‘What we do know, though, is that he was driving himself in his car. If I’ve got to choose between a car and a motor-bike, I’ll try and hide the motor-bike, thank you very much!’
‘There must be some place where either could be hid,’ said the Inspector obstinately. ‘The more I think of it, the more I’m convinced transport was needed.’ He paused, and said suddenly: ‘What about the dead man’s own garage? It’s a double one: I noticed that. What was to stop him, as soon as he’d shot Warrenby, from driving his car in, and leaving it there until Miss Warrenby had run off to fetch Miss Patterdale?’
‘And what little bird told him that’s what she would do?’ enquired Hemingway. ‘You have got a touch of the sun, Horace! What anyone would expect her to do was to have rung up for the police, or the doctor, not to lose her head, and go careering off as she did!’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Harbottle defensively. ‘Girls do lose their heads, after all!’
‘They do, and not only girls either. But when that happens you can’t guess what they’ll do, far less bank on them choosing any particular one of four or five silly antics!’
‘No,’ Harbottle admitted. ‘Come to think of it, sir, it’s funny she did lose her head, isn’t it? She seems to me one of the self-possessed kind.’
‘No, I don’t think it is,’ Hemingway replied. ‘In fact it’s what I should have expected her to do. Nasty jolt for a girl who kids herself into believing that all is love and light. She was rocked right off her balance.’ He knocked his pipe out lightly, and got up. ‘Come on, now! It’s no use us arguing who might have fired that shot at 6.15 until we’re sure there was a shot at that time. And if there was, then what was our operator aiming at when he fired the second shot an hour later?’
The Inspector looked gloomy. ‘As well look for a needle in a haystack! He probably fired it into the ground.’ He saw Hemingway cock a quizzical eyebrow at him, and said hastily:
‘No, not the ground! Not if Miss Warrenby heard the impact!’
‘Just in time, Horace!’ remarked Hemingway. ‘You and your knowledge of guns! And I don’t think we need go round looking for a likely haystack. What we’ve got to remember is that what we’ve all been thinking was a narrow shave for our operator was just as carefully planned as the rest of it. He wanted Miss Warrenby on the spot as a witness; he wanted the shot to sound natural; and he didn’t want the bullet to be found. Well, the only safe targets I can see are the trees. Plenty of them across the lane, in the grounds of Fox House, but they’re too far off to be dead-certain targets. Putting myself in his place, I should have aimed for the elm-tree. It’s the only tree on this side of the lane with a big enough trunk for the purpose. Let’s go and take a look at it!’
They descended into the lane, and walked up it a few yards to where the elm-tree stood. The Inspector glanced back at the gorse-bushes, silently calculating. ‘You’re not looking high enough, Chief,’ he said. ‘If it’s there, I should expect to find it a good ten feet above the ground.’
‘You would?’ said Hemingway, staring up the bole of the tree. ‘You’re very good, Horace: what do you make of that graze!’
The Inspector strode quickly to his side, and gazed up at a gleam of pale colour where a small splinter had been chipped from the tree-trunk. There was a good deal of surprise in his face, not unmixed with awe. ‘Well, I’ll be –! I do believe you’re right, sir!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, don’t say it in that tone of voice! What we want now is a ladder, or a pair of steps. Got a knife on you, Horace?’
The Inspector nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve got that, but where do we find the steps?’
‘We’ll borrow them from the house,’ said Hemingway. ‘That is, if Gladys is in. If she’s got the afternoon off, we’ll see if there’s a ladder in the gardener’s shed.’
‘It’ll be locked,’ prophesied the Inspector. ‘And if you ask that girl for a ladder she’ll be bound to come and watch what we do with it.’
‘She won’t, because I shall keep her in the kitchen, asking her a whole lot of silly questions.’
