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  He removed his hand from the door of the car, favoured Hemingway with one of his sardonic smiles, and limped away.

  Constable Melkinthorpe’s feelings got the better of him. He drew an audible breath. ‘Well!’ he uttered. ‘He’s a one, and no mistake! Blessed if I know what to make of him!’

  ‘As no one wants you to make anything of him, that needn’t keep you awake! Get on with it!’ said Hemingway tartly.

  Twelve

  A few minutes later, the police-car was standing outside Rose Cottages, and the Chief Inspector was making the acquaintance of Mrs Ditchling and five of her seven children, who ranged in age from Gert, who was twenty, to Jackerleen, who was six. He would willingly have dispensed with the introductions which were forced upon him, but while Mrs Ditchling was cast into housewifely distraction by his visit, because she was afraid he would find the place a bit untidy – which was her way of describing a scene of such chaos as might be expected to exist in a very small cottage inhabited by seven persons, most of whom were of tender years – it was obviously considered by the rest of the family to constitute a red-letter day in their lives, Alfie, a young gentleman in velveteen knickers and Fair Isle jersey, going so far as to dash out into the garden at the back of the cottage yelling to his brother Claud to come quick, or else he wouldn’t see the detective.

  In describing the scene later, to Inspector Harbottle, Hemingway admitted that he lost his grip at the outset. The Ditchlings were not only friendly: they were garrulous and inquisitive, and they all talked at once. The Chief Inspector, stunned by his reception, found himself weakly admiring a hideous toy rabbit made of pink plush, shown him by Jackerleen – or, as she was mercifully called, Jackie; answering questions fired at him with the remorselessness of machine-guns by Alfie, and his brother Claud; and endorsing Mrs Ditchling’s opinion that for Edie to leave her nice, steady job at Woolworth’s to become a film star would be an act of unparalleled folly. He was also put in possession of much information, such as the entire history of the late Mr Ditchling’s untimely demise; of the rapid rise, in Millinery, of Gert; of the medals Claud had won as a Boy Scout; of the trouble his mother had had over Alfie’s adenoids; of the letter Ted had written from his training-camp; and of the high opinion his employer held of Reg, who, unfortunately, was going to the pictures that evening, and so had not come home after work. ‘He will be upset!’ said Mrs Ditchling.

  Everyone seemed to feel that the absent Reg was missing a rare treat, Gert saying that it was a shame, Claud asserting that he would be as sick as muck, and Jackerleen asking her mother several times, with increasing tearfulness, if Reg wouldn’t come home to see the pleeceman.

  When the Chief Inspector at last managed to make known the reason for his visit, the confusion grew worse, for Mrs Ditchling, shocked to learn that his rifle had not yet been returned to the Vicar, related in detail the circumstances of Ted’s call-up, Gert asserted several times that Ted had told Reg particular not to forget to take the rifle back for him, Edie said that that was Reg all over, Claud and Alfie argued shrilly with one another on the certain whereabouts of the weapon, and Jackerleen reiterated her demand to know if Reg was not coming home to see the pleeceman.

  ‘Well, I hope to God he’s not!’ said Hemingway, plucking the two boys apart, and giving each a shake. ‘Stop it, the pair of you! You shut up, Alfie! Now then, Claud! If you’re a Wolf Cub, you just tell me where your brother put the Vicar’s rifle – and if I see you try to kick Alfie again, I’ll tell the Scoutmaster about you, so now!’

  Thus admonished, Claud disclosed that Ted put the gun in his workshop, to be safe; and the whole party at once trooped out into the narrow strip of garden at the rear of the cottage. At the end of this was a wooden shed, which, Mrs Ditchling proudly informed Hemingway, Ted had erected with his own hands. But as the door into it was locked, and the key – if not mislaid, or taken away in a moment of aberration by Ted – was in the absent Reg’s possession, Claud’s statement could not be verified. A suggestion put forward by Alfie, who wanted action, that the lock should be forced, was vetoed by the Chief Inspector. He issued instructions that Reg was to bring the Vicar’s rifle to the police-station in Bellingham on his way to work on the following morning, refused the offer of a cup of tea, and left the premises. He was accompanied to the door by the entire family, who saw him off in the friendliest way, the two boys begging him to come to see them again, and Jackerleen not only saying goodbye to him on her own behalf, but adding by proxy, and in a squeaky voice, the plush rabbit’s farewell.

  This scene so much astonished Constable Melkinthorpe that instead of showing his efficiency by starting his engine, and opening the door for Hemingway to get into the car, he sat staring with his mouth open.

  ‘Yes, you didn’t know I was their long-lost uncle, did you?’ said Hemingway. ‘For the lord’s sake, start her up, and look as if you were going to drive me to Bellingham, or we shall have Claud and Alfie trying to storm the car!’

  ‘Where am I to drive you, sir?’ asked Melkinthorpe.

  ‘To the end of the row. I’m going to call on Ladislas, but I don’t want that gang flattening their noses against the window.’

  Fortunately the ruse succeeded, and by the time the car had reached the end of the row the Ditchlings had retired again indoors. Hemingway got out of the car, and walked back to Mrs Dockray’s cottage.

  It was by this time nearly six o’clock, and Ladislas had returned from work. Ushered into the front sitting-room, by Mrs Dockray, who eyed him with considerable hostility, the Chief Inspector found that Ladislas was entertaining two unexpected visitors. Mavis Warrenby, attired from head to foot in funeral black, and Abby Dearham, had called to see him, on their way back, by country omnibus, from Bellingham. It did not seem to Hemingway that their visit was affording Ladislas any pleasure. He was a handsome young man, with dark and romantically waving locks, and brown eyes, as shy as a fawn’s. He was plainly frightened of the Chief Inspector, and lost no time in telling him, in very good English, that the ladies had just looked in on their way home. Miss Warrenby enlarged on this, saying in her earnest way: ‘Mr Zamagoryski is a great friend of mine, and I felt I must show him that I utterly believe in him, and know he had nothing to do with my poor uncle’s death.’

  Looking anything but grateful for this testimony, Ladislas said: ‘It is so kind!’

  Bestowing a smile of quiet understanding on him, Miss Warrenby took his hand, and pressed it in a speaking way. ‘You must have faith, Laddy,’ she said gently. ‘And shut your ears to gossip, as I do. I often think how much better the world would be if people would only remember the monkeys.’

  ‘But what good shall it do to remember monkeys?’ cried Ladislas, recovering possession of his hand. ‘Pardon! This is not sensible, to talk of monkeys!’

  ‘You don’t understand. Three little monkeys, illustrating what I always feel is a maxim we ought to try to –’

  ‘I get it!’ interrupted Abby triumphantly. ‘See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil! It’s all right, Ladislas: it’s only a saying, or something. Come on, Mavis! If the Chief Inspector wants to talk to Ladislas, we’d better clear out!’

  Ladislas looked uncertainly from Hemingway to the ladies. Mavis said that perhaps he would prefer her to remain, her voice conveying so strong a suggestion that there existed between them a beautiful understanding that he looked more frightened than ever, and made haste to disclaim any desire for her support. So Mavis began reluctantly to collect her numerous parcels, and the Chief Inspector, retrieving from under the table a paper-carrier, handed it to her, saying that she seemed to have been doing a lot of shopping.

  ‘Only mourning,’ Mavis replied reverently, and with a slightly reproachful inflection. ‘I know it’s out of date to go into mourning, but I think myself it is a mark of respect. So I asked Miss Dearham if she would go into Bellingham with me, because I didn’t quite feel I could go alone – though I know I must get used to being alone now.’

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