Detection Unlimited ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  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 presently 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 game-keepers 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 game-keepers. 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 C.I.D. 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 way paying any particular attention to either of his auditors, but although he choose 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.”

  “No use asking me!” said the Squire harshly. “If I'd had any reason to suspect such a thing, shouldn't have had anything to do with the fellow.”

  “You're trying to make out why we did have anything to do with him, aren't you?” said Mrs. Ainstable, her eyes challenging the Chief Inspector. “It was my fault. I couldn't help feeling sorry for his unfortunate niece! That's why I called on them. It's all very silly, and feudal, but if we receive newcomers other people follow our lead. But do tell us more about this blackmailing idea of yours. If you knew Thornden as I do, you'd realise what an entrancingly improbable thought that is! It's all getting more and more like Gavin Plenmeller's books.”

  Out of the tail of his eye Hemingway could see that the Squire's gaze was fixed on his wife's face. He said: “I can see I shall have to read Mr. Plenmeller's books. Which puts me in mind of something I had to ask you, sir. Did you ask Mr. Plenmeller to fetch some papers from his house, during the tennis-party on Saturday?”

  “No, certainly not!” said the Squire curtly. “I asked him to let me have them back, but there was no immediate hurry about it. He chose to go for them at once for reasons of his own. Damned rude reasons, too, but that's his own affair! Don't know what you're getting at, but it's only fair to say that he was back at The Cedars before I left the party. Met my wife on the drive, and gave the papers to her. Might have given them to Lindale, and saved me the trouble, but that's not his way!”

  “Something to do with this River Board I hear so much about, weren't they, sir? I understand a solicitor's wanted, and Mr. Warrenby was after the post?”

  The Squire stirred impatiently in his chair. “Yes, that's so. Don't know why he was so keen on being appointed: there's nothing much to it. However, he had a fancy for it, and as far as I was concerned he could have had it. Not worth worrying about.”

  “Well, that's what it looks like to me,” confessed Hemingway. “Not that I know much about such matters. Mr. Drybeck wanted it too, I understand.”

  “Oh, that's nonsense!” said the Squire irritably. “Drybeck's well-enough established here without wanting jobs like that to give him a standing! As I told him! However, I daresay he'd have got it in the end! There was a lot of opposition to Warrenby's candidature.”

  “Well,” said Hemingway, stroking his chin, “I suppose he has got it, hasn't he, sir?—the way things have turned out.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” demanded the Squire. “If you're suggesting that Thaddeus Drybeck—a man I've known all my life!—would murder Warrenby, or anyone else, just to get himself appointed to a job on a River Board—”

  “Oh, no sir! I wasn't suggesting that!” said Hemingway. “Highly unlikely, I should think. I was just wondering what made you back Mr. Warrenby, if Mr. Drybeck wanted the post.”

  “Quite improper for me to foist my own solicitor on to the Board!” barked the
Squire. “What's more— Well, never mind!”

  “But, Bernard, of course he minds!” interrupted his wife. “Mr. Drybeck is the family solicitor, Chief Inspector, but—well, he isn't quite as young as he was, and, alas, not nearly as competent as Mr. Warrenby was! Yes, Bernard, I know it's hideously disloyal of me to say so, but what is the use of making a mystery out of it!”

  “No use talking about it at all,” said the Squire. “Got no possible bearing on the case.” He looked at Hemingway. “I take it you want to know where I went and what I did when I left The Cedars on Saturday?”

  “Thank you, sir, I don't think I'll trouble you to go over that again,” replied Hemingway, causing both husband and wife to look at him in mingled surprise and doubt. “The evidence you gave to Sergeant Carsethorn seems quite clear. You went to cast an eye over that new plantation of yours. I was looking at it myself a little while back. Don't know much about forestry, but I see you've been doing a lot of felling.”

  “I have, yes,” said the Squire, his brows lifting a little, in a way that clearly conveyed to the Chief Inspector that he failed to understand what concern this was of his.

  “You'll pardon my asking,” said Hemingway, “but are you selling your timber to a client of Mr. Warrenby's?”

  “To a client of Warrenby's?” repeated the Squire, a hint of astonishment in his level voice. “No, I am not!”

  “Ah, that's where I've got a bit confused!” said Hemingway. “It was the gravel-pit he was interested in, wasn't it? There's some correspondence in his office, dealing with that. I don't know that it's important, but I'd better get it straight.”

  “I have had no dealings whatsoever with Warrenby, in his professional capacity,” said the Squire.

  “He wasn't by any chance acting for this firm that's working your pit, sir?”

  “Certainly not. I happen to know that Throckington & Flimby act for them. In point of fact, no solicitors were employed either by me or by them.”

  “You didn't get your own solicitors to draw up the contract, sir?”