and easing her shoes half off under the inspector’s desk, which served as a bench of justice on these occasions.
‘The prisoner,’ she repeated to herself in a flutter of anticipation. Dr Hillyard a prisoner. One could hardly believe it. He was such a masterful man. With iron-grey hair—yes, that was the word, iron-grey—and penetrating eyes. Dour, perhaps, but that was because he was Scotch. Scottish, rather; they preferred being called that. And if it hadn’t been for the drink, they said, he’d be in Harley Street today. But what a shocking thing he was supposed to have done. A disorderly house. It sounded comic in a way. People went to Dr Hillyard with disorders and now his house had caught one. No, it wouldn’t do for her to giggle while she was asking him if he had any objection to being remanded in custody. It was a serious business, all right—and wouldn’t it lay her lunch companions by their ears. Half of them were probably his patients. They’d be absolutely green...
The station sergeant knocked and entered the room. “I’m very sorry you’re being kept waiting, ma’am, but from what we hear there’s been some difficulty in apprehending the defendant.”
“That’s all right, constable. I’m quite comfortable,” Mrs Popplewell assured him with a dignified smile.
The sergeant glanced meaningfully at his striped sleeve and inquired: “Would you happen to care for a cup of coffee, ma’am? I can easily send one of the constables out for one.”
Mrs Popplewell reddened slightly and said it was most kind of him but she would rather not. Was there, by the way, any suggestion of the, er, defendant being out of town or anything?
The sergeant said he could not speak as to that, but no doubt the inspector would soon be back, with or without the prisoner, and she could then ask him the reason for the delay.
Purbright in fact appeared a few minutes later. He wished Mrs Popplewell good morning, ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his chin. “We seem,” he told her, “to have been a little premature in asking you to come along. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Not at all,” she said, hiding her disappointment in an unnecessary search for her handbag which lay just at her elbow. “You cannot help it if people beat you to the draw, as it were.” She laughed and added as casually as she could contrive: “Where’s he off to, do you think?”
“That’s rather hard to say. All we know is that he is not at his home and, according to his receptionist, not on his rounds, either. But he’ll turn up, Mrs Popplewell; don’t you worry.”
It was, of course, Purbright who was doing the worrying. He reproached himself for not having gathered up the doctor the night before. There was enough trouble afoot without having to use his limited resources on one of those sordid and time-wasting searches of empty buildings, hedges and ditches, harbour, river and canals. Dragging...he shuddered at the thought. Reluctantly, Mrs Popplewell took her leave. Purbright made one or two telephone calls, then went outside again and started the car. He was driving off when he caught sight of Love, crossing the road towards the police station. “No luck?” Purbright asked.
Love shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Not only that,” he said, “but another one’s gone as well. Bradlaw isn’t there. His housekeeper or whoever she is told me he went out early in the van. He didn’t say where or why.”
“Had Hillyard been there, did she know?”
“She said she didn’t hear anyone else.”
“Never mind. Stay with me now and we’ll go over to Gwill’s place and the wily widow woman’s. I’ve asked for a watch to be kept for Hillyard’s car. Oh...” He paused in the act of releasing the hand-brake and opened the car door. “Hang on a minute; I’d better tell them to look out for Bradlaw’s wagon as well, now.”
When he returned, Love asked: “Why should the pair of them be making a break—if that’s what they are doing? Hillyard can’t know about that warrant and we’ve nothing on Bradlaw.”
The inspector shrugged. “The more the corpses, the closer the survivors will stick together. That particular board of directors has narrowed considerably of late.”
The car turned into Heston Lane and sped past the tall villas behind their hedges of evergreen and the mournful laurels. As it slowed just before the last two houses, Purbright said: “You’d better see if you can root any sense out of the Poole woman, Sid. I’ll try next door.” They got out. Purbright left Love regarding the now closed gates of The Aspens.
A moment later he stopped in his tracks to Mrs Carobleat’s porch. Love had called out loudly and excitedly. Purbright frowned and walked back to the road. He was met by the sergeant, glowing and gesticulating. “Don’t froth,” said Purbright testily. He found demonstrative policemen as embarrassing as sentimental lawyers, or muscular clergymen.
Love led him back to the entrance to The Aspens. They entered the drive and turned. Love pointed to the handle that lifted the latch securing one wrought-iron gate to the other.
“Where have you seen that before?” he asked in cryptic triumph.
Purbright grunted and bent down to look more closely at the handle.
The iron had new, bright rust upon it where it had been scraped or rubbed clean fairly recently. It was wheel-shaped and about three inches in diameter. The spokes were decorative and formed a flower pattern, rather like a daffodil.
“Yes,” said Purbright, standing up. “Yes, indeed.” He began examining the rest of the iron-work from the central leaf to the heavy timber pillars that supported the gates.
At the top of the right-hand gate, near the wooden post and on a level with his head, he found another scarlet patch of recent rust. He pointed it out to Love and said: “Here’s where Gwill’s volts were introduced, Sid. And here”—he made as if to grasp the iron daffodil with his other hand—“is where they were delivered.”
“Just what I thought,” said Love. “That’s why I...”
“Of course,” said Purbright. “You were quite right to mention it.” He gazed at the hedge that divided the front garden of The Aspens from its neighbour. “A cable run along that and clipped to the top of the gate. It couldn’t have been spotted in the dark. Probably not in daylight, for that matter. The question is, Which house was it led from? Gwill’s or Mrs Carobleat’s?”
Followed by Love, he moved slowly along the side of the hedge, scrutinizing the frost-hardened earth beneath
