Colin Watson: Hopjoy Was Here

“Who did that killing?”

“Hicks, I should think. I don’t know, though.”

“So Croll might have sent for Rassmussen since then—having lost a big part of the first animal.”

“He might. If Hicks couldn’t come the second time.”

Ross inclined his head. “Just one other thing, sergeant. You said the Government had taken over Rassmussen’s farm. How did that come about?”

The question seemed to surprise Love a little. “Well, all the land round there was taken. Compulsory purchase, I suppose. It was for that big what d’you call it at Thimble Bay.”

Chapter Thirteen

The next day, assiduous Sergeant Warlock, pert and primed, stuck his head round Purbright’s door and announced: “We’ve done the car.”

He enumerated what suggestive finds there had been. A few fragments of straw lay on the floor of the boot—a capacious boot, Warlock agreed—and four or five bloodstains were in the same place. The straw was of a kind similar to wisps in the garage at Beatrice Avenue and in the wardrobe in the late Mrs Periam’s bedroom. It was safe to assume the trail to be that of the acid carboy.

The blood was less easily explained. The stains were of recent origin but decidedly not human. “And there you are, squire,” concluded Warlock, with the air of an energetic retriever dropping a particularly unimpressive rabbit.

Purbright stared thoughtfully at the pile of Hopjoy’s belongings that still lay in a filing tray at the side of his desk. “Tell me, sergeant: this business of bloodstains... You can tell fairly easily whether they are human or animal, I take it.”

“Oh, rather. And the various human groups are identifiable. But only as groups, mind; we don’t label individual chromosomes yet.”

“Quite. But suppose blood structure is damaged badly—destroyed, in fact. What chance would your analysis have then?”

“None, obviously.” Warlock’s tone implied that he considered the question pretty wet.

“Let me put it another way. Suppose some blood, flesh and bone were reduced right down to basic chemical constituents—carbon, water, calcium salts, and so on—is there any possible way of deciding what sort of an animal they belonged to?”

“You don’t really want an answer to that, do you?”

Purbright rose and walked slowly to the window. He stood looking out, his hands clasped behind him. “You know, this should have occurred to us before.”

Warlock’s usual posture of athletic eagerness had been abandoned. He looked anxious. “If you’re thinking of the drain washings...”

“I am, indeed.”

“Yes, well I’d better say straight away that there’s no way of proving whether that sludge was man, woman, or the Archbishop of Canterbury’s pet kangaroo.” He waited, then waved a hand. “Oh, but surely to God...I mean this bod of yours has vanished—there couldn’t be a more obvious tie-up.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of.” Purbright turned. “There are several things about this case that look a little too obvious. And you didn’t imagine I’d forgotten that doctored hammer, did you?”

“That was queer, certainly. As,” Warlock added firmly, “I pointed out.”

“You did. And I think you deserve to know something else. The presumed victim was—or is—an exceptionally fly gentleman, very hard pressed by creditors and husbands. His speciality was trading on his employment in a highly secret and I suppose romantic profession.”

“So that explains Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.”

“Oh, you’ve met Major Ross and his colleague, have you?”

“Met them? I’ve practically been tried in camera by them. That one who looks like a pox-doctor’s clerk—the little bloke with a sharp nose—he was bloody offensive. I told him so.” Warlock’s recollection of the encounter restored his restless elasticity. He danced his weight from one foot to the other and threw a shadow punch at the wall. “Never saw a weasel with ringworm before. Ah, well; press on.” Opening the door, he glanced back quizzically at Purbright. “D’you really think all this was a put up job, then?”

The inspector smiled, but made no reply.

“Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot about this...” Warlock came back into the room, fishing from his breast pocket a glass tube which he tossed down on the desk. “Fibrafon think it’s from a baby’s hairbrush, Portland Plastics say fishing line, and Hoffman’s plump for a retaining thread in a gyro compass. Take your pick.”

Purbright recognized the nylon strand gleaned from the Beatrice Avenue plumbing. “Not terribly helpful, are they?”

“I’ll try a few more if you like. But I must say it seems a matter of asking silly questions and getting silly answers.”

The inspector put the tube aside. “Forget about it for now. There’s no point in putting your people to more trouble while there’s a possibility of our having been led up a garden. Which reminds me...”—he looked up at the clock—“that I ought to be having a word with the Chief Constable.”

Mr Chubb was in his greenhouse, counting out his cuttings. He looked cool and tall and grey behind the glass. Purbright closed the side gate, with its enamelled NO to hawkers, circulars and canvassers, and skirted a small crescent of lawn. The grass was littered with rubber bones, savaged tennis balls, and other no longer identifiable articles associated with the appeasement of Mr Chubb’s Yorkshire terriers, whose excreta, marvellously variegated, was everywhere. The animals themselves, Purbright noted gratefully, were absent; he supposed them to be dragging a triple-leashed, panting Mrs Chubb on their daily expedition against the peace and hygiene of the neighbourhood.

The Chief Constable acknowledged Purbright’s arrival with a small patient smile through the panes. The smile announced his readiness to put the public weal before petunias and duty above all delights. There clung to him as he emerged from the green-house the warm, aromatic redolence of tomato foliage.

Purbright was waved to a seat on a rustic bench screened by laurels from the next-door garden, where the wife of the City Surveyor could be heard scraping a burned saucepan bottom and sustaining with a periodic “oh” or “did she?” the muffled monotone of a kitchen visitor’s narration.

Mr Chubb leaned lightly against a trellised arch and gazed into the middle distance.

“This case from Beatrice Avenue, sir,” Purbright began. “I’d like to give you what we’ve gathered so far and to hear your opinion of it. Our first impressions may have been mistaken.”

“Ah...” Mr Chubb nodded almost approvingly. “That’s always to be expected, Mr Purbright. There’s no discredit in finding one’s calculations at fault. Seeds don’t always produce what’s on the packet, you know.”

“No, sir.”

Mr Chubb relinquished a few inches of his Olympian advantage and put his hand on the back of the bench. “I’ll tell you one thing, my boy. I’m very pleased that you’ve pegged away at this thing instead of leaving it to the heavies. Major Ross and his man are absolutely capable, I’ve no doubt, but outsiders never seem to understand just why people in a place like this behave as they do. It’s important, you know. Very.” The assertive frown cleared and Mr Chubb’s face went back aloft. “Sorry to have interrupted. Carry on.”

“Just before I left the office”—Purbright delved into the briefcase he was holding—“I had an idea about the anonymous letter that started off this affair. You’ll remember it, of course.” He handed a creased, pale blue sheet to the Chief Constable. “And now look at this, sir: it was among the papers we found in Hopjoy’s bedroom.”

Mr Chubb turned back the cover of the writing pad Purbright had taken from his case. He compared the letter with the top sheet of the pad, then smoothed one over the other. They corresponded in size, colour and texture.