by Joyce Porter
‘That sounds quite a bright idea, sir.’ MacGregor’s surprise was unflattering.
‘I thought it was,’ agreed Dover smugly.
MacGregor searched frantically for objections. ‘It makes the whole thing look very – well – deliberate and premeditated, though, doesn’t it, sir?’
‘ ’Strewth!’ said Dover. ‘It looked that before, didn’t it? She’s an intelligent woman and she’s thought out the whole business very carefully. The absence of fingerprints, the concealing of the typewriter – it all points the same way. If she did write those letters months and months ago, it just proves she is a bit cleverer and more cautious than we gave her credit for.’
‘It doesn’t sound much like the behaviour of a sexually disturbed, frustrated woman though, does it, sir?’ said MacGregor doubtfully.
‘It’s what happened,’ said Dover flatly. ‘I’ll stake my reputation on it. She’s cut the risks down to a minimum. All she has to look out for now is not actually being caught posting the things.’
‘Or being found with the unposted letters in her possession,’ MacGregor pointed out.
‘Easy enough to conceal,’ snorted Dover, ‘especially when nobody was looking for them. Much easier than hiding that bloody typewriter.’ He helped himself to one of Mr Tompkins’s liqueur chocolates. ‘Only problem now is how do we catch her? If we set a watch on the pillar boxes she’d be sure to spot it, and just walk on with the bloody letters safe in her handbag.’
‘I don’t think there’s much point in watching the pillar boxes now, sir,’ said MacGregor. ‘As a matter of fact, the letters seem to have stopped.’
‘Stopped!’ yelped Dover. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this before?’
‘Well, we weren’t really sure, sir, but there doesn’t seem much doubt about it now. There hasn’t been an anonymous letter posted in Thornwich – or anywhere else, come to that – since last Tuesday. The day,’ said MacGregor in case Dover had missed the point, ‘before Mrs Tompkins killed herself.’
‘Oh, help!’ said Dover morosely.
‘You see the implications, sir? The whole village is buzzing with it. They think that the poison-pen letter writer was Mrs Tompkins.’
‘Poppycock!’ said Dover, but his heart wasn’t in it.
‘Oh, but it’s pretty obvious, sir, surely? As soon as she’s dead, the letters stop. You’ve only got to put two and two together.’
‘And you’ve only got to think like a detective instead of a blinking mathematician!’ retorted Dover, gathering strength. He’d long ago made up his mind on whom he was going to pin the poison-pen letters, and he wasn’t a man to give up his prejudices lightly. Winifred Tompkins was innocent. She’d got to be! ‘Look, laddie,’ said Dover, fighting strongly now that a matter of principle was at stake, ‘you searched the Tompkinses’ place from top to bottom, didn’t you, when Mrs Tompkins killed herself? And you didn’t find anything, did you? Not one bloody thing to connect her with these letters.’
‘But, according to your theory, I wouldn’t, would I, sir? If all the preparations had been made a year ago there wouldn’t be any incriminating evidence lying around. It would all have been disposed of months ago. Even if she’d had a few letters left over, she’d only got to chuck them on the kitchen boiler before she killed herself. I’m afraid we’ve got to accept it, sir. It all fits.’
‘All fits my eye!’ snarled Dover, tossing the bedclothes aside with reckless abandon. ‘My God!’ He started undoing the buttons on his pyjama jacket. ‘If you haven’t got somebody standing over you every five minutes, you go off like a berserk clockwork mouse! First you have me tearing about like a maniac all over the countryside over this baby buying business which proved to have no relation to anything, and now you’re trying to pin the poison-pen letters on to a poor harmless soul who’s dead and can’t defend herself. You’re damned well not fit to be walking the beat looking for lost dogs, never mind be a blooming G.I.D. man. Oh well,’ sighed Dover, rummaging in his suitcase for a shirt, ‘if you want something done properly, do it yourself. It’s the old, old story!’
