“Over by the desk!” he said briefly. “He was probably shot while he was sitting behind it. There wouldn't have been much blood, but there must have been some.”
“There was none on the papers we found on the desk,” Harbottle reminded him. “And I see no sign of any on the desk itself.”
“The top of it, according to young Haswell, and to Carsethorn, was littered over with papers. I don't doubt they got spattered, and were carefully removed. We'll get Warrenby's clerk to go through the lot I took away: he may know if anything's missing. Try the window-curtains, and the woodwork of the window! I want to have a good look at the carpet.”
The carpet was a thick Turkey rug, with a groundwork of red, and a sprawling pattern of blue and green. On his hands and knees, Hemingway said: “Fresh blood falling on this wouldn't show up. He might have missed it. A couple of spots is all I ask for!”
“There's nothing on the curtains,” the Inspector informed him. “However, they hang well clear of the long window, so there might not be.” He too dropped on to his knees and closely studied the floorboards. “You'd expect to see a sign on the floor, though.”
“The murderer must have looked to see, and if there was blood on any of the woodwork he'd have wiped it carefully. May have tied something round Warrenby's head before he moved him. Come here, and tell me what you make of this!”
The Inspector went to him, took the magnifying-glass held out to him, and through it stared at two very small spots on the carpet which showed darker than the surrounding red. “Might be,” he grunted.
“Cut 'em off!” commanded Hemingway. “It's a lucky thing it's one of these shaggy rugs. Give me that glass again.”
With its aid, he presently discovered another stain, fainter and rather larger, as though it had been smeared over. “And I think that proves my theory, Horace,” he said cheerfully.
“If the stains turn out to be bloodstains,” amended his cautious assistant, putting the tufts he had sawn off into the match-box Hemingway was holding out to him.
“That'll be a job for Dr. Rotherhope,” said Hemingway. “They look remarkably like it to me.” He glanced at the desk. “And it accounts for the fountain-pen left with its cap off,” he remarked. “I ought to have paid more attention to that when Carsethorn told me that's how he found it. Come on! that sounds like my blonde coming to look for me!”
Chapter Seventeen
The two detectives, walking down the lane towards the Trindale-road, came within sight of Fox Cottage, and saw that an animated group was gathered at its gate. For the animation, what, at first glance, appeared to be a pride of Pekes was responsible. Closer inspection revealed that only five of the Ultimas were present, four of them harnessed on couplings, and winding themselves round their owner's legs, and the fifth, in whose stately mien Hemingway recognised Ulysses, the patriarch, unrestrained by a leash. Young Mr. Haswell's car was parked in the lane, but he and Mrs. Midgeholme both stood outside the gate. On the other side of it, and leaning on its top bar, were Miss Patterdale, wearing an overall and gardening-gloves, and her niece, looking remarkably pretty in a pink linen frock and an enormous and floppy sunhat. All four were engaged in discussion, Mrs. Midgeholme's demeanour being particularly impressive; and none of them noticed the approach of the detectives until Ulysses attracted attention by stalking up the lane towards the newcomers, and uttering a threatening bark.
“Now, what's the matter with you, old High and Mighty? Nice way to greet your friends!” said Hemingway, stooping to pat Ulysses.
Ulysses's eyes started with indignation at this familiarity. He growled, but he was not a dog of hasty disposition, and before proceeding to extreme measures he sniffed the Chief Inspector's hand, and realised that here was, if not a friend, at least a bowing acquaintance. His mighty mane sank, he slightly waved his tail, and sneezed.
“Isn't he the cleverest old fellow?” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme. “He knows you quite well!”
Her voice was drowned by frantic pleas from the four other Ultimas to their progenitor not to be taken in by the police. Ulysses, looking scornfully at them, gave further evidence of his sagacity by placing himself in a position clearly inviting the Chief Inspector to scratch his back. Hemingway very obligingly did so, while Mrs. Midgeholme unwound the other Ultimas, and besought them to be quiet.
“I guessed I should find you here,” she told Hemingway. “I saw the police-car just round the corner, waiting, and I put two and two together and deduced that you were visiting the scene of the crime. So I thought I'd just pop down on the off-chance of running into you.”
