‘Hm,’ said Dover, and sighed. ‘But if she had anything to do with Juliet’s death – and, let’s face it, it sounds a bit far-fetched,
doesn’t it? – what about her alibi? She spent the night with Bogolepov. They both say that and we’ve got Maxine Chubb-Smith as an independent witness.’
‘Well, obviously, they’re both in it together!’
‘Oh, ’strewth,’ said Dover wearily, ‘I don’t like the sound of that’ What’s the motive? And the same old bloody question- what did they do with the body?’
‘Well, there’s a motive of sorts, sir. Maybe Juliet found out about Eulalia’s affair with Boris and threatened to tell her husband. Just Juliet’s line of country, if you ask me.’
‘Hell!’ groaned Dover. ‘It sounds a bit thin, doesn’t it? By the look of her I shouldn’t think it’s the first time Miss Hoppold has indulged in a little extra-marital activity, and I shouldn’t think it’ll be the last either. D’you see her, a woman like that, committing an elaborate murder, just to stop her husband finding out? Because, frankly, I don’t. And what about Bogolepov? I’m damned if I see him risking his neck just to protect the fair Eulalia’s good name, if any. And anyhow, let’s get down to a few brass tacks! How did they do it, and where’s the body?’
‘How about this, sir? They know roughly what time Juliet gets back most Tuesday evenings – that was common knowledge at Irlam Old Hall. They waylay her on the drive and kill her. Then they get Sir John’s wheel chair out of the shed and use it to cart the body off in.’
‘Brilliant!’ snorted Dover down his nose. ‘And where’s the corpse now?’
‘I don’t know, but it must be somewhere.’
‘And what about all this kidnapping palaver?’
‘Well, they organized that too – that was just to put us off the scent. Whatever else that scheme was, it was clever. You’ve got to admit that. And there’s no denying that both Bogolepov and Miss Hoppold are clever people – they’re just the type to think up a kidnapping ploy like that. As I see it, it was just a red herring – they never intended to collect that money’ And you’ve got to admit, sir, there must be a woman in it somewhere. No man would know the layout of the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square, and he wouldn’t be able to collect it, even if they ever meant to.’
‘Well, you may be right there,’ admitted Dover grudgingly, ‘but what about the ransom letter? It was originally posted in London at lunch-time on Saturday, right? Well, neither Eulalia Hoppold nor Bogolepov could have posted that letter personally, because, if you remember, we saw both of ’em, just before lunch, and after. Of all the people in the case who couldn’t possibly have been in London at the vital time, they’re the outstanding ones.’
‘Perhaps the kidnapping note had nothing to do with the murder at all?’ suggested MacGregor, clinging valiantly to his theory. ‘Maybe it was somebody who just wanted an easy five hundred quid or a good laugh, or something. After all, people have tried to pull phoney tricks like that before, haven’t they?’
Dover shook his head. ‘The finger-print,’ he reminded MacGregor, ‘that was Juliet Rugg’s and she was dead when it was taken. I don’t see how anybody else except the murderer could have sent that letter.’
‘Maybe the finger-print boys were wrong? Perhaps she wasn’t dead when it was made? That would change everything, wouldn’t it? There’d be hundreds of ways of getting hold of her fingerprint while she was still alive. I mean, I know they’re experts and all that, but how can they be sure?’
‘I dunno,’ admitted Dover, ‘it’s something to do with sweat, I think. When a living person makes a dab there are traces of sweat. Well, apparently, when you’re dead you stop sweating, which seems reasonable enough. The chaps in London analysed the ink that was used to make Juliet’s finger-print and they just ran a routine check on the sweat as well. There wasn’t any. In any case, if she isn’t dead, we’re right back where we started from, aren’t we?’
‘All right’- Sergeant MacGregor was not to be put off for long – ‘how about this for getting the letter posted – you just send it to an accomplice or even an innocent friend and ask him to put it in the box for you. Why, Eulalia Hoppold might have got her husband to do it.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Dover, gloomily taking MacGregor’s last cigarette, ‘but I reckon it’s too risky. Sir John Counter’s name’s been in the newspapers and so’s Irlam Old Hall. Now, I know the letter was sent to his bank, but what would you think if one of your pals sent you a letter to post to a man who lives practically next door to him? Course, there could be a whole gang of ’em, with associates in London and what-have-you — but why on earth should a gang be involved in the killing of someone as insignificant as Juliet Rugg?’
‘God only knows!’ agreed MacGregor morosely. ‘I must admit, I think it’s a local crime, don’t you? Juliet doesn’t seem to have any significance outside Irlam Old Hall, and Creedon, and the village.’
Eover rose unwillingly to his feet. ‘These chairs are damned hard,’ he grumbled, ‘let’s go into the bar parlour. They’ve got armchairs in there.’
MacGregor got some more cigarettes and joined Dover, who was sprawled out comfortably and looked as though he was settled for the rest of the day.
‘What’s the programme now, sir?’
Dover sighed resentfully. A policeman’s work is never done.
‘I think you’d better get back to Irlam Old Hall and see if you can find out whether any of ’em did, or could have,
