‘No, he died in the last year of the War. No Lindales at all in the firm since your man pulled out.’
‘Pity. He might have been able to wise us up. Something odd about this.’
‘I don’t see anything odd about it. The woman you’ve seen must be his mistress. It does happen, you know!’
Hemingway was frowning, and ignored this frivolity. ‘It hasn’t got that appearance,’ he said. ‘She isn’t that type at all. It isn’t that kind of household, either. Well, never mind! I’ve got another job I want done. Now, listen, Bob!’
He was still talking to Hinckley when Inspector Harbottle came into the office. The Inspector wore his usual air of inpenetrable gloom, a circumstance which prompted his superior to tell the Superintendent that he must now ring off. ‘Because Dismal Desmond’s just come in, and I can see he’s suffered a bereavement. So long, Bob!’
‘If that was the Superintendent,’ said Harbottle, eyeing him severely, ‘has he had the report on any of the bullets yet, sir?’
‘Only the first. Nothing like the one we’re after. We shall be getting the rest tomorrow.’
‘It was not fired from Plenmeller’s rifle?’ said Harbottle, a strong inflexion of disappointment in his voice. ‘Well, I’m surprised!’
‘I’m not,’ replied Hemingway. ‘I fancy I see that bird leaving the rifle in the case for me to pick up, if he’d shot Warrenby with it!’
‘Well,’ said Harbottle, dissatisfied, ‘of all the people I’ve seen down here, I’d say he was the likeliest. I don’t mind telling you, Chief, I took a dislike to him the instant I laid eyes on him.’
‘I know you did, and I’ll do my best to bring it home to him,’ said Hemingway, who was jotting down various items in his notebook.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said the Inspector austerely. ‘A wicked tongue shows a wicked nature! When he told you he had murdered his brother, I was never more shocked in my life. Even you, sir, would not talk about a thing like that as if it was a good joke!’
‘Now, look here!’ exclaimed Hemingway wrathfully.
‘And, what is more,’ continued the Inspector, paying no heed to him, ‘whatever I may have believed at the time, I believe him now!’
‘You can believe what you like, but I’m not here to investigate the other Plenmeller’s death. Carsethorn tells me there was no doubt he committed suicide, anyway.’
‘Oh, he did that all right!’ said Harbottle. ‘But, if you were to ask me, I should say this man was morally his murderer.’
‘Well, he said he drove him to it, didn’t he? What have you found to put you into this taking?’
‘It hasn’t, strictly speaking, anything to do with this case,’ said Harbottle, ‘but I brought it along with those papers you see there, thinking you might like to read it. You’ll recall that I told you Warrenby was the Coroner: well, I came upon the letter that unfortunate man wrote when he killed himself. Here it is! Now, you listen to this, sir! It’s dated May 25th of the last year – that was the night he locked himself into his bedroom and gassed himself. “Dear Gavin, This is the last letter you’ll receive from me, and I don’t propose ever to set eyes on you again. You only want to come here for what you can get out of me, and to goad me into losing my temper with your damned tongue, and to be maddened by you on top of all I have to suffer is too much. I’ve reached the end of my tether. The place will be yours sooner than you think, and when you step into my shoes you can congratulate yourself on having done your bit towards finishing me off. You will, if I know you. Yours, Walter.”’ Harbottle laid the sheet of paper down. ‘And he was right, poor gentleman! He does congratulate himself!’
Hemingway picked up the letter, and glanced at it. ‘Yes, well, I don’t like Plenmeller any more than you do, but I call it a damned mean thing to do, gas yourself and leave a letter like this behind you! Nice for his brother to have to listen to it being read out in court!’
‘You’d have thought he’d have left the district,’ said Harbottle.
‘I wouldn’t, because, for one thing, he’d find it hard to get a price for his property here; and for another, although he may be a coldblooded devil, he’s got plenty of nerve.’
‘Nerve enough to have shot Warrenby is what I think!’
