‘On you, sir?’
‘God knows! I shouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t dare do so to my face, of course.’
‘Well, you may be right,’ said Hemingway, ‘but I’m bound to say that when I met Mr Plenmeller he was sitting with Major Midgeholme, and he didn’t make any bones about telling me I should soon discover what the Major’s motive was for having shot Mr Warrenby.’
Lindale stared at him. ‘Poisonous fellow! He knows better than to try that sort of thing on with me.’
‘Do you know of any reason why he should have wanted Mr Warrenby out of the way, sir?’
‘No. Nor am I saying that I think he’s your man. But I fail to see why he should have the sole right to fling mud about! What’s he doing it for? I call it damned malicious – particularly if it’s true that he’s made that unfortunate girl, Mavis Warrenby, one of his targets. I shouldn’t have said anything if it hadn’t been for his behaviour, but if that’s his line, all right, then, I’d like to know first why he had it in for Warrenby more than anyone else, and then why he made an excuse to leave that party on Saturday after tea!’
‘Did he, sir?’ said Hemingway. ‘I thought he left when you and Mr Ainstable did, not to mention Miss Dearham and Mr Drybeck?’
‘Finally, yes. Before that, he made a futile excuse to go home and fetch something the Squire wanted.’
‘What would that have been, sir?’
‘Some correspondence to do with the appointment of a new solicitor to the River Board. The Squire wanted me to take a look at it, but any time would have done!’
‘This River Board does keep cropping up,’ remarked Hemingway. ‘Were you one of the Riparian Owners that were anxious to keep Warrenby out of the job?’
‘I can’t say I cared much either way,’ said Lindale, shrugging. ‘I expect I should have allowed myself to be guided by the Squire: he knows more about it than I do, and he seemed inclined to think Warrenby would be a suitable man to appoint.’
‘I see, sir. And when did Mr Plenmeller leave The Cedars to go and fetch this correspondence – which I take it was in his possession!’
‘When the sets were being arranged after we’d all finished tea. I should say it was at about six. As far as I remember he was gone about half an hour. He got back before my wife left: that I do know, because she told me so.’
‘His house being half a mile from The Cedars, if I remember rightly,’ said Hemingway.
‘Oh, don’t run away with the idea that I’m suggesting he didn’t go to his house! I think he did. It could take him half an hour, and he could have done it in less time if he’d been put to it. That short leg of his doesn’t incapacitate him as much as you might think.’
‘No, he told me it didn’t,’ said Hemingway mildly. ‘So what is it you are suggesting, sir?’
Lindale did not answer for a minute, but stood frowning at his pipe, which had gone out. He looked up at last, and said:
‘Not suggesting anything except a possibility. Which is that he might have gone home to pick up his rifle – if he had one, but that I don’t know: I’ve never seen him with a gun. And to cache it somewhere along the footpath, near The Cedars’ front-gate.’
Hemingway eyed him speculatively. ‘Found he’d come out without it, so to speak?’
‘No. Not having known, until he got to The Cedars, that he would have the opportunity to use it!’ said Lindale. ‘Warrenby had also been invited to that party, and he cried off at the last moment. Which meant that he was certain to be at home, and alone. Now do you get it? Plenmeller left when young Haswell motored Abby Dearham and old Drybeck, and the Major home. Who’s to say that he didn’t nip into the footpath once the car was out of sight? What was he doing between the time he left The Cedars, at the end of the party, and the time – whenever that was – he turned up at the Red Lion?’
Hemingway shook his head. ‘I’m no good at riddles: you tell me!’
‘I can’t tell you, because I’m no good at riddles either, but it seems to me it’s something the police might look into instead of nosing round my place, and scaring my wife!’ said Lindale, his eyes smouldering. ‘I don’t know whether Plenmeller did it, or even if he had any reason to do it – not that I think that ’ud worry him! I’ve often wondered whether these fellows who are so damned clever at murdering people on paper ever put their methods into practice – but I can see how he could have concealed a light rifle without exciting any suspicion, supposing he’d walked into someone. Ever thought that that limp of his might be turned to good account?’
