He removed his hand from the door of the car, favoured Hemingway with one of his sardonic smiles, and limped away.
Constable Melkinthorpe’s feelings got the better of him. He drew an audible breath. ‘Well!’ he uttered. ‘He’s a one, and no mistake! Blessed if I know what to make of him!’
‘As no one wants you to make anything of him, that needn’t keep you awake! Get on with it!’ said Hemingway tartly.
Twelve
A few minutes later, the police-car was standing outside Rose Cottages, and the Chief Inspector was making the acquaintance of Mrs Ditchling and five of her seven children, who ranged in age from Gert, who was twenty, to Jackerleen, who was six. He would willingly have dispensed with the introductions which were forced upon him, but while Mrs Ditchling was cast into housewifely distraction by his visit, because she was afraid he would find the place a bit untidy – which was her way of describing a scene of such chaos as might be expected to exist in a very small cottage inhabited by seven persons, most of whom were of tender years – it was obviously considered by the rest of the family to constitute a red-letter day in their lives, Alfie, a young gentleman in velveteen knickers and Fair Isle jersey, going so far as to dash out into the garden at the back of the cottage yelling to his brother Claud to come quick, or else he wouldn’t see the detective.
In describing the scene later, to Inspector Harbottle, Hemingway admitted that he lost his grip at the outset. The Ditchlings were not only friendly: they were garrulous and inquisitive, and they all talked at once. The Chief Inspector, stunned by his reception, found himself weakly admiring a hideous toy rabbit made of pink plush, shown him by Jackerleen – or, as she was mercifully called, Jackie; answering questions fired at him with the remorselessness of machine-guns by Alfie, and his brother Claud; and endorsing Mrs Ditchling’s opinion that for Edie to leave her nice, steady job at Woolworth’s to become a film star would be an act of unparalleled folly. He was also put in possession of much information, such as the entire history of the late Mr Ditchling’s untimely demise; of the rapid rise, in Millinery, of Gert; of the medals Claud had won as a Boy Scout; of the trouble his mother had had over Alfie’s adenoids; of the letter Ted had written from his training-camp; and of the high opinion his employer held of Reg, who, unfortunately, was going to the pictures that evening, and so had not come home after work. ‘He will be upset!’ said Mrs Ditchling.
Everyone seemed to feel that the absent Reg was missing a rare treat, Gert saying that it was a shame, Claud asserting that he would be as sick as muck, and Jackerleen asking her mother several times, with increasing tearfulness, if Reg wouldn’t come home to see the pleeceman.
When the Chief Inspector at last managed to make known the reason for his visit, the confusion grew worse, for Mrs Ditchling, shocked to learn that his rifle had not yet been returned to the Vicar, related in detail the circumstances of Ted’s call-up, Gert asserted several times that Ted had told Reg particular not to forget to take the rifle back for him, Edie said that that was Reg all over, Claud and Alfie argued shrilly with one another on the certain whereabouts of the weapon, and Jackerleen reiterated her demand to know if Reg was not coming home to see the pleeceman.
‘Well, I hope to God he’s not!’ said Hemingway, plucking the two boys apart, and giving each a shake. ‘Stop it, the pair of you! You shut up, Alfie! Now then, Claud! If you’re a Wolf Cub, you just tell me where your brother put the Vicar’s rifle – and if I see you try to kick Alfie again, I’ll tell the Scoutmaster about you, so now!’
Thus admonished, Claud disclosed that Ted put the gun in his workshop, to be safe; and the whole party at once trooped out into the narrow strip of garden at the rear of the cottage. At the end of this was a wooden shed, which, Mrs Ditchling proudly informed Hemingway, Ted had erected with his own hands. But as the door into it was locked, and the key – if not mislaid, or taken away in a moment of aberration by Ted – was in the absent Reg’s possession, Claud’s statement could not be verified. A suggestion put forward by Alfie, who wanted action, that the lock should be forced, was vetoed by the Chief Inspector. He issued instructions that Reg was to bring the Vicar’s rifle to the police-station in Bellingham on his way to work on the following morning, refused the offer of a cup of tea, and left the premises. He was accompanied to the door by the entire family, who saw him off in the friendliest way, the two boys begging him to come to see them again, and Jackerleen not only saying goodbye to him on her own behalf, but adding by proxy, and in a squeaky voice, the plush rabbit’s farewell.
