In point of fact the man in the green M.G. was a perfectly innocent sales representative from the U-Kleen-It Carpet Sweeper Company. A few days before her death Cynthia had written to ask where she could buy their latest product and had been rewarded by a personal call. The U-Kleen-It Carpet Sweeper Company man wasn’t much of a reader and by the time he’d caught up with the details of the murder it was all over bar the shouting. He just thought he wouldn’t bother coming forward with his evidence, and Dover never did find out who he was.
Chapter Ten
MACGREGOR only just got back to Pott Winckle in time for the inquest. He had had an adventurous night but Dover meanly refused to listen to anything about it.
‘Cut out the sob stuff,’ he ordered. ‘Has Topping-Wibbley got an alibi or hasn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid he has, sir.’
‘Well, what are you bitching about, then?’
MacGregor sighed. He’d had no dinner, no sleep and no breakfast and was feeling thoroughly fed up. Not that he expected any sympathy from Dover. They sat together, squeezed up on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, and waited for the inquest on the late Cynthia Perking to begin.
The room in which the inquest was to be held was very small. It had been chosen deliberately. None of the officials upon whom the selection fell had thought for one moment that the inhabitants of Pott Winckle would be so insensitive as to attempt to intrude upon the Wibbley family in their grief, but, as the Town Clerk put it, there was no use handing it to the nosey buggers on a plate. The room, therefore, was not only small, it was also remote. No members of the general public had dared ask where the inquest was to be held and the bolder spirits of the fourth estate had been given, in all bad faith, directions which led them to a Congregational hall at the other end of the town.
The coroner, therefore, conducted his brief inquiry before a very select audience. Only those, like Dover and MacGregor, who were duty-bound to be present and the Wibbley family were crammed into the inadequate benches. None of John Perking’s relations had felt it incumbent on them to rally round, but the Wibbleys were there in force, intent presumably not only that justice should be done but that it should be done discreetly.
‘Who’s that?’ whispered Dover, indicating a pugnacious little woman who was making her second entree. Much to her disgust she had been refused admittance the first time on account of two small hairy dogs lurking one under each armpit.
‘I believe that’s Daniel Wibbley’s wife, sir,’ said MacGregor, finding that his insecure perch at one end of the bench was being placed in jeopardy as the estranged Mrs Wibbley rammed herself in at the other end. ‘I say, steady on, sir! You’ll have me on the floor.’
‘It’s getting like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here!’ gasped Dover, using his elbows to some purpose. ‘Shove up, MacGregor, I haven’t room to breathe!’
‘I can’t, sir!’ protested MacGregor, and braced himself. ‘Let’s push together, sir!’
But, before the combined weight of the two Scotland Yard detectives could be brought into effective play, the coroner entered and everybody stood up. Not everybody sat down again in response to the coroner’s self-satisfied nod. Dover, a slow mover at the best of times, had paused to catch his breath and the ranks had closed inexorably beneath him.
The coroner stared at him in horror. Everything was supposed to have been so carefully arranged. The last thing anyone wanted was a sensational development. Mr Wibbley would be furious.
‘Did you wish to address me, Chief Inspector?’ he asked fearfully.
‘Eh?’ Dover was somewhat disconcerted to find that everybody was staring at him. ‘Er—no, no.’
‘Oh,’ said the coroner.
There was only one thing to do. Dover sat down. Seventeen and a quarter stone, none the less heavy for being mostly fat, landed with a crunch on the knees of Sergeant MacGregor and a young lady who was now sitting next to him. Understandably they pulled away from the crushing burden and Dover’s ample buttocks again made contact with the wooden seat. He wriggled himself into a more secure position and an elderly gentleman six places away fell with a crash on to the floor.
‘Order, order!’ rapped the coroner, glaring in outrage. ‘If there are any more of these disgusting disturbances I shall clear the court!’ A policeman looked questioningly at him. Feeling very masterful the coroner inclined his head. The policeman bent down and assisted the old gentleman to his feet and then, maintaining a firm hold on the scruff of his neck, proceeded to evict him none too gently from the court.
Having thus asserted the ancient authority of his office the coroner calmly opened his inquest. Six and a half minutes later he closed it, just as calmly and with an air of great satisfaction. Only the barest bones had been uncovered and then the lid had been slapped smartly on, the police having requested and been granted a lengthy adjournment while they completed their inquiries.
All stood respectfully as the coroner, with an obsequious half-nod to Daniel Wibbley, withdrew.
‘Thank God for that!’ exclaimed Dover, struggling to his feet. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’
MacGregor was right behind him. For some time his sensitive nose had been troubled by a peculiar smell which seemed to be permeating the courtroom. Since the proceedings had been so dull he had spent his time trying to track down the source of this unpleasant odour. It was without much surprise that he finally decided that it must be Dover. Somebody ought to tell the old pig, thought MacGregor resentfully and tried to breathe as little as possible. It really was too much. A Detective Chief Inspector from New Scotland Yard ponging like an
