‘You should,’ said the Inspector.
Sturry bowed. ‘I will bear it in mind, if ever I should have the leisure,’ he said, and withdrew in what Hemingway was forced to admit was good order.
‘I’m sorry for you, my lad,’ Hemingway told his Sergeant. ‘It looks as though you’ll have to go and call on this Galloway, and find out if he’s got the key of the stables on him. I’ll have a look at the place first, though.’
Together they left the house, and made their way through the melting snow to the stableyard. A modern garage had been built on one side of this, with a flat above it for the chauffeur; at right angles to it a rather dilapidated building presented forbiddingly shut doors, and small windows, thickly coated on the inside with dust and cobwebs. One permitted a peep into an old harness-room; another enabled the Inspector to obtain a restricted view into the stable, and there, sure enough, laid flat along one wall, was a substantial ladder, quite tall enough to reach to the upper storey of the Manor.
Having felt under the door-sill, looked for a cache under the penthouse roof, and even searched two potting-sheds and a row of glass-houses, the Inspector, baulked in his quest for the key, looked carefully at the stable-window. It was a small sash-window, and although it would not have required any great degree of skill to have slipped a knife-blade between the two halves, and to have forced back the bolt, even the most confirmed optimist must have rejected this solution. It was plain that the window had not been opened for many a long day. Had any further proof than the undisturbed dust been needed, it would have been found in the presence, on the interior, of a cobweb of great size and antiquity.
‘And now,’ said Hemingway, ‘you’ll find that the gardener’s had the key on him ever since midday yesterday. A fine sort of case this is!’
The Sergeant said, hiding a grin: ‘I thought you liked them difficult, sir.’
‘So I do,’ retorted Hemingway. ‘But I like something you can catch hold of ! Here, every time I think I’ve got a line on something, it slips out of my grasp like something in a bad dream. If there’s a sliding panel in that room, I’ll eat my hat; I’d go to the stake no one tampered with that door-key; and now it begins to look as though the window wasn’t touched either. It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is, or else I’m getting past my job.’
‘It is a fair stinker,’ agreed the Sergeant. ‘No use thinking about the chimney, I suppose?’ The Inspector cast him a look of dislike.
‘Or the roof,’ suggested the Sergeant. ‘There are attics above the bedrooms, and there are dormer-windows. Could a chap have got through the one over Mr Herriard’s room, and reached the window below?’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ said Hemingway crossly. ‘I’ve already looked into that, which just shows you the sort of state I’m getting into, for a more fatheaded idea I’ve never met. You’ll have to go off and interview this gardener, but you can drop me at the station first.’
‘All right, sir. But I can’t help feeling that I shall find he’s had the key all the time.’
‘If you didn’t, I should very likely drop down in a fit,’ responded Hemingway.
They drove back to the police-station in depressed silence. Hemingway alighted there and went into the building. He found Inspector Colwall fortifying himself with very strong tea, and thankfully accepted a cup of this beverage.
‘How are you getting on?’ asked Colwall.
‘I’m not,’ replied Hemingway frankly. ‘It reminds me of the Hampton Court maze more than of anything else. It doesn’t matter what path you take: you always find yourself back at the starting-point again. Seems to me I’m trying to catch up with a regular Houdini. Handcuffs and locked chests would be nothing to this bird.’
‘I don’t mind telling you I was glad to hand over the case to you,’ confided Colwall. ‘Of course, detection isn’t, properly speaking, my line.’
‘It won’t be mine by the time I’m through with this,’ said Hemingway, sipping his tea. ‘Here I’ve got no fewer than four hot suspects, and three possibles, all without alibis, and most of them with life-size motives, and I’m damned if I see my way to bringing it home to any of them.’
‘Four hot suspects?’ said Colwall, working it out in his mind.
‘Young Stephen, his sister, Mottisfont, and Roydon,’ said Hemingway.
‘You don’t reckon the fair young lady could have done it?’
‘I’ve put her in as a possible, but I wouldn’t lay a penny on her myself.’
‘Who are your other possibles, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘The valet and the butler.’
Colwall seemed a little surprised. ‘Sturry? What makes you think he might have had a hand in it?’
‘Vulgar prejudice,’ responded Hemingway promptly. ‘He handed me a very dirty look this afternoon, so very likely I’ll pin the murder on to him, if all else fails.’
Inspector Colwall recognised a joke, and laughed. ‘You do talk!’ he said. ‘Myself, I had a hunch it was young Herriard. Ugly-tempered chap, he is.’
‘He’s got the biggest motive,’ conceded Hemingway. ‘Though murder isn’t always committed for high stakes, mind you! Not by a long chalk. There’s young Roydon, wanting money to back his play.’
‘Yes; I went into that before you came down, but it seemed to me a bit unlikely. Of course, Miss Herriard could have done it, I suppose. I shouldn’t think she’d stick at much.’
‘I’m quite willing to arrest her, or Mottisfont, if you’ll just tell me how either of them got into the room,’ said Hemingway.
