Dover Three

by Joyce Porter

  ‘Not to me,’ said Miss Thickett severely. ‘We clearly have widely differing senses of humour.’ She walked stiffly across to a small table by the front door and picked up a cardboard tray and a tin collecting box. With the air of one delivering the coup-de-grace to a detested enemy, she proffered the tray to Dover and rattled the collecting box under his nose. ‘Perhaps you would care to purchase your poppy from me,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I see you’re not wearing one.’

  MacGregor fumbled sheepishly in his pocket for half a crown, while Dover backed away like a nervous horse from this blatant attempt to extort money from him.

  ‘You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Remembrance Day is a week on Sunday, my dear Chief Inspector. Now, come along, I’m sure we can rely on you to give generously.’ This was hitting well below the belt, and Miss Thickett knew it.

  But Dover was not one to be caught napping. With a flourish he turned back the lapel of his jacket and revealed a wide, if tattered selection of paper flags and emblems. He picked out a moth-eaten-looking poppy which had given him sterling service for the past six years and stuck it defiantly in his buttonhole.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but I already have mine.’

  Chapter Six

  NOT SURPRISINGLY after such a beginning, Dover’s visit to Dame Alice was neither enjoyable nor pleasant. It didn’t even have the merit of being brief. Dame Alice was an experienced committee woman and never used one word if ten would do. She had found that one could bore one’s colleagues into submission just as effectively as brow-beating them there.

  She invited Dover and MacGregor to sit down and then spent several minutes weighing up the opposition. What she saw neither impressed nor inspired her. She was surprised, though. She had met many policemen in her time and had found them a respectful body of men on the whole, worthy if not over-blessed with brains. This bad-tempered, overweight hulk scowling from the depths of a chintz-covered arm-chair was a new experience for her. And those boots on her Persian prayer-rug! Oh well, it was her own fault. She should have interviewed them out in the hall, although she had not expected that a senior detective from Scotland Yard would have been quite so gross. The young one looked quite a decent boy. He could even be a gentleman if he weren’t quite so well-dressed. But this Dover man! She shuddered.

  Dover stared truculently back. He was going to have trouble with this old cow or he’d eat his hat.

  MacGregor sat quietly, wondering what they were waiting for.

  ‘Well,’ said Dame Alice at last, ‘I am glad that we have finally met, Chief Inspector. I was beginning to think that you were trying to avoid me.’

  Dover grunted.

  Dame Alice didn’t really look like a man-eater. She wasn’t very tall, short enough to have most men towering over her and feeling masterful. She was on the plump side, though her legs and ankles were slim. Her face was motherly in a vague way, but people rarely got around to noticing her features. Their eyes tended to linger on the rimless spectacles on the bridge of her nose, and the untidy mass of soft grey hair which surrounded her face.

  ‘You probably know,’ Dame Alice went on placidly, ‘that I was largely instrumental in having you brought here. Our local police were somewhat difficult to convince that Thornwich is facing a very nasty and potentially dangerous situation. I am referring, of course, to these poison-pen letters with which the women in this village are being bombarded day after day. I myself have received yet another of these disgusting communications this morning. You may as well take charge of it.’

  She picked up a white typewritten envelope from a small occasional table and handed it to Dover. Dover, not even bothering to glance at it, handed it to MacGregor. The Chief Inspector had so far not examined any of the poison-pen letters and he saw no reason to start now. He’d get around to it in his own good time.

  ‘Now, I realize,’ Dame Alice resumed her monologue, ‘that the police do not take things like this outbreak of poison-pen letters very seriously. No doubt their time is fully occupied with harassing motorists and checking on dog licences.’ Dover raised his eyebrows but offered no comment. ‘But I happen to live in Thornwich and, as I think anyone who knows me will confirm, I don’t go around with my eyes closed. Thornwich women are rapidly reaching breaking-point. They have suffered this disgusting form of persecution for a month now and, you can take my word for it, they are not in any condition to stand much more. Apart from the unpleasantness of actually receiving one or more of these missives, there is inevitable speculation as to who is writing them. Nerves are being tom to shreds as the finger of suspicion points this way and that, as the gossip grows, as the . . .’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed much hysteria about the place,’ said Dover suddenly. ‘If you ask me, I’d say people were taking it remarkably calmly.’

