sounds so unlike Bradlaw.”
“And unlike Mrs Carobleat too, I suppose?”
Purbright smiled. “Oh, yes...Mrs Carobleat. As it happens, she’s the only one with an alibi for the night Gwill was murdered.”
“You’ve checked that?” A gleam of recollection showed suddenly in Chubb’s face. “Of course...your little trip to Shropshire. How did you get on?”
“It should prove useful, sir. For one thing, we found where Mrs Carobleat was in the habit of staying. And we learned of the existence of a gentleman called Barnaby.”
“Barnaby?”
“Yes, sir. The local people are looking for him now.”
“You mean he’ll be able to help?”
“I doubt it, sir. We can but try.”
The Chief Constable looked fixedly at Purbright for several moments. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re hedging to a perfectly scandalous degree. No”—he raised his hand—“don’t spoil it, my dear fellow; I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” He rose, walked to the desk and picked up his gloves. “There’s just one little thing I must ask of you, though.”
“Yes, sir?” Purbright also was standing. He met Chubb’s gaze with a politely solicitous eye.
“Arrest your murderer or murderers within the next twenty-four hours, or I shall ask Scotland Yard to give me assistance.” He reached for the door. “I thought you should know how I’m placed. I’m the last to want some outsider to scoop the credit for what you and your chaps have done. But you do see that I cannot possibly delay any longer.”
Chubb put on his bowler with the air of an overdrawn patron of the arts and stepped into the corridor, which was darkened at that moment by the approach of the enormous Sergeant Malley.
The Coroner’s Officer squeezed his bulk respectfully to one side and allowed the Chief Constable to pass. Then he lumbered up to Purbright’s door, knocked and went in.
“Ah, sergeant,” Purbright greeted him, “I have a little commission for you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The day before yesterday we were anxious to have a word with Nab Bradlaw. He couldn’t be found. I rather think he was out of town. Now, then, you’re
“Bradlaw’s fellows know me.”
“Fine. Well, I’d like you to try and tap somebody at his place now. See if you can find out where he went the other day. Don’t scare them, though—Nab least of all.”
Malley grinned. “You don’t have to worry about that, sir. I’m pretty unobtrusive. If Ben or Charlie know anything, I’ll worm it out of them.”
On his way out, Malley turned. “By the way, inspector, do you reckon this little lot is nearly tidied up? Old Amblesby’s in a terrible state. I can’t do anything with him. He’s like a kid who’s lost his hoop.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Well, he’s never had two inquests hanging fire at one and the same time before. There’s Gwill, of course. He would have forgotten about that but for the adjournment on Gloss the other day. That reminded him. Now he’s going around muttering that half the town’s been murdered and his books are cluttered up with corpses.”
“Would that Her Majesty’s Coroner were among them,” piously declared Purbright, closing his door.
At half-past nine exactly, the inspector and Sergeant Love presented themselves at Dr Hillyard’s surgery. Purbright informed him with the greatest respect that he was being arrested and explained some of the implications of that surprising circumstance.
Dr Hillyard glowered a good deal but made no comment.
Shortly before ten o’clock, the three men entered the police station and, on a cue from the assistant clerk to the magistrates, walked into Purbright’s office where Mrs Popplewell, J.P., was waiting to make the best of a redeemed opportunity. She was accompanied by a Mr Peters, a comatose draper whose shop was so near the police station that the kindness of leading him off for an airing whenever a little uncomplicated justice needed doing had become traditional.
Dr Hillyard regarded Mrs Popplewell with acid amusement throughout the brief formalities of the assistant clerk stumbling through the charge, Purbright giving evidence of arrest, and Mrs Popplewell herself announcing lamely and with every sign of nervousness that he, the defendant, would be remanded in custody for a week. Then he drew back his lips from the dog daisy of his splayed teeth and grinned a contemptuous and malevolent farewell before turning to accompany the station sergeant to the cells next to the table tennis room.
“Dear me!” said Mrs Popplewell to Mr Peters. “And to think that his late wife was once chosen by the Association to entertain Mr Baldwin to supper.”
Chapter Nineteen
“How did you make out?” Purbright asked Malley, whom he found awaiting him.
“I kept clear of Nab Bradlaw. He was busy in that chapel-cum-fridge of his. But I had a word with Ben and Charlie, and they said he’d been out with the van all that day and most of the night. Charlie lives nearly opposite the yard and he heard him coming back about five yesterday morning.”
“Did they know where he’d been?”
“No, sir; but Ben thought the van’s mileage gauge had clocked on nearly four hundred.”
