Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“He was the Coroner, but as for the rest of them, he was not, and couldn't have been,” said the Inspector austerely.

“You don't know what the poor fellow would have managed to be if he hadn't been cut off in his prime. Have you come upon anything that might be of use to us?”

“Not unless you're interested in a letter about Mr. Ainstable's gravel-pit, or the negotiations for the purchase of Fox House. You might like to see that: it gives you a fair idea of what the deceased was like. The way he beat the owner down! But it's old stuff.”

“What was he writing about the Squire's gravel-pit? Trying to buy that too, at cost-price?”

“No, it's only a letter from some firm of London solicitors, which is an answer to one from him on behalf of a client. There ought to be a copy of that, but I haven't found it yet. Must have slipped out of the clip.”

“You don't seem able to find the answer either,” remarked Hemingway, watching him scuffle through the heaps of papers on the desk. “What was it about?”

“Seems Warrenby had a client who was interested in gravel, and he was making enquiries on his behalf.”

“The hobbies people go in for!”

“For goodness' sake!” snapped the Inspector, exasperated by his own failure to lay his hand on the letter he wanted. “I put it aside to show you, but there's no room to turn round in here! His client wanted a licence, of course!”

“Temper!” said Hemingway reprovingly. “What had these London solicitors got to do with it? I thought Drybeck was the Squire's solicitor. In fact, the Chief Constable told me he was.”

“I don't know anything about that, sir, but these people seem to be the solicitors for the estate, or some such thing. Ah!”

“Found it?”

“No, but this must be the copy of Warrenby's letter. Got into the wrong lot. Here you are, sir!”

Hemingway took the copy, and read it, while the Inspector continued his search. “Two years old, I see. You were quite right, Horace: he had a client who was interested in the Squire's gravel-pit! He was informed they were the proper people to apply to, and would be glad, etc. etc. Next instalment in tomorrow's issue—with luck! Go on, Horace! I can hardly wait!”

The Inspector cast him a fulminating look, and said coldly: “I have it here. You put those letters you were reading down on top of it.”

“That's right: you can't learn too early how to pass the buck, if you want to get on in life,” said Hemingway encouragingly. He read the letter, a crease between his brows. “Well, they seemed quite willing to do business, but I don't get the hang of this tenant-for-life business. The licence would have to be by arrangement with the tenant-for-life—oh, I see, it's the Squire! Some sort of an entail, I expect. And all moneys would have to be paid to these people for apportionment as between the tenant-for-life and the Trust funds. Well, I daresay it's all very interesting. Any more of it?”

“I've found nothing more so far.”

“No letters from the unnamed client?”

“No. Which is why I thought it worth while to show you those two. Looks as if nothing came of the proposal. I wondered if perhaps the Squire refused to do business, and whether there might have been bad blood between him and Warrenby over it,” said Harbottle slowly, frowning over it.

“And then Warrenby started pinching the gravel for his client when no one was looking, and so the Squire up and shot him. Really, Horace, I'm surprised at you!”

“If I'd meant anything of the kind, you might well be! Unless you think such folly is catching!” retorted Harbottle.

Hemingway laughed. “Not bad!” he said. “But I've got something better to do than to stay here listening to you being insubordinate. Keep at it! You may find something, though I doubt it. I'll send young Morebattle in to give you a hand.”

“You're not taking him to Thornden, sir?”

“No, I don't need him. He's all yours, Horace.”

“I shall be glad of him,” admitted the Inspector, casting a jaundiced eye over the work awaiting him.

Hemingway left him, and walked back to the police-station. Sergeant Carsethorn had not yet returned from Thornden, but the Station-Sergeant had news for the Chief Inspector. He said, with a twinkle in his eye: “Got a message for you, sir.”

Hemingway regarded him shrewdly. “You have, have you? Now, come on! Out with it, and don't stand there grinning!”

“Sorry, sir! It's from Mr. Drybeck,” said the Sergeant solemnly.

“Oh, well, that's different! What's he want?”

“Told me to give you this, sir—and to be careful how I handled it, because he found it close to the scene of the crime. In some long grass by the gorse-clump. He was quite put out not to find you here. Said at first that he'd look in later, but I told him we wasn't expecting you in, not till this evening.”

“You're wasted down here, my lad,” said Hemingway approvingly. “What's he found? A hairpin, which he thinks must have belonged to Miss Warrenby?”

The Sergeant, who had produced from the drawer of the high desk some small object wrapped in a linen handkerchief, looked up quickly. “If I may say so, sir, you're on to things pretty sharp!”

“I've no objection, but you're not going to tell me that is what he found, are you?”

“No, sir,” said the Sergeant, unfolding the handkerchief. “But when he decided to leave it in my charge he told me to draw your attention to the initial.”

“You'd have to, wouldn't you?” said Hemingway, surveying with an expression of revulsion a powder-compact made of pink plastic with the letter M superimposed in imitation rubies.

“He said,” continued the Sergeant carefully, “that it was not for him to draw conclusions, and he would leave the matter in your hands.”

“Well, that's handsome of him, at all events. I'd give something to see Sergeant Carsethorn's face when he hears he missed this in his search for that cartridge-case. You'd better put a notice outside the station saying a valuable compact has been found. I daresay some girl's boy-friend gave it to her, and she'd like it back.”

“Do you mean that, sir?”

“Of course I mean it! You don't think I want it, do you?”

“I must say it didn't seem likely to me it was the sort of compact Miss Warrenby would have,” admitted the Sergeant.

“It isn't the sort any young lady in her walk of life would have. I never saw such a nasty, cheap job!”

“No. Of course, there is the initial. But you know best, sir!” he added hastily.

“You may take it from me that I do! How many girls in Bellingham have got names beginning with M, do you suppose?” That compact wasn't by those gorse-bushes when Carsethorn and his chaps searched the ground, and it wasn't there when I went out to Fox House. But I'll tell you what was there then, or very shortly afterwards, and that was sightseers, very likely come out from this place to look at the scene of the crime. There was a couple hovering back-stage while I was there: I saw them. By Sunday evening it was probably all over the town there'd been a murder, and a lot of us had come down from Headquarters to take over. Miss Warrenby's probably had them picnicking on the front lawn, poor girl. What's more, she doesn't use powder: I've seen her! And finally, if she did, where do girls keep their compacts? In their handbags! All I can say is, if you think she powdered her nose before shooting her uncle you ought to go and get yourself certified!”

“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.

“And if that's Mr. Drybeck's handkerchief, give it back to him! Hallo, here's Carsethorn. Well?”

“I've brought in the three you wanted, sir.”

“Good man! Any difficulty?”