“The trouble with you, Horace, is that there's no pleasing you,” said the Chief Inspector, some little time later. “I bring you down, in the middle of the summer, to as nice a part of the country as you could wish for, set you up in a pub which, as far as I can see, never got around to reading the Rationing Orders, and all you do is to sit there looking as though you'd been dragged to one of the Distressed Areas. I'll trouble you for the butter, my lad!”
The Inspector handed him a green dish fashioned into the semblance of a lettuce-leaf. “It is butter, too,” he said severely. “About a week's ration.”
Hemingway helped himself generously. Both men were sitting down, in the otherwise deserted coffee-room, to a high tea reminiscent of an almost forgotten age of plenty. The Sun, though perhaps its oldest, was by no means Bellingham's most fashionable hostelry. It was situated in a back street, and catered for Commercials; the rigours of its beds were alleviated by feather-mattresses; it had one bathroom, containing an antiquated painted bath, with an old-fashioned plug, and a wooden surround; and several of its tiny lattice windows could, by the exercise of careful force, be induced to open. Since its clients were not persons of leisure, only one sitting-room had been provided for them, and that the coffee-room, which contained, besides one long table, a number of horsehair chairs; a massive and very yellow mahogany sideboard, supporting an aspidistra, a biscuit-tin commemorating the coronation of Edward VII, and an array of sauce-bottles and pickle-jars; several steel-engravings in maplewood frames; and a tall vase full of pampas-grass. Meals were not served with elegance, or dignified by menu-cards, but the food itself was excellent, and prepared by a large-minded person. An order for tea was understood by this person to include a plate piled with bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and chips, three or four kinds of jam, scones, a heavy fruit cake, a loaf of bread, a dish of stewed fruit, and one of radishes. Sergeant Carsethorn had recommended the Sun to Hemingway, a circumstance which was causing that cheerful officer to take what his assistant considered a roseate view of his ability.
“And I'd like to know how they come by all that bacon,” added Harbottle, in a sinister voice.
The Chief Inspector poured himself out another cup of tea, and lavishly sugared it. “Why you ever went in for homicide beats me,” he remarked. “What you ought to have done was to have got yourself a job as snooper for the Ministry of Food. What's it matter to you where they come by their bacon? I didn't hear you making any bones about eating it. Have another cup of tea!”
Harbottle accepted his offer, and sat for some minutes stirring the brew meditatively. “It's all very well being sent into the country,” he said suddenly, “but I don't like this case, Chief!”
“That's because you've got an inferiority complex,” responded Hemingway, unperturbed. “I thought there'd be trouble when they started talking about the Squire. It set you off remembering the days when you were one of the village lads, carting dung, and touching your forelock to the Squire.”
“I did no such thing!” said his indignant subordinate. “What's more I never carted dung in my life, or touched my forelock! I hadn't got one, and I wouldn't have touched it if I had had!”
“One of the Reds, were you? Well, it's no use brooding over the equality of man here, because that won't get us anywhere.” He observed that the Inspector was breathing heavily, and added soothingly: “All right, Job! you cool off, or you'll very likely burst a blood-vessel.”
“Why Job?” demanded the Inspector suspiciously.
“If you read your Bible you'd know that the poor chap suffered from a horrible disease. Amongst other things, which I've forgotten for the moment.”
“Now, look here!” exploded Harbottle. “What am I supposed to be suffering from, I'd like to know?”
“Me, mostly,” replied Hemingway serenely.
A reluctant grin greeted this sally. “Well you're the boss, so it won't do for me to contradict you, sir. But what you see in this case to be pleased about I can't make out! Seems to me it's either going to be so easy that this local Sergeant you think so well of might just as well have solved it for himself; or it's going to be such a snorter that we shall never get to the bottom of it.”
“It's got class,” said Hemingway, selecting a radish from the dish. “It's got a good decor, too, and, barring the Pole, I like the sound of the dramatis personae. It isn't every day you get a murder amongst a lot of nice, respectable people living in a country village. Of course, I daresay Snettisham will dig up some character with a record as long as your arm, here in Bellingham, who'll turn out to be the guilty party, but so far it looks a lot more promising than that. It's got what you might call possibilities.”
