Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 02

by Envious Casca

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Hemingway, who had no opinion of cold collations at midwinter.

  Sturry bowed slightly. His arctic gaze took in the position of the chair which the Sergeant had used to enable him to reach the knives on the wall, and travelled upwards. He acknowledged the disappearance of one of the pair of knives by a pronounced elevation of the eyebrows, and moved forward to restore the chair to its place against the wall. He then plumped up a couple of cushions, looked with contempt at the partially dismantled Christmas tree, and at last withdrew.

  The Sergeant, who had been watching him with considerable disfavour, said: ‘I don’t like that chap.’

  ‘That’s only inferiority complex,’ said Hemingway. ‘You didn’t like being called the Other Policeman.’

  ‘Snooping round,’ said the Sergeant darkly. ‘He saw the knife had gone all right. He’ll spread that bit of news round the house.’

  ‘Then we may get some interesting reactions,’ responded Hemingway. ‘Come on! We’ll take the knife back to headquarters, and get a bit of dinner at the same time. I want to think.’

  He was unusually silent during the hot and substantial meal provided by the cook at the Blue Dog inn; and the Sergeant, respecting his preoccupation, made no attempt to converse with him. Only when the cheese was set before them did he venture to say: ‘I’ve been thinking about that weapon.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’ve been thinking about that locked door.’

  ‘I don’t seem to get any ideas about that,’ confessed the Sergeant. ‘The more I think about it the more senseless it seems.’

  ‘There must have been a reason for it,’ said Hemingway. ‘A pretty strong one, too. Whoever murdered Nathaniel Herriard, and locked the door behind him, was taking the hell of a chance of being caught in the act. He didn’t do it for fun.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the Sergeant, thinking it over. ‘It looks as though you’re right there. But what reason could he possibly have had?’

  Hemingway did not answer. After a few moments, the Sergeant said slowly: ‘Supposing the murdered man didn’t lock the door himself, in the first place? We’ve no proof that he did, after all. I was just wondering… If the murderer walked into the room, and locked the door behind him –’

  ‘Old Herriard would have kicked up a rumpus.’

  ‘Not if it had been his nephew he wouldn’t. He might have thought Stephen wanted to have a straight talk with him, without the valet’s coming in to interrupt them.’

  ‘Well?’ said Hemingway, showing a faint interest.

  ‘Well, Stephen, or someone else, killed him. You remember the valet telling us that he came along, and tried the door, and found it locked? Suppose the murderer was still in the room then?’

  ‘All right, I’m supposing it. So what?’

  The Sergeant caressed his chin. ‘I haven’t worked it all out, but it does strike me that he may have thought he’d got to leave that door locked when he left the room.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Might be the time element, mightn’t it? He may have thought that if anyone was to come along and try the door a minute or two later, and find it unlocked, he’d be whittling down the time of the murder a bit dangerously. I don’t say I quite see –’

  ‘No, nor anyone else,’ interrupted Hemingway.

  ‘There might have been a reason,’ persisted the Sergeant doggedly.

  ‘There might have been half a dozen reasons, but what you seem to forget is that it isn’t all that easy to turn keys from the wrong side of the door. If the door was locked from the outside, the man who did it must have provided himself with a tool for the purpose. He couldn’t have done it extempore, so to speak.’

  ‘He could, by slipping a pencil through the handle of the key, with a bit of string attached.’

  ‘He could, but we haven’t any evidence to show that he did. In fact, we’ve plenty of evidence to show that he didn’t.’

  ‘Were there any finger-prints on the key?’ asked the Sergeant.

  ‘Old Herriard’s, and the valet’s, considerably blurred. Just what you’d expect.’

  The Sergeant sighed. ‘Nothing seems to lead anywhere, does it, sir? I’m blessed if I know how to catch hold of this case.’

  ‘We’ll go back to the station,’ decided Hemingway. ‘I’m going to have another look at that key.’

  The key, however, revealed no new clue. It was a large key, and it had been lately smeared with vaseline. ‘Which makes it still more unlikely that it could have been turned from outside,’ said Hemingway. ‘To start with, I doubt if any oustiti would have gripped such a greasy surface; and to go on with, we’d be bound to see the imprint of the grooving on the grease. It’s disheartening, that’s what it is.’ He scrutinised the handle through a magnifying glass, and shook his head. ‘Nothing doing. I’d say it hasn’t been tampered with in any way.’

  ‘Which means,’ said the Sergeant weightily, ‘that whoever locked that door did it from the inside.’

  ‘And then dematerialised himself like the spooks you read about. Talk sense!’

  ‘What was to stop him hiding in the room until the body had been found, and then slipping out unnoticed, sir?’

  ‘Nothing at all. In fact, you might have got something there, except for one circumstance. All the members of the household were accounted for at the time of the discovery. Think again!’

  ‘I can’t,’ said the Sergeant frankly. ‘Seems as though we’ve got to come back to the ventilator.’