He reiterated his theme over lunch. ‘Don’t you worry, old man,’ he informed an astonished Mr Tompkins, ‘I’m back on the job now. I shouldn’t be, I know, but there are some things that are more important than a man’s health. I know your wife didn’t write those letters and nothing is ever going to make me believe she did. Gall it instinct, if you like,’ said Dover generously, ‘but it’s an instinct I have learned, over many years of conducting successful criminal investigations, to trust!’ Dover waved his knife and fork in the air to emphasize the point. ‘Now then’ – he pointed the knife accusingly at Mr Tompkins while shovelling a pile of potato into his mouth with the fork – ‘you were her husband. You were living with her twenty-four hours a day. Did you ever suspect she was writing those poison-pen letters? No, of course you didn’t! Did you ever hear or see your wife typing? No, of course you didn’t! Ever see her buying large supplies of Tendy Bond notepaper – a brand, according to this genius of a sergeant here, she never used? No, of course you didn’t! Did you ever see her popping out every five minutes day and night to post the letters? No, of course you didn’t! How could she have even kept a typewriter in your house without you knowing about it? Why, I don’t suppose she could even type, could she?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ admitted Mr Tompkins, ‘she was a shorthand typist before I married her. She’d done a proper course and everything.’
‘Well, that settles it, doesn’t it?’ demanded Dover triumphantly. ‘The joker we’re looking for used two fingers. Your wife would have used all ten!’
‘She hadn’t done any typing for a long time, Mr Dover. Perhaps she’d forgotten.’
‘They never forget,’ said Dover firmly. ‘It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you know how, you know how.’
‘Did Mrs Tompkins ever do any typing for you in the shop?’ asked MacGregor, feeling the investigation could do with a touch of common sense at this stage. ‘I noticed you had a typewriter in your house.’
Mr Tompkins shook his head. ‘Oh no, she said it used to damage her nails. She’d very brittle nails, you know, so what bit of typing there was to do in the business, I did.’
‘Brittle nails!’ snorted Dover. ‘Well, that just about clinches it. She wasn’t the poison-pen writer.’
‘But what about the rubber gloves, sir?’ asked MacGregor. ‘We’re pretty sure that whoever typed those letters was wearing rubber gloves – because of the fingerprints. That might make all the difference. A touch-typist wearing rubber gloves might well resort to two-finger typing, it would be pretty awkward to do anything else. And, of course, rubber gloves would protect the fingernails from getting damaged.’
Dover scowled at MacGregor. ‘Why don’t you keep your trap shut?’ he asked savagely. ‘When I want your half-baked opinions, I’ll ask for ’em.’
But Dover didn’t just leave it there. As soon as he’d had his lunch and a short nap to settle his digestion, he was off again. This time it was another visit to Mrs Poltensky, who greeted the two detectives like long lost friends. The laying out of Mrs Tompkins had eventually been entrusted to her and she felt, quite erroneously, that she had Dover to thank for a novel experience.
‘I’ve never laid out a suicide before,’ she informed them as she showed them into her front room. ‘Quite a feather in my cap. I did an extra-special job on her, poor thing. I made her look quite nice, I really did. Well, considering what she looked like when she was alive. In fact,’ – Mrs Poltensky beamed happily – ‘she looked a jolly sight better in her shroud than ever she did when she was up and walking around, though I says it as shouldn’t.’
Eventually Dover succeeded in stopping the flow and got down to the serious business. It soon emerged (as Dover, a shrewd judge of character, if ever there was one, suspected it would) that very little went on in the Tompkins ménage of which Mrs Poltensky was ignorant. Apart from Mr Tompkins’s shed out in the
back yard which neither she nor Mrs Tompkins ever entered for fear of being blown up, there was hardly a nook or cranny which was not thoroughly investigated at least twice a week by Mrs Poltensky in the course of her dusting.
She laughed to scorn the mere idea that anything as large as a portable typewriter could have been hidden from her. The suggestion that piles of Tendy Bond notepaper and sheets of stamps might have escaped her eagle eye was contemptuously pooh-poohed. ‘When I clean a house, young man,’ she told MacGregor, ‘I clean it.’
Could the items under discussion have been concealed in the shop amongst the piles of merchandise?
They could not. Apart from the fact that Mr Tompkins would have been sure to have seen them, Mrs Poltensky frequently scanned the shelves since she was allowed to purchase her groceries at cost price. ‘And that’s another nice little perk I’ve lost myself,’ she commented sadly. ‘He sometimes used to give me them old tins when they got a bit battered and rusty. Oh well, I suppose I can always go on the Assistance.’