The Inspector frowned over these. “The Pole—which you wouldn't like!—and the niece, which the Chief Constable laughed at. I didn't reckon much to any of the others. Except that I'd like to know why the Chief Constable shut up so tight when Carsethorn started on the solicitor—Drybeck!”
“Because Drybeck's his own solicitor, and he plays golf with him every weekend,” replied Hemingway promptly.
“Did Carsethorn tell you that, sir?”
“No, he didn't have to. It's standing out a mile the Chief Constable's on friendly terms with most of the people mixed up in the case. That's why he was so prompt in calling us in, and I'm sure I don't blame him.”
Harbottle shook his head over this evidence of the frailty of human nature, but he appeared to accept it, and relapsed once more into meditative silence. The frown deepened between his brows; he presently said abruptly: “There's one thing that strikes me about this case, Chief!”
“What's that?” asked Hemingway, not looking up from his study of the plan of Thornden.
“Well, it seems to be fairly well established that the shot was fired from close to that clump of gorse. How did the murderer know that the deceased was going to be so obliging as to sit down on that seat in his garden at just that time of day?”
“He didn't,” replied Hemingway. “He probably didn't even know he was going to have the luck to find Warrenby in the garden at all. You think it over, Horace! If the murder was committed by one of the people at that tennis-party, he knew Miss Warrenby wasn't in the house, and it's a safe bet he also knew it was the maid's day out. He may have thought Warrenby was likely to be in the garden on a hot June evening, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been. You've seen the house: it came out good and clear in one of the photographs. It's got long French windows, which would be bound to be standing open on a day like that. As for the time, that didn't matter either. If the Pole did it, obviously he couldn't have, because he must have had to lie up, waiting for Warrenby to show himself, for nearly a couple of hours. Which is one reason why I don't, so far, much fancy young Ladislas.”
“The more I think of it, the more I can't help feeling it must have been someone who wasn't at that party at all,” said Harbottle. “If it was one of them, where was the rifle? If it had been a cricket-match, we could assume it had been all the time in the murderer's cricket-bag; but what would anyone take to a tennis-party which could possibly hold a rifle?”
“Nothing, of course. That's quite a good point, Horace, but there's an easy answer to it. If the murderer was at that party, he knew the locality well, and somewhere between the Haswells' place and Warrenby's he had that rifle cached where he could pick it up easily at the right moment. You're a countryman! You ought to know it isn't very difficult, where you've got woods, and hedges, and ditches. I'd choose a ditch, myself, at this time of the year, when the grass is long, and everything a regular tangle of dog-roses, and meadowsweet, and the rest of it.”
“Yes,” admitted Harbottle. “If it turns out to be like you describe.”
“Well, we shall soon see,” said Hemingway. “Carsethorn's coming round here before six to pick us up, and take us out to Thornden. They've had a chap keeping an eye on Fox House ever since yesterday, and Miss Warrenby wants him to be removed as soon as convenient, on account of the maid, who says she can't stay there with a policeman on the premises. Nice reputation the police have got in these parts!”
“People don't like having police in the house,” said the Inspector seriously. “It isn't respectable.”
“Well, once I've had a look at the scene, and gone through any private papers there may be in the desk, he can be taken off. I don't want to lose that girl a maid, even if she did murder her uncle, which we don't know, after all. Warrenby had a London solicitor, but beyond having drawn up his Will he doesn't seem to have done much for him. He's fishing in Scotland at the moment, anyway: the Chief Constable had a word with his clerk, and then with Miss Warrenby, who said she was sure her uncle wouldn't have minded us doing whatever it was our duty to do. So we don't have to lug this bird back from Scotland before we can get on with the job.”
“What about the Will?” objected Harbottle.
“That was in Warrenby's safe at his office. This London lawyer is one of the executors, according to what his clerk told the Colonel, and Miss Warrenby's the other. Which made it all plain sailing. It was opened in her presence, and I can go through any papers there may be, in her presence, too. And when we get through at Fox House, we'll call on Mr. Drybeck. We don't want to start a scandal in his office, by going to interview him there tomorrow.”
