“Do you happen to be acquainted with a man called Hive?”
“Mortimer? Well, fancy your knowing Mortimer Hive. Oh, yes, we are old friends.”
“What does he do, precisely?”
“As a matter of fact, he is in your own line of business, inspector. Mr Hive is a detective. A private detective, of course—not on the panel, so to speak.”
“He doesn’t look much like a detective.”
“No? Well, he was not brought up to it, you know. But he had a very distinguished career in what I suppose is an allied calling. He was until fairly recently a groundsman.”
“Groundsman?”
She smiled at Purbright’s perplexity. “A little joke of his, inspector. Mr Hive was a professional co-respondent. He provided grounds for divorce, you know. Of course, you will not let this go any further?”
“Why, is it a secret?”
“Oh, no—not at all. But Mortimer is at that age when men tend to be a little vain and a little touchy about their physique. His close friends are well aware that he retired from business for reasons of health, but I suspect he would feel hurt if the fact were made generally known.”
“Do you know why he’s here in Flaxborough?”
“That is a question which I think you should address to him in person, Mr Purbright. The most that I can properly say is that his engagement is connected, as you might imagine, with the infidelity of one of our fellow citizens. Incidentally, I believe the client, as Mortimer would call him, has now terminated it. The engagement, I mean—not the infidelity. Although perhaps that has lapsed as well.”
“Can you suggest why Mr Hive has been keeping the husband of Mrs Palgrove under observation?”
Miss Teatime shook her head reprovingly. “Now, inspector!”
“Not even in strict confidence?”
“I really cannot tell you anything more.”
Purbright was looking at the collecting box. He touched it casually, shifting it so that he could read the label.
“Tell me—what are the objects of the New World Pony Rescue Campaign?”
Miss Teatime glanced fondly at the box. “Well, perhaps I might describe them as almost missionary in character. Animal aid work is something that knows no frontiers. And, as you will know, in America the horse is man’s help-mate on a far greater scale than in a little highly mechanized country like England.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Have you not visited America, Mr Purbright?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah, then you will not be familiar with the plight of our equine friends in such cities as San Francisco. The tramcars, you know. And those cruelly steep hills.”
“But surely they are cable cars in San Francisco?”
Miss Teatime regarded him with a mild, patient smile.
“And what, pray, did you suppose was down there under the road pulling the cable, Inspector?” She allowed him time to grasp the obvious, then sighed. “Oh, yes, there is much yet to be put right by the N.W.P.R.C.”
Purbright took another look at the collecting box. “It is a registered charity, I suppose? I wonder if you’d mi...”
“Oh, dear!” Miss Teatime had risen and was staring out of the window. “Here come those tiresome committee people. I shall have to go and meet them.”
Purbright stood. “Just a moment, Miss Teatime. Your friend, Mr Hive...”
“You shall meet him, Inspector. This very day. Can you make it convenient to be at my office at a quarter to five?”
“I think so.”
She held out her hand. The smile she gave him was friendly, almost affectionate.
Chapter Thirteen
When Inspector Purbright walked into police headquarters after lunch, he was told that there had been a call for him two hours previously from Nottingham City Police. They would ring him again at two-thirty.
He found Sergeant Love awaiting him in his office.
“I’ve found that totty for you,” Love announced with transparent casualness.
“You sound like a procurer, Sid. What are you talking about?” He sat, sideways on, behind his desk and picked around among the papers that had landed there since morning.
“The totty Pally Palgrove was running. You said find out her name.”
Purbright, interested, looked up. “Doreen Booker,” Love said. “That’s who it is.” He looked at the open notebook he had been holding on Purbright’s arrival. “Twenty-five Jubilee Park Crescent.”
“Booker...”
Love watched the inspector stroke his lip thoughtfully with one finger. He hastened to elaborate. “One of the Anderson girls from Harlow Place before she got married. Used to go round with Mogs Cooper until he piled up that bike of his. You remember—Three Ponds Corner. They reckon Stan Biggadyke over at Chalmsbury got her in pod at one time, but I doubt if that’s right. Anyway, she ended up with that bloke Booker at the Grammar School. She’s supposed to be still pretty warm in the withers. I wouldn’t know about that, though.”
“But Mr Palgrove would, I presume?”
“So I’m told.”
“Right, Sid. Thanks very much.” Purbright wrote on a jotting pad. “Twenty-five, you said...”
“Jubilee Park Crescent. Yes.”
Purbright leafed through a telephone directory, picked up his receiver. “Flaxborough 4175...
“Mrs Booker?...This is Detective Inspector Purbright, Borough Police. I wonder if you could find a moment this afternoon to come and have a word with me here at the police station. I should be extremely grateful ...No, nothing wrong—I think you can help me with something I’m looking into. I thought you’d rather come here than have me knocking on your door, so to speak—it is rather a delicate matter...Yes, that’s fine. Very nice of you.”
He rang off. “I only hope you’re right, Sid. I’m going to look every kind of a fool if you’re not.”
“Oh, it’s right enough,” said Love, breezily. “Just you ask her how she likes love in a cottage.”
“A cottage at Hambourne Dyke?”
The sergeant stared. “You knew all the time, then?”
“Things get around in this town, you know, Sid. They get around.” He relented, smiled. “No, actually it was Palgrove himself who told me about having a place at Hambourne when I saw him that second time. He didn’t say anything about your friend Doreen, though.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?”
The call from Nottingham came through promptly at half-past two. It was made by a detective sergeant whose name sounded to Purbright as Gallon or Galleon.
“This murder of yours, sir...”
“Which one?” The query succinctly conveyed the impression that Flaxborough was every whit as civilized as any big city.
“A Mrs Henrietta Palgrove.”
Purbright let three or four seconds go by. “Ah, yes—here we are...”