“Eh?” said Mr Amblesby.
Malley again intervened, his words loud and measured, as to someone deaf or feeble-minded.
“She says she hasn’t written to anybody, sir. Not to anybody. There hasn’t been a letter, sir.”
Mr Amblesby sat quite still, hunched in the centre of the big, claw-footed chair. He went on looking at Mrs Hallam. She began to weep quietly.
Suddenly the coroner flapped at her a dry, brown-mottled hand and thrust the other into the side pocket of his coat. He hauled out his handkerchief and draped it over his knees. A faint whiff of kipper reached Malley. After more groping, the old man held aloft a grey envelope. It had been slit open neatly, in lawyer’s style.
“Now tell me the truth. Did you send me this?”
“No, sir. I don’t know anything about it.”
Malley sighed, shaking his head. He firmly took the letter out of the old man’s hand. He turned the envelope about, examining it, then withdrew and unfolded a sheet of grey notepaper. He stepped out of Mr Amblesby’s reach and began to read.
The coroner watched. He looked pleased, as though relishing the effect of a prepared surprise. The tip of his tongue, very wet and of the same colour as a sheep’s, curled over his upper lip.
Malley read the letter through twice. It was typed and unsigned. The type was of the slightly florid kind, italic characters matching up to form script, peculiar to certain portable machines.
My Dear Friend:
This is an urgent appeal. I am in great danger. The person whose loyal and faithful companion I have been—and to whom even now my life is dedicated—intends to have me done away with. I can scarcely believe his change of heart, but I have heard the plan discussed and must believe it, however unwillingly. They think I do not understand. Of course I understand! I can sense when I am in the way. And I know that murder is going to be the reward for my uncomplaining loyalty. A poison pellet in my food...a quick injection...perhaps to be held helpless under water by a loved hand until I drown...one or other of these dreadful fates will overtake me if you, dear friend, do not bring aid. Soon I shall send you details of how you can help. I cannot—for reasons you will understand—sign this letter, but I enclose my photograph in the hope that your heart may be touched.
Malley turned the letter over, then looked inside the envelope. There was no photograph. He put letter and envelope on the table before the coroner.
“I think somebody’s been pulling your leg, sir.”
Mr Amblesby’s tongue disappeared; so did his look of triumph.
“Eh?”
“Whatever put it into your head”—Malley set about fussily tidying the papers, pen and inkwell in front of Mr Amblesby—“that this had anything to do with Mrs Hallam? You must try not to get things mixed up, sit.” He turned. “Just sign your deposition, Mrs Hallam, then you can get along home.”
The woman wrote her name with great concentration, as if frightened of spoiling something valuable but not her own. Halfway through, she stopped and took off her glove. She wiped her hand on her black, thick coat, then completed the signature.
The sergeant took her to the door. Outside, he spoke to her for some moments. She was silent and quite without curiosity. Malley told her to go home and make herself a cup of tea. He knew she probably would not have thought of it herself.
Malley found Mr Amblesby peevishly pulling the knob of a cupboard.
“Where did you put my coat, sergeant?”
“You haven’t brought a coat, sir. You said you didn’t need one.”
“But it’s raining.”
Malley looked out of the window. It was, indeed, raining—heavily. He collected the two depositions from the table and slid them into a folder file. The page of typewritten grey notepaper was still there. He quickly glanced through it once more.
“Queer sort of letter, sir. When did you get it?”
“Eh?”
Malley resorted to booming pidgin. “This LETTER. Queer. When—did—you—GET—it?”
The old man gave the cupboard door a final shake. “Why don’t you help me find my coat? It’s raining.”
Malley picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.
“Come along, sir. I’ll take you back in the car.”
Chapter Two
Mr Harcourt Chubb, Chief Constable of Flaxborough, made it a rule never to open his mail until at least three hours after it had been delivered. It was not that he was a lazy or an inefficient man. Nor was he a coward. But experience had taught him that problems which were altogether raw and unpalatable at eight o’clock could acquire a manageable blandness by eleven. Some, indeed, seemed actually to evaporate through their envelopes if left undisturbed for a while. Thus, he might ring the station round about noon and say: Now then, what’s all this about a Peeping Tom in Partney Gardens?—and somebody would get busy and eventually telephone back: There’s a Partney Drive and a Partney Avenue but no Partney Gardens, sir. Trouble disposed of. It happened time and time again.
It was with hope of his luck holding in this respect that Mr Chubb telephoned Detective Inspector Purbright while he held before him a typewritten communication on grey notepaper. The time was a quarter to twelve.
“Ah, Mr Purbright...nice to see the rain’s eased off. Now then, what’s all this about some woman expecting to be poisoned or drowned or something?”
There was a short silence.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite with you, sir.”
“Oh, aren’t you?” Mr Chubb sounded surprised. “Well, I’ve had this letter, you see. I thought you might know something about it.”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“I see. Yes. Well, it might just be a bit of silliness, you know.”
Mr Chubb waited, hoping the inspector would tell him there and then to throw the thing away, but all he got was a patient “Yes, sir?”
The chief constable frowned. He put the letter down and shifted the receiver to his other ear. “Perhaps I’d better read it to you. It’s not signed, you know, and I can’t think off-hand of anyone who normally addresses me as Dear Friend. Never mind, though, it goes on: This is an urgent appeal...”
Purbright listened dutifully. Mr Chubb’s reading style was that of a university professor transcribing the notes of a rival savant: he gave the impression of peering at an almost illegible scrawl and doing his best to render it into English prose.
When he had finished, Mr Chubb waited again for the inspector’s comment.
“I gather you don’t take this letter seriously,” Purbright said.
“Why do you think that?”
“Ah, you do take it seriously, then?”
“Everything must be judged on its merits, Mr Purbright. I mean, here is a letter—unsigned—addressed to me by somebody or other who thinks they’re going to be murdered. Or says they do...” He paused, sensible of having strayed into dubious grammatical by-paths. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll want to see it for yourself?”