This programme was carried out. At the appointed hour Sergeant Carsethorn arrived with a police-car, and twenty minutes later the Chief Inspector was enjoying his first view of the village of Thornden. A game of cricket was being played on the common, where a level piece of the ground beside the Trindale-road had been turned into a playing-field; but the village itself was wrapped in a Sunday stillness. The Sergeant drove up to the cross-road, to enable Hemingway to see where Wood Lane turned out of the High Street, and then turned, and drove back to Fox Lane.
Before entering the garden of Fox House, the three men, leaving the car, climbed the rising ground of the common to where the flaming gorse bushes stood. From this point of vantage quite an extensive view could be obtained over the common, which stretched away eastward in the general direction of Bellingham. It was dotted over with similar clumps of gorse, and a great many blackberry bushes, with here and there one or two trees, mostly silver birches. Away to the north, close to the Hawkshead-road, some fencing railed off a gravel-pit which, the Sergeant told Hemingway, had recently been opened up by the Squire. He explained that the common was not Crown land, but manorial waste. “All the land here used to belong to the Ainstables, except what the Plenmellers had, west of the village, but you know how things have been for people like them, ever since the First War. They say young Plenmeller doesn't care, and from what I've seen of him I shouldn't think he cares about anything much; but the Squire's a very different sort of man. Quite one of the old school, as you may say. He'll carry on while he lives, but it's likely to be a bad look-out when he dies, because it's not to be expected that the next man will work like he does to keep things going. Lost his son in the last war, you know. I'm told the place'll go to a nephew or a cousin, or something, who never comes near it. Well, he couldn't, really: he lives in Johannesburg. Not at all the sort of Squire Thornden's accustomed to. I reckon you've got to hand it to Mr. Ainstable. It fairly knocked him out, the young chap's being killed, but he carried on, stiff-backed as you please, doing everything he can, like starting up that gravel-pit, to keep up the estate. Over there's his new plantation: he's had to sell a lot of timber.”
Hemingway nodded. “Not many left now like him.” he remarked, turning to survey the garden of Fox House. “Well, it would have been an easy shot,” he said, his eyes on the seat under the tree. They travelled on, up the lane, to the stile at the top of it.
“You see, if you was to crouch down you couldn't be seen from the stile,” the Sergeant pointed out.
“No. Seems to be woodland beyond it.”
“That's right: Mr. Haswell's spinney. The footpath skirts it. It used to be all woodland from the common up to the Vicarage meadow—you can't see that from here, but it's behind the grounds of Fox House. Of course, that's a long time ago now, but they say those fine old trees you can see were once part of it. Makes you think, doesn't it?”
The Chief Inspector was certainly thinking, but if the subject of his thought was an ancient forest he did not say so. After looking about him in silence for a few moments, he said briskly: “Well, let's get on!” and led the way down into the lane again.
The arched and massively built front-door of Fox House stood open, in the country-way, allowing a view of the hall, and of the carved staircase at the end of it. The floor was of black oak, and had two Persian rugs thrown down on it. An old chest stood under the window opposite the front-door: there was a warped gateleg-table in the centre, and several high-backed Jacobean chairs were ranged against the walls. One or two sporting prints completed an interior that seemed in some indefinable way to represent a period piece rather than the owner's individuality.
“Mr. Warrenby furnished the place regardless, when he bought it,” confided the Sergeant. “He had a man down from London to advise him, even.”
There was an iron bell hanging beside the front-door, and this the Sergeant tugged. The effect was instant and unexpected. Furious yapping arose, and through the half-open doorway on the left of the hall skidded two tawny and determined defenders. One of these made threatening darts at the intruders; the other, a more elderly gentleman, contented himself with standing squarely before them, and uttering slightly wheezy barks.
“Now, now, Peekaboos!” called a fondly childing voice. “Naughty! Come back to Mother at once!”
“Mrs. Midgeholme!” whispered the Sergeant.
The look he cast at Hemingway was pregnant with meaning, but he had no time to explain the reason for his patent horror: Mrs. Midgeholme, overpowering in lilac foulard, came out of the drawing-room, and explained: “Oh! It's the police! Well, really! On a Sunday!”
“Good afternoon, madam. This is Chief Inspector Hemingway, from Scotland Yard. And Inspector Harbottle. They wish to see Miss Warrenby, if convenient, please.”
“Scotland Yard!” ejaculated Mrs. Midgeholme, apparently regarding this institution in the light of a Gestapo headquarters. “That poor child!”
