“Rather more than a hint, Sid. It’s practically straight identification.”
“Of Palgrove, of course?”
“Well, who else?”
“A lover?” suggested Love, hopefully.
“...
Love’s finger moved down the page. “Look at this—
“I wonder,” Purbright said, “whom she meant by ‘they’. You see—
“The husband and a girl friend?”
“The inference is invited, certainly.”
“She could have been snooping on them.”
“It’s more likely that he was careless over some telephone conversation. As you probably noticed, he has a very penetrating voice.”
“Are you going to tackle him about the letter?”
“It will have to be put to him sooner or later.”
“And the girl friend? If there is one.”
“Ah, now that’s a question that must be pursued straight away. And very diligently.”
Love seemed to have run out of observations. Humming quietly to himself, he wandered round the room. He paused by the cocktail cabinet, tempted to set it playing its tinkly music again. Better not. He examined the opulently tubed television set, fashioned in mock Jacobean. Over to the window. Nice curtains. Very nice. If he had a house like this he’d not want to spoil everything by murdering somebody. Whatever got into people to...
“What I cannot for the life of me understand,” said Purbright, “is what good she thought this letter was going to do her. She didn’t even sign it, and she obviously changed her mind about enclosing a photograph.”
“Yes, but doesn’t it say something about writing again?”
“True.
“We don’t know that she didn’t send letters to other people,” Love said. “Maybe they just threw them away. I should.”
Purbright turned and regarded him sternly. “A fine confession from a detective sergeant.”
“Well, you must admit she sounds nutty.”
“Oh, I do,” said Purbright. He swung round again and began leafing through some letters and copies of letters that he had found. Love settled himself into an armchair and gazed dreamily out of the window. Five minutes went by.
“Hello,” the inspector said suddenly, “here’s an old friend.” He separated a sheet of paper from the rest and leaned back to study it. “Remember Miss Teatime, Sid?”
“What, the old girl from London?”
“Don’t make her sound decrepit; she’s fifty-two, actually, I believe. And very well preserved.”
Love pouted dubiously but did not argue: the inspector, he happened to know, was fifty-one. “What’s she been up to now?”
“Sabotaging a dog shelter, if we are to believe Mrs Palgrove. Mrs P seems to have sent her one of those if- the-cap-fits letters.”
“She’s pretty hot on letter-writing. Was, rather.”
“How long has Miss Teatime been concerned with Good Works, Sid?”
“No idea. All I heard was that she’d taken some sort of secretarial job in St Anne’s Gate. They reckon she has private means.”
“It’s a very sharp letter,” Purbright. said, thoughtfully. “Listen...
“You did mention,” said Love, after a pause, “that Miss Teatime is well preserved...”
“Oh, come, Sid—you mustn’t jump too far ahead. Anyway”—he looked at the date on the letter—”this was only written yesterday. It wouldn’t have reached the lady until this morning—always assuming that it was posted at all.”
Love listened, but not very attentively. He pursued his theme. “She was more than a match for that chap over at Benstone, remember.” 1
They heard the thrum of an approaching sports car.
“Pally’s back, by the sound of it,” said Love.
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