‘You mean the people who weren’t cut off by the broken road in West Street and the church steeple? Yes,’ – Superintendent Underbarrow began to fumble in his pocket – ‘I think we can provide you with that all right.’ He produced several sheets of paper covered with typewritten lists. ‘This is a complete census of the village that was taken immediately after the earthquake. Now all we’ve got to do is check the addresses.’ He fumbled about again and brought out a ball-point pen. ‘I’ll tick off the ones that could have been involved.’
By the time MacGregor got back to the Blenheim Towers just before one o’clock he was really feeling quite chirpy. That’s what a morning away from Dover did for you! Still – apart from that – MacGregor considered himself entitled to some self-congratulation. All in all, he had made considerable progress. He had inspected the epicentre of Sully Martin’s earthquake and seen the site, for what it was worth, of where Chantry’s body was found and got a list of all the people upon whom suspicion might possibly fall. A good morning’s work! Now all he had to do was ensure that a certain person didn’t frustrate all further developments.
Dover was ready and waiting for his lunch. MacGregor, showing a lamentable amount of low cunning, had procured a jumbo-sized helping of steak and kidney pudding for him. If that didn’t send the old fool off to sleep for the rest of the afternoon, nothing would!
Dover demanded a detailed account of the morning’s activities. * ’Strewth,’ he commented, 'you’ve not exactly been straining yourself, have you?’ MacGregor, still hoping against hope for a free rein, sought for the soft answer but, before he’d found it, Dover was grousing on. ‘The trouble with you, laddie, is you do damn-all if you haven’t got somebody standing over you all the time. Now, let’s have a look at this list of suspects.’
The reluctance with which MacGregor took the sheets of paper out of his pocket was not lost upon Dover. The chief inspector may have had his shortcomings but allowing himself to be upstaged by a snotty-nosed sergeant was not one of them. He ran a practised, if jaundiced, eye over the names and addresses.
‘I thought I should perhaps make a start on seeing some of these people this afternoon, sir,’ ventured MacGregor.
‘Good idea,’ murmured Dover. ‘Strike while the scent’s still warm, eh?’
‘If you’ve finished the marmalade pudding, sir, there’s some cheese and biscuits to follow.’ MacGregor got up with pathetic eagerness to change the plates over.
Dover reclined back amiably on his pillows. ‘Got your notebook handy, laddie?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Well now, I reckon we’d better split this lot between us. We’ll do a preliminary investigation so’s we can weed out the sheep from the goats.’
MacGregor’s hopes began to wane. ‘Yes, sir.’
Dover grinned. It was like taking sweets off a baby, and just as enjoyable. ‘Right! Well, I’ll take Chantry’s daughter and her husband, Wing Commander Pile and his daughter – you writing all this down, laddie? – and Mr and Mrs Lickes. You can do the rest.’
MacGregor’s shoulders sagged. God knows how the old fool had done it, but he had skimmed the cream off that list with an unerring hand. All that MacGregor had been left with was an uninspiring collection of old age pensioners and gormless villagers whose murderous inclinations had long since been dissipated in other, more enjoyable, rural pursuits. He poured out Dover’s coffee, picked the sheets of paper up off the floor and played his last card. ‘Do you think it’s wise, sir?’
‘Probably not,’ said Dover, ‘but I can’t do it all single-handed, can I?’
MacGregor gritted his teeth. ‘I really meant with your cold, sir.’
‘What about my cold?’
‘Well, the weather’s rotten outside, sir, really chilly and damp. And, of course, the village is ankle-deep in mud, as you already know. I was just wondering if it was really such a good idea for you to go out this afternoon when you’ve got such a bad cold.’
‘Who said I was going out this afternoon?’ demanded Dover.
‘Oh, sir, I honestly don’t think we ought to put these interviews off any longer. There’s been enough delay on this case as it is and . . .’
‘I shall conduct the interviews here,’ said Dover, snapping his fingers imperiously for a cigarette. ‘You don’t want me to catch my blooming death, do you?’
MacGregor reached for his cigarette case and refrained from answering what was no doubt a rhetorical question. ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, sir. Of course it will be much better for you to stay in the hotel and keep . . .’
‘Not only in the hotel, laddie! I’m staying here, in bed. And now, if you’ve finished lolling around on your backside, you can buzz off and get things organized. I’ll see Lickes in ten minutes and then his wife after him. Tell Pile and his potty daughter to stick around because I’ll do them after the Lickeses.’
‘And Mr and Mrs Hooper, sir? That’s Chantry’s daughter and her . . .’
‘I know who Mr and Mrs Hooper are!’ roared Dover. ‘I’ll see them later on. You can call round on your way out and tell ’em I want ’em around here at seven tonight.’
‘Very well, sir.’ McGregor rose to his feet. ‘I’ll send Mr Lickes up in ten minutes, shall I?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ said Dover with heavy sarcasm. ‘Here – take the blooming tray down with you, moron!’
Mr Lickes had been born and brought up in the hotel business and so he took the sight of Dover, wallowing under the bedclothes like a stranded whale, in his stride. Even the grubby, much-darned, blue and white army surplus pyjamas didn’t distress him overmuch. Any man who has had the experience of finding a judge of the High Court dead on
