Dover Strikes Again
Inspector Wilfred Dover, the disgrace and shame of Scotland Yard, is once more on the loose, stepping with oafish insensibility on the lives of the guilty—everyone in Dover’s book is guilty until somehow proven innocent—as he investigates the murder of a local construction tycoon in the middle of an earthquake and landslide that nearly demolished a remote English village. Sergeant MacGregor, poor fellow, comes along as keeper, provider of free cigarettes and booze, and an unheeded voice in defense of British fair play. Unfortunately for MacGregor, Dover’s accommodations are not up to the standard of his majesty (it is, after all, a disaster area) and life is grim all around. If the sleepy little village of Sully Martin thought it had seen the worst that fate had to offer, it just didn’t know Dover.
The case is one of such complexity that the talents of a Holmes or a Maigret, at least, are required. But all we get is Dover, the man whose murky mind may, just may, blunder through the mud and accidentally trap the murderer. Meanwhile, can England survive him?
JOYCE PORTER introduced the Falstaff of detective tradition with Dover One. This was followed by Dover Two and Dover Three, Dover and the Uhkindest Cut of All, and Dover Goes to Pott. Inspector Dover has made an indelible mark (or is it a stain) on the history of the art of detection. Miss Porter’s other characters include the Hon. Constance Morrison-Burke, a rather strange relation to Miss Jane Marple, and Eddie Brown, the world’s most reluctant spy.
Books by Joyce Porter
Dover Strikes Again
A Meddler and Her Murder
Rather a Common Sort of Crime
Dover Goes to Pott
Neither a Candle nor a Pitchfork
The Chinks in the Curtain
Dover and the Unkindest Cut of All
Sour Cream with Everything
Dover Three
Dover Two
Dover One
Copyright © 1970 by Joyce Porter
This edition first published in 1991 by Foul Play Press,
an imprint of The Countryman Press. Inc.,
Woodstock, Vermont 05091
ISBN: 978-0-88150-211-4
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To David Aubrey Cuttill, with humble affection
One
Even twenty-five years in the police had not tarnished Superintendent Underbarrow’s basic serenity and good nature. He made it almost a point of honour never to get hot around the collar about everything. His chief constable had decided to call Scotland Yard in – so what? It was no skin off Superintendent Underbarrow’s nose. Good luck to ’em, that was his attitude. And in the case, the poor beggars were going to need it. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? You only call the Yard in when you haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of solving the thing yourself.
His large ears caught the sound of an approaching train. Slowly and deliberately he consulted his watch. Aye, this’d be it – and pretty well on time for once. He eased his peaked cap off his forehead and pulled his tunic straight. These were not the gestures of a nervous man. The superintendent merely wanted to look his best. There was no point in encouraging these London fellows to think that everybody outside the Metropolis was a gawping country bumpkin with straw in his hair.
The signal light slipped from red to orange and a young lout in porter’s uniform emerged from the waiting room.
Of course Superintendent Underbarrow shouldn’t have been standing on this station platform at all, not by rights he shouldn’t. It wasn’t his job to act as a one-man welcome committee to a couple of blooming detectives. He was uniformed branch himself, and proud of it. Somebody from the plain-clothes mob should have been doing this. Or the chief constable himself, if it came to that. The trouble was they’d all got cold feet. Superintendent Underbarrow chuckled softly to himself. Aye, cold feet! As if these murder squad chaps weren’t as human as the rest of us. All right – so everything hadn’t exactly been done according to Cocker. These fellows would understand the difficulties – wouldn’t they? – and muck in like everybody else had done. Superintendent Underbarrow chuckled again. Muck in? That was an apt phrase if ever he’d coined one!
With a hoarse scream the express came pounding into the station but Superintendent Underbarrow stood his ground quietly and confidently. If the first-class carriages didn’t stop directly opposite him, he’d eat his hat.
