MacGregor, whose manners were really beyond reproach, got to his feet. He realized that he had upset Miss Kettering and he tried to make amends. ‘A correspondence course, Miss Kettering?’ he inquired pleasantly. ‘What is it you’re studying?’
‘Witchcraft,’ said Miss Kettering and, knowing she couldn’t better that, made her exit with dignity and style.
MacGregor shrugged his shoulders. You met all sorts in his profession. He sat down again and pulled out his notebook.
Dover’s face relaxed back into a peevish scowl. Couldn’t the blasted young whipper-snapper think about anything else but work? ‘What are you doing?’ he growled.
‘Just making a few notes, sir.’
‘I can see that, idiot! What about?’
With great forbearance MacGregor closed his notebook and prepared to explain the situation as simply as possible. ‘All the inhabitants of this hotel, sir, are suspects.’
‘This collection of old rag-bags? You must be potty!’
‘I agree that most of them don’t look very likely, sir, but – unlike the greater part of the village – they did have the opportunity.’
‘Wadderyermean – unlike the greater part of the village? I thought everybody in this dump from the cat upwards was a starter.’
MacGregor smiled rather smugly. ‘I’m afraid you must have missed what Superintendent Underbarrow was telling us, sir. You see, Chantry’s body was found in what we might call the disaster area proper – where the cliff broke away and the houses were destroyed. It seems reasonable to suppose that he was killed there, too. Well, now,’ – MacGregor leaned forward as he got into his stride – ‘assuming that the murder took place after the earthquake, the number of people who could have reached the scene of the crime is strictly limited.’
‘Why?’
‘The only means of access were blocked, sir. West Street had that great crevice across it, the one we came over, and East Street was barred by the collapse of the church steeple. That means that most people in the village couldn’t get to the disaster area for some considerable time. By when, of course. Chantry was dead. We can rule out any outsider being involved because, as you know, the main road was blocked, too. On the face of it, it looks as though the murderer must have come from this part of the village. That is, sir, from the area nearest to the disaster area and on this side of the two obstacles cutting off. . .’
‘Sounds a bit thin to me,’ said Dover sourly.
‘Well, we shall have to check, sir, but it looks a reasonable working hypothesis, I think.’
Dover lapsed into a moody contemplation of the fire. This investigation had got the mockers on it from the start, any moron could see that. He wondered morosely how soon he could decently chuck his hand in and get back to civilization and all the comforts of home. A couple of days? No, p’raps he’d better stretch it out a bit longer than that, otherwise they’d be dropping on him like a ton of bricks and accusing him of not trying again. Nobody knew better than Dover the importance of choosing the psychological moment for conceding defeat.
‘Of course, sir,’ – MacGregor had opened his notebook again – ‘I’m not really considering Mr Revel and the three old ladies very seriously, but Mr Lickes is a different proposition. There’s his wife too.’
Dover cleared his throat and MacGregor waited respectfully for the oracle to speak. ‘You taken the suitcases upstairs yet, laddie?’
‘No, sir. Should I do it now?’
' Might as well,’ said Dover through another enormous yawn. ‘I think I’ll come up with you and have an early night.’
‘You’re not going to wait for the cocoa and toast, sir?’
‘No.’ Dover dragged himself laboriously to his feet. ‘You can fetch it up to me and I’ll have it in bed.’
Three
‘What in the name of heaven’s going on here?’
Mr Lickes removed his eye from the keyhole in the dining-room door and looked up to see who it was standing in the hall. ‘Oh, Superintendent Underbarrow? Am I glad to see you!’
‘What’s happening?’ Superintendent Underbarrow closed the front door behind him and removed his cap. ‘You can hear the shouting right down at the drive gates.’
‘I think you may just be in time to prevent a lynching,’ – Mr Lickes bent down to his keyhole again – ‘if you hurry.’
‘A lynching?’ Superintendent Underbarrow regarded the prospect with equanimity. Well, you didn’t have lynchings in places like the Blenheim Towers Private Hotel, not at nine o’clock in the morning, you didn’t. ‘Who’s going to be lynched?’
Mr Lickes straightened up with a sigh. ‘That young police sergeant you brought up last night. It’s not his fault, of course, but Mrs Boyle is out for blood and she’s got past caring whose blood it is.’ He gestured helplessly at the dining-room door. ‘She’s flashing her table knife around in there in a very alarming manner. I’m afraid I cleared out when I saw things beginning to get nasty. Otherwise they’d have turned on me.’
‘Discretion is the better part of valour,’ observed Superintendent Underbarrow.
Mr Lickes performed a couple of half-hearted kicks. ‘Aren’t you going in there and break it up?’
‘In my experience some passions are actually inflamed by the sight of a police uniform. It’s all a question of timing.’
Mr Lickes nodded understandingly. ‘I dare say that young fellow knows how to look after himself. Well,’ – he indicated a couple of chairs – ‘we might as well make ourselves comfortable while we’re waiting.’
They sat down and listened for a few minutes to the uproar which was still coming unabated from the dining-room.
‘You still haven’t told me what’s up,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow.
Mr Lickes desisted from his efforts to lift himself and his chair off the
