“I'm sure he's only the tenant-for-life, sir, and I know the name of the firm of solicitors who act for the trustees of the settlement. But that's just about all I do know. How old was Mr. Ainstable's son when he was killed?”
The Colonel reflected. “He and my boy were at school together, so he must have been nineteen and—no, he was a few months older than Michael. About twenty.”
“Not of age. Then the estate must have been settled by his grandfather, or resettled by him. It can't have been resettled by this man while his son was still a minor. I'm not very well up in these things, but I did once have a case which hinged on the settlement of a big estate.”
“How did you find all this out?” demanded the Colonel. “I should doubt whether anyone except, I suppose, Drybeck knows anything about Ainstable's affairs. And, good God, he wouldn't talk about a client's private business!”
“Properly speaking,” replied Hemingway, “it was Harbottle who discovered it. And Mr. Drybeck wasn't the only person who knew there'd been a settlement. Sampson Warrenby knew it. And unless I'm much mistaken, Mr. Haswell knows it too—or at any rate suspects it.”
“I should have said that Warrenby was the last man in the world Ainstable would have confided in! But go on!”
“I'm dead sure he didn't confide to him, sir. Warrenby found it out. There's a copy of a letter he wrote to the solicitors of the trustees, saying that he had a client that was interested in Mr. Ainstable's gravel-pit, and that he was informed they were the proper people for him to apply to. And there's an answer from this firm, all very plain, stating that although any money would have to be paid to them, acting for the trustees, to be apportioned as between the tenant-for-life and the trust funds, all such contracts were a matter for Mr. Ainstable only. Now, on the face of it, it looks as if Warrenby must have approached Mr. Drybeck, knowing him to be Mr. Ainstable's solicitor, and been passed on by him to this London firm.”
“I suppose so,” said the Colonel, staring at him.
“Yes, sir, only I've met a lot of false faces in my time, and it's my belief this is one of them. I don't doubt Warrenby got the information he wanted out of Mr. Drybeck, but I should say he didn't appear in the matter himself. In fact, I don't know how he managed it, which is probably just as well, because I've got a strong notion that if ever I got to the bottom of the methods the late lamented employed to find out things about his neighbours I'd very likely get up a subscription for the man who did him in, instead of arresting him.”
“I don't follow you,” the Colonel said. “Why should Warrenby not appear in the matter? It seems to me that if he had a client—”
“Yes, sir, but another strong notion I have is that he hadn't got any such thing. Seems highly unnatural to me that Mr. Drybeck should never have mentioned the matter to the Squire, and that he didn't I'm quite satisfied. It came as news to Mr. Ainstable—and no such very pleasant news either.”
The Colonel stirred restlessly. “What makes you think there was no client?”
“The fact that we don't hear anything more about him, sir. Having gone to the trouble of finding out who was the right person to apply to, Warrenby didn't apply to him.”
“He might, surely, have discovered that the lease of the pit had already been granted.” objected the Colonel.
“I'll go further than that, sir. He might have known it all along. In fact, he must have known it. Everyone in Thornden couldn't help but know it. I think something made him suspect the Squire's estate had been settled, and he wanted to know just how the land lay. He hadn't a hope of getting Mr. Drybeck to tell him anything, so he went about the job in a different way.”
“I should like you to tell me exactly what's in your mind, Hemingway,” said the Colonel, in a level voice.
“Well, sir, taking one thing with another, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that the Squire's committing waste—and has been doing so ever since his boy was killed. Now, as I say, I'm not an expert, but I do know that if you've got a settled estate, and you go selling its capital, in a manner of speaking—timber, mineral rights, and suchlike—about two-thirds of what you make out of it has to be put into the estate funds.” He paused, but the Colonel said nothing. “And if you put the whole sum into your own pocket—or perhaps invest it so that your wife will be left comfortably off when you're dead—well, that's committing waste.”
The Colonel raised his eyes from their frowning contemplation of the blotter on his desk. “That's a pretty serious charge, Chief Inspector.”
