Detection Unlimited ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “I'm bound to say it must be a nuisance for you,” admitted Hemingway. “But if we weren't allowed to make enquiries we wouldn't get much farther, would we?”

  “Neither my husband nor I can possibly be of any use to you!” she said impatiently. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Oh, I just want to ask you both a few questions!” he replied. “May I come in?”

  She seemed to hesitate, and then, reluctantly, stood aside for him to pass, saying ungraciously, as she pushed open a door on the right of the passage. “Oh, all right! Go in there, will you? I'll send to fetch my husband.”

  She then walked away down the passage, and could be heard a minute later shouting to one Walter to tell the master he was wanted up at the house. When she came back to the sitting-room, she still wore a defensive look, but said, with a perfunctory smile: “Sorry if I bit your head off! But, really, it's a bit much! We've already told the police all we know about what happened on Saturday, and the answer is nothing. I left The Cedars just after half-past six, and came straight back here to put my baby to bed. I can't tell you the exact moment when my husband left: he was still playing tennis when I went away: but I happen to know he wasn't anywhere near Fox Lane when Mr. Warrenby was shot!”

  Hemingway, who rarely found it necessary to consult his notes, said affably: “Ah, that's a bit of evidence the local police must have forgotten to give me! It's a good job I came. How do you happen to know it, madam?”

  “Because he was down by the water-meadows,” she replied, boldly meeting his eyes. “I saw him there!”

  “You did?” said Hemingway, all polite interest.

  “I'll take you up and show you the window, if you like. You can see the water-meadows from one of the attics. I happened to run up to get something—we keep a lot of junk stored in the attics—and I distinctly saw my husband!” She paused, and added: “I'm sure I told the other detective, when he first came to see us! I'd be ready to swear I did!”

  “I don't doubt that for a moment,” said Hemingway. “Or you might have had your reasons for not telling Sergeant Carsethorn at the time.”

  “What possible reason could I have had?”

  “Well, I don't know, but perhaps you hadn't realised, when the Sergeant first called on you, that you could see the water-meadows from that attic window,” suggested Hemingway.

  Her colour rose, flaming into her naturally pale face. “Of course I knew it! I didn't tell the Sergeant—but I'm nearly sure I did!—it must have been because I was so shocked and startled by the news that Mr. Warrenby had been shot that it momentarily slipped my mind!”

  “What brought it back to your mind—if I may ask?” said Hemingway.

  “When I had time to think—going back over what I did after I got home on Saturday—” She broke off, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her thin hands together.

  Hemingway shook his head. “You shouldn't have kept it from the Sergeant when he came to pick up your husband's rifle this morning,” he said, more in sorrow than in anger.

  “If you like to come upstairs you can see for yourself!”

  “I don't disbelieve you,” said Hemingway, adding apologetically: “That you can see the water-meadow from the attic, I mean.”

  There was a moment's silence. “Look here!” said Delia Lindale fiercely. “I can tell you you're wasting your time! We hardly knew Mr. Warrenby, and we can't tell you anything! Why don't you ask Mr. Ainstable what he did after he parted from my husband on Saturday? Why didn't he go home in the car, with his wife? Why did he suddenly decide to visit his plantation? I suppose, just because the Ainstables have lived here for centuries, they're above suspicion! Like Gavin Plenmeller! You might find out what he was up to, instead of coming here to badger me! Why shouldn't it have been he? He loathed Mr. Warrenby! Ask Miss Patterdale if it isn't true that he said steps would have to be taken to get rid of him! I was standing beside her when he said it, at a cocktail-party the Ainstables gave last month, and so was Mr. Cliburn! The Warrenbys were both at the party, and I can tell you this!—everyone was saying how extraordinary it was of the Squire to have invited them! Particularly when he knew that Mr. Warrenby was pretty well barred in the neighbourhood!”

  “Why was that?” enquired Hemingway.