‘Well, it’s the sort of thing that’s bound to strike one sooner or later, isn’t it?’ said Hemingway, picking up his hat.
Lindale escorted him out to the waiting car. ‘No doubt you think I shouldn’t have said any of this. I daresay I shouldn’t have, if I didn’t know that Plenmeller himself had no such scruples! You can tell him, if you like: I’ve no objection.’
‘Well, from what I’ve seen of him,’ said Hemingway, ‘I don’t suppose he’d have any objection either. I hope we shall be able to let you have your rifle back in a day or two. Good-day to you, sir!’
Constable Melkinthorpe, sedately driving towards the gate, hoped that his unconventional passenger might tell him what had been the outcome of his interview, but all Hemingway said was, ‘Can we get to the Ainstables’ house from where we are?’
‘Old Place, sir? Yes, sir: there’s an entrance on to this road. Matter of a mile farther on. Shall I drive there now?’
Hemingway nodded. ‘Yes, but you can pull up first by this footpath I’ve heard so much about.’
Melkinthorpe obeyed, turning to the right as he emerged from the farm, and stopping a hundred yards up the road. Hemingway alighted, and slammed the door. ‘Right! You wait here!’ he said, and walked off down the footpath.
On his left lay the common; on his right, for about a hundred yards, a ditch surmounted by a post-and-wire fence separated the path from a plantation of young fir-trees. A lichened stone wall marked its southern boundary, and this wall then flanked the path for perhaps fifty yards. Hemingway knew that behind it lay part of the garden of The Cedars, and took note of the position of the gate, set in it at its southern end. Just beyond the gate, the wall turned at right-angles again, completely shutting the gardens from view. The path then continued for another fifty yards between the common and a small spinney, before curving sharply westward to join Wood Lane at a point immediately south of The Cedars’ front-gate. Where it turned to the west, a stile had been set, giving access to it from Fox Lane.
Hemingway paused there for a few minutes, thoughtfully considering the lie of the land. He glanced along the path, but a bend in it hid Wood Lane from his sight. Over the stile Fox House could be seen, through the trees in its garden, and so too could the gorse clump on the rising common, gleaming gold behind the bole of an elm-tree growing beside the lane. Uncultured voices, and the flutter of a summer-frock, informed the Chief Inspector that in one of his surmises at least he had been right: Fox Lane had suddenly become attractive to sightseers. He pursed up his mouth, shook his head slightly, and walked back to the main road, disappointing his chauffeur by saying nothing more, as he got into the car, than: ‘Go ahead!’
The Hawkshead-road entrance to Old Place consisted merely of a white farm-gate, opening on to a narrow, unmade road, with grass growing between the wheel-ruts. Melkinthorpe explained that it was only a secondary way to the house, the real entrance, which he described as proper big gates, with a lodge and all, lying at the end of Thornden High Street.
‘Nice place,’ commented Hemingway, as they drove along the track. ‘Mixture of park and woodland. Does it end at the road, or was that the Squire’s land beyond the road, where they’ve been felling all those trees?’
‘I believe his land stretches as far as the river, sir. He owns a lot of the houses around here, too.’
‘That’s no catch, these days,’ said Hemingway.
He said no more, but when the car pres
ently drew up before the house his quick eye had absorbed more than the indestructible beauty of the park. The road had led them past a small home-farm (with two more gates to be opened and shut), and what had once been an extensive vegetable-garden, with an orchard beyond it; and had reached the front-drive by way of the stable-yard, where weeds sprouted between the cobblestones, and rows of doors, which should have stood with their upper halves open, were shut, the paint on them blistered and cracked. Where half a dozen men had once found congenial employment one middle-aged groom was all that was to be seen. ‘Progress,’ said Chief Inspector Hemingway. But he said it to himself, well-knowing that his companion, inevitably reared in the hazy and impracticable beliefs of democracy-run-riot, would derive a deep, if uninformed, gratification from the reflection that yet another landowner had been obliged, through excessive taxation, to throw out of work the greater part of his staff.
