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  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.

  ‘And if that’s Mr Drybeck’s handkerchief, give it back to him! Hallo, here’s Carsethorn. Well?’

  ‘I’ve brought in the three you wanted, sir.’

  ‘Good man! Any difficulty?’

  ‘Not with Mr Ainstable, sir, nor yet at The Cedars. Mr Ainstable quite saw why we wanted his rifle, and made no objection at all. It was in his estate room. That’s not part of Old Place: just a small kind of summerhouse, which was converted, so as Mr Eckford, the Squire’s agent, wouldn’t have to go through the house every time he went there. I had a look at it, the Squire taking me to it, and I wouldn’t like to say the rifle couldn’t have been lifted, and put back later, because I think – if you knew when the estate room was likely to be empty – it might have been. Young Mr Haswell left his rifle wrapped up in a bit of sacking, and told Mrs Haswell to give it to us if we called asking for it. Now, that rifle was found by him in the cupboard in the cloakroom, sir, and could easily have been taken by anyone at that tennis-party – if they could have hidden it, which I don’t think.’

  ‘What about Lindale’s?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have that too. He wasn’t best pleased: said no one could possibly have borrowed it without his knowing. But it wasn’t him that made the real trouble over it. That was Mrs Lindale. He wasn’t in when I called, and had to be fetched off the farm. She sent the daily woman to find him, though I told her I only wanted to test the rifle, as a matter of routine. Very hostile she was. Scared, I thought. Started tearing me off the strip, the way women do when they’ve got the wind up. Only then her husband came in, and she quietened down as soon as he spoke to her. Very gone on one another they are, I’d say. He said if it was really necessary for me to take the rifle I could do so, but he’d be obliged to us if we wouldn’t come bothering his good lady, because she’s very nervous, and things like this murder upset her.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Hemingway, ‘I’m going to be unpopular, because I’m going to go out there to bother her this afternoon.’

  Ten

  The Chief Inspector was taken to Thornden by the young constable who had driven him there on the previous day; but since Rushyford Farm was his first objective Constable Melkinthorpe took the right fork out of Bellingham, which led to Hawkshead. This road, after a few miles, intersected the common, north of the Trindale road, and, about a quarter of a mile before it reached Rushyford, passed the Squire’s gravel-pit. Men were working there; Hemingway asked whose men they were, and Melkinthorpe replied with the name of a local firm, adding that they did say that Mr Ainstable made quite a good thing out of it. Constable Melkinthorpe, who was enjoying his present assignment more than any that had previously fallen to him, and dreamed of vague heroic deeds, turned circumspectly into the rather narrow entrance to Rushyford Farm, and asked hopefully if the Chief Inspector wanted him to go with him into the house.

  ‘Not unless you hear me scream,’ said Hemingway, getting out of the car. ‘Then, of course, you’ll come in double-quick to rescue me.’ He slammed the car-door, and paused for a moment, surveying the house before him, which was a rambling, picturesque building set in a small garden, and with its farm-buildings clustered to one side of it. The front-door stood open on to a flagged passage, but Hemingway very correctly knocked on it, and awaited permission to enter. He had to knock twice before he could get a response. Then Mrs Lindale came running down the uncarpeted oaken stairway, hastily untying an apron as she descended, and casting it aside. ‘Sorry!’ she said. ‘My daily has gone into Bellingham to get the rations, and I couldn’t come down before. Do you want Mr Lindale?’

  ‘Well, I should like a word with him, madam,’ said Hemingway. ‘My name’s Hemingway – Chief Inspector, CID. Perhaps you’d like to have my card.’

  She made no attempt to take it, but stood in the doorway as though she would have denied him ingress. ‘We’ve already had one detective here today! What on earth can you want? Why do you come badgering us? My husband was barely acquainted with Mr Warrenby! I think it’s the limit!’

  ‘I’m bound to say it must be a nuisance for you,’ admitted Hemingway. ‘But if we weren’t allowed to make enquiries we wouldn’t get much farther, would we?’

  ‘Neither my husband nor I can possibly be of any use to you!’ she said impatiently. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Oh, I just want to ask you both a few questions!’ he replied. ‘May I come in?’

  She seemed to hesitate, and then, reluctantly, stood aside for him to pass, saying ungraciously, as she pushed open a door on the right of the passage. ‘Oh, all right! Go in there, will you? I’ll send to fetch my husband.’

  She then walked away down the passage, and could be heard a minute later shouting to one Walter to tell the master he was wanted up at the house. When she came back to the sitting-room, she still wore a defensive look, but said, with a perfunctory smile: ‘Sorry if I bit your head off! But, really, it’s a bit much! We’ve already told the police all we know about what happened on Saturday, and the answer is nothing. I left The Cedars just after half-past six, and came straight back here to put my baby to bed. I can’t tell you the exact moment when my husband left: he was still playing tennis when I went away: but I happen to know he wasn’t anywhere near Fox Lane when Mr Warrenby was shot!’

  Hemingway, who rarely found it necessary to consult his notes, said affably: ‘Ah, that’s a bit of evidence the local police must have forgotten to give me! It’s a good job I came. How do you happen to know it, madam?’

  ‘Because he was down by the water-meadows,’ she replied, boldly meeting his eyes. ‘I saw him there!’

  ‘You did?’ said Hemingway, all polite interest.

  ‘I’ll take you up and show you the window, if you like. You can see the water-meadows from one of the attics. I happened to run up to get something – we keep a lot of junk stored in the attics – and I distinctly saw my husband!’ She paused, and added: ‘I’m sure I told the other detective, when he first came to see us! I’d be ready to swear I did!’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ said Hemingway. ‘Or you might have had your reasons for not telling Sergeant Carsethorn at the time.’

  ‘What possible reason could I have had?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, but perhaps you hadn’t realised, when the Sergeant first called on you, that you could see the water-meadows from that attic window,’ suggested Hemingway.

  Her colour rose, flaming into her naturally pale face. ‘Of course I knew it! If I didn’t tell the Sergeant – but I’m nearly sure I did! – it must have been because I was so shocked and startled by the news that Mr Warrenby had been shot that it momentarily slipped my mind!’

  ‘What brought it back to your mind – if I may ask?’ said Hemingway.

  ‘When I had time to think – going back over what I did after I got home on Saturday –’ She broke off, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her thin hands together.

  Hemingway shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have kept it from the Sergeant when he came to pick up your husband’s rifle this morning,’ he said, more in sorrow than in anger.

  ‘If you like to come upstairs you can see for yourself!’

  ‘I don’t disbelieve you,’ said Hemingway, adding apologetically: ‘That you can see the water-meadow from the attic, I mean.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Look here!’ said Delia Lindale fiercely. ‘I can tell you now that you’re wasting your time! We hardly knew Mr Warrenby, and we can’t tell you anything! Why don’t you ask Mr Ainstable what he did after he parted from my husband on Saturday? Why didn’t he go home in the car, with his wife? Why did he suddenly decide to visit his plantation? I suppose, just because the Ainstables have lived here for centuries, they’re above suspicion! Like Gavin Plenmeller! You might find out what he was up to, instead of coming here to badger me! Why shouldn’t it have been he? He loathed Mr Warrenby! Ask Miss Patterdale if it isn’t true t