuesday night: now which one?...Oh, yes—when old Barry Hoole’s eye was blown out. I remember the boy saying that he heard the bang when he was just coming away from...Good Lord!” He stared at Purbright. “Then Big must have been in his caravan when the thing went off.”
“Why not? He didn’t need to be there with a match, you know.”
Kebble subsided. “No, I suppose it had a time fuse or something.”
“They all did. The first three, anyway.”
“Aye, of course. Still, it does seem a bit odd to set a bomb ticking and then push off to a date with your totty. Damn me, I’d want to stay and see the fun if it was mine.”
“Do you know Mrs Larch?”
“Not terribly well. She’s Ozzy Pointer’s girl, you know. Quite a good-looking lass but hard boiled. You’ll not get much out of her.”
“I shouldn’t imagine her husband would thank me for trying.”
“No. Quite so.” Kebble looked at him shrewdly. “You might fare better with the old man, though. Ozzy’s an awkward bloke but dead straight. He and his son-in-law don’t hit it off too well, they tell me.”
“Do you think Larch would have known of his wife’s relationship with Biggadyke?”
“God, no! That’s why I told young Leaper to be careful. If Larch did find out he’d go up to Hilda, give her a nice smile, and then slowly pull her head off like a prawn’s.”
“Hasty tempered, is he?”
“Not hasty, old chap. That wouldn’t be so bad. He’s the sort that wouldn’t fall out with you until he’d got a grave dug ready. You want to watch your step with brother Larch.”
Purbright promised that he would indeed.
“Now then,” said Kebble, more cheerfully, “how’s Mrs Crispin looking after you?”
“She’s very”—Purbright groped for a word—“conscientious.”
“Grand. I thought you’d be all right there. You’re on your own except for old Payne, aren’t you? Not that he’d bother you.”
“On the contrary; we get along rather nicely. An ally is always welcome.”