“Not much use, is it,” she said.
“Rather less illuminating than I could have wished. There are one or two interesting points, though.” He glanced once again over the final page. “This cottage, now...”
“She doesn’t say where it is.”
“She’s offered you a clue.”
Miss Huddlestone gave a little puff of derision. “Oh, that’s typical of Martha. Clues. She loves making mysteries of things.”
“But this one is decidedly odd. ‘Catch a Crab.’ Doesn’t it mean anything at all to you?”
She pondered, slowly shaking her head.
“It sounds rather like something to do with rowing,” persisted Purbright. “You know—boats. It’s when you fall back because the oar’s missed the water. You can’t think of an incident of that kind?”
“I’ve never rowed a boat in my life.”
That, Purbright reflected, I can believe. He said: “And what about Miss Reckitt? Did you ever go on a river with her?”
Again Miss Huddlestone looked dubious. No, she could remember nothing about rivers or boats.
“Never mind,” said Purbright at last. “But I should like you to keep having a go at it in your own mind. Something might occur to you.”
She promised to persevere.
“Now another thing,” the inspector went on. “Can you say anything about this money she mentions?”
“Well, only that it was left her by this Uncle Dan of hers. I don’t think I ever met him.”
“This was some years ago?”
“A fair while. About ten years, I should say.”
“Was it much?”
“Depends what you call much. Three hundred—perhaps four. But she kept it in the savings bank all the time, so I suppose there’ll be the interest as well now.”
Purbright nodded. There did not seem to be much else he could learn from Miss Huddlestone. He made a note of her address and said that she would be informed if and when the whereabouts of her friend became known. He said nothing of his own far from sanguine opinion of Miss Reckitt’s chances.
Miss Huddlestone trotted stumpily to the door. Purbright opened it but instead of leaving she stood looking down at one plump little hand as if wondering however she had got it into its glove.
“You know, I don’t at all like the sound of that clergyman,” she said quietly.
Purbright pushed the door nearly closed.
“You don’t?”
“Partly prejudice, actually, I’ve never cared for clergymen very much. Those awful black modesty vest things...and a smell of candles and wardrobes...” The inspector waited.
Miss Huddlestone gave a resolute sniff. “No, they’re all right really, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have thought a whirlwind courtship much in their line. And why should he want to buy a cottage? I always understood the church provided accommodation.”
“It is usual, I believe.”
“Another thing. I don’t want to sound disloyal, or anything, but let’s face it, poor old Martha was no catch. A diamond ring, for heaven’s sake...”
“Miss Huddlestone, you said earlier that your friend is keen on church work and inclined to admire the sort of people with whom that work would bring her into contact—curates, I think, you mentioned specifically.”
“Oh, yes. Soppy about them.”
“Do you know of any particular clergyman she was friendly with?”
“Not off hand.”
“Try and think.”
“Well, there is one, but I’m not sure that he counts as a proper clergyman. They do know each other, though. As a matter of fact, he’s a young chap from my own home town.”
“Not Mr Leaper?”
“That’s him. He hangs out in some tin-pot place in Northgate. I remember him as a kid in Chalmsbury—queer lad with a nose like a carrot.”
So did Purbright. Seven years before, Leonard Leaper had been the junior reporter on the
“The Reverend Leaper,” murmured Purbright ruminatively. He recalled having seen Mr Leaper only the
