Detection Unlimited ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Encouraged by an enquiring look from Hemingway, Mrs. Midgeholme said: “To my mind, there isn't a shadow of doubt who shot Mr. Warrenby. It's one of two people—for although I always think Delia Lindale is a hard young woman, I don't think she would actually shoot anyone. No, I never quite like people with those pale blue eyes, but I beg you won't run away with the idea that I have the least suspicion about her! It's her husband. What's more, if he did it, it's my belief she knows it. I popped in to see her this morning, just to talk things over, and the instant I opened my mouth she tried to turn the subject. She gave me the impression of being in a very nervy state—not to say scared! She didn't talk in what I call a natural way, and she didn't seem able to keep still for as much as five minutes. Either she thought she heard the child crying, or she had to go out to speak to Mrs. Murton, her daily woman. Something fishy here, I thought to myself.” She nodded, but added surprisingly: “But that's not what I wanted to say to you. It may have been Kenelm Lindale, but only if it wasn't someone else. Ladislas Zama-something-or-other!”

  “Yes, I wondered when we were coming to him,” said Hemingway, with deceptive affability.

  “Now, I couldn't say a word about him in front of Miss Warrenby, because the poor girl, I'm afraid, is very fond of him. I always did think it would be a most unsuitable match, and, of course, if he killed Mr. Warrenby, it really wouldn't do at all.”

  “Well, if he did that, madam, he won't be in a position to marry Miss Warrenby, or anyone else,” Hemingway pointed out. “But what makes you think he did?”

  “If you knew the way he's been running after the girl, you wouldn't ask me that!” said Mrs. Midgeholme darkly.

  “I daresay I wouldn't, but then, you see, I'm new to these parts.”

  “Yes, that's exactly why I'm being perfectly frank with you. My husband says the least said the soonest mended, but there I disagree with him! It's one's duty to tell the police what one knows, and I know that never would Sampson Warrenby have consented to such a marriage. He forbade his niece to have anything to do with Mr. Ladislas, and if he's so much as guessed she was still seeing him behind his back—well, there would soon have been an end to that young man!”

  “You think he'd have done the shooting instead?”

  “No, I don't go as far as that, for though I've no doubt he'd have been capable of it, he was far too sly and clever to do anything like that. Mr. Ladislas would have found himself out of a job, and been obliged to leave the district. Don't ask me how Warrenby would have managed that! I only know he would. He was that kind of man. And of course Mr. Ladislas must have guessed he'd leave his money to his niece, even if he didn't know it for a fact, which he may have done. And he was actually seen turning into this lane that afternoon! If he didn't know Miss Warrenby was at the Haswells', all I can say is that I'm surprised. I won't put it any more strongly than that: just surprised! So there we have him, on the spot, with a motive, and, I ask you, what more do you want?”

  “Well, just a few things!” said Hemingway apologetically. “Not but what I'm much obliged to you, and I'll bear all you've said in mind. Now, I wonder what Ultima Untidy has found to roll in?”

  This ruse was successful. Mrs. Midgeholme, who, once clear of the garden, had set the Ultimas down, turned, and hurried with admonishing cries towards Untidy. The Chief Inspector swiftly joined his subordinates in the car, and said: “Step on it!”

  Chapter Seven

  The Sergeant, concerned, said: “I'm sorry we walked into Mrs. Midgeholme, sir, wasting your time like that! If I'd known, I'd have warned you about her.”

  “You'd have been wasting your time to have done so,” said Harbottle, from the seat beside the police-driver. “The Chief likes talkers.”

  He spoke in the resigned voice of one forced to tolerate a weakness of which he disapproved, but Hemingway said cheerfully: “That's right, I do. You never know what they'll let fall. I picked up quite a lot from Mrs. Midgeholme.”

  “You did, sir?” said the Sergeant, faintly incredulous.

  “Certainly I did. Why, I didn't know one end of a Peke from another when I came to Thornden, and I could set up as a judge of them now, which will probably come in useful when I'm retired.”

  The Sergeant chuckled. “She wins a lot of prizes with those dogs of hers,” he remarked. “That I will say.”