“That's all right, madam,” said Hemingway soothingly. “Properly speaking, I only want to have a look through her uncle's papers. There are one or two questions I'd like to ask her, but don't worry! I shan't go upsetting her.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, with an air of noble resolution, “if you must see her, I shall insist on being present! She is alone in the world, and she has had a terrible shock. I refuse to abandon her!”
“And I'm sure it does you credit,” said Hemingway affably. “I've got no objection.” He bent to stroke the elderly Peke, who was sniffing his shoe. “Well, you're a very handsome fellow, aren't you?”
The Peke, his eyes starting angrily, growled at him. However, Hemingway was scratching the exact spot on his back which afforded him the most gratification, so he stopped growling, and faintly waved his plumed tail. This circumstance struck Mrs. Midgeholme forcibly. She exclaimed: “He's taken a fancy to you! Ulysses! He hardly ever allows strangers to touch him! Do you like that kind of policeman, then, my precious? Oh, Untidy! You mustn't let her bother you!”
By this time, the younger Peke, encouraged by the example set her by her grandfather, was effusively making the Chief Inspector welcome. Sergeant Carsethorn heaved an exasperated sigh, but no one could have supposed from Hemingway's demeanour that he had come to Thornden with any other purpose in mind than to admire Mrs. Midgeholme's Pekes. Within a few minutes he and Mrs. Midgeholme were fast friends; and he could have answered an examination-paper on Ulysses's superlatively good points, the number of prizes he had won, and the number of prize-winners he had sired. It was on a wave of good-will that he was finally ushered into the drawing-room. Here, seated in a wing-chair, with her hands folded in her lap, was Mavis Warrenby. Not being one of those who considered no wardrobe complete that did not contain at least one Good Black Frock, she had been unable to array herself in mourning, but had compromised by putting on a very unbecoming dress of slate grey. She got up, as the party entered, and said, casting a somewhat spaniel-like glance at Mrs. Midgeholme: “Oh, what—?”
“Now, there's nothing to be nervous about, my dear!” said that lady bracingly. “These are two detectives from Scotland Yard, but you've no need to be alarmed! They're very nice, and I shall remain with you all the time!”
“Oh, thank you! I'm sorry to be so silly,” Mavis said, with a fleeting look at Hemingway. “I think it must all have been a little too much for me. Of course, I know I must be prepared to answer questions, and I shall do my best to help you in any way I can. I know it's my duty to, however painful it may be.”
She then proceeded, with very little encouragement, to relate the whole story of her activities on the previous afternoon, not omitting a description of her qualms at leaving the late Mr. Warrenby alone in the house, and what she had said to Mrs. Haswell on perceiving how late it was. Not unnaturally, since she had by now told her story a good many times, it had grown a little in its details, and she had talked herself into almost believing that she had had a premonition of evil when she had left the house. But in two essentials the tale was identical with the version Sergeant Carsethorn had already heard: she knew of no one who could have had any reason to kill her uncle; and she had seen no one at the time when she had been startled by the shot.
“Do you know,” she said simply, “I can't help feeling glad I didn't see anyone? It would be such a terrible thing to know I mean, it can't bring Uncle back, and I'd much, much rather not know!”
“We know just how you feel, dear,” Mrs. Midgeholme assured her. “But you wouldn't want your uncle's murderer to go unpunished! Besides, we can't have a killer allowed to wander about our dear little village. We should none of us be able to sleep in our beds. I don't believe in trying to conceal things. I was just talking it over with Miss Warrenby when you arrived, Inspector, trying to think who might have done it.”
“I don't think one ought to,” said Mavis, in a troubled tone.
“Well, if you'll pardon me,” said Hemingway, “that's where you're wrong! If you do know of anyone who might have done it, it's your plain duty to talk about it to me!”
“Oh, but I don't! I can't imagine!”
