CHAPTER TWELVE

Nobody Loves a Mule

1

Maggie awoke on Friday morning to find herself under what might be called either a weighty cloud or a cloudy weight. She then discovered that it consisted of some apprehension about taking her mother to Dr Salt’s to see her father, of a lingering horror concerned with the murder of Noreen Wilks, and of a kind of angry disgust with Dr Salt for being so stubborn and so blindly and obtusely masculine. (It annoyed her, too, to have to agree with Jill.) She put on a suit that she kept only for mornings like this, when she disliked everything in sight: a two-year-old mistake in French-mustard tweed that was always trying to put ten years and fourteen pounds on her. ‘What – that one again!’ cried her mother, as soon as Maggie was downstairs. ‘It’s all wrong for you, dear.’

‘It’s what I’m feeling like,’ Maggie muttered.

Alan said he would just have time to drop them at Dr Salt’s and that was all. After that he never spoke another word, but ate a lot of buttered toast and marmalade and probably thought about subatomic particles, moths or Jill Frinton. But their mother chattered away, rapidly and rather nervously as if she were not having breakfast with her own two children but were entertaining somewhat difficult company. This may have been because she had dressed herself this morning with great care. And then Maggie saw how pathetic this was, disliked herself for being so sulky and silent before, tried to be brighter and more sympathetic but was defeated by this dislike of herself. What hard work it was being a female! Probably in all their lives Alan and Salt had never worried a moment about this sort of thing. Meanwhile, her mother was explaining that they wouldn’t have to clear and wash up as she had got a woman coming in for the morning. ‘I want everything looking nice if Dr Salt says your father can come home. By the way, I forgot to ask. Will this be on National Health or will he be sending us a bill?’

Maggie found herself giggling. The last thing she could imagine was Dr Salt presenting them with a bill.

‘I don’t see anything funny about it—’

‘No, Mother, it’s a sensible question. And I’d say – no bill,’ Alan told her gravely.

‘Thank you, Alan dear. Y’know, I can’t really make out whether Maggie likes him or not. What about you, Alan? You know about clever people. Would you say he’s a clever doctor?’

‘I think he might be,’ Alan began slowly. And Maggie could not help waiting intently, ready in a flash, if need be, to confirm or deny what he might say next. ‘I know he’s extremely sharp and observant – and his mind works quickly.’

‘Isn’t that nice? Maggie never told me that.’

‘Well, now Alan’s told you,’ said Maggie. ‘So that’s better still, isn’t it? Dr Salt’s very clever – odd but rather sweet – and terribly obstinate. Alan, you’ll have to wait a few minutes. I’ve decided I can’t wear this stinker of a suit.’

It was just after ten when Alan dropped them at Dr Salt’s. To Maggie’s relief they didn’t discover Dr Salt in a sports shirt and baggy old pants, still sorting out books and records. He looked like a respectable doctor, and his manner might have been borrowed straight from Harley Street.

‘Naturally you’re anxious to see your husband, Mrs Culworth,’ he began. ‘And I shan’t keep you from him more than a minute or two. But there are one or two things I must explain.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, Dr Salt – I understand.’

‘Your husband came to Birkden on Monday to make some inquiries about a girl, Noreen Wilks, who was missing. She was the daughter of an old friend of his – somebody he’d known in the Air Force. This girl was a patient of mine – that’s how I come into the picture – and I was making inquiries too. Last night, the police and I discovered her body in an empty house – she’d been murdered. Of course, your husband knew nothing about this. On Monday he met with an accident and was sent to a nursing home, suffering from some concussion and a heart condition he’d known about for several years. He couldn’t get in touch with you because he was being kept under sedation. Yesterday I brought him here. He’s made a splendid recovery, Mrs Culworth, and you’ll be able to take him home this morning and it’ll probably do him more good than harm if you let him pay a short visit to the shop this afternoon to see if all’s well, sign a few cheques, look at some bills – spend an hour there, let us say. So far, so good – but—’ And here he broke off to hold up a warning finger, at which Mrs Culworth stared as if she were already half hypnotized.

‘But – I must ask you to remember this. After the shock and then sedation his mind is naturally confused about events earlier this week. You must ignore them, Mrs Culworth. Don’t begin questioning him, reproaching him or in any way raising the emotional temperature. He’ll have to take care of himself from now on – you’ll have to watch that – and indeed I’ve suggested to him already that if he can afford to do it, he ought to give up the shop – though that doesn’t mean he ought to do nothing – he needs some occupation. Now Maggie’ll go in with you, just to say Hello to her father, and then she’ll leave you to it. Take everything easily and slowly – chat about this and that – help him to dress and pack up – keep him smiling – you know?’

