Whatever's Been Going on at Mumblesby? (The Flaxborough novels, Book 12)
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Something's been going on at Mumblesby. Inspector Purbright finds it odd that a widow should be trapped in a bathroom during her husband's funeral - and that she should own priceless antiques purchased without bills of sale. The further he investigates, the more he uncovers about old secrets.
many.” Zoe saw that a pencil and a piece of folded paper had got into the inspectors hand. She stared at them blankly. “The names—do you remember them?” “Does it matter? Don’t tell me they’ve made locking doors a crime.” “Not in general, no. The people in the house, though—do you recall who they were?” Memory cracked the impassivity of her face with a smile. “There was old Jehovah and his two witnesses. Dickies brother from Chalmsbury. He always called him that. Old Jehovah. Stan, actually.
Richard would have cared for the idea, either. Some of his collection involved transactions of a fairly delicate nature.” A moment went by. “Or so I understand,” Clapper added carefully. Zoe looked round the table for tomato sauce. She spread some on the last slice of bread. “You mean he got them by a fiddle?” she inquired, equably. “I mean nothing of the kind.” Clapper was sitting so erect that his chair creaked. The point I wished to make is that the Partners have their own arrangement in
had nearly burned out; he dropped it into a little jar on his desk and struck another. “She was scared that if ever there was a question about him not being all there he might be taken away from her.” “But there’d have to be an application on behalf of the local authority to get him into care. With great concentration, Malley sucked fire into the pipe bowl, then barbecued the end of his forefinger. “After the inquest, Sadie wrote a letter to the chief constable apologizing for wasting police
supper party. All felt compromised, and none dare shop another for fear of general exposure. To what extent they had actively conspired to do away with the woman, I doubt if we shall ever know. The person we propose to charge is most unlikely to help us there.” Mr Chubb pursed his lips and contemplated the cuff of the white linen jacket he had donned in token of hot weather devotion to duty. “Bad business, Mr Purbright, whichever way you look at it.” The inspector, who was perfectly well aware
Dennis the Martyr, between forty and fifty people had assembled already. A dozen or so were Mumblesby residents; most of the others had come out from Flaxborough. Their association with Richard Loughbury had been, in the main, professional rather than personal, and they wore now the air not so much of mourners as of shareholders, meeting for the declaration of an already known final dividend. Purbright for a while loitered unobtrusively at the back of the church. He recognized most of those who