Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 04

by Detection Unlimited

  ‘I don’t mind telling you, sir, that I’ve no reason to suppose that anyone does know it, at any rate down here, except me and my Inspector. And I should think I don’t have to tell you that I shouldn’t, unless I had to, make it public.’

  ‘No, I believe you wouldn’t, but I can see how you might very well have to make it public. I’ve been hoping to God you’d get on to the track of the man who did do Warrenby in before you started making enquiries into my past!’

  ‘You say Warrenby never mentioned the matter to you but the once, sir. Quite sure of that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure of it! Are you thinking he was blackmailing me? He wasn’t. I haven’t anything he wants – money or influence. What is more, had he tried that on I shouldn’t have hesitated to put the matter into the hands of the police. It isn’t a crime to live with another man’s wife: I’d nothing to fear from the police. I can only suppose that he found it out by some accident, and let me know he’d done so to pay me out for choking him off.’

  ‘Am I to take it, then, that the only use he made of his knowledge was to get off a bit of spite?’

  Lindale was frowning. ‘It does sound improbable, put like that,’ he admitted. ‘It’s the only use he did make of it. He may have had other ideas in mind, but what they were I can’t for the life of me imagine. The impression I had was that he said it partly out of spite, and partly as a sort of threat – Accept-me-socially-or-I’ll-make-trouble kind of thing.’

  ‘Which he could have done.’

  Lindale stopped, and said: ‘Look here, Chief Inspector, I’d better be quite open with you! As far as I’m concerned, Warrenby was welcome to tell the whole world all he knew. Neither my – neither Mrs Nenthall nor I have done anything to be ashamed of. There was never any furtive intrigue. We – well, we cared for one another for years, and Nenthall knew it. She married him during the War, when she was only a kid, and – well, it just didn’t work out! I’m not going to say anything about Nenthall, except that if I murdered anyone it would be him! There was a child, a little boy, which made it all impossible. My wife is a woman of very strong principles. Then the kid died – meningitis, and – I shan’t take you into all that. She was ill for months, and then – well, we had it out, the three of us, and the end of it was that she came to me. There couldn’t be a divorce, so nothing ever got into the papers. My own view is that it’s a mistake to make any secret of the situation. People aren’t anything like as hidebound as they used to be. Her family, of course, have cut her out: they’re Catholics, and pretty strict; and my father disapproves. But I think that most people, knowing the facts, wouldn’t ostracise us – none that we’ve the least desire to be on friendly terms with. That’s my point of view, but I said I’d be open with you, and so I’ll tell you that my wife doesn’t share it. She believes that she’s living in sin, poor girl. We’re very happy – but there’s always that behind. Which is why I’d do a lot to keep the whole thing secret. A lot, but not commit murder – though I don’t expect you to believe that. But whatever you believe, I’m dead sure you haven’t enough evidence against me to justify an arrest! The bullet wasn’t fired from my rifle, and I infer that you already know that, or you wouldn’t be asking me questions: you’d be clapping handcuffs on me! Well, I quite see that you’ll have to try to find out more, and I’ve no objection to that. All I do ask is that you’ll refrain from worrying my wife. I won’t have her driven into another nervous breakdown: she’s been through enough!’

  ‘Well, sir, I can’t promise you anything,’ Hemingway replied, ‘but I don’t mind saying that I shan’t worry her, unless I must. I won’t keep you any longer now: you’ll be wanting to get back to your hay-cutting.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Lindale said, turning, and walking with him towards the gate. ‘I shan’t run away.’

  They parted at the gate. Constable Melkinthorpe, straining his ears, managed to hear a snatch of dialogue, and found it disappointing.

  ‘Well, you’ve got wonderful weather,’ Hemingway remarked.

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Touch wood!’ said Lindale, shutting the gate behind him.

  Hemingway crossed the road to the car. ‘Take a walk with me, Horace,’ he said. ‘You can drive the car round to the end of Fox Lane, Melkinthorpe, and wait for us there.’

  He led Harbottle to the entrance to the footpath, and turned into it.

  ‘Well?’ said Harbottle.

  ‘He’s no fool. In fact, he’s very plausible.’

