The Sergeant drew in his breath with a hissing sound; Harbottle cast a glance of grim, vicarious pride at his Chief; the Colonel sat back rather limply in his chair, and said; ‘Good God! You think this letter may have been written at the time of the quarrel I told you about – But it’s diabolical!’
‘Well, it’ll have to go up to our expert immediately, sir, before we can be sure. It’s little more than guess-work as yet. And I wonder whether it’s already been in the hands of an expert?’ he added pensively. ‘I should say it had – though not our chap.’
Harbottle, who had glanced at his watch, said: ‘Let me take it, Chief! I can catch the 6.35 train, and come back first thing in the morning. I’ve just time to put a call through to Headquarters, and warn them to stand by.’
Hemingway nodded, and gave him the letter. As he left the room, with his long stride, Sergeant Carsethorn said in a shocked voice: ‘But – but are you telling us, sir, that it wasn’t a case of suicide at all?’
‘I won’t put it as high as that till I get a verdict on that letter,’ replied Hemingway. ‘But, assuming for the moment that the letter was written on the 5th May, and not the 25th, the suicide doesn’t look anything like as good. If you hadn’t been given that letter, you’d have looked a deal more closely into it than you did, wouldn’t you? Let’s take a look at it now! First, we have this Mrs Bromwich deposing that her master had been in one of his bad moods that day. What put him in a bad mood? Migraine, or his brother Gavin, carefully working him up? We shall never know the answer, of course, so we’ll leave that. At 10.00, Mrs Bromwich goes up to bed. Her room’s over the kitchen, and there’s a door that shuts the servants’ quarters off from the main bedrooms. I expect it corresponds with the one downstairs, which I’ve seen. The gardener, we find, sleeps over the stables. Half an hour later, Gavin goes to bed – or so he states. The Coroner put a question to him about that. I wonder if he had his suspicions as early as that?’ Hemingway hunted through the transcript. ‘Yes, here we are. Asked him if he usually went to bed so early. Answer: No, very rarely. Had you any reason for changing your custom? Answer: My presence appeared to exacerbate my brother, so I thought it wise to remove myself. Quite neat. Gives the picture of Walter beside himself, and leaves us to suppose that Gavin may have been asleep when the gas fumes began to creep out of Walter’s room. I should say he took his own measures to keep them out of his own room. We have nothing after that until we come to Mrs Bromwich taking Walter’s early tea to his room. She said there was a funny smell, which made her cough, and she couldn’t get into Walter’s room. So she goes across the upper hall to wake Gavin. Finds him asleep, tells him there’s something wrong. He smells the gas at once, and gets up quickly, and goes with her to Walter’s room, first putting on his dressing-gown and slippers. All very natural – and I daresay the dressing-gown had a pocket. He tries the door, finds it’s locked, and sets his shoulder to it, breaking the lock. Gas fumes make them both reel back. Then we come to the handsome tribute Mrs Bromwich paid to “Mr Gavin”. He didn’t hesitate. He dashed into the room, flung back the curtains, and opened all three casements. The wind was blowing in at that side of the house; it seemed to blow the gas right down Mrs Bromwich’s throat, and fair made her choke. And considering how much gas there must have been in the room, I’m sure I’m not surprised. Mr Gavin then makes another dash for the gas-stove, and turns off the tap, and gasps out an order to Mrs Bromwich: she was to go downstairs at once, and ring up the doctor. So that gets Mrs Bromwich nicely out of the way. By the time she gets back, Mr Gavin is standing at the head of the staircase, looking dreadfully bad, and coughing fit to break a blood-vessel. Very likely, I should think: there were quite a few things he had to do in the room before she came back. If I’m right, he had to slip the door-key under Walter’s pillow, for Dr Warcop to find in due course; he had to stuff a bit of rag into the keyhole; he had to finish off the job of fixing adhesive tape round the door. I should think he put most of it on when he went in the night before: it was bound to get broken as soon as the door was opened, so he was safe to stick it on everywhere but on the side where the door opens. As for that towel, which we hear got thrust back when the door was burst open, and had obviously been stuffed between the bottom of the door and the floor, my guess is that it was carefully arranged a little way away from the door, to present just that appearance. Well, back comes Mrs Bromwich, saying the doctor’s coming at once. Gavin then tells her it’s too late: Walter must have been dead for hours, and it’s a case for the police. Well, we know Dr Warcop isn’t what you might call good at fixing times, but he doesn’t seem to have much doubt about this. Walter was cold. When he turned up, Gavin told him it was too late for him to do anything, and he let Mrs Bromwich go with him into the room. Which is when Mrs Bromwich sees that letter, and gives it to him, and Dr Warcop finds the key of the room. So there it is: an open-and-shut case, with everyone behaving very properly all round. Later, Gavin gives evidence at the inquest, and the result of that is that all the people who’d been thinking he’d behaved pretty badly to his brother start thinking that, after all, it’s a bit rough on him to have to sit there listening to Walter’s letter being read aloud in court, and very noble it was of him not to have destroyed it. I’ll bet he enjoyed that day!’
