Hugh, although he was becoming inured to the vagaries of Ermyntrude and her daughter, was not prepared to find them accepting Mary's theory with enthusiasm. But, within five minutes of her having explained it to them, nothing could have shaken their belief in its truth. Ermyntrude, indeed, seemed to feel that such duplicity on Wally's part was unpardonable; but Vicky accorded it her frank admiration.
"It's rather sad, really, the way one never appreciates a person till he's dead," she said. "Oh, I do think it was truly adroit of him, don't you, Ermyntrude darling? Do you suppose it had anything to do with his being murdered?"
"Even if it were true, why should it have?" asked Hugh.
"Oh, I don't know, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if we discovered it was all part of some colossal plot, and wholly tortuous and incredible."
"Then the sooner you get rid of that idea the better!"
She looked at him through the sweep of her lashes. "Fusty!" she said gently.
Hugh was annoyed. "I'm not in the least fusty, but.."
"And dusty, and rolled up with those disgusting mothballs."
"Ducky, don't be rude!" said Ermyntrude, quite shocked.
"Well, he reminds me of greenfly, and blight, and frost in May, and old clothes, and '
"Anything else?" inquired Hugh, with an edge to his voice.
"Yes, lots of things. Cabbages, and fire-extinguishers, and-'
"Would you by any chance like to know what you remind me of?" said Hugh, descending ignobly to a to quoque! form of argument.
"No, thank you," said Vicky sweetly.
Hugh could not help grinning at this simple method of spiking his guns, but Ermyntrude, who thought him a very nice young man, was for once almost cross with her daughter, and commanded her to remember her manners. "One thing's certain," she said, reverting to the original topic of discussion, "I shall ask that Harold White just what he wanted with Wally yesterday!"
"Yes, but ought I to say anything to the Inspector?" said Mary.
"I don't think I would," said Hugh. "Unless, of course, you find that your theory is correct. Frankly, I doubt whether he'd believe such a tale."
"No, I don't think he would," agreed Vicky. "He's got a petrified kind of mind which reminds me frightfully of someone, only I can't remember who it is, for the moment."
"Me," said Hugh cheerfully.
"Oh, I wouldn't be at all surprised if you're right!" said Vicky.
"I'm ashamed of you, Vicky!" said Ermyntrude.
Mary echoed this statement a few minutes later, when she accompanied Hugh to his car, but he only laughed and said he rather enjoyed Vicky's antics.
"You don't have to live with her," said Mary.
"No, I admit it's tough on you. Seriously, Mary, do you believe that your extraordinary cousin really did make up that blackmailing story?"
"It's a dreadful thing to say, but I can't help seeing that it would be just like him," replied Mary.
Harold White, to whom Janet faithfully delivered Ermyntrude's message, walked over to Palings after dinner. The party he disturbed was not an entirely happy one, for the Prince, who did not believe in letting grass grow under his feet, had been interrupted at the beginning of a promising tete-a-tete with his hostess, by the entrance into the room of Vicky and Mary. This naturally put an end to his projected tender passages, and he was annoyed when he discovered that neither lady seemed to have the least intention of leaving him alone with Ermyntrude. Mary sat down with a tea-cloth which she was embroidering, an occupation, which, however meritorious in itself, the Prince found depressing; and Vicky (in a demure black taffeta frock with puff sleeves) chose to enact the role of innocent little daughter, sinking down on to a floor cushion at her mother's feet, and leaning her head confidingly against Ermyntrude's knees. As she had previously told Mary that she thought it was time she awoke the mothercomplex in Ermyntrude, Mary had no difficulty in recognising the tactics underlying this touching pose. The Prince, of course, could not be expected to realise that this display of daughterly affection was part of a plot to undo him, but he very soon became aware of a change in an atmosphere which had been extremely propitious. He made the best of it, for it was part of his stock-in-trade to adapt himself gracefully to existing conditions, but Mary surprised a very unamiable look on his face when she happened to glance up once, and saw him watching Vicky.
When Harold White came in, maternal love gave place to palpable hostility. Ermyntrude cut short his speech of condolence, by saying: "I'm sure it's very kind of you to spare the time to come and see me, Mr. White. I hope it wasn't asking too much of you!"