  ‘Too plausible?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He didn’t overplay his part at all. What he told me tallied with what the Superintendent gave me. He also said that as far as he was concerned the whole world could know the truth about him, and I’m inclined to believe him. The trouble is – and he told me this too, which may have been honesty, or may have been because he knew I was wise to it – Mrs Lindale doesn’t look at it like that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harbottle austerely.

  ‘Now, don’t let’s have any psalm-singing!’ said Hemingway, with a touch of irritability. ‘I’ve got a lot of sympathy for that chap. I should say life isn’t all beer and skittles for him, with a wife – or whatever you like to call her, which I can guess, knowing you! – who can’t get over thinking she’s a black sinner. What’s more, I don’t suppose it ever will be – not unless Nenthall is obliging enough to pop off. And don’t give me any stuff about the wages of sin!’

  ‘I won’t. But it’s true, for all that,’ said the Inspector. ‘Is this the footpath he and the Squire came along together? I’ve never seen this end of it till today.’

  ‘It is, and it was about here that the Squire turned off into the plantation. I should say he did, too – either when he said he did, or a bit later. Perhaps both.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Well, if he’s the man I’m after, he had to park the rifle somewhere, hadn’t he? Seems to me his own plantation would have been as good a place as any. Easy to have picked it up, and to have nipped back to Fox Lane when Lindale was out of sight.’

  ‘But the shot wasn’t fired from his rifle,’ objected Harbottle. ‘I know it wasn’t. It may be that we shall have to pull in his agent’s rifle, and his gamekeeper’s as well.’

  Harbottle frowned over this. ‘I don’t think the Squire’s the man to commit a murder with another man’s gun – and that man one of his own people,’ he said.

  ‘Very likely you don’t. You didn’t think he was the kind of man to cheat his heir either.’

  ‘You don’t yet know that he is doing that, sir. And I don’t mind telling you I wouldn’t want the job of accusing him of such a thing!’

  ‘Well, you haven’t got the job. Now, this is Mr Haswell’s spinney – separated from his garden by a wall, as you see. Any amount of cover to be had. We won’t follow the path to his gates, but you can see where it runs and you can see that it would have been possible for Miss Warrenby to have got home by pushing through that very straggly hedge into her uncle’s grounds.’

  The Inspector smiled wryly. ‘You’re forgetting, sir, that you’re not to believe a word Mr Drybeck says.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe many of them,’ said Hemingway, climbing over the stile. ‘Come on! I’ve got a fancy to take another look at the scene of the crime.’

  Together they walked down the lane for some twenty yards, and then climbed the slope on to the common. Fox House had ceased to attract sightseers, and there seemed to be no one about. Hemingway paused by the gorse-clump, and stood looking thoughtfully at the gardens of Fox House. The seat had been removed, but a bare patch in the lawn showed where it had stood.

  ‘I seem to remember that someone told me once you were by way of being a good shot, Horace,’ said Hemingway. ‘How does a man’s head, at this range, strike you, as a target?’

  The Inspector, whose modest home was made magnificent by the trophies which adorned it, appreciated this, and at once retorted: ‘It’s wonderful, how you discover things no one else has
ever heard of, sir! I have done a bit of shooting in my time, and I should consider it a certain target.’

  ‘All right, you win!’ said Hemingway, grinning. ‘Would you call it a certain target for the average shot?’

  ‘I think a man would need to be a good shot, but not necessarily a crack shot. I thought so when I first saw this place, and it’s one reason why I’ve never seriously considered Miss Warrenby. I don’t say women aren’t good shots: I’ve known some who were first-class, but they’re few and far between, and we’ve no reason to think Miss Warrenby has ever had a gun in her hand.’

  ‘It seems to rule Reg out too,’ said Hemingway. ‘Pity you didn’t see his targets! I’m always trying to find something that’ll give you a laugh.’

  ‘Are you ruling out the possibility of an accident as well?’

  ‘For the lord’s sake, Horace – ! If a chap was standing here, do you see him firing into a man’s garden, with the owner in full view?’

  ‘No,’ admitted the Inspector. ‘It does seem unlikely.’ He glanced curiously at his chief. ‘What’s in your mind, sir?’