‘I should think I do know,’ said Mrs Culworth, though not indignantly. ‘I understand perfectly – and thank you very much, Dr Salt. Come along, Maggie dear.’

Maggie kissed her father, said he looked wonderful – though he didn’t – and then, sensing her mother’s impatience, hastily left them together and rejoined Dr Salt. ‘And I must say, though I’m rather cross with you this morning,’ she told him, ‘that speech to my mother was a masterpiece. You might have been dealing with her all your life.’

‘Not quite, but I’ve spent some years talking to anxious and suspicious wives. By the way, you’ll be glad to know I’ve got two men calling this afternoon – one to buy the books I don’t want, the other for the records. They’ll both swindle me, of course, but most of this clutter will be off my hands. All the rest of the stuff will go into store on Monday, when I hope I’ll have gone.’

‘Gone where? You don’t even know that, do you?’ She spoke sharply, trying to reject a sudden little sad and empty feeling.

‘Yes, I do. Paris first – to pick up a car from a friend of mine there – and then the Dordogne. But why are you feeling annoyed with me this morning, Maggie?’

‘After last night, of course. I mean – not letting well alone, wanting to go on and on about Noreen Wilks when it could be all over—’

‘All over but not done with. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with the mystery of Noreen Wilks. What I do want – unlike these other people – is to lay that poor ghost, clear away and tidy up, then leave Birkden with an easy mind, a clear conscience. How can I—’

But he never finished the question because somebody was at the door.

2

‘I’m Sims – Birkden Evening Post,’ Maggie heard the man say. ‘Like to have a word with you, if I could, Dr Salt.’ He could, and was admitted and introduced to Maggie. He was a middle-aged man with a fat, sagging face and a sad voice, and he smoked his cigarette with a hissing noise, as if he were a very polite Japanese. ‘You’re leaving Birkden, I understand, Dr Salt?’

‘I am, yes.’ Dr Salt, who was still standing, picked up a book from the nearest pile and looked at it as if he had never seen it before.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘I’m tired of it. Need a change.’

‘No wife and family to bother about?’

‘No. All alone.’

‘Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.’

‘And sometimes I wish I had.’ Dr Salt replaced the book. ‘Now your next question is – What am I going to do? And the answer is – I don’t know. Haven’t made up my mind where to go next. Need a holiday first.’

‘You’ve been in practice here seven years, haven’t you?’ Sims now sounded bored as well as sad. ‘What do you think of Birkden?’

‘Not much. However, I’ve been in worse places – mostly on the Persian Gulf.’

‘What’s the matter with Birkden?’

‘Nothing – if you read the Evening Post. So just say that Dr Salt had found it a fascinating town, with a charm all its own, filled with varied life, colour, an eager friendliness and that civilized gaiety discovered in so many English industrial towns.’

‘Well, don’t think we won’t print that, though we have a few readers – just a few – who’ll write in to say you must be barmy.’

‘Just please yourself, Mr Sims.’ But then the telephone was ringing. As Dr Salt went across to answer it, Maggie was astonished to see Sims give her an enormous wink.

‘Yes, this is Dr Salt. Who? Colonel Ringwood? Right, put him on—’

‘Our Chief Constable,’ Sims told Maggie in a loud whisper, and then gave her another wink.

‘Yes, Colonel Ringwood? . . . No, I can’t come and see you . . . Possibly it is urgent – but if it is, then you can come here . . . Well, it’s equally inconvenient for me to leave this flat – and I don’t even want to see you.’ Dr Salt put down the receiver and looked at Sims. ‘Bad-tempered chap, isn’t he?’

‘He isn’t used to people talking to him like that. Is he coming here?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. But he seems to imagine I’m still in the army.’

‘Were you in the army once, then?’

‘As an MO – yes. Burma Campaign.’

Sims nodded several times. ‘I’m getting the idea you’re a lot tougher than you look.’

‘Oh – he is,’ said Maggie. And then wished she hadn’t.

Dr Salt lit his pipe and said nothing.

Sims waited, cleared his throat, then said: ‘Well, now – what about Noreen Wilks?’