“Don't be a fool, Flora!” said Miss Patterdale trenchantly. “You don't suppose the Chief Inspector wants to listen to all these idiotic theories of yours, do you? You'd be better advised to pop home, and take a look at that new litter of yours. My father once had a field spaniel who buried her first pups alive. You can't be too careful.”
“My treasured Ullapool!” said Mrs. Midgeholme indignantly. “She's the most wonderful little mother! Beautiful pups, too! Tell it not in Gath, but I have a feeling that one of the dogs is going to be as big a prize-winner as Ulysses.”
“I've thought of a jolly good name for you,” offered Charles. “Call him Uzziah!”
Mrs. Midgeholme seemed a little doubtful. The Chief Inspector said judicially: “I don't say it's a bad name, but to my way of thinking there's a better. I lay awake for a good hour last night, trying to remember it. It came in a rattling good yarn I read when I was a boy—before your time, I expect, sir. Umslopogaas!”
“Before my time nothing!” retorted Charles. “Every right-minded person knows his Rider Haggard! Damn! Why didn't I think of that? It's terrific!”
Mrs. Midgeholme, though gratified that the Chief Inspector should have expended so much thought on the Ultimas, was plainly not enamoured of the name. She said that if she bred black Pekes she might think about it; and she was just about to explain to the company her reasons for not breeding black Pekes when Miss Patterdale put a summary end to the discussion by saying with a snort: “And then call one of the bitches Ullalume, and be done with it! I don't know whether the Chief Inspector wants to waste his time choosing absurd names for your dogs, Flora, but I'm not going to waste any more of mine. I'm going to get on with my weeding.”
She then favoured Hemingway with a curt nod, and strode off to where she had left her trug and gardening-fork.
Mrs. Midgeholme looked a trifle disconcerted, but laughed, and said: “Dear old Miriam! I always say, Abby, that your aunt is quite a character. But, of course, it wasn't the Ultimas I wanted to see you about, Chief Inspector. I did hope to catch you this morning, but it was not to be. You got my message?”
This question, uttered in a somewhat suspicious tone, seemed to be addressed as much to Harbottle as to Hemingway, and it was he who answered it, at his most wooden.
“Now, I know perfectly well that you think I'm interfering,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, upon receiving his assurance, “but what I feel is that anyone who lives in Thornden is bound to know more about all the people than a stranger. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, but you can't have it both ways,” interpolated Charles, evidently continuing an interrupted argument. “Old Drybeck was born and bred here, so why shouldn't the Chief Inspector listen to him as much as to you?”
“Oh, that's ridiculous!” she replied. “You can't possibly count him! And, anyway, that wasn't what I was going to say. No. The thing is, I've just been giving my angels a run on the common, Chief Inspector, and I met that dreadful old man, Biggleswade, and he told me all about what he thinks happened on Saturday. Well, of course, it's nonsense to suppose young Ditchling had anything to do with it, because anyone who knows the family could tell you at once that they're all above suspicion. I don't mind saying that my first thought was he was lying.”
“"Lied in every word,"' corrected Charles, grinning. “"That hoary cripple, with malicious eye"—I can't remember how it goes on, but it's exactly r
ight! There's something about waylaying the traveller with his lies, too. "If at his counsel I should turn aside into that—something—tract"—No, I can't remember how it went on, but it's Biggleswade all right!”
“What on earth are you drivelling about?” asked Abby.
“I'm not drivelling, I'm quoting, Browning.”
“Oh! "Just for a handful of silver he left us,"' said Abby showing her erudition.
“Absolutely!” agreed Charles, his eyes dancing.
“I don't know anything about Browning,” said Mrs. Midgeholme impatiently, “but, as I say, I did think at first that Biggleswade was making the whole thing up. And then it came to me in a flash!”
She paused dramatically, and Hemingway, finding that she was looking in a challenging way at him, said, with an air of interest: “It did?”
“He was going by the Church clock!” said Mrs. Midgeholme triumphantly. “Summertime, you know! It's never changed so it's an hour wrong. So when he thought the time was 6.15, it was really an hour later!”