The quiet confidence was fully justified. The train rocked to a halt and a second or two later one of the first-class carriage doors opened. Superintendent Underbarrow watched placidly as a handsome young man struggled out on to the platform with a couple of heavy suitcases. Apart from a middle-aged lady up at the front, nobody else was alighting from the train. A faint frown creased Superintendent Underbarrow’s cheerful features and he examined the young man more closely. Suede boots, pink shirt and a camel-hair overcoat that had cost sixty guineas if it had cost a penny. He looked more like one of those la-di-da male models than a decent, hard-working copper.
The handsome young man turned back to the train and began lugging out yet a third suitcase. Superintendent Underbarrow’s face cleared. The murder bag or he was a Dutchman!
The handsome young man still hadn’t finished. He was now assisting an older, bigger and uglier man down on to the platform and getting heartily cursed for his pains in the process. Superintendent Underbarrow relaxed. Ah, this was more like it! One of the old school, this! Bowler hat, scruffy black boots and a face to match! Superintendent Underbarrow began to move forward.
The porter skipped merrily along the train, slammed the door shut and flashed a two-fingered signal to the guard. The diesel motors cut down to a soft purr and the train pulled smoothly away.
The handsome young man turned as Superintendent Underbarrow approached and then stiffened to attention. ‘Superintendent Underbarrow, sir? I’m Detective-Sergeant MacGregor, sir, from the Yard. And this’ – he stepped aside so that the superintendent could get a clear view – ‘is Detective Chief Inspector Dover.’
To Superintendent Underbarrow’s eternal credit, the hesitation was only momentary. He checked his involuntary gulp in mid-swallow, tacked his smile of welcome back on his face and held out his hand.
Chief Inspector Dover ignored it. ‘It’s raining,’ he said.
The remark was not a conversational gambit. It was an impeachment.
Superintendent Underbarrow found himself stammering out an apology for the local weather but it was already too late. Chief Inspector Dover’s back, as he lumbered off down the platform, was unresponsive and unappeased.
By the time they had all crowded into the waiting police car, the superintendent had recovered some of his faith in human nature. ‘Well now,’ he began, ‘did you have a good journey?’
There was a contemptuous sniff from the back seat beside him but Sergeant MacGregor showed that he, at least, had got some manners.
He turned round in his place beside the driver. ‘Very good, thank you, sir.’
Superintendent Underbarrow beamed gratefully at him. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got a sticky one lined up for you this time,’ he went on, with slightly more cordiality than he would have shown to one of his own sergeants.
‘So we’ve gathered, sir.’
Superintendent Underbarrow grinned. 'An earthquake, eh? I’d never have expected that if I’d tried with both hands, not in a thousand years I wouldn’t. And in Sully Martin, too! I mean, it’s such a sleepy little place. Well, they’ve hit the headlines this time and no mistake. By the way,’ – he put the question casually – ‘did you happen to catch me on the telly, eh?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. They interviewed you, did they?’
‘Yes – a couple of tim
es on both channels as a matter of fact. Shocking waste of time when you’re up to your ears trying to cope but that’s the way things are these days. The chief constable had overall control, of course – major disaster and all that sort of thing – but the transport was my pigeon. As things turned out transport was the key to the whole business.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Superintendent Underbarrow leaned forward. ‘Still is, if it comes to that. We’ve not broken the back of the problem yet.’ He glanced out of the side window. ‘And we shan’t, not until this dratted rain stops. You see, it’s the main road running up to Sully Martin that’s the trouble. There’s nearly a quarter of a mile of it that’s just disappeared.’
‘Goodness me!’ MacGregor was getting a crick in the back of his neck but, since Dover had now got his eyes closed and his mouth open, the burden of social intercourse had to be shouldered by someone.