“It is, sir. Only, of course, I'm not concerned with what Mr. Ainstable may be doing with his estate, except in so far as it might have a bearing on this case. It isn't a criminal offence.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Get the Department to make a few discreet enquiries for me. There won't be any noise made over it, but it's got to be done.”
“Of course,” said the Colonel, a little stiffly. “If you think you have enough evidence to justify an enquiry.”
“Well, I do think so, sir. To start with, I've got reason to suspect that Warrenby had some sort of a hold over the Squire. To go on with, I've had a look at that estate, and I can see there's precious little money being spent on it, and a tidy sum being taken out of it. Then I find that it's going to a nephew who, by all accounts, is next door to being a stranger to the Squire. And I don't mind saying that I've got a lot of sympathy for the Squire, because he's been hamstrung by a settlement that was meant to make everything safe and snug. If the boy had lived to be twenty-one, I don't doubt the estate would have been resettled, and provision made for Mrs. Ainstable. But he didn't and it looks to me very much as if the Squire knows that nephew of his wouldn't look at it the same way his son would have. Well, when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Ainstable, I thought she looked a lot more likely to die than he did. But when I left Old Place, I went and paid a call on the Vicar, and that's where I learned that the Squire has a bad heart.”
“Angina,” said the Colonel shortly. “But, as far as I know, he's only had two not very severe attacks.”
“Yes, Mr. Haswell, who happened to be with the Vicar when I called, said there was no reason why Mr. Ainstable shouldn't live for a good many years yet. On the other hand, you don't have to be a doctor to know that he might go very suddenly. That adds quite a bit of colour to what I'd already noticed. Which was that when I mentioned those two letters Harbottle found in Warrenby's office I knew I'd given the Squire and Mrs. Ainstable a nasty jolt. I got the impression that the last thing either of them wanted me to do was to start nosing round that gravel-pit, or all the timber he's been felling. And on top of that, when the Vicar started to say something about the gravel-pit, Mr. Haswell nipped in as neat as you please, and flicked his mind off on to something quite different. Which leads me to think that he's got pretty much the same idea as I have about what the Squire's up to.”
There was a short silence. The Colonel broke it. “This is a damned, nasty affair, Hemingway! Well—it's up to you, thank God! If you're right—if Warrenby was blackmailing the Squire, not for money, but merely to force him to sponsor him socially—does that, in your view, constitute a sufficient motive for murder?”
Hemingway rose to his feet. “I don't remember, offhand, how many cases I've had, sir,” he said dryly. “A good few. But I couldn't tell you what constitutes a motive for murder, not yet what doesn't. Some of the worst I've handled were committed for reasons you wouldn't even consider to be possible if homicide didn't happen to be your job. You don't need me to tell you that, sir.”
“No,” said the Colonel. “But it depends on the type of man involved.”
“That's right, sir: it does.”
The Colonel glanced up. “Blackmail,” he said heavily. “Yes, that's a motive, Chief Inspector—a strong motive.”
“Yes, and it gives us a nice wide field,” agreed Hemingway. “Because, unless I miss my bet, I don't think the Squire was the only person Warrenby was putting the black on.” He glanced at his watch. �
�If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll be leaving you. I told my chief I'd be giving him a ring about now.” He walked over to the door, and looked back, as he opened it, a twinkle in his eye. “I've got upwards of half a dozen people who could have committed this murder, as far as their alibis go, which is nowhere,” he remarked. “At least four of them have got what'll pass for motives, and the end of it will very likely be that it'll turn out to be someone I haven't begun to consider yet.”
“I hope to God you may be right!” said the Colonel.
Chapter Thirteen
There was no one in the small office temporarily allotted to the Chief Inspector, but he saw that Harbottle had been there before him, for a pile of papers had been laid on the desk. He sat down, pushed the papers to one side, and drew the telephone towards him.
He was speedily connected with his immediate superior, Superintendent Hinckley, and was greeted by him with asperity, and a total lack of formality, the Superintendent saying, with awful sarcasm, that it was nice to hear his voice, and adding that there was nothing he liked better than to be kept hanging about at Headquarters, particularly when he happened to have a date. To which the Chief Inspector replied suitably, not omitting to animadvert upon persons who sat all day with their feet on their desks. After which interchange of civilities, the Superintendent laughed, and said: “Well, how's it going, Stanley?”
