Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

He had on the desk before him the list compiled by Mrs Staunch. It was of five numbers, names and addresses, together with such personal details of each nominee as apparently had been considered relevant to his matrimonial prospects.

“Know anything about Joseph Capper, Sid?”

Sergeant Love, who had been standing looking out of the window, suddenly swung round.

“Joe Capper, out at Borley Cross?”

“Aye. Home Farm.”

“Why, the crafty old bugger! He’s got one already.”

“You mean he’s married?”

“Has been for years. He lives in the farmhouse and she shacks up in one of the outbuildings.”

“It sounds an amicable arrangement.”

“Oh, it’s not arranged,” Love said. “It’s just that Joe happens to be winning at the moment. Six months ago, it was the woman who was in the house while Joe lived in the barn. They think up tricks to get each other out. Sort of ding-dong siege.”

“Then what the hell is he doing with this marriage bureau lark?”

Love shrugged. “Trying to get reinforcements, I expect.”

The inspector read aloud from his list: “ ‘312; Joseph Capper, Home Farm, Borley Cross...a stay-at-home but no stick-in-the-mud, a man with acres and a mind of his own who would share his home with a lady desirous of locking out her worries...’ ”

“Not half,” said the sergeant.

“ ‘His hobbies are home-made wine and shooting...’ ”

“Is that the word it uses— hobbies ?” Love looked incredulous.

“It is,” confirmed Purbright. “Never mind, though; I can’t see him being our man. I’ll pay him a visit, just as a check, but whoever worked over Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister must have spent more time on it than Mr Capper is likely to have had to spare.

“Now then, who’s next...? 316; William C. Singleton, 14 Byron Road...Do you know him?”

Love shook his head.

“He’s a retired waterworks engineer, apparently. Good sense of humour...handy about the house...wants sympathetic woman to share beautiful garden...” Purbright looked up. “You can have that one, Sid.”

The sergeant copied the address.

“Lot 324,” Purbright resumed. “Plume, George; Prospect House, Beale Street...”

“You can cross him off.”

“Oh?”

“He’s dead.”

“That does inhibit us a bit, doesn’t it. How would he have ranked as a suspect, though?”

“The report of the funeral said he was ninety-four.”

It was Purbright’s turn to register disbelief. He looked again at the Handclasp House prospectus. “ ‘...widower of three months, an active bee-keeper and tandem enthusiast, would welcome company of lively lady...’ ”

“That was George, all right,” said Love. “A very well preserved old gentleman.”

Purbright put a valedictory pencil stroke through Mr Plume’s paragraph, sighed and read on.

“ ‘362; Leonard Henry Rusk, the Old Rectory, Kirkby Willows...’ Rectory, Sid?”

The sergeant looked blank.

“The girl in the tea shop. You said she thought the man with Martha Reckitt looked like a clergyman.”

“She was a foreigner.”

“You don’t find a rectory suggestive?”

“Not these days. All sorts of people live in them.”

“How about this, then—‘while he awaits literary success he hopes to meet one who will fill a blank page in the book of life...’ ”

“Is all the stuff written like that?”

“I’m afraid it is. The standard argot of marriage bureaux, presumably. Mr Rusk is described as ‘reserved but with merry twinkle, owing his remarkable physical condition to a lifetime’s devotion to sport’. You can guess what that means.”

“Will you see him, or shall I?” Love added with careful gloom: “It’s a rotten bus service to Kirkby Willows.”

“All right. I’ll go. You’ll have to do this last one, though. Leicester Avenue. A bloke called Rowley, catalogue number 386. By the way, aren’t they council houses in Leicester Avenue?”

Love confirmed that they were.

“He’s a doubtful starter, then. Among the many things that con men and company directors have in common is fussiness about address.”

While Love made a second entry in his notebook, the inspector leaned back and made a final rapid survey of the list.

“I can’t help feeling,” he said at last, “that as a dispenser of hot tips Mrs Staunch leaves something to be desired. Incidentally, you do know what you’re looking for, I suppose? Apart from samples of their handwriting.”

Love stood straight, staring a little way to his left. His boyish, bright pink face wore the slightest of frowns, like that of a carefully rehearsed pupil. With one hand he began to switch down the fingers of the other.

“A clever talker...”

Purbright nodded.

“...who looks as if he might have a way with women.”

Another nod—and a gently lifted eyebrow.

“He’s possibly got a sort of clergyman look about him... Fair-haired—unless he’s dyed it...”

The inspector’s lips pouted commendingly.

“...and having facilities for hiding or geting rid of bodies.” This final qualification was produced with the air of a chairman hoping to surprise with the announcement of a bonus dividend.

Purbright gratifyingly slapped the edge of his desk. “Bodies,” he repeated. “Yes, indeed. It’s their failure to turn up that’s made this whole affair seem a bit unreal. If only we knew where these women used to meet the fellow, it might help. Our tree...” he added, half to himself.

Love caught the remark.

“There are trees in Leicester Avenue,” he announced.

“Ah!” said the inspector, his eyes rounded.

He was a kindly man.

Chapter Seven

The eye between the window frame and the yellow, fly-mottled muslin was small and red and bright. It had a nervous, precise mobility. It was distrustful—hard as a little gun swivelling behind a fire slit.

“Anybody at home?” bellowed Purbright, knowing perfectly well that there was (an eye did not roll about a house on its own).

The muslin curtain was tweaked shut.

Purbright turned and leaned against the porch. He surveyed the yard, wondering in which of its surrounding buildings lurked the temporarily vanquished Mrs Capper. She could not have had a very wide choice: from one doorway came the booming of bullocks, from another the high argument of thirty or forty pigs, while chickens and turkeys contended for right of way in and out of a third. Perhaps there were upper storeys, though. Very useful to a good tactician...

He heard bolts being drawn and swung round to face the door again. There was a quickly widening gap. Then an arm shot out. In the next second he was stumbling into a big, dim room that smelled of bacon and paraffin. As the door thumped shut, something crashed against the outer step. It sounded very like a bottle.

“You should have come round to the other side, mister,” said a slow, faintly reproving voice. Purbright found it difficult to associate the voice with the piston-like arm that had whisked him into sanctuary. He looked at their owner’s face and saw his old friend the eye, now revealed to have an associate.

“Now then,” said Mr Capper.

“Now then,” said Purbright amicably. He sat in the chair towards which Mr Capper had nodded and gazed round the room, taking his time. Country visitors, he knew, were fully expected to go through this settling-in process before even announcing their identity. In these more civilized parts, one wasn’t treated to a threshold frisking for information, as for hidden weapons; it was for the caller to offer it when he thought fit.

“I’ve just come over from Flax,” Purbright said.

“Oh, aye,” said Mr Capper.