Mrs Veitch dismissed this. ‘ I expect you frightened her.’
Dover slowly forced another mouthful of cake down. Although appearances might belie it, he was really thinking quite hard. ‘ I’ve got a theory about Hamilton,’ he began. Then he changed his mind. ‘My sergeant has a theory about Hamilton.’ He watched Mrs Veitch carefully. ‘You see, young Arthur Armstrong, the taxi-driver, swears that he found Hamilton’s house out of all those houses in that great long street on a dark night. Now, I expect you know Armstrong. He’s as blind as a bat.’
‘Huh!’ said Mrs Veitch non-committally.
‘Now my sergeant – Sergeant MacGregor, that is – he thinks he can explain how Armstrong found Hamilton’s house so easily.’
Sergeant Veitch and his wife were all ears, much to Dover’s gratification. He always expected to be the centre of attention and got very shirty when, as frequently happened, he wasn’t. He paused to let the tension build up.
‘All right,’ snapped Mrs Veitch impatiently. ‘How did he find it?’
‘Dead easy,’ smirked Dover. ‘He didn’t!’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, he just thought he did.’
‘Clear as mud,’ observed Mrs Veitch. ‘Have one of these maids of honour. They’re …’
Dover raised a heavy hand and broke the habits of a lifetime. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Well, finish off those cream cheese sandwiches. I don’t like having things left hanging around.’
Dover shook his head and returned the conversation to less painful channels. ‘Sergeant MacGregor reckons that somebody in one of the other houses – and they all look the same, don’t they? – he reckons that somebody put the number of Hamilton’s house up nice and clear on another house.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘And how did they do that?’ asked Mrs Veitch quietly.
Dover shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t have been too difficult. You could cut out the number nice and big in a sheet of cardboard, for instance, and then stick it up on the fanlight over the front door. If you left the light on in the hall, the number’d stand out so clearly that even Armstrong would see it.’
‘Well; swelp me!’ said Sergeant Veitch with unflattering astonishment. ‘That’s clever.’
‘Sydney!’ His wife’s voice brought him promptly to heel. ‘You’d better start clearing the table.’
But Sydney had got the bit between his teeth now and, possibly thinking that Dover’s presence provided him with at least temporary protection, ignored his wife’s hint. ‘Do you mean, Mr Dover, that Hamilton was lured into another house and cut about there?’
‘That’s Sergeant MacGregor’s theory.’
‘It’s an idea. They’d just have to carry his body out when it was all over, and his clothes, and pop ’em over the garden wall. Yes,’ – Sergeant Veitch nodded his head – ‘it’s an idea all right.’
‘Rubbish!’ Mrs Veitch rattled her tea cup in the saucer. ‘ What about those two men in that little green van that Doris Doughty saw? It’s obvious that whatever happened to Hamilton happened a long way from Minton Parade.’
It came as no surprise to Dover to find that Mrs Veitch knew as much, if not more, about the Hamilton business than he did. ‘Miss Doughty may have been mistaken,’ he said mildly.
‘What, Doris Doughty? Never on your life! I’ve known her for years. We’ve served on Ladies’ League committees together since I don’t know when.’
‘My sergeant,’ said Dover, watching Mrs Veitch from under eyelids which, weighed down by sandwiches and cake and trifle, were growing heavier every minute, ‘my sergeant thinks there’s something fishy about Miss Doughty’s story.’
‘Oh, does he, indeed? And I’d like to know what he knows about it when he’s at home.’
‘He’s a very astute detective,’ said Dover, choking slightly over the words.
‘Oh, is he?’ Mrs Veitch was scathing. ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does, if you want to know my opinion. And what does this paragon of yours think is wrong with Doris Doughty’s story?’
‘He says,’ said Dover slyly, ‘that it sounds as though she’d learned it off by heart. Most witnesses, you know, tend to change bits and pieces every time they tell their story. They remember some details they’ve never mentioned before and they forget others. Now, your Miss Doughty, according to my sergeant, doesn’t change a single word.’
For a split second Mrs Veitch looked disconcerted. Then she turned viciously on her husband. ‘ I thought you were going to start clearing this table, Sydney? We don’t want to be sitting here surrounded by empty pots all night. Another cup of tea, Mr Dover?’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ said Dover, passing his cup.
‘Sydney, go and brew a fresh pot!’
Reluctantly Sydney withdrew to the kitchen.
‘You want,’ Mrs Veitch said unpleasantly, ‘to keep an eye on this sergeant of yours. I hear he was at that Country Club again last night.’
‘Was he now?’ murmured Dover in wide-eyed astonishment.
‘Didn’t you know?’
Slowly Dover shook his head. ‘He doesn’t have to tell me what he does in his free time.’ He smiled suggestively. ‘He’s a big boy now, you know.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t have thought that Country Club was the place for any young policeman unless he was on duty. And not even then, come to think of it.’
‘Oh, I think he took a bit of a fancy to one of the girls.’ explained Dover indulgently. ‘We were there the night before, you know. On duty, of course. I seem to remember he was getting very chummy with one of the, er, hostesses, I think they call them.’
‘I know what I call them!’ Mrs Veitch spat the words out. ‘Dirty little trollops, that’s what I call them! Dressed up as chickens, too – disgusting! We’ll have to tackle the Council again. They must close that place down.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Dover casually, ‘it seemed harmless enough to me.’
‘To the pure all things are pure,’ was Mrs Veitch’s somewhat inappropriate rejoinder. ‘I must say, though, I’m surprised at your sergeant. Really surprised. He looks such a nice, decent, clean-living boy.’
‘Who? MacGregor?’ Dover began to laugh and then, since the exercise was so unusual for him, to