“I've seen worse. What have you got for me?”
“Nothing that's likely to interest you, I'm afraid. Seems quite straightforward. Born in 1914, in Nottinghamshire. Only son of the Reverend James Arthur Lindale. Father still living, mother died in 1933; two sisters, one married, the other single. Educated at Stillingborough College. Joined his uncle's firm of Lindale & Crewe, stockbrokers, in 1933. Became a member of the Stock Exchange, 1935. Called up in 1939, and served with the R.A. until 1946, when he was demobilised—do you want his military record? He served all over the place, and picked up a D.S.O. Ended up as a Major, with the Army of Occupation, in Germany.”
“No, I don't think that's likely to be of much use. What's he been doing since he was demobilised?”
“He went back to the Stock Exchange for nearly five years. Lived in bachelor chambers, in Jermyn Street. There's nothing known about him, barring the bare facts I've given you. Hasn't even had his driving licence endorsed. He left the Stock Exchange at the end of 1950. That's all I've got for you.”
“I'm bound to say it isn't promising,” said Hemingway. “What about his wife?”
“He hasn't got one.”
“Yes, he has!” Hemingway said impatiently. “And a baby! I told you so, and what's more I asked you to look into her record too!”
“I know you did, but I haven't got anything here about her.”
“Who handled this?” demanded Hemingway suspiciously.
“Jimmy Wroxham.”
“Oh,” said Hemingway. “Well, it's not like him to miss anything that's wanted. You did tell him to look into the wife, Bob?”
“Yes, I did, and if I ever see half a chance of getting you dismissed from the service with ignominy—”
“You won't,” interrupted Hemingway. “No, look here, Bob, Jimmy must have slipped up! I've seen the set-up: husband and wife, and one baby, a year old. By what Lindale told me, I should say he was married about two years ago.”
“No record,” replied the Superintendent. “Jimmy had a talk with one of the partners of the firm he used to be with, and he didn't seem to know where he was now, or what he was doing. Said he left the Stock Exchange because he was unsettled by the War.”
“That's pretty much what Lindale told me. But, by what you've just read out to me, it looks as though it took him five years to decide he couldn't stick city life any longer. Did you say he had a couple of sisters living?”
“Yes. The elder one lives with the father—he's got a parish somewhere in the Midlands—and the younger one's married to a shipowner. Lives up near Birkenhead.”
“Birkenhead . . . Well, that's some way off. Might account for her never having been seen in these parts. I should have thought the other one would have visited him, though. Oh, well! Perhaps she can't leave the old man. Did Jimmy see the uncle?”
“No, he died in the last year of the War. No Lindales at all in the firm since your man pulled out.”
“Pity. He might have been able to wise us up. Something odd about this.”
“I don't see anything odd about it. The woman you've seen must be his mistress. It does happen, you know!”
Hemingway was frowning, and ignored this frivolity. “It hasn't got that appearance,” he said. “She isn't that type at all. It isn't that kind of household, either. Well, never mind! I've got another job I want done. Now, listen, Bob!”
He was still talking to Hinckley when Inspector Harbottle came into the office. The Inspector wore his usual air of impenetrable gloom, a circumstance which prompted his superior to tell the Superintendent that he must now ring off. “Because Dismal Desmond's just come in, and I can see he's suffered a bereavement. So-long, Bob!”
“If that was the Superintendent,” said Harbottle, eyeing him severely, “has he had the report on any of the bullets yet, sir?”
“Only the first. Nothing like the one we're after. We shall be getting the rest tomorrow.”
“It was not fired from Plenmeller's rifle?” said Harbottle, a strong inflexion of disappointment in his voice. “Well, I'm surprised!”
“I'm not,” replied Hemingway. “I fancy I see that bird leaving the rifle in the case for me to pick up, if he'd shot Warrenby with it!”
