Detection Unlimited Read online

  ‘I don’t mind telling you, sir, that I’ve no reason to suppose that anyone does know it, at any rate down here, except me and my Inspector. And I should think I don’t have to tell you that I shouldn’t, unless I had to, make it public.’

  ‘No, I believe you wouldn’t, but I can see how you might very well have to make it public. I’ve been hoping to God you’d get on to the track of the man who did do Warrenby in before you started making enquiries into my past!’

  ‘You say Warrenby never mentioned the matter to you but the once, sir. Quite sure of that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure of it! Are you thinking he was blackmailing me? He wasn’t. I haven’t anything he wants – money or influence. What is more, had he tried that on I shouldn’t have hesitated to put the matter into the hands of the police. It isn’t a crime to live with another man’s wife: I’d nothing to fear from the police. I can only suppose that he found it out by some accident, and let me know he’d done so to pay me out for choking him off.’

  ‘Am I to take it, then, that the only use he made of his knowledge was to get off a bit of spite?’

  Lindale was frowning. ‘It does sound improbable, put like that,’ he admitted. ‘It’s the only use he did make of it. He may have had other ideas in mind, but what they were I can’t for the life of me imagine. The impression I had was that he said it partly out of spite, and partly as a sort of threat – Accept-me-socially-or-I’ll-make-trouble kind of thing.’

  ‘Which he could have done.’

  Lindale stopped, and said: ‘Look here, Chief Inspector, I’d better be quite open with you! As far as I’m concerned, Warrenby was welcome to tell the whole world all he knew. Neither my – neither Mrs Nenthall nor I have done anything to be ashamed of. There was never any furtive intrigue. We – well, we cared for one another for years, and Nenthall knew it. She married him during the War, when she was only a kid, and – well, it just didn’t work out! I’m not going to say anything about Nenthall, except that if I murdered anyone it would be him! There was a child, a little boy, which made it all impossible. My wife is a woman of very strong principles. Then the kid died – meningitis, and – I shan’t take you into all that. She was ill for months, and then – well, we had it out, the three of us, and the end of it was that she came to me. There couldn’t be a divorce, so nothing ever got into the papers. My own view is that it’s a mistake to make any secret of the situation. People aren’t anything like as hidebound as they used to be. Her family, of course, have cut her out: they’re Catholics, and pretty strict; and my father disapproves. But I think that most people, knowing the facts, wouldn’t ostracise us – none that we’ve the least desire to be on friendly terms with. That’s my point of view, but I said I’d be open with you, and so I’ll tell you that my wife doesn’t share it. She believes that she’s living in sin, poor girl. We’re very happy – but there’s always that behind. Which is why I’d do a lot to keep the whole thing secret. A lot, but not commit murder – though I don’t expect you to believe that. But whatever you believe, I’m dead sure you haven’t enough evidence against me to justify an arrest! The bullet wasn’t fired from my rifle, and I infer that you already know that, or you wouldn’t be asking me questions: you’d be clapping handcuffs on me! Well, I quite see that you’ll have to try to find out more, and I’ve no objection to that. All I do ask is that you’ll refrain from worrying my wife. I won’t have her driven into another nervous breakdown: she’s been through enough!’

  ‘Well, sir, I can’t promise you anything,’ Hemingway replied, ‘but I don’t mind saying that I shan’t worry her, unless I must. I won’t keep you any longer now: you’ll be wanting to get back to your hay-cutting.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Lindale said, turning, and walking with him towards the gate. ‘I shan’t run away.’

  They parted at the gate. Constable Melkinthorpe, straining his ears, managed to hear a snatch of dialogue, and found it disappointing.

  ‘Well, you’ve got wonderful weather,’ Hemingway remarked.

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Touch wood!’ said Lindale, shutting the gate behind him.

  Hemingway crossed the road to the car. ‘Take a walk with me, Horace,’ he said. ‘You can drive the car round to the end of Fox Lane, Melkinthorpe, and wait for us there.’

  He led Harbottle to the entrance to the footpath, and turned into it.

  ‘Well?’ said Harbottle.

  ‘He’s no fool. In fact, he’s very plausible.’

  ‘Too plausible?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He didn’t overplay his part at all. What he told me tallied with what the Superintendent gave me. He also said that as far as he was concerned the whole world could know the truth about him, and I’m inclined to believe him. The trouble is – and he told me this too, which may have been honesty, or may have been because he knew I was wise to it – Mrs Lindale doesn’t look at it like that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harbottle austerely.

  ‘Now, don’t let’s have any psalm-singing!’ said Hemingway, with a touch of irritability. ‘I’ve got a lot of sympathy for that chap. I should say life isn’t all beer and skittles for him, with a wife – or whatever you like to call her, which I can guess, knowing you! – who can’t get over thinking she’s a black sinner. What’s more, I don’t suppose it ever will be – not unless Nenthall is obliging enough to pop off. And don’t give me any stuff about the wages of sin!’

  ‘I won’t. But it’s true, for all that,’ said the Inspector. ‘Is this the footpath he and the Squire came along together? I’ve never seen this end of it till today.’

  ‘It is, and it was about here that the Squire turned off into the plantation. I should say he did, too – either when he said he did, or a bit later. Perhaps both.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Well, if he’s the man I’m after, he had to park the rifle somewhere, hadn’t he? Seems to me his own plantation would have been as good a place as any. Easy to have picked it up, and to have nipped back to Fox Lane when Lindale was out of sight.’

  ‘But the shot wasn’t fired from his rifle,’ objected Harbottle. ‘I know it wasn’t. It may be that we shall have to pull in his agent’s rifle, and his gamekeeper’s as well.’

  Harbottle frowned over this. ‘I don’t think the Squire’s the man to commit a murder with another man’s gun – and that man one of his own people,’ he said.

  ‘Very likely you don’t. You didn’t think he was the kind of man to cheat his heir either.’

  ‘You don’t yet know that he is doing that, sir. And I don’t mind telling you I wouldn’t want the job of accusing him of such a thing!’

  ‘Well, you haven’t got the job. Now, this is Mr Haswell’s spinney – separated from his garden by a wall, as you see. Any amount of cover to be had. We won’t follow the path to his gates, but you can see where it runs and you can see that it would have been possible for Miss Warrenby to have got home by pushing through that very straggly hedge into her uncle’s grounds.’

  The Inspector smiled wryly. ‘You’re forgetting, sir, that you’re not to believe a word Mr Drybeck says.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe many of them,’ said Hemingway, climbing over the stile. ‘Come on! I’ve got a fancy to take another look at the scene of the crime.’

  Together they walked down the lane for some twenty yards, and then climbed the slope on to the common. Fox House had ceased to attract sightseers, and there seemed to be no one about. Hemingway paused by the gorse-clump, and stood looking thoughtfully at the gardens of Fox House. The seat had been removed, but a bare patch in the lawn showed where it had stood.

  ‘I seem to remember that someone told me once you were by way of being a good shot, Horace,’ said Hemingway. ‘How does a man’s head, at this range, strike you, as a target?’

  The Inspector, whose modest home was made magnificent by the trophies which adorned it, appreciated this, and at once retorted: ‘It’s wonderful, how you discover things no one else has