With these words, he produced from his pocket several small cardboard targets, and laid them on the desk before the Chief Inspector. If they were valueless as proof that Reg had not fired the Vicar’s rifle in the vicinity of Fox House, they did at least convince Hemingway that only by accident could he have shot a man through the head at a range of nearly a hundred yards. There was a decided twinkle in his eye as he looked at the targets. He said: ‘What was your range?’
‘Twenty-five yards, sir – about,’ replied Reg.
‘You got quite a lot of shots on the targets, didn’t you?’ said Hemingway gravely.
‘Yessir!’ said Reg, with simple pride. ‘I was trying to get a good group, like Ted does. If I could practise regular, I soon would.’
‘Well, what you want to do is to join a Rifle Club, my lad, and not go practising with other people’s rifles in public places,’ said Hemingway, handing him back his targets. ‘What time was it when you were in the gravel-pit?’
‘It would have been a bit after five when I got there, sir, and I wasn’t there more ’n an hour, that I’ll swear to, and I should say it was less, because I was back home by half past six. And please, sir, Mum, and Edie, and Claud will tell you the same, because –’
‘Yes, well, if I want to check up on your story I’ll ask them!’ said the Chief Inspector hastily, mentally registering a resolve to depute this task to Harbottle. ‘What I want to know at the moment is what you did with the rifle when you got home?’
‘I cleaned it, sir, like Ted showed me.’
‘Yes, and then?’
‘I didn’t do anything with it, sir, beyond wrap it up in a bit of sacking. Ted said –’
‘Never mind what Ted said! Did you lock it up in the shed?’
‘Well – well, no, sir – not at once I didn’t. I mean – I had it in the shed, but it wasn’t locked, of course, ’cos I had to do a job for Mum,’ said Reg apologetically. ‘Two, really, because Claud and Alfie went and broke one of the chairs, scrapping, you know, so I mended that, and then I got on with the plate-rack Ted and me was making for her.’
‘You mean you were in the shed yourself?’
‘That’s right, sir. I locked it up when Mum called me in to supper, which we had a bit late, on account of Claud not getting in till near a quarter to eight, because of the outing the Wolf Cubs had.’
‘So that you’re quite sure no one could have got hold of the rifle?’
‘Well, they couldn’t, sir, not possibly! And what’s more, sir, I don’t see how Mr Biggleswade could have heard me shooting, not from where he was sitting! Because when he came in to tell Mum how he’d been talking to you, which he did, right away, he told her where he’d been sitting when he heard the shot, and Mum says his own daughter told him not to talk so silly, because he couldn’t have heard it, not all that way off. And it stands to reason he didn’t, sir, because if he heard one shot, why didn’t he hear all the others?’
Hemingway pulled open a drawer in the desk, and took from it the sketch-plan of Thornden. ‘Where was he sitting?’ he asked. ‘Come and show me!’
Reg obediently got up, and stared at the plan over the Chief Inspector’s shoulder. It took him a minute or two to grasp it. Then he said: ‘Well, sir, it’s a bit difficult, because this doesn’t show the trees, and the paths, and that, on the common. Only the gorse bushes beside Fox Lane. There’s some trees just beyond them, about here.’ He laid a finger on the plan, a little to the north-east of the gorse-clump.
‘Between the bushes and the gravel-pit. Yes, I saw them. And beyond them the ground falls away, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. You get a view over the common from there, and there’s a seat, and a path leading to it. Mr Biggleswade said he was sitting there, and I daresay he was, because it’s the walk he always takes. And you can see for yourself it’s a long way off the gravel-pit.’ He paused, a frown of deep concentration on his brow. ‘What’s more, if he had heard me shooting, he must have known which side of him I was, and he’s gone and said I was firing in the very opposite direction to what I was! He must be getting barmy! But what I think, sir, is that he never heard anything, and he only said he did because of seeing me with the rifle, and wanting to get into the papers.’
‘Where did he see you?’
‘Well, it was along the path I told you about, sir. It sort of runs into Fox Lane nearly opposite Miss Patterdale’s house.’
