“The man who hired you to keep an eye on Palgrove?”
“His wife and Palgrove. Yes.”
“But he isn’t your client any longer.”
“Until he pays up, he is.”
“Mortimer very foolishly made this man a promise,” interposed Miss Teatime. “He undertook to leave Flaxborough not later than tomorrow.”
“Do you know why he was anxious for you to go?”
Not liking to admit that he had been so culpably undetectivelike as to have spared the point no thought, Mr Hive remained silent. Miss Teatime, however, turned a glinting eye to Purbright and said: “But you know, Inspector, do you not?”
“I think so,” said Purbright, quietly.
Miss Teatime looked at Mr Hive again. “It clearly is your duty, Mortimer, to tell the inspector this man’s name.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Purbright said. “I know his name. It’s Booker. Kingsley Booker. He is a master at the Grammar School. Indeed, both you and I, Mr Hive, met him there the other night.” He paused. “If you remember.”
“I remember very well,” said Mr Hive, a trifle huffily. “It was Tuesday—the night I was telling you about...” Suddenly he frowned. “Here—but how do you know about Booker?”
“I have spoken with his wife.”
“More than I’ve done.” Hive’s tone had something about it of the regret of a gamekeeper restricted to a diet of boiled fish.
“Did you ever get your camera back?” Purbright asked.
“I did. Some idiot had hidden it in a cupboard.”
“And the car—did you find out who did that?”
Mr Hive shrugged. “I suppose it’s just a high-spirited sort of town.” He added: “Like Gomorrah.”
“No, no, Mr Hive. As a good detective, you have already decided that these things were not fortuitous. You have seen them as part of a systematic attempt to keep you away from that cottage at Hambourne Dyke.”
“Yes, well...”
“You have also recognized as belonging to the same scheme the way you were manoeuvred that evening—of all evenings—into taking part in that brains trust thing.”
By a gesture of good-natured resignation, Mr Hive conveyed that his cleverness had, indeed, been found out.
“And then, when you had persisted despite all obstacles in carrying your assignment through, you must have seen your brusque dismissal as a sign of your client’s dismay at the frustration of his plans.”
“True,” said Mr Hive.
The inspector paused to take another drink of tea and to consider where the flood of hindsight, released by Palgrove’s elimination, was leading him.
He looked up at Miss Teatime. “What do
“My impression,” she said after some reflection, “is that he is a pedagogue of the rather more obnoxious kind. Even among professional committee sitters, he is noticeably arrogant, prudish, sententious, intolerant and ambitious. His uncharitableness is of the order that ensures rapid preferment in the sphere of social welfare.”
“He is an animal lover?”
“That, too.”
“But not,” Purbright added, “one inclined to sympathize with the objects of the Flaxborough and Eastern Counties Charities Alliance?”
Miss Teatime gave no sign of finding the question mischievous. “He has been very difficult,” she said, simply.
“With what organizations is he officially connected?”
“The doggy ones, mostly.”
“The Four Foot Haven, for instance?”
“He is the vice-chairman.”
“So he would be a collaborator of Mrs Palgrove?”
“That is so, Inspector.”
There slotted into place in Purbright’s mind something that Leonard Palgrove had said—or half-said—on being asked to enumerate his wife’s regular visitors.
He turned to Mr Hive. “Were you surprised when Mrs Booker failed to arrive at the cottage on Tuesday night?”
“Very surprised. It was a most elaborately arranged assignation. Really beautifully done. The idea was that she was supposed to be spending the night at Nottingham...but perhaps I told you?”
