turkeys contended for right of way in and out of a third. Perhaps there were upper storeys, though. Very useful to a good tactician...
He heard bolts being drawn and swung round to face the door again. There was a quickly widening gap. Then an arm shot out. In the next second he was stumbling into a big, dim room that smelled of bacon and paraffin. As the door thumped shut, something crashed against the outer step. It sounded very like a bottle.
“You should have come round to the other side, mister,” said a slow, faintly reproving voice. Purbright found it difficult to associate the voice with the piston-like arm that had whisked him into sanctuary. He looked at their owner’s face and saw his old friend the eye, now revealed to have an associate.
“Now then,” said Mr Capper.
“Now then,” said Purbright amicably. He sat in the chair towards which Mr Capper had nodded and gazed round the room, taking his time. Country visitors, he knew, were fully expected to go through this settling-in process before even announcing their identity. In these more civilized parts, one wasn’t treated to a threshold frisking for information, as for hidden weapons; it was for the caller to offer it when he thought fit.
“I’ve just come over from Flax,” Purbright said.
“Oh, aye,” said Mr Capper.
“I’m a police inspector, actually. Purbright.”
“How do you do.”
“How do you do, Mr Capper.”
“Fair.”
“Barley looks well. That’ll not leave you with much straw.”
“It’s a new one, that. Supposed to be all head and no arse.”
“That’s how you want it.”
“Aye.”
Joe Capper might well have been fed on his new barley. He, too, had a large robust head, from which hair grew upwards in spikes. A nicely ripened complexion considerably modified the effect of the redness of his eyes. His body, though scarcely stalk-like, was short and lean. He wore a heavy tweed jacket, ancient, mudstained jodhpurs, and a pair of Wellingtons so many sizes too big that Purbright could have sworn that they sent echoes of his conversation-back up his legs.
“Like a drink?”
“I should,” said the inspector.
Mr Capper went to a wooden cupboard the size of a bus shelter. Within its depths Purbright saw the window light reflected from the glazed bellies of half a dozen of the kind of stone jar that in the country is called a grey hen. Joe carried back to him a tumbler of honey-coloured liquid.
“Hollyhock,” he announced.
Purbright accepted the diagnosis without the least sign of alarm. “Cheers!” he said.
“All the best,” responded Mr Capper, going into a resolute swig.
Purbright took a sip. A team of horses with white-hot hoofs galloped down his throat.
“Very nice,” he said.
For a minute or two, a comfortable silence was maintained. Again Purbright let his gaze wander round the room. He was wondering how Mr Capper managed to go about his tasks on the farm without serious risk of the fortress falling in his absence.
He looked at the window and saw something he had not noticed before. To its catch was fastened a cord that ran upwards and over a hook in one of the ceiling beams. And suspended from this cord, revolving gently in a draught from the window, was a china vase of great size and tortuous design.
Mr Capper saw the direction his guest’s interest had taken.
“Real heirloom, that is,” he said.
“Ah?”
“The wife’s very fond of it.”
“I should think so.”
There was another pause, by no means uneasy. Purbright boldly tilted his glass and endured a second stampede of infernal stallions past his gullet. This time the after effects were quite pleasant; he felt capable and cunning.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you know anything about jury service?”
“Not the first thing,” said Mr Capper.
Good, thought Purbright. “The point is,” he went on, “that you’re down to be called to quarter sessions next week. I suppose that would be a bit awkward for you—as a farmer, I mean.”
“Bloody awkward.” Mr Capper glanced anxiously at the window and the pendant heirloom.
“In that case it might not be a bad idea for you to authorize your wife to take your place.”
“For me to
“Oh, no. We’d do the calling. All you need do is to give permission in writing. I’ll take it now, if you like.”