"Oh, not a bit of it! Only too glad!" responded White, drawing up a chair. "Poor old Wally! Dreadful business, isn't it? The house doesn't seem the same without him."
"I dare say it doesn't," said Ermyntrude. "But what I want to know, Mr. White, is what Wally was doing at your place yesterday."
He looked slightly taken aback. "Doing there? What do you mean? He wasn't doing anything."
"What did he go for?" demanded Ermyntrude.
"Look here, Mrs. Carter, I asked poor old Wally to come over and have tea, if he'd nothing better to do, and that's all there was to it."
"Well, I've got a strong notion it wasn't all," said Ermyntrude. "What's more, I'd like to know what that Jones person had got to do with it."
"Really, if I can't invite a couple of friends to tea without being asked why—'
"That's not so, Mr. White, and heaven forbid I should go prying into what doesn't concern me, but it seems a funny thing to me that you should be so anxious to get Wally over to your place - which you won't deny you were, ringing him up no less than three times - if it was only to see him drink a cup of tea. Besides, he was murdered."
"Well, you don't think I murdered him, do you?" retorted White.
The Prince rose, begging his hostess to excuse him. "You wish to speak privately to Mr. White, Trudinka. You will permit me to vanish."
"You needn't vanish on my account," said White. "I've no secrets to talk about."
The Prince, however, bowed himself out of the room; and Ermyntrude announced that she did not believe in beating about the bush. "What I'm asking you, Mr. White, is, had you and Wally got some deal on which I wasn't supposed to know about?"
"Who's been telling you anything about a deal?" asked White suspiciously. "It's news to me!"
"That's as may be, but I hope you aren't going to tell me you haven't gone into a whole lot of deals with Wally in the past, because I wasn't born yesterday!"
"I suppose," said White, his colour darkening, "you're hinting that I happen to owe Wally a bit of money. You needn't be afraid, Mrs. Carter: naturally I shall pay it back to you. As a matter of fact, it isn't due till Wednesday, but of course if you're anxious about it you can have it before. It was just a loan to help me over a temporary embarrassment. That's what I liked about Wally. He was open-handed."
"Yes, it's very easy to be open-handed with other people's money!" said Ermyntrude. "Not that anyone's ever called me mean, and as for my hinting about it, such a notion never entered my head, and I'm sure I'm not worrying about being paid back, so don't think it!"
Matters seemed to be becoming a trifle strained. Mary said: "Perhaps you wonder at Mrs. Carter's asking you that question, Mr. White, but the fact is that my cousin said something that led us to believe that he was contemplating some sort of a business deal."
"He may have been, for all I know. I suppose I'm not the only person he could do business with?"
"There's no need for you to be offended," said Ermyntrude, incensed by the sneering note in his voice. "Considering you've time and again led poor Wally into investing money in schemes which never turned out to be a bit of good '
"Look here, Mrs. Carter, you've never liked me, and you needn't think I haven't known it. I'm sure I don't blame you; it's a free world, and you can like whom you damned well please. I don't know what you think you're getting at with all this talk about my having a secret deal on with Wally, but if you've got some notion of dragging me into the poor chap's murder, and making out it was in some way connected with a business deal which I was leading him into, you can drop it, because you're a long way off the mark. And if that's all you wanted to see me about, I'll say, good night! You needn't trouble to show me out!"
Ermyntrude took him at his word, but Mary rose to her feet, and accompanied him to the front-door. When she came back into the drawing-room, Vicky said: "I thought he was awfully fallacious, didn't you?"
"No, I don't think I did, really. After all, you were rather impossible, Aunt Ermy!"
"If you ask me," said Ermyntrude darkly, "he was up to something. Ten to one, if Wally hadn't been shot, he'd have been up to his neck in a plan to lose a lot of money by this time."
"Five hundred pounds," said Vicky. "Do let's tell the Inspector, Mary!"
"I'm not going to. In fact, I'm beginning to wish I hadn't said anything about it. Moreover, Hugh doesn't think the Inspector would believe a word of it."
"Well, I think we ought to broaden his mind," said Vicky. "Or do you feel that this is really a case for Scotland Yard?"