They walked up the straight path which led from the tradesmen’s gate to the back-door. The sound of loud music seemed to indicate that Gladys had not got the afternoon off, but was listening to Music While You Work, turned on at full blast. So it proved. Gladys was polishing the table-silver, and came to the door with the leather in one hand. The manner of her greeting to Hemingway led the Inspector to infer that his chief had not scrupled to charm and to flatter her at their previous encounter. He cast a sardonic glance at Hemingway, but that gentleman was already engaged in an exchange of badinage. Beyond saying: ‘Whatever do you want a ladder for?’ Gladys raised no demur at lending her employer’s property to the police. She gave Harbottle the key to the gardener’s shed, warning him that if he didn’t put the ladder back where he found it the gardener wouldn’t half raise Cain on the morrow, and invited Hemingway to step into the kitchen, and have a cup of tea. The kettle, she said, was just on the boil. When the Inspector reappeared, some fifteen minutes later, he interrupted a promising tête-à-tête, and it did not seem to him that his superior had found it necessary to ask his hostess any questions, silly or sensible. Gladys sat on one side of the table, both her elbows planted on it, and a cup of very strong and very sweet tea held between her hands, and as the Inspector came in she was giggling, and telling Hemingway that he was a one, and no mistake. ‘If my Bert was to hear you, I don’t know what he wouldn’t do!’ she said.
‘Ah!’ said Hemingway, briefly meeting the Inspector’s eyes over her head. ‘If I was a marrying man, I’d cut your Bert out!’
‘Sauce!’ said Gladys, greatly delighted. She looked over her shoulder at Harbottle, and added, politely, but without enthusiasm, ‘Would your friend like a cuppa?’
‘No, he never drinks it,’ said Hemingway, rising to his feet. ‘Besides, two’s company, and three’s none. Now, I’ve just got to check up on one or two points. Any objection to my going into the study?’
Gladys glanced at the clock. ‘Fat lot of good it would be to start objecting to you policemen!’ she remarked. ‘I don’t mind, but can’t you wait a bit? It’s just on the quarter, and I can’t miss Mrs Dale’s Diary. Sit down, the pair of you, and listen to it! It’s ever so nice.’
‘No, we mustn’t do that, because we’ve got to get back to Bellingham,’ said Hemingway. ‘There’s no need for you to come with us to the study, though. You stay here and listen-in! I’ll see the Inspector doesn’t go pinching anything.’
‘You haven’t half got a nerve! More likely him as’ll keep an eye on you, I should think! You won’t go turning the room upside-down, will you?’
Hemingway assured her that he would preserve apple-pie order in the room, and as, at that moment, a voice suddenly announced: ‘Mrs Dale’s Diary: a recording of the daily happenings in the life of a doctor’s wife,’ she temporarily lost interest in him, and turned the face of a confirmed addict towards the radio.
The two men quietly withdrew, and went along the passage at the back of the house to the hall.
‘You found it?’ Hemingway said.
The Inspector opened his hand, disclosing a small piece of lead.
‘Now we are getting somewhere!’ said Hemingway. ‘We’ll send that off to town for comparison with the one that was dug out of Warrenby’s head. Knarsdale can take it up tonight.’
‘I wish I thought there was a hope of finding the cartridge-case of that one,’ said the Inspector.
‘Well, there isn’t, and I should say there never was. Our operator didn’t leave much to chance. We were meant to find the one under the gorse-bush. We weren’t meant to find the other, and we shan’t.’
He led the way into the study as he spoke, leaving the door open, so that he could hear any approaching footsteps.
‘Over by the desk!’ he said briefly. ‘He was probably shot while he was sitting behind it. There wouldn’t have been much blood, but there must have
been some.’
‘There was none on the papers we found on the desk,’ Harbottle reminded him. ‘And I see no sign of any on the desk itself.’
‘The top of it, according to young Haswell, and to Carsethorn, was littered over with papers. I don’t doubt they got spattered, and were carefully removed. We’ll get Warrenby’s clerk to go through the lot I took away: he may know if anything’s missing. Try the window-curtains, and the woodwork of the window! I want to have a good look at the carpet.’
The carpet was a thick Turkey rug, with a groundwork of red, and a sprawling pattern of blue and green. On his hands and knees, Hemingway said: ‘Fresh blood falling on this wouldn’t show up. He might have missed it. A couple of spots is all I ask for!’
‘There’s nothing on the curtains,’ the Inspector informed him. ‘However, they hang well clear of the long window, so there might not be.’ He too dropped on to his knees and closely studied the floor-boards. ‘You’d expect to see a sign on the floor, though.’
‘The murderer must have looked to see, and if there was blood on any of the woodwork he’d have wiped it carefully. May have tied something round Warrenby’s head before he moved him. Come here, and tell me what you make of this!’
