Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

He looked at his watch.

“I think we’ll just have nice time to go round and set things moving.”

Inspector Purbright, blissfully unaware of the failure of the Pook-Love consortium, was looking into the windows of his favourite shops in Northgate as he made his way slowly towards the Oxmove mission hall.

Long before he arrived there, the light breeze carried to his ear the eternal song of the blessed. Did they ever leave the hall for meals, he wondered, or were nutrients administered to them where they stood, as was done for the stalwart and single-minded bellringers of St Luke’s, Chalmsbury, into whose mouths were thrust sponges soaked in egg nog and set on sticks.

He entered the gloom of the porch—a sort of corrugated iron Galilee chapel stuck on the main building—and felt for the farther door. Pushing this open, he was met and winded by the full force of the hymn.

The light from three bare electric bulbs hung high in the garage-like roof was reflected stickily from match-boarding walls and from rows of benches that seemed to have been fashioned from treacle toffee. The air was cold and smelled like old women’s washstands.

Having regard to the noise, the congregation was incredibly small—a knot of perhaps a dozen at the left front.

Just beyond them, a woman wearing a big black hat jerked backwards and forwards before a harmonium. There was an air of desperation about her; she held down first one lot of keys, then another, then quickly submerged a third bunch—just as though they were a litter of black and white kittens, too numerous and too resilient to drown.

The minister, the Reverend Leonard Leaper, stood by the harmonium, leaning lightly upon it and singing like mad.

Purbright advanced a little way down the aisle. He made polite beckoning gestures towards Mr Leaper.

Mr Leaper gave him a cheerful wave and sang even louder.

The inspector again caught his attention and signalled more peremptorily. Leaper abandoned the harmonium and walked up to him. The congregation seemed not to notice the defection; it just went on bellowing on into God’s ear.

“Hello there, brother,” greeted Leaper.

Purbright merely nodded. He remembered Leaper’s previous existence, as a young newspaper reporter, when it had always been Hello, chief. Obnoxious modes of address seemed endemic to his nature.

They went into the relatively hymn-proof porch.

“I was wondering if you could help me, Len.”

“Fire away, brother.”

“Do you know a woman called Reckitt—Miss Martha Reckitt?”

Leaper’s eyes crossed to regard the end of his long, spiky nose; it was his way of aiding thought. “Yes,” he said after a while, “I think I do.”

“How well?”

“I used to talk to her sometimes, try to offer her comfort and tidings, brother, tidings.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“Not of late, I should say. No, definitely not of late.”

“You don’t happen to know of any friendships she might have struck up in the last couple of months or so? There’s been some mention of a clergyman. First name, Giles.”

Again Leaper’s vision converged upon his nose tip, but this time to no avail. “Of a Giles I know nothing. Or a clergyman, so called? Nix, brother, nix.”

“We understand that Miss Reckitt subscribed to an organization called Handclasp House, a sort of matrimonial bureau...”

“That’s right,” confirmed Leaper proudly. “I advised her to.”

“You, Len?”

“I did, brother. And within scripture. Multiply, remember. That’s one way of looking at it. The widows of Sidon? Oh, yes, but I’m not to be caught on that. Do you know Sister Staunch?”

“I have met her.”

“A goodly woman. I am glad, brother, to help where I can.”

Good lord, thought Purbright; was this tatter-minded pepperminty young man a Rasputin to the Staunch’s Tsarina? Absurd. Finding him a bit simple, she probably encouraged him to hang around in order to give the impression that her agency enjoyed church patronage.

“And do you know if Miss Reckitt found a friend through this agency?”

“I expect so. She is very deserving.”

“But you don’t know for certain?”

“Ah...No. To that one, no is the answer, brother, and I can’t say otherwise. How is Mr Kebble keeping?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“What a pity. I often wonder.”

“Goodbye, Len. Many thanks.”

“Likewise. Go in peace, brother, and cheer-ho.”

At the police station, Purbright found pook and the sergeant waiting to make confession. He was still feeling the vague light headedness that had been induced by conversation with the Reverend Leaper, and it was a minute or two before he realized what Love, who spoke first, was talking about.

“Oh, Christ, Sid—do you mean to say you’ve lost her again?”

“It wasn’t me who lost her,” protested Love.

“But I thought it was your job to follow her?”

“She went out the wrong way again.”

“That’s right,” said Pook. “Straight at me. And I hadn’t had any instructions.”

“You were supposed to intimidate her, Mr Pook. Why didn’t you? You were the stopper.”

“Well she didn’t stop.” Pook’s tone suggested a suspicion that the others had known quite well what was going to happen. He had been reading a book lately about double agents.

“And so?” prompted Purbright, more gently.

“I followed her.” There was a short pause. “Until she lost me in a shop.”

“ She lost you ?”

“Oh, yes, it was on purpose, all right. She kept dodging up and down in a lift.”

“Did she, indeed?” Purbright sounded thoughtful. “Well, we can’t do anything about that now. All right, Mr Pook,” he nodded his dismissal, “don’t reproach yourself.” Alone with Love, the inspector stared vacantly at the ceiling.

“This Miss Teatime,” he said at last, “seems to be quite an interesting character.”

Love gave a short, bitter laugh.

“There would appear,” Purbright went on, “to be very little to be gained from continuing to play hide and seek with the woman in lifts. She’s obviously aware that somebody’s following her, and she’s astute enough to do something about it.”

“I reckon she’s a bit of an old villain,” said Love, irreverently.

“Well, we don’t know that. As I said before, I don’t blame anybody for dodging narky coppers if they’ve a mind to. It doesn’t mean that they’re criminals. But in a case like this, it’s not encouraging to have our excellent intentions thwarted by a shrewd and surprisingly nippy female.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’ve been thinking again about a suggestion of yours, Sid. About taking Miss Teatime into our confidence. I was against the idea before because she seemed likely to be a bit silly and easily flummoxed. On her showing during the last couple of days, she’s nothing of the sort. I think she’s capable of being very helpful. At the same time, she will have to be warned of the risk she’s running.”

“Can I be taken off the long distance lark, then?”

“With pleasure.”

“Thank God for that. By the way, what joy did we get out of that break-in business?”

“Mrs Staunch’s office? What I expected. Damn-all. It made Harper happy, though. He’s got lots of lovely prints that might have been left by anybody from the window cleaner to the Archbishop of Bombay. It was a bit much to hope for that Rex should turn out to be some felon on file at Central.”

“And the letters to Mrs Bannister?”

“Just smudges.”

“So much for the miracles of forensic science.” Love’s feet were beginning to feel better already. A little cynical truculence did not seem too bold a mark of celebration.