MacGregor had stood up, too. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked. ‘I thought a witches’ coven had to have thirteen in it.’
‘Seven’s nearly as good, dear,’ said Clifford de la Poche firmly. ‘And if your poor girl managed to break in and witness one of their disgusting orgies, they’d have to kill her, wouldn’t they? A sort of sacrifice to whatever dark, mysterious gods they worship. Have you thought of that? Now, do you think you could take his other arm, dear?’
Between the pair of them, Dover was propelled successfully towards the front door.
Clifford de la Poche, though bending under Dover’s weight, could always find the breath for talking. ‘You ought to consider whether this really is a ritual killing, dear. I know they’re supposed to cut their victim’s throat and let the blood run all over the altar, but maybe that’s only black cocks or something. Anyhow’ – Clifford de la Poche had got his front door open and had manoeuvred Dover and MacGregor onto the right side of it — ‘do let me know if I can be of any more help, but phone first, will you? Lovely to have met you both! Nighty-night!’
MacGregor was thus left supporting an intolerable burden of sagging flesh and staring at a front door which seemed as solidly shut against the intrusions of the outside world as that sported by Mr Talbot himself. MacGregor was just debating whether it wouldn’t be better to prop Dover up against the wall while he fetched the police driver to give a helping hand when a tiny, but wiry, middle-aged lady appeared apparently from nowhere. In fact she had been waiting round the corner of the house for the last ten minutes, but MacGregor was not to know this.
She took in the situation at a glance and, draping Dover’s limp arm round her shoulders, took Mr de la Poche’s place as supporter on the sinister side.
‘I suppose he’s been telling you the old, old story in there, has he?’ she panted, jerking her head back in the direction of the house. ‘Disgusting pig! Told you he was all alone the night that girl was done in, I’ll be bound. Well, you can take it from me, my love, that slimy bastard’s a black liar on top of all the other things.’
8
MacGregor, who hadn’t been trained as a detective at great expense for nothing, deduced that he had encountered Mrs Yarrow, Clifford de la Poche’s charwoman and oracle. The fact that she had a large bottle of washing-up liquid and two tins of Vim wrapped up in an apron may, of course, have given him a clue. Actually, Mrs Yarrow described herself as the housekeeper. The non-residential housekeeper.
‘Not,’ she explained with a haughty toss of her head, ‘that I wouldn’t be as safe as houses living-in, but there’d be talk. There always is. Folk just don’t believe in these here platonic relations, and I can’t say as I blame’em. What,’ she asked as Dover emitted a sleepy hiccup, ‘is supposed to be up with him?’ MacGregor was not a liar by nature but there are occasions when the unvarnished truth is inappropriate. ‘The Chief Inspector has been over-working recently,’ he said, working on the principle that, if you’re going to tell a fib, make it a whopper. ‘And it was oppressively warm in Mr de la Poche’s house.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Dover quite loudly, missing his footing as he progressed along the dead straight drive.
MacGregor felt obliged to keep on talking. ‘Have you worked for Mr de la Poche long?’
‘Long enough,’ said Mrs Yarrow, sniffing darkly. ‘Not that I’d set one foot over his threshold, of course, if he didn’t pay double the going rate.’
‘Oh?’
‘Dirty animal!’ snorted Mrs Yarrow. With approximately half of Dover’s not inconsiderable weight pressing on her shoulders she seemed disinclined to say more.
Dover attempted to flourish one arm. ‘Up the City!’ he bawled.
Mrs Yarrow replaced her hat. ‘He pongs of booze,’ she observed suspiciously.
‘Mr de la Poche slipped and spilt some on his coat,’ said MacGregor smoothly, wondering why in God’s name he imperilled his immortal soul for so unworthy a cause. ‘Er – were you implying by your earlier remarks that Mr de la Poche was not alone on the night of the murder?’
‘I might have been,’ admitted Mrs Yarrow with some lack of frankness. ‘And then again, I might not.’
They had reached the police car. With the driver’s boot-faced help, they got the Shame of Scotland Yard bundled into the back. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but at least they’d got Dover off the street where his appearance and behaviour would not only have frightened the horses but done irreparable damage to police/public relations as well.
Mrs Yarrow straightened her hat again and got her breath back. ‘My lips are sealed,’ she announced improbably. ‘But, I will say this . . .’
‘Yes?’ MacGregor was always the optimist.
‘You might not be wasting your time if you was to go round to St Columbia’s church and cross-question some of those horrid little choirboys.’
MacGregor pursed his lips as he tried to indicate that a wink was as good as a nod. ‘You mean that a week ago last Wednesday, Mr de la Poche was not alone in his house in the evening, but had some choirboys with him.’
‘Not some,’ Mrs Yarrow corrected him as she re-wrapped her bundle. ‘One.’
‘Do you know – er – which one?’
‘You’ll have no trouble finding out,’ said Mrs Yarrow. ‘You just charge Mr de la Poche
