Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“I don't think that'll be necessary, sir,” said Hemingway.

Mr. Drybeck raised his hand. “Pardon me, I should prefer you to put my word to the proof!” he said sternly.

He then led the two Inspectors out into the back garden, through a small garden-hall. “My domain is not extensive,” he said, “but you will observe that it is intersected by several hedges. That one for instance, shuts off the vegetable garden, and this one, which we are approaching, encloses my little rose-garden. Here, gentlemen, I was engaged in watering when I was summoned to supper. Let us enter it!”

He stood back, and waved to them to precede him through an arch in the tall yew hedge into a pretty, square plot, laid out in rose-beds, with narrow grass walks between, and a tiny artificial pond in the centre. Once inside, he surveyed the garden with simple pride, and said: “You may be said to be seeing it at its best. A wonderful year for roses! You are looking at those red ones, Chief Inspector. Gloire de Hollander, quite one of my favourites.”

“And I'm sure I'm not surprised, sir,” said Hemingway. “You've certainly got a rare show here. And there's the gong, by the way.”

“I heard nothing!” declared Mr. Drybeck suspiciously.

“I didn't either,” confessed Harbottle. “Not to be sure.”

“You must have imagined it!” said Mr. Drybeck, inclined to be affronted. “I do not consider myself hard of hearing, not at all!”

“Well, I've got very quick ears, sir. What's more, I was listening for it. I'm quite prepared to believe that if you were busy with your roses here you mightn't have heard it. In fact, I always was, but I'm glad you made me come: it's been worth it.” He strolled forward to inspect a bed planted with Betty Uprichard. “I noticed some nice roses at Fox House, but nothing to compare with yours.”

“That I can well believe!” said Mr. Drybeck. “I fancy my friend Warrenby cared very little for such things.”

“Did you know him well, sir?”

“Dear me, no! I can lay claim to nothing but the barest acquaintance with him. To be frank with you, I did not find him congenial, and considered him quite out of place in our little coterie here.”

“Seems to have been unpopular all round.” commented Hemingway.

“That is true. I should be surprised if I heard of his having been liked by anyone in Thornden. But pray do not misunderstand me, Chief Inspector! I flatter myself I know Thornden as well as any man, and I know of no one in my own circle who had the smallest cause to commit the terrible crime of murdering him. I am very glad you have come to see me, very glad indeed! There is a great deal of talk going on in the village, and I have been much shocked by some of the wild rumours I have heard. Rumours, I may say, that are set about by irresponsible persons, and have not the least foundation in fact. Imagination has run rife. But to the trained mind I venture to say that this case presents no very difficult problem, and is not susceptible to any fantastic solution.”

“Well, I'm glad of that,” said Hemingway. “Perhaps I'll be able to solve it.”

“I fear you will find it all too easy to do so. I have myself given the matter a good deal of thought, regarding it, if you understand me, in the light of a chess-problem. I am forced to the conclusion—the very reluctant conclusion!—that all the evidence points one way, and one way only. One person had the opportunity and the motive, and that person is the dead man's niece!”

Inspector Harbottle's jaw dropped. Recovering his countenance, he said in accents of strong disapprobation: “Setting aside the fact that it is rarely that a woman will use a gun—”

“That,” interrupted Mr. Drybeck smartly, “is what is said every time a woman does use a gun!”

“Setting that aside, sir,” said Harbottle obstinately, “I never saw a young lady less like a murderess!”

“Pray, is it your experience, Inspector, that murderesses—or, for that matter, murderers—look the part? It is my belief that Miss Warrenby is a very clever young woman.”

“Well, now, that's highly interesting,” said Hemingway. “Because I'm bound to say she doesn't give that impression.”

Mr. Drybeck uttered a shrill little laugh. “I've no doubt she impressed you as a woman overcome by the death of a dear relation. Bunkum, Chief Inspector! Bosh and bunkum! She talks as if Warrenby rescued her from destitution when she was a child. You may as well know that she has only lived with him for rather less than three years. He offered her a home when her mother died, and she accepted it, although I happen to know that she has a small income of her own, and was certainly of an age to earn her own living. No doubt she had her reasons for preferring to take up the position of an unpaid housekeeper and hostess in her uncle's house. Indeed, one is tempted to say that one now sees she had! If rumour does not lie, she has lately become attracted by a young Pole, who rides about the country on a noisy motor-cycle. I need scarcely say that the popular theory in the village is that this man is the guilty party. My own belief is that such a theory will not hold water. If it is true that the young man went to Fox House at the hour stated, I find it impossible to believe that he can have waited until twenty minutes past seven before shooting Warrenby. Consider! The house contained none but Warrenby himself; not only the front-door, but the windows on the ground-floor also, stood open. Why, then, did this man wait until Warrenby stepped into the garden?”

“Why indeed?” said Hemingway.

“The trained mind, therefore rejects the theory,” said Mr. Drybeck, rejecting it. “Consider again! Let us follow Miss Warrenby's own story step by step!”

“Well, if it's all the same to you, sir, I've done that twice already today and though I'm sure it's highly instructive—”

“She leaves The Cedars alone, and by the garden-gate,” pursued Mr. Drybeck, disregarding the interruption, and stabbing an accusing finger at Hemingway. “In spite of the fact that during the course of the afternoon she repeatedly told us of her qualms at leaving her uncle alone, she remained on at The Cedars after all the other guests, with the single exception of Mrs. Cliburn, had left. She thus makes sure that she will not meet any of the party on her way home. She states that she climbed the stile into the lane, and entered Fox House through the front gate. It may have been so, but I incline, myself, to the belief that she approached the house from the rear. A hedge separates its grounds from the footpath that runs between them and the spinney attached to The Cedars: not, you will agree, an insuperable obstacle! In this way she is able to abstract her uncle's rifle from the house without his knowing that she had in fact returned from the tennis-party. No doubt she regained the footpath by the same route, having ascertained that her uncle was conveniently seated in the garden. Then, and then only does she cross the stile.”

“Always supposing her uncle happened to have a rifle,” interpolated Hemingway. “Of course, if he didn't, it upsets your theory a bit. Did he?”

“I am not in a position to say whether he had a rifle or not,” said Mr. Drybeck testily. “A .22 rifle is a very ordinary weapon to find in a country house!”

Inspector Harbottle looked rather grimly at him, his eyes narrowed; but Hemingway said blandly: “Just so. Mind you, it hasn't come to light, but, there! it's early days yet.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Drybeck triumphantly. “You are forgetting one significant circumstance, Chief Inspector! If we are to believe that Warrenby was shot at twenty past seven—and I see no reason for disbelieving this—what was Miss Warrenby doing between that time and the time when she reached Miss Patterdale's house?”