“Really, Mavis, that's going too far!” protested Mrs. Midgeholme. “It's all very well to be loyal to your uncle's memory—not that you've any reason to be!—but when you tell the Inspector that your uncle had no enemies—well, it just isn't true, dear, because you know very well that he had! I don't say it was his fault—though of course it was—but facts are facts! Heaven knows I'm not one to gossip about my neighbours, but I should very much like to know what Kenelm Lindale was doing after he left that party. I've always said there was something fishy about the Lindales. The way they live, never going anywhere, or taking a real part in Thornden society. It's all very well for Mrs. Lindale to say she can't leave the baby, but I think she's just standoffish. Why, when they first came to Rushyford Farm I went to call immediately, and did my best to be a friend to her, but she was quite unresponsive: in fact, she made it very clear that she'd rather I didn't drop in at the Farm without being invited.”
“I'm sure she's always been very nice to me,” said Mavis repressively.
“Oh, I'm not saying she isn't perfectly polite, but do you get anywhere with her?” demanded Mrs. Midgeholme. “When I asked her about her people, and where she came from, and how long she'd been married, she was evasive. There's no other word for it: evasive! I wondered at the time if she had anything to hide. Well, it isn't natural for a girl—for that's what she is to me!—not to talk about her people! And I'll tell you another thing,” she added, rounding on Hemingway, “they never have anybody to stay! You'd think her mother and father would visit her, or his mother and father, or a sister, or something, wouldn't you? Well, they don't! Not once!”
“Perhaps they're dead,” suggested Hemingway.
“They couldn't all be dead!” said Mrs. Midgeholme. “Everybody has some relations!”
“Oh, Mrs. Midgeholme, please don't talk like that!” begged Mavis. “Now Poor Uncle has passed over I haven't any relations either. Not ones I know!”
“But you're not married, dear,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, somewhat obscurely, but with an air of one who had clinched the matter.
At this point, the Chief Inspector intervened. He said that he would like to go through the late Mr. Warrenby's papers, and in Miss Warrenby's presence.
“Must I?” Mavis asked, shrinking from the prospect. “I'm sure Uncle wouldn't have liked me to pry into his desk!”
“Well, it's not to be supposed he'd have liked any of us to do so,” said Hemingway practically. “However, that can't be helped, and as I understand you're an executor to his Will, I think you'd better come and keep an eye on me.”
A biddable girl, she rose to her feet, saying as she did so: “I couldn't believe it, when Colonel Scales told me that! I never had the least idea Uncle meant to appoint me. I'm afraid I don't know what executors do, but I'm so touched it makes me want to cry!”
She then led the way across the hall to the large, sunny room on the other side of it, which Mr. Warrenby had appropriated as his study. She paused on the threshold, and smiled wanly upon Hemingway. “I expect you'll think me very foolish, but I hate going into this room! Of course, I know he wasn't—I know it didn't happen there, but still I can't help looking for him when I go in. And I want to get rid of that seat in the garden at once. That is, if the police don't mind? I know nothing must be touched until you say so.”
“No, I don't mind: very natural you should want to get rid of it,” said Hemingway, stepping into the study, and looking round.
“Every time I see it it reminds me!” said Mavis, shuddering. “My uncle very rarely sat out of doors. It was really my favourite seat, which seems to make it worse somehow. Doesn't it seem dreadful to think that if it hadn't been so terribly hot I don't suppose he ever would have taken his work out into the garden, and then none of this would have happened?”
The Chief Inspector, who was growing tired of these gentle inanities, agreed to this, and nodded to the constable who had been sitting in the room, reading a newspaper.
“I thought it best to leave a man on duty till you came, sir,” explained Sergeant Carsethorn. “We couldn't very well seal the room, on account of the telephone. It's the only one in the house.”
A slight twinkle was in the Chief Inspector's eye as his gaze alighted on the instrument, which stood on Sampson Warrenby's desk. It appeared to him that Miss Warrenby must have been obliged to enter the study a good many times since the murder of her uncle. As though she read his thought, Mavis said: “I've come to dread the sound of the telephone-bell.”
The room, which had obviously been swept and dusted, was very neat, the papers on the top of the desk, on which Sampson Warrenby had been working, having been collected into one pile, and tied up with red tape, and all the drawers in the desk sealed. The Sergeant explained that the papers had been scattered over the top of the desk, the fountain-pen, now lying tidily amongst several pencils in a little lacquer tray, uncovered beside them.
Hemingway nodded, and sat down in the chair behind the desk, an action from which Mavis averted her eyes. “Well, now, Miss Warrenby, I take it I have your permission to see if there's anything here that might have a bearing on the case?” he said, cutting the tape round the papers.
