‘Perhaps Mrs Talbot doesn’t play, sir.’
‘Nobody said she didn’t,’ objected Dover. ‘And it’s the same difference. Six is a bloody awkward number, too. And so,’ he added, just in case MacGregor was going to pursue the point to its limit, ‘is five. Here’ – Dover ground to a halt outside the wide-open gates of yet another house – ‘where the hell are we supposed to be going now?’
‘It’s the very last house in The Grove, sir,’ said MacGregor as beguilingly as he could. ‘When we’ve done this one, we’ve done the lot.’
Dover puffed his cheeks out and, almost regretfully, shook his head. ‘’Strewth, laddie,’ he confessed, ‘I couldn’t eat another mouthful. Not right away. Not without ruining my supper. Mrs Plum’s doing cod fried in batter and chips, and I just fancy a bit of fish.’
But MacGregor, who’d learnt something during his long years of association with Dover, had foreseen this bolt-hole and blocked it. He indicated his wristwatch. ‘It’s nearly six o’clock, sir. Mr de la Poche won’t be offering us afternoon tea. It’s far too late.’
As usual, MacGregor was right about the social niceties. Clifford de la Poche, owner-occupier of Lilac View, the fifth and final house in The Grove, never so much as mentioned tea.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased!’ he trilled, the diamond rings on his fingers vying in sparkle with the cut glass of his whisky decanter. ‘Naturally one always suspected that this “no drinking on duty” rule was a complete myth, but one couldn’t be sure. Now, would you care to add your own water, Chief Inspector dear, if any?’ Mr de la Poche set down a triple whisky on the little table next to Dover and then turned, in the most touching and appealing way imaginable, to MacGregor. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you, sergeant dear?’ he queried, dimpling away like mad. ‘Not even with a teeny-weeny drop of the dryest of dry sherry?’
MacGregor silently indicated that he was above and beyond temptation of any sort whatsoever.
Clifford de la Poche accepted the rebuff with a charming pout. ‘Oh, well,’ he begged, ‘do at least sit down, dear! You make one feel so nervous, towering there. You’re such a big lad, aren’t you?’
MacGregor sat down, advisedly choosing a chair as far away as possible. ‘You probably know, sir, that we’re here making enquiries in connection with the death of the young woman whose body was found yesterday morning.’
‘What a tragedy, dear!’ Clifford de la Poche raised two pale, limp hands in lamentation. ‘Still,’ he added more briskly, ‘it could have been worse.’
‘Could it, sir?’
Clifford de la Poche twinkled at MacGregor. ‘It could have been a young boy, dear!’ He picked up a massive cigarette box in exquisitely tooled leather and offered it to Dover. ‘Do you smoke, Chief Inspector dear? The scented ones are on the left.’
‘I take it that you don’t know the young woman, sir,’ said MacGregor, holding out his copy of the dead girl’s picture.
Clifford de la Poche shook his head. ‘They all look alike to me, I’m afraid, dear,’ he apologized. ‘Has she got a name yet?’
‘We haven’t been able to identify her so far, sir.’
‘It’s just that, where females are concerned, I’m better at names than faces.’
‘I wonder if you could tell me what you were doing in the evening of Wednesday the twelfth, sir? That’s a week last Wednesday.’
‘The day the girl was killed?’ Clifford de la Poche caught MacGregor’s sharp glance. ‘That’s from my charlady, dear. She garners every scrap of gossip and retails it to me at great length over our mid-morning cup of coffee. She’s been issuing extra bulletins since we had this murder, of course.’ Clifford de la Poche pursed his lips to bring out his dimples. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about it since I heard that we residents of The Grove are the prime suspects. I was at home all day that Wednesday and, after my Mrs Mop had left at mid-day – her name’s Mrs Yarrow, incidentally – after she’d gone I was all on my ownsome. I didn’t see or speak to a living soul all day. So, there are no witnesses at all, I fear, to my complete innocence.’
‘You’re sure about the date, sir?’
‘Quite sure, dear. It was my day for rest and relaxation because I’d had to go up to London the day before. One does need to recharge one’s batteries after a day in Town, doesn’t one? That was Tuesday the eleventh. I belong to the Pedlar’s Club in Capon Lane. I expect you know it – an awful lot of policemen do. I’m on the Steering Committee, you see, and we have our meeting on the second Tuesday of the month. That’s why I’m quite sure about the dates.’
‘And nobody called on you here that Wednesday evening?’
‘Nary a one, dear.’
MacGregor nodded and closed his notebook.
‘Oh, goodie, goodie!’ Clifford de la Poche clapped his hands delightedly. ‘Thank goodness that’s over! Now we can all sit back and have a nice little chat!’ He filled Dover’s glass again, practically to the brim, and crinkled his eyes at MacGregor. ‘Surely you can let your hair down now, sergeant dear, and partake of a wee drop? No? Oh, well, I’ll just indulge in a teeny-weeny cherry brandy, since we’re having a party.’ He draped himself elegantly on the chaise longue. ‘And what do you think of The Grove, dears? I hope you’ve been impressed. We’re popularly supposed to be a rather distinguished crew, though I’m afraid Sir Perceval Henty-Harris’s death has torn a simply enormous hole in our ranks. How was dear Charlotte bearing up?