"Oh, my goodness, don't suggest such a thing!" exclaimed Ermyntrude. "I mean, what's the use? Scotland Yard can't bring Wally to life again, and when you think that I've got to face an Inquest, it's too much to expect me to put up with detectives as well. Because you know, dearie, once they start, heaven alone knows what they won't dig up!"
Unfortunately, this point of view was not shared by the police. On the afternoon of the following day a brisk and bright-eyed Inspector from the Criminal Investigation Department arrived in Fritton, accompanied by an earnest young Sergeant, and several less distinguished assistants.
Neither Inspector Cook nor Superintendent Small viewed with much pleasure the prospect of handing over their case to the Inspector from London, but Inspector Hemingway, when he arrived, disarmed hostility by a certain engaging breeziness of manner, which had long been the despair of his superiors.
"Nice goings-on in the country!" said Inspector Hemingway, who had beguiled the tedium of his journey from town with a careful perusal of the account of the case, submitted to his Department. "Mind you, I don't say I'm not going to like the case. It looks to me a very high-class bit of work, what with rich wives, and Russian princes, and I don't know what besides."
"Properly speaking, this Prince isn't a Russian, but a Georgian," said the Superintendent. "At least, that's what he says."
"My mistake," apologised Hemingway. "Matter of fact, I knew it all along. My chief tells me that if he's a Georgian, he ought by rights to be a dark chap, with an aquiline kind of face, and not over-tall. He tells me he's got a Georgian name all right, so no doubt he was speaking the truth."
"He's dark and aquiline right enough," said Cook. "And I don't mind telling you that I don't take to him, not by a long chalk."
"That's insular prejudice," said Hemingway cheerfully. He opened the folder he had brought with him, and rail his eye over the first type-written sheet. "Well, let's get down to it. What I want is a bit of local colour. By what I can make out, the murdered man's no loss to his family."
"I'll say he's not!" said Cook, and without further encouragement regaled Hemingway with a description of Wally Carter which, though crude, would have been sworn to by any member of Wally's family.
Inspector Hemingway nodded. "That's what I thought. Now let's go over the dramatis personnae. We'll take the widow first. Anything on her?"
"I can't say as I have," replied Cook reluctantly. "She's one of those flashy blondes, but apart from her silly way of carrying on, I've nothing against her. Mind you, if you was to ask anybody hereabouts, they'd tell you that Carter's death just suits her plans. It's common knowledge Mr. Steel's been hanging round her for the past three years. He only came to live in the district a few years ago. Grim sort of chap, not given to talking much. Until this Prince turned up, the general opinion was that it was a wonder Mrs. Carter didn't divorce Carter, and hitch up with Steel. But from what I can make out, the Prince has changed all that. He's staying at Palings now, and if you was to ask me, he means to marry Mrs. Carter. It was him told me about Carter suspecting that it was Steel took a pot-shot at him on that shooting-party."
"It was, was it? Didn't hear him hiss, did you?"
"Hiss?" repeated Cook.
"Let it go," said Hemingway. "Sounds a bit on the snakeish side to me, that's all."
"Well, I don't know," said Cook. "It's possible, of course, but there's no doubt there wasn't any love lost between Carter and Steel."
Hemingway consulted the typescript under his hand. "No proper alibi, I see. Out on the farm, but can't bring anyone forward to corroborate. Well, it's my experience that that kind of alibi is the hardest of all to upset. Give me what looks like a water-tight alibi every time!"
"Seems plausible to me," said Cook doubtfully. "You'll see that he says he didn't even know Carter was going to the Dower House that afternoon. Well, why should he? Stands to reason he wouldn't hide himself in the shrubbery on the off chance."
"I'm bound to say I don't fancy him for the chief part," replied Hemingway. "All the same, that statement of his will bear looking into. As far as I can make out, you've only got his word for it he didn't know about this assignation."
"I'd say he was speaking the truth. Didn't turn a hair when I questioned him. No, nor he didn't deny he'd no use for Carter."
"Well, that's put a query against his name all right," said Hemingway. "There's something about strong, silent men who don't keep anything back, that makes me highly suspicious. Now, what about this Prince? I see he states he arrived at the doctor's house more or less at the time the murder was being committed. Statement corroborated by the doctor's housekeeper. Well, that's very nice, I'm sure. What made her so certain of the time?"