Colwall shook his head. ‘It’s a mystery, that’s what it is. You don’t think the old lady had anything to do with it, do you?’
‘What, Mrs Joseph Herriard?’ exclaimed Hemingway. ‘Talk about far-fetched ideas! No, I don’t. What would she do it for?’
‘I don’t know,’ Colwall confessed. ‘It only struck me that she hadn’t got an alibi either, and neither you nor I ever suspected her at all. I suppose she might have had a motive.’
‘Well, it hasn’t come to light,’ said Hemingway. ‘What’s more, it won’t help me if it does. I’ve plenty of motives already, not to mention one damaging piece of evidence, in the shape of Stephen’s cigarette-case. Not that it’s any good to me, unless I can discover how the murder was committed.’
‘No, I see that,’ agreed Colwall. ‘And there was a good deal of uncertainty about the cigarette-case, wasn’t there? Seems young Herriard had lent it to Miss Dean, and anyone might have picked it up.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard all that, but I don’t think much of it,’ said Hemingway. ‘People don’t go picking up cigarette-cases that don’t belong to them: at least, not in that kind of society, they don’t. It was identified as Stephen’s, and he owned it; and I haven’t so far heard that anyone else’s finger-prints were found on it.’
‘No, they weren’t,’ said Colwall. ‘There weren’t any finger-prints on it at all, as I remember.’
Hemingway set down his cup and saucer. ‘There must have been some prints! Do you mean they were too blurred to be identified?’
Colwall stroked his chin. ‘I remember seeing the report on it last night, and I’m pretty certain it said there were no marks on it at all.’
‘Look here!’ Hemingway said. ‘On their own admissions, young Herriard and Miss Dean both handled that case! Are you telling me they left no prints?’
‘Well, I’m only repeating what was on the report,’ said Colwall defensively.
‘And you saw that report, and never thought to mention that there was a curious circumstance attached to it! Why wasn’t I shown it?’
‘You could have seen it if you’d asked for it. There just wasn’t anything to it. We’d established that the case belonged to Stephen Herriard; the experts didn’t find any finger-prints on it; and that’s all there was to it.’
‘I should have known better than to have taken anyone’s word for it!’ said Hemingway in bitter accents. ‘Didn’t it strike you that it was
highly unusual, not to say suspicious, that there weren’t any finger-prints on the case?’
‘I suppose,’ said Colwall, whose brain moved slowly, ‘it must have been wiped.’
‘Yes,’ retorted Hemingway. ‘That’s just what I suppose, too! And if you think young Herriard dropped it, all accidental-like, first taking the precaution of wiping his finger-prints off it, all I can say is that you’ve got a nice, unsuspicious nature, Inspector!’
Colwall bridled a little at this, but as the inference of Hemingway’s words sank into his mind, he flushed, and said: ‘Of course, it’s your business to spot things like that. I don’t deny that what with one thing and another it just didn’t occur to me that it was funny, not finding any prints on the case. Couldn’t have got wiped off in young Herriard’s pocket, could they?’
‘No,’ Hemingway said positively. ‘They might have got a bit blurred, but you’d be bound to find some trace. Ever cleaned a bit of silver, and tried to get your own finger-prints off it? It takes some elbow-grease, I give you my word.’
‘That’s right, it does,’ nodded Colwall. ‘Same with brasswork. But this was a gold case. One of those large, flat ones, with a monogram on it.’
‘I ought to have had a look at it in the first place,’ Hemingway said, annoyed with himself. ‘Come on! Let’s go and have a talk with your expert!’
But no expert was needed to convince him that the cigarette-case had been wiped clean of all betraying marks. It was still held in the crutch in which it had been placed upon discovery, and its smooth golden surface showed no smudge or blemish.
‘Might just have come out of the shop,’ grunted Colwall. ‘Looks like new, barring a few scratches. Well, none of my men destroyed any prints, that I will answer for!’
‘I don’t suppose they did. This case has been carefully polished.’
‘Well, that has torn it!’ Colwall said. ‘Do you figure it was planted in the room to throw suspicion on young Herriard?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Hemingway. ‘One thing’s certain: he didn’t leave it there himself.’
‘Then it pretty well clears him,’ said Colwall regretfully. ‘I must say, I thought all along it was him. A bit disheartening, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ replied Hemingway, who seemed to have recovered his cheerfulness. ‘In fact, I regard it as a highly promising development.’
‘I don’t see how you make that out,’ said Colwall, staring at him.
‘I was beginning to think that this was going to be the one case where the guilty party didn’t once slip up. Well, he did slip up,’ said Hemingway, pointing an accusing finger at the cigarette-case. ‘Just like a lot of others before him, trying to be too clever. The way I see it, planting this case was an unrehearsed effect. If he’d thought of it when he worked out the rest of his details, I daresay he’d have arranged for us to have found Stephen’s finger-prints on the case. We can take it that Miss Dean’s testimony was correct: she put the case down on the table at her elbow. Our unknown friend saw it there, and thought it would make a nice piece of evidence against Stephen. He picked it up, and probably slipped it into his pocket, either forgetting not to touch it with his bare hand, or not having the time to handle it through his handkerchief. But when it came to planting it, he wasn’t the man to forget that he mustn’t leave any prints on it, so he polished it good and hard. Well, it’s restored my belief in the fundamental stupidity of murderers. They all slip up sooner or later, though I admit this one’s sharper than most.’
