‘Can’t think why,’ said Dover, licking the jam spoon nice and clean before replacing it in the pot.
‘Oh well, they were birds of a feather, dear! They both thought the world was hurtling to eternal damnation and it was so nice for them to have somebody to talk to about it. Wing Commander Pile is going to be very lonely now, I’m afraid. He’s not a very good mixer. Of course, he’s got Linda but she can’t really be much of a companion, can she?’
‘Where’s the wife?’
‘She died when Linda was just a tiny baby, I believe, dear. He’s had the whole burden to bear by himself. What that man has sacrificed just doesn’t bear thinking about. We mustn’t be surprised if he’s a little difficult every now and again.’
‘I’ve got past being surprised at anything,’ said Dover as he wiped the crumbs off his chin with one comer of the sheet.
‘Ah,’ cooed Miss Kettering admiringly, ‘that’s because you’ve got such a well-balanced personality.’
Dover found himself warming to Miss Kettering. ‘That’s very perceptive of you,' he rumbled. ‘It’s not everybody who notices.’
‘I doubt if I would myself a year or so ago,' admitted Miss Kettering modestly. ‘It’s only since I took up the study of the occult that I’ve found true insight. Take the tarot cards, for instance. You’ve no idea how rewarding a session with those can be, and how comforting. Then there’s numerology. Of course, I haven’t actually got to that – it doesn’t come till Lesson Fifteen – but I’m certain it’s going to be a tremendous experience. I suppose,' – she looked at Dover rather wistfully – ‘I suppose they don’t encourage you to use divination in your work?’
Dover choked over his tea.
Miss Kettering nodded understanding^. ‘There’s a lot of blind antagonism about. I come across it myself, you know. You should hear Mrs Boyle on the subject. Talk about prejudice! Do you know, I once went to a great deal of trouble to concoct a really powerful charm against rheumatism for her and what did she do? She flung it back in my face! Nasty old cow! From the way she went on you’d have thought I was trying to put the evil eye on her.’
‘You can take the tray,' said Dover. Miss Kettering might be a woman of rare understanding but he wasn’t going to have her galloping her hobby-horses round his bedroom.
‘Good heavens, have you finished already?’ Miss Kettering jumped up and obediently accepted the tray. ‘Well, that’s a good sign. You must be feeling better if you can eat like that.’
Dover plumped up his pillows. ‘I might get up a bit later on,' he said as he snuggled down.
Miss Kettering glanced at him anxiously. ‘You don’t want to overdo things,' she warned, ‘not with your responsibilities.’
‘I’ll watch it,' promised Dover drowsily.
Sully Martin’s church clock was striking a quarter past five when MacGregor came striding up the driveway back to the Blenheim Towers. He found it most inconvenient, breaking off his investigations like this, but Dover tended to get very niggly if he was left alone for too long. For the umpteenth time MacGregor pondered on the progress that could be achieved if only he hadn’t got the dead weight of that lump of lard tied round his neck. Well – take this afternoon, for instance. All that careful questioning of people who had, quite understandably, been too bewildered and frightened almost to know what day of the week it was. The patience, the professional skill that had been needed to trace their movements and establish times. The endless checking and cross-checking. Could Dover have done it? Would Dover have done it? Like hell!
What would he have made of the Burkes, for example? Mr and Mrs Burke, having slaved away like demons, were sure that they had got Grandad outside by a quarter past two. Grandad, pinned down by the wardrobe across his bed, was vindictively certain that it was a good half hour later – and only then when they’d rescued the television set.
Or Jamie Pearson? He insisted that he’d been pulled clear by the Archangel Gabriel but his brother reckoned it was only their next-door neighbour armed with a tyre lever. What, MacGregor couldn’t forbear from asking himself, would Dover have made of Jamie Pearson? Or of any of them, come to that?
MacGregor couldn’t forbear from providing the answer, either: sweet Fanny Adams, that’s 'what Dover would have made of it. Dover liked a straight answer to a straight question and could turn very nasty if he didn’t get it. Not for him the patient sifting through muddled statements and vague impressions. He preferred a more direct approach. Such as picking on somebody who wouldn’t fight back and thumping a confession out of him.
Oh well, MacGregor comforted himself, on this occasion at least the old fool did seem to be confining himself to a comparatively passive role. Provided his imaginary cold didn’t get better and the rain didn’t stop, there was an outside chance that the murderer of Walter Chantry might actually be brought to book. For one of Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover’s cases, it would make a welcome change.
Pausing only to find out from Mr Lickes what was on the menu for supper, MacGregor bounded up the stairs to Dover’s room and knocked on the door. From inside came a sound akin to that of a blue-nosed whale clearing its blowhole and MacGregor obediently entered.
Dover was putting his trousers on. It was not a very edifying sight and MacGregor, who was rather squeamish, averted his eyes.
‘You’re getting up, sir?’ he asked with a foolishness that was meat and drink to Dover.
‘No, you bloody fool,’ came the sparkling reply, ‘I’m stripping off to
