Purbright soon found that what the proprietress would have called her “ladies’ section” was less crowded than the reference numbers—three hundred and upwards—suggested. The system was doubtless based on the same psychological principle as that employed by newspapers to make the volume of box advertising seem bigger than it really was.
The number of recent registrations—and only in these was he interested—was about a dozen. He removed them from the file and read them through carefully.
Nearly all told the same story, though it had to be reached through a terminology of cheerful cliché which had been obviously adopted at Mrs Staunch’s dictation. It was an ordinary, if saddening, tale of women whose lack of youth, money and social graces threatened a lonely and comfortless future. Purbright suspected that most of the applicants could have ill afforded the twenty guinea fee. Three, he noticed, were old age pensioners; two others, the widows of farm labourers. A sixth, who hopefully offered “careful housekeeping and good cooking in home of Suitable gentleman”, was a school canteen helper. Under “Means (for office use only)”, one woman had written: “Maintenance money, four pounds per week“.
Not exactly a rich field, Purbright reflected, for criminal exploitation.
There were two forms, however, whose promises were distinctly above average.
The first of these had been filled in by a woman called Rose Prentice, age 58, divorcée. Her occupation was described as stock breeding and farm management; her hobbies, not unexpectedly, as riding, shooting and dog showing. She had written in the Personal Appearance section simply “Good seat” and through “Means” had dashed a short, heavy line. Purbright did not doubt that this was an intimation of land ownership and the firm resolve to hang on to it.
The qualities for which Mrs Prentice looked in a mate were expressed with equal bluntness. He would have to be strong, energetic, used to stud work and willing to muck out. A tolerance of children would not come amiss: the farm was always being visited by one batch or another of the many grand-children in the family.
Purbright made the experiment of thinking of himself as a confidence man and of Mrs Prentice as his victim. Rose, I love you, how about making the farm deeds over to me. I’m awfully good at managing things—Have you done the mucking out yet?—Not yet, could I have five hundred pounds for that tractor I told you about which is such a bargain?—We’ve a tractor already, if you’re really hard up there’s three and six egg money in the cash box in the bread pippin—Please let me handle your insurance, dear Rose, and I will devour you with kisses—Here’s my card and this week’s stamp; now then, are you used to stud work?—What with twenty-seven kids hanging about? You’re jo...
Purbright started, as if from a dream that had begun to lead him down sinister by-ways. He shut the folder and added it to the rejects.
One candidate remained. A second perusal of her form left the inspector in no doubt of his having discovered an almost perfect bait. He quickly copied the details into his notebook, then put all the folders away in their proper order in the drawer.
Before finally closing it, he made a rapid scrutiny of the record of Mrs Staunch’s male clients, but found none that seemed any more worthy of close investigation than the five on whom time had been wasted already.
Quietly he let himself out of the back door.
Sergeant Love greeted the name of Purbright’s find with sceptical amusement.
“Lucilla Edith Cavell Teatime...oh, cripes! No wonder she wants to change it.”
“At least it’s memorable. That should help you a bit, Sid.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You are hereby assigned to her. If she were a mere Miss Smith or Miss Jones, you might forget whom you were supposed to be following, or at least grow lax in observation. But let me tell you about Miss Teatime.
“She admits to being forty-three years old, but her middle names suggest birth during the first world war, so fifty is probably nearer the mark. What she looks like you will have to find out for yourself. She is staying at the Roebuck, so Jim Maddox might be helpful to you. Or there’s that tottie who used to fancy you—the one in the tap...”
“Phylh’s Blow?” Love looked alarmed.
“Oh, I don’t know her name,” Purbright said in a way that implied fornication to be a triviality with which those above the rank of sergeant were not concerned. “Anyway, how you get in tow in the first place is up to you; what I want is a report of where the Teatime goes and—more important whom she meets. Do you think you can do that?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Love. “She can’t trot round much if she’s all that old.”
“What do you mean—all that old?”
“You said you thought she was fifty.”
Purbright turned upwards an expression of pious resignation. “Yes, Sid. But might I offer a word of advice? Don’t assume that extreme old age necessarily brings deafness and failing eyesight. I’m asking you to follow this woman unobtrusively—not like a porter in a geriatric ward.”
“She’ll not spot me,” declared Love, unabashed.
He thought a moment.
“But why do we have to follow her? Can’t you sort of confide in her and get her to let us know what happens? I mean, it would save a lot of...” he nearly said “buggering about” “...duplication.”
Purbright shook his head. “She’s probably a pretty timid soul, remember. We couldn’t say anything to her without letting on that it might be a crook she’s going to meet. Even if she agreed to help, she’d be too nervous to be of any use.”
The sergeant acknowledged the logic of this and set off at once for the Roebuck Hotel.
The manager, Mr Maddox, said he would be only too happy to assist in any way he could. He did hope, however, that Miss Teatime (who had impressed him as being a very respectable lady) was not, ah, not in any way, er...
No, said Love, she wasn’t. He had been told to keep an eye on her purely for her own good—that was all.
Mr Maddox was glad to hear it. One could so easily be deceived in people: one minute they were slipping sixpences into the blind stocking at the cocktail bar, the next they might be burning lavatory seats in a bedroom grate.
Love expressed awed appreciation of this hazard and asked if Miss Teatime was available at that time to be covertly observed.
Mr Maddox regretted that she was not; she had gone out, as was her morning custom. However, if the sergeant would come into the dining room and take lunch at one o’clock or thereabouts, he, Mr Maddox, would make a point of identifying her.
Love saw that his assignment promised to be a higher class and more elastic business than his usual routine of taking stolen property lists round the second hand shops, interviewing youths suspected of smashing wash basins at the Assembly Rooms and asking to produce their dog licences such of Mr Chubb’s neighbours whose pets happened to have fallen foul of his marauding Yorkshire terriers. Accordingly, he spent the next hour in the Roebuck Tap, on the other side of the yard, where two halves of bitter and as prolonged a view as he dared take of Miss Phyllis Blow’s mammary canyon left him feeling quite pleasantly raffish.