Dover had enough troubles of his own without worrying where Mrs Poltensky’s next meal was coming from. ‘Did you ever see any rubber gloves knocking around?’ he asked.
‘Rubber gloves?’ Mrs Poltensky shook her head. ’I don’t hold with ’em myself. If the good Lord meant us to wear rubber gloves he wouldn’t have given us no skin, would he?’ Mrs Poltensky chuckled just to show she wasn’t being serious.
‘What about Mrs Tompkins?’ asked MacGregor. ‘Did you ever see her wearing rubber gloves?’
‘No, I can’t say I have. There wasn’t a pair in the house or in the shop. On that I’ll stake my dying oath. Not if you was to tear my tongue out with red-hot pincers would I say any different. What would she want rubber gloves for, anyhow? I did all the work round there, rough and smooth. And the cooking when her ladyship didn’t feel up to it. Besides,’ added Mrs Poltensky with a disparaging sniff, ‘I seem to remember her telling me once she was allergic to rubber. Brought her out in spots, or something. She was always saying she was allergic to this, or that that upset her. I used to feel like telling her if she thought a bit less about herself she’d do a lot better, but it was a good job and it wasn’t my place anyhow.’
‘Right!’ said Dover when they had finally escaped Mrs Poltensky’s amiable clutches. ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied.’
MacGregor wasn’t, not entirely, but it was clearly not a good moment to say so. ‘It doesn’t look very likely, I must admit, sir,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But, why should the letters stop as soon as Mrs Tompkins died?’
Dover didn’t answer. If some people couldn’t see what was staring them straight in the face, it was no good arguing with them. You might as well save your breath. He, personally, was quite satisfied that Mrs Tompkins was not the author of the poison-pen letters, and if that wasn’t good enough for Clever-Boots MacGregor – hard blooming luck! Dover turned his mind to more important things. If he got a move on, he’d just have nice time for a nap before dinner.
Having settled the stupid, time-wasting business once, Dover was not pleased when MacGregor stirred the whole thing up again over the dinner table. Poor Mr Tompkins’s being there only made MacGregor’s insubordination – there was no other word for it – the more regrettable. With what Dover could only consider a lamentable lack of good taste, MacGregor harked back to the puzzle of why, if Mrs Tompkins didn’t write them, the letters had stopped after her death.
If Dover had had any explanation he would have given it. As it was he had to resort to simple bullying and crude abuse.
‘There is one possible reason, sir,’ persisted MacGregor who was getting a good deal above himself these days.
‘I wish you’d hold your blithering tongue!’ snarled Dover, red danger spots rising menacingly over his five o’clock shadow. ‘Nobody’s interested in your tin-pot theories.’
Mr Tompkins cleared his throat. ‘Well, I must admit, I’d like to hear what Sergeant MacGregor has got to say, Mr Dover, being what you might call an interested party. Besides,’ – he gave that admiring smile which Dover found so endearing – ‘it really is fascinating to listen to you two chewing all the facts over and working things out. It’s a real education for an old stick-in-the-mud like me.’
This put a different complexion on things. Dover managed to replace his scowl by something that could be taken as an indulgent beam, and MacGregor was allowed to proceed.
‘Well, it’s like this, sir,’ he began, delighted to have the centre of the stage for once, and conscious he would have to pay for it later. ‘Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that the late Mrs Tompkins didn’t write the poison-pen letters.’
Dover blew down his nose.
‘That means that somebody else wrote them.’
‘Brilliant!’ scoffed Dover.
‘Here, give the lad a chance!’ This was an interruption from Charlie Ghettle who had come into the bar for his usual drink. Mr and Mrs Quince, who were both pottering about behind the counter, nodded their approval for this stand on behalf of the underdog.
Dover shrugged his shoulders and relapsed into a moody silence. There were several more men in the bar, locals and passing lorry- drivers, all maintaining a respectful silence and all waiting impatiently for MacGregor to be allowed to continue.
‘That means,’ resumed MacGregor, ‘that somebody else wrote them. Now, the question we have to ask ourselves is, why this other person, whom we will call Madam X, stopped writing the letters after Mrs Tompkins died.’
