“That’s interesting, sir. Did he say how he’d come to that conclusion?”
“He didn’t. He was very cagey. He asked if I could put a man on his house at night. I turned that down, of course. He wouldn’t give a reason, you see.”
“I’ll have a word with him later on, sir. If he’s really nervous, he’ll probably be more forthcoming after a night or two of listening to creaking floorboards. In the meantime, there’ll be other people to question. I’ve no notion at the moment of where to bore into this case, as it were. The little sounding I’ve been able to do so far hasn’t produced any helpful echoes. You follow me, sir.”
“Yes, oh certainly,” responded Chubb with haste. “I mean old Gwill wasn’t the sort of fellow you’d expect to get murdered. Except by an employee, perhaps. They tell me that newspaper of his is a bit of a sweat shop.”
“We’ll look into that side of it, of course, sir. At first sight, though, one would think George Lintz had most to gain. I believe the control of the business will go to him. On the other hand, there’s the rather curious relationship that seems to have existed between Gwill and the Carobleat woman. You remember the Carobleat affair, I suppose, sir?”
The Chief Constable frowned. “It’s a bit late in the day to drag that up again, isn’t it? After all, you didn’t manage to find much at the time.”
“I wasn’t likely to, considering all the books had disappeared,” said Purbright drily. “What with the firm having evaporated overnight, the owner dead and the widow paralysed with ignorance, it was hardly to be expected that we’d fasten anything on anyone.”
“Just as well, perhaps. It wouldn’t have done the town much good, you know. Anyway, it’s done with now. By the way, would you like me to have a word with Amblesby? You’ll want the inquest holding over a while, I expect.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir. He’ll probably take the suggestion more kindly from one of his own—” Purbright nearly said ‘generation’ but substituted ‘neighbours’ on remembering that the desiccated solicitor lived amidst dust and despotism in a mansion on the older side of Chubb’s road.
“Very well. I’ll ask him to adjourn it
Purbright made his way back towards the police station. As he was walking past the railway station, he noticed a woman in tweeds and flower-pot hat among a small crowd emerging from its portico. He crossed over and greeted her. “I nearly called in to see you this morning, Mrs Carobleat.”
Joan Carobleat, a matron competently parcelled and attractive in a mature, leathery way, raised rather over-made-up brows and returned Purbright’s smile. “It’s just as well you didn’t then, inspector, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been away?”
“I’ve just got back from Shropshire, as a matter of fact. Did you want to see me particularly? Oh, it’s not”— she frowned mockingly—“not that business about the shop again, surely?”
“Your husband’s firm. No, not that,” Purbright glanced around. “I hoped you might let me know when it would be convenient for me to have a word with you.”
“Urgent?”
“Moderately.”
“Look, then: I’m dying for a cup of tea after that appalling journey. Why not come into Harlow’s here? It won’t be too hectic at this time of day.”
They took refuge in one of the inglenooky seats and Mrs Carobleat gave her order to a girl exhausted with the effort of carrying countless roast-lamb-onces to relays of predatory female shoppers.
When the crockery had ceased to vibrate from its percussive assembly before them, Purbright looked at his companion and said: “I only hope this will be construed as proper. I don’t normally interrogate in teashops.”
“You’re surely not afraid of being unfrocked or disbarred or something,” said Mrs Carobleat, warily testing the almost red-hot handle of a teapot that contained, paradoxically, lukewarm tea.
“We coppers never quite reconcile ourselves to living in a perpetual draught of uncharitable thoughts.”
“That’s what comes of being such a suspicious lot yourselves.” She spooned sugar evenly into both cups without asking if Purbright took it, added milk and poured the tea. She took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her suit, lit one, and pushed the packet across the table. “Now then, what are you after?” she asked, as if Purbright were a small boy suspiciously anxious to wash up.
“Where did you spend last night, Mrs Carobleat?” The question was mildly put, yet it sounded incisive.
“Oho, something new, not the silly old shop business again, after all.”
“That, as village constables are supposed to say, is as maybe.”
She stirred her tea reflectively. “May I ask why you want to know?”
“You tell me first. Then I’ll let you have a question.”
“All right, then. Where did I spend last night? Most of it, I should say, at The Brink of Discovery.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry; it’s a geographical joke, but perhaps you don’t know Shropshire. The Brink of Discovery is a pub, a small hotel rather, on the far side of Shrewsbury.”
“Rather remote from Flaxborough?”
“I think it’s my turn, isn’t it, inspector? The reason for you asking, please.”
“Your next-door neighbour was murdered last night.” Purbright’s expression remained pleasant but his eyes were intent.
