Dover virtually retired from the case. After long hours spent having a quiet think in his room, he would emerge from time to time with some cock-eyed suggestion which involved other people in a great deal of work and achieved absolutely nothing. Had it not been for the continued presence of his sister-in-law under his roof he would have packed the whole case in long ago. The atmosphere in Thornwich was unfriendly and Mrs Quince, under the new onslaught of poison-pen letters, became less and less obliging. Her cooking deteriorated, and her fondness for bingo became a positive addiction. Day after day Charlie Ghettle made the perilous double crossing over the main road to bring pie and chips for Dover and MacGregor. Dover’s digestion suffered and he hinted darkly that Freda Comersall was trying to poison him.
Negative reports on every new line of investigation continued to pour in. Madam X wasn’t making any mistakes. In spite of the considerable handling that the use of the printing-set involved, the letters remained unsullied by any fingerprint which couldn’t be accounted for. Depressed and thoroughly bored, Dover hung doggedly on. After all, he consoled himself, it was better than going home.
The idea of a house-to-house search was abandoned for the time being. As Dover told MacGregor, he knew where to start looking all right but, if nothing was found, there would be a great deal of unpleasantness and – give the woman credit for some intelligence – nothing would be found. There was no point in antagonizing the local population more than they had been antagonized already. Indeed, much of the fury which had been directed at the poison-pen letter writer in the past was now being unleashed in Dover’s direction. Even the loyal Mr Tompkins seemed to be avoiding him these days, and spent a great deal of time over in his grocer’s shop, getting it ready for what he hoped would be an immediate sale.
It was Monday morning, well over a fortnight since Dover had first burst upon the Thornwich scene, when two things happened which spurred on the Chief Inspector to a most uncharacteristic burst of energy.
He received a particularly disgusting poison-pen letter addressed to himself, and his wife telephoned to say that, at long last, the coast was clear.
Chapter Fifteen
DOVER WAS reduced to jowl-quivering fury by the poison-pen letter. Mrs Quince brought it in to him as he and MacGregor were sitting waiting for their breakfast. Dover had started coming downstairs for breakfast again in an unsuccessful attempt to mollify Mrs Quince’s displeasure. When she got upset it seemed to go straight to her cooking and Dover’s stomach couldn’t stand much more of her culinary onslaughts.
‘There you are!’ said Mrs Quince as she slapped down the blue envelope with Dover’s name and address printed on it in purple ink. ‘You’ve got one all to yourself now. Let’s see how you like it!’
Dover picked up his knife and with considerable reluctance slit the envelope open. ‘Perhaps it’s a confession,’ he said.
‘And perhaps it isn’t!’ snorted Mrs Quince as she plonked Dover’s breakfast on the table. It consisted of one small, cold, parboiled egg which Mrs Quince had been saving for several weeks for just such an occasion. ‘Well?’ she demanded triumphantly, seeing the answer already in Dover’s expression as he read the letter. ‘Is it?’
‘Is it what?’ said Dover.
‘Is it a confession?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Quince sardonically. ‘I didn’t think it would be. Well, come on!’ she said as Dover hastily stuffed the letter back in the envelope. ‘Aren’t you going to hand it round? You were pretty keen to have a good snigger over those everybody else was getting. Strikes me it’s only fair to give us a chance now you’ve got one.’
‘That’s entirely different,’ said Dover, getting very puce round the ears.
‘Oh yes,’ – Mrs Quince nodded her head – ‘yes, it would be, wouldn’t it? Well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, that’s what I always say.’
‘Do you?’ inquired Dover unpleasantly. He put the letter in his inside pocket and buttoned his jacket firmly over it. The letter had accused him not only of advanced satyriasis in connection with some of the less attractive women in Thornwich, but also of running an affair with MacGregor as well. As far as Dover was concerned, nobody, but nobody, was ever going to clap eyes on that letter.
Mrs Quince recognized defeat and retired with a flounce to her kitchen where she evolved a really nasty idea for Dover’s lunch.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, laddie,’ said Dover, gazing with dismay into the depths of his egg, ‘I’m getting sick to death of women! The world, in my opinion, would be a happier place without them.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ said MacGregor, inevitably, ‘they do have their uses.’
Dover snorted.
‘Er – what about your letter, sir?’ asked MacGregor, who was dying to read it. ‘It is a genuine poison-pen one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dover shortly. ‘Cheeky bitch! I’ll get her for this if it’s the last thing I do!’
‘I suppose I’d better have it for the usual tests, sir, just in case,’ said MacGregor hopefully.
‘She’s gone too far this time,’ muttered Dover sourly. ‘I’ve been trying to handle things diplomatically, trying to avoid a scandal, you know. I could have barged in days ago and thrown my weight around and bust the whole thing sky
