Dead Easy for Dover

of’em.’Strewth, it’s the only thing that keeps me going, is food! You wouldn’t believe what a sensitive stomach I’ve got. I’ve had Harley Street specialists weeping over it – and I’m damned if I’m going to have you buggering it up!’
Mr Plum backed off as far as he could get. ‘Dinner’s at seven,’ he said humbly. ‘The wife was going to give you lobster patties followed by Beef Stroganov, with apple fritters and cream for afters. But, if you’d sooner have a milk pudding or . . .’
‘That’ll do fine!’ said Dover, brightening up considerably at the prospect. ‘And I’ll take a pint of your best bitter to swill it down with!’
Mr Plum correctly concluded that the official part of his interview was at an end and he reverted smoothly to his role of genial mine host. ‘Talking of beer,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll be able to find time to partake of a jar or two in the bar this evening? A number of my regulars would, I know, be delighted to make your acquaintance. It’s not every day that The Laughing Dog is honoured by the presence of one of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad. One or two of my customers have, actually, already indicated that they would like to commemorate the occasion by really pushing the boat out. If you find you can spare the time, that is,’ he added hopefully.
For once, Dover was all smiles. ‘Oh, I can spare the time all right!’ he said.
On the following morning Dover’s face presented a somewhat more sombre picture. The clientele of The Laughing Dog were well known in the district for their open-handed generosity, and Dover was now paying the price. It was a good thing that Pomeroy Chemicals couldn’t see him. Grey, shaky, a mouth like the banks of the Thames at low tide on a hot day, and a splitting head, he showed a marked reluctance to move any distance away from the nearest lavatory. It was ten o’clock before MacGregor could coax him out of bed and gone eleven before Scotland Yard’s finest could be induced to poke a toe into the great big world outside.
‘It’s less than two minutes by car, sir,’ said MacGregor, holding out Dover’s overcoat as enticingly as he could.
‘It must have been that stuff they gave us for supper,’ whined Dover pathetically as he groped for the armholes. ‘All that foreign sauce muck!’
MacGregor nerved himself and removed Dover’s bowler hat from the hook behind the door with his bare hands. ‘I did think that perhaps the third helping was something of a mistake, sir,’ he said. ‘Especially with your nervous stomach.’
If there was any hint of sarcasm in these remarks, Dover was too far gone to notice it. ‘I just hope I can keep that bacon and egg down,’ he grumbled as he allowed MacGregor to shepherd him towards the door. ‘Here, steady on! There’s no need to rush me!’ He rubbed one flaccid hand wearily across his face. ‘Where the hell are we going anyhow?’
‘To the house where the girl’s body was found, sir.’
Dover gulped. ‘If I have to look at any more bloody stiffs,’ he promised, ‘I’ll not be answerable for the consequences.’
MacGregor was able to reassure him. ‘The body was removed yesterday, sir. We’re only going to see the occupant of the house – Miss Henty-Harris.’
Dover nodded, and immediately regretted such rash behaviour. ‘And I don’t have to walk?’
‘Only as far as the car, sir. Inspector Walters is letting us have one, and a driver, for as long as we need.’
Dover was concentrating on getting to the head of the stairs. ‘’Strewth,’ he whimpered as, with MacGregor’s assistance, he began the long descent, ‘I wish I was bloody dead!’
Funnily enough, although Miss Charlotte Henty-Harris looked and acted like one of the leading ladies from Cranford, she knew a man with a jumbo-sized hangover when she saw one. Clucking compassionately, she helped MacGregor manoeuvre Dover across the threshold of Les Chenes and into a comfortable armchair by the drawing room fire.
‘Poor boy!’ cooed Miss Henty-Harris as she leaned forward and unscrewed Dover’s bowler hat from his head. ‘What you need is a nice glass of my rhubarb and parsley cordial.’
‘What I need,’ retorted Dover in a feeble attempt to regain his old ungraciousness, ‘is a bloody week in bed!’
‘Of course you do, dear!’ agreed Miss Henty-Harris with a sweet smile. ‘But you’ve got work to do, you see. Important work. We can’t have you laid up just at this moment, now can we? So, you just sit well back while I go and mix you up a draught of something that will bring the roses back to your cheeks. We’ll soon have you your old merry self again!’
‘Who the hell is she?’ demanded Dover as Miss Henty-Harris bustled off happily to her kitchen. ‘Whistler’s bleeding grandmother?’
‘She’s the lady who found the girl’s body, sir,’ said MacGregor with as much patience as he could muster. Well, you did get a bit cheesed off with saying everything three times and even then the old fool didn’t know what you were talking about. ‘It was in her shrubbery behind the front gate that .. .’
‘I do wish you’d belt up for a bit,’ moaned Dover, letting his head sink back into the cushions of his chair. ‘Why don’t you read your notebook or contemplate your navel or something, and let me get a bit of rest, for God’s sake?’
But there is, as we know, no rest for the wicked, and Dover’s puffy eyelids had barely drooped over his equally puffy eyes when Miss Henty-Harris came trotting in again. All the ingredients for her concoction were ready to hand in her kitchen and this, coupled with a rather lengthy experience of mixing the stuff, accounted for the speed of her return.
‘Just drink it right down, dear!’ she advised as Dover, understandably, shied away from the evil-smelling brew.
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Never you mind, dear!’ chuckled Miss Henty-Harris. ‘You get it swallowed down!