It was apparent that Abby, Charles, and Inspector Harbottle were all wrestling with an unspoken problem. It was Harbottle who first reached a conclusion. “Earlier!” he said.
“No, she's right,” said Charles. “Later!”
“Wait a bit!” commanded Abby. “Do we put the clocks on, or back?”
“Go on, Horace!” said Hemingway encouraging. “Which?”
“On,” said Charles positively. “So if the Church clock says 6.15, it's really 7.15. By summertime, I mean. So Mrs. Midgeholme is right.”
“Well, I'm glad we've settled that point,” said Hemingway. “But I don't myself see that old boy making any mistake about opening-time. Not but what I'm very grateful to Mrs. Midgeholme for the trouble she's taken. I shall have to be getting along now, but—”
“What, don't you want to hear the rest of our theories?” said Charles, shocked. “I've worked out a very classy one; Miss Dearham has proved hers up to the hilt; Gavin Plenmeller's latest proves he did it, but it's too ingenious; the Squire has practically settled that the murder was committed by—”
“What, has the Squire gone in for detection too?” demanded Hemingway.
“Of course he has! Everyone in Thornden has! The Squire's idea is that the murderer was a Bellingham-man, who came out by car or motor-cycle, hid same in his gravel-pit, and then lay up in the gorse-bushes until the right moment.”
“And what's your own theory, sir?”
“No, no!” Charles replied, laughing. “I'm not going to do your job for you! Or get myself sued for uttering slanders!”
“Perhaps you're right,” agreed Hemingway.
“I wish I could ginger Mavis up to sue Mr. Drybeck!” said Abby, with feeling.
“Good lord, you haven't told her he thinks she did it, have you?” exclaimed Charles.
“I didn't tell her, but someone did. She said she would rather not talk about it, and one had to make allowances, and she was sure he didn't mean to hurt her feelings.”
“That girl is really a saint!” declared Mrs. Midgeholme. “She may be exasperating, but you have to admit that she's an example to us all!”
The Chief Inspector was amused to perceive, from their expressions, that the example set by Miss Warrenby was not one which either Charles or Abby meant to follow. He took his leave of the party, and went away with Harbottle to where the car awaited them.
“What do you suppose they were doing up at Fox House?” said Abby, watching the two detectives turn the corner into the main road.
“Probably having another look at the terrain,” said Charles.
“I only hope they haven't been pumping Gladys,” said Mrs. Midgeholme worriedly. “You know what servants are! She'd be bound to make the most of every little unpleasantness there had ever been in the house, and what with that, on top of Thaddeus Drybeck's really wicked attempt to throw suspicion on poor Mavis, I'm very much afraid the police may be thoroughly misled. Well! I've done my best, and I can't do more! Come along, Ulysses! Home to Father!”
Charles, watching with approval Ulysses's first assumption of deafness and subsequently leisurely progress in Mrs. Midgeholme's wake, said: “I like that dog. He knows what is due to his own dignity. All the same, I'm damned if I'd put up with being called his father.” He turned his head, and looked down at Abby. “You stood me up yesterday: what about running down to Filey Cove now?”
“Don't you ever do any work?” asked Abby provocatively.
“I do a great deal of work. I've been out on an important job this very afternoon. If you need reassurance, I shan't get the sack for not returning to the office. I'm a full partner, let me tell you! No, you don't!”
Miss Dearham, about to retire strategically, found her right wrist clamped suddenly to the top of the gate, and at once protested. She said that Charles was hurting her arm, upon which he lifted her wrist and kissed it. Much shaken, she could think of nothing to say, but, blushing, adorably, peeped up at him under the huge brim of her hat. Charles, quick to seize opportunity, kissed her in good earnest.
“What on earth are you doing?” demanded Miss Patterdale, suddenly emerging from her little potting-shed, and screwing her monocle into her eye, the better to observe her young friends.
“Asking Abby to marry me,” responded Charles brazenly, one arm round Abby's shoulders, his other hand still clasping her maltreated wrist.
“Nonsense! You don't ask a girl to marry you in front of her aunt!”
“I've already made several attempts to ask her to marry me not in front of her aunt, but you always turn up just as the words are hovering on my tongue!” Charles retorted.
