"I hear you've been busy," said Charlie Jones, dunking a ginger biscuit into a cup of thick white coffee. Cooper sank into an armchair. "Hughes, you mean."
"I'm going down there in half an hour to have another bash at him. Do you want to come?"
"No thanks. I've had more than enough of Dave Hughes and his fellow-lowlife to last me a lifetime. You wait till you see them, Charlie. Kids, for Christ's sake. Fifteen-year-olds who look twenty-five and have a mental age of eight. It scares me, it really does. If society, doesn't do something to educate them and match a man's brain to a man's body, we haven't a hope of survival. And the worst of it is, it's not just us. I saw a ten-year-old boy on the telly the other day, wielding a machine gun in Somalia as part of some rebel army. I've seen children in Ireland throwing bricks at whichever side their bigoted families tell them to, adolescent Palestinian boys strutting their stuff in balaclavas, negro lads in South Africa necklacing each other because white policemen think it's a great way to get rid of them, and Serbian boys encouraged to rape Muslim girls the way their fathers do. It's complete and utter madness. We corrupt our children at our peril, but by God we're doing a fine job of it."
Charlie eyed him sympathetically. "Not just a busy night, obviously, but an exhausting one, too."
"Forget in vino veritas," said Cooper acidly. "In insomnio veritas is more like it. I wake up in the early hours of the morning sometimes and see the world as it really is. A bear garden, with religious leaders twisting souls on one side, power-corrupt politicians twisting minds on the other side, and the illiterate, intolerant masses in the middle baying for blood because they're too uneducated to do anything else."
"Stop the world I want to get off, eh?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Are there no redeeming features, Tommy?"
Cooper chuckled. "Sure, as long as no one reminds me of Hughes." He passed the first fax across the desktop. "Gillespie never left the sitting-room, apparently, and the key's a dead-end."
Jones looked disappointed. "We need something concrete, old son, and quickly. I'm being pushed to drop this one and concentrate on something that will get a result. The consensus view is that, even if we do manage to prove it was murder, we're going to have the devil's own job bringing a prosecution."
"I wonder where I've heard that before," said Cooper sourly. "If things go on like this, we might as well pack it in and let the anarchists have a go."
"What about the diaries? Any progress there?"
''Not really. The search was a wash-out, but then I knew it would be. I went through every book in the library the first time we searched Cedar House." He frowned. "I had a word with Jack and Ruth last night, but they're claiming ignorance as well, although Jack does remember Mrs. Gillespie being in a paddy one day because she said her books were being disturbed." He fingered his lip. "I know it's hypothetical but, let's say the diaries did exist and that someone was looking for them, then that might at least explain why the books were disturbed."
Charlie snorted. "Hellishly hypothetical," he agreed, "and quite unprovable."
"Yes, but if whoever was looking for them found them, then it might explain why they've been removed." He took pity on Charlie's baffled expression. "Because," he said patiently, "they could tell us who murdered her and why."
Charlie frowned. "You're clutching at straws. First, convince me they existed."
"Why would James Gillespie lie?"
"Because he's a drunk," said Charlie. "You don't need any better reason than that."
"Then why was Mathilda in a paddy because her books were being disturbed? Explain that, or are you suggesting Jack's lying, too?"
Charlie registered this second use of "Jack" with an inward sigh. When would the silly fellow learn that it was his inability to keep his distance that scuppered his chances every time? Unprofessional. Cannot remain objective, was what Jone's predecessor had written on Cooper's last assessment. "She must have guessed who it was," he said. "It's a narrow field in all conscience. Why didn't she tackle them about it?"
"Perhaps she did. Perhaps that's why she was murdered." Cooper tapped the fax with his forefinger. "The key complicates it, though. If whoever it was knew about that, then they could have let themselves in without her knowing. The field becomes much wider then."
"I suppose you've considered that Gillespie's our man, and only mentioned the diaries to you because he thought everyone else would have known about them."
"Yes. But why would he take them away and deny all knowledge if he's expecting them to prove she diddled him over the clocks?"
"Double bluff. He read them, discovered they proved the exact opposite, so destroyed them in order to keep his claim alive, then topped her to give himself a free run with Mrs. Lascelles who he thought was going to inherit."
Cooper shook his head. "It's a possiblity, I suppose, but it doesn't feel right. If he stole them himself because he knew they'd destroy his chances of any money, how could he be sure no one else had read them first? It's too iffy, Charlie."
"It's all too iffy, frankly," said the Inspector dryly. "If the diaries existed-if the searcher knew they existed-if there was something incriminating in them-if he or she knew about the key..." He fell silent, dunking his biscuit again. "There are two things I don't understand. Why did Mrs. Gillespie leave all her money to Dr. Blakeney and why did her murderer put the scold's bridle on her head and deck it out with nettles and daisies? If I knew the answers to those two questions, I could probably tell you who killed her. Otherwise I'm inclined to make do with a verdict of suicide."
"I think I know why she left the money to Dr. Blakeney."
"Why?"
"I reckon it was a Pontius Pilate exercise. She'd done a lousy job herself bringing up her daughter and granddaughter, knew they'd destroy themselves with jealous fighting if she left the money to them, so passed the buck to the only person she'd ever got on with and respected. Namely Dr. Blakeney. I think she hoped the Doctor would succeed where she hadn't."
"Sentimental twaddle," said the Inspector amiably. "And all because you're reasoning backwards, from the effect you see to the cause you imagine a normal person would wish to achieve. Try reasoning forwards. She was a bloody-minded, mean and vicious old woman, who not only acquired a fortune through blackmail and creative insurance scams but also loathed and despised everyone around her for most of her life. Why, having sown nothing but discord for sixty years, did she suddenly endow an easy-going, pleasant stranger with a fortune? Not for the sake of harmony, that's for sure." The Inspector's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I can go along with the scold's bridle as a sort of symbolic drawing attention to the final curbing of a peculiarly unpleasant tongue, but I cannot go along with the idea that the leopard suddenly changed its spots when it came to making the will."
"You can't ignore the Blakeneys' view of her character, Charlie. According to them, she was a much pleasanter person than anyone else credited her with being. My guess is they gave her room to breathe, didn't demand anything and the real Mathilda blossomed." He paused for a moment and took stock. "Think about this. We've been dwelling on the symbolism of the scold's bridle, largely because of Ophelia's 'nettles, daisies and long purples', but look at it in practical terms instead. They were used to keep women quiet, and perhaps the reason she was wearing it was as simple as that. Her murderer didn't want her alerting the next-door neighbours by screaming her head off, so shoved that contraption on her head and then adorned it with flowers to give it a mystical-but misleading-significance."