"She hadn't any doubt. When I asked her, she said at once the Prince arrived before five o'clock." "How did she know?"
Inspector Cook looked a little taken aback. "She didn't hesitate. She said the Prince arrived before the doctor had got back from a case he'd been called out to, and it was a few minutes before five."
"That's the kind of airy statement I like to see checked up on," said Hemingway. "Now, I see you've got a query against this Miss Fanshawe. Properly speaking, I don't hold with women in shooting cases, but you never know with some of these modern girls."
"You wouldn't know with her, that's a certainty," said Cook. "She was in the shrubbery at the time the murder was committed, and she had her dog with her. It's one of those Borzois, and a young one, and from what I can make out it's the sort of noisy brute that 'ud bark its head off if it got wind of a stranger being about the place. But the point is the dog didn't bark, nor yet give any sign that he knew anyone was near. Seems to me we've got something there."
"What you might call a highly significant feature of the case," agreed Hemingway. "Could this Fanshawe-dame have got across the stream other than by way of the bridge?"
"Yes, she could," said Cook. "Though I'm bound to say my Sergeant couldn't find any footmarks, which you'd expect to. You see, Inspector, the stream takes a bend to the south about thirty yards beyond that bridge. Anyone crossing it beyond the bend couldn't be seen from the bridge. Get the idea? Well, there's a bit of a pool just round the bend, but it isn't any size, and the stream narrows beyond it, so that I reckon it would be an easy job to jump it. What's more, the young lady wasn't hampered by skirts, because I've discovered that she was wearing slacks at the time. The butler tells me she's devoted to her mother, so that it seems to me it won't do to rule her out of the case."
Hemingway pursed his lips. "If it comes to that, it won't do to rule anyone out, but if you were to think that every girl who's devoted to her mother will up and shoot her stepfather as soon as look at him, you'd soon land yourself in a mess. What about this young fellow, Baker?"
Inspector Cook's account of Percy Baker made Hemingway open his eyes. "You do see life in these parts, don't you?" he remarked. "Talk about the great, wicked city! Well, well, I think I'll go and take a look at the scene of the crime."
"I'll send one of my young chaps with you, shall I?" offered the Superintendent. "Not that you'll find anything there. Nothing to find. The murderer dropped the rifle, and bunked, and the ground's too hard after this drought to show any footmarks."
"You never know," said Hemingway.
Waiting with his own Sergeant for the promised guide, he remarked that the conduct of this case was a very good object lesson for the student of crime.
"Yes?" said Sergeant Wake incredulously. "How's that, sir?"
"Police faults analysed," replied Hemingway. "What with Mr. Silent Steel and his nice, open admissions, and the doctor's housekeeper, you've got a couple of bits of unchecked evidence that aren't doing us any good at all."
A young constable joined them at this moment, and they set out for Palings, arriving at the Dower House shortly before five o'clock. Janet was in the garden, and, looked rather frightened when Inspector Hemingway's identity was revealed to her. The Inspector, who had a genius for inspiring people with confidence, soon put her at ease, and drew her into a description of what had happened on the Sunday. His sergeant waited patiently in the background, and the local constable betrayed signs of boredom, but Hemingway listened to Janet's spate of talk with keen interest. He learned about Alan White's quarrel with his father, and his hasty departure from the house; he learned of White's debt to Carter; of Janet's dislike of Carter; of Alan's opinion of Mr. Sam Jones; Vicky Fanshawe's cool way of greeting the news of Carter's death; he even learned of the ruining of a new kettle, and the waste of a batch of scones. By the time he parted from Janet, even Sergeant Wake, who had a great respect for him, felt that he had allowed himself to be drawn into a singularly unprofitable conversation.
"I wonder Inspector Cook didn't warn you about Miss White," the constable ventured to say. "A regular talker, that's what she is. Doesn't know anything, either."
"I like talkers," replied Hemingway. "You never know what you may pick up from them. Now, I've found out a lot from Miss White that you people never told me. Is that the bridge?"
"That's it, sir, and if you'll follow me, I'll show you the spot where the rifle was found."