This scene so much astonished Constable Melkinthorpe that instead of showing his efficiency by starting his engine, and opening the door for Hemingway to get into the car, he sat staring with his mouth open.
‘Yes, you didn’t know I was their long-lost uncle, did you?’ said Hemingway. ‘For the lord’s sake, start her up, and look as if you were going to drive me to Bellingham, or we shall have Claud and Alfie trying to storm the car!’
‘Where am I to drive you, sir?’ asked Melkinthorpe.
‘To the end of the row. I’m going to call on Ladislas, but I don’t want that gang flattening their noses against the window.’
Fortunately the ruse succeeded, and by the time the car had reached the end of the row the Ditchlings had retired again indoors. Hemingway got out of the car, and walked back to Mrs Dockray’s cottage.
It was by this time nearly six o’clock, and Ladislas had returned from work. Ushered into the front sitting-room, by Mrs Dockray, who eyed him with considerable hostility, the Chief Inspector found that Ladislas was entertaining two unexpected visitors. Mavis Warrenby, attired from head to foot in funeral black, and Abby Dearham, had called to see him, on their way back, by country omnibus, from Bellingham. It did not seem to Hemingway that their visit was affording Ladislas any pleasure. He was a handsome young man, with dark and romantically waving locks, and brown eyes, as shy as a fawn’s. He was plainly frightened of the Chief Inspector, and lost no time in telling him, in very good English, that the ladies had just looked in on their way home. Miss Warrenby enlarged on this, saying in her earnest way: ‘Mr Zamagoryski is a great friend of mine, and I felt I must show him that I utterly believe in him, and know he had nothing to do with my poor uncle’s death.’
Looking anything but grateful for this testimony, Ladislas said: ‘It is so kind!’
Bestowing a smile of quiet understanding on him, Miss Warrenby took his hand, and pressed it in a speaking way. ‘You must have faith, Laddy,’ she said gently. ‘And shut your ears to gossip, as I do. I often think how much better the world would be if people would only remember the monkeys.’
‘But what good shall it do to remember monkeys?’ cried Ladislas, recovering possession of his hand. ‘Pardon! This is not sensible, to talk of monkeys!’
‘You don’t understand. Three little monkeys, illustrating what I always feel is a maxim we ought to try to –’
‘I get it!’ interrupted Abby triumphantly. ‘See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil! It’s all right, Ladislas: it’s only a saying, or something. Come on, Mavis! If the Chief Inspector wants to talk to Ladislas, we’d better clear out!’
Ladislas looked uncertainly from Hemingway to the ladies. Mavis said that perhaps he would prefer her to remain, her voice conveying so strong a suggestion that there existed between them a beautiful understanding that he looked more frightened than ever, and made haste to disclaim any desire for her support. So Mavis began reluctantly to collect her numerous parcels, and the Chief Inspector, retrieving from under the table a paper-carrier, handed it to her, saying that she seemed to have been doing a lot of shopping.
‘Only mourning,’ Mavis replied reverently, and with a slightly reproachful inflection. ‘I know it’s out of date to go into mourning, but I think myself it is a mark of respect. So I asked Miss Dearham if she would go into Bellingham with me, because I didn’t quite feel I could go alone – though I know I must get used to being alone now.’
A
s she spoke, she turned her eyes towards Ladislas, who avoided her gaze, looking instead, and with considerable trepidation, at Hemingway.
‘Quite so,’ said Hemingway. ‘Did you respect your uncle, miss?’
This direct question made her blink at him. ‘What an extraordinary thing to ask me!’ she said. ‘Of course I did!’
‘Do you mean really, or because he’s dead?’ asked Abby, unable to suppress her curiosity.
‘Abby, I know you don’t mean it, but I do so hate that cynical sort of talk! I was very, very fond of Uncle Sampson, and naturally I respected him.’
‘Well, that interests me very much,’ said Hemingway. ‘Because, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss, you seem to be about the only person I’ve met who did respect him.’
‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘I knew him better than anyone else did.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘So perhaps you can tell me why he managed to get himself disliked. Now, don’t say he wasn’t disliked, because I know he was and you must have known it too!’
