Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

“You mean I will,” Love observed, without malice.

“For a start, yes. I’ve got this Teatime woman coming in this morning. You’d better try the estate agents first. Find out if the place is for sale, which agent is handling it, who the owners are and whether they are still living there.”

“Just the Chalmsbury agents?”

“They’re the most likely, but if you draw a blank there you’ll have to ask around in Flax as well.”

The sergeant left to provide himself with a classified telephone directory and a mug of tea.

Just before ten o’clock, Miss Teatime was shown in to Purbright’s office. The inspector fancied that her manner had a slightly more purposeful edge to it than when he had last seen her. And, indeed, she came straight to the point.

“I have given some further thought, Mr Purbright, to the matter we discussed the other morning, and I have decided that I might have been just the tiniest bit over confident in one respect. That is why I telephoned and asked to see you again.”

“I’m very glad you did, Miss Teatime. What has been worrying you?”

“Oh, not worrying, exactly, inspector. I am quite sure in my own mind that what I said then was true. But I cannot help feeling that the assurance I gave you about that handwriting was accepted by you more out of politeness than conviction.”

“I took your word for it, naturally.”

“Ah, yes; but I know that my word is not really evidence.”

“Not scientific evidence, perhaps.”

“No. And so for the sake of everyone concerned—my friend by no means least—I intended to try and give you an actual example of his writing.”

“I see.”

“It will be best, do you not think so?”

“I’m sure it will.”

Miss Teatime nodded and picked up her handbag and gloves. She regarded the inspector for a moment in silence, then smiled.

“Do you know, I really think you are anxious about me, Mr Purbright.”

“I am,” he said simply.

“There is no need to be.”

Purbright leaned forward. “Look, won’t you tell me now the name of this man?” His face was serious.

She appeared to consider. Then she said: “I am sorry, but I must ask you to wait a little longer. Where can I reach you at eight o’clock this evening?”

He looked surprised. “At home, I hope. Why?”

“What is the address?”

“Fifteen Tetford Drive.”

Screwing up her eyes, she wrote it in her little notebook.

“And now may I have that photograph? The handwriting, you know.”

He took it from the folder at his elbow and handed it across the desk. She put it into her bag.

Purbright watched her get up and wait for him to see her to the door. Then he, too, rose.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” he said quietly.

She gave him a bright smile of farewell.

“Oh, yes. I know,” she said.

Back in her room at the Roebuck, Miss Teatime lit a cheroot and took her first whisky sip of the day. As she stared thoughtfully at the gulls swooping down past the blind eyes of the old warehouse, her fingers tapped the sheet of writing paper spread ready on the table before her. She was devising a simple insurance policy.

She picked up her pen.

My dear Inspector Purbright: The enclosed letters unexpectedly came to hand today. They were written by my friend, who calls himself Commander John Trelawney. You will see that I was mistaken about the handwriting. I can plead only that loyalty clouded my judgment. His address is not known to me at the moment, but I have no doubt that Mrs Staunch will be able to give you the information you need. As you will notice, the reference number is 4122.

Yours sincerely,

Lucilla Teatime.

She folded the note, pinned it to the three sheets of the commander’s correspondence and put them all into an envelope. This she sealed and addressed.

Downstairs, she found the manager supervising the changing of flowers in the residents’ lounge. He bustled up to her in immediate response to a smile of inquiry.

“I wish you to undertake a delicate but important commission, Mr Maddox.”

At once he was fussily intrigued.

She handed him the envelope.

“I am going out today and probably shall not be in for lunch,” she explained softly. “I may even be away until early evening. If, however, I have not returned by eight o’clock, I want you to have this letter delivered straight away by hand.”

Maddox looked at the address and nodded earnestly. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

“I am sure I can rely upon you, Mr Maddox.”

“You most certainly can.” He peered at her, suddenly anxious. “I hope there’s nothing, ah...”

“Purely precautionary,” said Miss Teatime. “As I believe you know, I am being well looked after.”

At the door she gave him a reassuring wave. Mr Maddox stared after her, his hand feeling for the edge of the envelope in his pocket.

The journey to Benstone, this time without incidental vigils at railway stations, was much more quickly accomplished than she had expected. It was not yet twelve when she halted the Renault just short of the series of lane turnings where she had lost Trelawney’s car two nights before.

She took out the map. Three buildings were marked at distances from the road that could reasonably be supposed to be within earshot. There was one along each lane.

She started off again and took the left turn. About fifty yards from the road, a big, sombre farmhouse loomed behind an overgrown hedge. Miss Teatime did not need to get out of the car to see that no one had occupied it for many years. Through one of the glassless windows she caught a brief glimpse of sky as she drove by; part of the roof at the back had collapsed.

After returning to the main road, she made her way up the second lane—that on the right. She saw first a chimney stack and then thatch appear in a cleft in the lane’s banking.

Soon she drew level with a broad gateway. Beyond it was a gravelled enclosure in front of a long, low, white-walled cottage.

A garage large enough for two cars had been built against the right hand gable and painted white. It was open and empty.

Miss Teatime drove into the enclosure, made a half-circle turn, and got out of the car. She knocked on the front door of the cottage. After a minute, she knocked again, more insistently. There was no response. The door was locked.

She explored, going from window to window.

The interior had every sign of expensive conversion. There was central heating and a wealth of good, modern furniture. The kitchen was generously, almost lavishly, equipped.

It was not until she looked into the glass-paned annexe at the back of the cottage, however, that she found a clue of the kind she was seeking.

Thrown across a bench was the suede leather driving jacket with fur collar and curiously pink-tinged octagonal buttons that Trelawney had been wearing when he took her to the Riverside Rest.

So far, so good.

Sensibly interpreting the empty feeling induced by the sight of the jacket as an indication that she needed lunch, Miss Teatime got into the car once more and drove the rest of the way into Chalmsbury.

She had a meal at an inn called—irresistibly, she thought—the Nelson and Emma, wandered for half an hour around the shops in St Luke’s Square, and sat long enough on a bench outside the General Post Office to savour fully the grotesquerie of the town’s war memorial opposite.

Then she returned to Low Benstone.

The cottage was still empty.

She sat in the car and smoked a cheroot.

A full hour went by.

Miss Teatime jerked upright in her seat, realizing that she had been about to doze off. She started the engine. A drive around the byways would be as pleasant a means as any of killing time.