Beside the keyhole in the red-brown lid of a small rosewood bureau was a splintered eruption of veneer.
Colonel Moldham, who had shed the gun at last, pulled forward a Victorian carving chair. “This do?” He himself remained standing, gauntly watchful, close to the window and to his propped-up gun.
“I should tell you at the outset, perhaps,” Purbright resumed from his more lowly position, “that a serious assault was made upon a detective sergeant at the back of the hall just before the sale began. We believe that there may be some connection between the attacker and the articles for which you, ma’am, successfully bid.”
“That,” declared Mrs Moldham-Clegg, “is perfectly ridiculous.”
“Not perfectly, I’m afraid. For one thing, the sergeant was examining that particular lot when he was attacked. For another, we believe his assailant was one of the bidders when the same articles were put up for auction.”
The old woman gouged open another pod and thumbed forth its peas. “I really do not understand what you hope to gain from these fanciful connections you have seen fit to make. I am sorry, naturally, for this officer who has been hurt. But I am not responsible. Why should I be deprived of my property? Are there not enough thieves for you to track down that you harass decent people who have paid for what they possess—or, indeed” (and here Mrs Moldham-Clegg gave a creamy, mirthless laugh) “what the police will not allow them to possess?”
“Oh, come now, aunt,” the colonel began, then thought better of intervening.
Purbright met the old woman’s eye steadily.
“There is no shortage of thieves, Mrs Moldham-Clegg, nor of thefts. That is why we are intrigued by any instance of a price that is mysteriously low—or high.”
“Are you implying, Mr Inspector, that I am some sort of trafficker in stolen goods?”
“Not at all. I’ve no doubt that you are a bona fide purchaser. It is the purchase that I find puzzling. I do respectfully suggest”—and here Purbright turned as if to invite the arbitration of the colonel—“that much trouble would be saved if you would offer a simple explanation of why you considered it worth offering 370 for lot number thirty-four.”
Mrs Moldham-Clegg paid tight-faced attention to the next pod.
It was her nephew who spoke, after thoughtfully stroking his cheek.
“I’m not sure, you know, that you’re on good ground legally, Purbright. I mean, this business of your right to deprive somebody of what has been bought in good faith.”
“Not necessarily permanently, sir,” amended Purbright.
“Yes, well, even so...”
“Your solicitor does know about our inquiries, incidentally, colonel. I’m confident he will advise you concerning the legality of our...”
The inspector’s brief hesitation over a choice of word allowed Mrs Moldham-Clegg bitterly to supply her own.
“Seizure...”
There was a pause, not an easy one. Neither the colonel nor his aunt followed up the reference to Loughbury. His surmise had been right, Purbright reflected: Rich Dick had wasted no time.
“Can I not persuade you, ma’am, to answer my question?”
Mrs Moldham-Clegg sighed, set her features in a smile of cold patience and rocked a little from side to side as she said: “My dear man, I really cannot understand why you go on so. I’m sorry, but I prefer to regard the matter as a strictly private transaction, and that is the end of it. Now would you like me to have Alice bring you a cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” said Purbright, “I should like that very much.”
For a moment Mrs Moldham-Clegg sat motionless, staring at him. The inspector gazed back with an expression of genial innocence. She swallowed and looked past him at the colonel.
“Brace—would you mind?” Her voice was restrained, cross.
The colonel shrugged and ambled off. Purbright watched him walk past the rosewood bureau.
“What a pity,” he said, when the colonel had gone, “that such a nice piece of furniture should get damaged.”
Mrs Moldham-Clegg had resumed her pea-podding. “Do you often come into the country, Mr Purbright?” she inquired evenly.
“Not as often as I would wish, ma’am. The only occasions nowadays, I’m afraid, are afforded by crime of some kind. House-breakings, mainly.”
“Your work must be very interesting.” Mrs Moldham-Clegg’s tone succeeded in making the job of a detective inspector sound like the management of a massage parlour.
“It consists substantially of exercising patience.”
She nodded. “A primary virtue. We were taught a lot of it when I was a girl.” The word came out as gairl.
The cup of coffee arrived after about five more minutes. It was borne on a round, painted metal tray, not by a domestic but by Colonel Moldham himself, looking lamentably unused to the task. He set the tray down at one end of the big oval table and stared at it for a while, as if making a count.
Mrs Moldham-Clegg gestured the inspector to help himself.
“Mrs Anstead was busy with something or other,” the colonel informed his aunt. He went back to his place by the window and lapsed into an unfocused stare.
Purbright stirred the coffee. Irregular reddish-brown patches on the surface proclaimed its having been made from a concentrate. Cup and saucer were of fine quality china, heavily decorated with cornflowers. On a second saucer were two Bath Oliver biscuits. They were damp. The coffee tasted of salted peanuts.
“If you would like to smoke,” said Mrs Moldham-Clegg, “please do so, but you must not mind if we cannot provide any of the paraphernalia.” She looked across to the colonel. “Although I suppose there could be an ashtray in the coachhouse: was Herriot a smoking person? I really can’t remember.”
The inspector assured her that he himself had long since ceased to smoke, then addressed himself to Colonel Moldham.
“I was remarking just now, sir, what a shame it is that so fine a little bureau should get damaged.”
“Bureau? Oh, that. Yes. Looks rather bad, but one doesn’t think at the time.”
“Think what, sir?”
The old woman spoke. “There’s a little man in town does these things. He’s really very good.”
“Ah, you had to force the lock yourself, did you, sir? That must have been quite a heart-breaking decision.”
The colonel shrugged. He looked bored. “When one mislays the only key, one hasn’t much choice. Not with a fellow waiting at the door for one’s cheque.”
Purbright grimaced sympathetically, sipped his coffee, then subjected the bureau to a speculative stare.