He joined Sergeant MacGregor at the breakfast table, casting a jaundiced eye at that, as ever, immaculate young man and at the enormous greasy plateful of bacon and eggs which he was demolishing with the unthinking abandon of youth. Dover’s stomach heaved, wamingly.
‘Coffee and toast!’ he growled sourly.
Sergeant MacGregor looked up in surprise because Dover, given half a chance, normally munched his way through everything on the menu.
‘Did you sleep well?’ The question was flung at MacGregor in a sulky growl.
‘Well, yes – thank you, sir.’ Sergeant MacGregor was astonished at being asked. After a pause he returned the courtesy. ‘Did you, sir?’
‘No, I did not!’ Dover’s heavy jowl sagged miserably. ‘I spent more time in the bathroom last night than I did in bed. Must have been something I ate. My stomach feels as though all the policemen in the Metropolitan area have been trampling on it with hobnail boots.’ He took a tentative mouthful of dry toast. ‘God only knows what effect this’ll have on it !’
Friday night had been pretty disastrous all round, apart from the fact that it had upset Dover’s stomach. When the two detectives had left the still sniffing Mrs Chubb-Smith, Sergeant MacGregor was all for going on and tackling her son, Michael, right away, Dover however, had had enough of interviews for one day and, anyhow, he wanted his dinner. He’d been looking forward for some time to a bit of peace and quiet and, in his opinion, Michael Chubb-Smith could well wait till the morning.
Dinner at The Two Fiddlers was no better than lunch. Indeed it was almost identical. The tomato soup, the ice-cream and the cheese appeared once again, but instead of the New Zealand lamb they were presented with an unappetizing, painfully thin slice of Argentinian beef, submerged in a thick grey gravy. They retired to the bar.
It is generally believed that strangers invading the privacy of some remote rural pub are treated by the locals with frigid indifference and even antagonism. This was not the case with the regular clientele of The Two Fiddlers. Fortified by their knowledge of police procedure, culled from detective stories and imported television serials, they flung themselves with gusto at the chance of contact with the real thing. Dover and MacGregor soon found themselves hemmed in by a crowd of sweating, grinning faces whose owners insistently plied them with questions and pint tankards of the locally brewed beer. This thick, fruity beverage, a deep mahogany red in colour, was known as Long Herbert and was guaranteed by one revolting old boozer as being strong enough to rot the socks off you.
The ringleader of this bucolic gang was an elderly man who had clearly drawn his own deductions about the perennial popularity of ‘The Archers’. He gave such a well-studied and accurate impersonation of Walter Gabriel that strangers, on meeting him for the first time, were inclined to consult their watches to see if it wasn’t really a quarter to seven.
In spite of some pretty stout opposition, the Walter Gabriel character succeeded in hogging the show. He treated Dover to a long-winded, village-eye view of Irlam Old Hall which contained so many mock dialect words and deliberate mispronunciations as to be wellnigh unintelligible.
‘Lot of glormy parishites they be up there,’ he concluded. ‘Bain’t one of ’em what’s done an honest day’s work in their life, Coming down here and boppiting around as though they was lords of the manority or something! You mark my words, mister, if anything’s happened to poor Juliet Rugg, it’s one of them bloody capitalists up there what’s done it! Me old dear, me old beauty!’
‘Really?’ said Dover.
‘Yah’ – the old man nodded emphatically – ‘nobody down here’d have touched a ginger hair of that poor girl’s noddle! Right popular lass she was down here. General favourite, you might say.’
‘‘Cept with t’other women, p’raps!’ came a slow sardonic comment from the back.
The old man ignored it.
‘She used to work here, you know, me old dear, me old beauty, here in this very bar. Fine figure of a girl she was, too. I dunno whether the constipation of beer went up but, by Gordy, my bloody-pressure did! I alius used to say’ – he nearly choked with anticipatory mirth – ‘I alius used to say she ought to go on the stage!’ Sniggers from those who’d heard this many times before. ‘She ought to go in the theater, I alius used to say. ’Cause why? ‘Cause she’d be the only Juliet with her own balcony !’
There was a flattering roar of laughter and the old man turned dangerously red in the face as tears of senile joy streamed from his eyes. Dover didn’t move a muscle. He made a point of never laughing at other people’s jokes. He tried, not with much hope, to turn the conversation to more useful channels.
‘I understand Juliet Rugg had a number of boy-friends?’
Old ‘Walter Gabriel’ nodded happily. ‘Aye, that she did! She were a lusty-busty wench, she were.’
T)o you know the names of any of them?’
The problem bain’t naming ’em, it be remembering ’em. Fact is, I’d be hard put to name a chap for twenty miles around, what was in full possession of his facilities, what hadn’t taken a walk with her up to the churchyard.’
That’s the local spot for courting, is it?’
‘Ah, nice and quiet up there, it be. Nobody don’t go up there ’cept to be laid under the ground, or on it, if you follow me, me old dear, me old beauty.’
Dover blew down his nose. He was getting fed up with this.
‘Do any of the people from Irlam Old Hall come down here at all?’
‘No, not so’s you’d notice.’ The Walter Gabriel type pursed his lips in thought ‘That cansy lad, Chubb-Smith, used to come down sometimes afore he bedded that rich, moppity young