‘And what made you go all that way round to get home, when you could have done it in half the time, walking straight across the common from the pit?’ asked Hemingway.
Reg blushed, and replied guiltily: ‘Well, sir – being as it was the Reverend’s gun – Well, what I mean is, it’s all open in that part of the common, besides the cricket-ground – and a Saturday afternoon, too, with people about – so I thought better to go round where I wouldn’t be likely to meet anyone.’
‘Only you met Biggleswade. And when he asked you what you were up to with a rifle, you cheeked him, and ran off. Now, it didn’t seem to me that he’s one who sets much store by the law, so what made you so scared of him?’
‘I wasn’t – not exactly, sir! Well, I wouldn’t have been if it wasn’t for Alfie. Alfie went and played a trick on Mr Biggleswade the other day, and he was fair hopping, and he’s such a spiteful old devil I thought he might easily go and make trouble with the Reverend, or even Mr Hobkirk, just to get back on us!’ said Reg, in a burst of candour.
‘I see. That’s about all I want from you at the moment, then. You’d better get off to your work – and see you don’t go breaking the law again, my lad!’
‘No, Sir! Thank you, sir!’ said Reg, on a gasp of relief.
He made for the door, nearly colliding with Inspector Harbottle, who came into the office at that moment. The sight of the Inspector’s stern countenance quite unnerved him; he stammered something unintelligible, and fairly fled from so quelling a presence.
The Inspector shut the door. ‘Is that young Ditchling? You seem to have shaken him up good and proper, sir!’
‘Not me! He took one look at you, and thought you were the public hangman, and I’m sure I’m not surprised. Is that the report I’m waiting for?’
‘Just come in,’ said Harbottle, handing him a sealed envelope.
Hemingway tore it open, and drew out the single sheet it contained, and spread it open. ‘Not a sausage!’ he said, assimilating its message.
‘You mean to tell me, sir, that not one of the rifles we’ve tested is the one we’re after?’
‘Not one!’ said Hemingway cheerfully. ‘What’s more, I don’t need a comparing-microscope to convince me the Vicar’s rifle isn’t the right one either. It’ll have to be tested, of course, but you can put it out of your head, Horace! If every witness was as honest as that kid you saw, you’d be a Chief Inspector, instead of stooging round with me, and thinking how much better you could do the job yourself!’
‘I don’t,’ said Harbottle, his rare smile flickering across his face. ‘But if the fatal shot wasn’t fired from any of the rifles we’ve pulled in, nor yet from the one you have now, then it seems to me that we shall have to pull in some of the others which you wouldn’t even let me tell you about!’
‘We may,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘On the other hand, we may not. I’m beginning to get some funny ideas about this case, Horace. However, there’ll be time enough to tell you what they are when we’ve attended the inquest.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Which we’d better be thinking about,’ he added. ‘What will you bet me the Deputy Coroner will be playing to capacity?’
‘If he is, people will be disappointed,’ said Harbottle. ‘I suppose you’ll ask for an adjournment pretty quick on the doctor’s evidence?’
‘I probably will,’ said Hemingway. ‘It all depends.’
Fourteen
The Chief Inspector was right. As he and Harbottle elbowed their way through the throng of persons seeking admission to the court-room, he said, over his shoulder: ‘
What did I tell you? Turning them away at the doors!’
Inside, the Chief Constable said: ‘It was bound to be a cause célèbre, of course. Half Bellingham’s here. Silly fools! What do they think they’re going to hear?’
Hemingway, scanning the audience, made no reply. Half Bellingham might be present, but Thornden was scantily represented. Neither the Ainstables nor the Lindales had apparently thought it worth while to attend the inquest; and of Gavin Plenmeller there was no sign. Major and Mrs Midgeholme were seated beside Mr Drybeck; and Mr Haswell had found a place not far from them. Possibly he had come to hear his son give evidence.