‘Ah – I’ve been waiting for that. The real reason why you came to see me, isn’t it, Mr Sims?’

‘You don’t know what goes on round here, Dr Salt.’

‘I’m beginning to learn.’

‘I can print all that guff about Birkden – taking the sarcasm out of it, of course,’ said Sims. ‘But there isn’t going to be any Noreen Wilks story in the Birkden Evening Post. You see, it’s owned by the Birkden and District Newspaper Company. And the chairman of that company—’

‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Sir Arnold Donnington.’

‘Right first time, Dr Salt.’

‘He’s a kind of Louis the Fourteenth round here, isn’t he? Let’s see – finance, industry, property, the Law, the Press. Every time I turn a corner he’s there.’

Sims grinned. ‘And sometimes he’s just behind you telling you not to turn corners. But now you can understand why anything you tell me about Noreen Wilks will be off the record.’

‘In Birkden. But what about London – or Birmingham?’

‘We’re under contract not to do anything for the nationals or the agencies. The last chap who tried it was sacked at once. And I’ve got four children and a mortgage. So I’m just curious, that’s all. Now the rumour’s going round that late last night it was you who led the police to the body, but that then you told Hurst that his account of the murder didn’t satisfy you at all. Now – off the record – is that right?’

‘Quite right, Mr Sims.’

‘Are you going to do anything about it?’

‘Well,’ said Dr Salt in a mild, half-ruminating manner. ‘Having established, after some opposition, that the girl wasn’t merely missing but had been murdered, I’d certainly like to know who killed her. Before I leave the town, y’know.’

‘And when do you think that’ll be?’

‘Sunday – or Monday.’

‘You’ll have to work fast, won’t you?’

‘Work fast? I don’t intend to work at all.’

‘Just sit around and think – is that the idea?’

‘More or less,’ said Dr Salt. ‘Not much thinking, though. You’re looking sceptical, Mr Sims.’

‘I think you’ll have your work cut out just keeping out of trouble, Dr Salt.’

‘And I’m sure that’s true,’ Maggie told them both, earnestly. But somebody else had arrived.

Colonel Ringwood had a beaky nose and fierce moustache, but the remainder of his face suffered from a droopy old-hound effect. He was obviously out of temper, and his bark was almost that of a young hound. ‘’Morning! Dr Salt, eh?’ He marched in and then stopped to glare at Sims. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Yes, Chief Constable. I’m Sims of the Evening Post.’

‘Good God!’ He turned angrily to Dr Salt. ‘You’ve brought the confounded Press in already.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dr Salt mildly.

‘I came to interview Dr Salt on his leaving Birkden – what his plans are – how he’s liked Birkden – that kind of thing. Any objection?’

‘If that’s all it is – no. Why should there be?’

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ said Sims, who was now sauntering towards the door. ‘Well – thanks, Dr Salt – and have a good holiday. Bye-bye!’

‘What’s this about a holiday?’ said Colonel Ringwood very sharply, as soon as Sims had gone.

‘I’m about to take one.’

‘When are you going?’ It was another bark.

‘As soon as I can.’ Then he suddenly started barking too. ‘What do you have for breakfast?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me,’ barked Dr Salt. ‘What do you have for breakfast? And why?’

Maggie began giggling.

‘What the devil has it got to do with you, man?’ Colonel Ringwood was furious. ‘And why are you taking that tone with me?’

Instead of replying, Dr Salt gave him a long, slow smile, compelling him to understand the point of the burlesque.

‘I see. Bit brusque with you, was I? Sorry!’

‘Not at all, Colonel. Oh – this is Miss Culworth, who’s acting as – er – my confidential assistant—’

‘How d’you do? Though I don’t pretend to understand this confidential assistant business.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Maggie sweetly.

‘Having a worrying sort of morning, partly thanks to you, Dr Salt.’

‘But if young girls disappear,’ said Dr Salt, mild as milk, ‘somebody ought to try to find them, don’t you think?’

‘Well, she’s been found. And now you ought to feel satisfied and go and enjoy your holiday. What you won’t do, if you’ve any sense, is to hang about here playing detective and interfering with legitimate police work.’

‘And what would that work be – in the case of Noreen Wilks?’

‘None to speak of. We consider the case closed.’

‘Well then, if you’re not doing any work, I could hardly interfere with it, could I?’