If he had hoped to startle her out of her self-possession by these bludgeon-like tactics, he was destined to be disappointed. She only looked at him in a soulful way, and said: ‘I always think it’s such a pity to judge by exteriors, don’t you? My dear uncle had lots of little foibles, but under them he had a heart of gold. People just didn’t know him. Of course, he wasn’t perfect – everyone has some faults, haven’t they? But it’s like that beautiful little verse I learned when I was at school, and made up my mind I’d try to live up to.’ She sighed, smiled and, to the acute discomfort of Miss Abigail Dearham, recited in a rapt tone: ‘“There is so much good in the worst of us, And so much bad in the best of us, That it hardly becomes any of us To talk about the rest of us.”’
‘Gosh!’ uttered Abby, revolted. ‘Did they really make you learn rancid things like that at your school? Mine was much better! We used to learn really good things, like “Fair stood the wind for France”, and “Edward, Edward”, and “Lord Randal, my son”. There was some sense in that! Come on, we must go!’
The Chief Inspector raising no objection, she then hustled Mavis out of the room, and was heard adjuring her, in the passage, not to talk such ghastly tripe, because it made everyone want to be sick.
The Chief Inspector was left confronting Ladislas, who appeared to believe that he had fallen into the hands of the Gestapo. ‘I can tell you nothing!’ he declared, standing with his back to the wall. ‘It does not matter what you do to me, I can tell you nothing, for I know nothing!’
‘Well, if that’s so it wouldn’t be any use doing anything to you,’ remarked Hemingway. ‘Not that I was going to. I don’t know what antics they get up to in Poland, but in England you don’t have to be afraid of the police. Are you and Miss Warrenby going to get married, may I ask?’
‘No! A thousand times no!’
‘All right, all right, there’s no need to get excited about it! Just a friend of yours?’
‘She is most kind,’ said Ladislas, more quietly, but watching him suspiciously. ‘I do not have many friends here. When I am presented to her, I am pleased, for she is sympathetic, she asks me about my own country, and she herself is not happy, for that one, her uncle, is a tyrant, and, like me, she does not have friends. I do not think of marriage. I swear it!’
‘Her uncle was unkind to Miss Warrenby, was he?’
‘But yes! She does not say so – she is very good, she makes no complaint – but I have eyes, I am not a fool! She does even the work of a servant, for it is a large house, that, and there is only one servant who is in it, living in it! Miss Warrenby has told me that when the other became married to the gardener Mr Warrenby would not have another to replace her, for he was not generous, and he said Miss Warrenby had nothing to do, so she could do work in the house. And always she must be obedient, and she must be at home to wait on this uncle, and to be polite to his friends, but her own friends she must not have, no!’
‘Didn’t like her making a friend of you, in fact?’ Hemingway paused, but Ladislas only glared at him. ‘How was that?’
‘I am Polish!’ Ladislas uttered bitterly.
‘He didn’t, by any chance, get it into his head that you wanted to marry Miss Warrenby?’
‘It is untrue!’
‘All right, don’t get excited! Did you see Mr Warrenby when you went to the house on Saturday?’
‘No!’
‘Yes, you did. What was he doing?’
Ladislas broke into impassioned speech, the gist of the torrent of words which burst from him being that if he were not a foreigner the Chief Inspector would not dare to question him, or to doubt his word.
‘In my job, we get into the way of doubting people’s words,’ said Hemingway equably. ‘Besides, you’ve got a trick of telling first one story and then another, which confuses me. You told Sergeant Carsethorn you didn’t go to Fox House, and when he didn’t believe that, you said you did. You told him you went to the back-door. Which leads me to think that you knew Mr Warrenby was in the house, because you’d seen him. I daresay you reconnoitred a bit, and I’m sure I don’t blame you, for he seems to have been the sort of man no one would have wanted to meet if they could have avoided it. So now you tell me just what did happen!’
This matter-of-fact speech appeared to damp Ladislas’ passion. After staring at Hemingway for a moment, he said in a flattened voice: ‘When I say I did not see him, I mean – I mean –’
‘You mean you did,’ supplied Hemingway. ‘Comes of being foreign, and not being able to speak English right, I daresay.’
