Detection Unlimited Read online

  A vicious dig from her sire’s elbow put her temporarily out of action. ‘My darter,’ explained Mr Biggleswade. ‘Lawfal,’ he added. ‘Which is wot makes ’er so blooming upperty! I got others. Ah, and sons! First and last –’

  ‘Listen, grandfather!’ interposed Hemingway. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better than to hear your life-story, but the trouble is I’ve got work to do. So you just tell me what you want to see me about, will you?’

  ‘That’s right, my lad, you listen to me, and you’ll get made a Sergeant!’ said Mr Biggleswade approvingly. ‘Cos I know who done this ’ere murder!’

  ‘You do?’ said Hemingway.

  ‘He don’t know anything of the sort, sir!’ expostulated Hobkirk. ‘He’s in his dotage! Sergeant! Why, you silly old fool –’

  ‘You leave him alone!’ said Hemingway briefly. ‘Come on, grandfather! Who did do it?’

  An expression of intense cunning came into the wizened countenance of Mr Biggleswade. ‘Mind, I’ll ’ave me pitcher in the papers!’ he warned the Chief Inspector. ‘And if there’s a reward I’ll ’ave that too! Else I won’t tell you nothing!’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Hemingway encouragingly. ‘If you can tell me the name of the man I’m after, I’ll take a photo of you myself!’

  Much gratified, Mr Biggleswade said: ‘You’re a smart lad, that’s wot you are! Well, if you want to know ’oo done it I’ll tell you! It were young Reg Ditchling!’

  ‘Father!’ said his daughter imploringly. ‘It isn’t right to go taking that poor boy’s character away from him! I keep telling you you’ve got it all wrong!’

  ‘Reg Ditchling,’ repeated Mr Biggleswade, nodding his hoary head mysteriously. ‘And don’t you let no one tell you different! I was up on that there common – ah, and not so far from Fox Lane neither! – and I ’eared a shot. Plain as I ’ear you yammering now I ’eard it, and don’t none of you start talking to me about no backfires, ’cos there ain’t any man living knows more about gunshots than wot I do – I didn’t pay no ’eed, ’cos it weren’t none of my business, but ’oo do you think I seen not ten minutes later, ’iding be’ind a blackberry bush?’

  ‘Reg Ditchling,’ replied Hemingway promptly.

  ‘You leave me tell it you meself!’ said Mr Biggleswade, affronted. ‘Reg Ditchling it was! “And wot might you be up to?” I says to ’im. “Nuthin’,” ’e says, scared-like. “Oh, nuthin’ is it?” I says to ’im. “And ’oo give you that rifle, my lad?” I says. Then ’e ’ands me a lot of sauce, and makes off, and I went up to the Red Lion to ’ave a pint afore me tea.’

  ‘Yes!’ interjected his daughter. ‘And when I went up to fetch you home it was all of seven o’clock, and Mr Crailing told me you’d been there half an hour!’

  Hobkirk, who had edged himself up to the Chief Inspector, said for his private ear: ‘That’s right, what she says, sir, but make the silly old fool listen to a word of sense I can’t! I’ll have a few words to say to Reg Ditchling when I get hold of him, borrowing guns he’s got no right to have, but if he did any shooting on the common that day it was a good hour before Mr Warrenby was killed. And I wouldn’t believe that old rascal, not if he was to swear to it on his Bible-oath! It’s all on account of old Mr Honey being interviewed for the local paper the day he was ninety! Nothing’ll do for Biggleswade but to get into the papers as well, with his picture!’

  ‘Well, I hope he manages to pull it off,’ said Hemingway, watching appreciatively the spirited way in which Mr Biggleswade was resisting his daughter’s attempts to drag him homewards. ‘A very lively old gentleman, I call him. He deserves to get his picture in the papers.’

