‘No, I didn’t. Mind you, that would have been unusual if I had done, because it was mornings when she used to pop in here.’
‘Did her husband come home to lunch?’
‘Oh, no. They do a lot of their business at the travel agency with people calling in in their dinner hour, so he generally used to take sandwiches and eat ’em whenever he got a spare moment. So Cynthia was like me, she just used to have a snack lunch because you don’t want to go cooking twice, do you? Of course, I’ve got the kids to cope with but now you can get all these tins it makes life a lot easier, doesn’t it? I used to say to Cynthia she didn’t know when she was well off. You won’t be able to sit watching telly with your feet up all afternoon, I used to tell her, not when you’ve got a baby to look after, you won’t, I said. Because that’s just about all she did, you know. She got all her housework done in the morning and all her shopping and then she’d have a bit of lunch and then she’d be off, straight into that front room of theirs and on with the telly. And there she’d sit until a quarter to six. She always watched that serial thing, you know. Oh, what’s it called? You know — the one that’s set in that marriage advice bureau place? For Better or Worse— that’s what it’s called. I’ve watched it once or twice myself and a bigger load of rubbish I’ve never seen in all my born days. Still, Cynthia was mad about it and she wouldn’t miss it for anything. Soon as it was over she’d switch off and dash into the kitchen and start getting the supper ready. Her husband got home about ten past six, you see, so it just about gave her time. As far. as I could make out she used to stick practically everything under the grill and that doesn’t take long, does it? No wonder she couldn’t make her housekeeping last beyond Wednesday. Why don’t you make a stew, I said, or a shepherd’s pie or something.’
MacGregor was writing furiously in his notebook. ‘Just a minute, Mrs Carruthers, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Mrs Perking sat in the front room until a quarter to six. After a quarter to six she’d be in the kitchen getting dinner ready for her husband who would get home from work at approximately ten minutes past six. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Well, that’s what usually happened. And yesterday, well, I’d no reason to think that everything wasn’t going on just as usual. I was upstairs putting some of the kids to bed— my hubbie can’t stand ’em crawling all over him when he’s had a hard day at work so I try to get ’em out of the way before he comes home. Well, I was upstairs in the back bedroom and I happened to look out of the window and I saw Mr Perking bicycling up the lane, just like any other day.’
‘What time was this?’ asked MacGregor eagerly, his pencil poised.
‘Oh, round about ten past six, same as usual. You could almost set your watch by him. I remember thinking he didn’t look ’specially excited or anything. He put his bike away in the shed and locked it up after him and took his bicycle clips off, just as though it was any ordinary day. I tell you, I felt like belting downstairs and giving him a damned good shaking. I mean, he’d just heard he was going to be a father after three years’ trying and he couldn’t even manage to get home a bit earlier—never mind bring his wife a bunch of flowers or something. Oh, these men—they really make you sick sometimes.’
‘But you don’t know for sure that Mrs Perking had told him about the baby, do you?’
Mrs Carruthers shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh well, if you’re going to try and make excuses for him . . . ’
‘Did you see anything else?’
‘No. He went in at the back door and that was that. I didn’t hear what had happened—the murder, I mean—until my hubbie came in later that night from the pub. He picks up all the gossip there.’
MacGregor studied his notebook with suppressed excitement. He checked over the times and movements to himself, just to make perfectly sure. Yes, it was all there.
‘Sir,’ he began.
Dover reluctantly opened his eyes. ‘Uh?’
‘I think we’ve just about got all the information Mrs Carruthers has at the moment, sir. I expect she’d be glad to see the back of us and get on with the housework and everything.’
‘Oh, you needn’t bother about me,’ Mrs Carruthers chipped in comfortably. ‘The housework can just go hang today. I’m far too upset to bother with things like that.’
Chief Inspector Dover relaxed visibly. It was warm and cosy in the kitchen and he’d got used to the smell of the infants. He gave Mrs Carruthers an encouraging smile and passed his cup over. ‘Bit more milk this time, there’s a good girl.’
MacGregor regard this touching little domestic scene with irritation. ‘I really think we ought to be making a move, sir. I’ve got one or two points I’d like to discuss with you and they are —well—rather confidential.’
Dover was relieved of the effort of wriggling out of this one by a solid knocking on the back door.
‘It’s not locked!’ trilled Mrs Carruthers.
The policeman who had been on guard duty at the scene of the crime poked his head round the door. Such infants as were old enough to recognize a police uniform screamed and panicked in their playpen.
‘Sorry to intrude, missus, but are them detectives still here? Oh, there you are, sir.’ He stepped gingerly over the threshold and pulled the door to behind him. ‘It’s a Mrs Withycombe, sir,’ He removed his helmet with a