  “Because he was a bounder, I suppose. The sort of person the Ainstables look down their noses at. They don't welcome Tom, Dick, and Harry to Old Place, I assure you! In fact, I'm dead sure Mrs. Ainstable wouldn't have called on me if it hadn't been for Miss Patterdale's asking her to! She as good as said so! I—I don't want to try to cast suspicion on anyone, but I do wonder whether Mr. Warrenby had some sort of hold over the Squire. Since this happened, I've naturally thought about it a good deal, trying to think who might have had a reason for shooting Mr. Warrenby, and remembering all sorts of little incidents, which, at the time, I didn't attach any importance to—”

  “Such as?” interpolated Hemingway.

  “Oh—! Mr. Ainstable trying to get my husband to back Warrenby for the River Board lawyer, for instance! I can't see what it matters, who gets the job, but no one but the Squire wanted it to be Warrenby. And now, when I think it over, I wonder why the Squire wanted him instead of Mr. Drybeck? Mr. Drybeck is his own solicitor, and an old friend, and he wants the appointment, too.”

  The sound of a firm step on the flagged passage made her break off, and turn her head towards the door. Kenelm Lindale came into the room, a slight frown between his eyes. He was dressed in ancient grey slacks, and a colour shirt, open at the throat, and he looked to be both hot and annoyed. “Police?” he said shortly.

  “It's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard,” his wife warned him. “I've told him we can't help him!”

  He dug a handkerchief out of his trouser-pocket, and wiped his face, and the back of his neck. “All right,” he said, looking at Hemingway. “What is it you want to know? We've started to cut the hay, so I shall be glad if you can make it snappy.”

  “I just want to check up on your evidence, sir,” said Hemingway mendaciously. “We do have to be so careful, in the Department. Now, I think you said you left that tennis-party at about ten to seven, didn't you?”

  “As near as I can make it: I don't know exactly, but I think it was about then. Mr. Ainstable and I left together, by the garden-gate. He may know when it was. I haven't asked him.”

  “When did you part from Mr. Ainstable, sir?”

  “Couple of minutes later, I suppose. He turned off into his new plantation, which runs behind The Cedars. I went on. You'll see that one of my farm-gates opens on to the road opposite the footpath leading to the village. It's about a hundred yards up the road from here. I came in by that gate, and went to see how my chaps had got on with a job I set them to in one of my water-meadows. I was in the house by half-past seven: that I do know, because I happened to look at the clock in the passage.”

  “Oh, darling, were you going by the grandfather?” said Mrs. Lindale quickly. “I thought you were relying on your watch! That clock was ten minutes fast: I put it right when I wound it up yesterday. I'm sorry: I ought to have told you, but I didn't know you were going by it.”

  Her husband looked at her, and after a tiny pause said lamely: “Oh!” He went to the fireplace, and selected a pipe from a collection on the mantelshelf, and took the lid off an old-fashioned tobacco-jar. As he began to fill the pipe, his eyes on his task, the frown deepened on his brow. He said deliberately: “I don't think it can have been as fast as all that, Delia. I could hardly have been down to the water-meadows and got back here by twenty-past seven.”

  She swallowed. “No. Of course not. Which is why I should think you really left The Cedars earlier than ten to seven. Time's so deceptive, and when you've got no particular reason for looking at your watch . . .” Her voice tailed off uncertainly and she did not finish the sentence.

  “And did you happen to notice what the time was when you saw Mr. Lindale down in the water-meadow, madam?” asked Hemingway, his eyes
not on her face, but on her husband's.

  Lindale looked up quickly. “What's this?”

  “Kenelm, you know I told you I'd caught sight of you from the attic window!”

  If Lindale felt exasperation, no hint of it appeared in his face. He put an arm round Delia's shoulders, and hugged her slightly. “You silly kid!” he said. “You mustn't try to mislead the police, you know: you'll get had up for being an accessory after the fact, won't she, Chief Inspector?”

  “Well, I might charge her with trying to obstruct me in the execution of my duties,” agreed Hemingway.

  Lindale laughed. “Hear that? Now, you go and attend to Rose-Veronica before you get yourself into trouble! She was making a spirited attempt to tip the pram up when I came in.”

  “But, Kenelm—”

  “You don't want my wife, do you, Chief Inspector?” Lindale interrupted.