  “Well, you have said it, so I can't stop you, but you don't need to say any more. I've got a very good memory, which means I don't have to be told things more than once in one afternoon,” said Hemingway unkindly. “Strictly speaking, it wasn't the Pekes I meant, either. Or that unnatural Pole. It was what she had to say about the Lindales that interested me.”

  “Well, sir, but—just a bit of spite, wasn't it?”

  “She doesn't like them, if that's what you mean, but I wouldn't call her spiteful. And I don't think she said anything about them that wasn't true. Or at any rate what she believes to be true. Of course, you can say that it's quite enough to make anyone nervy to have her bursting in on them, and I'm bound to agree that I should think up a lot of jobs to do myself if it happened to me. On the other hand, it isn't in human nature not to want to have a good gossip about a thing like this. Provided you know you're in the clear, that is. Anything known about these Lindales?”

  “Why, no sir! I mean, there isn't any reason why we should know anything about them, barring what everyone knows. Seem to be quiet, respectable people, generally well-liked in the neighbourhood. They don't get about much, but I don't know that it's to be expected they would. Not with him having his hands full with the farm, and her with a baby, and only one daily woman to help her.”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Hemingway. “And what do you make of them never having anyone to stay?”

  “I don't know,” said the Sergeant slowly. “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “I don't know either,” said Hemingway. “But I think it'll bear looking into. You can attend to that, Horace. If Lindale was a member of the Stock Exchange it won't be difficult to get his dossier.”

  “You mean,” said the Sergeant, his brow furrowed, “that Warrenby might have known something to Mr. Lindale's discredit, and was blackmailing him?”

  “Well, from all I've been able to gather about this bird that sounds like just the sort of parlour-trick he would get up to.”

  “Yes, but whatever for?” objected the Sergeant.

  “That's another of the things I don't know. Might not have been blackmailing him at all. If he happened to let on to Lindale that he knew something really damaging about him, Lindale might have shot him to make sure he didn't pass his information on. Depends on what it was, and what sort of chap Lindale is.”

  “I wouldn't have said he was that sort at all,” said the Sergeant.

  “You may be right,” said Hemingway, as the car pulled up outside Mr. Drybeck's house. “But I once arrested one of the nicest, kindest, most fatherly old codgers you ever saw. You'd have said he couldn't have hurt a fly. Well, I don't know what he was like with flies: it wasn't the right time of the year. I arrested him for sticking a dagger into his brother's back.”

  With this encouraging reminiscence, he got out of the car, and trod up the path to Mr. Drybeck's front-door.

  It was by this time past seven o'clock, and Mr. Drybeck, whose housekeeper did not allow him to dine at a late hour was just sitting down to an extremely depressing Sunday supper of cold ham, salad, and a pallid shape accompanied by a dish of custard. No one could be surprised that he showed no reluctance to leave this meal. Upon being informed that two gentlemen from Scotland Yard wished to see him, he threw down his napkin, and went at once into the hall, and primly made these visitors welcome.

  “I was not unexpectant of a visit from the C.I.D.,” he said. “A very shocking affair, Chief Inspector. I am able to state with certainty that such a thing has never before sullied the annals of our parish. I shall be happy to render you whatever assistance may be within my power. You will first, of course, wish me t
o account for my own movements at the time of this outrage. That is perfectly proper. Fortunately my memory is a good one, and, I trust, exact. The result of legal training.”

  He then, in the most precise terms, repeated the story he had told Sergeant Carsethorn already. At only one point did Hemingway intervene. He said: “You didn't hear the gong when it was sounded the first time, sir?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, I did not, but that is not quite such a wonderful matter as it may appear. With your permission, we will put it to the test. There is the gong in question. If Sergeant Carsethorn will remain here, and in a few minutes' time sound it, moderately—for that, she tells me, is how Emma sounded it on that first occasion, believing me to be within the house—we three will repair to the part of the garden which I was watering at the time, and the Chief Inspector may judge for himself whether or not it can be heard.”

  “I don't think that'll be necessary, sir,” said Hemingway.

  Mr. Drybeck raised his hand. “Pardon me, I should prefer you to put my word to the proof!” he said sternly.