Ladislas gulped. ‘He was in his study. He was reading some papers.’
Hemingway nodded. ‘At his desk? You could see him from the road, easy, if that was where he was. So then, according to what you told Carsethorn, you slipped up to the back-door, which, I must say, seems to me a silly thing to have done, because, for one thing, I’ve seen the path which the tradesmen use, and it runs up that side of the house, so that I should have thought you’d have caught Mr Warrenby’s eye; and, for another, unless he was uncommonly deaf, I should have expected him to have heard you knocking on the back-door. However, if that’s your story, I don’t mind: it doesn’t seem to me to matter much.’
‘Now I shall tell you the truth!’ said Ladislas impulsively. ‘I did not go to the door! I went away, because I do not wish to make trouble for Miss Warrenby, and if her uncle is at home it is plain to me that she cannot go with me anywhere. It makes nothing!’
‘Only a bit of extra work for the police, and that’s fair enough, isn’t it?’ said Hemingway.
He left Ladislas hovering between doubt and relief, and went out to find that Constable Melkinthorpe was no longer alone. He had left the car, and was standing beside it, grinning down at an aged and disreputable individual in a much-patched suit of clothes and a greasy cap, which he wore at a raffish angle wholly inappropriate to his advanced years. Beside him stood a buxom lady, who appeared to be torn between anxiety and annoyance; and, eyeing them both in a boding fashion, was a stout and middle-aged constable. As the Chief Inspector paused for a moment, surveying the group, the buxom lady tried to take the old gentleman’s arm, and besought him urgently to give over, and come off home to his tea.
‘You lemme go, or I’ll fetch you a clip!’ said the Oldest Inhabitant, in shrill but slightly indistinct tones, and brandishing a serviceable ash-plant. ‘Wimmen! I ’ates the sight of them! I’m a-going to ’ave a few words with the Lunnon ’tec, and it ’ud take more than a nasty, meddling female to stop me! Ah! And more than a muttonheaded flat-foot wot never got no promotion, and never would, not if he lived to be as old as wot I am, which ’e won’t, becos ’e eats too much – unless it ain’t fat, but dropsy ’e’s got.’
‘Father!’ expostulated his daughter, giving his arm a shake. ‘You’ve got no call to be rude to Mr Hobkirk! If you don’t stop it –’
‘You give me any more of your imperence, Bi
ggleswade, and you’ll wish you’d kept a civil tongue in your head!’ interrupted Constable Hobkirk, swelling with wrath.
‘Mr Biggleswade to you, Mr Hobkirk!’ instantly responded the lady, with a sudden veering of sympathy. ‘Ninety years old he is, and I’ll thank you to remember it! Now, come along with you, Father, do!’
‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Hemingway, stepping up to the group.
Constable Melkinthorpe so far forgot himself as to wink at his superior, but Hobkirk replied in official accents: ‘Police Constable Hobkirk, sir, reporting –’
‘You shut your gob, young feller!’ commanded Mr Biggleswade. ‘You ain’t got nothing to report. It’s me as’ll do the reporting. I’m going to ’ave me pitcher in the papers, and a bit wrote about me underneath it.’
‘All right, grandfather!’ said Hemingway goodnaturedly. ‘But give the constable a chance! What’s the matter, Hobkirk?’
‘If there was anything the matter, which there ain’t,’ said the obstreperous Mr Biggleswade, ‘it wouldn’t do you no good to go asking ’im, because ’e ain’t seen beyond that great stomach of ’is for years – not but wot that’s far enough. Nor I won’t ’ave me words took out of me mouth by ’im, nor by you neither, becos the police never ’ad nothing on me, and I ain’t afraid of any of you!’
‘You’re a wicked old man, that’s what you are!’ exploded the sorely-tried Hobkirk. ‘Before you got so as you couldn’t do more than hobble about with a stick, you was the worst poacher in the county, and well I know it!’
Mr Biggleswade’s villainous countenance creased into a myriad wrinkles, and he gave vent to a senile chuckle. ‘That’s more than you could prove, my lad,’ he said. ‘I don’t say I weren’t, nor yet I don’t say I were, but wot I do say is that I were a sight too smart for all them gurt fools to catch.’
Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 04 Page 19
