DOVER THREE is another adventure of Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover of Scotland Yard. Dover is still as dyspeptic, unappealing, and insensitive as ever. With his assistant, young Sergeant MacGregor, he is sent off to isolated Thornwich in bleak mid-winter to look into an epidemic of lewd poison-pen letters.
To Dover’s mind, no one is above suspicion, neither a Dame of the British Empire, nor the venerable Dr. Hawnt; neither a dubious teacher of French, nor the inoffensive Mrs. Tompkins, to whom death comes not long after a windfall of some half-million dollars.
As to Dover’s success—well, the letters do cease and he alone identifies the true criminal. But you will have to read the book through to learn why Dover, who normally claims all credit going, whether due or not, declines, in this instance, the honors which should rightfully be his.
Miss Porter has outdone herself with this hilarious new Dover mystery.
DOVER THREE
by the same author
DOVER ONE
DOVER TWO
Copyright © 1965 Joyce Porter
All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced in any form without the
permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons.
A — 12.65 [MV]
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 66-13088
To L.L.W.
d.d.d.
Chapter One
‘PREVENTION‘, said Dame Alice, ‘is better than cure. You’re not going to argue with that, are you?’
The man she was addressing shook his head and cowered even further behind his desk. After half an hour of Dame Alice’s undivided attention he had had most of the argument knocked out of him.
‘In that case,’ said Dame Alice, pulling on her gloves with an air of high satisfaction, ‘we needn’t waste any more time discussing it. Let me know the minute you’ve made the necessary arrangements, and remember, speed is the most important thing now.’
The man behind the desk pulled himself together and made a last-ditch effort to get her to see reason. He was, after all, a chief constable, and when it came to police matters he ought to be given credit for the fact that he knew what he was talking about.
‘It can’t be done,’ he muttered and ducked instinctively as Dame Alice jerked her head and snorted with exasperation.
‘What can’t be done?’ she demanded with justifiable irritation. Really, these men! One sometimes wondered if they obstructed every suggestion on principle.
‘Scotland Yard,’ explained the Chief Constable unhappily. ‘They won’t come, you know.’
‘And why not?’ she asked. Typical! You beat them hands down on the main issue and then they started trying to trip you with a lot of footling, minor details. Well, let the old fool get on with it! Dame Alice was nursing an ace up her sleeve with which she would fell this bumbling idiot to the ground when the time came.
Mr Mulkerrin, the Chief Constable, sighed. Women! Always interfering and poking their noses into other people’s affairs. Look at Dame Alice! Mr Mulkerrin did, and was not reassured by what he saw. She ought to be sitting at home knitting instead of ranging round the county trying to teach every hard-working official she could lay her hands on how to suck eggs.
‘Well,’ said Dame Alice, ‘I am waiting.’
Aw, drop dead! Get stuffed! Put your head in a bucket three times and pull it out twice! Go for a long walk on a short pier!
‘It’s a simple matter of police procedure, Dame Alice,’ explained Mr Mulkerrin meekly. ‘We can only call in Scotland Yard to deal with cases of serious crime which we can’t handle ourselves. Well, now’ – he risked a patronizing smile – ‘you can hardly call this a serious crime.’
‘Can’t I?’ retorted Dame Alice indignantly. ‘Let me remind you that I, personally, have been involved in this revolting business, and I can assure you I regard it as a very serious matter indeed.’
‘A few poison-pen letters.’ Mr Mulkerrin shrugged his shoulders.
‘Hundreds of poison-pen letters!’ Dame Alice corrected him firmly. ‘Nasty, obscene epistles which have been arriving by every post for a month now, and whose author your policemen so far have proved themselves completely incapable of finding.’
‘There are no clues!’ protested Mr Mulkerrin, furious at finding himself on the defensive once again.
‘Fiddlesticks!’ snapped Dame Alice. ‘There must be clues. Your men are just too stupid and incompetent to find them, that’s all. Gracious heavens, there aren’t more than four hundred people in the entire village. An intelligent child of five could discover the culprit, and at considerably less cost to the ratepayers,’ she added spitefully.
Mr Mulkerrin scowled. That was a typical woman’s blow, right below the belt. Amongst her other numerous activities, Dame Alice was a county councillor of antique standing and currently the chairman of the Standing Joint Committee. Mr Mulkerrin had several pet plans on the boil for improving the amenities of his force (and, of course, improving its efficiency), but without Dame Alice’s support he could kiss his dreams a sweet goodbye. He switched the conversation on to another track.
‘Scotland Yard wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole,’ he said. ‘They only send their people out on murder cases and things like that. They’re all high-ranking, senior detectives, you know. They won’t waste their time on a tuppence-ha’penny case like this. Besides,’ he added quickly, ‘even if they would come, which they won’t, the County would have to foot the bill.’
‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Dame Alice.
‘But they won’t come!’ insisted Mr Mulkerrin. Damn it, didn’t she listen to anything you said?
‘They will,’ said Dame Alice with a smug smile. ‘I’ve already arranged that. Perhaps you didn’t know, Mr Mulkerrin,’ – the smile was very sweet now – ‘that the Assistant Commissioner for Crime at New Scotland Yard is a very dear friend of mine.’ Dame Alice produced a simper which made the Chief Constable’s blood run cold. ‘A very dear friend of mine! We knew each