The Inspector went to him, took the magnifying-glass held out to him, and through it stared at two very small spots on the carpet which showed darker than the surrounding red. ‘Might be,’ he grunted.
‘Cut ’em off!’ commanded Hemingway. ‘It’s a lucky thing it’s one of these shaggy rugs. Give me that glass again.’
With its aid, he presently discovered another stain, fainter and rather larger, as though it had been smeared over. ‘And I think that proves my theory, Horace,’ he said cheerfully.
‘If the stains turn out to be bloodstains,’ amended his cautious assistant, putting the tufts he had sawn off into the match-box Hemingway was holding out to him.
‘That’ll be a job for Dr Rotherhope,’ said Hemingway. ‘They look remarkably like it to me.’ He glanced at the desk. ‘And it accounts for the fountain-pen left with its cap off,’ he remarked. ‘I ought to have paid more attention to that when Carsethorn told me that’s how he found it. Come on! That sounds like my blonde coming to look for me!’
Seventeen
The two detectives, walking down the lane towards the Trindale road, came within sight of Fox Cottage, and saw that an animated group was gathered at its gate. For the animation, what, at first glance, appeared to be a pride of Pekes was responsible. Closer inspection revealed that only five of the Ultimas were present, four of them harnessed on couplings, and winding themselves round their owner’s legs, and the fifth, in whose stately mien Hemingway recognised Ulysses, the patriarch, unrestrained by a leash. Young Mr Haswell’s car was parked in the lane, but he and Mrs Midgeholme both stood outside the gate. On the other side of it, and leaning on its top bar, were Miss Patterdale, wearing an overall and gardening-gloves, and her niece, looking remarkably pretty in a pink linen frock and an enormous and floppy sunhat. All four were engaged in discussion, Mrs Midgeholme’s demeanour being particularly impressive; and none of them noticed the approach of the detectives until Ulysses attracted attention by stalking up the lane towards the newcomers, and uttering a threatening bark.
‘Now, what’s the matter with you, old High and Mighty? Nice way to greet your friends!’ said Hemingway, stooping to pat Ulysses.
Ulysses’ eyes started with indignation at this familiarity. He growled, but he was not a dog of hasty disposition, and before proceeding to extreme measures he sniffed the Chief Inspector’s hand, and realised that here was, if not a friend, at least a bowing acquaintance. His mighty mane sank, he slightly waved his tail, and sneezed.
‘Isn’t he the cleverest old fellow?’ exclaimed Mrs Midgeholme. ‘He knows you quite well!’
Her voice was drowned by frantic pleas from the four other Ultimas to their progenitor not to be taken in by the police. Ulysses, looking scornfully at them, gave further evidence of his sagacity by placing himself in a position clearly inviting the Chief Inspector to scratch his back. Hemingway very obligingly did so, while Mrs Midgeholme unwound the other Ultimas, and besought them to be quiet.
‘I guessed I should find you here,’ she told Hemingway. ‘I saw the police-car just round the corner, waiting, and I put two and two together and deduced that you were visiting the scene of the crime. So I thought I’d just pop down on the off-chance of running into you.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Flora!’ said Miss Patterdale trenchantly. ‘You don’t suppose the Chief Inspector wants to listen to all these idiotic theories of yours, do you? You’d be better advised to pop home, and take a look at that new litter of yours. My father once had a field spaniel who buried her first pups alive. You can’t be too careful.’
‘My treasured Ullapool!’ said Mrs Midgeholme indignantly. ‘She’s the most wonderful little mother! Beautiful pups, too! Tell it not in Gath, but I have a feeling that one of the dogs is going to be as big a prize-winner as Ulysses.’
‘I’ve thought of a jolly good name for you,’ offered Charles. ‘Call him Uzziak!’
Mrs Midgeholme seemed a little doubtful. The Chief Inspector said judicially: ‘I don’t say it’s a bad name, but to my way of thinking there’s a better. I lay awake for a good hour last night, trying to remember it. It came in a rattling good yarn I read when I was a boy – before your time, I expect, sir. Umslopogaas!’
‘Before my time nothing!’ retorted Charles. ‘Every right-minded person knows his Rider Haggard! Damn! Why didn’t I think of that? It’s terrific!’
