Detection Unlimited Read online

  He left the inn a little while before the London train was due, and walked through the town towards the station. He found South Street extremely congested, with various persons trying to park their cars against the kerb, and holding up all the traffic while they performed their complicated evolutions; and when he reached the market-place he discovered the reason for all this activity. Wednesday was Bellingham’s market-day, and the wide square was crowded with omnibuses, stalls, vociferous merchants, and keen shoppers. Every branch of trade seemed to be represented, from a stall displaying bric-a-brac to one presided over by a stout individual who invitingly slapped a large and bright yellow object, stentoriously proclaiming: ‘HaddOCKS, haddOCKS, haddOCKS!’

  Hemingway, threading his way through the crowd, came upon Abby Dearham, who was carrying a basket already over-flowing and who seemed to be in attendance on her aunt. She greeted him with her unaffected friendliness. ‘Hallo! Whatever are you doing here? Are you marketing?’

  ‘No, but I can see I ought to be,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, you really do pick up the most marvellous bargains sometimes. Everyone always comes in on market-day: it’s one of the done things. If you happen to like goats’ milk cheese, the Women’s Institute, over there, beside the fruit-and-vegetables, have got some, which my aunt brought in and –’

  Hemingway waited expectantly, but it was rapidly borne in upon him that Miss Dearham had suddenly lost interest in him. She appeared to have caught sight of a heavenly vision, and was staring beyond the Chief Inspector, an expression of fond idiocy upon her countenance. Turning his head, he perceived young Mr Haswell was bearing down upon them, looking quite as foolish as Miss Dearham, and even more oblivious of his surroundings. ‘I thought you’d be here!’ he said.

  ‘Charles, you are dreadful!’ said Miss Dearham, in a besotted voice. ‘You ought to be working!’

  The Chief Inspector, realising that he was intruding into an idyll, and that two at least of Thornden’s detectives had abandoned the search for truth, withdrew without excuse or leave-taking, and proceeded on his way to the station.

  The train was just pulling out of it when he reached it, and he met Inspector Harbottle in the station-yard. The Inspector came striding briskly towards him. ‘You win, Chief!’ he said.

  ‘Well, I hope I shall, but I’m not liking it much at the moment,’ replied Hemingway, disappointingly unenthusiastic. ‘Was it the date?’

  ‘It was. The Superintendent had Acton stay on. He says you’re a wonder, sir.’

  ‘He’s mistaken. However, I’m glad there’s something I’ve managed to spot.’

  ‘Anything gone wrong?’ asked the Inspector anxiously.

  ‘No, but I’m getting to be annoyed with myself. I don’t deny that that letter strengthens my case a lot, but the one thing I want I’m damned if I know where to look for!’

  ‘The gun,’ said Harbottle. ‘I’ve been wondering about that all the way down from town. I don’t see that we’ve a hope of finding it, but I think you’ve got enough on Plenmeller to justify you making an arrest. What did the doctor say about the stains on the carpet?’

  ‘Oh, they’re blood all right! Same group as Warrenby’s, too. The doctor got hold of the collar he was wearing when he was shot: that was bloodstained, of course. And I took those papers round to Coupland last night, and he was quite sure two letters at least were missing. That’s all right, as far as it goes, but neither the bloodstains nor the missing letters incriminates Plenmeller. I rather hoped I might be able to establish that he came down Wood Lane after the Vicar’s wife did. Do you remember Carsethorn saying that one of the villagers had seen them both coming away from The Cedars on Saturday? Well, I sent Carsethorn out to Thornden after you left yesterday, to talk to this character.’

  ‘No good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that exactly. I should say, from what Carsethorn told me about a highly exasperating interview, that Plenmeller did come into the High Street later than Mrs Cliburn, but as the old man contradicted himself three times, not to mention remembering what happened, because of its having been at that exact moment that something else happened, only, when he came to think it over, that wasn’t on Saturday, but on Thursday – well, you know the sort of thing! – he isn’t the kind of witness anyone would want to call.’

  ‘We’ll do without him, then,’ said the Inspector, in a heartening tone. ‘Hallo! Market-day?’

  ‘Yes. I ran into Miss Dearham and young Haswell on my way to the station – very far gone, both of them! – and I gather the better part of Thornden’s in the town. We’ll skirt round the side, or I may be made to buy a goats’ milk cheese.’

  The Inspector had no idea why his chief should be made to buy cheese of any kind, but he forbore to enquire into the matter, suspecting him of ill-timed levity. Together they circumvented the market-place, and began to make their way down South Street.

  ‘What does the Colonel feel about it?’ asked Harbottle.

  ‘Oh, he thinks it’s doubtful! That isn’t worrying me. I know Plenmeller did it, but I don’t like a case that rests only on circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘A lot of murder-cases do,’ Harbottle ventured to point out.

  ‘Well, if this one does, I can see myself getting unpopular with the DPP over this. I wouldn’t mind so much with the ordinary run of criminals, but we’re not dealing with that kind. Our interesting friend is too clever to take any chances with.’

  ‘Well, what do you – Hallo, there he is!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just gone into that bank,’ replied the Inspector, nodding towards a building a few yards farther down the street. ‘He didn’t look as if he was worrying much, I must say. It beats me how a chap can –’ He broke off, for he perceived that his Chief was not attending to him.

  Hemingway had, in fact, stopped in front of a linen-draper’s shop, a most peculiar look on his face, his eyes a little narrowed. Surprised, the Inspector said: ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  His attention recalled, Hemingway looked at him. ‘Horace, I’ve got it!’ he said. ‘Come on!’

  Wholly at sea, the Inspector followed him down the street, and into the bank.

  The bank was as crowded as the rest of Bellingham, most of those waiting in queues before the various cashier’s guichets being housewives, much encumbered by baskets and parcels. Gavin Plenmeller had not joined any of the queues, but was writing a cheque at one of the tables provided for that purpose. His back was turned to the door, and, after a quick glance at him, the Chief Inspector stepped up to the broad counter, and ruthlessly interrupted a cashier who was engaged in counting thick wads of dirty-looking notes, behind a notice which gave customers to understand that he was in balk, and must not be disturbed. Upon being accosted, he began, in repressive accents, to request the Chief Inspector to go to the next desk. However, Hemingway had thrust his card under the grille, and the inscription it bore worked like a charm. The cashier abandoned his calculations, and looked a startled enquiry.

  ‘Anyone with the manager?’ asked Hemingway.

  ‘No, I don’t think – That is to say, I’ll go and –’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Hemingway cheerfully. He nodded towards a frosted glass-door. ‘That his office?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Hemingway, and turned, just as Plenmeller got up from the writing-table, and came towards the counter.

  The Inspector, bewildered, but very much on the alert, thought that there was something more than natural surprise in Plenmeller’s face. He gave no melodramatic start, but he seemed to stiffen, like an animal freezing, and the Inspector saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. The next moment the faintly sneering smile had curled his mouth, and he said coolly: ‘If it isn’t Scotland Yard again! Good morning, gentlemen! Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes, there’s something I want to ask you,’ responded Hemingway affably. ‘It’s a lucky thing I caught sight of you. Not but wh