As though to lend colour to these sadly retrogressive thoughts, Constable Melkinthorpe said, as he drew up before the house:
‘They say the Squire used to have half a dozen gardeners, and I don’t know how many grooms and gamekeepers and such. Of course, things are different now.’
‘They are,’ said the Chief Inspector, getting out of the car. ‘And the people as notice it most are those gardeners and grooms and gamekeepers. So you put that into your pipe, my lad, and smoke it!’
With which damping words he left Constable Melkinthorpe gaping at him, and walked up to the door of Old Place.
A tug at the iron bell-pull presently brought to the door a grizzled servitor, who, upon learning his name and calling, bowed in a manner that contrived to convey to the Chief Inspector his respect for the Law, and his contempt for its minions. Combining courtesy with disdain, he consigned the Chief Inspector to a chair in the hall, and went away to discover what his employers’ pleasure might be.
When he returned he was accompanied by Mrs Ainstable, two Sealyham terriers, and a young Irish setter, who effusively made the Chief Inspector welcome.
‘Down!’ commanded Mrs Ainstable. ‘I’m so sorry! Down, you idiot!’
Hemingway, having wrestled successfully with the setter’s advances, and brushed the hairs from his coat, said: ‘Yes, you’re a beauty, aren’t you? Now, that’ll do! Down!’
‘How nice of you not to mind him!’ said Mrs Ainstable. ‘He isn’t properly trained yet.’ Her tired, strained eyes ran over the Chief Inspector. ‘You want to see my husband, I expect. He went down to the estate room a little while ago, so I’ll take you there, shall I? It’ll save time, and since that’s where he kept his rifle I’m sure you’d like to see the place.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
Her light laugh sounded. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever had so much excitement in Thornden before!’
‘I should think you must hope you never will have again,’ said Hemingway, following her down a passage to a door opening on to a rather overgrown shrubbery.
‘I must admit that I wish it had never happened,’ she replied. ‘So horrid to have a murder in one’s midst! It worries my husband, too. He can’t get over his belief that he’s responsible for Thornden. Have you any idea who did it? Oh, I mustn’t ask you that, must I? Particularly when my husband is one of the possibles. I wish I’d waited for him, and made him drive home with me.’
‘You left the tennis-party early, didn’t you, madam?’
‘Yes, I only looked in for tea. I’m rather a crock, and don’t play tennis. And it was so insufferably hot, that day!’
‘Do you know what time it was when you left, madam?’
‘No, I don’t think I do. Does it matter? Sometime after six, I should say. Ask Mr Plenmeller! I met him just as I was starting. He might know when that was.’
‘That would have been when he was returning with some papers for your husband?’
Again she laughed. ‘Yes, were you told about that?’
‘I was told he made an excuse to leave the party after tea, and came back half an hour later. I didn’t know he had met you, madam.’
She paused, turning her head quickly to look at him. ‘That sounds as if someone were trying to make mischief! Well, it serves him right! Hoist with his own petard. Were you told why he made an excuse to go away?’
‘No, I can’t say I was, madam. Do you know why?’
‘Yes, of course: everyone knew! It was quite atrocious and entirely typical. When they made up two sets after tea, Miss Warrenby was one over, and she elected to sit out. Which meant she would talk to Gavin Plenmeller. So he said he must go home to fetch some papers for my husband. You can’t be surprised that he makes enemies.’
‘No,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘And you think everyone knew why he went away?’
‘Oh, well, everyone who heard him! Mrs Haswell said that he and Miss Warrenby must keep one another company, upon which he told Mr Lindale, in what he may have meant to be an undertone but which was all too audible, that this was where he must think fast. Whether Miss Warrenby heard it, I don’t know: I did! Here we are: this is the estate room. Bernard, are you very busy? I have brought Chief Inspector Hemingway to see you.’
Two steps led up to the open door of the room, which was a large, square apartment, severely furnished with a roll-top desk, a stout table, some filing cabinets, and several leather-seated chairs. A map of the estate hung on one wall, and a door at one side of the room gave access to another and smaller office. The Squire was seated at the table, official forms spread before him. He looked up under his brows, and favoured Hemingway with a hard stare before rising to his feet. ‘Scotland Yard?’ he said brusquely. ‘You ought to be resting, Rosamund.’