  Dame Alice blinked .behind her glasses. ‘I find that a very odd remark, Chief Inspector,’ she commented. ‘To the best of my knowledge you have so far interviewed only one person in this village, and she tried to kill herself immediately afterwards. No doubt that is evidence of the remarkable calm which you claim to have found in Thornwich.’

  ‘It wasn’t a real attempt at suicide,’ protested Dover.

  ‘Maybe not,’ agreed Dame Alice, ‘but it is indicative of a very disturbed state of mind. And Poppy Gullimore is not alone in feeling that some form of violent action is the only way out of this dreadful predicament in which we have all been so shamefully placed. Well now,’ – Dame Alice sat more upright in her chair – ‘just what have your investigations, or whatever you call them, achieved so far?’

  Dover slumped deeper in his chair and stared resentfully into the coal fire which was burning cheerfully in the hearth. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal information like that to you, madam. It’s confidential.’

  ‘Tommyrot!’ exploded Dame Alice. ‘You appear to have no scruples about discussing the case freely in the bar-parlour of The Jolly Sailor. From what I am told you apparently consider that the culprit is a woman, an inhabitant of this village, and one who has herself received some of these poison-pen letters.’

  ‘That’s right,’ admitted Dover sulkily.

  ‘Well,’ – Dame Alice nodded her head with approbation – ‘so far I am inclined to agree with you. It is, after all, a perfectly logical deduction which would be obvious to anybody. Now, what are your opinions on the motive?’

  ‘Motive?’ repeated Dover stupidly. He was still staring into the fire and the flickering flames were having a hypnotic effect on him.

  ‘Motive,’ said Dame Alice with some signs of impatience. ‘Have you considered why this woman is writing the letters?’

  Dover sighed. The room was warm and the chair was comfortable. He yawned and wondered if Dame Alice was going to be good for a cup of tea. ‘Well,’ – he reluctantly returned to his surroundings – ‘I don’t reckon motive comes into it much. This woman’s barmy. Judging by the tone of the letters she’s sexually repressed in some way or another. It’s the usual sort of thing. For some reason she’s developed a grudge against the other women and this is her cock-eyed way of hitting back at them. I expect there’s a motive of some sort but it’ll be all twisted up in her imagination. It won’t be the kind of thing we can take into account.’

  ‘You think the culprit is a psychological case?’

  ‘Er – yes,’ said Dover doubtfully. ‘Barmy. Off her rocker. You know.’

  ‘Some poor, distraught, mentally sick woman who doesn’t really know what she is doing?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Dover through another yawn.

  ‘Poppycock!’ said Dame Alice firmly.

  Dover burrowed deeper than ever into his chair and closed his eyes. When a lecture was inevitable, you might as well relax and enjoy it.

  Dame Alice swung round slightly so as to include MacGregor in her audience. She had reached the erroneous conclusion that he must be the brains of the partnership. MacGreg
or contrived to look bright-eyed and intelligent.

  ‘Absolute poppycock!’ repeated Dame Alice. ‘You have examined the letters. They are carefully typed with no spelling mistakes or grammatical errors. Do you mean to sit there and tell me that they are the work of a candidate for a lunatic asylum? And what about the fingerprints – or, rather, the lack of them? Is that the sort of thing a person with a sick brain would be so cunning about? And there’s another point. All those letters have been posted in the village. Well, I dare say that was easy enough at the very beginning, but what do you think it’s like now? People look at you as if you were a criminal if you so much as go near a pillar-box here in Thornwich. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of but, I don’t mind telling you, I post practically all my letters in Cumberley or in Bearle these days. Now then, does it stand to reason that a neurotic woman, one who must be practically insane, has enough gumption to take the necessary precautions to post those letters completely unobserved? Everybody is watching everybody else like a hawk. Only a very shrewd, calculating person could get away with it.’

