Inspector Walter’s eyebrows rose. ‘What? A sort of human sacrifice? Blimey, I thought you needed a virgin for that.’
‘That wasn’t quite what we had in mind,’ said MacGregor. ‘We simply thought that the girl might have inadvertently stumbled onto the orgy or whatever was going on. Then Talbot or somebody killed her so as to prevent their secret getting out.’
‘That sounds a bit far-fetched, sergeant.’
MacGregor’s face showed that he hadn’t wasted all his time in Dover’s company. ‘I know it does!’ he snapped. ‘But Talbot is a bank manager. Maybe he didn’t think it would do his career much good if people thought his financial decisions were being guided by spirit voices. Anyhow’ – he got his irritation under control – ‘you were telling us about Mr Talbot’s criminal record. I presume it doesn’t amount to much?’
‘Illegal parking,’ said Inspector Walters sulkily.
‘I see.’
‘In Soho,’ said Inspector Walters more cheerfully. ‘When he was supposed to be attending a weekend conference on banking in Doncaster.’
‘Interesting,’ admitted MacGregor.
‘It shows that he’s another one who might be keen on les girls, in a mild sort of way.’
MacGregor sighed. ‘The trouble is, sir, that we’ve got almost too many people who might have been mixed up with Pearl Wallace and had a reason for killing her. The case is littered with motives. Or possible motives. What we’re short of is hard evidence. So far we’ve not turned up one single fact to connect Pearl Wallace with this part of the world in general, never mind this village in particular. And as for trying to pin the job on anybody living in The Grove . . . well!’ MacGregor shrugged his shoulders despairingly before knuckling down to the job once more. ‘That’s Mr Talbot for illegal parking, then. Now, is anything known about his wife?’
‘She’s been done for shop-lifting.’
‘Where?’
‘In Chapminster. Her solicitor presented a classic case and she virtually got away with it. You know – middle-aged woman, a cry for help, veiled hints about a lack of understanding on the part of her husband. In the end she got a conditional discharge on the understanding that she went to a Marriage Guidance Counsellor. That might,’ said Inspector Walters moodily, ‘tie in with old Talbot seeking solace in Soho.’
‘It might,’ said MacGregor without much interest. He was beginning to think longingly of his bed. ‘Is that the lot?’
‘There’s Clifford de la Poche.’ Inspector Walters stifled a yawn on his own behalf. ‘We nabbed him once for forgetting to renew his dog licence. Otherwise the beggar’s been too clever for us. Still, we’ll get him one day. One of those dratted choirboys is sure to shop him sooner or later, however well he bribes’em.’
‘I don’t remember a dog,’ said MacGregor wearily.
‘He got rid of it. It was a Jack Russell bitch. Which brings us,’ said Inspector Walters with an apologetic grin, ‘to the last one on my list: Mrs Yarrow.’
‘The charwoman?’
‘You’d better not let her hear you calling her that!’
‘What’s she been up to?’
‘She just happens to be the only person connected with this business – if you can call it a connection because she’d been home for a couple of hours before Pearl Wallace appeared on the scene – she’s the only one with any violence in her background. She attacked the lady of the house where she was working over at Horwill. Went for her with a poker. The lady had criticized the way Mrs Yarrow cleaned brass.’
MacGregor raised a very faint grin. ‘What did they charge her with? Justifiable attempted murder?’
‘Not quite! She got a good ticking off from the Bench and was bound over to keep the peace. It was her first offence. And her last, if it comes to that.’
‘And that’s the lot?’
Inspector Walters agreed that it was. ‘Not much help, I’m afraid.’
It was true but MacGregor, given half a chance, was quite a kindly lad. ‘Oh, well, every little helps, sir, and you never know – we might have found that one of the suspects had already committed murder. You know what it’s like these days. Some killers are out and back in society in a matter of weeks.’
Inspector Walters nodded. ‘Bloody disgusting, I call it,’ he agreed as he began to gather himself together for his departure. ‘Well, I’d better be pushing off home before the old woman starts thinking she’s a widow. Where is it you’re off to tomorrow? Birmingham?’ He shook his head. ‘I still think the answer’s to be found here in Frenchy Botham.’ He looked at Dover for a brief moment. Of course, the chap could just be resting his eyes against the light but . . . ‘Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. The Chief Constable would like a word sometime. Just to say “hello”, you know, and find out how you’re getting on. At your convenience, naturally, but he’d like it to be tomorrow morning. Maybe you could call in before you leave?’
Dover couldn’t have picked a better moment to fall off his chair. It saved MacGregor the trouble of finding an evasive answer to an inconvenient question, and it happened before Inspector Walters had left. This enabled MacGregor to get some assistance in lugging the paralytic, seventeen-and-a-quarter stone Detective Chief Inspector upstairs to bed. The incident proved something of an education for Inspector Walters. Until he’d helped disrobe Dover and seen his underwear, the local man hadn’t realized what a sheltered life he’d lived.
‘Just time for a night-cap!’ whispered MacGregor as they thankfully closed the door on Dover’s stentorian snores.
Inspector Walters, having just had a brutal lesson on the dangers of strong drink, was dubious.
‘Come on!’ urged MacGregor. ‘We’ve earned it. Besides, I want to make a few enquiries about Mr Plum, our helpful host.’ He led the way downstairs. ‘I hate to admit it, but old Dover was quite right. We have only got Plum’s
