Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

“Your point, Mr Purbright.”

“I think we shall find that an offer of marriage has figured at some stage in each case. It’s the only bait I can think of that would have worked in the circumstances.”

“So they might now be married?”

“Not unless they used false names. We did make the appropriate inquiries, you know.”

“In that case, I don’t see that these hypothetical proposals of marriage can be of much help to us, Mr Purbright. They are scarcely likely to have been made before witnesses.”

“There could be written references to them. We know that neither of these women went out very much. Miss Reckitt’s landlady said Martha was almost a recluse and Mrs Bannister certainly didn’t share in any social whirls. It would be quite in character for a latter-day courtship to be conducted by correspondence. They’d both tend to be secretive, and a middle aged woman will often derive quite a lot of excitement from letter writing. Look at some of our poison pen customers.”

The chief constable stared gloomily at the middle of the floor as if he found in the carpet pattern a representation of human perversity. Yorkshire terriers—of which, to Purbright’s abiding horror, Mr Chubb had nine—might have a wayward attitude to carpets but they did not post anonymous letters.

“You’ll remember, sir,” Purbright was saying, “that we found nothing in the way of a lead among Miss Reckitt’s things, but we weren’t likely to, anyway. The landlady had the impression that she kept all her letters in her handbag. I’ve more hopes of Mrs Bannister’s place. She had the house to herself, so there was no need for her to worry about prying.”

“You know, Mr Purbright, you’re quite an expert on female psychology. I trust you will never be tempted to turn it to nefarious account.”

The inspector accepted the pleasantry graciously and with some thankfulness. It meant that Mr Chubb had had his fill of information and theorizing for one day—perhaps for the week—and would be content to leave Purbright to get on with things in his own way.

He took his leave, collected Sergeant Love from the small, boot-loud canteen, and picked up from his desk the key labelled by the scrupulous Mr Scorpe, to 4 Cadwell Close.

“It isn’t one of those human remains things, is it?” the sergeant asked as they were driving along St Ann’s Place.

“I sincerely hope not, Sid.”

Purbright was never quite sure whether Love’s questions were prompted by timidity or morbid zest. The sergeant was by no means as young as he looked—if he were, he would be wearing a school cap. And he had that cherubic innocence of expression that usually betokens highly developed licentiousness. But not, Purbright knew, in his case—his face was just his misfortune; he really was without vice. On the other hand, the innocent had the most extraordinary capacity for probing horrors. They could make pets of maggots and alleys of eye-balls.

The search of the house did not take very long. Reports of Mrs Bannister’s neatness had not been exaggerated. Purbright and the sergeant first toured the rooms in turn. The bay windowed front room contained only a three-piece suite in brown leather cloth; a piano with very white keys and three framed photographs on its top; a highly polished but elderly wireless set; and a china cabinet occupied by a thick, gold-lustre coffee service, half a dozen sherry glasses and a pair of pink urns bearing arcadian views. In the living room were dining table and chairs, a fireside chair and a sideboard, older and heavier than the rest of the furniture. Purbright glanced briefly into its cupboards and three drawers. In the bottom drawer he glimpsed papers, books, envelopes.

“We’ll come back to that in a minute, Sid.”

Two of the bedrooms were unfurnished, except for a bare bedstead and a marble washstand in the larger one. The third bedroom was obviously Mrs Bannister’s. The pink satin counterpane over the made bed was uncreased but it bulged slightly near the top at one side. Purbright pulled back the covers. A folded nightdress lay beneath them.

Love opened the door of the mahogany wardrobe. Five dresses hung there, a black coat, two woollen skirts and a tweed costume. On the floor were four pairs of shoes. Purbright pushed back the door by which they had entered the room. He saw the blue dressing gown hanging from it. A moment later Love heard him moving in the bathroom across the landing, then he was back again.

“Toothbrush and toothpaste are still there,” Purbright said. He began looking through the chest of drawers.

“She can’t have taken many of these, either. If any.”

Love felt faintly guilty as he watched the turning over of stockings and blouses and underwear. The things were surprisingly brief and frilly. He somehow had expected long sleeved vests and bloomers in tans and butcher blue.

Then he saw the inspector pause in his search.

Purbright straightened up. He was holding three sheets of note-paper that he had found tucked beneath handkerchiefs. Each was a brief letter beginning: “Lilian, My Dear...” None bore an address. Each was subscribed: “Your Impatient Rex.”

Love looked admiringly at the way in which Purbright handled the letters; he had slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves.

“Thinking of prints, eh?” said Love.

“Dabs, Sid, surely. Do let’s be professional.” He finished reading the first letter and put it gently on the counterpane. The sergeant looked down at the round, clear writing.

Lilian, My Dear—I wonder if you can imagine how much our little stroll together meant to me. It is so true all that about “sermons in streams and books in trees and good in everything”. At least, I see it is true when you are with me. Isn’t the country marvellous? What a lot I was missing up there in my big Mayfair flat. Now I do nothing but dream of our little cottage. I am seeing the agent again tomorrow and I hope to have good news from my publisher before the end of the week. It is just this matter of the deposit that is a teeny bit awkward. But do not worry, my true one. We cannot have a Cloud in those clear eyes, can we?! Until Tuesday.

Your Impatient Rex.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Sergeant Love.

Purbright raised his eyes. “Ah, you’ve spotted the misquotation. If Rex is an author he’ll have to do better than that.”

He placed the second letter on the bed.

Lilian, My Dear—I took a trip, or pilgrimage should I say? to the church this morning. How right you are, what a noble edifice and how fitting for vows unto death. I think I must use the scene for my next novel. Thank you for lending me back those earlier letters. I was right, I think, they do contain some phrases that ought to be worked into the book. You see what inspiration you give me!! And here is some good news. My publisher sent me a long telegram this morning begging me not to consider the oiler from that big rival I told you about. He says he will personally send me two thousand pounds (think of that, Lilian!) out of his own private fortune if his other directors do not manage to raise the money before Settling Day, as they call it “on Change” (you remember I told you about that). What a pity publishers are the slaves of the City these days. Art should be far above that sort of thing. Anyway, I tell you all this so you can feel easy about the little “investment in our happiness” that you want to make. You will see that I am right when I say you have a “business head” on those graceful shoulders!! By the way, the agent say that cash

will

be best—these “country swains” are suspicious of cheques! Goodnight, a sweet goodnight, my dear. I will be waiting tomorrow at Our Tree.

Your Impatient Rex.

P.S. The agent also tells me that he thinks our “enemy” will withdraw his bid for the cottage once our deposit is paid. Good-O!