‘Secondary effect of the earthquake,’ explained Superintendent Underbarrow with a knowing nod. ‘Sully Martin’s stuck up on a hill, you understand, and the first tremors virtually cracked it clean in two. One comer of the village – the bit up on the cliff overhanging the main road – just sort of broke off and slid down the hillside. The road was buried under an avalanche of mud and houses and cars and sheds and goodness knows what. You’ve never seen such a mess and we can’t get it shifted. As soon as the bulldozers scoop up one loadful, another lot comes sliding down and takes its place. And, apart from a couple of cart tracks, this road’s the only way into Sully Martin from any direction. You can imagine what it’s like trying to do rescue work in the village itself. We can’t get any heavy equipment up there.’
‘How awful,’ said MacGregor.
‘Mind you,’ – Superintendent Underbarrow spoke rather bitterly for him – ‘there’s no shortage of unsolicited advice. I even had the chief constable sticking his oar in this morning. Still, I let him have it straight. “ If you think somebody else can make a better job of,” I told him, “ they’re welcome to try. Don’t you bother about my feelings,” I said. “ I’m not one of your . . .’” Superintendent Underbarrow had intended to fling himself back in his seat to underline the indignation he felt but Chief Inspector Dover’s amorphous bulk had somehow oozed across and was now occupying all the available space. Superintendent Underbarrow gazed in astonishment at this remarkable occurrence and then glanced up and caught Sergeant MacGregor’s eye.
MacGregor smiled vaguely.
‘Well,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow, struggling unobtrusively to retain what little contact he still had with the car seat, ‘there it is. We’ll never get that road passable until this rain stops.’
There were a few moments’ silence, broken only by the hum of the police car’s engine and the faint bubbling sound that was coming from Dover’s lips.
Superintendent Underbarrow steeled himself to cast a mild aspersion. ‘He’s a bit of a rum one, isn’t he?’ he whispered.
MacGregor’s smile became vaguer.
‘I thought all the Yard’s murder squad detectives were superintendents these days?’
‘Well,’ admitted MacGregor uneasily, ‘strictly speaking they are.’
‘But he’s only a chief inspector.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How come?’
‘He’s a sort of supernumerary,’ MacGregor explained. The topic was a delicate one, though he might have been more forthcoming if he’d been certain that Dover was really asleep. ‘He’s just attached to the murder squad. Kind of seconded.’
‘Oh.’ Superintendent Underbarrow looked unenlightened.
MacGregor groped around for a change of conversation. Chief Inspector Dover’s somewhat chequered career was not a subject that a subordinate of even qualified loyalty would wish to have washed in public. One hardly cared to explain to a senior officer in another force that Dover was loosely attached to Scodand Yard’s murder squad for the simple reason that nobody else in the length and breadth of the Metropolitan Police would have him.
MacGregor had just decided to make some pithy comment on the current economic crisis when the police car pulled into the side of the road and stopped.
‘End of stage one,’ grunted Superintendent Underbarrow as he opened his rear door. ‘We’ve got to negotiate stage two by Land-Rover.’
‘Really?’
‘We had another bit of a landslide down here. Farming land, luckily, so there were no casualties, but the road’s like Southend beach when the tide’s out.’ And on this somewhat cosmopolitan simile Superintendent Underbarrow extracted himself from the back seat and left it to MacGregor to rouse his master and explain the situation to him.
Dover was not pleased. He retaliated with a mixture of nonco-operation and bloody-mindedness so effectively that it took over ten minutes to carry out the transfer to the Land-Rover. Dover, as if of right, installed himself on the front seat next to the driver and left MacGregor and Superintendent Underbarrow to crouch miserably in the truck part at the back. The canvas roof leaked and they only had a couple of narrow wooden benches to sit on. With Dover’s head already beginning to sink on to his breast, MacGregor had no choice but to carry on with the conversation.
He eased his kneecaps away from Superintendent Underbarrow’s. ‘You were talking about casualties, sir. There were several up at Sully Martin, weren’t there?’
‘Five dead and twenty injured,’ agreed Superintendent Underbarrow proudly. ‘Not bad for what the experts keep on insisting was a minor quake, is it? Mind you, they were only speaking seismographically.’