  Dame Alice paused, either for breath or to let her arguments sink in. MacGregor nodded understanding and something – it might have been a grunt or a snore – came from Dover.

  ‘Well, Chief Inspector,’ demanded Dame Alice loudly, ‘what do you think?’

  Dover opened his eyes and looked vacantly at Dame Alice. ‘Oh, very interesting,’ he said. ‘Yes, you’ve got a point there.’ He gave himself a little shake and opened his eyes very wide. His feet were giving him hell. He bent down and undid the laces.

  ‘ ’Strewth!’ he murmured. ‘That’s better.’

  Dame Alice watched him with an expressionless face. Really, this man was the absolute end! ‘I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying!’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, I have!’ protested Dover indignantly. ‘It’s just that I always concentrate better with my eyes closed. That’s right, isn’t it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Oh, never mind!’ said Dame Alice, who prided herself on an instinctive immunity to red herrings. ‘The point I was endeavouring to make is that we are dealing with a person of intelligence – cold, calculating intelligence. I cannot accept your theory that we are looking for a kind of female village idiot.’

  ‘Even crackpots can show a fair bit of cunning from time to time,’ Dover pointed out. He looked at the ornate china clock on Dame Alice’s mantelpiece. Far too late for elevenses. Maybe the old cow would lash out with a drop of sherry before lunch.

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Dame Alice, showing remarkable stamina for one of her age, ‘the poison-pen letters are being written with a definite aim in view.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Dover politely.

  ‘Somebody is trying to drive me out of Thornwich!’

  And good luck to ’em, whoever they may be, thought Dover. He scratched his head. The usual shower of dandruff fell gently on his shoulders.

  ‘Do you find the idea fanciful, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Oh no,’ murmured Dover, ‘not at all. Have you’ – he dragged his eyes away from the fire and tried to concentrate – ‘have you any idea as to whom it might be?’

  ‘If I had,’ said Dame Alice reasonably, ‘I should not have wasted public time and money by having you and your assistant sent down here. No, though I have naturally given the problem a considerable amount of thought. There are several people in the village whose attitude towards me is what I can only describe as antagonistic. I propose to give you a brief outline of their relationship to me so that you can pursue your inquiries along more fruitful lines.’

  ‘Now, just a minute . . .’ Dover put in quickly. He was wide awake now and scenting danger on all sides. If he didn’t choke her off good and quick she’d have them there all day. ‘If you are the sole object of attack why have the letters been sent to everybody else as well?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ sniffed Dame Alice. ‘The other letters are just a blind. We already know that our culprit is a woman of the utmost cunning. This is merely another example of it. If I alone had been singled out, her real motive for writing the letters would have been crystal clear from the very beginning. As things are, she has succeeded in clouding the issue for a full month and in masking her plans even from such an experienced and astute detective as yourself.’

  Dover, sensing that Dame Alice was taking the mickey, gave her a good hard look, but she took no notice. She had got the bit well between her teeth now and nothing short of a swift toot from the last trump was going to stop her.

  For the next three-quarters of an hour, Dame Alice held forth with that fluent gift of the gab for which she was known and loathed from one end of the country to the other. Dover’s stomach rumbled audibly but unheeded. He concentrated as hard as he could, but closed eyelids were no barrier against Dame Alice’s remorseless tirade. The bright, attentive look on MacGregor’s face grew fixed and stiff. With a great show of efficiency he got out his notebook and doodled furiously. He produced a quite creditable sketch of a woman being burned alive at the stake, which filled the whole of one page.

  Dame Alice dropped, and blackened, quite a few names which Dover had heard before.

  There was Mrs Tompkins, for instance. She was nursing a grudge over that baby business. ‘As if it was my fault,’ complained Dame Alice. ‘I told her right from the beginning that I couldn’t pull any strings for her, though, of course, I have a large number of contacts in that particular field. I warned her that adoption wasn’t easy in this day and age and I tried to point out that she and her husband were hardly the ideal couple. In spite of having all that money, they are living in conditions at the back of that shop which are, really, from an adoption society’s point of view, quite unacceptable. I endeavoured to stop Mrs Tompkins from letting her hopes rise too high and, naturally, I warned her that Mr Tompkins’s marked lack of enthusiasm wasn’t going to help, but, of course, when three societies in a row turned her down she blamed it all on me.’

