Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Two detectives from Scotland Yard,” said Miss Patterdale promptly. “I met them up at Fox House.”

“Oh, no, did you really? What did you think of the little one—the Chief Inspector? I rather fell for him. He's got a sense of humour, and he handled Gavin a fair treat!”

“I should say,” responded Miss Patterdale grimly, “that he is adept in handling people a fair treat, as you put it. You should have heard him with Flora Midgeholme! I knew this would lead to trouble!”

“No, why should it? Only for the murderer, and you don't mind that, do you?”

“Certainly not, but it won't be only for the murderer if I know anything about it. There won't be a skeleton in Thornden that isn't dug up. Don't tell me! Your Chief Inspector said that they always tried to be discreet. I don't know whether he thought I believed him. I suppose you know he called on Thaddeus Drybeck?”

“No! What happened? Tell me!”

“I don't know, except that he's made Thaddeus behave like a cat on hot bricks. He came up here after supper with one of the feeblest excuses I've ever heard, and tried to make me remember what time it was when Mavis came to tell me her uncle had been killed. I'm not surprised he's losing ground in his practice: make him grasp that I wasn't likely to remember something I'd never known I could not! I couldn't think what he was after. You'd never guess what it turned out to be! He's trying to prove that Mavis killed her uncle! Silly old fool! The fact of the matter is he's lived the whole of his life wrapped up in cotton-wool, and this affair has frightened him out of his wits.”

Abby, who was trying to pour out a glass of lemonade without allowing the scraps of peel to slide out of the jug, suspended her operations to stare at her aunt. “Is he really scared?” she asked. “Then it all goes to show! Why should he be scared if he had nothing to do with it? Trying to divert suspicion on to someone else, too!”

Miss Patterdale was rather amused by this. “Well, you all of you seem to suspect someone, so why shouldn't he?”

“No, only Charles and me, really, because Gavin isn't serious. The Haswells don't suspect anyone, and the Major doesn't either.”

“Flora does,” said Miss Patterdale, with a short bark of laughter. “Lord, what a fool that woman can be! She can't make up her mind whether that Pole did it, or the Lindales—either one of them or both.”

“The Lindales,” repeated Abby, considering this suggestion dispassionately. “I don't know them well enough to say. Why does Mrs. Midgeholme think they might have?”

“No reason at all. Mrs. Lindale has been a little standoffish to her. Don't blame her!”

“What do the Lindales themselves say about it?”

“My dear girl, you don't suppose I've been up to Rushyford, do you? I've no idea.”

“Oh, no, I just thought you might have seen them after church!”

“They aren't churchgoers. At least, he isn't. I don't know what she may do: I believe she's and R.C.”

“Oh! Aunt Miriam, why did the Ainstables take Warrenby up?”

“It's news to me that they did.” said Miss Patterdale curtly.

“Aunt Miriam! I distinctly remember you saying once that you couldn't imagine why the Squire tolerated him!”

“Tolerating people isn't the same as taking them up. Who's been putting this idea into your head?”

“Gavin more or less started it—”

“He would!” interrupted Miss Patterdale, her eyes snapping.

“Oh, he didn't say anything about that! He was only talking rot about the Squire having done the murder because he was the least likely person,” said Abby, not very lucidly. “And that made Charles ask his father exactly what I've asked you.”

“It did, did it? And what did Mr. Haswell say?”

Abby laughed, and gave her a hug. “He was rather snubbing. Like you, angel!”

“So I should hope! Now, Abby, I've nothing to say against your playing at detection, but you stick to Thaddeus! Do him good to be harried a little, old stick-in-the-mud! Leave the Ainstables alone! They've had enough trouble, poor things, without being worried by policemen. I should be seriously annoyed if I found you'd said anything to that Scotland Yard man which put a lot of false ideas into his head. If the Ainstables were kinder than most of us to that odious man, it was because they always feel they have a duty towards everyone in the district.”

“It's all right: I'm not going to do anything snakeish,” Abby assured her. “All the same, you do think it was funny of the Ainstables, don't you? Funny-peculiar, I mean.”

“Whatever I may have thought on that subject, I most certainly don't think it had anything to do with Warrenby's murder. Come along, it's time we went to bed!”

Before he went to bed that night, Inspector Harbottle, who had spent some part of the evening at the police-station, studying the Firearms Register, was able to inform his chief, with a certain gloomy satisfaction, that thirty-seven persons, living within reasonable distance of Thornden, possessed .22 rifles. “And that, mind you, is only within a twenty-mile radius,” he added, unfolding a piece of paper.

Hemingway, who had himself been engaged with the papers he had taken from Sampson Warrenby's desk, perceived that he was about to read his list aloud, and instantly discouraged him. “I don't want to hear you reciting the names of a lot of people I've never heard of, Horace! Checking up on the rifles is a nice job for the locals, and one that'll just about suit them. You tell me who owns a .22 in Thornden! That'll be enough to be going on with.”

“It wouldn't surprise me if we had to throw the net much wider,” said Harbottle. “You're very optimistic, Chief, but—”

“Get on!” commanded Hemingway.

The Inspector cast such a glance upon him as Calvin might have bestowed on a backslider, but replied with careful correctitude: “Very good, sir. According to the Register, there are eleven .22 rifles in Thornden. That includes three belonging to farmers, living just outside the village, which I daresay you aren't interested in.”

“You're right. And if I have any cheek from you, Horace, I'll give you the job of checking up on the whole thirty-seven!”

Cheered by this threat, the Inspector permitted himself to smile faintly. “Well, the Squire has one,” he offered. “Likewise a chap called Eckford, his agent; and a John Henshaw, game-keeper. Setting aside the possibility that someone might have got hold of their rifles unbeknownst, there doesn't seem to be any reason, from what Carsethorn tells me, to think they could have had anything to do with the case. Next, there's Kenelm Lindale: he has one.”

“Which he lent to Ladislas the Pole not so long ago. I remember that one,” interpolated Hemingway.

“I thought you would,” said Harbottle, eyeing him with melancholy pride. “Then there's young Mr. Haswell's, which he spoke about; and Mr. Plenmeller's, which you picked up. Josiah Crailing has one—he's the landlord of the Red Lion; and the last belongs to Mr. Cliburn, the Vicar. Mr. Drybeck's got a shot-gun only; and Major Midgeholme's hanging on to his Service revolver, and six cartridges, which there's a fight about every time his Firearms Licence is due for renewal. So far he's managed to keep them.” He folded his list, and put it back in his pocket. “That's the lot, Chief—so far as the Register goes. Do you want Carsethorn to pull them all in?”

“What, the whole thirty-seven?”

“Eleven,” Harbottle corrected him.

“Call it eight, Horace! If all else fails, maybe I'll start to take an interest in these three farmers of yours, but so far I've got enough on my hands without annoying people that very likely wouldn't have recognised Warrenby if they'd met him in the street. Tell Carsethorn to make the usual enquiries, and not to go cluttering poor old Knarsdale up with a lot of rifles which their owners can account for.” He paused, and considered for a moment. “No sense in us treading on one another's heels—nor in getting ourselves disliked more than we probably are already. I'm going to Thornden myself tomorrow, and I shall be paying a call on the Vicar. Tell Carsethorn I'll bring in that rifle if I see fit. He'd better pull in the Squire's, Lindale's, and young Haswell's first thing. He seems a fairly sensible chap, but you'd better warn him to do the thing tactfully—particularly when he gets to the Squire. The usual stuff about persons unauthorised perhaps having got hold of it.”