Charity Ends At Home

The inspector, too, became more businesslike in manner.

“At the moment, everything points to the husband. He’s given a hopelessly unsatisfactory account of himself—two accounts, in fact; one disproved and the other unlikely. There’s not much material evidence, but that wasn’t to be expected, anyway. What there is, he can’t even begin to explain. His cigarette case in the water under the body, for instance. And those letters she sent to people. There’s no doubt at all that she wrote them.”

“Where does he say he was at the time when his wife was drowned?”

“At first he said he’d been to Leicester that night and had slept in his car after stopping on the road home. Unluckily for him, the car had just been serviced and the mileage recorded on the service log made nonsense of his story. He didn’t even try and bluster it out. He changed it altogether.”

“And do you believe the second story?”

“I accept it because it cannot be disproved, sir. Not on what evidence we have. And if he’s still lying, the odd thing about this second tale is that it does him no good at all.

“The Palgroves bought themselves a cottage a couple of years ago, you see, sir. It’s a few miles out along the Brocklestone road. At Hambourne Dyke. They used to spend week-ends there, but the novelty eventually wore off and they went more and more rarely. What Palgrove now says is that he stayed in that cottage during the whole of the night of his wife’s death.”

“What reason did he give for that?”

“He said he needed to be on his own occasionally. He denied ever quarrelling seriously with his wife but said she had a forceful personality that was liable to get on his nerves. That night just happened to be one when he felt this compulsion to have a spell of solitude.”

Mr Chubb considered. “It does sound reasonable, you know Mr Purbright.”

“On the face of it, yes. So why the tale about going to Leicester? Which, incidentally, he’d told in advance to his secretary at the factory.”

“Oh, I think that’s easily enough explained. It was the excuse he’d prepared for his wife. No woman likes to think that her husband is spending a night away from home simply because he wants a rest from her.”

Purbright’s brow lifted slighily. “Oh, I see, Sir. I’m aftaid that wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

Mr Chubb looked uncomfortable.

“There is something else I ought to mention,” Purbright went on. “The suggestion is strong that Palgrove has for some time been having an afair with a married woman. “This would be a much more cogent reason for his going out to the cottage than a sudden desire for solitude. He doesn’t strike me as the contemplative type.”

“Do you know who the woman is?”

“Not yet, sir. But I expect to, shortly. Sergeant Love is very resourceful in these matters.”

“I suppose you can’t afford to be over-squeamish in a case like...”

“No, sir; you can’t.”

Mr Chubb frowned. “It seems such a pity that these people spoil things for themselves—and for others, too, of course.” He paused, looked up. “What do you propose to ask the lady when you find her—or when Mr Love finds her, rather?”

“The situation will be somewhat delicate...”

“It will, indeed.”

“No, sir; I didn’t mean in a moral sense. Delicate in a criminal sense. You see, Palgrove may be denying the existence of a mistress—as he persisted in doing yesterday, by the way—not because he simply wants to protect her reputation, but because she was an accomplice in the murder of his wife.” The inspector watched Mr Chubb’s face. “You remember, of course, what Mrs Palgrove wrote in her letter?”

“Something about a plot, a plan...?”

“Precisely, sir. I have heard the plan discussed. If murder was being proposed—as she very plainly stated—who else but the mistress would be the second party to the conversation? It may very well be that Paigrove was, as he says, at the cottage that night. The woman, too. But he needed only to make a ten- minute car trip to kill his wife. He could have been back again in half an hour. And we needn’t expect the mistress to do other than swear that Palgrove never left the cottage at all.”

The chief constable said he saw how difficult the situation might prove. Had the inspector any other lines of inquiry in mind? Yes, said Purbright, he had, but he entertained no great hopes of them. Mr Chubb was sorry to hear that, but he was sure something would emerge sooner or later that would repay his trouble.

“There was one thing Palgrove said that I’m inclined to believe,” Plurbright announced, rather as an afterthought. “He claimed that somebody had been following him about a good deal lately. A stranger.”

“Doesn’t that sound a little fanciful?”

“That is what I thought at first. But he described the man in some detail, and I think I know who he is.”

“Not a local man, you say.”

“No, sir. A Londoner. A man who follows—or followed once—a somewhat odd profession.”

“You intrigue me, Mr Purbright.”

“Mr Hive is an intriguing character. I happened to...”

“Hive—is that his name?”

“Yes, sir. Mortimer Hive. As I was saying, I happened to see him yesterday morning. He was going into the office of those Charity Alliance people in St Anne’s Gate. And it was to them, by curious coincidence, that Mrs Palgrove had sent the day before a remarkably acrimonious letter.”