Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 02

by Envious Casca

  ‘I don’t like Joe,’ she confessed. ‘He means well, but he’s an ass.’

  ‘He is not an ass, and he doesn’t mean well. You think he likes me, don’t you? Well, I tell you that Joe hates me as much as I hate him!’

  ‘Stephen!’ she exclaimed.

  He laughed. ‘Think I’m brutal to Joe, don’t you, Mathilda? When he tries to paw me about, and mouths his sickening platitudes, and drips affection all over me! You don’t see that Joe’s out to do me down. He nearly managed it, too.’

  ‘But he’s always trying to convince everyone that you couldn’t have killed Nat!’

  ‘Oh no, Mathilda! Oh no, my love! That’s only the façade. Think it over! Think of all that Joseph’s said in my defence, and ask yourself if it was helpful, or if it only served to make the police think that he was desperately trying to shield a man whom he knew to be guilty. Who do you think planted my cigarette-case in Uncle Nat’s room? Have you any doubt? I haven’t.’

  Her fingers tightened on his. ‘Stephen, are you sure you’re not letting your dislike of Joe run away with you?’

  ‘I’m quite sure. Joe was my enemy from the moment he set foot in this house, and discovered that I was Uncle Nat’s blue-eyed boy. I was, you know.’

  ‘But you quarrelled with Nat! Always, Stephen!’

  ‘Sure I did, but without prejudice, until Joe came.’

  She was silent for a moment, not doubting his sincerity, yet unable to believe that he was not regarding Joseph with a distorted vision. ‘He got Nat to make a will in your favour.’

  ‘Do you always believe what Joe tells you?’ asked Stephen. ‘He worried him into making a will. I don’t know what happened: I wasn’t there. Joe saw to that. But I can imagine Uncle Nat giving in to Joe, and then making the will out in my favour. That would have been a joke he’d have appreciated. Only Joe was clever, and he saw to it that the will should be invalid.’

  ‘You’ve never spoken a word of this!’

  His lips curled. ‘No. Only to you, and you think I’m unhinged, don’t you? What do you suppose everyone else would think? I can tell you, if you don’t know.’

  She looked up at him, dawning horror in her eyes. ‘Yes, of course I know. If you’re right, it puts a hideous complexion on so much that has happened! I haven’t stayed here often enough to be able to judge. I always ascribed the trouble that Joe has such a knack of starting to incurable tactlessness. But I see that your explanation might be correct.’

  ‘You can take it from me that it is. If anyone but you had provided Joe with his alibi, I would, moreover, have been ready to swear that it was he who murdered Uncle Nat.’

  ‘It isn’t possible, Stephen. When he wasn’t chatting to me he was humming snatches of song.’

  He lifted her hand to his lips, and fleetingly kissed it. ‘All right, my sweet. Yours is the only word I would take for that.’

  They had come in sight of the house again by this time, and in a few minutes they entered it, through the front door, just as Inspector Hemingway was seeing a finger-print expert and a photographer off the premises.

  The Inspector was looking more bird-like than ever, and there was a satisfied gleam in his eye, for under a dusting of powder the panel above the billiard-room mantelpiece had revealed the imprints of four fingers and a thumb. He cocked an intelligent eyebrow at Stephen and Mathilda, and drew his own conclusions.

  ‘You are quite right, of course,’ said Stephen, correctly interpreting the look in the Inspector’s eye. ‘But we feel – at least, Miss Clare does – that an announcement at present would not be in the best of good taste. Why the camera-man?’

  ‘Just a bit of work I wanted done, sir. If I may say so, you don’t waste your time, do you?’

  Stephen laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve wasted too much time, Inspector. How are you doing?’

  ‘Not so badly, sir,’ replied Hemingway. He turned to Mathilda. ‘I want to have a talk with you, miss, if you please.’

  ‘Very well,’ she replied, rather surprised. ‘I’ll join you in the morning-room as soon as I’ve changed my shoes.’

  This did not take her long, and she presently walked into the morning-room to find not only the Inspector there, but Stephen also, looking dangerous. She said at once: ‘Take that scowl off your face, Stephen: you’re frightening the Inspector.’

  ‘That’s right, miss,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m all over goose-flesh.’

  ‘I can see you are. No one is going to convict me of murder, Stephen, so relax! What is it, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, miss, in checking over the details of this case, I find that I omitted to take your evidence. That won’t do at all: in fact, it’s a wonder to me how I came to leave you out. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to tell me, please, just what you did when you went upstairs to change for dinner on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘She gave her evidence to Inspector Colwall,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Ah, but that won’t do for the Department, sir!’ said Hemingway mendaciously. ‘Very strict we are, at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I did with pleasure,’ Mathilda said. ‘But I’m afraid it isn’t helpful. First I had a bath, then I dressed, and lastly I came down to the drawing-room.’

  ‘And I think Mr Joseph Herriard was able to corroborate that, wasn’t he, miss?’

  ‘Yes. We went upstairs together, and while I had my bath he continued to talk to me from his dressing-room. In fact, I don’t recall that he ever stopped talking, except now and then, when he hummed instead.’

