Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

The room, which had obviously been swept and dusted, was very neat, the papers on the top of the desk, on which Sampson Warrenby had been working, having been collected into one pile, and tied up with red tape, and all the drawers in the desk sealed. The Sergeant explained that the papers had been scattered over the top of the desk, the fountain-pen, now lying tidily amongst several pencils in a little lacquer tray, uncovered beside them.

Hemingway nodded, and sat down in the chair behind the desk, an action from which Mavis averted her eyes. “Well, now, Miss Warrenby, I take it I have your permission to see if there's anything here that might have a bearing on the case?” he said, cutting the tape round the papers.

“Oh, yes! Though I'm sure there can't be anything. I should so like to feel that the whole thing was an accident, and the more I think about it the more I believe it was. People are always shooting rabbits here—in fact, I know my uncle several times complained to Mr. Ainstable about it, and said he oughtn't to allow it on the common. Poachers, too. Don't you think it might have been an accident?”

Hemingway, disinclined to enter into argument, said that it was too early for him to give an opinion. He ran quickly through the sheaf of documents, which concerned the efforts of a landlord to dislodge a tenant, and stretched over several months. Hemingway recalled that the letters which had been found, clipped together, at Sampson Warrenby's feet, had been written by this tenant, presumably before Sampson Warrenby had been called into the dispute, since the papers attached to them were copies of the landlord's own, acidly worded replies. It was the old story of a tenant protected by the Rent Restriction Acts, and the correspondence was increasingly acrimonious. But since Sampson Warrenby had merely acted in it in the role of legal representative to the landlord it was difficult to perceive what bearing it could have upon his murder. Hemingway laid the papers aside, and began to go through the contents of the drawers in the desk. One of these contained only such oddments as paper-clips, sealing-wax, spear nibs, and pencils, two others held virgin stationery; and another a collection of different-sized envelopes. Two other drawers were devoted to bills and receipts; below these, a third held nothing but account-books and used cheques; and the fourth, on that side, contained bank-sheets. Such private correspondence as Sampson Warrenby had preserved was found thrust into the long central drawer at the top of the desk. Unlike the other drawers, it was in considerable disorder. Before touching its contents Hemingway considered it with a look of birdlike interest. “Would you say your uncle was a tidy man, Miss Warrenby?”

“Oh, yes! Uncle hated things to be left about.”

“Is this how you'd expect to find a drawer in his desk?”

She blinked at it. “I don't know. I mean, I never went to his desk. I shouldn't have dreamed of opening any of his drawers.”

“I see. Well, if you've no objection, I'll pack this lot up, and go through it at my leisure. Then you won't have to have the house cluttered up with policemen any longer. Everything will be returned to you in due course.” He got up. “See to it, will you, Harbottle? Now, Miss Warrenby, are there any other papers? No safe in the house?”

“Oh, no! Uncle kept all his important papers at the office, I think.”

“Then I won't be taking up any more of your time,” he said. She escorted him into the hall, where they were immediately joined by Mrs. Midgeholme and the Ultimas. Delicacy had prevented Mrs. Midgeholme from accompanying them to the study, but she was plainly agog with curiosity, and would have done her best to ferret out of the Chief Inspector the discovery of a possible clue had not Miss Patterdale at that moment walked in at the open front-door. As she was accompanied by her lumbering canine friend, a scene of great confusion followed her entrance, Mrs. Midgeholme uttering dismayed cries, and both the Ultimas bouncing at the Labrador, Ulysses in a very disagreeable way, and Untidy in a spirit of shameless coquetry. Rex, though good-natured, took very little interest in the Ultimas, but Mrs. Midgeholme was obsessed by the fear that he would one day lose patience with their importunities and maul them hideously. By this time she had succeeded in catching her pets, and scooping them up into her arms, assuring them, quite unnecessarily, that there was nothing for them to be afraid of, Mavis had explained to Miss Patterdale that the stranger was a detective from Scotland Yard: and Miss Patterdale, screwing her glass still more firmly into her eye, had looked him over and said that she was sorry to hear it.

“I knew that this was going to lead to a lot of unpleasantness,” she said. “Well, it has nothing to do with me, but I do trust you won't wantonly stir up any scandal in Thornden!”

“Oh, Miss Patterdale, I'm sure there isn't anything like that to stir up!” said Mavis.

“Nonsense! everyone has something in his life he'd rather wasn't made public. Isn't that so— What's your name?”

“I'm Chief Inspector Hemingway, madam. And I'm bound to say there's a great deal in what you say. However, we do try to be discreet.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, “I often say my life is an open book!” She added, with a jolly laugh: “Which anyone may read, even the police!”

“I don't suppose the police have the slightest wish to do so,” replied Miss Patterdale, correctly assessing the Chief Inspector's feelings. “I looked in to see how you're getting on, Mavis, and to ask you if you'd like to come down to the cottage to share my supper. Abby's gone to the Haswells.”

“My own errand!” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme, struck by the coincidence. “And Lion would be only too pleased to escort her back later, but will she be sensible, and come? No!”

“It's very, very kind of you both,” said Mavis earnestly, “but somehow I'd rather stay at home today, by myself.”

“Well, I shall leave Miss Patterdale to deal with you, my dear!” said Mrs. Midgeholme, perceiving that Hemingway was about to leave the house, and determined to accompany him.

The Ultimas still tucked under her arms, she sailed down the garden path beside him, saying mysteriously that there was something important she felt she ought to tell him. “I couldn't say anything in front of Miss Warrenby, so I just bided my time till I could get you alone,” she said confidentially.

The Sergeant could have told Hemingway that Mrs. Midgeholme was unlikely to have anything of the smallest interest to impart. He grimaced expressively at Harbottle, but that saturnine gentleman merely smiled grimly, and shook his head.

Encouraged by an enquiring look from Hemingway, Mrs. Midgeholme said: “To my mind, there isn't a shadow of doubt who shot Mr. Warrenby. It's one of two people—for although I always think Delia Lindale is a hard young woman, I don't think she would actually shoot anyone. No, I never quite like people with those pale blue eyes, but I beg you won't run away with the idea that I have the least suspicion about her! It's her husband. What's more, if he did it, it's my belief she knows it. I popped in to see her this morning, just to talk things over, and the instant I opened my mouth she tried to turn the subject. She gave me the impression of being in a very nervy state—not to say scared! She didn't talk in what I call a natural way, and she didn't seem able to keep still for as much as five minutes. Either she thought she heard the child crying, or she had to go out to speak to Mrs. Murton, her daily woman. Something fishy here, I thought to myself.” She nodded, but added surprisingly: “But that's not what I wanted to say to you. It may have been Kenelm Lindale, but only if it wasn't someone else. Ladislas Zama-something-or-other!”