‘She hadn’t locked this door, then?’ said Dover.
‘Oh no, it was just closed, that’s all.’
‘Hm,’ said Dover. ‘What time does Miss Gullimore get back from work?’
‘Well, she’s usually in by a quarter to five at the latest. She comes on her scooter and that’s much quicker than waiting for the bus.’
‘Did she know what time you’d be in this evening?’
Mrs Leatherbarrow looked surprised. ‘Well, of course she did! There’s a whist drive every Monday afternoon in Cumberley. I haven’t missed it in donkey’s years.’
‘And you always come back at the same time?’
‘I haven’t much choice, have I? If I miss that 5.30 bus, there isn’t another until after seven. The whist drive’s always over just before five so I’ve nice time to catch the bus at half past. Sometimes it’s a bit late, of course, but never more than five minutes or so.’
‘And do you always invite Miss Gullimore down for a cup of tea when you get back?’
‘Always,’ said Mrs Leatherbarrow firmly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? I tell you, I’ve been like a mother to that girl. She used to like to come down and see what I’d won.’
‘But you can’t have won every week,’ objected Dover.
‘Oh, can’t I?’ Mrs Leatherbarrow preened herself on the bed. ‘Let me tell you, it’s a bad week when I come home empty-handed. Ask anybody round here. It’s my hobby, you see,’ she explained, ‘that and bingo.’
‘It sounds more like a profession,’ grumbled Dover who never won anything.
‘Oh, there’s plenty that have called it a sight more than that,’ said Mrs Leatherbarrow tossing her head. ‘I’ve had some very catty things said about it in my time. Still, sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. That’s what I used to say to Poppy when these nasty old letters started coming.’
‘Oh,’ said Dover, ‘you’ve had some, too, have you?’
‘I’ll say I have, though not as many as Poppy did. She was always getting them, poor girl. Dear me, whatever am I saying!’ Mrs Leatherbarrow went of! into a sudden screech of girlish laughter which was most inappropriate to a woman of her years and weight. ‘Of course it was Poppy writing those dreadful things herself, wasn’t it?’
‘Did you ever suspect her?’ asked Dover with massive indifference. He’d found out all he wanted to know long ago but the room was warm, the chair comfortable and Mrs Leatherbarrow seemed a hospitable sort of woman. Dover concentrated hard on looking as though a cup of tea and a bit of her vaunted mothering wouldn’t come amiss.
‘Of course not!’ said Mrs Leatherbarrow. ‘She was only a kid. She tried to make out that she was no end of a woman of the world, but it didn’t fool me. Here – is that the time? I must be off! There’s a programme I want to see on the telly and I’ve got to give Dame Alice a ring first. You can let yourself out, can’t you, dearie?’
Dover poked around for a few minutes after Mrs Leatherbarrow had gone. There was no sign of a typewriter and no sign of any white Tendy Bond notepaper. He knew there wouldn’t be. Still, you’d got to go through the motions, hadn’t you? He looked disconsolately at the two halves of the suicide note which he was still clutching in his hand. A few chance phrases, hugely scrawled in pencil, caught his eye. One of my problems has been that there’s nobody I can communicate with . . . I feel my presence is of no value or interest to anyone . . .
He sighed. Five ruddy foolscap pages of self-pity! Well, MacGregor could plough through them. Dover let himself out of the bedroom and made his way downstairs. He followed the sound of a studio audience roaring its head off with spontaneous laughter and found Mrs Leatherbarrow’s sitting-room. Mrs Leatherbarrow was already comfortably installed in front of her set. Her feet were resting on an over-stuffed pouffe and she had a large box of chocolates on the aim of her chair. She heard Dover open the door but didn’t turn her head.
‘What is it, dearie?’
‘Do you know what subjects Miss Gullimore taught at school?’ said Dover loudly over another shriek of laughter.
‘English and Art, I think,’ shouted Mrs Leatherbarrow. ‘Don’t forget to shut the door behind you when you go out.’
Dover made a rude gesture at the back of Mrs Leatherbarrow’s head which gave him some small satisfaction. Out once more he plodded into the cold, driving rain and fumbled his way back to The Jolly Sailor. He arrived there all in one piece, owing to a miscalculation on the part of a driver of an articulated truck, who had left his final, murderous burst of acceleration a fraction of a second too late. Dover had leapt desperately for the kerb and