  ‘Even when you had gone back into your bedroom? Did you go on talking to each other?’

  ‘He went on talking to me,’ corrected Mathilda.

  ‘Do you mean that you didn’t answer him?’

  ‘I said Oh! at intervals. Occasionally I said Yes, when he asked me if I was listening.’

  ‘Were you in the habit of talking to Mr Joseph while you were in your room, miss?’

  ‘I didn’t do it the night before, and I haven’t done it since, but three days isn’t really long enough for one to contract a habit, do you think?’

  ‘I see. And you came downstairs together on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Arm in arm.’

  ‘Thank you, miss; that’s all I wanted to know,’ said Hemingway.

  Stephen, who had been frowningly regarding him, said: ‘Just what are you driving at, Inspector?’

  ‘Checking up on my facts, sir, that’s all,’ Hemingway replied.

  But when he saw Sergeant Ware, a few minutes later, he shook his head, and said: ‘No good. He took care to establish a cast-iron alibi all right.’

  ‘There you are, then!’ said the Sergeant, not altogether disappointed.

  ‘No, I’m not!’ Hemingway replied with some asperity. ‘On that evening, and on that evening only, Joseph made a point of holding forth to Miss Clare, while she was dressing for dinner, and if possible, I’m more than ever convinced that he’s the man I’m after.’

  The Sergeant looked at him almost sadly. ‘I’ve never known you to go against the evidence before, sir.’

  ‘What you don’t see is that I haven’t got all the evidence. I’ve got a lot, but there’s a vital link which I’ve missed. Well, I can’t do any more until those lads ‘phone through the result of developing that plate.’

  ‘Of course, if it does turn out to be a print of Joseph’s hand, it will be strong circumstantial evidence,’ conceded the Sergeant. ‘But not nearly strong enough, to my way of thinking, to convict him without our finding out how he could have got into Nathaniel’s room to murder him. What’s more, there’s still that handkerchief of Roydon’s.’

  But Hemingway was plainly uninterested in Roydon’s handkerchief. While awaiting the telephone-call from the policestation, he was sought out by Valerie, who wanted to know whether she could go home. He assured her that he had not the least objection to her immediate departure, an announcement which greatly cheered her. She went off to persuade her mother to leave L
exham on the following morning, and found that that redoubtable lady had at last succeeded in cornering Stephen, and was manoeuvring for position. As she entered the drawing-room, she heard Mrs Dean say: ‘I know that you understood a mother’s anxiety, Stephen. I’m afraid I’m very, very jealous of my girlie’s happiness and future welfare. I could not have reconciled it with my conscience to have let the engagement continue as things were. But I’m sure you’re chivalrous enough to forgive a mother’s natural prudence.’

  From the look on Stephen’s face this did not seem to be very probable. Before he could answer, Valerie said: ‘Oh, Mummy, I do wish you’d shut up! I keep on telling you I don’t want to marry Stephen! And anyway we can go home: that angelic Inspector says so.’

  In whatever terms Mrs Dean might later censure her daughter’s mannerless interruption, even she was compelled to realise that after this forthright speech there could be no hope of renewing the engagement. She expressed a pious wish that they would not both discover that they had made a mistake they would regret, and left the room to overcome her chagrin in private.

  Valerie said that for her part she was dead sure she wouldn’t regret it.

  ‘I shan’t either,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re a lovely, my pet, but you’d have driven me to suicide within a month.’

  ‘Well, I thought you were pretty stinking, if you want to know,’ said Valerie candidly. ‘I expect you’ll end up by marrying Mathilda.’

  ‘I feel that I owe it to you to tell you that you’re quite right.’

  ‘Good God, you haven’t gone and proposed to her already, have you?’

  ‘I have; but you needn’t spread it about yet.’

  She stared at him ‘Gosh, so that’s why you’re suddenly looking almost human! Are you really feeling a hundred per cent, just because you’ve proposed to Mathilda Clare?’

  ‘No, my pretty nit-wit – because she accepted me.’

  ‘You are a sickening swine, Stephen!’ she said, without rancour. ‘You never looked in the least like that when you were engaged to me.’

  ‘I didn’t feel in the least like this. I now feel so brimful of human kindness that if it wasn’t Boxing Day I’m damned if I wouldn’t drive in to the Free Library, to see if I could find a copy of the Life of the Empress there for Aunt Maud.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t bother, because she’s writing to London for one,’ said Valerie.

  In this she was not quite accurate. Maud had indeed set out to write such a letter, but as she unfortunately could not recall either the author or the publisher of the book, and the title pages had been consumed in the incinerator, an insuperable bar seemed to have arisen in the way of her obtaining the volume. She appealed to everyone to supply her with the necessary details, but as no one knew them, no one could come to her rescue. Joseph announced in tragic accents that the book would always conjure up such painful recollections that he hoped she would refrain from introducing it into the house again. Stephen at once astonished everyone by promising to scour London for all the books that might have been written about the Empress, and to send them down to her.

  ‘Now, now, old chap, I can’t have you teasing your aunt!’ said Joseph, shaking a finger at him.