Miss Patterdale looked suspiciously from one flushed face to the other. “Well, I don't know what the world's coming to, I'm sure!” she said. “Kissing and cuddling across my garden-gate! If you really are going to marry Abby you'd better come inside, and stop making a public exhibition of yourself! Or are you pulling my leg?”
“Certainly not!” said Charles, affronted. “You don't suppose I'd kiss Abby across your gate, or anyone else's, if I didn't hope to marry her, do you?”
“As far as I can make out,” said Miss Patterdale, “you're all so promiscuous these days that it would be unwise to suppose anything! Are you going to marry her?”
Charles looked at Abby. “Am I, my only love?”
“Yes,” said Abby. “If—if you think we could make a do of it, I'd like to—awfully!”
“Well, if that's a proposal I'm glad I never received one!” said Miss Patterdale. “However, it'll give you both something to think of beside meddling in a murder-enquiry, so I daresay it's a good thing. I'll go and put the kettle on for tea.”
“That,” said Charles, releasing his betrothed, and opening the gate, “I take to be an invitation and a general blessing. That's better! Now I can kiss you properly! To hell with the murder! Who cares?”
Miss Dearham returned his embrace with fervour, but said, as soon as she was able to say anything: “As a matter of fact, I've rather lost interest in it, too. Though I should like to know what those detectives were doing up the lane, and what they're up to now.”
They were, in fact, being driven back to Bellingham; and as neither placed any great reliance on Constable Melkinthorpe's discretion, their conversation would scarcely have interested Miss Dearham. It was not until they had been set down at the police-station, and Inspector Harbottle had given the deformed bullet he had dug out of the elm-tree into the safe-keeping of Sergeant Knarsdale, that the murder of Sampson Warrenby was even mentioned. The Sergeant said: “That looks like a .22 bullet all right. Well, if the rifle wasn't the last you brought in, sir, I'm blessed if I know what to make of it!”
“What we found out this afternoon puts an entirely different complexion on things,” said Hemingway. “You get going, Knarsdale! I want the report on that little fellow as soon as I can get it! Horace, ask the chaps here for the Firearms Register, and bring it along to me!”
When
the Inspector presently entered the small office, he found his superior sorting the papers that had been taken from Sampson Warrenby's desk. He said, as he put them aside: “We must have Coupland on to these. There's one letter which seems to be written in answer to something I can't yet find, but it's a job for him, not for me. Got the Register? Good!”
“I don't know if you think I may have missed a .22 rifle, sir,” said Harbottle, somewhat starchily, “but I can tell you now I made a list of every one within a radius of twenty miles of Thornden.”
“Thirty-seven of them, which I never had any interest in, and never shall,” said Hemingway. “I wish you'd pull yourself together, Horace! Up till today we've never considered any weapon but a rifle, because the range seemed to make it certain it could only have been a rifle shot. Which is another of the things we were meant to think. We've now got every reason to believe Warrenby was shot at much closer range, and I want to know just what lethal weapons there are in the neighbourhood.”
“Carsethorn said something about the Major's army revolver, but that won't do, because—”
“Of course it won't! It's the wrong calibre! Stop trying to annoy me!” said Hemingway, opening the register.
Silence reigned for a few minutes. Suddenly Hemingway looked up. “We're getting warmer, Horace. I find here that when his firearms permit was last renewed, a couple of years back, the late Walter Plenmeller had a .22 Colt Woodsman Automatic Pistol in his collection. Which, let me tell you, was not in the gun-cabinet at Thornden House. Now then!”
The Inspector came quickly round the corner of the desk to stare down at the entry.
“Could you carry a gun like that without anyone's knowing it?” demanded Hemingway.
“I suppose it could be done,” admitted Harbottle. “But—Good Lord, sir, what for?”
“Seems to me it's time we did a little research into Plenmeller's affairs,” said Hemingway, rather grimly.
“Yes, I see we shall have to, but what I'm thinking is that no one here knows anything against him. And I can't help feeling that if there was anything we should have been told fast enough. People don't like him, and the way they've all been searching for clues and motives you'd have expected several of them to have sicked us on to him, wouldn't you?”
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