Blacker, probably, was the most interesting to consider.
Hadn’t he been made up to foreman on the day after the murder — a man antagonistic to his employer, and of doubtful competence?
That suggested pressure — and the timing was strangely coincidental. Blacker might have got a hint of something and put two and two together.
But if Fuller was the man, would he have straightway put the new foreman on emptying the hopper — giving himself, as it were, completely into the fellow’s hands?
If it came to that, would Fuller have put it there at all? He could so easily have disposed of the corpse in some less damning spot.
So you were back where you started, floundering among the improbabilities. Wherever you picked it up the case handed you a non sequitur. It had been that way from the beginning, from the moment Taylor or one of his colleagues had lifted the phone and booked rooms in the stainless town of Lynton…
What could one do, except obstinately watch and wait?
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but Ted…’
Gently looked up to find Jimpson’s girlfriend standing uncertainly by his table. The blush on her rounded cheeks was becoming, and she had an appearance of wholesomeness, like an apple out of a cottage garden.
‘What is it you want?’
‘Ted here… we’ve been talking it over…’
Ted Jimpson had wandered into the background, a hangdog expression on his palish face.
‘Well, sir, we thought he ought to tell you…’
‘Go on, then… I won’t bite!’
‘… he wasn’t there that night — not all the time, that is! He come out to see me home. I was working late shift in the caff.’
Gently sat them down at his table, Jimpson in front of him and the girl to his right. The workers across the way, who had been about to retire into the mill, hesitated to witness this new disposition.
‘Let’s get it straight… we’re talking about the Thursday evening, are we?’
Jimpson nodded, swallowing at the same time.
‘When according to Mr Blythely you showed up at ten — and remained in the bakehouse until seven the next morning?’
‘Yes, sir, but…’
‘But Mr Blythely is a liar?’
‘No, sir — I didn’t say so!’
‘Then what am I supposed to believe?’
‘He — he wasn’t in there at the time.’
Gently folded his arms on the table and appeared to consider the hotel-plate sugar bowl. Was this the something he had been looking for, the little crack in the solid Lynton defence?
Jimpson was writhing in his chair, haplessly aware of the significance of what he had blurted out. In the background the radio continued its programme of calypsos.
‘Go on — tell me what happened. I suppose it’s no use asking why you didn’t tell this to Inspector Griffin?’
‘I didn’t want him to know… Mr Blythley, I mean! And he didn’t say nothing about having been out…’
‘Did he tell you not to mention that?’
‘No, but I thought…’
‘Never mind about that, just get on with your story.’
It was simple enough and easily corroborated. Jimpson had met his girl, Jessie Mason, when she had finished her shift at the Globe Cafe at half past eleven. Her way home took her past the mill. He had slipped out and intercepted her. At her house, ten minutes away, he had exchanged greetings with her father, and had been back in the bakehouse at just on midnight. And during all that time Blythely had been absent, neither did he return until half an hour later.
‘You’re sure of those times?’
‘Yes, I was looking for a chance…’
‘He went out shortly before half past eleven?’
Jimpson nodded his head.
‘Where did he say he was going?’
‘He didn’t say nothing.’
But he had gone out into the yard, Jimpson thought, because there had been no squeak from the broken hinge on the door to the shop. After waiting a few minutes he had ventured into the yard, and not seeing Blythely, had hurried out to meet Jessie.
‘Was he in the habit of going out like that?’
‘No, he wouldn’t never leave the bakehouse as a rule. Once you’ve got the dough rising…’
‘What did he say when he came back?’
‘Nothing, he didn’t.’ Jimpson looked sideways.
‘Go on, Ted!’ urged Jessie. ‘You said you was going to tell him everything.’
‘Well…’ Jimpson hesitated. ‘He was something upset, that’s all I can say. First off he was quiet, then afterwards he let me have it. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.’
‘Had he seen you go out?’
‘Not him, or I’d have heard about it.’
‘What was he angry about?’
‘Every mortal thing I did.’
Gently slowly nodded, still watching his sugar bowl. This had to be true in substance… unless there was a conspiracy against Blythely! But there might be an explanation, sufficient if not innocent: Blythely might have had the misfortune to go out on business he wanted to keep quiet.
‘You corroborate this?’
Jessie’s pretty flush came back. ‘Of course I do — it’s every word the truth!’
‘What’s your father’s job?’
‘He’s a gardener with the Corporation.’
‘Up late last Thursday, wasn’t he?’
‘He always waits up when I’m on the late shift.’
‘Where did he become acquainted with Mr Blythely?’
‘He hasn’t never met him that I ever heard of.’
‘A betting man, is he?’
‘No fear! He’s very strict about everything like that.’
He would be, naturally, if he was employed by the Lynton Corporation…
Out of the corner of his eye Gently saw Fuller’s Consul draw up, hesitate, and then turn carefully into the mill-yard gate. The miller climbed out, reaching after him a leather briefcase. As he closed the door his eye fell on the cafe window: for a moment he stood quite still, an expression of blankness on his bold-featured face.
‘Just before Mr Blythely went out… what happened then?’
‘We were getting up the dough…’
‘Did you hear the hinge squeak, for instance?’
‘I wasn’t listening for it.’
‘What was Mr Blythely doing?’
‘He was kneading the…’
‘Which trough was he using?’
‘The one near the door.’
Fuller came suddenly out of his trance and flung angrily into his office. Even in the cafe one could hear the slam of the door. His face appeared a few seconds later, peering over the screen, along with it that of his not- unattractive clerk.
‘Who else was around that night?’
