Mayo said, âbut barbiturates as well? Somebody must have slipped one to him. But I ask myself why. Why should anyone take the trouble, Martin?â
âYou mean the killer neednât have bothered with the shotgun, when enough of the pills and the booze would have done the trick? It wouldâve looked like suicide just the same ... more so.â
âThe trick being, of course, to know when enoughâs enough. And thatâs it â whoever killed Fleming would have to make sure he was good and dead. Wouldnât do for him to be found before he was dead, and carted off to hospital to have his stomach pumped. As it was, the drugs would have knocked him out sufficiently for him to be moved into the driving seat before he was finished off.â
âBarbiturates,â Kite said. âSleeping pills. Georgina Fleming takes sleeping pills.â
âSo she does.â
âAnd it was her fatherâs gun.â
âAnd they cooked this up between them?â
âThey could have,â Kite said.
âHm.â Mayo rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger, and thought. âThat gun. I think itâd be as well to have a word with Culverâs housekeeper and find out ââ The telephone went. âHold on a minute.â
âSomeone on the line for you, sir. She wonât give her name and wonât speak to anyone but you. Says she has some info on the Fleming case.â
The young constable on the switchboard had been wary of passing the message direct to Mayo, rather than some lesser being, but fearful of his wrath if he didnât do so and the woman rang off, as sheâd threatened. He was new and very green, but he thought she sounded nervous enough to do so. On the other hand, thereâd already been the usual crop of those sure they had important information, all needing to be dealt with in case their stories happened to be true or relevant â some genuinely believing they could help, but a lot of them time-wasters, and not a few nutters. He wouldnât be thanked for wasting the D.C.I.âs time with any of those. He was relieved when Mayo told him to put her through.
âYou donât know me, but my nameâs Bryony Harper.â The soft voice came over with the hint of a West Country burr, sounding young and uncertain. âItâs about ... Rupert Fleming, that appeal you put out for anyone whoâs seen him recently ...â The voice stopped, faltered.
âTake your time, Miss Harper. Presumably you have some information about where he was on Monday?â
âHe was at home, here, with me and the children.â
âWith you?â
âWell, where else would he be? He lives here, doesnât he?â
This was the woman in the photograph. Now that the connection was made, the voice and the face seemed to fit together, like the foot in Cinderellaâs slipper. âMiss â Mrs. â Harper, I donât want to deal with this over the telephone. Iâd like to see you.â
âYes, I expected you would, but Iâm afraid youâll have to come here, I canât leave my children.â
âWeâll be with you as soon as possible.â
The housekeeper would have to wait for the time being.
There was a sign for the Morvah Pottery on the Lavenstock Road, four miles out of Coventry, Bryony Harper had said, and here it was, a rather amateurish rendering: âMorvah Pottery, 100 yards. Please come and look around,â with an arrow pointing the direction.
Kite manoeuvred the car down a lane so narrow that passing places had had to be constructed to allow the passage of vehicles coming from opposite directions, though they met no oncoming traffic. Nor did there seem any reason for any to be there, since there was no sign of any habitation whatsoever, not even the pottery. When they had gone for about half a mile and were just beginning to think they had missed some turning or other