‘They were estranged, sir, and they’d had plenty of blazing rows—everybody in Pott Winckle knows that. Daniel Wibbley was absolutely livid with fury over the marriage. It’s common gossip that he’d tried to bribe young Perking to clear off and leave the girl alone. And having her and her low-class husband living in his town—he was furious about it.’
‘A father’s natural concern for his daughter’s welfare!’ bellowed Dover. ‘It was his blasted son-in-law he couldn’t stand the sight of!’
‘That’s as maybe, sir,’ said MacGregor, still gallantly sticking to his guns, ‘but Daniel Wibbley is used to having his own way and anybody who stands out against him gets pretty short shrift, from what I hear. And he’s none too particular about the methods he uses, either. There’s a pretty nasty rumour going round about how he forced his own father, when he was on his death bed, to sign a will making him sole heir to the business. The old man intended to split it between your Daniel Wibbley and his sister, Hereward’s mother, but your Daniel Wibbley wasn’t having any. He wanted the lot. Why, he’s got the reputation of being the most ruthless businessman this side of the Wash! He could have come here yesterday afternoon, had yet another row with his daughter, lost his temper and killed her. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d raised a hand to her, either. Chief Inspector Bream says . . . ’
‘I don’t give a brass monkey what Chief Inspector blasted Bream said!’ screamed Dover. ‘I’ve never heard such a load of poppycock and old wives’ tales in all my born days! Call yourself a detective? You’re nothing but a lazy, malicious muck-raker! Here you are, jumping to conclusions like a cat on hot bricks before we’ve even seen the blooming body. Why, for all you know, it might bloody well be suicide!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said MacGregor stiffly.
‘And so you damned well should be,’ retorted Dover, totally unappeased and still smarting at the injustice of MacGregor’s insinuations. ‘Going round, spouting out actionable slander like a . . . ’ Dover’s lowly brow creased in thought. Like a what? He changed the subject. ‘Is there any more tea in that pot?’ Meekly MacGregor shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Right!’ Dover hauled himself to his feet. ‘In that case we might as well go and see the flaming corpse.’
Chapter Three
CYNTHIA PERKING, née Wibbley, had come to a sticky end all right, and in the literal meaning of the phrase. She lay huddled up by the fireplace in the front room, her head and shoulders an ugly mass of dark congealed blood.
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover. ‘What a way to go!’
‘It looks like a straightforward murderous attack, doesn’t it, sir?’ MacGregor suggested tentatively. ‘I mean—the clothing and everything. It doesn’t look as though there’d been any attempt at sexual interference, does it? Still, the post mortem should be able to give us something definite on that.’
Dover moved over to the hearth. ‘This the murder weapon?’
‘That poker, sir? It seems likely. The lab’ll be able to tell us for sure when they examine it, but those look like traces of blood and hair on it to me.’
Dover stared moodily round the room. ‘Well, that disposes of the chance-intruder theory, doesn’t it? It must have been somebody who knew there was a poker in here—and who better than her husband?’
This was too blatant for MacGregor, even in his rather chastened mood, to stomach. ‘Oh, I don’t think you can quite say that, sir,’ he objected. ‘Suppose it was a thief, say, who broke into the house? Mrs Perking catches him and he just picks up the nearest available weapon. Besides, anybody could guess that there’d more than likely be a poker in this room.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the coal fire, sir.’
‘And how would they know there was a coal fire in here, Sergeant Clever-Devil?’
‘They’d be able to see the smoke from the chimney, sir.’
Dover scowled ferociously. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was people trying to take the mickey out of him. ‘Anyhow, I can’t see any villain worth his salt breaking into a dump like this in the middle of the day and with somebody actually in the place. What was he going to steal, for God’s sake?’
MacGregor nodded. ‘You’ve got a point there, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Still, even villains make mistakes, sometimes.’ Dover sniffed contemptuously. ‘Any sign of breaking in?’
‘Well, not the front door, sir, nor the back. And these windows here haven’t been forced. And neither had the ones in the kitchen.’
‘And how the blazes do you know?’
‘I looked, sir. Just an automatic routine check.’
Dover’s scowl grew blacker. ‘What about the rest of the house?’
‘I’m afraid we won’t know about that until it’s been examined, sir. You may remember that the local police were most meticulous about not touching a thing until we got here.’
‘Somebody may just have walked in,’ admitted Dover reluctantly. ‘You know what some of these dratted housewives are like—don’t lock their blooming doors or leave the key under the mat where anybody can get hold of it.’
‘Well, that’s possible, sir, but this house has got Yale locks both back and front. I imagine both doors would be kept locked because there doesn’t appear to be any other means of keeping them shut. It seems a bit inadequate, but that’s how they build these cheap houses nowadays. I should guess that it means that either Mrs Perking let her murderer into the house, or that he let himself in with a key.’
‘Which means the husband,’ said Dover with gloomy triumph. ‘Told you he was the one.’
MacGregor was past arguing. He’d been up all night, too. ‘Is there anything else you want to see in this room, sir? If not, I’ll ring the local police and get them to send the fingerprint boys in, and the photographers. I suppose they can take the body away, too?’
Dover nodded. ‘Might as
