‘Who?’ asked Dover shortly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Let’s have a few names, mate! Vague accusations don’t amount to a row of tuppenny damns in my job.’
‘I am not making any accusations,’ countered Wing Commander Pile quickly. ‘I was merely indicating an area which you might find fruitful to investigate further.’
‘Who was Chantry sticking his knife into in particular?’ Wing Commander Pile ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I don’t know that I really care to mention any specific person.’
‘You can stuff that!’ roared Dover, highly delighted at being able to browbeat the wing commander in a good cause. ‘I want facts!’
‘One has no wish to be sued for defamation of character.’
‘Defamation of character, my Aunt Fanny! Look, you want whoever snuffed Chantry out caught, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, start singing then! There’s nothing to worry about. Whatever you tell me’ll stay within these four walls.’
‘I have your word on that?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’
‘Very well.’ Wing Commander Pile capitulated with an air worthy of a defeated general surrendering his sword. ‘I accept that I have a moral obligation. I owe it to poor Chantry’s memory to . . .’
‘Tell me!’ screamed Dover.
‘You’ve heard of the Studio?’
Dover frowned. ‘Where this first-aid centre was?’
‘That is the place. Ironically, it was poor Chantry himself who was responsible for importing those dreadful people into the village. He had some rather naive ideas about artists, I’m afraid. He thought an artists’ colony would give tone to the place and be an additional tourist attraction. He also had some vague notion that they would enrich the social life of our small community here. Well, to cut a long story short, he acquired the house which is now known as the Studio and did it up. There was no question of selling it, of course. Even poor Chantry realized that artists have no capital, so he decided to rent it. I believe it was the villain called Oliver who turned up in answer to the advertisement. He managed to convince Mr Chantry that he was a respectable citizen of good moral and financial standing and was granted a long and very advantageous lease on the property. This happened over a year ago, you understand, before I had moved into Sully Martin. Otherwise I might have been able to give Mr Chantry the benefit of my somewhat wider experience of this type of person. Well, no doubt you can guess for yourself what happened. Within a matter of weeks Oliver was not only behind with his rent but he had imported two more layabouts to join him. Permanendy, that is. On high days and holidays, of course, threequarters of the scum of Chelsea move in.’
‘Chelsea?’ queried Dover.
‘Or wherever these parasites hang out nowadays. However, we needn’t bother about them at the moment. On the night of the earthquake only the three principal ruffians were in residence. Oliver himself, a woman called Wittgenstein and another man – Lloyd Thomas.’
‘And you reckon this bunch had a grudge against Chantry?’ asked Dover, trying to speed things up. According to his stomach it was getting time for his afternoon tea.
‘They certainly had. It wasn’t long, you realize, before poor Chantry knew he had made a terrible mistake. It wasn’t only the fact that they weren’t paying their rent. There was the public scandal of the way they were living.’ Wing Commander Pile looked cautiously round to make sure that his next remarks would not be overheard. ‘The woman is cohabiting with both the men!’
‘Go on!’ said Dover.
‘They make no secret of it. And sometimes’ – the wing commander had another quick glance round – ‘they all three sleep in the same bed! *
‘Never!’ said Dover, successfully repressing a chuckle.
‘Then there’s their nudity. Half the time they wander around without a stitch of clothing on.’
‘That must liven village life up a bit!’ snorted Dover.
Wing Commander Pile regarded him severely. ‘Some of us do not find such licentious behaviour amusing, chief inspector. We have to think of its effect on the younger generation.’
‘Oh, quite,’ agreed Dover smarmily. ‘Do they get up to any other high jinks?’
‘They have orgies,’ said Wing Commander Pile. ‘Drunken orgies. Practically every night. Their record player is blaring until the small hours three or four times a week. I imagine they take drugs, too. They are typical degenerates in every conceivable way. Mr Chantry, with my full support, was determined to get rid of them. Just asking them to go had proved to be a complete waste of time.’
Dover had a one-track mind. ‘Drunken orgies?’ he murmured thoughtfully to himself.
‘Just before he died, Mr Chantry had embarked upon more drastic action. He had consulted his solicitor. Decent, law-abiding, God-fearing people still have some rights, you know. Mr Chantry was determined to exercise them. You can take it from me, he would have left no stone unturned. Oliver and his crew realized this, of course, and they removed Chantry before he, poor fellow, had time to remove them.’
‘Drunken orgies!’ muttered Dover, hardly able to believe his good luck.
Wing Commander Pile misunderstood his interest. ‘You may well be shocked, chief inspector. One doesn’t associate Sully Martin with hippies.’ He pronounced the word with evident distaste.
‘One certainly doesn’t,’ agreed Dover absently. ‘Tell me, what do they drink? Beer or the hard stuff?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea. Does it matter?’
‘No,’ said Dover, ‘I don’t reckon it does, not really.’
The arrival of Miss Kettering with Dover’s afternoon tea broke up the session and Wing Commander Pile, having unbeknowingly disgorged a vital piece of information, was allowed to take his leave.
‘That’s a rum kettle of fish,’ said Dover, slobbering happily over the goodies on his tray.
Miss Kettering had sat down to