‘Nonsense, dear!’ said Mrs Ainstable, sitting down, and taking a cigarette from the box on the table. ‘Resting, when we actually have the CID on the premises? It’s far too interesting! Like living in one of Gavin’s books.’
He looked at her, but said nothing. Glancing up, as she lit her cigarette, she smiled at him, reassuringly, Hemingway thought.
The Squire transferred his attention to Hemingway. ‘Sit down, won’t you? What can I do for you?’
The tone was more that of a commanding officer than a man undergoing interrogation. Hemingway recognised it, appreciated it, and realised that the Squire was not going to be an easy man to question. But those responsible for putting him in charge of this case had not chosen him at random. ‘Old County families mixed up in this business. Likely to be sticky,’ had said the Assistant Commissioner, to Hemingway’s immediate superior and lifelong friend, Superintendent Hinckley. ‘I think we’ll send Hemingway down. I don’t pretend to know how he does it – and probably it’s just as well that I don’t, for I’ve no doubt he behaves in a thoroughly unorthodox fashion – but he does seem to be able to handle that kind of difficult witness.’ To which Superintendent Hinckley had replied, with a grin: ‘He can be exasperating, can’t he, sir? Still, there it is! Myself, I’ve got a notion it’s those unconventional ways of his that kind of take people off their guard. And it’s a fact, as you said yourself, that he does bring home the bacon. He’s got what he calls –’ But at this point the Assistant Commissioner had interrupted him, uttering savagely: ‘Flair! You needn’t tell me! And it’s perfectly true, blast him!’
The Chief Inspector would have had no hesitation in ascribing the first question he put to the Squire to his mysterious flair. Taking a chair on the opposite side of the table, he said, at his most affable: ‘Thank you, sir. Well, I thought I’d best come up to have a chat with you, because I understand you were by way of being a friend of Mr Warrenby’s.’
This unexpected gambit had the effect of producing a silence which lasted just long enough to satisfy the Chief Inspector. No one, watching him, would have supposed that he was paying any particular attention to either of his auditors, but although he chose that moment to pat one of the Sealyhams, who was sniffing his trouser-leg, he missed neither the Squire’s stare, nor the slight rigidity which held his rather restless wife suddenly
still, her gaze lowered to an unblinking scrutiny of her burning cigarette.
The Squire broke the silence. ‘Don’t know that I should put it as high as that,’ he said. ‘I got on perfectly well with him. No sense in living at loggerheads with one’s neighbours.’
‘No,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘Though, by all accounts, he wasn’t an easy man to get on with. Which is why I thought I might find it helpful to have a talk with someone who wasn’t what you might call prejudiced against him. Or for him, if it comes to that. What with Miss Warrenby on the one side, and pretty well everyone else on the other, the thing I want is an unbiased view. How did he come to get himself so much disliked, sir?’
The Squire took a moment or two to answer this, covering his hesitation by pushing the cigarette-box towards Hemingway, and saying: ‘Don’t know if you smoke?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hemingway, taking a cigarette.
‘Difficult question to answer,’ said the Squire. ‘I never came up against Warrenby myself: always very civil to me! But the fact of the matter was that he was a bit of an outsider. Pushing, and that sort of thing. No idea how to conduct himself in a place like this. Got people’s backs up. Before the War, of course, – but it’s no use thinking backwards. Got to move with the times. No use ostracising fellows like Warrenby, either. Got to accept them, and do what one can to teach them the way to behave.’
Yes, thought the Chief Inspector, you’re a hard nut to crack, Squire! Aloud, he said: ‘Would you have put it beyond him to have gone in for a bit of polite blackmail to get his own way, sir?’
The ash from Mrs Ainstable’s cigarette dropped on to her skirt. She brushed it off, exclaiming: ‘What a lurid thought! Who on earth did he find to blackmail in these respectable parts?’
‘Well, you never know, do you?’ said Hemingway thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been having a talk with his head clerk, and it set me wondering, madam.’
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