“It was a cottage,” the sergeant said.
“Ah...it was, yes; one might say so—a representation of a cottage. A poor enough thing, goodness knows, but prized by someone. By someone, you may be sure. And thereby”—Mr Loughbury raised a finger—“hangs a tale.”
Love looked at the finger.
“You see,” continued Mr Loughbury, “what the inspector did not know is that my man, the excellent Mr Buxton, was also present at that sale and, moreover, actually putting in bids for the said picture, plaque, cottage, or whatever. Now, why should Mr Buxton have been doing that?”
Love shook his head. Rich Dick regarded him with roguish satisfaction.
“To raise the price, sergeant. And to raise it generously. Those were his instructions. What do you think of that? I don’t know what your Mr Purbright would say, but I fear conspiracy is a word that might occur to him. Conspiracy. Yes, sergeant?”
Mr Loughbury’s humorous rhetoric having run its course, he waited a moment for Love to recover, then solemnly shook his head.
“No, no, no—I am having a little joke, of course. The facts are these. They are quite simple.
“The person to whom the trinkets comprising lot thirty-four belonged was an old gentleman, lately deceased, who for many years worked loyally and well for the Moldham family. It came to Mrs Moldham-Clegg’s knowledge that the old servant had died and that those few rather pathetic possessions were to be sold up.
“Now, then, what did this excellent woman decide?—and remember, sergeant, that she is well in excess of three score and ten herself—what, I say, was her plan? Why, to seize the opportunity of making that proud old man’s dependants a gift which neither he nor they would have dreamed of accepting in a direct form. You see what I mean, do you not?”
Love said he thought he did, but the solicitor was taking no chances. “Mrs Moldham-Clegg and Buxton were bidding against each other by arrangement,” he explained. “Then, when the price reached the figure the lady had suggested, our Mr Buxton stood down.”
“Neat,” commented the sergeant.
Mr Loughbury looked pleased. “I venture to think,” he said, “that your excellent inspector will appreciate the element of noblesse oblige. It is all too rarely encountered in these days of self-interest.”
Love said he would mention it.
“I trust you will also convey to Mr Purbright my apologies for keeping this little matter to myself until I could take instructions from my client. We are not, alas, our own masters where confidentiality is at stake.”
“The lady gave you the go-ahead, then, did she?” Love asked.
“Mrs Moldham-Clegg signified that she had no objection, provided the information goes no further,” Mr Loughbury said carefully.
Love took out his notebook. “Can I have the party’s name, sir?” he inquired.
“The party?”
“The old deceased gentleman whose relatives are to get the money.”
Mr Loughbury’s lips puffed forth in a tea-cooling way. “Ooooh, I don’t know... Do you suppose it matters, sergeant?”
“Yes.”
There was nothing officious or impatient about the “yes”. Love’s expression of youthful helpfulness was undimmed. Yet Mr Loughbury could not avoid feeling a little less than easy.
“Arnold was his name, actually. Frederick Arnold.”
Love’s tongue-tip came out to supervise his committal of the name to paper.
“Address, sir?”
“Arnold’s, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was an inmate—is that the word, inmate?—or resident, perhaps we should say—anyway, he lived in the council’s old people’s home.”
“Twilight Close,” said the sergeant. He wrote it down. “A senior citizen.” He looked blandly at the solicitor.
Mr Loughbury summoned back something of his expansive manner. “Now, here’s an interesting fact, sergeant. Did you know that old Arnold was a coachman at one time? He drove the Moldhams’ family carriage for years. Hence his nickname of ‘Whippy’. You did not know that, perhaps?”
Love said it was news to him. Could Mr Loughbury tell him the names of any of the beneficiaries from the sale of Mr Arnold’s goods.
“I’m sorry, but I really have no idea. It is scarcely my province.”
“Suppose there aren’t any,” suggested Love.
Mr Loughbury made an airy gesture of non-involvement.
The sergeant also looked unconcerned. “It’s just that I was wondering what would happen to all the money, but I suppose that that’s Mrs Moldham-Clegg’s problem.”
“Exactly,” agreed Rich Dick.
“Is there anything else you wanted the inspector to know, sir?”
“No, no. The matter probably is of no moment, but I did not wish Inspector Purbright to gain the impression that I had been less forthcoming than was reasonable.”
Love nodded amiably. However, he remained thoughtful for several moments. Just as the solicitor was about to announce his departure, Love said: “I wonder what the mincer was for.”
Mr Loughbury stared. “The what?”
“The mincer. The meat mincer. It was among his things. That and a soap dish and a couple of glass stoppers.”
“Ah, sergeant, who knows what memories dwell within the seemingly commonplace trivia cherished by the elderly? Perhaps Mr Arnold preserved the mincer to remind him of domesticity in earlier days.”
“Of his wife, do you mean?” Love, who was still holding a pencil, looked as if he expected an answer, and intended to record it.
Rich Dick chuckled indulgently and said that he must be getting along.
Chapter Seven
The so-called London train—it was in fact a two-coach section that had been nipped off the main body fifty miles to the west—rolled obsequiously into Flaxborough Town seven minutes late. A handful of passengers alighted and began to file across the footbridge to the ticket office and station exit. Purbright stood by the bookstall and prepared to guess which arrival was the visiting detective inspector.
His deductive powers were not needed. The third figure to appear at the turn of the steps from the bridge bore round his middle a sash-like sheet of paper bearing the word BRADLEY in big pencilled letters.
Purbright watched the man’s unhurried descent. He was not much less than six feet in height, but a general broadness of construction made him look more stocky than he was: an impression strengthened by his wearing a short, dark grey overcoat, into the collar of which he seemed desirous of withdrawing as much of his neck and chin as possible. The face, though of high colour and already stubble-shadowed in the couple of hours since his morning shave, was gentle and reflective. He had a moustache, or, to be more accurate, a small area of upper lip left more or less unmown. One hand was in his overcoat pocket. The other carried a leather suitcase large enough, Purbright reflected, for a fortnight’s holiday. Slung from his shoulder was a bolstered tape recorder.