Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Yes,” admitted Harbottle. “If it turns out to be like you describe.”

“Well, we shall soon see,” said Hemingway. “Carsethorn's coming round here before six to pick us up, and take us out to Thornden. They've had a chap keeping an eye on Fox House ever since yesterday, and Miss Warrenby wants him to be removed as soon as convenient, on account of the maid, who says she can't stay there with a policeman on the premises. Nice reputation the police have got in these parts!”

“People don't like having police in the house,” said the Inspector seriously. “It isn't respectable.”

“Well, once I've had a look at the scene, and gone through any private papers there may be in the desk, he can be taken off. I don't want to lose that girl a maid, even if she did murder her uncle, which we don't know, after all. Warrenby had a London solicitor, but beyond having drawn up his Will he doesn't seem to have done much for him. He's fishing in Scotland at the moment, anyway: the Chief Constable had a word with his clerk, and then with Miss Warrenby, who said she was sure her uncle wouldn't have minded us doing whatever it was our duty to do. So we don't have to lug this bird back from Scotland before we can get on with the job.”

“What about the Will?” objected Harbottle.

“That was in Warrenby's safe at his office. This London lawyer is one of the executors, according to what his clerk told the Colonel, and Miss Warrenby's the other. Which made it all plain sailing. It was opened in her presence, and I can go through any papers there may be, in her presence, too. And when we get through at Fox House, we'll call on Mr. Drybeck. We don't want to start a scandal in his office, by going to interview him there tomorrow.”

This programme was carried out. At the appointed hour Sergeant Carsethorn arrived with a police-car, and twenty minutes later the Chief Inspector was enjoying his first view of the village of Thornden. A game of cricket was being played on the common, where a level piece of the ground beside the Trindale-road had been turned into a playing-field; but the village itself was wrapped in a Sunday stillness. The Sergeant drove up to the cross-road, to enable Hemingway to see where Wood Lane turned out of the High Street, and then turned, and drove back to Fox Lane.

Before entering the garden of Fox House, the three men, leaving the car, climbed the rising ground of the common to where the flaming gorse bushes stood. From this point of vantage quite an extensive view could be obtained over the common, which stretched away eastward in the general direction of Bellingham. It was dotted over with similar clumps of gorse, and a great many blackberry bushes, with here and there one or two trees, mostly silver birches. Away to the north, close to the Hawkshead-road, some fencing railed off a gravel-pit which, the Sergeant told Hemingway, had recently been opened up by the Squire. He explained that the common was not Crown land, but manorial waste. “All the land here used to belong to the Ainstables, except what the Plenmellers had, west of the village, but you know how things have been for people like them, ever since the First War. They say young Plenmeller doesn't care, and from what I've seen of him I shouldn't think he cares about anything much; but the Squire's a very different sort of man. Quite one of the old school, as you may say. He'll carry on while he lives, but it's likely to be a bad look-out when he dies, because it's not to be expected that the next man will work like he does to keep things going. Lost his son in the last war, you know. I'm told the place'll go to a nephew or a cousin, or something, who never comes near it. Well, he couldn't, really: he lives in Johannesburg. Not at all the sort of Squire Thornden's accustomed to. I reckon you've got to hand it to Mr. Ainstable. It fairly knocked him out, the young chap's being killed, but he carried on, stiff-backed as you please, doing everything he can, like starting up that gravel-pit, to keep up the estate. Over there's his new plantation: he's had to sell a lot of timber.”

Hemingway nodded. “Not many left now like him.” he remarked, turning to survey the garden of Fox House. “Well, it would have been an easy shot,” he said, his eyes on the seat under the tree. They travelled on, up the lane, to the stile at the top of it.

“You see, if you was to crouch down you couldn't be seen from the stile,” the Sergeant pointed out.

“No. Seems to be woodland beyond it.”

“That's right: Mr. Haswell's spinney. The footpath skirts it. It used to be all woodland from the common up to the Vicarage meadow—you can't see that from here, but it's behind the grounds of Fox House. Of course, that's a long time ago now, but they say those fine old trees you can see were once part of it. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

The Chief Inspector was certainly thinking, but if the subject of his thought was an ancient forest he did not say so. After looking about him in silence for a few moments, he said briskly: “Well, let's get on!” and led the way down into the lane again.

The arched and massively built front-door of Fox House stood open, in the country-way, allowing a view of the hall, and of the carved staircase at the end of it. The floor was of black oak, and had two Persian rugs thrown down on it. An old chest stood under the window opposite the front-door: there was a warped gateleg-table in the centre, and several high-backed Jacobean chairs were ranged against the walls. One or two sporting prints completed an interior that seemed in some indefinable way to represent a period piece rather than the owner's individuality.

“Mr. Warrenby furnished the place regardless, when he bought it,” confided the Sergeant. “He had a man down from London to advise him, even.”

There was an iron bell hanging beside the front-door, and this the Sergeant tugged. The effect was instant and unexpected. Furious yapping arose, and through the half-open doorway on the left of the hall skidded two tawny and determined defenders. One of these made threatening darts at the intruders; the other, a more elderly gentleman, contented himself with standing squarely before them, and uttering slightly wheezy barks.

“Now, now, Peekaboos!” called a fondly childing voice. “Naughty! Come back to Mother at once!”

“Mrs. Midgeholme!” whispered the Sergeant.

The look he cast at Hemingway was pregnant with meaning, but he had no time to explain the reason for his patent horror: Mrs. Midgeholme, overpowering in lilac foulard, came out of the drawing-room, and explained: “Oh! It's the police! Well, really! On a Sunday!”

“Good afternoon, madam. This is Chief Inspector Hemingway, from Scotland Yard. And Inspector Harbottle. They wish to see Miss Warrenby, if convenient, please.”

“Scotland Yard!” ejaculated Mrs. Midgeholme, apparently regarding this institution in the light of a Gestapo headquarters. “That poor child!”

“That's all right, madam,” said Hemingway soothingly. “Properly speaking, I only want to have a look through her uncle's papers. There are one or two questions I'd like to ask her, but don't worry! I shan't go upsetting her.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, with an air of noble resolution, “if you must see her, I shall insist on being present! She is alone in the world, and she has had a terrible shock. I refuse to abandon her!”

“And I'm sure it does you credit,” said Hemingway affably. “I've got no objection.” He bent to stroke the elderly Peke, who was sniffing his shoe. “Well, you're a very handsome fellow, aren't you?”

The Peke, his eyes starting angrily, growled at him. However, Hemingway was scratching the exact spot on his back which afforded him the most gratification, so he stopped growling, and faintly waved his plumed tail. This circumstance struck Mrs. Midgeholme forcibly. She exclaimed: “He's taken a fancy to you! Ulysses! He hardly ever allows strangers to touch him! Do you like that kind of policeman, then, my precious? Oh, Untidy! You mustn't let her bother you!”