“Well, it is quite a nice road. I remember old Abbott and his sister used to live in that place with a yellow gate, up at the park end.” He paused, frowning. “You know, this is going to drop the values a bit.”
Purbright observed a short, respectful silence. He resumed: “One thing is abundantly clear: the murder wasn’t done on the spur of the moment. If Periam had killed Hopjoy during that quarrel and without premeditation, how could he have set about getting rid of the body so efficiently? A carboy of acid isn’t something you keep handy around the house, and you’d hardly be able to nip out and buy one at that time of night.”
“One might steal it,” suggested the Chief Constable. “It would be a good time for that.”
Purbright acknowledged the possibility, but thought that burglary on top of murder was cramming rather a lot into one night.
“The acid must have been obtained beforehand and hidden in readiness—not necessarily at the house, although there’s an inspection pit in the garage that would have served very well.”
Mr Chubb nodded sagely. “I grant premeditation.”
“Which leads us,” Purbright said, “to two further points of some importance. Firstly, the chances of Hopjoy’s having been killed and, shall we say, liquidated by anyone not actually living in the same house must be considered very remote indeed. The whole situation, before and after the crime, demanded what might be termed residential qualifications—privacy, time, freedom from the curiosity of neighbours, knowledge of the house itself. Periam really is the only candidate, you know, sir.”
The Chief Constable thoughtfully inspected the lapel of his jacket. “Put like that...I suppose there wouldn’t be much point in propounding the roving maniac, much as one would like to. I can’t say I know this Periam myself, but he’s a decent type by all accounts. Why on earth should he want to do such a frightful thing?”
“Precisely, sir. That’s the second point I wanted to bring out. His motive must have been of pathological intensity.”
“Any money involved?”
“Far from it. Hopjoy seems to have left nothing but debts. Even the car was going to be snatched back by the hire purchase people.”
“Debts?” Mr Chubb stared. “But what about the work he was supposed to be doing? I mean, a man in his position would never risk...”
“Oh, but he did, sir. You haven’t forgotten the Arliss business, surely.”
“Arliss?”
“The tailor. He wanted us to do Hopjoy for false pretences. We’d quite a job cooling him down.”
Mr Chubb made show of searching his memory. “Ah...that was Hopjoy, was it?”
“It was. He told Arliss that the suit had been impounded by M.I.5 because one of his machinists was suspected of passing micro-film in hollow fly buttons.”
“And did they get the fellow?”
“Hopjoy, you mean, sir?”
“No, the fellow who was doing that button trick. Nobody thought to tell me afterwards what happened.”
It dawned on Purbright that the point of the affair had eluded Mr Chubb completely. “I suppose,” he said, “that he was investigated. Probably put on less sensitive work—cuffs, maybe.”
When the Chief Constable spoke again, it was with the careful tone of a man aware of his own inadequate sense of the ridiculous and determined not to betray it by rebuking flippancy. Mr Chubb did not so much mind his subordinates being impertinent—that was, after all, a form of acknowledging inferiority; what he dreaded was that any of them might say something really funny without his recognizing it.
“Be that as it may,” said Mr Chubb. “I agree that robbery seems out. Do you suppose Periam was being threatened, then? Paying the other chap money, I mean?”
“That’s unlikely, sir. We’ve checked Periam’s accounts; there’s no indication of extortion.”
Mr Chubb gazed upwards. There came to him a thought he found difficult to express. “One doesn’t like to be uncharitable,” he began, “but perhaps we shouldn’t ignore... Well, two fellows on their own in the same house...”
Purbright rescued him. “The record leaves no doubt of Hopjoy’s having been almost aggressively heterosexual, sir.”
“Oh, was he? I’m glad to hear it. One knows that sort of thing goes on, of course...Still, I wouldn’t like to think of you having to fish in those waters.”
The inspector was glancing through his notebook record of the conversations at Brockleston. “Do you know the Neptune Hotel, sir?” he asked, without looking up.
“I think I went into the place once,” said Mr Chubb, guardedly. “A bit on the flashy side.”
“Decidedly,” Purbright agreed. “It struck me as a slightly off-key choice for a honeymoon. Periam was mother-ridden, though; perhaps the Neptune appealed as a symbol of emancipation. Also it could have been in line with his role as seducer; that was Hopjoy’s girl he married, you know.”
“Really?”
“Which is another curious feature. One would have thought that it was Hopjoy who had cause to kill Periam, not the other way round. Husbands are sometimes eliminated from triangles, but I don’t think I can recall a case of fiancecide. Anyway, it’s the rejected suitor who is apt to be violent, not his successor.”
“Do you think the girl knows what’s been going on?”
Purbright considered. “I’m not at all sure. There’s a certain ruthlessness about her. I wonder if you can imagine a bed-hopping Sunday school teacher...”