‘There’s nothing to be gained by mere quibbling, Dr Salt. You know where we stand. Superintendent Hurst told you last night. This girl was undoubtedly killed by her lover, Derek Donnington, who had the motive, the opportunity, the means. And as young Donnington’s dead, that’s an end to the whole wretched business. This is Hurst’s view. It’s my view. And it ought to be yours.’

Dr Salt smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry, but it isn’t. In fact it’s quite ridiculous. You and Hurst are trying to paper over this case just as somebody papered over that hole in the wall where we found the body last night. You’re not solving the riddle. You’re just giving it up.’

‘But if young Donnington didn’t kill the girl, then who did?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘Have you any evidence that would stand up in a court of law?’

‘None whatever,’ Dr Salt replied cheerfully. ‘But, then, I never have had. Nevertheless, now you have the body.’

‘You’re being frank with me, Dr Salt, so now I’ll be equally frank with you. You’ve probably got some fine-spun theory, a typical intellectual amateur approach, that any experienced police officer would reject at once. And for the sake of that theory, you’re probably prepared to let loose a lot of dangerous stuff that might do a great deal of harm to this town. I live in Birkden. You’re about to leave it. Well, I’m here to make sure you don’t do it any harm.’

‘But I don’t want to do it any harm. I’m sorry for it.’

‘I don’t know why you should be.’ Colonel Ringwood looked and sounded outraged.

‘Let’s not bother about that, then.’

‘Very well, then listen to me. To begin with, Sir Arnold Donnington is a friend of mine, I’m proud to say. He needn’t live here – he could live anywhere – but he stays on to do what he can for Birkden—’

‘And I think it’s time he stopped. Let Birkden do what it can for Birkden—’

‘Will you kindly listen to me? Sir Arnold felt the death of his son very deeply. If that wound is reopened, it’s going to hurt him like hell. Then – United Anglo-Belgian Fabrics are our biggest employers. Any scandal involving them won’t help Birkden. And if we all find ourselves splashed across the pages of the sensational Sunday Press, a lot of innocent people will suffer—’

‘That really is true,’ said Maggie, giving Dr Salt an appealing look.

‘Thank you, Miss Er,’ the colonel continued. ‘And all because Dr Salt, who’s leaving the town anyhow, has a fancy theory about a murder case that’s already solved itself.’

‘But it hasn’t, y’know,’ Dr Salt told him.

‘Why the devil can’t you attend to your own affairs and leave us to attend to ours? What would you feel if I marched into your surgery one morning and told you what was wrong with your patients?’

‘Some mornings I’d hate it. Some mornings I’d love it.’

‘Well, I don’t want you meddling with police work. And I warn you, Dr Salt, that I’ll tell my men not only to offer you no assistance whatever—’

‘Oh – that reminds me,’ Dr Salt cut in coolly. ‘What was your police surgeon’s report on the body?’

‘Hurst told you that you couldn’t see that report. Damned impudence asking me now! I’m telling you, as plainly as I can, that not only will you get no help from the Birkden Force but that if there’s the slightest infringement of the law on your part, you’ll take the consequences.’

‘Better keep away from my car, hadn’t I?’

‘You’ll do your preposterous amateur detecting entirely at your own risk—’

‘You mean – that if I should be beaten up—’

‘It’s not a question of beating up. This isn’t Chicago.’

‘No, but it’s doing its best,’ said Dr Salt. ‘Where have you been, Colonel Ringwood? I don’t work in casualty wards, and even I’ve attended at least eight men who were badly beaten up – one of them shot in the leg – three of them probably maimed for life. Ever since we never had it so good, this has been a rough town.’

‘If you believe that,’ Colonel Ringwood told him, ‘then the sooner you leave Birkden, the better.’ He was now on his feet. ‘And I’ve said all I want to say – so—’

‘But wouldn’t you like to know why I’m sure young Donnington couldn’t have killed her?’

‘No,’ the colonel bellowed. ‘Lot of damned nonsense!’ And he banged out without offering a word or even a look to Miss Er, who pulled a face but then unpulled it to give Dr Salt a stern look. It missed him, however, because he was busy re-lighting his pipe. So finally she had to say something.

‘Don’t think I’m on that one’s side,’ she began. ‘I’d be against him whatever it was. All the same, Salt, you’re not being very sensible. I thought so last night. I think so now. The only difference is that I’m no longer feeling cross about it. But I have to tell you that I think you’re behaving like an idiot.’ It came tumbling out before she really knew what she was saying. Then she felt terrified as he stared at her for a moment, all bristling eyebrows. But his lined and weathered face cracked into a grin.

