“She’s a great one for ’iding lights under bushes,” explained Brother Culpepper. He sighed. “Anyway, p’raps you’d like to come an’ ’ave a shufti?”
“A what?”
“A look-see. A stroll rahnd.”
He led Love to the first shed and held the door open for him to enter.
It was very dim inside. There was a cool, earthy smell, overlaid with an aromatic odour that reminded Love of newly mown road verges. Against one side of the shed had been heaped greenery of some kind, spangled with bright yellow flowers.
“That’s the wort ’arvest,” his guide told him. “It’s brought in ’ere an’ graded.”
The sergeant saw no evidence of grading. The green stuff lay in one big pile. There were several baskets lying around, though. He stepped between them and picked a sample of the harvest, examining leaves and stalk with what he hoped would look like intelligent appreciation.
“Very like dandelion,” was the only comment that occurred to him.
“Ah,” responded Culpepper immediately, “yor dead right. Lots o’ people can’t see the diff’rence. But ’erbs is like everyfink else—you gotta know ’em, see? Takes years.”
He took the sample from Love, sniffed it fastidiously, then slowly split a stem with his thumb nail.
“See?” He indicated the stem’s viscous inner surface. “That’s wort orlright.”
He tossed the plant back on the heap and turned towards the door.
In the middle shed, Culpepper pointed to nets stretched from wall to wall on which were spread thin layers of shrivelling leaves.
“Dryin’ ’ouse,” he explained.
They went on to the third shed.
The air here was dusty. It smelled. Love thought, rather like the inside of Pearsons’ seed warehouse in North Street. This was where the sound of machinery had come from. He saw an electric motor bolted to a table and, nearby, what appeared to be an outsize coffee mill. The mill was surmounted by a hopper. To a delivery pipe at the bottom of the machine a canvas bag, rather similar to a post office sorting bag, had been clipped.
Culpepper tipped the contents of a basket into the hopper and switched on the motor. Above the resultant racket he shouted triumphantly: “Untouched by ’uman ’and!” and pointed to the canvas bag, which slowly fattened.
On the other side of the gangway was a second table, bearing a big enamelled bowl, a couple of scoops, a kitchen spring balance and a pile of empty packets.
Brother Culpepper walked over to it.
“This is where young Florrie gives an ’and.”
He thrust a scoop into what Lucky Fen Wort had been left in the bowl at the end of Florrie’s last shift and yelled:
“Goes all over the flippin’ country, this does! Arsk an’ it shall be given unto yew!”
Love took this to be a scriptural jest of some sort and grinned sheepishly.
Culpepper stepped back and switched off the motor.
“That’s abaht it, then,” he said.
“Very interesting,” said Love. He was wondering what else he could usefully ask when Culpepper perked up his head and listened.
“ ’Ello, ’ello, ’ello—’ere comes the Queen o’ Sheba!”
The sergeant heard the hornet-like crescendo of an approaching car—a sports car, without doubt. He followed Culpepper into the sunlight. Three seconds later, what seemed to be a wheeled projectile, immaculately agleam and pulsating wickedly, drew up before them.
A shoe—brown suede, well cut; a neat ankle and calf, finely stockinged; a skirt low enough to be modest without looking dowdy; a slim yet energetic body, dressed one season in arrear but with that kind of informed taste that makes fashion seem beside the point; delicate but capable hands, fluttering now to show pleasure; a face that bespoke no particular age despite its innocence of any but the most elementary make-up; gentle, shrewd eyes...
“Sergeant!” One of the finely shaped hands extended in friendliness. “How delightful to see you again!”
Love grinned and shuffled his feet.
“And how is your Mr Purbright?” asked Miss Teatime, cheerfully.
“He’s very well, thank you, ma’am.”
“Do give him my regards.”
She turned to Brother Culpepper, who had been watching the encounter with obvious approval.
“And have you been showing Sergeant Love our little enterprise?”
“ ’sright.”
Miss Teatime smiled again at Love.
“What monastic modesty doubtless has prevented his telling you is that Brother Culpepper is our guiding genius out here at Moldham. The church’s loss has been our gain. Oh, temporarily, of course—you must not suppose that his Order would part with him for good.”
“I told ’im that. Abaht bein’ on loan, like.”
“Would you care for a cup of coffee, sergeant? Then you could tell me the reason for this very welcome visit.”
She led Love to the cottage and into the room with the addressograph and filing cabinets. They sat on gaunt but quite comfortable steel chairs. Brother Culpepper, whose worldly service apparently extended to the kitchen department, could soon be heard rattling crockery. A couple of minutes later, he brought in a tray and made space for it on the table by elbowing aside some of the packets and labels.
“Back in ’alf ’nour,” he remarked on his way out. “Be seein’ yer.”
“His devotions,” Miss Teatime explained softly to the sergeant. “We give him all facilities, naturally.”
She poured Love a full cup of the strong coffee-and-milk mixture from a jug and passed him a small sugar bowl. Her own cup she less than half filled, then topped it up with a pale amber fluid from a medicine bottle that she took from the white cabinet, painted with a red cross, on the wall behind them.
“Friar’s Balsam,” she said with a little grimace of resignation, putting back the cork. Then, as if by afterthought, she looked inquiringly at Love and held out the bottle. “But perhaps you, too, are a bronchitis sufferer, sergeant?”
Love hurriedly shook his head and pulled his coffee to safety. It was only later, when he caught a steam-borne whiff of a surprisingly alcoholic nature, that he regretted his conservatism.
Miss Teatime sipped her remedy with considerable fortitude.
“I trust that your call has nothing to do with the more depressing aspect of a policeman’s job, Mr Love. It is difficult in the peaceful atmosphere of the countryside to conceive of lawlessness, you know.”
“Well, I can’t say that there’s any lawlessness involved, actually. Mr Purbright just wanted me to have a look and see what was here. He doesn’t know it has anything to do with you, I’m sure.”
“Is he interested in herbal therapy, then?”
Love hesitated. “Well, no, I shouldn’t have thought so. The fact is, we’ve had a bit of trouble in Flax, and this stuff you make here does happen to have been mentioned.”
He blushed and stared into his cup, unhappily aware of the difficulty of deceiving a lady so well-bred as Miss Teatime.