Dover had enough troubles of his own without worrying where Mrs Poltensky’s next meal was coming from. ‘Did you ever see any rubber gloves knocking around?’ he asked.
‘Rubber gloves?’ Mrs Poltensky shook her head. ’I don’t hold with ’em myself. If the good Lord meant us to wear rubber gloves he wouldn’t have given us no skin, would he?’ Mrs Poltensky chuckled just to show she wasn’t being serious.
‘What about Mrs Tompkins?’ asked MacGregor. ‘Did you ever see her wearing rubber gloves?’
‘No, I can’t say I have. There wasn’t a pair in the house or in the shop. On that I’ll stake my dying oath. Not if you was to tear my tongue out with red-hot pincers would I say any different. What would she want rubber gloves for, anyhow? I did all the work round there, rough and smooth. And the cooking when her ladyship didn’t feel up to it. Besides,’ added Mrs Poltensky with a disparaging sniff, ‘I seem to remember her telling me once she was allergic to rubber. Brought her out in spots, or something. She was always saying she was allergic to this, or that that upset her. I used to feel like telling her if she thought a bit less about herself she’d do a lot better, but it was a good job and it wasn’t my place anyhow.’
‘Right!’ said Dover when they had finally escaped Mrs Poltensky’s amiable clutches. ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied.’
MacGregor wasn’t, not entirely, but it was clearly not a good moment to say so. ‘It doesn’t look very likely, I must admit, sir,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But, why should the letters stop as soon as Mrs Tompkins died?’
Dover didn’t answer. If some people couldn’t see what was staring them straight in the face, it was no good arguing with them. You might as well save your breath. He, personally, was quite satisfied that Mrs Tompkins was not the author of the poison-pen letters, and if that wasn’t good enough for Clever-Boots MacGregor – hard blooming luck! Dover turned his mind to more important things. If he got a move on, he’d just have nice time for a nap before dinner.
Having settled the stupid, time-wasting business once, Dover was not pleased when MacGregor stirred the whole thing up again over the dinner table. Poor Mr Tompkins’s being there only made MacGregor’s insubordination – there was no other word for it – the more regrettable. With what Dover could only consider a lamentable lack of good taste, MacGregor harked back to the puzzle of why, if Mrs Tompkins didn’t write them, the letters had stopped after her death.
If Dover had had any explanation he would have given it. As it was he had to resort to simple bullying and crude abuse.
‘There is one possible reason, sir,’ persisted MacGregor who was getting a good deal above himself these days.
‘I wish you’d hold your blithering tongue!’ snarled Dover, red danger spots rising menacingly over his five o’clock shadow. ‘Nobody’s interested in your tin-pot theories.’
Mr Tompkins cleared his throat. ‘Well, I must admit, I’d like to hear what Sergeant MacGregor has got to say, Mr Dover, being what you might call an interested party. Besides,’ – he gave that admiring smile which Dover found so endearing – ‘it really is fascinating to listen to you two chewing all the facts over and working things out. It’s a real education for an old stick-in-the-mud like me.’
This put a different complexion on things. Dover managed to replace his scowl by something that could be taken as an indulgent beam, and MacGregor was allowed to proceed.
‘Well, it’s like this, sir,’ he began, delighted to have the centre of the stage for once, and conscious he would have to pay for it later. ‘Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that the late Mrs Tompkins didn’t write the poison-pen letters.’
Dover blew down his nose.
‘That means that somebody else wrote them.’
‘Brilliant!’ scoffed Dover.
‘Here, give the lad a chance!’ This was an interruption from Charlie Ghettle who had come into the bar for his usual drink. Mr and Mrs Quince, who were both pottering about behind the counter, nodded their approval for this stand on behalf of the underdog.
Dover shrugged his shoulders and relapsed into a moody silence. There were several more men in the bar, locals and passing lorry- drivers, all maintaining a respectful silence and all waiting impatiently for MacGregor to be allowed to continue.
‘That means,’ resumed MacGregor, ‘that somebody else wrote them. Now, the question we have to ask ourselves is, why this other person, whom we will call Madam X, stopped writing the letters after Mrs Tompkins died.’
This statement met with general approval, but Charlie Chettle’s whippet produced an enormous yawn. Very ostentatiously Dover patted the animal on the head.
‘Now, so far we have been assuming,’ continued MacGregor, quite unperturbed by Dover’s petty attempts at sabotage, ‘that the poison-pen letter writer was motivated by what we may call a package malice. In other words, she was lashing out indiscriminately at all the women in the village, or the vast majority of them at any rate. She had a grudge, or so we presumed, against all women in general. She hated them. She wanted to revenge herself on them for her own peculiar, twisted reasons.’
‘Get on with it!’ muttered Dover, bored to his back dentures.
‘Why then should the death of one woman make Madam X stop? Why should the suicide of Mrs Tompkins make her put aside the typewriter for ever? There is no reason, unless we change the basis of our original premise. Suppose the poison-pen letter writer . . .’
‘Whom we will call