  ‘I’m wondering why the murderer fired from here, instead of trying for a closer shot. Unless he was a very good shot, I think it was chancy.’

  ‘There’s the question of cover,’ the Inspector pointed out. ‘If he came from the stile, he couldn’t have got a shot from the lane, without coming into Warrenby’s sight. I took particular note of that. Those trees at that side of the lawn make it impossible for you to get a view of the seat until you’re almost abreast of it. I should say that the murderer didn’t cross the stile, but climbed up on to the common beyond it, and worked his way round under cover of the bushes.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Hemingway. ‘How did he know Warrenby would be sitting in the garden? On what we’ve heard about his habits, it wasn’t likely.’

  The Inspector thought for a moment. ‘That’s so. But there must be an answer, because one of the few things we know about this murder is that the shot was fired from where we’re standing. We’ve got proof of that, so an answer there’s got to be. I think I’ve got it, too. It’s safe to assume that the murderer was proceeding pretty cautiously, isn’t it? He didn’t know where Warrenby would be, but he did know that all the sitting-room windows in the house look out this way. I don’t see him walking along outside that low hedge to get to the gate, and running the risk of being seen by Warrenby. Once he saw there was no one in the lane, I should think he pretty well stalked the house, if you get my meaning. Probably kept down under cover of the hedge. He could have seen Warrenby like that, but he’d have had to stand up to get a shot at him. He’d want to take careful aim too, and it’s not to be supposed Warrenby would have sat still to let him do it. My idea is that he did see him, and doubled back to the stile. In fact, the long range was forced on him just because Warrenby was in the garden.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Hemingway said.

  ‘I can tell you don’t think so, though.’

  ‘I don’t know, Horace. It sounds reasonable enough. I’ve just got a feeling there was more to it than that. Come on! We’ll take a look at Biggleswade’s favourite seat.’

  They walked in a north-easterly direction, to where some silver-birch trees stood. Beyond them, the ground began to fall away more steeply, and a little way down the slope a wooden seat had been placed, commanding a good view over the common. It was not unoccupied. After one keen look, Hemingway said: ‘If it isn’t old granddad himself! You’d better mind your p’s and q’s, Horace: he’s inclined to be testy. Good afternoon, Mr Biggleswade! Taking the air?’

  Mr Biggleswade looked him over with scant favour. ‘And why shouldn’t I be?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me that!’

  ‘I can’t. What’s eating you today, grandfather?’

  ‘If I was your granddad you’d ’ave more sense nor wot you ’ave,’ said the old gentleman severely. ‘I’m disappointed in you, that’s wot. You’re gormless. If you’d paid attention to wot I says to you, you’d ’ve ’ad the bracelets on young Reg Ditchling last night.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about him!’ said Hemingway. ‘I’ve got my eye on him all right.’

  ‘A fat lot of use that is!’ said Mr Biggleswade. ‘You ’aving your eye on ’im don’t stop ’im coming up to my place, calling me out of me name – ah, an’ fetching ’is ma along of ’im, and that pair of screeching Jezebels, Gert and Edie, besides. Painted ’ussies, that’s wot they are, and don’t you let anyone tell you different! Oo’s this you got with you?’

  A rheumy gaze was bent upon Inspector Harbottle; a note of disparagement sounded in the aged voice. Hemingway said promptly: ‘You don’t have to bother about him: he’s just my assistant.’

  ‘Six foot of misery, that’s wot ’e looks like to me,’ said Mr Biggleswade, not mincing matters. ‘You don’t want to let ’im get near the milk-cans. Wot’s more, if you’d done wot I told you, you wouldn’t need no assistant. Plain as I ’ear you now I ’eard that shot, Saturday!’

  ‘You tell me some more about this shot,’ invited Hemingway, sitting down beside him. ‘How was it you only heard one shot?’

  ‘Becos that’s all there wos to ’ear.’

  ‘But young Reg tells me he fired a whole lot of shots.’

  ‘’E’d tell you anything, young Reg would. Ah! and you’d swaller it!’

  ‘Now, now! He was firing at targets, you know, in the Squire’s gravel-pit.’