“Oh, yes! Though I'm sure there can't be anything. I should so like to feel that the whole thing was an accident, and the more I think about it the more I believe it was. People are always shooting rabbits here—in fact, I know my uncle several times complained to Mr. Ainstable about it, and said he oughtn't to allow it on the common. Poachers, too. Don't you think it might have been an accident?”
Hemingway, disinclined to enter into argument, said that it was too early for him to give an opinion. He ran quickly through the sheaf of documents, which concerned the efforts of a landlord to dislodge a tenant, and stretched over several months. Hemingway recalled that the letters which had been found, clipped together, at Sampson Warrenby's feet, had been written by this tenant, presumably before Sampson Warrenby had been called into the dispute, since the papers attached to them were copies of the landlord's own, acidly worded replies. It was the old story of a tenant protected by the Rent Restriction Acts, and the correspondence was increasingly acrimonious. But since Sampson Warrenby had merely acted in it in the role of legal representative to the landlord it was difficult to perceive what bearing it could have upon his murder. Hemingway laid the papers aside, and began to go through the contents of the drawers in the desk. One of these contained only such oddments as paper-clips, sealing-wax, spear nibs, and pencils, two others held virgin stationery; and another a collection of different-sized envelopes. Two other drawers were devoted to bills and receipts; below these, a third held nothing but account-books and used cheques; and the fourth, on that side, contained bank-sheets. Such private correspondence as Sampson Warrenby had preserved was found thrust into the long central drawer at the top of the desk. Unlike the other drawers, it was in considerable disorder. Before touching its contents Hemingway considered it with a look of birdlike interest. “Would you say your uncle was a tidy man, Miss Warrenby?”
“Oh, yes! Uncle hated things to be left about.”
“Is this how you'd expect to find a drawer in his desk?”
She blinked at it. “I don't know. I mean, I never went to his desk. I shouldn't have dreamed of opening any of his drawers.”
“I see. Well, if you've no objection, I'll pack this lot up, and go through it at my leisure. Then you won't have to have the house cluttered up with policemen any longer. Everything will be returned to you in due course.” He got up. “See to it, will you, Harbottle? Now, Miss Warrenby, are there any other papers? No safe in the house?”
“Oh, no! Uncle kept all his important papers at the office, I think.”
“Then I won't be taking up any more of your time,” he said. She escorted him into the hall, where they were immediately joined by Mrs. Midgeholme and the Ultimas. Delicacy had prevented Mrs. Midgeholme from accompanying them to the study, but she was plainly agog with curiosity, and would have done her best to ferret out of the Chief Inspector the discovery of a possible clue had not Miss Patterdale at that moment walked in at the open front-door. As she was accompanied by her lumbering canine friend, a scene of great confusion followed her entrance, Mrs. Midgeholme uttering dismayed cries, and both the Ultimas bouncing at the Labrador, Ulysses in a very disagreeable way, and Untidy in a spirit of shameless coquetry. Rex, though good-natured, took very little interest in the Ultimas, but Mrs. Midgeholme was obsessed by the fear that he would one day lose patience with their importunities and maul them hideously. By this time she had succeeded in catching her pets, and scooping them up into her arms, assuring them, quite unnecessarily, that there was nothing for them to be afraid of, Mavis had explained to Miss Patterdale that the stranger was a detective from Scotland Yard: and Miss Patterdale, screwing her glass still more firmly into her eye, had looked him over and said that she was sorry to hear it.
“I knew that this was going to lead to a lot of unpleasantness,” she said. “Well, it has nothing to do with me, but I do trust you won't wantonly stir up any scandal in Thornden!”
“Oh, Miss Patterdale, I'm sure there isn't anything like that to stir up!” said Mavis.
“Nonsense! everyone has something in his life he'd rather wasn't made public. Isn't that so— What's your name?”
“I'm Chief Inspector Hemingway, madam. And I'm bound to say there's a great deal in what you say. However, we do try to be discreet.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, “I often say my life is an open book!” She added, with a jolly laugh: “Which anyone may read, even the police!”