  “No, sir, not at the moment.”

  “Then you trot off, darling, and leave me to have a talk with the Chief Inspector,” Lindale said, propelling her gently but firmly to the door.

  She looked up at him, a little flushed, her mouth unsteady. The she jerked out: “All right!” and left the room.

  Lindale shut the door behind her, and turned to look at Hemingway. “Sorry about that!” he said. “My wife is not only extremely highly-strung, but she's also firmly convinced that anyone not provided with a cast-iron alibi must instantly become a red-hot suspect, in the eyes of the police. Queer things, women!”

  “I could see Mrs. Lindale was very nervous, of course,” said Hemingway noncommittally.

  “As a matter of fact, she's very shy,” explained Lindale. “And she didn't like Warrenby. I can't make her believe that that doesn't constitute a reason for suspecting either of us of having shot him.”

  “Do I take it that you didn't like him either, sir?”

  “No, I didn't like him. No one did here. Bit of an outsider, you know. Not that we ever had much to do with him. We don't go out much: no time for it.”

  “I understand you haven't lived here long?”

  “No, we're newcomers. I bought this place a couple of years ago only.”

  “It must be a change from stockbroking,” remarked Hemingway.

  “After the War, I couldn't settle down to the Stock Exchange again. I did have a shot at it, but what with one thing and another I was thankful to get out. Things aren't what they were.” He struck a match, and began to light his pipe. “That chap—don't remember what his name is—who came to pick up my .22 this morning! I take it you want to test it, and I've no objection to that, but I think it's only fair to say that I don't see how anyone could have taken it without my knowing. I keep it in the room I use as my office, and there's a Yale lock on the door. I don't run to a safe yet, you see, and I often have quite a bit of cash in the house. Wages, and that sort of thing, which I have to put in my desk.”

  “Yes, sir, Sergeant Carsethorn did tell me that you said no one could have got hold of your rifle.”

  “Well, he asked me several questions about it which he led me to think he had young Ladislas in mind. I expect you know about him: one of these unfortunate expatriates. It's quite true that I lent the rifle to him a little while ago—which I know is a technical misdemeanour—and that I also gave him some cartridges. I should like to make it quite plain that he returned the rifle to me the same evening, and gave me back all the unused cartridges.”

  “Been up here worrying you about it, has he?” said Hemingway sympathetically. “Very excitable, these foreigners. That's all right, sir: I shan't arrest him because he borrowed your rifle a few weeks ago.”

  “I can't be surprised that he's got the wind up. It seems that that Sergeant put him through it pretty strictly, and there's no doubt there's a lot of prejudice against the Poles.”

  “Well, I shan't arrest him for that reason either,” said Hemingway.

  “There's apparently a lot of talk going on in Thornden about his having run after Mavis Warrenby,” said Lindale. “That's what's upset him. Says he meant nothing, and I believe him! Nice enough girl—kind-hearted and all that sort of thing—but she's no oil-painting. It's not my affair, but if I were you I wouldn't waste my time on Ladislas.” He bit on his pipe-stem for a moment, and then removed the pipe from his mouth, saying bluntly: “Look here! I don't want to meddle in what's no concern of mine, but I've got a certain amount of fellow-feeling with young Ladislas! I've had some! It's come to my ears that because my wife and I are a damned sight too busy to buzz around doing the social the village gossips are spreading it about that there's something queer about us! Mystery couple! Mystery my foot! The fact that you've turned up today shows me clearly enough that you've heard this tripe. Well, I've just about had it! I was barely acquainted with Warrenby; it doesn't matter two boots to me whether he's alive or dead. If you're looking for a likely suspect, you find out what Plenmeller was up to at twenty-past seven on Saturday!”

  “Thank you, sir, I hope to. Can you help me?”

  “No, I can't. I was on my own land at that time. I'm not even sure when he left The Cedars, though I have an idea we most of us left in a bunch—the Squire and I by the gate on to the footpath, the others by the front drive. I only know that he's apparently been occupying himself ever since the murder with casting suspicion on most of his neighbours—which may be his idea of humour, or not!”

  “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.