though.”
“What was on it the second time? Anything?”
“It looked like a box. I could only make out the shape. Like a shoe box.”
“A parcel, do you think? In paper and string?”
The youth considered. “I didn’t notice if it was wrapped up. The light wasn’t all that good.” He looked defensively at Purbright, who smiled and said never mind, he’d been remarkably observant and without doubt would be most successful in his chosen career.
“Oh, there’s just one other thing, Mr Leaper”—for the second time in his life Leaper was warmed by a respectful form of address and he helpfully perked his head—“Did you happen to meet or see anyone on either of the nights when you went out to Mr Biggadyke’s caravan? Apart from the lady, of course.”
“I didn’t see anyone the second time. Not as to remember.”
“And the first time?”
‘Kebble’s boy’ hesitated for only a moment before replying: “I did meet someone then. It must have been nearly midnight. I met Mr Hoole.”
The subject of this confidence, Purbright noticed, was no longer in the office. Kebble, alone, was sharpening a pencil with slow deliberation. As each shaving fell he picked it from his waistcoat and dropped it into an ashtray. Purbright walked across and sat in the chair lately vacated by Hoole. Kebble grinned at him and shut the penknife with his perilous palm-sweeping action.
“Like some coffee?” The editor squeezed out of his seat and went to a door marked Ladies. “Put an extra cup on, ducky,” he shouted at its handle.
Nearing his desk once more, he accepted one of Purbright’s cigarettes. As he was lighting it, he made with his free hand a gesture of sudden recollection and smokily announced: “Something to show you, old chap; hang on.” He bobbed down and Purbright heard a drawer open.
“This,” said Kebble, handing him a sheet of paper on which was pasted a cutting, “went in last week’s issue. What do you make of it?”
Purbright read the five lines of verse, then shrugged. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s an ‘In Memoriam’. At least, it was sent in as one. There was no name or address given but the money came with it so we printed it. I thought it was a bit odd; there seemed no harm in it, though.” He paused and added: “Now I’m not so sure.”
Purbright read the cutting again more slowly. He heard Kebble say: “Look at the date.”
“July the first.”
Kebble nodded. “The day Biggadyke blew himself up.”
“Do you mean you think he sent this in himself? A suicide proclamation, as it were?”
“What, Stan? Poetry?” The editor’s voice sounded like a skidding car.
“But you do suggest a connection?”
Kebble hitched his chair forward in a businesslike way and turned the paper sideways so that they both could read it. “I don’t know if you ever look at these ‘In Memoriam’ things,” he said, “but you can take it from me that this one’s a bit out of the ordinary. For a start, it doesn’t make sense—not that all the others do, for that matter, but at least people know what’s meant by ‘Sleep on, dear father’ provided the bloody printer hasn’t left the comma out, which has happened before now, incidentally. Then the number of lines is odd. Listen...” He intoned, with exaggerated emphasis on metre:
“The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink di-vine.
There’ll be that dark pa-rade
Of tassels and of coaches soon:
It’s easy as a sign...
“Well—you see what I mean, old chap.”
Purbright thought he did. “The thing’s curiously disjointed, isn’t it? But modern verse often is.”
“Modern?” echoed Kebble. “Oh, no; it’s not modern—not with a ’doth’ in it.”
“It’s familiar, though, somehow.” Purbright closed his eyes and murmured several times: ‘The thirst that from the soul doth rise...’
“Hoole would know,” said Kebble, watching the inspector’s face. “I should have asked him just now. He’s an expert on poetry.”
“Something to do with school,” Purbright said, his eyes still closed. “A song, surely...”
His trance was broken by the arrival of Muriel. She placed on the desk the two brimming cups she had carried carefully and silently from the place of their concoction. Purbright sniffed and opened one eye. Then he sat suddenly upright. “Drink to me only!” he exclaimed.
Muriel glanced nervously at Kebble and departed.
Purbright pointed at the cutting. “That’s it.
“Then why have the two been stuck together?” Kebble asked.
“We can come back to that. For the moment I think we might consider them separately. You don’t happen to have any verse anthologies handy, do you?”
