Send for Paul Temple

‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘could anyone else have come in here whilst you were in the parlour?’

‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘They could ’ave come from outside or from upstairs.’

But no one had entered from the road, reflected Temple as he put a belated match to his pipe. He had been keeping watch there himself from the car.

‘I say,’ exclaimed the innkeeper, ‘why didn’t I hear the shot – that’s what I can’t understand?’

‘The gun was fitted with a silencer,’ answered the novelist quietly.

‘Coo—’e did ’imself in in style like, didn’t ’e?’

For a few minutes Temple stared fixedly at Harvey’s body. Then he resumed his steady walk up and down the room.

‘Is there anyone staying here at the moment?’ he asked at length.

‘Yes, an old dame who calls herself Miss Parchment,’ was the answer. ‘She arrived yesterday afternoon. Says she’s on a walking tour of the Vale of Evesham. Don’t look much like a hiker to me, though.’

‘Have you seen her tonight?’

‘Yes, she popped in here about half-past nine.’

‘What about the servants?’ Temple asked next.

‘There’s two maids, that’s all. The rest sleep out.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Daley looked at the corpse with very clear distaste.

‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks terrible, don’t ’e? This business ’as made me proper nervy.’

Temple turned towards him. ‘I think you’d better fetch Miss Parchment down,’ he said at length. ‘I’d like to have a word with her.’

‘Miss Parchment!’ Daley looked surprised. ‘What do we want ’er for?’

‘The sergeant will insist on seeing her, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be brought down right away.’

‘All right,’ said Daley after a moment’s pause. ‘If you say so, Guv’nor.’

‘And you’d better tell her what’s happened. We don’t want her fainting, or anything like that.’

‘If you asks me, she’ll pass right out!’ said Daley, walking towards the hall. Temple watched him close the door, and listened to his footsteps as he started to mount the stairs.

Then very swiftly he passed over to the flap in the counter, raised it, and let himself through. A few strides brought him to the till. He opened it and briefly examined its contents. Then he closed it as footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, and in a very short while he was back in the middle of the room again, sitting down on one of the old oak benches.

‘You’ve been quick!’ he said, as Daley appeared, slightly out of breath.

‘Yes!’ was the brief answer.

‘Where’s Miss Parchment?’

‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Have you told her about…?’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Daley. ‘And would you believe it, she was as cool as a cucumber. Talk about some of us men being ’ardboiled! Why, if you…’ He broke off as a faint rustle came from outside.

Both men turned to look at the door. It opened, and a tall, elderly lady appeared. In spite of her grey hair she carried her sixty years well. There was almost a touch of gaiety in the way she advanced to meet them. She was wearing a nondescript dress of grey tweed, but the flashes from her diamond brooch and earrings immediately drew Temple’s attention.

‘Miss Parchment?’ he asked, as he rose to greet her.

‘Yes.’ But it was a question rather than a form of assent that came from her lips.

Temple introduced himself. He could exercise almost a spell when he wished, and with a few sentences and a smile, he had put Miss Parchment at her ease and won her sympathy.

The novelist pulled out one of the less uncomfortable- looking of the chairs for her and turned it away from the body. She thanked him with a friendly smile and sat down.

‘What time was it when you went to your room, Miss Parchment?’ asked Paul Temple, after a time.

‘Now let me see,’ she replied. ‘It would be about—er—ten o’clock. I sat for a short while – reading. I prefer to read in bed as a rule, but the book I’m reading at the moment is so very interesting that—’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ Temple headed her skilfully off what might too easily have developed into a long digression. Time was short, and Temple had a number of questions to ask before the police arrived.

‘I trust you’ve sent for the police, Mr. Temple?’ the old lady asked. ‘I do feel—’

‘Yes. The sergeant is on his way here now.’

‘What a dreadful shock it must have been for you. Personally, I can never understand the mentality of anyone who commits suicide. It always seems to me that—’

Temple looked up at her in quiet surprise. ‘What makes you so certain that this is suicide?’ he said softly.

‘What makes me so certain?’ she repeated. ‘But surely it must be suicide! Unless, of course, Mr. Daley shot him!’

Mr. Daley had been standing nearby as though mounting guard over the body. He had not taken any part in the conversation, but his head had moved from Paul Temple to Miss Parchment and back again with rapid, sparrow-like, movements. Now his eyes seemed to pop out of his head in sudden surprise.

‘’Ere! None of them insinuations!’ he started, and crossed toward Miss Parchment as if nearness would lend emphasis to his words. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone, see. Not even if I wanted to. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Makes me proper queer-like.’ Then, as though exhausted by this sudden effort, he stepped back and sat down on a bench about two yards from Temple.

‘But there doesn’t seem to be much blood, Mr. Daley.’

‘There’s enough to give me the jitters!’ he exclaimed, almost savagely. He walked up to the window and peered out into the darkness. A thought seemed to occur to him and he half-turned.

‘And if it comes to that, why wasn’t you in bed when I knocks on your door?’

‘Because, my dear Mr. Daley,’ replied Miss Parchment calmly, ‘I was reading.’

‘Like to bet it was a murder story!’ The innkeeper’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

‘You’ll lose your bet, Mr. Daley,’ she replied sweetly, ‘It was a book on old English inns. I’m very interested in old English inns.’