  ‘The more I think of it, the more that ventilator looks to me like a snare and a delusion,’ said Hemingway. ‘It’s a good seven foot above the floor, to start with, and too small to allow an average-sized man to squeeze through it, to go on with.’

  ‘The valet,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought of him, but I still don’t see it. Even supposing he could have got through, how did he reach the floor?’

  ‘Supposing he didn’t come in that way, but was there all the time, and escaped through the ventilator?’

  ‘Worse!’ said Hemingway emphatically. ‘Did he go head first down a ladder?’

  ‘Not the way I see it,’ said the Sergeant, ignoring this sarcasm. ‘I’ve got an idea he and young Herriard were in this together. It seems to me that if he’d had a chair to stand on he might, if he was clever, have got out through the ventilator. Once his shoulders were through, he could have wormed himself round, and maybe got hold of a drain-pipe, or a bit of that wistaria over the window, to give himself a purchase while he got a leg out. Once he’d got one foot on the ladder he’d be all right.’

  ‘Seems to me he’d have to be a ruddy contortionist,’ said the Inspector. ‘And what about the chair under the ventilator?’

  ‘He could have moved that back when the door was forced open. Who’d have noticed? The old fellow would have been taken up with his brother’s body, and if Stephen was in it he doesn’t count.’

  ‘I can’t see what you want with young Stephen in this Arabian Nights story of yours. Why don’t you let the valet have the whole stage?’ demanded the sceptical Inspector.

  ‘Because if Stephen wasn’t in it, there wasn’t a motive,’ replied the Sergeant. ‘My idea is that Stephen bribed the valet to help him. I don’t say the valet did the killing: that’s going too far.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to know you draw the line somewhere,’ said Hemingway. ‘And don’t you run away with the notion that I’m not pleased with this theory of yours! I’ve always told you that you haven’t got enough imagination, so it’s very gratifying to me to see you taking my words to heart, which is a thing I never thought you did. And if it weren’t for all the circumstances you’ve overlooked, it would be a good theory.’

  The Sergeant said in a resigned voice: ‘I know there are some loose ends, but –’

  ‘Who set the ladder up to be handy?’

  ‘Either of them.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Any time,’ said the Sergeant, add
ing after a moment’s reflection: ‘No, perhaps not any time. As soon as it was dark.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to set a ladder up against a particular window in the dark?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t; but if there was a light in that particular window I’d back myself to do it,’ retorted the Sergeant.

  ‘You win,’ said Hemingway handsomely. ‘I’ll give you the ladder. And if you can tell me how Ford managed to be in his master’s room and flirting with one of the housemaids at one and the same time, I’ll go straight off and arrest him.’

  ‘The way I see it, the murder had been committed by the time he came up the backstairs, and went into the sewing-room.’

  ‘It may have been, but not by him. He was in the servants’ hall.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Exactly. And if he was as smart as you seem to think, he wouldn’t have said that if he couldn’t have proved it. You can check up on it: in fact, you must; but if you don’t find that he’s borne out by the other servants I’ll be surprised.’

  ‘Well, I can’t get it out of my head that he’s the one person who could have gone in and out of the deceased’s room as he pleased, and, what’s more, have left his finger-prints about without occasioning any suspicion. I suppose no one could have monkeyed about with the bedroom windows?’

  Hemingway shook his head. ‘You can’t slip a knife-blade in between that kind of casement-window and its frame, if that’s what you’re thinking of.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘I wonder, though?… My lad, we’ll go back to the house! Then you can nose round for a handy garden-ladder, while I have a heart-to-heart with old Joseph Herriard.’

  Unaware of the ordeal before him, Joseph had been trying, throughout luncheon, to second Mrs Dean’s attempts to introduce what she called a normal note into the party’s conversation. Having announced brightly that they must try not to be morbid, Mrs Dean had favoured the company with some anecdotes of a winter spent in the south of France; but as these seemed to lack any other point than the introduction of the names of the well-born people she had met in Nice, no discussion was engendered, and the subject petered out. Maud contributed her mite by recalling that the Archduchess Sophia removed the Empress’s children from her care, and shut them up in a wing of the palace. Stephen was heard to groan, and although Mrs Dean, with what Mathilda could not but consider very good manners, showed herself willing to search her memory for further details of the Empress’s illstarred career, Joseph evidently felt that no one else would have the patience to endure more Imperial reminiscences, and hastily changed the subject.

  But neither his nor Mrs Dean’s efforts could avail to keep the talk away from Nathaniel’s murder. It loomed too large in everyone’s minds; and although Stephen was taciturn, and Maud detached, it was not long before it had become the sole topic of any sustained conversation. Even Joseph succumbed, and said, for perhaps the sixth time, that he felt sure someone from outside had committed the murder. This led to a discussion on the possible ways by which anyone could have gained access to Nathaniel’s bedroom, and Valerie propounded the suggestion that there must be a secret passage behind the oak-panelling. This idea, thrown out on the spur of the moment, took such instant possession of her mind that she reiterated her dread of spending another night under this ill-omened roof; and it might even have induced her to consent to share her mother’s bedroom, had she not reflected in time that she would not, in this event, be allowed to smoke in bed, or to read into the small hours.

