Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“A hundred yards up the street,” Gavin answered, pulling himself out of his chair with one of his awkward movements, and limping across the floor.

Outside the inn, having parted from Charles and Abby, the Chief Inspector set a moderate pace, and was rewarded for his consideration with a snap. “Let me assure you that ungainly though my gait may be it does not necessitate my walking at a snail's pace!” said Gavin, an edge to his voice.

“That's good, sir,” said Hemingway. “A war-injury?”

“I took no part in the War. I was born with a short leg.”

“Very hard luck, sir.”

“Not in the least. I'm sure I should have disliked soldiering heartily. It does not discommode me in the saddle, and since hunting is the only sport I have the least desire to engage in, any sympathy you may be silently bestowing on me is entirely wasted.”

“Do you get much hunting, sir?”

“No, I cannot afford it. It doesn't run to more than one decent hunter. Not a bad-looking horse, and not a bad performer on his going-days. Other times, it's a hit 'em and leave 'em, but he hasn't gone back on me yet.”

“Your brother didn't hunt?”

“No, he was such a dreary type, always either treacling trees, or observing the habits of some birds, and shooting others.”

“What made him commit suicide—if I may ask?”

“I've told you: I did. With his dying breath he told me so, and you have to believe dying words, don't you?”

“Well, I wouldn't so to say bank on them—not under those circumstances. In my experience, the sort of messages suicides leave behind them would be better put straight on the fire, because they only bring a lot of misery on people that in nine cases out of ten don't deserve it.”

“Oh, would you put it as strongly as that? I thought it was so annoying of him: like uttering a dirty crack, and then walking out of the room before it can be answered. We have now reached my ancestral home: go in!”

The Chief Inspector stepped through the gate in the wall, and paused for a moment, looking at the gracious house before him.

“Like it?” Gavin asked.

“Yes, sir. Don't you?”

“Aesthetically, very much; sentimentally, a little; practically, not at all. The plumbing is archaic; the repairs—if I could undertake them—would be ruinous; and to run it properly a staff of at least three indoor servants is necessary. I have one crone, and a gardener-groom, who also does odd jobs.” He led the way up the flagged path to the front-door, and opened it. “The room my brother used, amongst other things, as his gunroom, is at the back,” he said, limping past the elegant staircase to a swing-door covered in moth-eaten brown baize. “Kitchen premises,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we are!” He opened a door, and signed to the Chief Inspector to enter. “A disgusting room!” he remarked. “It reeks of dogs, and always will. My brother's spaniels used to sleep in it. A revolting pair, gushingly affectionate, and wholly lacking in tact or discrimination! Guns over here.” He went to a glass-fronted case, and opened it. “Quite an armoury, as you perceive. Including a couple of hammer-guns, which must have belonged to my father. Yes, I thought Walter would probably have a .22. Take it, and do what you will with it!” He lifted it out of the case as he spoke, but paused before handing it to Hemingway, and said, with a twisted smile: “Oh, that was unworthy of the veriest tyro, wasn't it? Now I've left my fingerprints on it. That might be quite clever of me, mightn't it?”

“Not so very clever,” said Hemingway. “Something tells me that the gun I'm after won't have any prints on it at all. Mind if I borrow this, sir?”

“No, and much good would it do me if I did mind! Would you like to fire it into my marrow-bed? I expect we can find some ammunition for it.”

“Not. my department, sir,” Hemingway said, tucking the rifle under his arm. “I'm much obliged to you, though.”

He took his leave of Gavin on the doorstep, and found, when he stepped through the gate again, that the police-car was drawn up outside. He got into the back, beside Inspector Harbottle, and propped the rifle up between them. “Well, I'll say this for you, you're a zealous lot of chaps,” he remarked.

“Where do you wish to go now, sir?” asked Harbottle severely.

“Back to Bellingham. We've done about enough for today, and given ourselves plenty to think about. Also I've picked up the first of the rifles we aren't looking for.”

“You don't think it could be that one, sir?” asked the Sergeant. “I mean, you've got some reason?”

“No, I haven't got any reason, but if I've hit the right one, first crack out of the bag, it'll be a miracle, and I don't believe in them. Step on it a bit, son: no one will have you up!”

“You have now seen a few of the people you have to deal with,” said Harbottle, with gloomy satisfaction. “Are you still liking the case, Chief?”

“Of course I am! Why shouldn't I, when I've got half a dozen people doing my job for me?”

This drew a smile from Harbottle, but slightly puzzled the Sergeant, who did not recall having seen quite so many persons in the Chief Inspector's train. “Half a dozen, sir?” he repeated.

“Well, that's what's called a conservative estimate,” said Hemingway. “From what I've seen, I shouldn't think there's a house or a cottage in Thornden where they aren't chewing over the crime at this very moment. If your Mr. Drybeck hasn't solved the whole mystery by tomorrow, very likely that nice young couple will have done it, and then we can go back to London, and take all the credit.”

Whatever may have been the topics under discussion in other houses, nothing but the murder of Sampson Warrenby was considered worthy to be talked about at The Cedars, where the son of the house and Miss Dearham were regaling Mrs. Haswell, over cocktails, with a description of the encounter at the Red Lion. Mrs. Haswell, beyond entertaining a vague hope that no one she knew would prove to be the guilty person, took really very little interest in the affair. She inclined to the belief that the murder had probably been committed by a Bellingham-man, and was a good deal more exercised in her mind over the disquieting symptoms suddenly evinced by one of her rarer plants. However, she and Miss Patterdale were agreed that although it was disagreeable to persons of their generation to have a murder committed in their midst, it was very nice for the children to have something to occupy them, Thornden being such a quiet place, with really nothing to do in it at this season except to play tennis. Miss Patterdale went so far as to say that if it had had to happen she was glad it had happened during Abby's visit, because she was always so afraid Abby would grow bored when she stayed with her. Mrs. Haswell said, Yes, she felt the same about Charles; but privately she thought a murder had not been necessary to keep either Charles or Abby from a state of boredom.

“I rather liked the Chief Inspector, didn't you?” Abby said. “The other one had a quelling sort of face, though. Much more like what one imagines. I do wonder what they're doing!”

“I thought the Chief was leading us all on to talk. I was afraid you were going to come out with your theory.”

“Like Gavin. You are a beast, Charles! As though I would! All the same, I bet I'm right.”

“Abby thinks old Drybeck did it, Mum.”

“Oh, no, dear, I shouldn't think so!” said Mrs. Haswell, quite unperturbed. “He's lived here for years!”

Charles, accustomed to the workings of his mother's mind, grinned appreciatively, but said: “The end of it will be, of course, that he'll have her up for slander.”