‘I’m sure you do, Maggie. There’s a point past which each sex finds the other idiotic or childish. This is still true however much a man and a woman may find they have in common—’

‘Do you think we have much in common?’

‘I don’t know yet – and, anyhow, that’s not what we’re talking about—’

‘Oh – all right,’ said Maggie impatiently. ‘But if you want to know why I think you’re behaving like an idiot, I’ll tell you. And please don’t interrupt. You say you want to leave here as soon as possible – to have a holiday and then start again, probably somewhere thousands of miles away. Well, I understand that. I feel like that myself sometimes. But if that’s what you want, then why entangle yourself – running risks too – in something that nobody – but nobody – asks you to bother about at all? You’re alive – and Noreen Wilks is dead and Derek Donnington’s dead – and the police are quite happy believing he killed her and then himself. I didn’t like Colonel Thing, the chief constable, but there was a lot of sense in what he said. Leave it alone. Don’t interfere. Young Donnington and Noreen are dead and can’t run into any more trouble. You’re alive – and you can. And why should you? I don’t say you like playing God – that’s a bit much – but I do say it’s mostly a kind of conceited obstinancy in you – and it frightens me and I don’t like it.’

He waited a moment. ‘Finished?’ He wasn’t aggressive; just calm and quiet, which in a way made him all the more maddening.

‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘Though I could go on and on. But I won’t.’

‘It’s a sound feminine point of view,’ he told her rather slowly. ‘Really – the let-sleeping-dogs-lie approach – um?’

‘If you like—’ But the telephone was ringing.

‘Who?’ he asked it. ‘Mr Aricson? Certainly. Put him on . . . Yes, this is Salt, Mr Aricson. What can I do for you? . . . All right, then, what can you do for me? . . . I see. I’d like to repeat that, if I may. A cheque for seven hundred and fifty pounds – for services rendered – will be available today, whenever I want to pick it up, but only today. Right? . . . In other words, you’re ready to pay me seven-fifty to clear out and mind my own business – um? Very tempting, I must say, but I’ll have to turn it down . . . No, no, I’ve hardly any scruples at all. But I want to leave everything clear and tidy . . . Oh, no, it won’t be . . . We can leave Colonel Ringwood out – he’s just downright stupid . . . I agree. Hurst is experienced and honest. He’s not consciously trying to deceive me or anybody else. But he is busy deceiving himself. It’s our great British vice – haven’t you noticed? . . . All right, try to swallow this. A young man is in love with a young girl. He takes her to a party. Later, they leave it, as they’ve done before, to go to an empty house to make love. But on this particular night the boy suddenly turns into a maniac. He strangles the girl and mutilates her body. Then he not only hides the body but very carefully and neatly papers over the gap in the wall. He then goes home and shoots himself. Even if I’d no other evidence – and I have – I could never accept that story. I’d feel ashamed of myself for the rest of my life even if I pretended to accept it. Thank you for ringing me, Mr Aricson, but you can tear up that cheque. Goodbye!’

Coming away from the telephone, he looked steadily at her. ‘If you listened to that, Maggie, then you heard most of my answer to you. I don’t say conceit and obstinacy play no part here—’

‘Of course they do. And all that money too,’ she added rather crossly. ‘What a waste! Just to prove some theory you have! I know I’m sounding like Colonel Thing, who’s supposed to be so stupid, but as I said before, I thought he talked sense—’

‘There’s something you’re all overlooking,’ he cut in harshly. And the change of tone gave her a shock. ‘If I believe young Donnington didn’t kill Noreen, then I must also believe that somebody else did. So what do I do then? Leave Birkden with a homicidal maniac still at large in it? Go far away knowing that the Birkden Evening Post won’t catch up with me, to tell me about the next victim?’

‘Oh – all right, I can understand that – if what you believe is true.’ She still sounded cross, crosser than she really felt. ‘And I’m not sure it is, because if that Donnington boy was more than half mad, he might easily do all kinds of contradictory things. And what was all that about evidence? How can you get any evidence – just sitting here?’

‘I know – you feel I ought to be running round taking fingerprints and collecting tobacco ash. But that’s not my method, Watson. My method is to do nothing in particular, just drop a remark or two and watch the pressure build up. The other people do all the work, giving themselves away—’

‘Oh – I realize you’re very clever, Salt. But you do a lot of dangerous bluffing, too. You announce you’re leaving in a day or two – you tell everybody they’re all wrong – and there’s a murderer around – but can you honestly tell me you really have a clue?’