Mrs Midgeholme, though gratified that the Chief Inspector should have expended so much thought on the Ultimas, was plainly not enamoured of the name. She said that if she bred black Pekes she might think about it; and she was just about to explain to the company her reasons for not breeding black Pekes when Miss Patterdale put a summary end to the discussion by saying with a snort: ‘And then call one of the bitches Ullalume, and be done with it! I don’t know whether the Chief Inspector wants to waste his time choosing absurd names for your dogs, Flora, but I’m not going to waste any more of mine. I’m going to get on with my weeding.’
She then favoured Hemingway with a curt nod, and strode off to where she had left her trug and gardening-fork.
Mrs Midgeholme looked a trifle disconcerted, but laughed, and said: ‘Dear old Miriam! I always say, Abby, that your aunt is quite a character. But, of course, it wasn’t the Ultimas I wanted to see you about, Chief Inspector. I did hope to catch you this morning, but it was not to be. You got my message?’
This question, uttered in a somewhat suspicious tone, seemed to be addressed as much to Harbottle as to Hemingway, and it was he who answered it, at his most wooden.
‘Now, I know perfectly well that you think I’m interfering,’ said Mrs Midgeholme, upon receiving his assurance, ‘but what I feel is that anyone who lives in Thornden is bound to know more about all the people than a stranger. You see what I mean?’
‘Yes, but you can’t have it both ways,’ interpolated Charles, evidently continuing an interrupted argument. ‘Old Drybeck was born and bred here, so why shouldn’t the Chief Inspector listen to him as much as to you?’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ she replied. ‘You can’t possibly count him! And, anyway, that wasn’t what I was going to say. No. The thing is, I’ve just been giving my angels a run on the common, Chief Inspector, and I met that dreadful old man, Biggleswade, and he told me all about what he thinks happened on Saturday. Well, of course, it’s nonsense to suppose young Ditchling had anything to do with it, because anyone who knows the family could tell you at once that they’re all above suspicion. I don’t mind saying that my first thought was he was lying.’
‘“Lied in every word,”’ corrected Charles, grinning. ‘“That hoary cripple, with malicious eye” – I can’t remember how it goes on, but it’s exactly right! There’s something about waylaying the traveller with his lies, too. “If
at his counsel I should turn aside Into that – something – tract” – No, I can’t remember how it went on, but it’s Biggleswade all right!’
‘What on earth are you drivelling about?’ asked Abby.
‘I’m not drivelling, I’m quoting. Browning.’
‘Oh! “Just for a handful of silver he left us,”’ said Abby showing her erudition.
‘Absolutely!’ agreed Charles, his eyes dancing.
‘I don’t know anything about Browning,’ said Mrs Midgeholme impatiently, ‘but, as I say, I did think at first that Biggleswade was making the whole thing up. And then it came to me in a flash!’
She paused dramatically, and Hemingway, finding that she was looking in a challenging way at him, said, with an air of interest: ‘It did?’
‘He was going by the Church clock!’ said Mrs Midgeholme triumphantly. ‘Summertime, you know! It’s never changed so it’s an hour wrong. So when he thought the time was 6.15, it was really an hour later!’
It was apparent that Abby, Charles, and Inspector Harbottle were all wrestling with an unspoken problem. It was Harbottle who first reached a conclusion. ‘Earlier!’ he said.
‘No, she’s right,’ said Charles. ‘Later!’
‘Wait a bit!’ commanded Abby. ‘Do we put the clocks on, or back?’
‘Go on, Horace!’ said Hemingway encouragingly. ‘Which?’
‘On,’ said Charles positively. ‘So if the Church clock says 6.15, it’s really 7.15. By summertime, I mean. So Mrs Midgeholme is right.’
‘Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that point,’ said Hemingway. ‘But I don’t myself see that old boy making any mistake about opening-time. Not but what I’m very grateful to Mrs Midgeholme for the trouble she’s taken. I shall have to be getting along now, but –’
‘What, don’t you want to hear the rest of our theories?’ said Charles, shocked. ‘I’ve worked out a very classy one; Miss Dearham has proved hers up to the hilt; Gavin Plenmeller’s latest proves he did it, but it’s too ingenious; the Squire has practically settled that the murder was committed by –’