Dover Three

way through the muck she’s written. Nine times out of ten she even goes so far as to persuade her friends to take their letters to the cops as well. The more people who read ’em, the merrier. It’s always the same.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said MacGregor with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘It’s all a question of psychology,’ Dover pointed out kindly, in an effort to blind MacGregor with science. ‘You’ve got to analyse the motives of the criminal and put yourself in his shoes and see what he’d do.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said MacGregor who hadn’t much sense of humour left where Dover was concerned.
‘Well, tomorrow morning, we’ll start off and have a look at these women. An exploratory interview, you might call it – shove my boots over, laddie – we’ll cast our eyes over the field.’
MacGregor nodded. What else could he do?
‘Of course,’ Dover went on, red in the face from the effort of tying his laces, and anxious not to have any misunderstandings, ‘I don’t want you to think we’re going to clear this up in a couple of shakes of a lamb’s tail. No, I reckon we shall have to go very carefully. Softee, softee, catchee monkey,’ he added, somewhat to MacGregor’s surprise. ‘No, this is going to be a long job. It’ll probably take us’ – a sideways glance at MacGregor – ‘several weeks.’
MacGregor nodded again. He understood all right. The departure of Dover’s sister-in-law would no doubt coincide with the solution of Thornwich’s poison-pen case if Dover had anything to do with it. And, thought MacGregor with a shudder, Dover, as the senior officer in charge of the case, was going to have a great deal to do with it.
‘Is there anything else, sir?’ he asked, gathering up the file which Dover had contemptuously pushed to one side.
‘Just one question, laddie,’ chuckled Dover in spanking good humour. ‘Are they open yet?’

Chapter  Three
LATE ON Monday morning, Dover set out to make a show, at least, of doing some work. The day was cold and wet and the bitter east wind blowing straight off the moors cut through their clothing as Dover and MacGregor stood and shivered by the bus stop. They were waiting for the 10.28 bus to take them into Bearle. It was 10.45. Normally Dover would have abandoned the whole idea and retreated back into the relative warmth and comfort of The Jolly Sailor, but things were not normal. There was Dame Alice.
She had telephoned The Jolly Sailor on Sunday evening in a state of some annoyance and pained surprise. She had expected, she informed MacGregor at length, that Chief Inspector Dover would have called ere now at Friday Lodge and presented his compliments. MacGregor, with stout loyalty, told her that the Chief Inspector had been fully occupied with his preliminary studies of the case. Dame Alice retorted that she was glad to hear it. Obviously the intelligence she had received – to wit, that the Chief Inspector had spent the entire day in bed – was erroneous. She couldn’t, she said in a sour aside, understand why Mrs Quince should lie, but there it was. MacGregor cleared his throat and prepared to tangle the web a bit more, but he was saved the trouble. Dame Alice announced that she would like to see the Chief Inspector up at Friday Lodge as soon as possible. Tonight? MacGregor asked her to hold on while he consulted the Chief Inspector who, unfortunately, was not able for unspecified reasons to come to the phone himself.
Dame Alice held on with grim determination and tried to interpret the howl which came dimly along the wires.
MacGregor was sorry but tonight was quite impossible. Tomorrow morning? If Dame Alice would just hold the line for a minute.
Long mutterings this time as Dover and MacGregor worked out a new set of excuses.
MacGregor was extremely sorry but tomorrow morning the Chief Inspector was going to Bearle.
‘Bearle?’ repeated Dame Alice in tones of frank disbelief.
‘Yes, Bearle,’ said MacGregor miserably. ‘He’s going to interview Miss Poppy Gullimore. She teaches at a school in Bearle so we understand.’
‘But why not wait till she comes home at night and interview her then?’ demanded Dame Alice reasonably. ‘She’s back by five o’clock.’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t quite fit in with Chief Inspector Dover’s plans,’ explained MacGregor.
‘Well, what time are you going to be back in Thornwich?’
MacGregor couldn’t say.
Dame Alice breathed heavy dissatisfaction down the telephone. MacGregor couldn’t blame her. He listened sympathetically while she enumerated her pressing obligations and appointments for the next week. Yes, he could quite see that Dame Alice was a very busy woman. Perhaps it would be better if Chief Inspector Dover rang her. MacGregor knew he was most anxious to see her. Dame Alice indicated that she didn’t think this was a very good idea. She would be sorry to think that the Chief Inspector was trying to avoid her.
It was ten minutes before MacGregor was able to rejoin Dover in the public bar.
‘She’s going to ring you again tomorrow night, sir,’ he told Dover.
Dover was not pleased. He said so loudly. Mr Quince listened sympathetically as he polished the glasses.
‘Well,’ concluded Dover, ‘when she does ring, you can damned well tell her to take a running jump at herself. I’ll see her when I’m good and ready, and not before. She may have the Chief Constable and the Assistant Commissioner in her pocket, but she hasn’t got me, and the sooner she realizes it the better. You can tell her that when you answer the phone. Now, you’re in the chair, laddie. Mine’s a pint.’
They had spent a quiet evening. Mr Tompkins, Dover’s newfound and generous friend, did not turn up. Charlie Chettle, who stood alternate rounds with MacGregor, explained why.
‘It’s his missus,’ he said, sharing a packet of potato crisps with his dog. ‘She doesn’t like him having a drink at the best of times, but Sunday evenings she really puts her foot down, doesn’t she, Bert?’
Bert Quince nodded agreement