There was a pause. The Sergeant, who had been listening, fascinated, to this exposition, said: ‘You’ve got me believing that’s how it happened!’
‘I’ve got myself believing it,’ returned Hemingway.
‘If it’s true,’ said the Colonel, ‘if we find that you’re right about the letter, you’ve got a strong case against Gavin, without any further evidence.’
‘I want a stronger,’ said Hemingway. ‘I want that Colt Woodsman pistol.’
‘Ah!’ said the Sergeant heavily. ‘And he’s had plenty of time to get rid of it.’
‘If he has got rid of it,’ agreed Hemingway.
‘Good lord, sir, you don’t think he’d keep it, do you?’
‘I don’t know. You’ve got to bear in mind that he thinks we’re searching for a rifle. What’s more, it isn’t all that easy to dispose of a pistol, particularly when you haven’t got a car to get you well away from your own district, to some likely pond, or something of that nature. The thing I’m afraid of is that he may have thrown it into this river I’ve heard so much about.’
‘You needn’t be afraid of that,’ said the Colonel. ‘It’s quite shallow, and at the moment there’s hardly any water in it at all. I’ve never known such a season: we haven’t had a spate since the beginning of March. He’s more likely to have thrust it down a rabbit-hole, or to have buried it.’
‘Not anywhere near Fox Lane, or Wood Lane, or the footpath, sir!’ struck in the Sergeant. ‘If you happened to be thinking he might have done it straight away! We fair combed the ground there, that I’ll swear to! I had five chaps out there all Sunday morning.’
‘I don’t see this bird burying it,’ intervened Hemingway. ‘Nor yet pushing it down a rabbit-hole, with all respect to you, sir! If he buried it, he’d have run the risk of the new-turned earth’s being spotted. There’s his own garden, of course, but that seems to me even more risky, with that gardener-groom of his on the premises. As for shoving it down a rabbit-hole, I don’t see him doing that. Setting aside, rabbit-holes are places we’d be bound to suspect, you never know when some dog won’t sneak off hunting and start excavating the very hole you’ve chosen. What’s more, unless he’s found some place where it can stay safely for ever, it’s got to be where he can retrieve it as soon as the hunt’s been called off. So he wouldn’t have poked it into a midden, or a haystack, or anything like that. It wouldn’t altogether surprise me if he’s got it hidden away somewhere in his house.’
‘Well, it would me!’ said the Sergeant suddenly. ‘Not when he knew you were on the case, sir! He wouldn’t have taken any chances once he’d seen you.’
Hemingway regarded him in some amusement. ‘Now, come on, my lad, what do you wan
t to borrow?’ he demanded.
The Sergeant grinned, but stuck to his guns. ‘Look here, sir, I was with you on Sunday evening, when you met him for the first time, in the Red Lion! Do you remember I didn’t have to tell him who you were, because he recognised you straight off? Talked about a case you’d been on. Well, it was plain enough that he had a pretty fair idea of what he was up against! I could tell from the way he spoke that he knew the Yard had sent down one of their best men.’
‘What do you mean, one of their best men?’ interrupted Hemingway.
The Colonel laughed. ‘Spare the Chief Inspector’s blushes, Carsethorn! But he may easily be right, Hemingway. Since Plenmeller hadn’t an alibi, he must have faced the possibility of having his house searched. But if you don’t think he buried the gun, what do you imagine he could have done with it?’
