Kebble, suspecting irony, at first made no reply. Then he noticed that Purbright was looking at him expectantly. “I can send Leonard round to the library,” he offered. “It’s only in Fen Street.”
Leaper, flattered by his being dispatched on so extraordinary an errand, returned within quarter of an hour bearing half a dozen volumes.
“We’ll probably find the Ben Jonson in Palgrave,” said Purbright in a manner so suggestive of familiarity with such things that Kebble stared quite rudely at him for several seconds.
“Yes, here we are.” Purbright quickly scanned the whole poem. “There seems nothing significant in the rest of it. Now why were those two particular lines chosen? Thirst—a spiritual thirst. That might be longing, a regret for someone dead. It fits the context of an epitaph, anyway. A drink divine, though...What would that represent, do you think?”
“Brandy,” responded Kebble, without hesitation.
“It could be some sort of spiritualist cliche. Contact with the departed, you know.” He shook his head. “No, they would incline more to abstentionist metaphor.”
There was a pause.
“What about revenge, old chap?”
“I doubt if Ben Jonson was after quite that effect. Still, he doesn’t really come into it. Vengeance it might be. That would tie with the second quotation, at any rate.”
“The ‘dark parade’ bit?”
“Yes. You notice the future tense. Threatening, isn’t it?”
Kebble looked again at the cutting, his lips moving. Suddenly he shut his eyes tightly and groaned. “Damn me if I havn’t only just tumbled! A funeral!”
“Oh, yes,” said Purbright with mild surprise. “ ‘Tassels and coaches’—an evocative phrase.” He was about to close the book when something caught his attention. He looked up at Kebble. “Do you know anyone called Celia?”
“Celia...no, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Well, everyone thinks of this poem—or the song, rather—as ‘Drink to me only’. But its actual title is ‘To Celia’.” He picked up the cutting. “These things refer to anniversaries, don’t they, as a rule?”
“Always. The genuine ones do, anyway,” Kebble added grimly.
“Do you think that if you worked back through the files you might come across someone called Celia who died on the first of July?”
“Possibly. Provided a death notice was put in at the time.”
Kebble went over to a recess packed with tall, broad, leather-bound volumes. As he carried one back, clutching it before him so that it entirely concealed his body from neck to knee, Purbright received the grotesque impression of a book walking.
“Last year’s,” puffed Kebble, setting it with a great slam on the desk.
As if conjured by the sound. Sergeant Worple appeared at that moment in the doorway. “Good morning, Inspector,” he called across to Purbright. “They said I’d be likely to find you in here, sir.”
“Oh, they did, did they?” Purbright was beginning to wonder if the hidden army of his observers would follow him for the rest of his life, cheerfully and loyally camping at a discreet distance from wherever he might choose to visit.
“Yes, sir,” said Warple, unabashed. “Chief Inspector Larch would be much obliged if you could spare him a minute or two as soon as it’s convenient.”
Purbright said he found it convenient there and then. Before he left he suggested to Kebble that Leaper might enjoy the novelty of seeking the source of the second quotation.
At the police station, Purbright found Larch standing before his desk. He looked rather like a prison governor putting a cheerful, fatherly face on the announcement of a refused stay of execution.
“Come in, Mr Purbright. I have a message for you from the Chief Constable.” He pushed back a tray of papers from the front of the desk and perched there, his long fingers drumming his knee. “I don’t quite appreciate its significance myself, but doubtless you will understand. He asked me to tell you that the explosive he was worried about has turned up. Or rather”—Larch looked coldly amused—“somebody has discovered that it was never really missing.”
“I see,” said Purbright.
Larch’s smile broadened. “It seems that the Civil Defence Officer had several cases moved to another store two or three months ago so that he could park his golf clubs there. He’d forgotten all about it.”
“How very remiss of him.”
“Fun and games, eh, Mr Purbright? You didn’t tell me you shared the Chief’s concern over that explosive. Now I suppose you’ll have to—what’s the word?—reorientate your theories.”
“Any theories of mine about Biggadyke’s death—and I suppose that is what you’re talking about—are quite without importance. If you care to think of me as an ineffectual and discredited interloper, by all means do so. Now that this affair has translated itself, as it were, it only remains for me to do likewise.” Purbright held out his hand.
“You’re not leaving us?”
Purbright smiled pleasantly at the author of this somewhat crude acidity. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I’m afraid I must. The traffic’s simply dreadful in Flaxborough at this time of year. But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle a little local murder case without any help from me.”