“I don't suppose the police have the slightest wish to do so,” replied Miss Patterdale, correctly assessing the Chief Inspector's feelings. “I looked in to see how you're getting on, Mavis, and to ask you if you'd like to come down to the cottage to share my supper. Abby's gone to the Haswells.”
“My own errand!” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme, struck by the coincidence. “And Lion would be only too pleased to escort her back later, but will she be sensible, and come? No!”
“It's very, very kind of you both,” said Mavis earnestly, “but somehow I'd rather stay at home today, by myself.”
“Well, I shall leave Miss Patterdale to deal with you, my dear!” said Mrs. Midgeholme, perceiving that Hemingway was about to leave the house, and determined to accompany him.
The Ultimas still tucked under her arms, she sailed down the garden path beside him, saying mysteriously that there was something important she felt she ought to tell him. “I couldn't say anything in front of Miss Warrenby, so I just bided my time till I could get you alone,” she said confidentially.
The Sergeant could have told Hemingway that Mrs. Midgeholme was unlikely to have anything of the smallest interest to impart. He grimaced expressively at Harbottle, but that saturnine gentleman merely smiled grimly, and shook his head.
Encouraged by an enquiring look from Hemingway, Mrs. Midgeholme said: “To my mind, there isn't a shadow of doubt who shot Mr. Warrenby. It's one of two people—for although I always think Delia Lindale is a hard young woman, I don't think she would actually shoot anyone. No, I never quite like people with those pale blue eyes, but I beg you won't run away with the idea that I have the least suspicion about her! It's her husband. What's more, if he did it, it's my belief she knows it. I popped in to see her this morning, just to talk things over, and the instant I opened my mouth she tried to turn the subject. She gave me the impression of being in a very nervy state—not to say scared! She didn't talk in what I call a natural way, and she didn't seem able to keep still for as much as five minutes. Either she thought she heard the child crying, or she had to go out to speak to Mrs. Murton, her daily woman. Something fishy here, I thought to myself.” She nodded, but added surprisingly: “But that's not what I wanted to say to you. It may have been Kenelm Lindale, but only if it wasn't someone else. Ladislas Zama-something-or-other!”
“Yes, I wondered when we were coming to him,” said Hemingway, with deceptive affability.
“Now, I couldn't say a word about him in front of Miss Warrenby, because the poor girl, I'm afraid, is very fond of him. I always did think it would be a most unsuitable match, and, of course, if he killed Mr. Warrenby, it really wouldn't do at all.”
“Well, if he did that, madam, he won't be in a position to marry Miss Warrenby, or anyone else,” Hemingway pointed out. “But what makes you think he did?”
“If you knew the way he's been running after the girl, you wouldn't ask me that!” said Mrs. Midgeholme darkly.
“I daresay I wouldn't, but then, you see, I'm new to these parts.”
“Yes, that's exactly why I'm being perfectly frank with you. My husband says the least said the soonest mended, but there I disagree with him! It's one's duty to tell the police what one knows, and I know that never would Sampson Warrenby have consented to such a marriage. He forbade his niece to have anything to do with Mr. Ladislas, and if he's so much as guessed she was still seeing him behind his back—well, there would soon have been an end to that young man!”
“You think he'd have done the shooting instead?”
“No, I don't go as far as that, for though I've no doubt he'd have been capable of it, he was far too sly and clever to do anything like that. Mr. Ladislas would have found himself out of a job, and been obliged to leave the district. Don't ask me how Warrenby would have managed that! I only know he would. He was that kind of man. And of course Mr. Ladislas must have guessed he'd leave his money to his niece, even if he didn't know it for a fact, which he may have done. And he was actually seen turning into this lane that afternoon! If he didn't know Miss Warrenby was at the Haswells', all I can say is that I'm surprised. I won't put it any more strongly than that: just surprised! So there we have him, on the spot, with a motive, and, I ask you, what more do you want?”
“Well, just a few things!” said Hemingway apologetically. “Not but what I'm much obliged to you, and I'll bear all you've said in mind. Now, I wonder what Ultima Untidy has found to roll in?”
This ruse was successful. Mrs. Midgeholme, who, once clear of the garden, had set the Ultimas down, turned, and hurried with admonishing cries towards Untidy. The Chief Inspector swiftly joined his subordinates in the car, and said: “Step on it!”