Dover smiled smugly. ‘I’m not entirely surprised,’ he admitted with becoming modesty; ‘I’ve been pretty certain for some time that she was dead. I’ve never paid much attention to this kidnapping theory.’ With a little shock he realized that, for once, he was telling the truth. For a brief second it quite put him off his stride.
‘What are you going to do now?’
Dover pulled himself to his feet and began to fasten up his overcoat. ‘Well, there are one or two small points I want to get tidied up first,’ he said, ‘then I think I should be able to see my way more clearly.’
Mr Bartlett was impressed. Much against his better judgment he was beginning to feel that Dover couldn’t be such a fool as he looked. After all he was a chief inspector at New Scotland Yard and the Assistant Commissioner had said he was just the man for the job.
‘Are you pressing on tonight, then?’ he asked in a rather awed voice.
Dover quickly wiped a look of outrage and horror off his face. ‘Well, not exactly,’ he hedged, ‘can’t really do anything at this time of night. These – er – little points I want to check, they’ll have to wait till morning. But,’ he added hastily, ‘I imagine I’ll be up most of the night – thinking things over, you know.’
‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Mr Bartlett, nodding his head wisely, ‘I find I think best late at night too.’ He sighed. ‘Only time you get, really, on this job.’
‘That’s very true,’ said Dover, ‘very true.’
Both men sighed as they contemplated their unhappy, unappreciated, burdensome lot and parted, each to a warm and comfortable bed, with something approaching mutual good-will.
When Dover came down to breakfast at The Two Fiddlers the following morning his mood was definitely chirpy. Now that Juliet Rugg was really dead the pressure had eased. There was no longer the danger that one false step in the police investigation might endanger the girl’s life, and if, by some vague mischance, Chief Inspector Dover didn’t manage to solve the case – well, it didn’t do much harm to anyone, did it? There were lots of unsolved murder cases (quite a number of them Dover’s) and one more wouldn’t make all that amount of difference.
Dover beamed at the waitress. ‘Porridge, bacon, eggs and sausages, and a pot of tea, dear,’ he ordered.
The waitress relayed his wishes to Mrs Jelly who did the cooking.
‘He called me “dear”,’ she commented in astonishment.
‘Cor, you’d better look out! He’s got real bedroom eyes, he has.’
‘Not him!’ retorted the girl as she took the proffered plate of porridge. ‘It was that fat old bastard! Must be going off his rocker or something.’
‘Well,’ said Dover as he scattered the best part of half a pound of sugar on his porridge, ‘what’s the matter with you this morning, Sergeant? Cat got your tongue or something?’
‘No, sir,’ replied MacGregor dully, ‘I had rather a heavy night of it last night.’
‘Hm,’ said Dover, ladling his food down in huge spoonfuls, ‘now you mention it, you do look a bit seedy. You should keep off this Long Herbert, you know. I reckon it’s laced with methylated spirits.’
‘I wasn’t drinking, sir,’ Sergeant MacGregor pointed out stiffly, ‘I was working.’
‘Oh,’ said Dover.
He started on his next course.
‘What were you, er, doing?’
‘Well, I thought I’d better get this oil thing cleared up. You know, find out who oiled the wheels on Sir John’s invalid carriage. So after I’d brought you back here last night I nipped up to Irlam Old Hall again to see if I could find anything out.’
Dover took a mouthful of tea and reached for the toast.
‘Very commendable. And did you?’
‘A bit.’ MacGregor rubbed his hand wearily across his face. ‘I saw the caretaker chap, Bondy. He was quite certain he hadn’t oiled them. Eve Counter never even mentioned it to him, and he couldn’t think of anybody else who would be likely to have done it. He does all the odd jobs around the place.’
‘Interesting,’ said Dover. ‘Just pass me the butter, there’s a good chap.’
‘Then I went round to the Counters’ again. Eve, Miss Counter, said quite definitely that she hadn’t oiled the wheels. She vaguely remembered Colonel Bing commenting on the fact that they squeaked, but she’d not really paid much attention and she certainly hadn’t asked Bondy or anyone else to fix them.’
‘Hm,’ said Dover, and poured himself out another cup of tea.
‘She’s got something, that girl, you know,’ announced MacGregor suddenly. ‘I had a drink and a chat with her last night and, really, you wouldn’t think it was the same person.’
‘No doubt,’ commented Dover spitefully, ‘her father’s doctor would agree with you.’
‘Oh, she explained all about that.’
‘Did she, indeed? Well, you’d better watch it, my lad. It doesn’t do for a detective to get emotionally involved with a possible murder suspect.’
Sergeant MacGregor, surprisingly, turned quite pink.
‘I hope,’ pursued Dover, ‘that you didn’t tell her that the fair Juliet is dead?’
‘Of course not, sir! I didn’t tell her anything. By the way, she’s going to pick up her five hundred pounds from the police station in Creedon this morning. They were going to ring us if anybody’d tried to collect it and, since they haven’t, I suppose it’s still there.
Anyhow, I got a sample of the oil used on the wheel chair and I took it back into Creedon last night for a lab. report. I’m pretty certain it’s not the same kind as the Counters have. Eve found me their tin and it looked quite different to me. Incidentally, sir, you can’t push the wheel chair through that little door in the main gates – it’s at least four inches too wide. And at night they Keep it in a little shed, just at the side of the house. They never lock the shed door.’
‘So anybody could have got at it on Tuesday night?’
‘Anybody who knew it was there, sir.’
‘Precisely,’ said Dover. ‘Got a cigarette?’
‘Well, now,’
