‘He must have led you a terrible life,’ he said, trowelling on the sympathy.
‘I’ve had more than me fair share,’ agreed Mrs Hamilton.
‘I expect your friends felt pretty bad about it, too,’ suggested Dover, not quite seeing Mrs Hamilton disposing of her husband in such a bizarre fashion single-handed.
‘’Ere, what chew hinting at?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Dover soothingly.
‘He died natural. That’s what they said at the inquest. He died natural.’
‘Well, now, I’d hardly call it that.’
‘It were nothing to do with me. I was in bed.’
‘Of course,’ said Dover. ‘ Now, look, why don’t you just let us come inside so we can have a nice cosy little chat about it?’
Perhaps his tone was too treacly. Perhaps Mrs Hamilton just got bored. At all events she retreated quietly and with a certain amount of dignity down the hall to where she kept a coal hammer for just such an occasion. She returned to the door with the coal hammer concealed behind her back and, sportingly, gave Dover a last chance. ‘Are yew going?’
‘Your husband was a friend of Cochran, the policeman, wasn’t he?’
Mrs Hamilton swung the coal hammer. Dover saw it coming but was unable to get his foot out of the way in time. The coal hammer struck fair and square on the toe of his boot.
Dover screamed.
Mrs Hamilton, having successfully achieved the withdrawal of the offending foot, slammed her front door shut and began shooting the bolts back into place.
Meanwhile the Chief Inspector, bellowing with pain and fury, hopped around on one leg. MacGregor stared at him with more embarrassment than concern as heads began poking out of windows and doors opened from one end of the street to the other.
‘Er, are you all right, sir?’
‘You bloody fool!’ howled Dover. ‘Don’t just stand there. Do something!’
Luckily for MacGregor the delicate decision of what to do for his injured Chief Inspector was taken by other and more capable hands. Two middle-aged ladies, fairly bristling with self importance and the urge to succour their fellow-man, were already coming up the steps at a near gallop. They had been walking past the house when Mrs Hamilton had delivered her blow against the forces of law and order. At the first scream these two Good Samaritans had exchanged delighted glances.
‘Come on, Bella!’ cried the fatter one and, touching the bow of blue ribbon on her bosom as though it were some form of talisman, resolutely led the way. Bella, panting a little and with eyes sparkling, was dose behind.
No words were wasted. When they reached the top of the steps the pair of them snapped into action like a well-drilled team. MacGregor was shouldered ruthlessly aside. Bella kicked away Dover’s uninjured leg and, since it was the sole support of his not inconsiderable bulk, brought him crashing to the ground. Then she flung herself smartly on top of him with a technique derived from what she had seen of the wrestlers on the telly. As she landed on his chest Dover’s mouth involuntarily opened. Whether to utter some words of greeting or merely because the air in his lungs had got to go somewhere will never be known for, at the precise moment that his jaws opened, Bella’s friend, the fatter one, rammed the handle of her shopping basket between, his teeth.
‘Move over a bit, Bella,’ she commanded, still forcing the basket handle down Dover’s throat.
Obediently Bella moved down on to Dover’s stomach while her friend replaced her on his chest.
Comparative quiet reigned. Dover, now turning a very funny colour, could manage no more than a few gasping grunts. The two ladies rested on his prostrate form and concentrated on getting their own breath back.
When she had recovered her composure the fatter one smiled reassuringly at a horrified MacGregor.
‘Good thing we happened to be passing,’ she remarked.
MacGregor nodded, speechless.
‘We’ve both got our First Aid certificates,’ said Bella with the air of one making polite conversation over the tea cups.
‘I’m chairman of the First Aid Sub-committee of the Ladies’ League,’ put in the fatter one. She touched her blue ribbon again. ‘You see, I’ve got a little red cross on mine.’
Dover began to struggle feebly. His face was getting black.
The fatter one regarded him complacently and shoved the basket handle in a bit further. ‘ He’s quietening down now,’ she observed. She glanced up rather patronizingly at MacGregor. ‘I’ll bet he had you worried there for a moment, didn’t he? Still, it says in the handbook that epilepsy always looks much worse than it really is, and it’s usually right, isn’t it, Bella?’
Bella nodded. ‘ It’s very good, that handbook,’ she agreed. ‘It’s never let us down yet, has it, dear?’
‘Epilepsy?’ asked MacGregor weakly.
‘The important thing,’ said Bella, closing her eyes the better to recall the handbook’s pearls of wisdom, ‘ is to ensure that the patient doesn’t bite his tongue. Hence’ – she opened her eyes and beamed at MacGregor – ‘the basket handle. You should never use your finger. He might bite it off.’ She giggled.
MacGregor gulped. He felt extremely diffident about contradicting two such capable women, but Dover’s condition was clearly deteriorating.
‘It’s not epilepsy,’ said MacGregor unhappily. ‘ I’m most frightfully sorry, but the lady who lives here she – well – she hit him on the foot with a hammer, I think.’
The ladies looked disappointed but they took it very well. Chuckling ruefully they hoisted themselves to their feet.
‘More haste, less speed, Bella,’ said the fatter one good-humouredly as she pulled her basket handle out of Dover’s mouth.
‘Impacted fracture, dear?’ suggested Bella hopefully as Dover lay panting at their feet.
‘Could be,’ said the fatter one, pursing her lips judicially. ‘Could be. We’ll tackle it on that assumption, anyhow. Have you got your penknife handy, dear?’
Chief Inspector Dover was certainly down, but he was not out. Making a supreme effort he raised himself up on one elbow and, managing to munch his teeth back into