  He then led the two Inspectors out into the back garden, through a small garden-hall. “My domain is not extensive,” he said, “but you will observe that it is intersected by several hedges. That one for instance, shuts off the vegetable garden, and this one, which we are approaching, encloses my little rose-garden. Here, gentlemen, I was engaged in watering when I was summoned to supper. Let us enter it!”

  He stood back, and waved to them to precede him through an arch in the tall yew hedge into a pretty, square plot, laid out in rose-beds, with narrow grass walks between, and a tiny artificial pond in the centre. Once inside, he surveyed the garden with simple pride, and said: “You may be said to be seeing it at its best. A wonderful year for roses! You are looking at those red ones, Chief Inspector. Gloire de Hollander, quite one of my favourites.”

  “And I'm sure I'm not surprised, sir,” said Hemingway. “You've certainly got a rare show here. And there's the gong, by the way.”

  “I heard nothing!” declared Mr. Drybeck suspiciously.

  “I didn't either,” confessed Harbottle. “Not to be sure.”

  “You must have imagined it!” said Mr. Drybeck, inclined to be affronted. “I do not consider myself hard of hearing, not at all!”

  “Well, I've got very quick ears, sir. What's more, I was listening for it. I'm quite prepared to believe that if you were busy with your roses here you mightn't have heard it. In fact, I always was, but I'm glad you made me come: it's been worth it.” He strolled forward to inspect a bed planted with Betty Uprichard. “I noticed some nice roses at Fox House, but nothing to compare with yours.”

  “That I can well believe!” said Mr. Drybeck. “I fancy my friend Warrenby cared very little for such things.”

  “Did you know him well, sir?”

  “Dear me, no! I can lay claim to nothing but the barest acquaintance with him. To be frank with you, I did not find him congenial, and considered him quite out of place in our little coterie here.”

  “Seems to have been unpopular all round.” commented Hemingway.

  “That is true. I should be surprised if I heard of his having been liked by anyone in Thornden. But pray do not misunderstand me, Chief Inspector! I flatter myself I know Thornden as well as any man, and I know of no one in my own circle who had the smallest cause to commit the terrible crime of murdering him. I am very glad you have come to see me, very glad indeed! There is a great deal of talk going on in the village, and I have been much shocked by some of the wild rumours I have heard. Rumours, I may say, that are set about by irresponsible persons, and have not the least foundation in fact. Imagination has run rife. But to the trained mind I venture to say that this case presents no very difficult problem, and is not susceptible to any fantastic solution.”

  “Well, I'm glad of that,” said Hemingway. “Perhaps I'll be able to solve it.”

  “I fear you will find it all too easy to do so. I have myself given the matter a good deal of thought, regarding it, if you understand me, in the light of a chess-problem. I am forced to the conclusion—the very reluctant conclusion!—that all the evidence points one way, and one way only. One person had the opportunity and the motive, and that person is the dead man's niece!”

  Inspector Harbottle's jaw dropped. Recovering his countenance, he said in accents of strong disapprobation: “Setting aside the fact that it is rarely that a woman will use a gun—”

  “That,” interrupted Mr. Drybeck smartly, “is what is said every time a woman does use a gun!”

  “Setting that aside, sir,” said Harbottle obstinately, “I never saw a young lady less like a murderess!”

  “Pray, is it your experience, Inspector, that murderesses—or, for that matter, murderers—look the part? It is my belief that Miss Warrenby is a very clever young woman.”

  “Well, now, that's highly interesting,” said Hemingway. “Because I'm bound to say she doesn't give that impression.”