  ‘My little girl mustn’t let her nerves run away with her,’ said Mrs Dean bracingly. ‘Who could possibly want to murder you, my pet?’

  A glance at Stephen’s face might have provided her with a possible answer, but happily she did not look in his direction.

  Paula, somewhat unexpectedly, said: ‘I wonder if there is a way into Uncle’s room which we don’t know about? Is there, Joe?’

  ‘My dear, don’t ask me!’ said Joseph, laughing at her. ‘You know your old uncle has no taste for antiques! For all I know, the house may be riddled with secret passages, and priest-holes, and hidden doors! Or isn’t it the right period for those delightfully romantic things? Stephen, you’re a bit of an archaeologist! – set your sister’s mind at rest!’

  Stephen cast him a smouldering look. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Oh yes, you love to hide your light under a bushel!’ Joseph chaffed him. ‘Trying to make us believe you’re an ignoramus! But he’s no such thing, Mrs Dean, I assure you! In fact – but don’t say I told you so! – he’s a very clever fellow!’

  This piece of facetiousness made Stephen scowl more threateningly than ever, and inspired Mottisfont to say in a meaning tone: ‘I’m sure if there is a secret way into Nat’s room, Stephen would know of it.’

  ‘I don’t know of it,’ Stephen replied.

  Joseph’s arch smile vanished. ‘What do you mean by that, Edgar?’

  Mottisfont raised his brows. ‘Merely that it’s common knowledge that Stephen shared Nat’s love for the house. I naturally thought he must know its secrets, if there are any. You’re very touchy, Joe!’

  ‘I don’t care for that kind of edged remark,’ Joseph said. ‘I know this is a period of great strain, Edgar, but we all feel it, some of us perhaps more than you. The least we can do is to refrain from saying malicious things about each other!’

  ‘I wish you’d rid your mind of the belief that I need your support!’ said Stephen.

  Mrs Dean, realising that a woman’s soothing influence was called for, raised a finger, and said: ‘Now, Stevie! I shall have to say what I used to say to my girlies, when they were children: birds in their little nests agree!’

  ‘Actually, I believe they don’t,’ remarked Roydon.

  If anything had been needed to set the seal to Mrs Dean’s disapproval of an impecunious playwright, this would have been enough. Perceiving a faintly purple tinge in her cheeks, Mr Blyth looked at his watch, and said with rare prudence that he must not miss his train.

  This had the effect of breaking up the luncheon-party. Joseph bustled off to see whether the car had been brought round to the door; Mrs Dean said that what the young people wanted was a brisk walk to blow away the cobwebs, adding that Valerie must get Stephen to show her round the estate. Valerie, however, protested that it was a foul day, and filthily cold, and that she thought walking in the snow a lousy form of amusement anyway; and by the time her mother had taken her to task over her choice of adjectives, Stephen had vanished, and Paula had marched Roydon off to discuss the forthcoming production of Wormwood.

  Mrs Dean had contemplated an afternoon spent tête-àtête with Maud, who, though obviously stupid, must, she thought, be able to enlighten her on various aspects of the Herriard inheritance; but this plan was frustrated at the outset by Maud herself. She said that she expected Mrs Dean would like to lie down after her tiring morning.

  ‘Oh dear me, no!’ declared Mrs Dean, with her wide smile. ‘I always say that nothing ever tires me!’

  ‘You are very fortunate,’ said Maud, gathering up her knitting and a magazine. ‘I can never do without my afternoon rest.’

  So that was that. Maud went away, and Mrs Dean was left to the company of Edgar Mottisfont.

  Mathilda, meanwhile, had joined Stephen in the billiardroom, and was playing a hundred up with him, in a not very serious fashion. As she chalked the tip of her cue, she said: ‘Far be it from me to interfere with your simple pleasures, Stephen, but I wish you’d let up on Joe. He means so well, you know.’

  ‘You damn him in four words. Go in off the red.’

  ‘Leave me to play my own game in my own way,’ said Mathilda severely, but following out his instruction. ‘I find Joe rather pathetic.’

  ‘Broken-down actor. I don’t.’

  ‘Thanks, we can all see that. I wish I knew why he is so fond of you.’

  ‘I can honestly say that I have never, at any time, given him cause to be. If you hit the white fairly fine, and w
ith plenty of running side –’

  ‘Be quiet! Why do you dislike him so much?’

  ‘Damned old hypocrite!’ said Stephen savagely. ‘You haven’t had to watch him oiling up to Uncle Nat for two years.’

  ‘If he’d done you out of your inheritance you might have grounds for your dislike,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Blast him! I wish he had!’

  She could not help laughing. ‘Yes, I can understand that, but really it’s very unworthy of you, Stephen! I admit that his manner is against him, and that his habit of calling you an old bear gives you some excuse for feeling homicidal, but to give him his due he’s treated you remarkably white. I imagine Nat would never have drawn up that will without his persuasion.’