The Inspector plunged into the shrubbery in his wake, and the zealous constable pointed out to him not only where the rifle was found, which was close to a slim sapling, but also the view to be obtained of the bridge. Hemingway grunted, and asked if anything else had been found near the spot. The constable shook his head, and offered to show him next the way by which the murderer had probably made his escape. The ground was strewn with fallen leaves, which in some places made a thick bed, and the Inspector, tripping over a little mound, kicked some of these out of place, disclosing a small object which instantly caught his eye. He bent, and picked up a horn hair-slide.
"Didn't search very closely, did you?" he said. "Supposing you were to have another search? You never know: we might find some more little things of this nature."
The Sergeant joined in the search, but the result, though surprising, was not very helpful.
"In fact," said Hemingway, regarding the collection of objects which the shrubbery had yielded, "you might call it a bit confusing. It beats me how things get into places like this. Where did you find that old boot?"
"That was just by the wall by the road," said the constable.
"Thrown over by some tramp. It's been there for months, from the looks of it. You can take it away, and that broken bit of saucer with it. And if that rusty thing's the lid of a kettle, I shan't want that either. Now, what have we got left?"
"One broken nail-file, one toy magnet, and a pocketknife," said the Sergeant, as one checking an inventory.
Hemingway scratched his chin. "I'm bound to admit it's a mixed bag," he said. "Still, you never know. I don't myself carry nail-files in my pocket, nor magnets either, but that isn't to say others mayn't. Mind you, the nailfile, being broken, may have been chucked away, same as the kettle-lid, and that bit of china."
"Seems a funny place to use as a rubbish heap," demurred the Sergeant. "I knew a chap that used to carry a nail-file about with him. Sissy sort of fellow, with waved hair."
"He would be," said Hemingway. "We'll keep that file, in case it turns out to be relevant."
"What about the magnet?" asked Wake. "Who'd go dropping a thing like that around? Looks to me like it could only have been some kid, playing around in the shrubbery."
"Trespassing, do you mean?" inquired the constable. "Well, they could, easy, because the wall's only a low one, as you'll see, sir."
"Know of anyone, other than a kid, who'd be likely to carry a small magnet in his pocket?" asked Hemingway.
"Can't say I do, sir. Sort of engineer, it would have to be, wouldn't it?"
"I'm bothered if I know," replied Hemingway frankly.
"Well, the pocket-knife seems the likeliest find to me," said Wake. "Nothing the matter with it; both blades intact, so we can take it it wasn't chucked away. I don't know what you think about it, sir, but I don't set much store by that hair-slide. Sort of thing that might easily get lost. I was thinking it might be Miss White's."
"It might," agreed Hemingway. "If it is, she can identify it. But what strikes me is that it hasn't, from the looks of it, been lying out here long. Tell me what you make of this."
He drew the Sergeant towards the sapling which stood a few paces from where the rifle had been found, and pointed out to him some grazes on the smooth bark, about eighteen inches from the ground.
Wake inspected the marks rather dubiously. "Well, I don't know that I make anything of it, sir. Not immediately, that is. Someone might have scraped the tree, I suppose."
"What for?" inquired Hemingway.
The Sergeant shook his head. "You have me there, sir. Still, trees do get bruised, don't they? Does it mean anything to you?"
"I can't say that it does," confessed Hemingway. "All the same, something did scrape that tree, and not so long ago either, from the looks of it; and as it's only a couple ofsteps from where the rifle was found, it may turn out to be highly relevant. You never know. All right, what'syour-name, I've finished here. I'll take a look at the stream now."
The stream, however, did not hold his interest for long. Having visually measured the width between the opposite banks, the Inspector sighed, and passed on to look at the wall separating the Dower House grounds from the road. Finally he went back to the lawn where he had left Janet, and asked her if she recognised the hairslide.
"It's not mine," Janet said. "I'm absolutely certain of that, because I never wear them."
"Do you know anyone who does, Miss White?"
"Oh, I couldn't say! I mean, I've never thought. Lots of people do, I expect. As a matter of fact, I think Florence does. She's our maid, and if you found it in the shrubbery it just shows I was right all along, and she does slip out to meet her young man when it isn't her half-day at all!"
