‘It sounds fine,’ said Dover bleakly.
MacGregor gave him a cigarette to sugar the pill. ‘And now,’ he went on, ‘we come to the question of motive.’ He opened his notebook again. ‘Here, sir, I think we really must put Chantry’s daughter and her husband at the top of the list. They’ve obviously got much the . . .’
Eleven
By the time he was let out for lunch – and with no remission for good conduct – Dover had worked up a pretty good grudge against MacGregor. This time young Charles Edward had really gone too far. Dover wasn’t quite sure exactly how he was going to wreak his vengeance but he was confident that undiluted spite would find a way. Dover had never been subjected to such torture in his entire career. Shut up all bloody morning talking shop! Well, not so much talking, when you came to think about it, as listening. It was MacGregor who’d done all the spouting, going on and on and on about the sudden death of Walter Chantry – as if anybody cared. Dover had several times tried to re-introduce the more beguiling topic of his own near assassination but MacGregor had refused to be diverted. The attack on Dover, he maintained, had been of secondary and incidental importance. Dover’s amour propre was still smarting over that one. That he should have been reduced to playing second fiddle to the Walter Chantrys of this world!
When he was finally released, Dover made MacGregor lead the way downstairs, just in case. Even so he’d shied visibly when he’d had to pick his way over the chalked outline of Mrs Boyle’s body. There, but for a touch of providential constipation . . .
The uniformed policeman on the landing saluted with reassuring deference and Dover descended into the entrance hall feeling a little better. There were signs of police activity everywhere. Another stalwart in blue was on duty by the front door and wires for the temporary telephones were festooned untidily across the ceiling. The door leading into the lounge was firmly closed and bore a large notice forbidding entry to unauthorized persons. Things seemed very quiet inside but, if you listened carefully, you could hear the gentle click of the dominoes and the soft shuffling of the playing cards. Outside in the drive a whole convoy of police cars held themselves in readiness while their drivers chatted and smoked in the watery sunshine.
‘What,’ sniffed Dover disparagingly, ‘no dogs?’
MacGregor realized this was a joke. ‘Don’t let them hear you, sir, or they’ll bring a whole pack up.’
‘It looks about the only thing they haven’t got,’ grumbled Dover who naturally considered the scientific approach to detection more trouble than it was worth. ‘We’re not going to have all that mob guzzling with us in the dining-room, are we?’
‘No, sir. I believe they’ve set up a mobile canteen round the back.’
‘Thank God for that!’
Dover followed MacGregor towards the dining-room. Just as they drew near, the door opened and Wing Commander Pile came out. He brushed past them without a word and picked up the telephone receiver which was lying on the counter of the reception desk.
‘Hello? Pile here.’ He turned to watch Dover and MacGregor as they went into the dining-room. ‘Well, no – since you ask – it is not a particularly convenient time. I was just about to have luncheon.’
Inside the dining-room everything looked remarkably normal – except for Mrs Boyle’s empty chair and her fellow guests were all managing to reconcile themselves quite cheerfully to that. Miss Kettering and Miss Dewar had both draped themselves in black but they were chattering away together like a couple of excited schoolgirls.
‘It’s so much nicer than mine,' twittered Miss Kettering, ‘and Mr Lickes says I can move in right after the funeral. Ah,' – she broke off to smile a welcome to Dover and MacGregor – ‘a very good morning to you! Isn’t it nice to have the sun shining for a change?’
The tragic events of the night weren’t getting old Mr Revel down either, though he, of course, could be relied upon to accept any casualties suffered by the monstrous regiment with great fortitude. He nodded his greeting to the two detectives. ‘One down and two to go!’ he shouted excitedly to the great indignation of Miss Kettering and Miss Dewar.
Mr Lickes skipped across and flicked a few crumbs off the tablecloth. ‘Lunch will be a few minutes late,' he apologized. ‘We’ve had rather a hectic morning, what with one thing and another.’ He leapt for the sideboard, grabbed a tarnished silver dish and bounced back again. ‘Have a bread roll while you’re waiting!’
Dover and MacGregor obediently helped themselves and Mr Lickes was away again. He did a sort of comic goosestep over to the Piles’ table and offered his dish to the girl, who was sitting there by herself. ‘And how about you, young lady? We mustn’t leave you out!’
The girl stared uncomprehendingly.
‘Go on, Linda!’ urged Mr Lickes. ‘Have one!’
She glanced at the dining-room door and then, uncertainly, shook her head.
‘Nonsense!’ insisted Mr Lickes kindly. ‘Your daddie won’t mind. We can’t have our most important guest suffering the pangs of hunger, now can we? That would never do!’ He picked out a roll and put it in her hand. ‘Tell you what,' he grinned, ‘I’ll try and find you a bit of butter in a minute. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
The girl stuffed the roll in her mouth and gave a little nod.
‘I thought
