“Nonsense. Any doctor would have done the same.”
She laughed, as if at a distant memory. “Poor Mortimer, that did not last very long, did it?”
“A fill-gap. Not one of my best ideas.”
“You are intrinsically too honest, my dear. That bravura of yours was bound to let you down.”
“You said so, Lucy. You said so at the time.”
“I think your present occupation suits you much better.”
He raised his brows. “You know what it is, then?”
“But of course. Kitty keeps in touch with me, you know. And Uncle Macnamara.”
She turned and walked to a small cupboard set in the wall. “I do hope you do not object to drinking from a tea cup.” She arranged cups and saucers on a tray, together with a sugar basin and a milk jug. The china was white, patterned delicately with tiny clusters of forget-me-nots. Miss Teatime sluiced a substantial slug of Highland Fling into each cup.
Mr Hive sat down at the table. Miss Teatime pushed a pile of papers aside to make room for his cup and saucer. He sighed happily. “How nice it is to see you again...”
“Are you here for long? I suppose I cannot prevail upon you to follow my example and leave London? This altogether charming town has been a revelation to me.”
“It certainly has its attractions,” conceded Mr Hive, barmaidenly blushes in mind.
“I fancy I should find Town somewhat dull now. Londoners are so parochial. Anyway, they spend most of their lives sealed up in little containers of one kind or another.”
Hive glanced round the bright, spacious room. The panelled walls had been painted a pale dove grey. In the centre of one was an oil painting of a great fenland church with sheep huddled in complacent possession of the graveyard. Upon another hung four framed coloured prints depicting, Hive supposed, specimen candidates for compassion: a pinafored child asleep on the steps of a public house, an emaciated greyhound, two sorrowful donkeys being belaboured by a man with a black beard and leggings, and a puppy cornered by three villainous looking surgeons holding an assortment of cutlery behind their backs.
“You’re making out all right, then, Lucy, are you?”
“I am being kept nicely occupied, and that is the main thing. You can have no idea, Mortimer, of how much room there is in the charities field for proper organization. I confess I have found the work quite exciting.”
“It’s not the sort of thing I would have thought easy to corner.”
“There is, unfortunately, a long tradition of rivalry between the various endeavours. The animal factions are especially difficult to reconcile, but once they see the wastefulness of dissipated effort I am sure the situation can be—what is the modern jargon?—rationalized.”
Miss Teatime reached for her handbag, opened it, and produced a slim, brown cardboard pack. “May I tempt you?”
Hive slapped his knee. “I knew it! I knew I was right...I could smell those damn things from halfway down the stairs. D’you remember what the Cullen boys used to call them in the old days at Frascati’s?”
Miss Teatime smiled dreamily as she put a match to the slim black cheroot. “Tadger Cullen...dear me, yes...and little Arnold...”
“Lucy’s gelding sticks, Tadger used to call them. Remember he had that weird theory about cigars and sterility.”
“The Cullens could be a little embarrassing on occasion, but I do not think they meant any real harm.” She regarded the tip of her cheroot awhile, then looked up perkily. “Guess with whom I have been in correspondence during the past few days.”
Hive shook his head.
“Your old friend Mr Holbein.”
“Fruity Holbein? Don’t tell me you’re going to bring one-armed bandits into the good cause.”
“Indeed, no. Let me explain. It happens that I am blessed with a very progressive committee. I have convinced its members that the efficiency of the organization would be increased enormously by the installation of a computer...”
“Good God!”
“...to say nothing of the prestige such a contrivance would bestow upon them personally. They were very pleased indeed to learn that a computer of modest capacity could be purchased through a friend of mine in the trade for as little as two hundred and fifty pounds. The sum has now been allocated and Mr Holbein has set to work.”
“What on earth does Fruity know about computers?”
“He has assured me,” said Miss Teatime, “that he can produce a very persuasive article. I am not myself mechanically minded, but he did tell me that it was a simple matter of something called pin-table cannibalization.
“But, there”—she uncorked the bottle and replenished their teacups—“we have talked sufficiently about my little interests. Now you must tell me of yourself. How goes”—her voice dropped significantly—“the Case?”
“Oh, it’s over,” said Mr Hive breezily. “All but the fellow paying the bill, anyway.”
“A successful termination, of course?”
“By no means—although I don’t blame myself. The parties are reconciled.”
“Oh, what a waste of your time, Mortimer. I hope they are thoroughly ashamed of themselves.”
“I doubt it. One thing I’ve learned—the private eye gets precious little consideration in this country. He’s been given what they nowadays call a bad image.”
“Public ignorance, Mortimer. Public ignorance. What can you expect”—Miss Teatime gazed sternly out of the window—“of a generation brought up to think that life is all cock and candyfloss?”
Over the telephone to Purbright came the impatient, matter-of-fact voice of Dr Fergusson.
“This woman from what-d’you-call-it, Brompton Gardens...”
“Oh, yes, doctor?”
“I thought I’d better give you a tinkle. Something a bit odd. It’ll be in the report, of course, but it might be as well for you to know straight away.”
“I see.”
“She did drown. No doubt about that. No evidence of organic disease—nothing significant, anyway. Time of death—hang on a minute...yes, eleven last night, give or take a bit—before midnight, certainly, but not more than an hour or an hour and a half before...”
“Between ten-thirty and twelve, then?”
“That’s what I said. Yes. Now, then—here’s the queer thing. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Well, there’s quite definite bruising on both ankles. A set, a distinct set of five bruises on each. Just at the bottom of the lower leg. And both sets match.”
“Fingers?”
“I’d say there’s not a doubt of it.”
The inspector waited a moment, but Fergusson did not elaborate.
“Any other marks, doctor?”
“Well, I didn’t intend to give you the full report over the phone, you know.”
“Naturally not. I do appreciate your having told me this much. It was just that I wondered if the body showed signs of injury.”