  ‘You’re mistaken. I’m perfectly serious. You shall have innumerable lives of the Empress, aunt.’

  ‘It is very kind of you, Stephen, but I don’t want innumerable lives of her. I merely wish to replace the copy that was burnt. And I think that the person who wantonly destroyed it is the person who ought to replace it.’

  ‘I am not that person, but I am in a very sunny mood, and I will replace it,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Indeed, you shall do no such thing!’ Joseph said. ‘We can’t have him wasting his money like that, can we, my dear? No, I think if you very much want it I shall have to charge myself with procuring you a copy. You shall have it for your birthday! How will that be?’

  ‘Thank you, Joseph, but my birthday is not until April, as you are very well aware, and I want the book now,’ Maud replied. ‘I shall write to Bodmin’s, and describe what the book looked like, and I daresay they will know the one I mean.’

  Joseph patted her hand. ‘But, my dear, surely it was quite an old book? I’m afraid you are likely to find that it has been out of print for some years. I can see I shall have to prowl round second-hand bookshops on your behalf. Only be patient, and you shall have it, if I can possibly manage it! I shouldn’t worry about writing to Bodmin’s, if I were you: I’m quite sure they won’t be able to supply it.’

  As Maud showed a tendency to argue the point, and he was already bored by the whole subject, Stephen lounged out of the room, just in time to meet Inspector Hemingway, coming away from the telephone-room. The Inspector’s eyes were bright with triumph, a circumstance which Stephen at once noticed. Stephen said: ‘You look remarkably pleased with yourself, Inspector. Found a valuable clue?’

  ‘The trouble with you, sir, is that you want to know too much,’ said Hemingway severely. ‘If you’re looking for Miss Clare, she went upstairs a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘Don’t get waggish with me, I implore you! My temper isn’t proof against that kind of badinage. I am not looking for Miss Clare. I am escaping from the Empress of Austria.’

  The Inspector smiled. ‘What, you aren’t going to tell me she’s got lost again?’

  ‘No; but in her present condition she’s of no use to my aunt, and as my aunt cannot recall the name of her author, we have now reached an impasse, discussion of which will very shortly clear this house of its guests. Of course, if you were any good as a detective, you would have discovered by this time who cast the Empress to the flames.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Mrs Herriard as good as told me,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m sorry I can’t see my way to obliging her, but there it is! my time’s not my own, as you might say. Why doesn’t she ask them at the library who wrote the book? They’ll be bound to know.’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Stephen, ‘you are a great man! During the whole course of our exhausting discussions, not one of us thought of that simple expedient. I don’t want to hear any more tit-bits about the Empress, but I shall pass on your advice to my aunt, partly because I feel mellow, and partly because my Uncle Joseph wants to hear about the Empress even less than I do, judging by his strenuous opposition to Aunt’s getting another copy of the book.’

  Hemingway’s shrewd gaze was fixed on his face. ‘You don’t pass up many chances of annoying your uncle, do you, sir?’

  ‘None, I hope,’ said Stephen coolly.

  ‘What makes you do it, sir, if I may ask?’

  ‘Mutual antipathy.’

  ‘Mutual?’ repeated Hemingway, lifting an eyebrow.

  ‘Did I say mutual? A slip of the tongue.’

  Hemingway nodded, as though fully satisfied with this explanation. Stephen turned to go back into the drawingroom, but before he reached the door it opened, and Maud came out.

  Her small mouth was folded closely, and she looked at Stephen with a stony expression in her eyes. He said: ‘I was coming to find you, Aunt. Inspector Hemingway advises you to enquire at your library for the name of the author of that book.’

  Maud’s countenance relaxed a little, and the glance she cast at Hemingway was almost one of approval. ‘I must say that is a very sensible idea,’ she said. ‘But I still consider that the person who destroyed the book ought to own up. It was a very shabby trick. I should not have thought it of anyone at Lexham, even of you, Stephen.’

  ‘My good aunt, rid your mind of this obsession!’ he said wearily. ‘Why should I have burnt it?’

  ‘Joseph told me that you said –’

  ‘Joseph told you!’ he exclaimed, his brow growing thunderous. ‘I’ve no doubt! You will probably find that he burned the book himself for the pleasure of casting a fresh aspersion on to me!’

  Maud seemed quite unresentful of this accusation. She said mildly: ‘I’m sure I don’t know why he should do that, Stephen.’


  He gave a short laugh, and strode away in the direction of the billiard-room.

  The Inspector watched him go, a thoughtful look in his eyes. As Maud continued her progress towards the stairs, he turned to look at her, saying: ‘Very unfortunate the way young Mr Herriard seems to have his knife into your husband, madam. And his uncle so fond of him!’

  But Maud was not to be drawn into discussion. She met the Inspector’s look with a blank stare, and said in her flattest voice: ‘Yes.’

  He made no further effort to detain her, but went to find his Sergeant. ‘They were Joseph’s finger-prints,’ he informed this worthy.

  The Sergeant’s lips formed a soundless whistle. ‘That does look fishy, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Very fishy indeed. But unless you can break down his alibi –’