“We coppers never quite reconcile ourselves to living in a perpetual draught of uncharitable thoughts.”
“That’s what comes of being such a suspicious lot yourselves.” She spooned sugar evenly into both cups without asking if Purbright took it, added milk and poured the tea. She took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her suit, lit one, and pushed the packet across the table. “Now then, what are you after?” she asked, as if Purbright were a small boy suspiciously anxious to wash up.
“Where did you spend last night, Mrs Carobleat?” The question was mildly put, yet it sounded incisive.
“Oho, something new, not the silly old shop business again, after all.”
“That, as village constables are supposed to say, is as maybe.”
She stirred her tea reflectively. “May I ask why you want to know?”
“You tell me first. Then I’ll let you have a question.”
“All right, then. Where did I spend last night? Most of it, I should say, at The Brink of Discovery.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry; it’s a geographical joke, but perhaps you don’t know Shropshire. The Brink of Discovery is a pub, a small hotel rather, on the far side of Shrewsbury.”
“Rather remote from Flaxborough?”
“I think it’s my turn, isn’t it, inspector? The reason for you asking, please.”
“Your next-door neighbour was murdered last night.” Purbright’s expression remained pleasant but his eyes were intent.
Mrs Carobleat took the cigarette quickly from her lips. “Not Marcus?”
“Mr Gwill, yes.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, then looked into her cup. “But that’s extraordinary. Are you sure?” She brought her gaze to him again, not, he thought, without an effort.
“If I weren’t sure, I’d scarcely be chasing around asking questions.”
“No; of course. That was silly of me. But it came as rather a surprise.”
“I fancy Mr Gwill was surprised, too.”
“You mean somebody actually killed him? Deliberately, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
He waited for her to say more, but she continued to stare at him, blankly now but with self-control.
“I was wondering,” said Purbright, “if you might have anything helpful to tell me?”
She gravely tapped the ash from her cigarette. “I really can’t see you think I might know about it.”
“When did you leave home, Mrs Carobleat?”
“Fairly early yesterday morning.”
“You went straight over to Shropshire?”
She nodded.
“Would you care to tell me why?”
“Heavens, I often go down there. I need a change occasionally from this bleak marsh of a place. The Westcountry used to be my home.”
“I see.”
“And since my husband died, there’s been nothing to stop me going where and when I like.”
“Except the expense, perhaps.”
“He provided for me.”
“Yes,” said Purbright, “I suppose he did.”
The waitress drifted near, eyed them with sad disapproval, and retired to lean against the further wall like a martyr turned down by fastidious lions. Outside, a clock struck three. A yellowish darkness had begun to press up against the misted windows.
“What purpose did you have in visiting Mr Gwill, Mrs Carobleat?”
She raised her brows. “Why should you think I did? Oh”—she smiled—“you’ve been talking to old Prowler Poole.”
“Well?”
“I don’t see it can have anything to do with what you say happened last night, but I did pop in occasionally to keep him company. I’m often at a loose end. I think he welcomed seeing a new face now and then after that death’s head of a housekeeper.”
“The two of you didn’t happen to share an interest in furniture, by any chance?”
“Furniture?” She frowned, then laughed. “Do you mean did we do carpentry together?”
Purbright grinned back. “Never mind.”
He was framing his next question when he saw Mrs Carobleat’s face grow suddenly hard and alert. She watched the approach of someone whose footsteps Purbright could now hear behind him.
“Good afternoon to you.” A deep voice. Clipped Glaswegian accent and slightly sardonic tone.
Purbright half turned. Smiling down on him was an unusually tall man with splayed teeth and inflamed, protuberant eyes. His head was perched on the great promontory of his chest as though it had separate existence and might tumble off if it strained forward any further.
Mrs Carobleat spoke quietly. “Inspector, this is Doctor Rupert Hillyard. Inspector Purbright. But you possibly know each other already.”
Dr Hillyard folded himself into a chair next to Purbright, who noticed the instinctive professionalism of his gesture of throwing, flap, flap, his gloves into his upturned hat, and then massaging the palm of one hand with the fingertips of the other. “A shocking day, Inspector,” he observed portentously.
The doctor glared round the room over his shoulder, muttered “Shocking” again, and transferred his attention back to Mrs Carobleat.
Hillyard’s teeth fascinated Purbright. They were like bruised almonds that had been hastily stuck into his mouth at an angle and left to be supported on his lower lip. The effect was an impression of idiotic good nature that was not quite nullified by the calculation in the red-rimmed eyes. Sometimes he managed to hide his teeth; the effort produced a preposterous pout and high-hoisted eyebrows.
“You are being kept busy and out of mischief, lady, I trust?” he inquired of Mrs Carobleat.
“I am at present being tactfully helpful to the police,” she replied.
“Excellent. Though tact is not always what helps policemen, surely?” He turned inquiringly to Purbright. “Discretion, however, can actually become obtrusive if pursued too far. Then it betrays. Is that not so, inspector?”
“I’m sure your patient would not take anything too far, doctor, not even discretion.”
“My patient?”
“I’m sorry. It was Mr Carobleat you attended, was it not?”
“Aye, that’s so. God rest his soul.” This piety was delivered with a gentle shake of the head.
Mrs Carobleat eyed him coldly. “It’s God rest Marcus Gwill’s soul as well, now, doctor.”
“As to that, lady, the sentiment does you credit. It does indeed.”
“I gather you were a friend of Mr Gwill,” Purbright put in. “Is that so, doctor?”
“He was a patient of mine, inspector, and a very careful man.”
“He’d need to be.”