‘. . . Suppose she was not attacking all the women in the village. Suppose her spite was directed exclusively at Mrs Tompkins. Suppose all the other letters were just part of a gigantic blind to confuse and misdirect us. Suppose . . .’
‘Suppose you bloody well put a sock in it,’ suggested Dover, playing it for a cheap laugh and, such is the fickleness of human nature, getting it.
‘Well, it’s an idea, sir,’ said MacGregor, coming down to earth with a bump.
‘Are you seriously suggesting,’ asked Dover, ‘that all this poison-pen mularky, damn near a hundred letters, was all set up just to drive Mrs Tompkins to commit suicide? It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, sir,’ said MacGregor stiffly. ‘I’ve heard of more elaborate plots.’
‘Yes,’ scoffed Dover with a broad wink at Mr Tompkins, ‘and I should think you’ve invented ’em, too!’
‘However,’ said MacGregor, ‘my theory becomes a good deal more logical if we work on the assumption that Mrs Tompkins did not commit suicide, but was murdered.’
‘By Madam X?’ asked Dover, grinning all over his face.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Dover nastily. ‘I think Madam X isn’t the only one who’s barmy round here.’
‘It’s a theory that fits the facts, sir.’
‘Facts? ’Strewth, it’s a fine time to be talking about facts! The fact is that Mrs Tompkins committed suicide. Exactly why we don’t know and probably never will do, but there’s no doubt that the poison-pen letters were part of the reason. That’s what the coroner decided, isn’t it? And I’ll give you a few more facts. Madam X has stopped sending obscene letters through Her Majesty’s Postal Services (a) because she’s got a guilty conscience about Mrs Tompkins’s suicide which is probably a damned sight further than she intended things to go, and (b) because she’s afraid of me! She thinks that by stopping now I shall lose interest in the case and the whole thing will be quietly dropped. Well,’ – Dover addressed his ringing proclamation to the entire company – ‘Madam X is just going to find she’s wrong. I’m not the sort of man that gives up that easily!’
‘Of course not, Mr Dover,’ said Mr Tompkins soothingly.
‘I’ve said it once,’ Dover went on, ‘and I’ll say it again : Mrs Tompkins did not write those letters. And you can take my word for it, I shall not rest until I have brought the woman who did write them to book!’
‘Well, I just hope,’ said Mrs Quince to her husband, ‘we’ve seen the last of those nasty letters, that’s all. I’ll be grateful enough if they just stop coming.’
‘My dear madam,’ said Dover, bowing graciously in Mrs Quince’s direction, ‘I think you may rest assured that the poison- pen letters have stopped, for the reasons I mentioned earlier. You won’t be troubled by them again.’
Chief Inspector Dover was, of course, wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
MACGREGOR HAD the bitter-sweet task of breaking the news to him some thirty-two hours after the rather disgraceful public meeting in the bar of The Jolly Sailor. Dover met this set-back as he met most set-backs in his life : he lost his temper. Eventually, when things had calmed down, he announced that he would have his breakfast in his room. This was so that he wouldn’t have to meet Mrs Quince, to whom the new anonymous letter had been addressed. When he had finished his breakfast, Dover sullenly consented to examine the evidence.
He took the letter which MacGregor had already enclosed between two pieces of transparent plastic so as to preserve any fingerprints. Dover gazed at it resentfully.
‘But it’s not the same!’ he protested, as though it was MacGregor’s fault.
‘No, sir,’ agreed MacGregor, ‘but I think if you’ll examine it, sir, you’ll find it’s been written by the same person. She’s just had to change the format, that’s all. Of course, if you’re right about the original typewriter having been thrown away, it would explain why she’s had to resort to this.’
Dover scowled miserably at the letter. It was on blue paper this time. The letter was not handwritten. Type-like characters in purple ink were arranged in smudgy and uneven lines. Dover read the contents. MacGregor was right. It was the same unrestrained outpouring of grammatical, well-spelt filth which had characterized the dozens of earlier letters, now reposing in Dover’s file.
‘Don’t you agree, sir?’ asked MacGregor.
‘Looks as though it’s by the same woman,’ admitted Dover grudgingly. ‘What about fingerprints? Have you traced the note-paper? What’s she using this time, another typewriter?’
‘I only got the letter a couple of minutes ago,’ MacGregor pointed out. ‘I haven’t had time to do more than read it and stick it between these sheets of talc.?
Dover, in spite of the severe shock he had just suffered, seized his opportunity with gratitude and both hands. ‘Well, laddie,’ he said more cheerfully, ‘it’s no good bringing it to me unless you’ve got the spade-work done, is it? You’d better get off to the County Headquarters and get the lab boys on to it, hadn’t you? Once we’ve got the data we can get cracking, can’t we? Here you are, laddie, and don’t lose it.’ He handed the letter back to MacGregor. ‘You’d better get a move on. And do a thorough job, mind. There’s no point in spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar.’
The Chief Inspector’s subtle plans for a quiet day didn’t quite work out. Almost as soon as MacGregor had departed on yet another bus, there was a knock on Dover’s door. He opened it and found Mrs Quince, arms akimbo, standing outside.
‘Oh,’ said Dover with an ingratiating smile, ‘I didn’t know it was time for coffee.’
‘It isn’t!’ said Mrs Quince in a manner which was definitely unfriendly. ‘And if you want coffee they tell me you can get a perfectly good cup over at Freda Comersall’s for sixpence. I’ve told you before, I only
