Envious Casca Read online

  ‘Will you be able to keep on this place?’ she asked.

  ‘Hardly. It will be sold, and the proceeds pooled, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that!’ she said mechanically.

  His lips twisted. ‘How sweet of you!’ he mocked. He glanced towards Hemingway. ‘Interested, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m always interested,’ Hemingway responded.

  Maud chose that moment to come into the hall from the wide corridor leading past the billiard-room to the servants’ quarters. She was still carrying her mutilated book, and it was evidently still absorbing her attention, for she said without preamble: ‘They all say they know nothing about it. If you did it, Stephen, it would be more manly of you to own up to it.’

  ‘God’s teeth, how many more times do you want to be told that I never touched your book?’ Stephen demanded.

  ‘There is no need to swear,’ Maud said. ‘When I was a girl gentlemen did not use strong language in front of ladies. Of course, times have changed, but I do not think for the better. It’s my belief someone wantonly destroyed this book.’ Her pale gaze drifted to the Inspector’s face. ‘You don’t seem to be doing anything,’ she said, on a note of severity. ‘I think you ought to discover who put my book into the incinerator. It may not seem important to you, but as far as I can see you aren’t getting any further over my brother-in-law’s death, so you might turn your attention to this for a change.’

  ‘Good God, Aunt, you surely don’t expect Scotland Yard to bother itself about a miserable book!’ exclaimed Paula. ‘We’re all sick and tired of hearing about it!’

  ‘And I,’ said Maud, quite sharply, ‘am sick and tired of hearing about Nat’s murder, and Nat’s will!’

  ‘In that case,’ said Stephen, ‘we can’t expect you to be interested in Blyth’s verdict.’

  ‘No, I am not interested,’ Maud replied. ‘I do not want a large fortune, and I do not want to be obliged to continue living in this house. I shall write to town for a copy of the Life of the Empress at once, and when I have finished reading it, I shall give it to the library in place of this one.’

  Joseph, who was coming down the stairs, overheard this, and threw up his hands. ‘Oh, my dear, are we never to hear the last of that book? I thought we had decided to forget about it!’

  ‘You may have decided to forget about it, Joseph, but it was not your book. I was very much interested in it, and I want to know what the end was.’

  ‘Well, my dear, and so you shall,’ promised Joseph. ‘When all this stress is over, I’ll get you a copy, never fear!’

  ‘Thank you, Joseph, I will get one for myself, without waiting for anything to be over,’ said Maud, walking away.

  The Inspector picked up his hat again. Joseph said: ‘Ah, Inspector! Just off ? I mustn’t ask you if you’ve discovered anything, must I? I know you won’t keep us in suspense longer than you need.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir. I understand I have to congratulate you, by the way.’

  Joseph winced. ‘Please don’t, Inspector! What has happened isn’t in the least what I wanted. But it may all come right yet.’

  ‘I hope it may, I’m sure, sir. I’m sorry about Mrs Herriard’s book, and I’m afraid she thinks I ought to bring someone to justice about it.’

  Joseph smiled wearily. ‘I think we’ve all heard enough about that book,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, my wife has a way, which the young people find tiresome, of recounting stray pieces of what she has read. The least said about it the better. She’ll soon forget about it.’

  ‘For the last time,’ said Stephen dangerously, ‘I – did – not – touch – the – book!’

  ‘Very well, old chap, we’ll leave it at that,’ said Joseph in a soothing voice.

  The Inspector then left the house, accompanied by Sergeant Ware. During the drive back to the town, he was unusually silent, and the Sergeant, stealing a glance at him, saw that he was frowning. Over a lunch of cold turkey and ham at the Blue Dog, Hemingway continued to frown until the Sergeant ventured to ask him what he thought about the morning’s work.

  ‘I’m beginning to get some very queer ideas about this case,’ replied Hemingway, digging into a fine Stilton cheese. ‘Very queer. I wouldn’t wonder if I began seeing things soon.’

  ‘I was thinking myself of something you once said to me,’ said the Sergeant slowly.

  ‘If you thought more about what I say to you you’d very likely get to be an Inspector one of these days,’ replied Hemingway. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You told me that when a case got so gummed up that it looked hopeless you liked it, because it meant that something was going to break.’

  ‘I won’t say it isn’t true, because very often it is, but it won’t do you any good to remember that kind of remark,’ said Hemingway severely.

  ‘Well, sir, is this case gummed up enough for you yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hemingway, ‘it is.’

  ‘You’ve got something?’

  ‘I’ve got a strong feeling that things moved a bit too fast for someone this morning,’ said Hemingway. ‘It’s no use asking me how I get these hunches: it’s what they call a flair. That’s why they made me an Inspector.’

  The Sergeant sighed, and waited patiently.

  ‘While I was prowling round the house today, more like a Boy Scout than a policeman, I treated myself to a nice quiet review of the case.’ Hemingway poised a piece of cheese on his knife, and raised it to his mouth. ‘And taking one thing with another, and adding them up together with a bit of flair, and a knowledge of psychology, I came to the conclusion that I was being led around by the nose. Now, that’s a thing I don’t take kindly to at all. What’s more, the Department wouldn’t like it.’ He put the cheese into his mouth, and munched it.

  ‘Who’s leading you around by the nose?’ asked the Sergeant, intent, but bewildered.

  Hemingway washed the cheese down with some beer. ‘Kind old Uncle Joseph,’ he answered.

  The Sergeant frowned. ‘Trying to put you off young Stephen’s scent? But –’

  ‘No,’ said Hemingway. ‘Trying to put me off his own scent.’

  ‘But, good lord, Chief, you don’t think he did it, do you?’ gasped the Sergeant.

  Hemingway regarded him pityingly. ‘You can’t help not having flair, because it’s French, and you wouldn’t understand it,’ he said, ‘but you ought to be able to do ordinary arithmetic.’

  ‘I can,’ said the Sergeant, nettled. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, I can add two and two together and make it four as well as anyone. What I can’t do is to make it five. But I daresay that’s French too.’

  ‘No,’ said Hemingway, quite unruffled. ‘That’s Vision, my lad. You haven’t got it.’

  ‘No, but I know what it is,’ retorted the Sergeant insubordinately. ‘It’s seeing things, like you warned me you were beginning to.’

  ‘One of these days I shall get annoyed with you,’ said Hemingway. ‘You’ll be reduced to the ranks, very likely.’

  ‘But, Chief, he couldn’t have done it!’ the Sergeant pointed out.

  ‘If it comes to that, they couldn’t any of them have done it.’

  ‘I know; but he’s the one man who’s got an alibi from the moment Herriard went upstairs to the moment when he was found dead!’

  ‘When you put it to me like that, I can’t make out why I didn’t suspect him at the outset,’ said Hemingway imperturbably.

  The Sergeant said almost despairingly: ‘He was talking to Miss Clare through the communicating door into the bathroom. You aren’t going to tell me you suspect her of being mixed up in it?’

  ‘No, I’m not. What I am going to tell you, though, is that when you get a bunch of suspects only one of whom has had the foresight to provide himself with an alibi, you want to keep a very sharp eye on that one. I admit I didn’t, but that was very likely because you distracted me.’

  The Sergeant swallowed something in his throat. ‘Very likely,’ he agreed bitterly.