“Naturally.”
Malley turned to the inspector.
“There’s nothing the lady could have done herself, sir. The reservoir embankment on the water side is very steep just there—more like a wall.”
“Quite,” said Purbright.
He gave Miss Pollock a reassuring smile.
“You’ve been extremely helpful. There is only one more question that I should like to ask—and please don’t take it as reflecting in any way upon yourself. I simply want to know if there was anything you noticed in Mr Winge’s attitude or behaviour before today that suggested his having sexual designs on you or anybody else—on women generally, in fact.”
A geranium flush spread rapidly from neck to hat brim.
“Never! Certainly not! I have worked with Mr Winge for many years and known him up to that quite inexplicable affair today as a public-spirited and very religious gentleman!”
“Thank you, Miss Pollock. We are deeply obliged to you.”
Purbright rose and walked to the door.
The raincoat, surmounted by Miss Pollock’s round and indignant little head, glided out.
As the door closed, Malley suddenly flapped his hand in the air.
“Hey, hang on a minute...what about her statement?” He wound a sheet of paper into the typewriter.
Purbright said never mind, the deposition could be signed later; he’d have it sent round to her.
Thoughtfully, he resumed his seat behind the big, shabby desk.
“You know, Bill,” he said, “I don’t think she was quite as unprepared for old Steve’s crack at her virtue as she pretends.”
Malley began jabbing keys with two plump forefingers. “Oh, aye?” He watched the keys closely all the time, as if some might otherwise escape their share of punishment.
“I reckon she’d seen signs before. Her reaction to my asking her was a little too righteous to be convincing.”
Malley grunted. He was scraping out a misplaced letter with the tip of what looked like a hunting knife.
“Mind you,” Purbright went on, “it would be surprising if Winge
“They tell me you’ve got the Crab!”
In the doorway had appeared the cherubic features of Sergeant Love, bright with good news.
“So it would seem,” said Purbright. “You can let your young lady out again now, Sid.”
Love closed the door carefully behind him.
“My landlady won’t half be disappointed,” he said. “She’s been going up as far as the canal end every night this week, in hopes.”
“Have you fixed the inquest yet, Bill?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Old Amblesby’s down in Cornwall, or somewhere, so I’ve had to call out Thompson. He’s not sat as deputy coroner since 1953. He’s bloody terrified.”
“I don’t know that he need be,” said Purbright, lightly. “It’s a straightforward enough case.”
Malley stopped typing and looked around.
“Didn’t I tell you who was doing the P.M., then?”
“No, you didn’t, as a matter of fact.”
“Heineman.”
“Oh,” said Purbright. He looked a fraction less carefree.
“And perhaps I didn’t mention that Winge’s family are getting both his solicitor and his own doctor to attend the inquest.”
“Solicitor....” Purbright frowned. “That wouldn’t be Justin Scorpe, would it?”
“It would.”
“And who’s the doctor?”
“Meadow.”
Love looked blandly from the inspector to the coroner’s officer.
“What’s the idea, then?”
“The family”—Malley leaned back in his chair and champed experimentally on the stem of a squat, black pipe—“are not very pleased.”
He fished a tobacco tin from the distorted breast pocket of his tunic, levered off its lid, and began ramming liquorice-like strands into the pipe bowl.