‘Well, looking at it from the psychological angle, sir, I should say he’d go in for something a bit more classy.’
‘Railway cloakroom?’
Hemingway shook his head. ‘Too hackneyed for him. Besides, he might expect it to be one of the first places I’d check up on, if ever I got on to the real weapon. If this were London, I should want to know if he rented a safe deposit, but I don’t suppose you’ve got any here, have you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Ah, well! I daresay it would have been a bit too obvious anyway,’ said Hemingway philosophically. ‘He’s probably put it somewhere I should never think of looking for it, which means that I shall have to rely more than I like on circumstantial evidence, or read all the books he’s written, on the chance that he’s used the idea before.’
The Sergeant, who had been thinking profoundly, said abruptly: ‘You know what, sir? Mr Plenmeller ought to have handed in his brother’s guns as soon as he was dead. It’s illegal for him to keep them. I don’t mean it’s a thing we should make a fuss about, in the circumstances, because very likely he isn’t well-up in the regulations, and he may think that if the licence for them hasn’t run out, which it hasn’t, it’s all right for him to hang on to them. How would it be if I was to send one of our chaps out to call on him, like it was a routine-job? Just a uniformed constable, sent to explain that all this business has brought it to the attention of the police that the late Mr Plenmeller’s guns were never handed in, and that they must be. He can have a list of them, and check it over with Mr Gavin Plenmeller. What’s Mr Plenmeller going to do then?’
‘Hand over the guns in the cabinet, and deny all knowledge of the Colt,’ answered Hemingway promptly.
‘If he did that, it would look pretty suspicious, wouldn’t it, sir?’
‘It would, but you’d never prove he was lying. From what I’ve seen of Mr Gavin Plenmeller, I wouldn’t envy your uniformed constable his job, either. He’d find Gavin all readiness to oblige, and he could think himself lucky if he got away without having had to help turn out every chest and cupboard trunk in the house in an attempt to find the gun. And all he’d have achieved at the end would be to have put Plenmeller wise to what I’m up to. No, thanks! I’d as soon that gentleman went on thinking he’s fooled me until I’m ready to put handcuffs on him. You never know: he might take it into his head I’d look well on a mortuary-slab.’
‘He wouldn’t dare do that!’ said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.
‘Oh, wouldn’t he? Seems to me that if he thinks I’m the original Sherlock Holmes it’s about the best thing he could do! It’s a pity I’m not, because if I were I daresay I should have deduced by this time where I ought to look for that Colt. As it is, I shall have to work on the evidence I’ve got.’
‘Look here!’ said the Colonel, a little uneasily. ‘What you’ve been saying is extraordinarily plausible, but aren’t we going too fast? We’re all three of us talking as though there were no doubt Gavin murdered Warrenby!’
‘There isn’t, sir,’ said Hemingway calmly.
Nineteen
This pronouncement made the Colonel look searchingly at him. ‘What makes you so confident?’ he asked.
‘Flair,’ replied Hemingway, without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Eh?’ said the Sergeant.
‘The Chief Inspector means – er – intuition,’ explained the Colonel. ‘Well, Hemingway, you know your own business best. What’s the next move?’
‘I want Sergeant Carsethorn to do a bit of investigation for me, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Very happy to, I’m sure!’ said the gratified Sergeant.
‘It’ll be better if you do it,’ explained Hemingway. ‘You know the party concerned, and you’ve already questioned him once. You can say you forgot to make a note of what he said, or any other lie you fancy: we don’t want him to spread it all over the village that you’ve been asking searching questions about Gavin Plenmeller.’
‘You can trust me, sir!’ the Sergeant assured him. ‘But who is it?’
‘I don’t think you ever told me his name. But I seem to remember that when you were describing the dramatis personae to me, in this very room, when I first came down here, you spoke of some old boy who’s got a cottage opposite the entrance to Wood Lane.’
‘That’s right, sir: George Rugby.’
‘Rugby! Then you did mention the name, because that’s brought it back to me. My memory’s not as good as it used to be,’ said Hemingway, shaking his head over this lapse.
