‘Breakfast?’ snapped Dover. ‘We haven’t time for breakfast. This is a murder case — or had you forgotten? We can’t afford to waste a minute. I should have thought even you knew that.’
MacGregor did know it, only too well. In his experience it was always the Chief Inspector who insisted on dropping everything for his four hot meals a day and his twelve hours’ uninterrupted sleep.
But, here was Dover already struggling into his overcoat. MacGregor rushed to help, having found that it didn’t pay to let the old muddler over-exert himself. ‘What exactly are we going to do then, sir?’
‘We’re going to visit the scene of the crime, you nit! What else?’
Number 17 Birdsfoot-Trefoil Close looked, in the grey light of dawn, depressingly like all the other forty-nine houses in the same road. Only the presence of a policeman, huddled up in his cape against the front door, singled it out from its more fortunate neighbours.
The policeman hesitated for a fraction of a second when he saw Dover approaching and appeared uncertain whether to reach for his truncheon or the brim of his helmet. The Rolls-Royce, however, and the quiet elegance of Sergeant MacGregor reassured him. He saluted and sneezed.
‘No stamina, these young coppers!’ observed Dover with a sneer as he pushed his way into the house.
‘The body’s still in the front room, sir,’ said the constable who had been standing out in the rain all night and felt aggrieved by Dover’s remark.
Dover headed straight for the kitchen.
‘First things first,’ he said to MacGregor as he sat himself down at the table. ‘Get the kettle on!’
‘Do you think we should, sir?’ asked MacGregor doubtfully. In any case he objected very strongly to being employed as a tea-boy. ‘The fingerprint people haven’t been in yet. We may be destroying evidence if we start handling things.’
‘So we may,’ agreed Dover with ominous amiability. ‘Good thing you remembered that, laddie. You’d better keep your gloves on, hadn’t you? And while you’re about it you might have a root round in that fridge and see if you can rustle me up some bacon and eggs.’
While MacGregor ruined a new pair of pigskin gloves with his culinary efforts Dover told him as much as was politic of the lengthy conversation he had had with Daniel Wibbley.
MacGregor was not impressed. ‘Oh, he’s just being vindictive, don’t you think, sir? I mean, he didn’t want his daughter to marry Perking in the first place and so, when this happens, he naturally blames it on his son-in-law. It’s understandable, I suppose, but he’s no evidence to support his accusation, has he? What’s Perking’s motive, for instance?’
‘Husbands don’t need motives for scragging their wives,’ mumbled Dover through a mouthful of bacon. ‘It’s an occupational hazard. Aren’t we having any toast?’
MacGregor gritted his teeth and reached for the bread knife. ‘From all accounts, sir, Perking and his wife were a very devoted couple.’
‘Oh? And who’s “all accounts” when they’re at home?’
‘Well, Chief Inspector Bream, sir.’
‘Him? I wouldn’t trust him to give me the time of day! Typical provincial flat-foot, that’s all he is.’
‘He may not be over-bright, sir, I admit, but he does know the town. He’s lived in Pott Winckle all his life and I don’t think there’s much going on here that he doesn’t get wind of.’
‘Who’s his candidate for the drop, then?’
MacGregor permitted himself a faintly reproving smile. ‘I’m sure Chief Inspector Bream is far too conscientious a police officer, sir, to start pointing the finger at anybody before he’s given all the evidence full consideration. He’s the last man to jump to hasty conclusions.’
Dover blew unpleasantly down his nose. ‘Here, have you put marge on this toast?’
‘I had a long chat with Chief Inspector Bream, sir, while I was waiting for you. He gave me quite a bit of useful background material. You see, sir, assuming that this murder isn’t just the work of some homicidal maniac, whoever killed Cynthia Perking must have had some reason for doing it, mustn’t they, sir?’
‘Her husband,’ said Dover pushing his plate away from him and licking the marmalade off his fingers. ‘He probably just got sick of her stupid face. You do, you know,’ he added moodily. ‘Got a fag, laddie?’
MacGregor took out his cigarette case. ‘Yes, her husband is a possibility, sir, but he’s not the only one. There’s her cousin, for example.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Dover and handed his cup over for some more tea. ‘And let’s have a bit more sugar this time, laddie.’
‘Her cousin’s a man called Hereward Topping-Wibbley, sir, who . . . ’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dover.
‘You don’t believe what, sir?’
‘That name. Hereward Topping-Wibbley? Somebody’s been pulling your leg, laddie.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. That actually is his name, I do assure you. His mother is Daniel Wibbley’s sister. She married a man called Topping and, since the Wibbley family is so important round here, she had their name changed to Topping-Wibbley. Now, her son, Hereward —he’s an only child, by the way— he’s been brought up in the business. Everybody assumes that he’ll take over the running of Wibbley Ware when Mr Wibbley retires or dies. But, of course, he won’t have complete control. All Daniel Wibbley’s shares would naturally be inherited by his daughter, and he’s reputed to hold a pretty hefty majority. But you see the position, don’t you, sir? With Cynthia Perking out of the way her cousin, Hereward, will be the sole heir. He’ll come in for the lot. Now, that’s what I call a motive.’
‘Do you?’ Dover gazed abstractedly at the ceiling. ‘Got any more long-shot suspects up your sleeve? Because, if you have, you’d better spit ’em out now before we get down to the real work.’
‘Well, sir,’ said MacGregor hotly, ‘there’s Hereward Topping-Wibbley’s mother, or his wife— either of them might have done it on his behalf.’
Dover rolled his eyes.
‘Or there’s Daniel Wibbley himself, sir.’
‘What?’ yelped Dover, leaping instantly to the defence of his patron-to-be. ‘Kill his own daughter?
