dishes, glass beakers, a mortar and pestle. Made-up prescriptions, each wrapped in white paper, stood neatly grouped on a small desk.
Then there was Ashfield.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’
He had a high-pitched, whining little voice. He was a small man. He had a perfectly round skull with dark hair oiled and smeared back over it.
‘What do you want? I’m rather busy. You must understand this is a busy day.’
He was wearing white overalls but had a spotted bow tie. Because his neck was so short the tie came right up to his chin.
‘Mr Kenneth Ashfield?’
‘You heard my name.’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently, CID. I’m investigating the death of Peter Shimpling. I believe you can help me.’
‘You can believe what you like, can’t you?’
Angry, peppery brown eyes. Darting aggressively at Gently, yet swinging past him all the time. He had rounded cheeks and good straight teeth which appeared triumphantly after each clipped speech.
Or was it perhaps apprehensively . . . since the eyes never backed him up?
‘I’d sooner believe the truth, Mr Ashfield. Had you any acquaintance with Shimpling?’
‘You don’t believe in the truth. Belief is superfluous. You either know something, or you don’t know it.’
‘I’d like to know if you were acquainted with Shimpling.’
‘Truth, too, that’s superfluous.’
‘That may be—’
‘Truth is a lie. A mere intellection, divorced from being.’
‘This isn’t getting us very far . . .’
‘I disagree! I find it stimulating. From your point of view I did know Shimpling, or I didn’t know Shimpling. Equally true.’
The toothy smile, a brush from the eyes, then the eyes sliding away. Ashfield was working up a momentum from which it was plain he didn’t intend to be diverted.
‘Again, from your point of view—’
‘Who appoints your assistants?’
‘What?’
‘Your assistants. They’re devilishly plain. One can’t admire your taste in women.’
Ashfield was thrown for a moment. His eyes darted about, his smile pulled into a snarl. Then:
‘That’s a case in point, don’t you think? Plain is pretty, equally true.’
‘But you don’t have to engage plain assistants – surely it’s unusual in your trade?’
‘Unusual and usual—’
‘On the cosmetic counter – wouldn’t a pretty girl be more the thing? Say a blonde with lots of oomph, that’s who you’d expect to find there – a girl who knows how to make up, how to wheedle men into buying presents.
‘And how much pleasanter for you – especially when she’s here after hours! I’d say you needed a blonde in the shop. Don’t tell me you never had one?’
This time Ashfield was really stumped; he went quite still and staring. As though he were trying over words, he made a series of small grunting noises through his nose.
‘Yes, a blonde,’ Gently said. ‘You find them doing this job everywhere . . . good for business, good for the boss! I was quite surprised not to see one here.’
‘Look! If this is all you’ve come for—’
‘I didn’t come to talk metaphysics.’
‘Then exactly why—’
‘I thought I made it plain. I want to know if you’d met Shimpling.’
‘Why pick on me?’
‘Your name was given me.’
‘In what connection—!’
Gently shook his head. ‘First, I’d like you to answer some questions, then we’ll come to the background.’
He heard a step and looked round quickly. A woman was standing at the foot of the stairs. She was a bold-faced person with grey hair, though her age could not have been more than forty.
She stared at Gently, then at Ashfield. Ashfield flickered his toothy smile. The woman was tall and thick-bodied and dowdily but not inexpensively dressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were alone, Kenneth. I’ll wait till you’re free.’
‘I—’ Ashfield began.
The woman turned and softly remounted the stairs.
Gently winked at Ashfield.
‘The missus? he asked.
‘What if she
Then there was Ashfield.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’
He had a high-pitched, whining little voice. He was a small man. He had a perfectly round skull with dark hair oiled and smeared back over it.
‘What do you want? I’m rather busy. You must understand this is a busy day.’
He was wearing white overalls but had a spotted bow tie. Because his neck was so short the tie came right up to his chin.
‘Mr Kenneth Ashfield?’
‘You heard my name.’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently, CID. I’m investigating the death of Peter Shimpling. I believe you can help me.’
‘You can believe what you like, can’t you?’
Angry, peppery brown eyes. Darting aggressively at Gently, yet swinging past him all the time. He had rounded cheeks and good straight teeth which appeared triumphantly after each clipped speech.
Or was it perhaps apprehensively . . . since the eyes never backed him up?
‘I’d sooner believe the truth, Mr Ashfield. Had you any acquaintance with Shimpling?’
‘You don’t believe in the truth. Belief is superfluous. You either know something, or you don’t know it.’
‘I’d like to know if you were acquainted with Shimpling.’
‘Truth, too, that’s superfluous.’
‘That may be—’
‘Truth is a lie. A mere intellection, divorced from being.’
‘This isn’t getting us very far . . .’
‘I disagree! I find it stimulating. From your point of view I did know Shimpling, or I didn’t know Shimpling. Equally true.’
The toothy smile, a brush from the eyes, then the eyes sliding away. Ashfield was working up a momentum from which it was plain he didn’t intend to be diverted.
‘Again, from your point of view—’
‘Who appoints your assistants?’
‘What?’
‘Your assistants. They’re devilishly plain. One can’t admire your taste in women.’
Ashfield was thrown for a moment. His eyes darted about, his smile pulled into a snarl. Then:
‘That’s a case in point, don’t you think? Plain is pretty, equally true.’
‘But you don’t have to engage plain assistants – surely it’s unusual in your trade?’
‘Unusual and usual—’
‘On the cosmetic counter – wouldn’t a pretty girl be more the thing? Say a blonde with lots of oomph, that’s who you’d expect to find there – a girl who knows how to make up, how to wheedle men into buying presents.
‘And how much pleasanter for you – especially when she’s here after hours! I’d say you needed a blonde in the shop. Don’t tell me you never had one?’
This time Ashfield was really stumped; he went quite still and staring. As though he were trying over words, he made a series of small grunting noises through his nose.
‘Yes, a blonde,’ Gently said. ‘You find them doing this job everywhere . . . good for business, good for the boss! I was quite surprised not to see one here.’
‘Look! If this is all you’ve come for—’
‘I didn’t come to talk metaphysics.’
‘Then exactly why—’
‘I thought I made it plain. I want to know if you’d met Shimpling.’
‘Why pick on me?’
‘Your name was given me.’
‘In what connection—!’
Gently shook his head. ‘First, I’d like you to answer some questions, then we’ll come to the background.’
He heard a step and looked round quickly. A woman was standing at the foot of the stairs. She was a bold-faced person with grey hair, though her age could not have been more than forty.
She stared at Gently, then at Ashfield. Ashfield flickered his toothy smile. The woman was tall and thick-bodied and dowdily but not inexpensively dressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were alone, Kenneth. I’ll wait till you’re free.’
‘I—’ Ashfield began.
The woman turned and softly remounted the stairs.
Gently winked at Ashfield.
‘The missus? he asked.
‘What if she
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