‘Lord, yes!’ agreed Hemingway. ‘Nerve enough to shoot half the village, if it suited his book to do it! But if you’re trying to make me believe he shot Warrenby just because he didn’t happen to like him, you’re wasting your time, Horace! I’ve been telling the Chief Constable that I don’t know what constitutes a motive for murder, or what doesn’t, but that was putting it a bit too high. I do know that no one, barring a lunatic, kills a chap because he thinks he’s a pushing bounder! I daresay that’s what his highness would like me to think, so as he can sit back and watch me making a fool of myself, but if he wants me to treat him as a hot suspect he’ll have to give me a sniff of a real motive – and stop being the life and soul of the party! Did you find anything else at Warrenby’s office?’
Harbottle glanced disparagingly at the papers on the desk. ‘I brought that lot along for you to look at, but I wouldn’t say they were likely to lead you anywhere. There’s some correspondence with one of the Town Councillors, which looks as if they’d had a row; and there’s a whole lot of stuff about a trust for sale, which I can’t say I quite get the hang of. Seems Mr Drybeck was the principal trustee, and had the handling of it. Warrenby was acting for someone he calls by a fancy name I never heard before.’ Harbottle picked up one of the clips of documents, and searched through them. ‘Here you are, sir! A Cestui que trust,’ he said, laying the letter before his chief, and pointing to the words.
‘Lawyers!’ ejaculated Hemingway disgustedly. ‘Go and see if there’s a dictionary on the premises, for the lord’s sake!’
The Inspector went away, returning a few minutes later with a well-thumbed volume in his hand. ‘It’s a person entitled to the benefit of a trust,’ he announced.
‘Good!’ said Hemingway, who was running through the letters. ‘That’s about what it looks like, from all this. This client wants his share of the trust: that’s clear enough; and apparently it’s all in order to sell the thing, only, for some reason or other Drybeck’s being coy about doing it.’
‘Yes, but only because it’s a bad time to sell,’ Harbottle pointed out. ‘He says so in one of the letters, and it sounds reasonable enough. You’ll see that Warrenby doesn’t quarrel with that at all. Writes perfectly civilly, and says he appreciates the situation, but his client is anxious to receive his share of the sale without loss of time. I don’t see what bearing any of it could have upon the murder, sir. In fact, I was in two minds about bringing it to you. The thing that made me wonder was that Mr Drybeck came into the office this afternoon – nosing round, I thought, but he said he’d come to find out if there was anything he could do to help Coupland. He tried to get me to tell him if I’d discovered anything – at least, that’s the way I read his chat, but I wouldn’t be prepared to swear it wasn’t just inquisitiveness. I got rid of him, of course, and it did enter my mind that perhaps he was worried about this correspondence with Warrenby. I found nothing else that was any concern of his.’
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ said Hemingway. ‘There’s no doubt that this client of Warrenby’s was determined to have his share of the trust, and there’s no doubt that Drybeck’s stalling. Of course, it may be that he’s just trying to do his best for the beneficiaries – pity we don’t know what the others felt about an immediate sale! – and on the other hand it may be that he’s got reasons of his own for not wanting to sell the trust.’
‘Good gracious, Chief, do you mean you think he’s been embezzling the funds?’ exclaimed Harbottle.
‘No, not embezzling them, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s made a muck of the thing through being fatheaded, or half asleep. And if that’s so, then I’d bet my last farthing Warrenby had got wind of it. It’ll bear looking into, anyway. Is there anything in
this?’ He picked up an address book as he spoke, and opened it at random.
‘I haven’t studied it, sir. I thought I’d better do so, though.’
Hemingway nodded, turning over the thin leaves in a cursory survey. ‘Yes, quite right. You never know what –’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Well, I’m damned!’
‘What have you found, sir?’ demanded the Inspector, bending over him to see what was written on the page.
‘Something I wasn’t expecting, and didn’t more than half believe in. Horace, let it be a lesson to you! Always pay attention to what people say to you, no matter how silly you may think it sounds!’
‘You do,’ said Harbottle.
‘I didn’t this time. I had a suspicion that your friend Plenmeller was trying to see whether he could get me to follow a red herring. He told me to look for someone called Nenthall – and here he is, my lad! Francis Aloysius Nenthall, Red Lodge, Braidhurst, Surrey. Damn! I wish I’d looked at this book before I rang the Superintendent up! I’ll have to get on to him again first thing tomorrow.’