  ‘Oh, ’e wos, was ’e? If ’e’d told you ’e was firing at a ’erd of rhinorcerusses which ’e ’appened to find in Squire’s gravel-pit, you’d swaller that too! Pleecemen! I never ’ad no opinion of ’em, and I ain’t got none now, and I never will ’ave. Young Reg never fired no shot in Squire’s gravel-pit. ’Cos why? ’Cos if ’e ’ad, no one wouldn’t ’ear it this far off. Ah! and ’e couldn’t ’ave got ’isself on to this ’ere path so soon as wot ’e did do. And I’ll tell you another thing, my lad! I won’t ’ave you taking my character away like you’re trying to!’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you’ve much to take away,’ said Hemingway frankly. ‘Still, I wouldn’t think of taking away what you’ve got left of it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you would!’ said Mr Biggleswade fiercely. ‘And don’t you give me no sauce! I’ll ’ave you know there ain’t any man in Thornden wot knows more about guns than wot I do, and I won’t ’ave you spreading it about I don’t know where a shot’s being fired from! Over there’s where Reg fired Vicar’s rifle!’ A trembling and gouty finger pointed in the direction of Fox Lane.

  ‘All right,’ said Hemingway soothingly. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I says to meself, Someone’s larking about in Mr ’Aswell’s spinney, I says. There, or thereabouts,’ replied Mr Biggleswade, nodding wisely.

  ‘That’s some way off, grandfather,’ Hemingway suggested.

  ‘It ’ud ’ave ’ad to ’ave been a sight further off for me not to ’ear it,’ said Mr Biggleswade, with a senile chuckle. ‘Very sharp ears I’ve got! A lot of people ’ave wished I didn’t ’ear so quick when I was in me prime.’

  ‘I’ll bet they did. You’re a wonder, that’s what you are. grandfather. It can’t have made much of a noise, either, at this distance.’

  ‘No one never said it did. If you’d ’eard it, you wouldn’t ’ardly ’ave noticed it, I dessay. And as for that walking tombstone o’ yours, ’e’d ’ave thought it was a motor-car back-firing up on the ’Awks ’ead road as like as not.’

  ‘Oh, no, I would not!’ said Harbottle, stung into a retort.

  ‘Shut up, Horace! Don’t you pay any heed to him, grandfather! What happened after the shot? Did you see anyone besides Reg Ditchling?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to go poking my nose into wot wasn’t none of my business. I ain’t a nasty, nosy pleeceman! I set off down this ’ere path, like I told ’Obkirk, and I ’adn’t gorn so very far when I ’eard someone be’ind me, same like you’d ’ear one of them gamekeepers when ’e was trying to creep on y
ou. And I looked round, quick-like, and I see young Reg ’iding be’ind one of the bushes.’

  ‘Down the other end of the path that was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Right down the other end,’ corroborated Mr Biggleswade.

  ‘How long after you heard the shot would that have been?’

  ‘Not more’n ten minutes or so. I don’t get about so fast as wot I useter,’ said Mr Biggleswade, flattered to find himself with an attentive audience at last. ‘And there was young Reg! If you’d ’ave paid more ’eed to wot I told you yesterday, you’d ’ave ’ad ’im safe under lock and key by this time.’

  ‘Well, I might,’ said Hemingway, getting up. ‘That is, if I knew what he was doing, hanging about the scene of the crime, instead of making his getaway.’

  ‘Ah! That’s telling,’ said Mr Biggleswade darkly.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? I shall have to be getting along now, grandfather. Don’t you go sitting in the Red Lion till that daughter of yours has to come and drag you out! Nice goings on at your time of life!’

  The ancient reprobate seemed pleased with this sally, and cackled asthmatically. Hemingway waved to him, and began to walk away. ‘’Ere!’ Mr Biggleswade called after him. ‘Will I ’ave me pitcher in the papers?’

  ‘That’s telling too!’ replied Hemingway over his shoulder.

  ‘Rogues’ gallery, I should think!’ said Harbottle, falling into step beside him. ‘What on earth made you encourage him to hand you all that lip?’

  ‘I don’t mind his lip. I reckon he’s entitled to cheek the police, when they haven’t been able to catch up with him in ninety years. He’s a very remarkable old boy, and a lot sharper than the silly fools who say he’s getting soft in the head. I wanted to hear some more about that shot of his.’