Purbright opened a drawer in his desk and took out a copy of the same ordnance survey section as Miss Teatime had bought on the station bookstall. The ring he pencilled on his, though, was smaller and more precise than Miss Teatime’s reference.
He went to the door and called in Sergeant Love.
“This”—he pointed to the ringed cottage—“is the place that Martha Reckitt’s intended said he was going to buy for her. He probably told the same story to Mrs Bannister. The address is Mill Lane, Low Benstone, and the cottage used to be called Brookside, although there’s no guarantee that it still is.
“There are two possibilities. Either the chap just picked the place at random as part of his scheme to string those women along, in which case he’s probably never even made an inquiry about it. Or it is genuinely for sale and he had some reason for knowing it. There’s just a chance of some connection. We’ll have to work on it.”
“You mean I will,” Love observed, without malice.
“For a start, yes. I’ve got this Teatime woman coming in this morning. You’d better try the estate agents first. Find out if the place is for sale, which agent is handling it, who the owners are and whether they are still living there.”
“Just the Chalmsbury agents?”
“They’re the most likely, but if you draw a blank there you’ll have to ask around in Flax as well.”
The sergeant left to provide himself with a classified telephone directory and a mug of tea.
Just before ten o’clock, Miss Teatime was shown in to Purbright’s office. The inspector fancied that her manner had a slightly more purposeful edge to it than when he had last seen her. And, indeed, she came straight to the point.
“I have given some further thought, Mr Purbright, to the matter we discussed the other morning, and I have decided that I might have been just the tiniest bit over confident in one respect. That is why I telephoned and asked to see you again.”
“I’m very glad you did, Miss Teatime. What has been worrying you?”
“Oh, not worrying, exactly, inspector. I am quite sure in my own mind that what I said then was true. But I cannot help feeling that the assurance I gave you about that handwriting was accepted by you more out of politeness than conviction.”
“I took your word for it, naturally.”
“Ah, yes; but I know that my word is not really evidence.”
“Not scientific evidence, perhaps.”
“No. And so for the sake of everyone concerned—my friend by no means least—I intended to try and give you an actual example of his writing.”
“I see.”
“It will be best, do you not think so?”
“I’m sure it will.”
Miss Teatime nodded and picked up her handbag and gloves. She regarded the inspector for a moment in silence, then smiled.
“Do you know, I really think you are anxious about me, Mr Purbright.”
“I am,” he said simply.
“There is no need to be.”
Purbright leaned forward. “Look, won’t you tell me now the name of this man?” His face was serious.
She appeared to consider. Then she said: “I am sorry, but I must ask you to wait a little longer. Where can I reach you at eight o’clock this evening?”
He looked surprised. “At home, I hope. Why?”
“What is the address?”
“Fifteen Tetford Drive.”
Screwing up her eyes, she wrote it in her little notebook.
“And now may I have that photograph? The handwriting, you know.”
He took it from the folder at his elbow and handed it across the desk. She put it into her bag.
Purbright watched her get up and wait for him to see her to the door. Then he, too, rose.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” he said quietly.
She gave him a bright smile of farewell.
“Oh, yes. I know,” she said.
Back in her room at the Roebuck, Miss Teatime lit a cheroot and took her first whisky sip of the day. As she stared thoughtfully at the gulls swooping down past the blind eyes of the old warehouse, her fingers tapped the sheet of writing paper spread ready on the table before her. She was devising a simple insurance policy.
She picked up her pen.
My dear Inspector Purbright: The enclosed letters unexpectedly came to hand today. They were written by my friend, who calls himself Commander John Trelawney. You will see that I was mistaken about the handwriting. I can plead only that loyalty clouded my judgment. His address is not known to me at the moment, but I have no doubt that Mrs Staunch will be able to give you the information you need. As you will notice, the reference number is 4122.
Yours sincerely,
Lucilla Teatime.
She folded the note, pinned it to the three sheets of the commander’s correspondence and put them all into an envelope. This she sealed and addressed.
Downstairs, she found the manager supervising the changing of flowers in the residents’ lounge. He bustled up to her in immediate response to a smile of inquiry.
“I wish you to undertake a delicate but important commission, Mr Maddox.”
At once he was fussily intrigued.
She handed him the envelope.
“I am going out today and probably shall not be in for lunch,” she explained softly. “I may even be away until early evening. If, however, I have not returned by eight o’clock, I want you to have this letter delivered straight away by hand.”
Maddox looked at the address and nodded earnestly. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated.
“I am sure I can rely upon you, Mr Maddox.”
“You most certainly can.” He peered at her, suddenly anxious. “I hope there’s nothing, ah...”
“Purely precautionary,” said Miss Teatime. “As I believe you know, I am being well looked after.”
At the door she gave him a reassuring wave. Mr Maddox stared after her, his hand feeling for the edge of the envelope in his pocket.