Florence, however, when confronted with the hairslide, promptly disowned it, and denied strenuously, if not altogether convincingly, that she had ever set foot in the shrubbery, or had ever entertained her young man within the gates of the Dower House.
"Well, that was a lie, anyway," said the constable, as they left the Dower House. "I know Florrie Benson's young man, and he comes out here pretty well every evening."
"She's one of those who'd sooner tell a lie than not," said Hemingway. "She'll keep. Where does this Dr Chester live? I'll see that housekeeper of his next."
The doctor was out when they presently reached his house in the village. A manservant opened the door to them, and ushered the Inspector and his Sergeant into a room in the front of the house. Here, the housekeeper, an elderly woman with kindly, short-sighted blue eyes, soon joined them. She looked rather alarmed, but assured Hemingway that, although she knew nothing about Mr. Carter's death, she would be only too glad to tell him anything that could be of use to him.
"I'm just checking up on the evidence," explained Hemingway. "By what I hear, the doctor had a visit on Sunday from this Prince that's staying with Mrs. Carter, didn't he?"
"Oh yes, that's right! He's foreign, and ever such a pleasant-spoken gentleman! He was expected, you know. The doctor told me to make tea for two, because the Prince was coming to look at his bits of stuff that he dug up. Remains, that's what they are, and very valuable, I understand, though they look to me like a lot of rubbishy trash."
"Do you happen to remember when the Prince arrived?" asked Hemingway.
"Well, now, that's something I can answer!" said Mrs. Phelps, beaming at him. "Not that I'm generally much of a one for taking notice of the time, but I do remember that! It was just on five-to-five."
"It's queer how some things will stick in one's head, while others won't," said Hemingway conversationally. "I wonder what made you remember that?"
"I'll tell you just how it was," said Mrs. Phelps. "You see, it was Thompson's day off, and I was alone in the kitchen. So when the doctor was called out to a case, he shouted to me that he had to go out, but that he'd be back in time to receive the Prince."
"What time was the doctor called out?"
"Now, that I can't tell you, not happening to notice, but it can't have been much after half-past four, if as late, I shouldn't think, because it didn't seem long before I heard the front-door bell, and when I went to answer it, there was a foreign-looking gentleman. Of course, I guessed it was the Prince, for he had Miss Vicky's car, besides speaking in a foreign way. Well, naturally, I asked him to come in, and I told him about the doctor's being sent for. "He must have been kept," I said, "for he told me distinctly he'd be back before you arrived." Well, I was quite flustered, because it isn't every day you have a Prince coming to tea, and I don't pretend to know the way to behave towards people like that. "Oh, I am sorry the doctor's not back!" I said, because I thought he'd very likely take offence. "He'll be very put out," I said, "but your Highness knows how it is with doctors. I do hope you won't be offended," I said. Well, really, I'd no idea a prince would be as easy to explain anything to! "There's nothing in the world to worry about," he said, or something of the sort, for I wouldn't swear to his exact words. "It is I who am at fault," he said, with ever such a lovely smile. "I have made the journey more quickly than I expected, and I am before my time. I see that it is not yep five o'clock," he said. And he showed me his wrist-watch, just like anyone might, and it was five-to-five. It isn't likely I'd forget a thing like that! It was a lovely watch, too."
"And did you happen to compare his watch with one of the clocks in the house?" inquired the Inspector.
"Why, whatever should I do that for?" said Mrs. Phelps. "I'm sure I'd no reason to doubt the Prince's word! I just showed him into the doctor's sitting-room, and begged him to take a chair, and it can't have been more than ten minutes, or perhaps a quarter of an hour, before the doctor got back, though that I won't swear to."
"That's all I wanted to know," said the Inspector, and took his leave of her.
"Well," said Sergeant Wake, when they reached the street again, "that certainly makes the Prince's alibi look a bit funny."
"Yes, and it makes the local police-work here look a bit funny, too," said Hemingway. "Nice way to take evidence! If you ask me, the Prince hasn't got an alibi at all - to put it no stronger! Very fishy it looks, him calling attention to the time, as registered, by his own watch! Now we'll make a few inquiries, my lad, and see what's what!"