‘What did Plenmeller say about this man?’
‘He said that Warrenby once asked Lindale if the name conveyed anything to him, and that it obviously conveyed a lot more than he liked – though he denied it. Which may, or may not be true. What I’m sure of is that Ultima Unlikely was right when she said there was something fishy about the Lindale set-up. There is. She’s scared white, and he’s playing every ball sent down to him with a dead bat. They’ve got something they’re desperately anxious I shan’t find out. So has the Squire – but I think I know what that is. This is a nice case, Horace.’
‘I don’t see it, sir.’
‘No, and you never will, because you’re not interested in psychology.’
The Inspector, knowing his chief’s foibles, looked at him with deep foreboding, but Hemingway did not pursue his favourite study. He said thoughtfully: ‘I don’t know when I’ve had so many possibles to choose from. It’s to be hoped I don’t lose my bearings amongst them. There are three with motives that stand out a mile: the dead man’s niece, who inherits his money; her glamour-boy, who says he never thought of marrying her, which I take to be a highly mendacious statement; and old Drybeck, who’s been losing ground to Warrenby for years, and may – if my guess is correct – have been standing in danger of being discovered by him to have made a mess of some trust. Those are what you might call the hot suspects. After them I’ve got the questionables, headed by the Squire. I think he was being blackmailed by Warrenby.’
‘The Squire?’ said Harbottle sceptically. ‘Blackmailed for what?’
‘Committing waste. No, I know you don’t know what that is, but it doesn’t matter: it’s a civil offence, and though it could easily land him in a packet of trouble it isn’t a thing that concerns the police. I’ll explain it to you presently, but don’t keep on interrupting me! As I say, there’s him, which makes four – and we shall have to include his wife, though I can’t say I fancy her much, so that’s five. Next, we’ve got the Lindales. Either could have done it; he’s the type who would, given a sufficient motive. That tots up to four in the Questionable class. Seven altogether.’
‘Are you leaving out Plenmeller?’ demanded Harbottle.
‘Certainly not: I’m putting him at the head of the third class – those that might have done it, but who don’t seem to have had any reason to have done it. Three of them. Plenmeller, easily capable of murder; Haswell, a dark horse –’
‘He had an alibi, sir!’
‘Not the young man: his father. I met him today, with the Vicar, and he’s one of these cool, levelheaded customers who say just about as little as they need. Carsethorn verified that he did go to some place or other fifteen miles from Thornden on Saturday afternoon, but we’ve only got his word for it that he didn’t get home till eight because he stopped at his office in Bellingham on his way, to polish off some job he had on hand. They close at midday on Saturdays, so there was no one there to corroborate his story.’
‘What about the Vicar?’ asked Harbottle. ‘He could have reached Fox House by way of his own meadow.’
‘If the Vicar did it, I’m not fit to direct traffic, let alone conduct an investigation into a case of murder! The only other possible – unless you have a fancy for Mrs Midgeholme, because Warrenby kicked one of her dogs – is Reg.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve got reason to think he may have been cavorting about the common with the Vicar’s gun on Saturday. He’s a very unlikely suspect, but I’m including him because he’s got that rifle hidden away somewhere. I’ve left orders he’s to bring it in to us tomorrow on his way to work. From what I’ve seen of his family, I should say he would. If he doesn’t, you can go and pull him in. All told, that makes nine people – but I admit I don’t fancy some of them.’
‘You’ve forgotten the Major,’ said Harbottle dryly.
‘I’m keeping him up my sleeve, in case all else fails,’ retorted Hemingway, gathering the papers on the desk into a pile, and tying them up. ‘Come on! We’ve done enough for today.’
‘Are you asking for an adjournment tomorrow, sir? Who is going to preside over the inquest?’
‘Fellow from Hawkshead. The Chief Constable tells me he’s all right, but one of these chatty old boys that like to go into all the irrelevant details, so I daresay we shall waste the better part of the morning on the job. However, there’s not much I can do till I hear from Hinckley again. Come on!’