Charles, who was suffering from a strong sense of ill-usage, had brought Mavis, Abby, and Miss Patterdale from Thornden, in his dashing sports car. So incensed was he with Abby for electing to accompany Mavis on her shopping expedition on the previous afternoon, rather than to have run down to the coast with him, as had been (he insisted) arranged, that he had invited Miss Patterdale to occupy the front seat in his car, and had even gone so far as to say that he didn’t know why Abby wanted to attend the inquest at all. But Mavis, who (he savagely whispered to Miss Patterdale) had got herself up to look like a French widow, said gently that she had asked Abby to go with her, so there was nothing more to be said about that. Abby had then made a very rude grimace at him, an unendearing gesture which had had the extraordinary effect upon him of confirming him in his resolve to marry her, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it.
When he shepherded his party into the courtroom, those who had come into Bellingham on the omnibus were already ensconced in front-row seats. Besides Mr Drybeck and the Midgeholmes, these included Mr Biggleswade, and the late Mr Warrenby’s cook-general, a sharp-eyed damsel with tow-coloured hair cut in the style adopted by her favourite film-star. Gladys, a good cook and a hard worker, was known to be a Treasure, but she was also one of those who believed in sticking up for her rights. Not even her late employer had ever been permitted to encroach on these; and since he was well aware of the difficulty of getting servants to live in quiet villages, and set a high value on Gladys’ culinary skill, he had been content, after one attempt to subjugate her, to rate Mavis for being unable to manage the household better. Gladys considered it to be her unquestionable right to attend the inquest; and when Mavis had shown reluctance to grant her leave off in the middle of the morning, she had spoken so ominously about the unsettled state of her feelings ever since Mr Warrenby’s death, that Mavis had hastily retracted her first refusal. An attempt on her part to convince Gladys that nice girls did not wish to attend sensational inquests failed entirely.
‘Well, it’s only natural, isn’t it?’ had said Gladys.
‘I don’t think it is, Gladys. I’d give anything not to have to go.’
‘You’ll enjoy it all right once you get there, miss,’ had replied Gladys, briskly stacking the breakfast-china in a cupboard. ‘’Tisn’t as though Mr Warrenby was any loss.’
‘He is a great loss to me,’ had said Mavis, in a repressive tone.
‘Well, it’s quite proper you should say that, miss,’ had been the paralysing response. ‘It wouldn’t hardly be decent not to, being as he’s left you all his money. But I know what I know, and many’s the time I’ve wondered why ever you put up with him and his nasty, bullying ways.’
It was hardly surprising, after this, that Mavis had retreated from the kitchen, leaving her henchwoman mistress of the field.
The Deputy Coroner was a chubby little man with white hair, pink cheeks, and a general air of cosiness. It was plain to Inspector Harbottle, resigning himself, that he would conduct the inquest at unnecessary length, and entirely to his own satisfaction.
From the point of view of the audience, as Hemingway said in his assistant’s ear, Mavis Warrenby was the biggest draw. Whether she was conscious of the stir her appearance created it was impossible to guess, for she conducted herself just as a heroine should, bravely, modestly, and with enough sensibility to win not only the sympathy of the mob, but also that of the Coroner, who handled her with the greatest tenderness, assuring her several times that he appreciated how painful it must be for her to be obliged to give her evidence.
She was followed by young Mr Haswell, who had been so much revolted by a performance which he freely described, in a whisper, to Abby, as ham, that when the Coroner, by way of putting things on the friendly footing he apparently desired, repeated his remark about the painful aspect of having to describe what he had seen in the garden of Fox House, he replied with the utmost cordiality: ‘Oh, no, not a bit, sir! I don’t mind!’
He then told the court, with admirable brevity, just how he had found the dead man, and what his own actions had been.
Chief Inspector Hemingway provided everyone with a mild thrill by rising to his feet and putting a question to him.
‘When you went into the study, to use the telephone, did you touch anything on the desk?’
‘No, only the telephone,’ Charles replied. ‘I took care not to. There was a mess of papers and things all over it.’
‘Did you see anything to make you think someone might have looked for anything on, or in, the desk?’
‘No,’ Charles said unhesitatingly. ‘When I said, a mess, I meant only the sort of muddle of papers you’d expect, if a man had been working there. It looked to me, from the way the chair had been pushed back, and the fountain-pen left lying on the blotter, as though Mr Warrenby had left the room rather suddenly, and meant to return.’