  ‘It’s getting late, Dame Alice,’ said Dover half rising hopefully to his feet. ‘We don’t want to keep you from your lunch. The Sergeant and I’ll come back later.’

  ‘I never eat lunch,’ said Dame Alice, frowning at the interruption. ‘Where was I?’

  Both Dover and MacGregor were scrupulously careful not to tell her, but it didn’t make any difference.

  There was Mrs Grotty. She was jealous. ‘Nobody,’ proclaimed Dame Alice, ‘could hold the Church in deeper respect than I do. I consider it plays a most important part in our social life, and everybody who knows me would confirm that the last thing I would do is slight, by word or deed, any aspect of the Church or the people connected with it. It is hardly my fault if our local Chapter of the Christian Mothers’ and Wives’ Work and Prayer Group wished to re-elect me as President for the tenth year in succession. “I am well aware,” I told her, not mincing my words, “that all the other presidents of the local chapters are the wives of the incumbents. If this is not the case in Thornwich, I suggest that you know the reason better than I.” She had no answer, of course. One would have thought that she would have been grateful but I’m afraid gratitude is entirely alien to Mrs Crotty’s naure. “Most vicars’ wives,” I told her, “would be glad to have somebody who took an active interest in the parish and relieved them of some of their duties.” And then there was that business of the altar flowers. You’ve never heard such a fuss and palaver just because I . . .’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’ said Dover.

  MacGregor, well trained, had the case half out of his pocket when Dame Alice’s reply cracked across the room like a cat-o’- nine-tails in the hands of a sadistic master at arms.

  ‘I certainly do mind! It is a filthy habit and I am surprised that a man of your standing and position should be a slave to it. It is nothing more than a breast substitute, you know. You can’t have been weaned properly as a child.’

  Dover’s jaw dropped in blank astonishment. Before he
could rally, she was off again.

  Then there was Mrs Leatherbarrow, Poppy Gullimore’s landlady. She had already threatened Dame Alice with court action so there were no doubts about her attitude. ‘Mind you,’ said Dame Alice, ‘it’s all been smoothed over now. We’re on very amicable terms, on the surface. But I fancy my perfectly innocent remarks were a little nearer to the bone than Mrs Leatherbarrow cared to admit. She’s always letting rooms to these young, rather forward girls, you know. That Poppy Gullimore person is one of the most respectable-looking she’s had, so you can imagine what the rest were like. I did happen to mention, in a conversation I considered entirely private and confidential, that Mrs Leatherbarrow’s young ladies seemed blessed with an inexhaustible supply of gentlemen friends and, of course, the next thing you know is that she’s around here, hammering on my door and accusing me of accusing her of running a brothel. Absolute nonsense, of course. I’ve been in public life long enough to keep a guard on my tongue. Naturally I explained that I had said nothing of the sort and eventually she seemed satisfied, but I’ve never been really sure, you know, that it’s all forgotten and forgiven. In fact, Mrs Leatherbarrow was so upset that I have been keeping a discreet eye on her establishment – just in case. If there is anything nasty going on there you can rest assured it won’t escape my eagle eye, and I shan’t have any scruples about reporting the facts to the proper authorities, either.’

  Dover tried again. He had lost all hope of defeating the enemy and could only resort to guerilla tactics designed to confuse and lower morale.

  ‘I want to go to the lavatory,’ he said in a loud clear voice. ‘Where is it?’

  Dame Alice, wincing at such crudity, informed him that there was a downstairs cloakroom just outside in the hall.

  Dover dragged himself up out of his chair and headed in the prescribed direction.

  ‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Dame Alice, and shuddered.

  She and MacGregor sat in an embarrassed silence as Dover’s footsteps thudded across the hall. A door opened in the distance and closed. There was silence for the next five minutes.