‘My dear Miss Culworth’ — and she knew at once that this was half mockery and that behind it he was serious – ‘believe it or not, I need only one other piece of information, and then I think my case will be complete – and the mystery solved—’ But that was all he told her. There was a lot of noise outside, then some simultaneous ringing and knocking, and they were joined by Mr ‘Buzzy’ Duffield.

3

‘Before the talking starts – and don’t think I haven’t plenty to say because I have – Bzzz – step out an’ have a look at it. Talk about class! I’m more than halfway to Buck House with a car like this. Bzzz.’ As they followed him out, he waved a hand at a long black car standing at the kerb. ‘Got it from a punter instead of the money he owed me at the betting shop. Talk about a bargain! He’s more than two thousand nicker down on this lot. Bzzz. That’s Whitey pretending to be shuvver. The cap’s good – he insisted on it – but the rest of him’s dead off key – and so far I’ve to open the bloody door all the time. Bzzz. How about taking a ride in her? Drive slow – lift your hand now an’ again – give the peasants a treat.’

‘No, thanks, Buzzy,’ said Dr Salt. ‘I haven’t time. But I can use that car. Whitey can take the Culworth family home to Hemton – while you’re talking to me. Mr Culworth hasn’t been up and about for days – and could do with a smooth ride. Maggie, go and see if they’re ready.’

‘Please,’ said Maggie.

‘This time you win. Please.’

Maggie found her parents already in the sitting room, wondering what was happening. Five minutes later she was sitting in the car with them, on her way home. She was not very happy about it, even though she knew she would have to be in the shop some time in the afternoon, to clear things up with her father. But she couldn’t help wishing that Salt had insisted upon her staying with him, at least for another hour or two. He hadn’t exactly hurried her away with her parents, but he’d assumed she was going with them just a bit too quickly and easily – almost, though not quite, as if he wanted her out of his way. And what was he up to? And what did Buzzy want with him? And did he feel she was being stupid, an ally no longer, when all she really wanted was to keep him out of trouble? She went back over their argument. She was still going over it when Whitey brought them to their front door.

About the middle of the afternoon, when she and her father had dealt with cheques and bills in the little back office at the shop, her father drew his chair nearer to hers, looked hard at her and said: ‘There’s something I have to discuss with you, Maggie. And I think this is the best time to do it.’

‘Not if you’re feeling tired, Daddy.’

‘No, I’m all right. Y’know, I’ve great confidence in Dr Salt’s judgement. I feel he understands me as a man and not just as so much blood pressure, temperature, heartbeats and the rest. And he told me that if I could get a good offer for this shop, I ought to give it up. On the other hand, even if I could afford it, I oughtn’t to go away and do nothing.’

‘And I’m sure he’s right. He isn’t always right, but he is about you, Daddy.’

‘Do you mean he isn’t right about you—?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Maggie hastily. ‘It’s something else, quite different. I don’t suppose he ever gives me a thought.’

‘Oh yes, he does. However,’ he continued, to Maggie’s sharp disappointment, ‘we’re talking about me and the shop now. Now I didn’t tell you this, but as a matter of fact I can get a very good price indeed for the shop and the business. And I could come to an arrangement with my old friend Sayers in Birmingham to help him – on a part-time basis – on the rare books side—’

‘Well, that would be just right for you, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would. Give me something to do – and not too much.’

‘Then that’s settled. So what are you looking and sounding so doubtful about, Daddy?’

‘About you, Maggie, my dear,’ he replied promptly, surprising her. ‘I was talking it all over with your mother, this morning, and we agreed it would be just right for me. But what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘No shop, don’t you see? I’m not worried about the other three. Bertha Chapman can go back to teaching, and I believe would be glad to go. No difficulty there. Sheila’s out of her element here and could find a better job tomorrow. I don’t know about young Reg – I have a notion he’s really cut out for the book trade, that boy – but I’m certain I could find him something. You’re the only one I’m worried about, Maggie. I have an idea you wouldn’t want to go back to London, doing secretarial work. And I don’t think there’d be much of an opening for you here in Hemton. Of course, you could easily find a job in Birkden—’

‘No fear! I wouldn’t be found dead in Birkden.’ She spoke with a vehemence that surprised herself. ‘I loathe the place – always have done, and now I know it better I see I was quite right.’

