She took a sheet of hotel notepaper from the letter rack beside the pot of cyclamen, then decided against it. No—no address at this stage. At the top of a piece of her own pale sepia, deckle-edged stationery she wrote simply: c/o Handclasp House.
The rest of the letter flowed easily enough.
Dear Mr 4112,
I was so pleased to receive your letter this morning. It had been forwarded to me very promptly and it gave me a nice feeling of being less of a stranger in my new surroundings.
Now what can I tell you about myself?
I am unmarried (there, that is one thing you can put yourself at ease about!) and—like you, it seems—have no demands on my time. This can be rather a bore, of course, but I manage to keep myself occupied with walking (Nature is a never-failing source of delight, don’t you agree?); also with trying my prentice hand at writing (not much success so far, alas!); and with dull, womanly things like needlework.
Perhaps I should mention one little weakness as well. I have a passion—quite damaging to my bank account!—for haunting antique shops. Flaxborough has already captured me in this respect.
Do you like old things? They are a great reassurance, I think, in this world of the tawdry and second- rate.
And of course, if you will forgive me for sounding terribly unfeminine and practical, antiques are a marvellous investment.
Anything else? Oh, yes. You may smile, but I love the sea! Of course, I couldn’t help noticing that you are a Navy man. But I must say nothing of my secret ambition or you will think me silly and romantic and quite, quite unrealistic.
Sincerely yours,
347
Miss Teatime folded and put the sheet straight into its envelope. She never re-read her own letters before posting them. Apart from having confidence born of long practice, she knew that the embellishments and addenda that a second reading might inspire would give the thing a calculated look. And that would never do. Spontaneity, she reflected as she daintily tongue-tipped the envelope flap, was everything.
She stayed in the bedroom long enough to finish the cheroot she had lighted as an encouragement of literary invention. Then she put on her coat and a hat, one of three bought the previous day during what explorers and hunters would call a gear collection and pocketed the letter. It would save time to take it round herself. Anyway, it was a nice day for a walk and she had noticed already how many attractive old inns there were to be examined in Flaxborough.
An intinerary of a very different kind was being planned at that moment by Inspector Purbright.
He had on the desk before him the list compiled by Mrs Staunch. It was of five numbers, names and addresses, together with such personal details of each nominee as apparently had been considered relevant to his matrimonial prospects.
“Know anything about Joseph Capper, Sid?”
Sergeant Love, who had been standing looking out of the window, suddenly swung round.
“Joe Capper, out at Borley Cross?”
“Aye. Home Farm.”
“Why, the crafty old bugger! He’s got one already.”
“You mean he’s married?”
“Has been for years. He lives in the farmhouse and she shacks up in one of the outbuildings.”
“It sounds an amicable arrangement.”
“Oh, it’s not arranged,” Love said. “It’s just that Joe happens to be winning at the moment. Six months ago, it was the woman who was in the house while Joe lived in the barn. They think up tricks to get each other out. Sort of ding-dong siege.”
“Then what the hell is he doing with this marriage bureau lark?”
Love shrugged. “Trying to get reinforcements, I expect.”
The inspector read aloud from his list: “ ‘312; Joseph Capper, Home Farm, Borley Cross...a stay-at-home but no stick-in-the-mud, a man with acres and a mind of his own who would share his home with a lady desirous of locking out her worries...’ ”
“Not half,” said the sergeant.
“ ‘His hobbies are home-made wine and shooting...’ ”
“Is that the word it uses—
“It is,” confirmed Purbright. “Never mind, though; I can’t see him being our man. I’ll pay him a visit, just as a check, but whoever worked over Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister must have spent more time on it than Mr Capper is likely to have had to spare.
“Now then, who’s next...? 316; William C. Singleton, 14 Byron Road...Do you know him?”
Love shook his head.
“He’s a retired waterworks engineer, apparently. Good sense of humour...handy about the house...wants sympathetic woman to share beautiful garden...” Purbright looked up. “You can have that one, Sid.”
The sergeant copied the address.
“Lot 324,” Purbright resumed. “Plume, George; Prospect House, Beale Street...”
“You can cross
