Charity Ends At Home

Gardens...No, I can’t understand it at all.”

“You remember that letter you received, sir? The unsigned one.”

“Letter?” Mr Chubb looked politely bemused.

“Yes, sir. The one beginning ‘My Dear Friend’ and making some rather dramatic allegations...”

“Ah, that one—well, of course, it came to me in error, didn’t it. If you remember, Mr Purbright, you sent a man over especially to collect it.”

“You recall its terms, though?”

“Vaguely. Are you suggesting it might have some relevance? Whoever it was meant for, it did seem a rather wild letter.”

“I think it was meant for you, sir, and I think that we shall find that Mrs Palgrove wrote it.”

Mr Chubb counted his fingernails. Satisfied that they were all there, he said: “I suppose you’ll be wanting to cast around to see if any of the neighbours noticed what was going on last night.”

“I was going to propose that Pooke and Broadleigh start on that straight away, sir. I shall go back to the house. The husband will be either there or within call, I imagine. Perhaps a search warrant, sir, just in case...?”

Mr Chubb nodded gloomily.

Purbright went on: “I shouldn’t imagine this has anything to do with Mrs Palgrove’s death, but there has been a rather curious feud lately between the organizers of some of the local charities. They’ve been busy sabotaging one another’s efforts—or that’s what it looks like. As you know, Mrs Palgrove was a good deal involved in charity work. We shall have to satisfy ourselves that personal antagonism on somebody’s part did not sharpen into actual violence.”

The chief constable was quite shrewd enough to divine behind Purbright’s careful form of words a distinct eagerness to see this bizarre theory confirmed by events. In such a mood, the inspector tended to make him nervous.

“You must do as you think fit, Mr Purbright,” he said coolly.

Purbright remained at headquarters only long enough to acquaint Sergeant Malley with the new situation and to brief detectives Pooke and Broadleigh. Then, accopanied by Love, he drove to Brompton Gardens.

The uniformed man, Fairclough, had been rejoined by Harper and both were leaning disconsolately against the posts of the well, looking, from a distance, a little like the lion and the unicorn on the royal coat of arms.

Fairclough said that Palgrove had left an hour or so previously for his office. Purbright sent him into the house to telephone a request for Palgrove’s return. “Tell him you understand it’s fairly urgent—just fairly, mind; don’t frighten the poor man.”

To Harper, he explained a different errand. “I want this thing completely drained. You’d better go down personally to Fire Service headquarters and see Budge. One of their small pumps should be adequate. How many gallons would you say there are in that thing?”

Harper pursed his lips and scowled. He hadn’t the faintest idea.

“Twenty cubic feet?” Purbright suggested, helpfully.

Harper maintained his scowl of pretended calculation. “Mmm...nearer twenty-one.”

“Good man,” said the inspector. “Oh, and you’d better mention the fish. Budge might want to bring nets or jars or something.”

He and Love walked towards the house. Fairclough, on his way back from telephoning, paused in the doorway. “Don’t shut it,” Purbright called.

“It’s all right, sir; Mr Palgrove left us a key.”

“Very civil of him. Did you get through?”

“He’s coming at once, sir.”

In the lounge, Purbright walked directly to the writing cabinet he had noticed earlier. It was open. He sat before it, took a sheet of plain grey correspondence paper from a dozen or so lying beside a stack of the over- printed Four Foot Haven paper, and wound it into the typewriter. He typed: Dear Friend, This is an urgent appeal. I am in great danger. He withdrew the sheet and unfolded one of exactly similar size and colour and texture that he had taken from his pocket.

“Now, then, Sid; let’s see what we’ve got.”

Love stood by Purbright’s shoulder as, letter by letter, the inspector compared the typing sample he had made with the opening lines of one of the three posted appeals. The sergeant watched a pencil point hover over identically blocked e’s, then move from one to another of the p’s with slightly deformed stems. Every n was out of alignment to the same degree; every full stop had been rendered oversize by a similar amount of wear.

“She did write those letters, then,” Love said.

“I don’t think there can be much doubt of it.”

“So she must have guessed what was going to happen to her?”

“It looks rather like it.”

Love leaned lower and read the whole letter through. He pointed to the sentence: The person whose loyal and faithful companion I have been—and to whom even now my life is dedicated—intends to have me done away with.

“That’s a pretty obvious hint.”