Trevor, neglected, emitted a stream of staccato squawking that sounded like enamel being chiselled off a saucepan bottom. Purbright shivered. Mrs Sayers lovingly tapped the bars of the cage with her fingernail and reached for another biscuit.
“What you mean, I suppose, is that Gordon’s missing? But how extraordinary. Couldn’t he be on holiday, or something?”
“That is what we should very much like to know. When I received your message, I was hopeful that you might be able to tell us something definite.”
“Oh, naturally I shall do all I can to help, inspector. Mrs Periam was a very dear friend of mine. And Gordon was a crutch to her; I can’t think of any other word. I wonder...” She paused. “Have you by any chance had a word with Mrs Wilson? She’s next to the Periams on the other side.”
“We did make some enquiries there. She wasn’t able to tell us much.”
Mrs Sayers gave a quick satisfied nod. “No, Mrs Wilson keeps pretty well to herself.” She thought again. “Then there’s Mrs Cork and her Miriam. They overlook at the back, you know. Have you tried them?”
“We shall bear them in mind,” Purbright said, patiently. Trevor hooted and began to peck at its perch in a sudden transport of paranoia. “Choodle scrmsh,” murmured Mrs Sayers.
“Mr Periam has lived in the house next door all his life, I take it.”
“Oh, yes; he was born there. I remember how relieved we all were. She’d had a terrible time with him. Dr Peters wouldn’t let her stir for the last four months. She lived on arrowroot and tonic wine and a woman called Dursnip or something like that used to call every Tuesday and Friday to massage the water up out of her legs. Of course, having babies nowadays is a dreadfully off-hand business, isn’t it?”
“Relatively so,” confirmed Purbright.
“And yet she used to say to me that Gordon had made up for all she’d gone through and more besides. Every time he did some little thing for her she’d say that was another jewel God would put in his crown. She was a bit religious, you know. Well, I think it helped her when she lost her husband. Mastoid. Gordon wore a scarf every time he went out, winter and summer, right up to being nineteen or twenty. She was afraid it might have been passed on, but I think you can make too much of these things don’t you?”
“Mr Periam wa...isn’t married?”
Mrs Sayers pouted and drew in a quick breath of denial.
“Girl friends?”
Mrs Sayers considered. “There is a young lady who calls sometimes. I’d always supposed she belonged to the other one—Mr Hopjoy, you know; I think he’s more that sort. But I wouldn’t swear to it. Gordon’s losing his mother might have made a difference.”
“Was Mr Periam on good terms with Mr Hopjoy? You’ve never heard them fall out with each other?”
“No, I haven’t. Gordon has a sunny nature, though; I’m sure he’d get on with anyone. I’d call him staunch, too. Mind, between ourselves, the lodger’s a bit of a fly-by-night. It says a lot for Gordon that he’s let him stay on. I think it’s because he feels his mother would have expected him to.”
“Mrs Periam thought well of Mr Hopjoy, then?”
Mrs Sayers gave the sort of smile with which one forgives the follies of the dead. “She saw only the good in everyone.”
Trevor, now tramping rhythmically on its perch, cackled derisively. Mrs Sayers held up a finger, inviting Purbright’s attention to the oracle. “Get me serviette, mother; get me serviette, mother,” she translated. “Well, I never,” said the inspector.
After an interval he deemed long enough to signify admiration, Purbright resumed his questioning.
“Do you happen to know who owns the car that’s garaged next door?”
“Oh, yes; that’s Mr Hopjoy’s. Is it there now?”
“Not at the moment. When did you last see it, Mrs Sayers?”
“About a week ago, I should think. I can’t say just...” She frowned. “It’s a biggish car. Beige. And ever so quiet.” She opened her eyes to see if the inspector would accept this information as a substitute for what he had wanted to know.
“But you can’t remember—to a day or so, even—when you saw it last. And who was driving it.”
She shook her head. “I’m not awfully observant of cars. And of course they both drive it a good deal; I suppose Mr Hopjoy lends it when he doesn’t want it for his work.”
“I see. Now, Mrs Sayers, I’m going to ask you to think back very carefully to last Thursday just one week ago today. Does anything happen on Thursdays that might fix one in your mind?”
“Well, there’s the laundry...and the Brains Trust on television...” She paused, seemingly unable to peer past so notable a peak, then suddenly patted her knee. “Thursday—yes, I remember last Thursday; of course I do. It was Thursday that Arnold arrived. My second brother. He called on his way down from Hull.”
“Fine. Now try going over in your mind what happened that day—from one thing to the next, you know—and see if anything links up with next door. Never mind whether it seems important or not. Start right from getting up in the morning.”
Mrs Sayers, benignly co-operative, folded her hands and launched into a meticulous description of a day in the life of a Flaxborough widow. She spoke for nearly twenty minutes. Purbright learned, among many, many other things, three facts of possible relevance to his inquiry. On opening the door to take in the milk, Mrs Sayers had noticed Gordon Periam bolting back his gates. Some sixteen hours later, just before making up her brother’s bed, she had looked down from the spare bedroom window to see Mr Hopjoy’s car draw up. Gordon Periam—she was almost sure it was Gordon—got out and began unlocking the garage door. Finally, Mrs Sayers recalled a little vaguely having been awakened by the shutting of a door—that of the garage, she thought—and hearing a car with a quiet engine drive away. She did not know at what time this happened, but she had the impression that it was two
