‘But, I don’t understand, Mr Dover. I mean, why should Poppy Gullimore try to kill herself if she didn’t write those letters?’ Mr Tompkins’s bewilderment was shared by a number of flushed, sweaty faces which moved in closer to catch Dover’s answer.
‘Well now, in the first place,’ said Dover, ‘Miss Gullimore didn’t try to commit suicide.’
‘But . . .’ Mr Tompkins’s eyes popped. ‘You don’t mean it was attempted murder, do you?’
‘Good God, no!’ said Dover with a rich chuckle at such naivety. ‘Murder in Thornwich? You’ll have to watch that imagination of yours, Mr Tompkins! No, she took the aspirins or whatever it was herself all right, but it wasn’t a serious attempt at suicide.’
Mr Tompkins frowned. ‘But, how can you tell?’
Dover settled back comfortably in his chair and prepared to enlighten the ignorant. ‘Experience, mostly,’ he said. ‘When you’ve been in the game as long as I have, it takes a bit more than a chit of a girl to pull the wool over your eyes. Now, just let me tell you how somebody who really wants to commit suicide goes about it. They don’t muck about with bottles of aspirins. If they’re going to do it that way they get hold of something really lethal and take a massive overdose of the stuff – ten or twenty times the amount you’d need to knock off a whole regiment. Or else they shoot themselves – stick the muzzle in your mouth and pull the trigger and you blow the back of your head off. There’s no shilly-shallying about that, is there? Nobody’s going to arrive in the nick of time and bring you round after that, are they?’
There was a general murmur of agreement from Dover’s audience.
‘But what does this Gullimore girl do?’ asked Dover contemptuously. ‘Gets hold of a few lousy aspirins and swallows ’em. Any doctor’ll tell you it’s well-nigh impossible to kill yourself with an overdose of aspirins. No, if she’d wanted to finish it all off seriously she’d have thrown herself under an express train or tried crossing this murderous road of yours out here when it’s dark.’ This local reference got an appreciative round of titters. ‘And then look at her timing! She does it when she knows Mrs Leatherbarrow’ll be coming home, regular as clockwork, and find her in plenty of time. No,’ – Dover flicked the ash off his cigarette down the trousers of a man who’d approached a bit too near – ‘Poppy Gullimore was just trying to make people think she was going to kill herself.’
‘But, maybe she didn’t know aspirins were no good,’ suggested Mr Tompkins, ‘and perhaps she was so upset she forgot about Mrs Leatherbarrow coming home.’
Dover eyed him with mild contempt. ‘Come now, Mr Thompkins, give me credit for a bit of common sense! There are other things, too, you know. Take this suicide note – so-called.’ Dover produced the rather tattered remains and waved them in front of Mr Tompkins’s face. ‘Five blooming pages of it! Mostly about herself and dripping in self-pity! Now then, would it surprise you to learn that genuine suicides practically never leave a note? And when they do, it’s usually a couple of lines scrawled on a bit of paper – not a blooming thesis like this. It’s the phonies who write reams and reams of stuff because they want people to feel sorry for them and give ’em bags of sympathy’ – Dover waggled a fat, admonitory finger – ‘when they’re brought round. Real suicides don’t give a damn what people think. Why should they? They’re not going to be there to find out, are they?’
‘Gosh!’ said Mr Tompkins in a hushed voice.
‘There are a few other points, too,’ said Dover nonchalantly, ‘which I’m expecting my sergeant to confirm any minute now. Not that there’s any doubt about it. Besides, why should Poppy Gullimore commit suicide?’
‘Well, she thought you were going to arrest her for writing those poison-pen letters,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘I suppose she couldn’t stand the idea of all the disgrace and shame of it.’
‘Aha!’ trumpeted Dover. ‘But Poppy Gullimore didn’t write the poison-pen letters!’
Sensation! A couple of men slipped unobtrusively out of the bar to get this startling revelation on the village grapevine without delay. Bert Quince popped into the kitchen and told his wife she’d better leave the washing-up and come and listen.
Mr Tompkins opened and shut his mouth several times. ‘You’re having us on!’ he croaked, but his protest lacked conviction. Chief Inspector Dover didn’t look the type to indulge in merry practical jokes. ‘But, I thought she confessed to everything in that letter you’re holding? Look, Mr Dover, I know I’m not very bright but really, you’ve got me all confused.’ A few heads nodded in sympathy and agreement. ‘You say Poppy Gullimore hasn’t tried to commit suicide and that she didn’t write the poison-pen letters, although she wrote a letter before she tried to kill herself saying she did. That’s right – er – isn’t it?’
‘Search me!’ said Dover. ‘I don’t know what the blazes you’re talking about. Look, it’s dead simple. The Gullimore girl is just trying to get in on the act. She no more wrote those poison-pen letters than I did. I’ve searched her room. No Tendy Bond notepaper, no typewriter. My sergeant’s been checking at the school. He won’t have found anything there either, or I’m a Dutchman. No, there’s no doubt about it. She couldn’t possibly have written them.’ Mr Tompkins looked as though he was about to pick several very relevant holes in this bit of argument so Dover, flushed with best bitter and success, hurried on to get his trump card down on the table. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘there’s the spelling.’
‘The spelling?’ repeated Mr Tompkins, still dutifully playing Watson to Dover’s Holmes.
‘The spelling!’ said Dover and took a