  Hobkirk eyed him doubtfully. ‘If you had to see as much of him as I do, sir –’

  ‘Lord bless you, he wouldn’t worry me! Have you had many of the villagers trying to do a bit of detection?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Hobkirk earnestly, ‘you wouldn’t believe it! Something chronic, it is! I’ve had to choke off more silly fat-heads who saw people they don’t like not more than half a mile from Fox House nowhere near the time Mr Warrenby was shot – well, as I say, you wouldn’t hardly credit!’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, because I would,’ said Hemingway. ‘Now then, grandfather! You go off home and have your tea, and don’t you worry any more about it! I won’t forget what you’ve told me! Come on, Melkinthorpe! Bellingham!’

  At the police-station, he found the Chief Constable awaiting him, and chafing a little. He said cheerfully: ‘Sorry sir! Did you want to speak to me? I’ve been a bit held up by the local talent.’ He saw that he had puzzled the Colonel, and added: ‘Amateur detectives, sir: the place is swarming with them.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the Colonel rather blankly. ‘Damned annoying! Got anything to tell me?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t say I have. The soup’s thickening nicely, which is as far as I’m prepared to go at the moment.’

  ‘You seemed pleased!’ said the Colonel.

  ‘I am,’ admitted Hemingway. ‘In my experience, sir, the thicker it gets the quicker you’ll solve it. Can you tell me anything about the way Mr Ainstable’s estate is settled?’

  ‘No,’ replied the Colonel, looking at him narrowly. ‘I can’t. Except that the heir is Ainstable’s nephew. Do you mean it’s entailed?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. At some date a settlement was made, but what the terms of it were I don’t know. The Squire doesn’t own the estate, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Good God! I had no idea – are you sure of your facts, Hemingway?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s only the tenant-for-life, sir, and I know the name of the firm of solicitors who act for the trustees of the settlement. But that’s just about all I do know. How old was Mr Ainstable’s son when he was killed?’

  The Colonel reflected. ‘He and my boy were at school together, so he must have been nineteen and – no, he was a few months older than Michael. About twenty.’

  ‘Not of age. Then the estate must have been settled by his grandfather, or resettled by him. It can’t have been resettled by this man while his son was still a minor. I’m not very well up in these things, but I did once have a case which hinged on the settlement of a big estate.’

  ‘How did you find all this out?’ demanded the Colonel. ‘I should doubt whether anyone except, I suppose, Drybeck, knows anything about Ainstable’s affairs. And, good God, he wouldn’t talk about a client’s private business!’

  ‘Properly speaking,’ replied Hemingway, ‘it was Harbottle who discovered it. And Mr Drybeck wasn’t the only person who knew there’d been a settlement. Sampson Warrenby knew it. And unless I’m much mistaken, Mr Haswell knows it too – or at any rate suspects it.’

  ‘I should have said that Warrenby was the last man in the world Ainstable would have confided in! But go on!’

  ‘I’m dead sure he didn’t confide to him, sir. Warrenby found it out. There’s a copy of a letter he wrote to the solicitors of the trustees, saying that he had a client that was interested in Mr Ainstable’s gravel-pit, and that he was informed they were the proper people for him to apply to. And there’s an answer from this firm, all very plain, stating that although any money would have to be paid to them, acting for the trustees, to be apportioned as between the tenant-for-life and the trust funds, all such contracts were a matter for Mr Ainstable only. Now, on the face of it, it looks as if Warrenby must have approached Mr Drybeck, knowing him to be Mr Ainstable’s solicitor, and been passed on by him to this London firm.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the Colonel, staring at him.

  ‘Yes, sir, only I’ve met a lot of false faces in my time, and it’s my belief this is one of them. I don’t doubt Warrenby got the information he wanted out of Mr Drybeck, but I should say he didn’t appear in the matter himself. In fact, I don’t know how he managed it, which is probably just as well, because I’ve got a strong notion that if ever I got to the bottom of the methods the late lamented employed to find out things about his neighbours I