‘That’s all very well, but I don’t see how it’s going to help you.’
‘You never know,’ said Hemingway, lifting the cigarettecase out of the crutch, and regarding it with a loving eye.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Colwall.
‘Give it back to young Stephen,’ replied Hemingway coolly.
‘Give it back to him?’
‘That’s right. Then I’ll sit back to watch results.’
‘What results do you expect?’ asked Colwall, out of his depth.
‘I haven’t the least idea, but I hope they’ll be helpful, because this case is beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘Yes, but I don’t see –’
‘Up to now,’ interrupted Hemingway, ‘it must have been
obvious to one and all that the hot favourite for the nineo’clock-in-the-morning stakes was young Herriard, which was a highly satisfactory state of affairs for the real murderer, not calling for any exertion on his part. All he had to do was to lie low, and act natural. Well, now I’m going to let it be deduced that I don’t fancy Stephen after all. Throwing the lead, so to speak. If I know anything about the minds of murderers, I ought to get some interesting reactions.’
Fourteen
THE SERGEANT, RETURNING FROM HIS VISIT TO
Galloway’s cottage, came in with a face of settled gloom, and told his chief that it was just as they had feared. Galloway had taken the key home with him, and it was even now hanging up on one of the hooks of his kitchen-dresser.
‘So it doesn’t look as though our man got in through the window at all,’ he said. ‘I suppose you haven’t discovered anything fresh, have you, sir?’
When he learned what the Inspector had, in fact, discovered, he was interested, but inclined to agree with Colwall’s view, that beyond eliminating one of the suspects it was not likely to prove to be of much use. ‘If you ask me, sir, the man who did this job isn’t the sort to lose his head,’ he said.
‘I didn’t ask you, but you’re quite at liberty to have your own opinions,’ said Hemingway tartly. ‘I’ve already had the satisfaction of proving that he can make a silly mistake: well, now we’ll see if he can’t be rattled a bit. So far he’s had it all his own way: he shall have it my way, and see how he likes it.’
‘Are you going up there again this evening, sir?’
‘No,’ said Hemingway, ‘I’m not. This is where I put in a bit of quiet thinking, while that lot up at the Manor wonders what I’m up to. There’s nothing like suspense for shaking a man’s nerve.’
The Sergeant grinned. ‘You wouldn’t, I suppose, be thinking of the turkey they’ve got roasting at the Blue Dog, would you, Chief ?’ he ventured.
‘If I have any insubordinate talk from you,’ said Hemingway severely, ‘I’ll give you a job to do up at the Manor that’ll keep you there till midnight. It wasn’t the turkey I was thinking of at all.’
‘I’m sorry!’ apologised the Sergeant.
‘So I should think. It was the ham,’ said Hemingway.
The inmates of the Manor were, accordingly, left to their own devices, if not to peace. Peace did not flourish under the same roof as Mrs Dean, and by the time she had bullied Joseph, Mottisfont, Roydon, and her own daughter into playing paper-games, and had driven both the young Herriards and Mathilda into taking refuge in the billiard-room, an atmosphere of even greater unrest pervaded the household.
Christmas dinner, with all the associations which turkey and plum-pudding conjured up, inspired Maud to remark that she wished Nathaniel had not been murdered at such an awkward time, because although it seemed almost heartless to eat Christmas fare there was nothing else to be done, since there it was, and would only go bad if left. She added that they had better not set light to the pudding this year; and Sturry, approving this decree, added his mite towards the drive for sobriety by removing the sprig of holly from the pudding.
Everyone went to bed early, but no one looked next morning as though the long night’s rest had been of much benefit. Mottisfont said several times that he could not think what the police were hanging fire for, by which observation he was understood to mean that he thought Stephen ought by this time to have been in the County gaol. Valerie said that she had hardly closed her eyes all night, on account of the ghastly dreams which had haunted her. Roydon looked pale, and wondered audibly when the police would allow them all to go home.
Breakfast was not served until nine
o’clock, and before anyone had reached the toast-and-marmalade stage, Sturry entered, rather in the manner of a Greek chorus, to announce the arrival of doom in the person of Inspector Hemingway. The Inspector, he said with relish, would like to have a Word with Mr Stephen.
The inside of Mathilda’s mouth felt dry suddenly and the muscles of her throat unpleasantly constricted. Joseph drew in his breath sharply.
‘He might have let me finish my breakfast,’ said Stephen, laying down his napkin. ‘Where is he?’
‘I showed the Inspector into the library, sir.’
‘All right,’ Stephen said, and got up.
Paula thrust back her chair, and rose, in one of her jerky, impetuous movements. ‘I’m coming with you!’ she said abruptly.