‘Too bad, sir!’ said the Sergeant, once more on the broad grin. ‘Still, it’s good enough to be going on with! What do you want me to find out from Rugby?’
‘Didn’t you tell me he’d seen Mrs Cliburn and Plenmeller coming away from The Cedars on Saturday evening? You were trying to find out if either of them did anything suspicious, but neither of them did, and neither of them was carrying anything that might have contained a rifle, which were the two points we happened to be concentrating on at the time. The really important point escaped you. Now, don’t take on about it! It escaped me too – which was probably because you were talking so much I never got time to think,’ he added, as the Sergeant’s face brightened again. ‘What I want to know now is, which came down the lane first? Mrs Cliburn, or Mr Plenmeller?’
‘My Gawd!’ exclaimed the Sergeant involuntarily. He cast a deprecating look at the Chief Constable, and said: ‘Beg your pardon, sir! But he’s quite right: I did miss that, and I oughtn’t to have. By the time I got round to making enquiries in the village, I’d interviewed so many people – still, it’s no excuse I didn’t suspect anyone in particular, and what with old Rugby being one of those who take half an hour to tell you a simple story, and me taking it for granted he’d seen Mr Plenmeller before he saw Mrs Cliburn, I properly slipped up.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d like to go out to Thornden right now, sir, if you’ve no objection. The police-station is only two doors off Rugby’s cottage, so I can pretend I’ve got business with Hobkirk; and if Rugby’s sitting outside, which he probably will be on an evening like this, it’ll be natural enough for me to stop and pass the time of day with him – supposing anyone should happen to be watching what I’m up to.’
‘All right,’ said the Colonel. ‘But you’ll have to be careful not to let Rugby smell a rat, Carsethorn!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I shall tell him the Chief Inspector properly tore me off the strip for not giving him a written report of what he said.’
‘Of course, I would!’ remarked Hemingway, as the door shut behind the triumphant Sergeant.
‘You’re having a thoroughly demoralising effect upon my officers,’ said the Colonel severely. ‘By the way, have you done anything more about that other affair? Ainstable’s business?’
‘I asked my Chief to make discreet enquiries, sir. Which reminds me that I may as well tell him to forget it,’ said Hemingway, getting up, and gathering his various papers together.
‘I won’t pretend I’m not glad you’re dropping that,’ said the Colonel frankly.
‘Nothing to do with me, sir,’ said Hemingway, tucking th
e papers under his arm. ‘Unless there’s anything more you want to discuss with me, I’ll be getting along. Precious little more I can do till Harbottle gets back, except get Warrenby’s clerk to go through the documents I took away from Fox House, and that can wait till I’ve had my supper.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘I’ll find out, sir.’
The Colonel got up, and held out his hand, saying, with a faint smile: ‘You do find things out, don’t you? Goodnight, then – and good luck!’
Upon the following morning, the Chief Inspector consumed a leisurely and a somewhat belated breakfast. He liked to be left in peace at this meal, and since he did not expect Harbottle to arrive in Bellingham until twenty-seven minutes past ten, when the fast train from London made Bellingham its first stop, and knew very well that his identity had been disclosed by the landlord to the three Commercials who had arrived at the Sun on the previous day, it seemed desirable to him not to emerge from his bedroom until these fellow-guests had departed on their several errands. He timed his appearance in the coffee-room well, but he had reckoned without his host, Mr Wick, proprietor of the Sun, and also its chef, who not only fried for him four rashers of bacon, two eggs, two sausages, and a tomato, with his own far from fair hands, but elected to carry this slight repast in to the coffee-room as well, and to stand over the Chief Inspector while he ate it. Simply clad in a stained pair of grey socks and a dirty vest, he leaned his hairy arms on the back of a chair, and entertained Hemingway with an account of his own career, inviting, at the same time, any interesting confidences Hemingway might feel encouraged to repose in him. But as the Chief Inspector’s only contribution to the conversation took the form of an earnestly worded piece of advice, to the effect that he should never show himself to his clients for fear of putting them off their food, he took himself off at last – leaving Hemingway to drink a third cup of well-sweetened tea, and to peruse the columns of his chosen newspaper.