“Well,” said Harbottle, dissatisfied, “of all the people I've seen down here, I'd say he was the likeliest. I don't mind telling you, Chief, I took a dislike to him the instant I laid eyes on him.”
“I know you did, and I'll do my best to bring it home to him,” said Hemingway, who was jotting down various items in his notebook.
“It's no laughing matter,” said the Inspector austerely. “A wicked tongue shows a wicked nature! When he told you he had murdered his brother, I was never more shocked in my life. Even you, sir, would not talk about a thing like that as if it was a good joke!”
“Now, look here!” exclaimed Hemingway wrathfully.
“And, what is more,” continued the Inspector, paying no heed to him, “whatever I may have believed at the time, I believe him now!”
“You can believe what you like, but I'm not here to investigate the other Plenmeller's death. Carsethorn tells me there was no doubt he committed suicide, anyway.”
“Oh, he did that all right!” said Harbottle. “But, if you were to ask me, I should say this man was morally his murderer.”
“Well, he said he drove him to it, didn't he? What have you found to put you into this taking?”
“It hasn't, strictly speaking, anything to do with this case,” said Harbottle, “but I brought it along with those papers you see there, thinking you might like to read it. You'll recall that I told you Warrenby was the Coroner: well, I came upon the letter that unfortunate man wrote when he killed himself. Here it is! Now, you listen to this, sir! It's dated May 25th of the last year—that was the night he locked himself into his bedroom and gassed himself. "Dear Gavin, This is the last letter you'll receive from me, and I don't propose ever to set eyes on you again. You only want to come here for what you can get out of me, and to goad me into losing my temper with your damned tongue, and to be maddened by you on top of all I have to suffer is too much. I've reached the end of my tether. The place will be yours sooner than you think, and when you step into my shoes you can congratulate yourself on having done your bit towards finishing me off. You will, if I know you. Yours, Walter."' Harbottle laid the sheet of paper down. “And he was right, poor gentleman! He does congratulate himself!”
Hemingway picked up the letter, and glanced at it. “Yes, well, I don't like Plenmeller any more than you do, but I call it a damned mean thing to do, gas yourself and leave a letter like this behind you! Nice fo
r his brother to have to listen to it being read out in court!”
“You'd have thought he'd have left the district,” said Harbottle.
“I wouldn't, because, for one thing, he'd find it hard to get a price for his property here; and for another, although he may be a cold-blooded devil, he's got plenty of nerve.”
“Nerve enough to have shot Warrenby is what I think!”
“Lord, yes!” agreed Hemingway. “Nerve enough to shoot half the village, if it suited his book to do it! But if you're trying to make me believe he shot Warrenby just because he didn't happen to like him, you're wasting your time, Horace! I've been telling the Chief Constable that I don't know what constitutes a motive for murder, or what doesn't, but that was putting it a bit too high. I do know that no one, barring a lunatic, kills a chap because he thinks he's a pushing bounder! I daresay that's what his highness would like me to think, so as he can sit back and watch me making a fool of myself, but if he wants me to treat him as a hot suspect he'll have to give me a sniff of a real motive—and stop being the life and soul of the party! Did you find anything else at Warrenby's office?”
Harbottle glanced disparagingly at the papers on the desk. “I brought that lot along for you to look at, but I wouldn't say they were likely to lead you anywhere. There's some correspondence with one of the Town Councillors, which looks as if they'd had a row; and there's a whole lot of stuff about a trust for sale, which I can't say I quite get the hang of. Seems Mr. Drybeck was the principal trustee, and had the handling of it. Warrenby was acting for someone he calls by a fancy name I never heard before.” Harbottle picked up one of the clips of documents, and searched through them. “Here you are, sir! A Cestui que trust,” he said, laying the letter before his chief, and pointing to the words.
“Lawyers!” ejaculated Hemingway disgustedly. “Go and see if there's a dictionary on the premises, for the lord's sake!”
The Inspector went away, returning a few minutes later with a well-thumbed volume in his hand. “It's a person entitled to the benefit of a trust,” he announced.
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