‘Now, what do you mean by that?’ asked the Coroner chattily.
Charles glanced at him. ‘Well – just that, sir. It was a blazing hot day, and that room had had the sun on it for hours. It was pretty hot still when I was in it. I thought, from what I’ve told you, and from the fact that Mr Warrenby was wearing morocco slippers, and had a clip of papers at his feet, that he’d strolled out for a breath of air. That’s all.’
The Chief Inspector sat down, and the Coroner told Charles that he might leave the box. Dr Warcop was summoned to take his place. The Chief Inspector leaned across his assistant to speak to Sergeant Carsethorn. ‘Who’s the blonde sitting three from the end of the row behind us, next to a fat girl in blue?’
The Sergeant turned his head, and was able to identify the blonde as Gladys Mitcham, cook-general at Fox House. Hemingway nodded, and sat back. Inspector Harbottle asked softly: ‘What is it, Chief?’
‘Something young Haswell said made her sit up. Looked as though, for two pins, she’d have chipped in,’ replied Hemingway briefly.
‘Are you going to ask for an adjournment?’
‘Soon as the doctors have had their innings. The police surgeon won’t keep us long: he’s all right. This old dodderer will hold the stage for as long as he’s allowed to, from the looks of him.’
This prophecy was soon found to have been correct. Dr Warcop proved to be the worst kind of medical witness, and he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that he was addressing a class of students. Since he had been prevented by an emergency call from one of his more valued patients from assisting at the autopsy, even the Coroner, himself a talkative man, felt that his evidence might have been compressed into a very few sentences. He was extremely pompous, and when asked by the Chief Inspector if he could state the approximate time of the murdered man’s death, he explained at great length, and with many scientific terms, why it was impossible for him – or, he dared to add, for anyone – to pronounce with certainty on this point. He then perceived that his colleague, Dr Rotherhope, was gazing abstractedly at the ceiling, a smile of dreamy pleasure on his face, and he said with meaning emphasis that he had had many years of experience, and had learnt the danger of asserting as incontrovertible facts statements which, in his humble opinion, were open to doubt. He was prepared to enlarge on this theme, but was balked by the Chief Inspector, who cut in neatly when he paused to draw breath, said: ‘Thank you, doctor,’ and sat down.
‘Er – yes, thank you very much, doctor!’
said the Coroner, as Dr Warcop turned towards him, with the evident intention of continuing his lecture. ‘That’s quite clear: more than a quarter of an hour, but less than an hour, you think. If the Chief Inspector has no further question he wishes to put to you, we need not keep you any longer.’
Dr Rotherhope rose briskly to his feet as his name was called.
His evidence was brief, technical, and, to the general public, very uninteresting. The Chief Inspector asked him no questions, but the Coroner was inspired to ask if he was able to give an opinion on the probable time of Warrenby’s death.
Dr Rotherhope was swift to seize opportunity. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘A considerable time had – unfortunately – elapsed before I saw the body.’
He then stood down, bearing the appearance of a man who considered the morning not wholly wasted; and the Chief Inspector rose to ask for an adjournment.
Colonel Scales, seeking him a few minutes later, found only Inspector Harbottle, who said, in answer to his enquiry: ‘I don’t know where he is, sir. He slid out of the court as soon as he’d asked for an adjournment, and he didn’t tell me where he was going. Though I fancy I know what he was after. Did you want to see him for anything special, sir?’
‘No – only to ask whether he’s had the report on those bullets.’
‘Yes, sir, it came through this morning. None of the markings correspond at all.’
‘Oh! That’s disappointing. What does he mean to do now?’
‘I can’t tell you that, sir. He didn’t say, but I don’t think he’s disappointed.’
‘Well, I daresay I shall be seeing him later,’ said the Colonel, passing on.
Sergeant Carsethorn said: ‘What did he slip off so quickly for?’
‘From what I know of him, he went to intercept that fair girl – Warrenby’s cook. He’s probably standing her fruit sundaes in some tea-shop by this time,’ replied the Inspector caustically.