On the following morning, Hemingway was greeted by the news, when he walked into the police station, that young Ditchling had arrived there ten minutes earlier, and was awaiting his pleasure.
‘Did he bring in that rifle?’ asked Hemingway.
‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Knarsdale has it.’
‘All right. Know anything about this lad?’
‘No, sir – nothing against him, that is. It’s a very respectable family. All in steady jobs, and none of them been in any kind of trouble. This kid’s just over sixteen. Works at Ockley’s Stores, and is well spoken of by the boss. But I’d say he’s pretty scared.’
‘Fancy that!’ marvelled Hemingway. ‘Send him in to me!’ The youth who was presently ushered into the small office was a shockheaded boy with a slightly pimpled countenance, and the rather clumsy limbs of the rapidly growing adolescent. He entered the room with every evidence of reluctance, and remained just inside it, staring at the Chief Inspector out of a pair of round, serious eyes, and tightly gripping a trilby hat before him.
Hemingway looked him over. ‘So you’re Reg Ditchling, are you?’ he said.
‘Yessir,’ acknowledged Reg, with a gulp.
‘All right. Come and sit down in that chair, and tell me what you mean by not giving his gun back to Mr Cliburn!’
This command was uttered in quite a friendly tone, but it was apparent that Reg saw the prison gates yawning wide before him. He shrinkingly approached the chair in front of the desk, and sat down on the extreme edge of it, but the power of speech seemed to have deserted him.
‘Come on!’ said Hemingway kindly. ‘I’m not going to eat you. Where was the rifle? Did you have it in that shed I saw?’
‘Ted put it there, ’cos of Alfie, sir.’
‘Well, that was a sensible thing to do, at all events. Was the shed locked every day?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Where do you keep the key?’
‘Ted and me had a place for it the others don’t know about, sir, so as Claud and Alfie couldn’t get in and monkey with the tools when we wasn’t there.’
‘Well, where was this place?’
Reg twisted his hat round and round between his hands. ‘Ted and me put tarred felt over the roof, to keep the rain out, sir. There’s a place where you can slip the key underneath it.’
Hemingway’s brows snapped together. ‘Is that where you always put the key?’
‘Yessir,’ said Reg nervously. ‘Nobody knows about it, ’cep
t Ted and me – honest, sir!’
Hemingway said nothing for a moment, visualising the row of cottages, from the upper back-windows of which, he judged, a sufficiently good view could be obtained of the line of narrow gardens. Reg swallowed convulsively, and went on twisting his hat.
‘Now, look here, my lad!’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m not going to ask you why you didn’t do what your brother told you, and take that rifle back to Mr Cliburn, because I know why you didn’t. Nor am I going to tell you that you’ve been breaking the law by having in your possession a gun without a Firearms licence, because I’ve no doubt Constable Hobkirk’s already torn you off the strip.’
‘Yessir,’ acknowledged the culprit, with a sickly smile. ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Well, see you don’t do it again! You answer what I am going to ask you truthfully, and very likely you’ll hear no more about it. Did you have that rifle out on the common on Saturday?’
‘Yessir, but honest I never shot the gentleman!’ said Reg, sweating a little.
‘What did you shoot?’
‘Nothing, sir! It was only target-practice, like Ted told me I ought to do. It was Ted learnt me to shoot, and I only went out with him the three times. And then he got his call-up papers, and he said to take the rifle back to the Reverend, and, honest, I meant to! Only there was some cartridges left, and I thought if I was to use them for practice the Reverend wouldn’t mind, and I could take the rifle back on the Sunday.’
‘Well, why didn’t you?’
‘It – it was all over the village Mr Warrenby had been shot.’
‘Had the wind up, eh?’
‘Well, I – Well, sir –’
‘Because,’ pursued Hemingway relentlessly, ‘this target-practice of yours was quite close to Fox House, wasn’t it?’
‘No, sir!’ asserted Reg, the colour rising to his face. ‘That’s what old Mr Biggleswade told you, but it isn’t true! I went to Squire’s gravel-pit, ’cos there’s no one there of a Saturday afternoon, and it’s a safe place. And I brought my cards, sir, just to show you it’s true, what I’m telling you!’