In the way the inspector said it, “only Pook” sounded like a formula in physics expressive of the nearest thing to non-existence.
“You could put him at the back. As a kind of stopper. I mean, if he looked obvious she might think he was the only one and nip back again to the front. So to speak,” Love concluded, doubtfully.
Purbright sighed. “We can but try. Mind you, there’s one bit of encouragement to be drawn. She must have had some good reason to dodge you on this particuar occasion. It does look as if somebody’s taken the bait.”
“I only hope he’s used to walking.”
There was a knock and the duty sergeant’s head appeared round the door.
“A lady’s asking if she can see someone about that Miss Reckitt. Will you have a word with her, sir?”
Love departed after holding the door for the entry of a very plump woman in a short yellow coat and thinking that she looked rather like a pot of mustard. Purbright rose and arranged a chair for her.
“You are...?”
“My name is Huddlestone. Miss Huddlestone. There was something in the paper about a friend...I thought you might tell me what they think has...I mean it’s something about being missing. Is that right?”
The round, flushed bespectacled face showed strain. Purbright realized that barrel-shaped women had necks too short for looking up in comfort. He went back to his chair and sat down.
“You are a friend of Martha Reckitt, are you, Miss Huddlestone?”
“That’s right, yes. I’ve known her, oh, for years.”
“And you live here in Flaxborough?”
“No, Derby. But I saw about her in the paper.” She was opening a crocodile skin handbag.
“And you’re anxious.”
“Well, of course. I didn’t know what to think when...” She passed him a cutting without looking up from the bag, in which she continued to search. “Oh, yes. Here it is.”
Purbright saw she was holding a letter. He glanced at the cutting and handed it back.
“You see, Martha and I don’t get together very often nowadays—not like we used to—but we do write to each other every now and then and keep each other up to date with the news. She tells me everything that’s been going on. Well, as I say, we’re ever such old friends, so that’s only natural. But the very last letter she wrote...”
“When was that?”
“Oh, a couple of months ago, I should think.” She looked at all three of the sheets in her hand. “It isn’t dated, actually. January, perhaps...Anyway, as I was saying, this last letter of hers was quite a big surprise. Knowing Martha, I mean. You see, she’d met this man. Wait a minute...yes, Giles something-or-other. She doesn’t give his other name. And she’s actually talking about marrying him...”
“That surprised you?”
“Certainly it did. I mean, I hadn’t an inkling that Martha had any ideas in that line. Yet here she is talking about an engagement ring and some cottage this Giles man hopes to take her to. There’s just one thing that didn’t surprise me—he’s a clergyman, apparently. Martha was always dead soft on curates. She was mixed up in a lot of church work, too—Sunday school and that sort of thing...”
“Does she say where this man’s church was supposed to be?” asked Purbright.
Miss Huddlestone shook her head. “I’ll let you read this in a minute, but there’s nothing in it about that.”
“I ask because inquiries do happen to have been made of the local church authorities and there is no unmarried clergyman in any of the parishes round about who admits even to having heard of Miss Reckitt.”
Miss Huddlestone, whose expression had been growing more animated, suddenly stiffened and looked grave.
“You’ve been taking this...this disappearance business seriously, then?”
“Very seriously, Miss Huddlestone, I assure you.”
She was silent for a few moments. Then she leaned forward and handed Purbright the letter.
“You’d better see if there’s anything there that’ll help. I warn you—some of it’s a bit sick-making...No, no— that’s very wrong of me. It’s just that she’s never written that sort of thing before. Oh, Lord! Poor old Martha...”
Miss Reckitt had left her most important news until last:
...and now I must reveal my great secret. If you were here, of course, you would see it for yourself—or rather the shining outward evidence of it. Five little diamonds, all in a row. And on the third finger of this very hand, lying beside the paper as I write. What do they spell, these five pretty stones? G-I-L-E-S. Oh, Elsie, he is such an admirable figure of a man. Strong and gentle at the same time, as befits a man of the church, and with the merriest of humours when the occasion suits. The countryside is his greatest love (next to me, that is, and truly I do not think I flatter myself) and he has shown me the quite breathtaking little cottage that he plans to be ours. (From a distance—it is not yet unoccupied.) And guess where it is, Elsie. No, I am not going to tell you, but I wonder how good your memory is nowadays—suppose I were just to say “Catch a Crab”, where would you think of? There now—if you are any good at clues, you will know exactly where Giles and I are going to live. Talking of the cottage, how glad I am now not to have touched any of Uncle Dan’s money that time when I had a fancy for a motor car. If we had to wait for the grant that has been approved by the Church Commissioners, I am sure someone else would beat us to such a wonderful “snip”, as Giles calls it (most unclerically, I’m afraid!—but I do understand what he means). Well, Elsie, so much for my great announcement, and I do hope and pray it pleases you. Now I must close as I have an important appointment with a certain gentleman.
Your ever affectionate friend,
Martha.
Purbright raised his eyes to see Miss Huddlestone watching him anxiously.