‘And all these casualties were in the area of the cliff that broke away?’
Superintendent Underbarrow nodded. ‘That’s right. They reckon there was some sort of fault there and the earthquake just split it off. Freakish, really. One chunk of the village collapses and slithers off down the hill but, in the other part, you get nothing much worse than a few ornaments toppled off the mantelpiece.’
‘So there was no damage in the rest of the village?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’ Superintendent Underbarrow tried, unsuccessfully, to stretch his aching back. ‘Well, the church steeple came down, of course, but you can’t exactly count that. It was riddled with dry rot.’
‘Really?’
‘The vicar’s been warning ’em for years, seemingly, but nobody was interested.’
‘But I thought Sully Martin’s church was part of our national heritage ?’
‘Oh, it is. A twelfth-century gem – scheduled and everything. But the steeple’s much later. Mock Victorian Gothic, I think they call it. Anyhow, they’re all as pleased as Punch it’s gone.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ said MacGregor with a callous triteness he regretted as soon as the words were out.
Superintendent Underbarrow’s mind, however, was more literal than sensitive. He bent double and glanced upwards through the windscreen. ‘I wish those buggers up there’d show theirs,' he grumbled. He gave the policeman driver a poke in the neck. ‘Get your foot down, Rowney!’ he admonished. ‘We don’t want to have to tackle that last bit in the dark.’
Rowney nodded, and the mud splashed up even higher from the wheels of the Land-Rover.
Superintendent Underbarrow settled back and regarded MacGregor glumly. ‘That’s why we didn’t recognize it was murder,’ he said abruptly.
‘Sir?’
Superintendent Underbarrow sighed. He didn’t hold with making excuses but his chief constable had been quite specific. The Scotland Yard men had to be told the whys and wherefores of the situation and made to realize that the local police were in no way to blame. It was the sort of cock-up that could have happened to anybody – given some rather exceptional circumstances.
The superintendent examined the polished toecaps of his shoes with great concentration. ‘The earthquake happened just on two o’clock in the morning,’ he began thoughtfully, ‘so pretty well everybody was in bed. The whole thing only lasted ten
or fifteen seconds so, by the time people had got up and thrown some clothes on, it was all over. The cliff had split off and a dozen or so houses and shops had gone down the hillside and were spread out all over the place. The main electric cables went and a couple of gas and water mains cracked open. Well, the villagers did what they could – rescuing people from the houses that were still tottering on the brink and all that sort of thing. Luckily the telephone wires were all right and they got a message through to us. We were on the scene in pretty quick time, all things considered, but we couldn’t get any equipment up, of course. We did what we could but it wasn’t until it was light, round about five, that we got the last of the wounded out of the mud and the debris and started on the corpses. I suppose it was well on into the afternoon before we’d got them all sorted out and identified and everything. That’s when we first got a bit puzzled about Chantry.’
‘Ah yes,’ said MacGregor, taking considerably more interest now that this name had been mentioned.
‘All the other dead and wounded had come from the houses that had collapsed and slipped down the cliff. They were all in their night clothes and we found them mostly still in bed, or still in their homes at any rate. Now, Chantry was in gum boots and a thick mackintosh and his house hadn’t even been damaged. Well, we sort of jumped to the obvious conclusion.’
If MacGregor had a fault, it was that he tended to be too clever by half. He was finding Superintendent Underbarrow’s recital rather tedious and he couldn’t resist the temptation to try and speed things up a bit. ‘You deduced that Mr Chantry had been engaged on the rescue operations, sir, and that he had somehow been killed accidentally?’
‘That’s about it, sergeant,’ agreed the superintendent, quite without rancour. ‘After the ’quake was over there were naturally several more landslips and odd bits of buildings kept falling down. Chantry still had his pyjamas on under his outer clothing and he was just the sort of chap who would have been first on the scene. It looked like a hero’s death. That was before the doctor had a look at him, of course.’