This statement met with general approval, but Charlie Chettle’s whippet produced an enormous yawn. Very ostentatiously Dover patted the animal on the head.
‘Now, so far we have been assuming,’ continued MacGregor, quite unperturbed by Dover’s petty attempts at sabotage, ‘that the poison-pen letter writer was motivated by what we may call a package malice. In other words, she was lashing out indiscriminately at all the women in the village, or the vast majority of them at any rate. She had a grudge, or so we presumed, against all women in general. She hated them. She wanted to revenge herself on them for her own peculiar, twisted reasons.’
‘Get on with it!’ muttered Dover, bored to his back dentures.
‘Why then should the death of one woman make Madam X stop? Why should the suicide of Mrs Tompkins make her put aside the typewriter for ever? There is no reason, unless we change the basis of our original premise. Suppose the poison-pen letter writer . . .’
‘Whom we will call Madam X!’ prompted Dover with a snigger.
‘. . . Suppose she was not attacking all the women in the village. Suppose her spite was directed exclusively at Mrs Tompkins. Suppose all the other letters were just part of a gigantic blind to confuse and misdirect us. Suppose . . .’
‘Suppose you bloody well put a sock in it,’ suggested Dover, playing it for a cheap laugh and, such is the fickleness of human nature, getting it.
‘Well, it’s an idea, sir,’ said MacGregor, coming down to earth with a bump.
‘Are you seriously suggesting,’ asked Dover, ‘that all this poison-pen mularky, damn near a hundred letters, was all set up just to drive Mrs Tompkins to commit suicide? It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, sir,’ said MacGregor stiffly. ‘I’ve heard of more elaborate plots.’
‘Yes,’ scoffed Dover with a broad wink at Mr Tompkins, ‘and I should think you’ve invented ’em, too!’
‘However,’ said MacGregor, ‘my theory becomes a good deal more logical if we work on the assumption that Mrs Tompkins did not commit suicide, but was murdered.’
‘By Madam X?’ asked Dover, grinning all over his face.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Dover nastily. ‘I think Madam X isn’t the only one who’s barmy round here.’
‘It’s a theory that fits the facts, sir.’
‘Facts? ’Strewth, it’s a fine time to be talking about facts! The fact is tha
t Mrs Tompkins committed suicide. Exactly why we don’t know and probably never will do, but there’s no doubt that the poison-pen letters were part of the reason. That’s what the coroner decided, isn’t it? And I’ll give you a few more facts. Madam X has stopped sending obscene letters through Her Majesty’s Postal Services (a) because she’s got a guilty conscience about Mrs Tompkins’s suicide which is probably a damned sight further than she intended things to go, and (b) because she’s afraid of me! She thinks that by stopping now I shall lose interest in the case and the whole thing will be quietly dropped. Well,’ – Dover addressed his ringing proclamation to the entire company – ‘Madam X is just going to find she’s wrong. I’m not the sort of man that gives up that easily!’
‘Of course not, Mr Dover,’ said Mr Tompkins soothingly.
‘I’ve said it once,’ Dover went on, ‘and I’ll say it again : Mrs Tompkins did not write those letters. And you can take my word for it, I shall not rest until I have brought the woman who did write them to book!’
‘Well, I just hope,’ said Mrs Quince to her husband, ‘we’ve seen the last of those nasty letters, that’s all. I’ll be grateful enough if they just stop coming.’
‘My dear madam,’ said Dover, bowing graciously in Mrs Quince’s direction, ‘I think you may rest assured that the poison- pen letters have stopped, for the reasons I mentioned earlier. You won’t be troubled by them again.’
Chief Inspector Dover was, of course, wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
MACGREGOR HAD the bitter-sweet task of breaking the news to him some thirty-two hours after the rather disgraceful public meeting in the bar of The Jolly Sailor. Dover met this set-back as he met most set-backs in his life : he lost his temper. Eventually, when things had calmed down, he announced that he would have his breakfast in his room. This was so that he wouldn’t have to meet Mrs Quince, to whom the new anonymous letter had been addressed. When he had finished his breakfast, Dover sullenly consented to examine the evidence.