  Mr. Drybeck uttered a shrill little laugh. “I've no doubt she impressed you as a woman overcome by the death of a dear relation. Bunkum, Chief Inspector! Bosh and bunkum! She talks as if Warrenby rescued her from destitution when she was a child. You may as well know that she has only lived with him for rather less than three years. He offered her a home when her mother died, and she accepted it, although I happen to know that she has a small income of her own, and was certainly of an age to earn her own living. No doubt she had her reasons for preferring to take up the position of an unpaid housekeeper and hostess in her uncle's house. Indeed, one is tempted to say that one now sees she had! If rumour does not lie, she has lately become attracted by a young Pole, who rides about the country on a noisy motor-cycle. I need scarcely say that the popular theory in the village is that this man is the guilty party. My own belief is that such a theory will not hold water. If it is true that the young man went to Fox House at the hour stated, I find it impossible to believe that he can have waited until twenty minutes past seven before shooting Warrenby. Consider! The house contained none but Warrenby himself; not only the front-door, but the windows on the ground-floor also, stood open. Why, then, did this man wait until Warrenby stepped into the garden?”

  “Why indeed?” said Hemingway.

  “The trained mind, therefore rejects the theory,” said Mr. Drybeck, rejecting it. “Consider again! Let us follow Miss Warrenby's own story step by step!”

  “Well, if it's all the same to you, sir, I've done that twice already today and though I'm sure it's highly instructive—”

  “She leaves The Cedars alone, and by the garden-gate,” pursued Mr. Drybeck, disregarding the interruption, and stabbing an accusing finger at Hemingway. “In spite of the fact that during the course of the afternoon she repeatedly told us of her qualms at leaving her uncle alone, she remained on at The Cedars after all the other guests, with the single exception of Mrs. Cliburn, had left. She thus makes sure that she will not meet any of the party on her way home. She states that she climbed the stile into the lane, and entered Fox House through the front gate. It may have been so, but I incline, myself, to the belief that she approached the house from the rear. A hedge separates its grounds from the footpath that runs between them and the spinney attached to The Cedars: not, you will agree, an insuperable obstacle! In this way she is able to abstract her uncle's rifle from the house without his knowing that she had in fact returned from the tennis-party. No doubt she regained the footpath by the same route, having ascertained that her uncle was conveniently seated in the garden. Then, and then only does she cross the stile.”

  “Always supposing her uncle happened to have a rifle,” interpolated Hemingway. “Of course, if he didn't, it upsets your theory a bit. Did he?”

  “I am not in a position to say whether he had a rifle or not,” said Mr. Drybeck testily. “A .22 rifle is a very ordinary weapon to find in a country house!”

  Inspector Harbottle looked rather grimly at him, his eyes narrowed; but Hemingway
said blandly: “Just so. Mind you, it hasn't come to light, but, there! it's early days yet.”

  “Ah!” said Mr. Drybeck triumphantly. “You are forgetting one significant circumstance, Chief Inspector! If we are to believe that Warrenby was shot at twenty past seven—and I see no reason for disbelieving this—what was Miss Warrenby doing between that time and the time when she reached Miss Patterdale's house?”

  “When was that?” asked Hemingway.

  “Unfortunately,” said Mr. Drybeck, “it seems to be impossible to discover exactly when that was, but my enquiries lead me to say that it cannot have been less than a quarter of an hour later. I am much inclined to think that Miss Warrenby made a fatal slip when she correctly stated the time when she—as she puts it—heard the shot. Before she went to Miss Patterdale, the rifle had to be disposed of.”

  “The young lady came over faint, and small wonder!” interjected Harbottle.

  “Nonsense, Horace! she was burying the rifle in the asparagus bed! Well, sir, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Wonderful the way you've worked it all out! I shall know where to come if I should find myself at a loss. But I won't keep you from your dinner any longer now.”

  He then swept the fulminating Harbottle out of the rose garden, bade Mr. Drybeck a kind but firm farewell, and joined Sergeant Carsethorn in the waiting car.

  “Where to now, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

  “What's the beer like at the local?” demanded Hemingway.

  The Sergeant grinned. “Good. It's a free house.”

  “Then that's where we'll go. The Inspector's a bit upset, and needs something to pull him round.”

  “Well you know that I never drink alcohol!” said Harbottle, under his breath, as he got into the car beside him.

  “Who said anything about alcohol? A nice glass of orangeade is what you'll have, my lad, and like it!”

  “Give over, sir, do!” Harbottle besought him.

  The Sergeant spoke over his shoulder. “Did you get anything more than I did out of Mr. Drybeck, sir?”