‘And I hope you’re not just looking at us boys in connection with your nasty old murder. I don’t want to be bitchy, but you know what they say – hell hath no fury and the female of the species is more deadly. If Maddie Bones thought for one moment that it was her darling Peter who had impregnated that dead girl of yours, murder wouldn’t have been the word! She’d have massacred her! I do hope that, when you get around to checking dear Peter’s alibi with the Bickertons, you’ll have a good look at dear Maddie’s movements that evening. You might just find that there’s the odd ten minutes or so that she can’t quite account for.’
Dover seemed to be having some slight difficulty in focusing his eyes, but his co-ordination was still good enough for him to hold out his glass for a refill of the stuff that both cheers and inebriates. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot about what’s going on,’ he said thickly.
‘That’s my Mrs Yarrow, dear!’ explained Clifford de la Poche with a shriek of girlish glee. ‘I told you. And she’s even worse of a rattle than I am when she gets going. Besides, the whole of The Grove has been running up and down like a flock of headless chickens ever since we heard that one of us was the murderer. Everybody’s naturally been very keen to clear themselves by putting the blame on somebody else. There is, by the way, quite a strong party in favour of lynching Mr Plum, our unfriendly neighbourhood publican, on the grounds that he’s the one who put the black on us.’
‘Do you know the Goughs, sir?’ asked MacGregor, thinking that he might as well take advantage of Mr de la Poche’s propensity to gossip.
Clifford de la Poche rose to the question like a trout tempted by a very exotic fly. ‘Who doesn’t, dear? Well, not the Brigadier, of course. He only exists to make Madame more credible as a womanly woman. His being around means that she can prattle on about how simply divine it is being married and slaving away for the wonderful hubbie and all that rot.’ Clifford de la Poche rolled his eyes in mock horror. ‘That spikes her opponent’s guns, you see. They can’t accuse her of only wanting to be a clergy person because she’s unfulfilled in other directions. That’s why the silly cow always uses her married name. Not that the dear Brigadier’s complaining all that much.’ Clifford de la Poche broke off to select a chocolate from the bon-bon dish before offering them to Dover who, absent-mindedly, scoffed the lot. ‘Dear Moo earns quite a lot of money from all her television appearances and lecture tours and what-have-you. I hear she’s even thinking of writing her biography now, God help us. Mind you’ – Clifford de la Poche’s eyes glinted maliciously – ‘it’s not roses, roses all the way. There are some people who’d sooner see Mrs Esmond Gough dead than have her as a fully fledged parson. Did you know that Charlotte Henty-Harris flatly refused to let her conduct Sir Perceval’s funeral service? She claimed that the old boy would have spun round in his coffin at the mere idea. Mrs Esmond Gough was livid V MacGregor looked at Dover and wondered if he was going to be capable of walking when the time came, while Clifford de la Poche risked a glance at his charming little Faberge clock. The minutes were ticking away and Clifford had better things (he hoped!) to do with his Sunday evening than spend it pouring gallons of expensive booze down the throat of this great bull of a copper. Good heavens, church would be out in twenty minutes and he hadn’t even done his nails yet!
Since nobody else looked like making the first move, Clifford de la Poche felt obliged to risk it. ‘Well, I mustn’t monopolize you!’ he said brightly. ‘I expect you’ve got lots to do.’
‘Have you any thoughts on the Talbots?’ asked MacGregor. ‘Oh, over at Castle Perilous?’
‘Castle Perilous?’
‘Well, that’s what I call it, dear. For want of a better description. Didn’t you notice that dear Raymond is barricaded in there like the Crown Jewels? Not that I know much about it from personal experience, you understand. I’ve only ever been invited there once. However, dear Mrs Yarrow obliges there on occasion and I’m indebted to her for the description of the defences.’
‘Mr Talbot said it was to prevent him being kidnapped and forced to open the bank vaults,’ said MacGregor carefully.
‘Oh, how sweet!’ Clifford de la Poche cooed with delight.
‘And how convenient that dear Raymond is a bank manager and thus able to explain all! I suppose that’s why they always meet at his house where they’re safe from intruders.’
MacGregor was well aware that Clifford de la Poche was watching him intently from under those long, curling eye-lashes. ‘You mean the bridge players, sir?’
‘Bridge players?’ Clifford de la Poche’s joy was quite unconfined. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘We did,’ said MacGregor, fairly certain that Dover was temporarily incapable of claiming the credit that was his due, ‘think that seven was a funny sort of number to assemble for an evening’s bridge.’
Clifford de la Poche stole another look at his clock. No, really, this was beginning to cut things a bit too fine! ‘Would you believe a witches’
