For the first time Colonel Moldham showed sign of irritation.
“You should be able to answer better than I, Purbright. You took possession of the wretched things, and I don’t doubt they have been all but pulverized by this time.”
“No, sir,” Purbright said, quietly. “Every care has been taken. The tests have involved no damage to which Mrs Moldham-Clegg could take exception.”
The chief constable ventured to intervene. “I must admit, colonel, to finding myself a little in sympathy with my investigating officers. Mr Purbright mentioned this scheme of your aunt’s to me earlier. Quite frankly, I thought it eccentric.”
“She is an old lady,” said Moldham, dryly.
Mr Chubb fluttered an understanding hand. “Yes, yes, yes, we do appreciate that, naturally.” He pondered a moment, then tried again. “She was fond of this old servant, was she? A sort of...well, family retainer relationship?”
“You might express it in those terms, I suppose.”
“The family was paying Mr Arnold a pension, in fact, was it not, colonel?” Purbright asked.
“The estate made him certain ex gratia payments.”
“Which he accepted?” This from Bradley.
“Certainly he did. They would scarcely have been payments if he hadn’t accepted them.”
Bradley nodded pleasantly. “No. True.”
“This little scheme of your aunt’s...” Purbright paused.
“Yes?”
“I presume she had been notified of Arnold’s death...”
“Of course. Wellbeloved reported it to me.”
“Ah, yes. But how did she learn of the impending sale of his personal property? Was Mr Wellbeloved a party to the scheme devised by Mrs Moldham-Clegg and Mr Loughbury?”
“I don’t much care for that word ‘party’, Purbright. You made perfectly innocent little act of charity sound like a conspiracy.” This time Moldham was clearly angry. Loughbury donned an amensely conciliatory smile and addressed Purbright.
“If I may just intervene a moment, gentlemen... Of course, the inspector is right to ask how Mrs Moldham-Clegg got to know about poor old Arnold’s bits and pieces being put up for sale. And there is a simple answer. I told her.” The smile broadened even further. “I happened, for my sins, to be the old chap’s solicitor.” He waited for this intelligence to take effect, then added: “So if any conspiring has gone on, it is I who must plead guilty.”
Bradley looked as if he wanted to congratulate the solicitor. Rich Dick waited, gazing at him equably.
“As the late Mr Arnold’s legal adviser,” Bradley remarked, “you must have been professionally pained by the discovery that he died intestate.”
Mr Loughbury sighed. “A stubborn old fellow, alas. And superstitious. If only people would realize what difficulties they bequeath heir relatives by failing to make simple provision...”
There was a short silence.
“Do you know Dr Gule, sir?” Purbright asked Colonel Moldham.
“Who?”
“Dr D. Gule. He attends patients at Twilight Close.”
“I know him, yes. See him at committee meetings and so on. I don’t know him socially, if that’s what you mean.”
Purbright’s notebook had been lying before him, closed. He jnow opened it and glanced at a couple of pages.
“Anything further, Mr Purbright?” the chief constable prompted, softly but with distinct coolness.
“I don’t think so, sir.” The inspector shut and put away his book and glanced at his London colleague. Bradley shook his head.
“Good of you to come, colonel.” Mr Chubb had risen, but did not offer Moldham his hand.
In a flurry of brisk geniality, Rich Dick covered the withdrawal of his client. The squire’s face was blank, his farewells murmured monosyllables.
Purbright and Bradley did not leave at once, but resumed their seats while Mr Chubb stood at the window, gazing out.
He spoke without turning round.
“Bruce Moldharn doesn’t take very kindly to this sort of thing, you know.”
Purbright avoided Bradley’s eye. “No, sir?”
There was a further silence. Then, “Shy chap,” Mr Chubb said.
The chief constable crossed to the fireplace. He leaned lightly against the column supporting the mantel-shelf. “I suppose,” he said to Bradley, “that you find our little mysteries rather tame after London crime.”
“I find them more convoluted,” said Bradley.
“Perhaps,” suggested Mr Chubb, “we in the country need to be a little more...”—he sought a word—“...delicate in our investigating than would be appropriate in a big city.” He smiled weakly. “One has to live with these people afterwards, you see.”
“Not if one succeeds in sending them down the line. Not for the next few hunting seasons, anyway.”
Purbright watched the chief constable examine his manicure. When Mr Chubb was pleased, he would hold his hand flat and pointing away from himself; displeasure always was signalled by his turning the hand over and doubling the fingers like a half-formed fist. This was how he was regarding his nails now.
“Oh, I don’t think there is any question of sending Colonel Moldham, ah, down the line, Mr Bradley,” said the chief constable, very quietly.
Purbright regarded Mr Chubb with what looked like controlled surprise. “He has admitted to shooting the man, sir.”
“Only up to a point, Mr Purbright. He has not specifically confessed to it.”
“He has not specifically confessed to telling lies,” said Purbright, “but he has three or four sizeable ones to his credit already.”
“Oh?”
“He lied originally about the break-in and about the incidental damage. Today he attempted to lie about the number of shots he fired. He went along with the patently absurd story of his aunt’s charitable plot. And he contradicted Benton’s account of O’Dwyer and the car by saying that the car had been left a fair way off, perhaps two hundred yards; Benton told me it was actually within the courtyard itself.”
Mr Chubb pondered these inconsistencies for several moments, then looked at his watch.
He turned to Purbright, who already was rising to leave.
“I shall be at home from about seven o’clock onwards, you know. By all means telephone me if you need to.”
Chapter Thirteen
Apart from tests upon those parts of him that had been abstracted and put into jars, the post-mortem upon Francis Dean O’Dwyer was over. Purbright went with Bradley and Sergeant Love to the General Hospital and met the secretary of the resident pathologist in a little room off the dispensary that once had been known as the matron’s sitting room. The secretary, Miss Oolik, was said to have come from Iceland. She was prettily round-faced, wore spectacles big as a bicycle, and could take medical shorthand like mother’s milk. Love regarded her with unqualified admiration.