‘Not just because of what happened to me, I hope, my dear—’

‘There’s that, too,’ she said hastily. ‘But also for all kinds of reasons. But it’s absurd to bother about me, Daddy. You go ahead with your plans – and don’t think about me. Really I’m glad you’re giving up the shop. Lately I’ve been feeling restless – needing a change – to do something different, though I don’t know what.’

‘Dr Salt half hinted at that—’

‘Oh – what exactly did he say?’ she demanded sharply.

‘Well, various things – you know—’

‘No, I don’t know,’ she told him even more sharply, maddened by his vagueness. ‘How could I? Can’t you remember even one of them?’

‘Let me think. Yes, he said – what was it? – potentially you were a very fine woman but that your real life hadn’t begun yet.’

‘Oh, he did, did he? A fat lot he knows about my real life – or anybody else’s—’

‘No, Maggie, you can’t say that. He’s a man with a lot of insight as well as a lot of experience. I thought you’d have noticed that—’

‘All I’ve noticed,’ she replied, sweeping this reproach away to the rubbish heap where it belonged, ‘is that I’m beginning to feel rather restless.’ Then, feeling that she had been behaving badly, she smiled at him and changed her tone. ‘So you haven’t to worry about me, Daddy. You do just what you want to do. It’s time you did – bless you!’

He left early, at her insistence, but she stayed later than usual, clearing up and exchanging gossip with Bertha. Then, back at home, she really did begin to feel restless. What was Salt doing? Why had Buzzy wanted to see him? What was happening while she was just mooning around, miles away, here in Hemton? Finally, after going to look at the telephone several times and then hardening her will against using it, she rang up Salt. No reply. There was something peculiarly desolating about hearing the phone ring and ring in the flat she now knew so well, and within a few minutes of putting down the receiver she was hurrying to the bus.

It was nearly half past seven when she rang Salt’s bell and somehow knew at once that it wouldn’t be answered. Feeling small, stupid, unwanted, she turned into the main road to find a telephone box. Her heart thumping away – and, anyhow, the air in there was horribly foul – she rang up Buzzy’s Club and, after some delay, was able to speak to Buzzy himself. ‘I wanted to thank you first, Mr Duffield, for letting us use that wonderful car of yours – you remember, to take my father home—’

‘Don’t mensh – it was a privilege and a pleasure, Miss Culworth. Bzzz. You’re a friend of Dr Salt’s – so am I—’

‘Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you,’ she cut in desperately, afraid he might ring off. ‘I can’t find Dr Salt. Do you happen to know where he is?’

‘I do. But keep it quiet. Strictly between us, this is. Bzzz. After a little talk we had this morning – and as a favour to me – he’s moved into the Beverly-Astoria – you know it? Brand-new place on the Coventry Road. They’re still blowing the sawdust off it. Bzzz. That’s where you ought to find him. If you don’t, then come here to the Club and ask for me. And not a word to anybody – you never know who’ll start talking – you can’t move for big mouths. Bzzz.’

The Beverly-Astoria was the newest hotel she had ever walked into; it really did look as if it had just been unpacked out of a crate twelve storeys high; and it also looked very grand, altogether too grand, for Birkden. She decided to look around before asking for Dr Salt. It was rather dimly lit and confusing, crowded with notices and glass cases, and seemed to smell of hot tin and varnish, rather like a magic lantern that Alan had once had. She contrived a peep into the dining room just before being accosted by a man with a pale face and a waxed moustache, like a croupier in a film, who was holding a number of menus about a yard square. She decided against going down below to Ye Olde Englishe Grill and instead ventured rather uncertainly into the Cocktail Bar, which was very dim indeed, almost blacked-out, and had very soft and sickly canned music coming out of the wall. For a few moments she stood there, unable to see anybody or anything, but then – and it was the strangest experience – she heard his voice, heard a woman laugh and heard him laugh with her, from somewhere in a corner at the opposite end of the room. She took a few tentative steps in that direction – and nobody was bothering about her – and then, her sight adjusting itself to the gloom, she saw him and his companion, not a young woman, no girl, but one of those ripe, smart, handsome and sophisticated women who represent The Enemy everywhere, and especially in cocktail bars where men drink double very-dry martinis like water. And she was honest enough to recognize and name the knife that was turning in her.

It was jealousy.