that fire.’
‘Compton?’ Gilmore was incredulous. ‘Why should he destroy his own property?’
‘I don’t know, son. I don’t like the sod. He’s a bit too bloody lovey-dovey with Miss Wonder-bum for my taste — almost as if he wants to shout out for our benefit how devoted he is.’
Gilmore was unimpressed. ‘I thought he was genuinely devoted.’
‘Maybe so, son. I’m probably way off course as usual, but check anyway.’ The car was now speeding down the hill leading to the Market Square. ‘I’ll drop you off at the station. If Mullett asks, you don’t know where I am.’
The radio belched static, then Control asked for Mr Frost to come in please. ‘What’s your position, Inspector?’
Frost looked through the window at the row of shops and the turning just ahead leading to the police station. A bit too close to Mullett for comfort. ‘Still at The Mill, Lexing, investigating arson attack.’
‘Would you call on Dr Maltby, The Surgery, Lexing. One of his patients received a poison pen letter this morning and tried to kill himself.'
‘On my way,’ replied Frost, spinning the car into a U-turn.
‘Is Detective Sergeant Gilmore with you?’ asked Control. ‘Mr Mullett wants to see him right away.’
‘Roger,’ said Frost.
‘He also wants to see you this morning without fail,’ added Control.
‘Didn’t get that last bit,’ said Frost. ‘Over and out.’ He slammed down the handset and turned off the radio.
Lexing was a small cluster of unspoilt houses and cottages, nothing later than Victorian. Perched on the hill to the north was the mill they had just visited and leaning against the front door of Dr Maltby’s cottage was the same bike they had seen outside the Comptons’. And, sure enough, it was Ada Perkins who let them in.
‘What did the doctor say, Ada?’ asked Frost confidentially. ‘Are you pregnant or is it just wind?’
‘Not funny,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just done the hall so wipe your muddy boots.’
She ushered them into the surgery. Maltby, a grey-haired, tired-looking man in his late sixties, wearing a crumpled brown suit, was seated at an old-fashioned desk and was furtively stuffing something that chinked into his top drawer and slamming it shut as he popped a Polo mint in his mouth. The waft of peppermint-tinted whisky fumes hit Gilmore as Frost introduced him.
‘This is Dr Maltby, son. He’s got the steadiest hands in the business. He can take a urine sample and hardly spill a drop.’ In spite of this build-up the hand that Gilmore shook didn’t seem at all steady.
Maltby squeezed out a token smile. ‘I’m not much fun this morning, Jack. I’ve been up half the night — patients are dropping like flies from this damned flu epidemic. And now this. I said someone would kill themselves if you didn’t stop these poison pen letters and now it’s happened.’
‘Calm down, doc,’ said Frost, scraping a match down the wooden wall panelling. ‘Just give me the facts, and slowly — you know what a dim old sod I am.’ He slumped down in the lumpy chair reserved for patients and wearily stretched his legs, puffing smoke at the ‘Smoking Can Kill’ poster.
‘Ada found him,’ said Maltby.
‘Found who, doc? Don’t forget I’ve come in in the middle of the picture.’
‘Old Mr Wardley,’ said Ada. ‘He lives next door to me. I do his cleaning once a week when I’ve finished at The Mill. I got no reply when I knocked so I used the spare key he gave me. No sign of him downstairs. “That’s strange,” I thought. “That’s very strange.” So I called out, “Mr Wardley, are you there?” No answer.’
‘Get to the punchline, Ada,’ prompted Frost, impatiently. ‘I went upstairs and there he was on the bed, fully dressed.’
‘I’m glad his dick wasn’t exposed,’ said Frost.
She glowered, but carried on doggedly. ‘His face was deadly white, his flesh icy cold, just like a corpse. So I dashed straight over to the doctor’s and he came back with me.’
Frost cut in quickly and poked a finger at Maltby. ‘Now your big scene, doc.’
The doctor rubbed his eyes and took over the narrative. ‘He’d swallowed all the sleeping tablets in his bottle. He was unconscious, but still alive. I phoned for an ambulance and got him into Denton General Hospital. I think he’ll pull through.’
‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘I like happy endings. So, in spite of your big build-up, no one’s actually killed themselves?’
‘Not for the want of trying,’ said Maltby.
‘Was there a suicide note?’ asked Gilmore.
‘I didn’t see one,’ said the doctor.
‘So why did you say it was suicide? It could have been accidental.’
‘You don’t accidentally take an overdose of sleeping tablets at nine o’clock in the morning with all your clothes on,’ Maltby snapped irritably.
‘All right,’ murmured Frost. ‘Show me the poison pen letter that made him do it.’
‘We couldn’t find the letter,’ said Maltby, ‘but this was on his kitchen table.’
He handed the inspector a light blue envelope bearing a first-class stamp which had missed the franking machine and had been hand-cancelled by the postman. The name and address were typewritten. Frost checked that the envelope was empty before passing it over to Gilmore who compared the typing with that on the envelope received that morning by Mrs Compton. Gilmore shook his head. ‘Different typewriter.’ Frost nodded. He knew that already. He also knew that the envelope and the typing were identical to the two poison pen letters in the file in his office. ‘An empty envelope, doc. Why should you think it was a poison pen letter? Why not a letter from the sanitary inspector about the smell on the landing?’
A pause. But it was Ada who broke the silence. ‘If you don’t want me any more, doctor, I’ve got lots to do.’ She clomped out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, Maltby unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of white A4 typescript. ‘This came in an identical envelope.’
He handed it to Frost who read it aloud. ‘ “Dear Lecher. Does your sweet wife know what filthy and perverted practices you and that shameless bitch in Denton get up to? I was watching again last Wednesday. I saw every disgusting perversion. She didn’t even draw the bedroom curtains…” Bleeding hell, this is sizzling stuff,’ gasped Frost. He read the rest to himself before chucking the letter across to Gilmore. ‘What’s cunnilinctus, doc — sounds like a patent cough syrup.’
‘You know damn well what it is,’ grunted the doctor. He looked across at Gilmore who was comparing the typing with that on the envelope addressed to Wardley. ‘The same typewriter, isn’t it, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gilmore. ‘The “a” and the “s” are both out of alignment. How did you come by it, doctor? It wasn’t addressed to you, was it?’
‘I should be so bloody lucky,’ said Maltby. ‘One of the villagers received it and asked me to pass it on to the police. For obvious reasons he doesn’t want me to tell you his name.’
‘We’ve got to talk to him,’ insisted Frost. ‘We need to find out how the letter writer discovered these details.’
Maltby shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. There’s no way I can tell you.’
Frost stood up and adjusted his scarf. ‘Well, we’ll let our Forensic whizz kids have a sniff at the letter and envelope, but unless people are prepared to co-operate, there’s not a lot we can do.’
‘You’re going to do something, though?’ insisted Maltby.
‘We’ll have a look through Wardley’s cottage and try and find the letter. I’ll have a word with him in the hospital. How old is he?’
Maltby flicked through some dog-eared record cards. ‘Seventy-two.’
‘I wonder what he’s been up to that made him try to kill himself.’ At the door he paused. ‘What do you know about the Comptons, doc?’
‘Seem a loving couple,’ said Maltby, guardedly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Frost, ‘too bloody loving. They were nearly having it away on the dining table while we were there. Know anyone who might have a grudge against them?’
Maltby shook his head. ‘Ada told me what’s been happening. I can’t think of anyone.’ The phone rang. He lifted the receiver and listened, wearily. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep her in bed. I’ll be right over.’
