***
Llewellyn had finally returned, but he was minus any good news, which didn't altogether surprise Rafferty. Timothy Melville-Briggs was out of the running—not that he'd ever really been in. And, needless to say, no-one at Sir Anthony's London consulting-rooms had recognised the girl in the photo-fit picture.
Still, Rafferty consoled himself, that didn't necessarily prove anything. Perhaps she and the aging Lothario had been up to after hours' naughties—hadn't Mrs. Devine said the girl had always had a very late appointment, after the staff had gone home? After all, it was unlikely that the doctor would confine his amorous activities to the countryside. Although Rafferty was disappointed not to have something more on Melville-Briggs, he was still determined to tackle him. Perhaps he would yet be able to bluff him into some revelation.
Sir Anthony hadn't yet returned, though he was expected imminently, but at least Mrs. Galvin had made them tea while they waited. Picking up his cup, Rafferty asked, 'Have you worked for Dr. Melville-Briggs long?'
'Three years.'
He gave a low whistle. 'Really? That long? You surprise me.'
She looked steadily at him. 'I fail to see why.'
'Human nature intrigues me,' he explained. 'What people do and why they do it. I find they often have the oddest reasons for their actions.'
'I'm afraid you'll discover nothing to intrigue you about mine,' she replied. 'I work here because I need the money.'
'Surely you could get much better paying work in London?'
She shrugged. 'Perhaps. But I have other considerations to bear in mind, like suitable housing. My husband is an invalid, Inspector. He was paralysed over two years ago. I doubt if we could afford to equip another house with the necessary aids, certainly not in London where the cost of housing is always so much higher. I need to work close to home, so commuting is out of the question.'
'I'm sorry to hear about your husband. How did it happen?'
'A car accident,' she replied briefly.
It was obvious that she didn't want to talk about it. Like Melville-Briggs's unfortunate junior doctor Simon Smythe, here was another member of his staff unlikely to find another suitable job. She was trapped as surely as Smythe and would have little choice but to continue to hold onto her position here. No doubt Melville-Briggs made full use of his knowledge of her circumstances.
She'd already made her statement; not that it amounted to much beyond saying she was at home all evening with her husband on the night of the murder. It hadn't been corroborated, yet; in her case, he had thought it would be just a formality, but when he mentioned the necessity of this corroboration, her reaction surprised him.
'Surely that's not necessary?' Her voice suddenly sharp, she added, 'you don't imagine that I—that a woman would attack a young girl in such a brutal fashion, Inspector? Especially as the papers said she was a prostitute.'
In his experience, anything was possible and Sam Dally had said a woman could have murdered the girl. Mary Galvin came over as a woman of strong passions behind that calm exterior—certainly capable of killing if the motive was strong enough.
Mary Galvin might be slim, but the skinniest murderers generally managed to find the required strength if the motive was strong enough. And if she had been one of Melville-Briggs's discarded mistresses, sexual jealousy would be as good a motive as any and better than most.
The women in this case struck Rafferty as particularly strong-minded, and wasn't it true that the gentler sex were often less squeamish than mere males when it came to disposing of a barrier to happiness? Doubtless, when they were alone, he’d have to listen to Llewellyn maundering on about that “deadlier than the male” stuff. In Latin.
'We have to check out everyone who had a key to that side gate,' he told her. 'It doesn't mean that we suspect you of anything. Your husband—'
'I've already told you that he's a cripple, Inspector,' she retorted even more sharply than before. 'The only time he leaves his wheel-chair is to go to bed. Surely you don't suspect that he murdered the girl?'
Her agitation interested him. He was about to question her further when the intercom on the desk buzzed.
‘Saved by the bell,’ he murmured. But Mary Galvin's reaction to his questions was turning out to be something of a mystery and he wouldn't be happy till he got to the bottom of it.
Her hand pressed the appropriate button and Anthony Melville-Briggs's smooth tones caressed their ears. 'I'm back. Any messages?'
After passing on the messages, Mary Galvin added, 'The police are here, Sir Anthony. Inspector Rafferty and Sergeant Llewellyn. They'd like to see you.'
'Of course. I've been expecting them.'
The smug voice practically purred, and an anticipatory tingle tickled Rafferty’s spine. It seemed he might have been lucky and old Tony hadn't heard the latest on Smythe. The beginnings of a grin added to what Llewellyn would probably call a triumvirate of pleasure. Four syllables. God, he was getting good at this wordy lark. He’d be spouting Latin next. Or perhaps that was Latin. Just don’t ask Llewellyn, Rafferty reminded himself. Or you’ll get a lecture. In Greek, probably.
'Show them in at once,’ Sir Anthony commanded. ‘We mustn’t keep such diligent officers waiting.’
‘Seconded,’ Rafferty muttered. ‘Lead me to the Pleasure Dome.’
‘And Mrs Galvin, I don't want to be disturbed, so keep back all calls. Oh, and, I'm sure they'd like some coffee.'
Got that wrong. Rafferty paused only to mouth: ‘Tea, please’ at Mrs Galvin before he made for the doctor’s office.