‘What the hell have you been doing,’ snarled Dover, ‘dancing the Charleston with her? I should have thought you could have made the sort of examination you do from twelve feet away!’ Dr Hawnt preserved a hurt but dignified silence. Dover read the note : a few words – ‘I’m sorry but I just can’t go on with this any longer’ – scrawled in blue ball-point pen on a torn piece of paper. The final ‘r’ of the message ended in a long tail as though the pen had jerked uncontrollably in the writer’s hand.
Chapter Eight
AT THIS STAGE in the proceedings Chief Inspector Dover threw up the sponge without a qualm and hurried back to The Jolly Sailor for his dinner. With great consideration he took the dazed, but wealthy, Mr Tompkins with him and left MacGregor behind at the shop to clear up the mess. It meant that the sergeant would almost certainly miss his dinner again, but that was an occupational hazard and if he couldn’t take a joke he shouldn’t have joined. Besides, as Dover pointed out, MacGregor’s dinner wouldn’t be wasted. The newly bereaved Mr Tompkins could eat it. Dover was a great believer in the therapeutic powers of food.
Once he’d been relieved of the Chief Inspector’s presence, MacGregor got down to his various tasks with vigour if not good will. He was used to being Dover’s dog’s-body but this was passing the buck a bit too far. There was old Dr Hawnt to be returned, alive if possible, to his residence but, after his gruelling experience at the hands of Dover, he was clearly incapable of tackling that hill even with MacGregor’s sturdy assistance. Luckily Mr Tompkins had accidentally left his bunch of keys on one of the counters in the shop and MacGregor found them. He felt that, in the circumstances, no harm would be done if he drove Dr Hawnt home in the little black car.
Then there was Charlie Chettle, who’d turned up again out of the blue, to be got rid of. He seemed to think that there had been some financial agreement between himself and Dover to cover the fetching of Dr Hawnt. MacGregor grimly pointed out that this was extremely unlikely, but he gave a grinning Charlie Chettle a couple of half-crowns, just in case. Mr Chettle touched his forelock with old-world courtesy and plunged expertly into the traffic on his way to The Jolly Sailor.
Then the proper authorities had to be informed and an ambulance summoned to convey Mrs Tompkins’s remains to the mortuary. There would have to be an autopsy, thanks to the unnecessary confusion Dr Hawnt had introduced into the cause of death, and MacGregor spent a long time on the telephone fixing everything up. The telephone was in the sitting-room with Mrs Tompkins’s gradually stiffening body and it was, thought MacGregor, typical that nobody had even thought of using it. Everybody, not forgetting Dr Hawnt and Charlie Ghettle, would have been saved a lot of trouble if they had.
It must have been well after nine o’clock when MacGregor at last had the shop and the living quarters to himself. After striking endless matches over a gas stove that wouldn’t work, he finally thought of the meter and turned the main tap on again and made himself a cup of tea. Alone in the bleak kitchen he smoked a cigarette, drank his tea and thought. When he’d finished thinking he made a tour of all the rooms, opening drawers, poking into cupboards, pulling letters out of old envelopes and reading them. By a nice bit of luck the key ring which Mr Tompkins had accidentally left behind on the counter held all his keys, not only those for the car. MacGregor was able to open all the locks which otherwise might have restricted his search. Not that he was looking for anything in particular. It was just a vague idea that he had in the back of his mind and he thought he might as well indulge his natural curiosity while he had the chance. In any case it was preferable to going back to The Jolly Sailor and spending what remained of the evening in Dover’s company.
When Dover heard the discreet tap on his bedroom door at midnight, he’d a pretty good idea who it was and feigned sleep, even adding a few snores to prove it. MacGregor was not fooled. Dover’s light was still on and shone, like a good deed in a naughty world, through the cracks of the ill-fitting door.
‘What the hell do you want?’ asked Dover crossly. ‘Waking me up at this time of night! I’d just dropped off. Well, come on, you damned fool, don’t just stand there. Tell me what it is and then push off!’
MacGregor told him and sat down resolutely on the chair by the bed. Dover’s eyes popped and MacGregor waited with resignation for the storm to break.
‘You must be out of your tiny mind!’ said Dover, staring at his assistant with loathing. ‘I can’t start doing anything like that! Damn it all, man, Mr Tompkins is a friend of mine. I can’t start going around asking him questions about where he was and what he was doing. What on earth’s he going to think? Besides, it’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is, sir, but we can’t just accept everything at its face value, can we? There’ll be plenty said if we don’t make a normal investigation. It’d look as though we were trying to hush things up.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Dover, looking very cross and sulky. ‘You don’t think anybody else is cracked enough to think Tompkins murdered his wife, do you?’
‘There’s bound to be talk, sir, especially in this village. Besides, it’s not necessarily a question of Mr Tompkins having killed her. Somebody else might have done.’
‘Who, for example?’ asked Dover
