‘I think it is unlikely that she made the threats herself. But it was the same machine. Of that there is no doubt.’
‘Maybe someone else had access to it.’
‘She works at the doctor’s surgery. That is where we will find her. You must find out at what time it opens.’
‘Of course. Do you want me to let her know we’re coming?’
‘No. I think it will be better if we turn up by surprise.’ Pünd poured himself another inch of coffee. ‘I am interested, also, to find out more about the death of the housekeeper, Mary Blakiston.’
‘Do you think it’s connected?’
‘There can be no doubt of it. Her death, the burglary, the murder of Sir Magnus, these are surely three steps in the same journey.’
‘I wonder what Chubb will make of that clue you found. The scrap of paper in the fireplace. There was a fingerprint on it. That might tell us something.’
‘It has already told me a great deal,’ Pünd said. ‘It is not the fingerprint itself that is of interest. It will be of no assistance, unless it belongs to someone with a criminal record, which I doubt. But how it came to be there, and why the paper was burnt. These are indeed questions that might go to the very heart of the matter.’
‘And knowing you, you already have the answers. In fact, I bet you’ve solved the whole thing, you old stick!’
‘Not yet, my friend. But we will catch up with Detective Inspector Chubb later and we will see …’
Fraser wanted to ask more but he knew that Pünd would refuse to be drawn. Put a question to him and the best you would get would be a response that made little or no sense and which would, in itself, be more annoying than no answer at all. They finished their breakfast and a few minutes later, they left the hotel. Stepping out into the village square, the first thing they noticed was that the display case next to the bus shelter was empty. Joy Sanderling’s confession had been removed.
2
‘Actually, I took it down myself. I did it this morning. I don’t regret putting it there. I made the decision when I saw you in London. I had to do something. But after what happened here – I mean, with Sir Magnus and the police asking questions and everything – it just didn’t seem appropriate. Anyway, it had done the job. As soon as one person had read it, the whole village would know. That’s how it is around here. People have been giving me a few strange looks, I can tell you, and I don’t think the vicar was too pleased. But I don’t care. Robert and I are going to be married. What we do is our business and I’m not going to put up with people telling lies about him or about me.
Joy Sanderling was sitting on her own in the modern, single-storey surgery that stood in upper Saxby-on-Avon, surrounded by houses and bungalows that had all gone up at about the same time. It was an unattractive building, cheaply constructed and utilitarian in design. Dr Redwing’s father had compared it to a public toilet at the time it was built, although he, of course, had practiced from his own home. Dr Redwing herself thought it no bad thing that she was able to separate her work from her private life. There were many more people living in the village than there had been in Edgar Rennard’s time.
Patients entered through a glazed door that opened directly into a waiting area with a few faux-leather sofas, a coffee table and a scattering of magazines: old copies of Punch and Country Life. There were some toys for children, donated by Lady Pye, although that had been a long time ago and they really needed to be replaced. Joy sat in an adjoining office – the dispensary – with a window that slid across so that she could speak to the patients directly. She had an appointments book in front of her, a telephone and a typewriter to one side. Behind her, there were shelves and a cupboard filled with medical supplies, filing cabinets containing patient records and a small refrigerator, which occasionally housed drugs or the various samples that needed to be sent on to the hospital. There were two doors: one each side. The one on her left led into the reception area, the one on her right to Dr Redwing’s office. A light bulb, next to the telephone, would flash on when the doctor was ready to see her next patient.
Jeff Weaver, the gravedigger, was in there now, accompanying his grandson for a final check-up. Nine-year-old Billy Weaver had made a complete recovery from his whooping cough and had come bouncing into the surgery with a determination to be out of there as soon as possible. There were no other patients on the waiting list and Joy had been surprised when the door had opened and Atticus Pünd had walked in with his fair-haired assistant. She had heard they were in the village but had not expected to see them here.
‘Have your parents been made aware of what you wrote?’ Pünd asked.
‘Not yet,’ Joy said. ‘Although I’m sure someone will tell them soon enough.’ She shrugged. ‘If they find out, what does it matter? I’ll move in with Robert. That’s what I want anyway.’
It seemed to Fraser that she had changed in the brief time since they had met in London. He had liked her then and had been quietly disappointed when Pünd had refused to help her. The young woman on the other side of the window was still very appealing, exactly the sort of person you’d want to talk to if you weren’t feeling well. But there was a harder edge to her too. He noticed that she hadn’t come round to greet them, preferring to stay in the other room.
‘I didn’t expect to see you, Mr Pünd,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘You may feel that I was unfair to you when you came to see me in London, Miss Sanderling, and perhaps I should apologise. I was merely honest with you. At the time, I did not think I could help you with the situation in which you found yourself. However, when I read of the death of Sir Magnus Pye, I felt I had no choice but to investigate the matter.’
‘You think it has something to do with what I told you?’
‘That may well be the case.’
‘Well, I don’t see how I can help you. Unless you think I did it.’
‘Would you have a reason to wish him dead?’
‘No. I hardly even knew him. I saw him occasionally but I had nothing to do with him.’
‘And what of your fiancé, Robert Blakiston?’
‘You don’t suspect him, do you?’ Something flared in her eyes. ‘Sir Magnus was never anything but kind to him. He helped Robert get his job. They never quarrelled. They hardly ever saw each other. Is that why you’re here? Because you want to turn me against him?’
‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am here to see Dr Redwing.’
‘She’s with a patient at the moment but I expect she’ll be finished quite soon.’