Dover Three

asked Miss Gullimore, highly disconsolate at losing her audience.
‘For the moment, miss,’ said Dover. ‘We may want to see you later on. I suppose,’ he gazed at her thoughtfully, ‘I suppose you’ve no pet theories of your own as to who’s writing these letters?’
‘How about Dame Alice?’ suggested the girl sulkily. ‘She’s always had a down on me. I suppose it’s because I’m young and I won’t kowtow to her like the rest of them do. She’s one of the governors of this school, and about once a term she invites me to dinner at Friday Lodge to pump me about what goes on here.’
‘And do you tell her anything?’ asked Dover.
‘Well, of course I do!’ Miss Gullimore looked surprised. ‘It’s every man for himself, isn’t it? They’d tell tales about me if they got half a chance, so why shouldn’t I do the same about them?’
*      *      *
‘That was a funny girl,’ said Dover some three hours later when he and MacGregor were trundling along in the bus back to Thornwich.
‘Very odd, sir,’ agreed MacGregor, glad to see that they were once more on speaking terms. Buses ran very infrequently between Bearle and Thornwich and the long wait, hanging around an exceedingly dull little town after the pubs had closed, had placed a severe strain on Dover’s good humour, never a very hardy plant at the best of times.
‘They must be damned short of teachers to employ her,’ observed Dover, watching the mist settling down on the moors. He sniffed. ‘I should think a young lady like her would get very bored up here, wouldn’t you?’
‘I should think so, sir,’ said MacGregor.
‘The poison-pen writer could be bored,’ said Dover ponderously. ‘Might be somebody who wants to stir the old fuddy duddies up and have a good giggle.’
‘Would she know enough about Thornwich’s scandals though, sir?’ asked MacGregor doubtfully.
‘The landlady might have told her. It’s amazing how much gossip you can pick up, just casually like, if you put your mind to it.’
‘Miss Gullimore is a touch-typist, sir,’ MacGregor pointed out. ‘Those letters were typed by somebody who only uses two fingers.’
‘She’s probably bright enough to know we can check that sort of thing,’ said Dover gloomily, ‘and changed her style accordingly.’ He yawned. ‘I wonder if that school’s got any typewriters.’
‘Oh, it’s bound to have, sir,’ said MacGregor, rather impressed as he saw the line that Dover’s reflections were taking. ‘The school secretary definitely had one, but it wasn’t a portable. But I believe these schools sometimes teach the girls commercial subjects. They probably have typewriters for that.’
‘I don’t suppose anybody’s bothered to check, have they?’ said Dover, yawning again.
‘No, sir.’ MacGregor was getting very alert and efficient. They were really getting somewhere now. It wasn’t often the Chief Inspector had any bright ideas. It made them all the more welcome when he did.
‘Well, in that case,’ said Dover, happy to be able to drop it right in Smart-Alec MacGregor’s lap, ‘you’d better get cracking and do it yourself, hadn’t you? Check all the typewriters in that school and find out if any members of the staff own typewriters. It’s just possible that our Miss Gullimore borrowed a typewriter from one of her colleagues. She may even have written those letters in the school itself. It’d be a damned sight safer than doing it in her lodgings. This landlady woman might have heard her or seen her. You know what nosy old devils most of ’em are.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said MacGregor. ‘I’ll get on to it first thing in the morning.’
‘You’ll get on to it tonight, laddie,’ said Dover heavily. ‘You can catch the next bus back into Bearle.’
‘But it’s nearly four o’clock now, sir,’ protested MacGregor, his spirits understandably flagging at the thought of yet another tedious, chilly bus ride. ‘The school’ll be closed by the time I get back and . . .’
‘There’ll be a caretaker, laddie,’ said Dover unsympathetically. Unfortunately for MacGregor there was a bus due in the return direction just ten minutes after he and Dover were deposited at The Jolly Sailor.
‘Hardly worth your bothering to come in,’ said Dover. ‘I’ll tell ’em to keep your dinner for you if you’re back late.’ He walked happily into the pub and left MacGregor shivering at the bus stop.
Mrs Quince provided a substantial afternoon tea and Dover consumed it in solitary state, congratulating himself with every mouthful – not, of course, on having solved the identity of Thornwich’s poison-pen writer, but on having got young MacGregor out of his hair and from under his feet for a few hours. Dover didn’t think for one minute that Poppy Gullimore was the woman he was after, but she and the school typewriters were as good an excuse as any for achieving a bit of peace and quiet. As a matter of fact Dover had already selected his candidate for the anonymous letter stakes, but it was far too early yet to start solving the case. His sister-in-law never visited for less than a week and could be relied on to stay longer given half a chance. The unmasking of the scourge of Thornwich was going to be a very delicate matter of timing, not too soon and not too late. The trouble with MacGregor was that he always wanted to rush things. Usually Dover did, too, but on this occasion he was in no hurry. The Jolly Sailor might not exactly be the Ritz, but at the moment it was a damned sight better than Dover’s semi-detached in Benbow Close.
Dover finished off his last cup of tea and ambled out into the kitchen to find Mrs Quince.
‘I’ll have my dinner at half-past seven,’ he informed her. ‘Sergeant MacGregor probably won’t be back by then so you can shove his in the oven and he can get it when he comes in.’
‘It’ll be all dried up,’ said Mrs Quince.
‘Well, that’ll be his funeral,’ said Dover who couldn’t have cared less if it had been shrivelled to a cinder. ‘I’m going up to