Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Why was that?” enquired Hemingway.

“Because he was a bounder, I suppose. The sort of person the Ainstables look down their noses at. They don't welcome Tom, Dick, and Harry to Old Place, I assure you! In fact, I'm dead sure Mrs. Ainstable wouldn't have called on me if it hadn't been for Miss Patterdale's asking her to! She as good as said so! I—I don't want to try to cast suspicion on anyone, but I do wonder whether Mr. Warrenby had some sort of hold over the Squire. Since this happened, I've naturally thought about it a good deal, trying to think who might have had a reason for shooting Mr. Warrenby, and remembering all sorts of little incidents, which, at the time, I didn't attach any importance to—”

“Such as?” interpolated Hemingway.

“Oh—! Mr. Ainstable trying to get my husband to back Warrenby for the River Board lawyer, for instance! I can't see what it matters, who gets the job, but no one but the Squire wanted it to be Warrenby. And now, when I think it over, I wonder why the Squire wanted him instead of Mr. Drybeck? Mr. Drybeck is his own solicitor, and an old friend, and he wants the appointment, too.”

The sound of a firm step on the flagged passage made her break off, and turn her head towards the door. Kenelm Lindale came into the room, a slight frown between his eyes. He was dressed in ancient grey slacks, and a colour shirt, open at the throat, and he looked to be both hot and annoyed. “Police?” he said shortly.

“It's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard,” his wife warned him. “I've told him we can't help him!”

He dug a handkerchief out of his trouser-pocket, and wiped his face, and the back of his neck. “All right,” he said, looking at Hemingway. “What is it you want to know? We've started to cut the hay, so I shall be glad if you can make it snappy.”

“I just want to check up on your evidence, sir,” said Hemingway mendaciously. “We do have to be so careful, in the Department. Now, I think you said you left that tennis-party at about ten to seven, didn't you?”

“As near as I can make it: I don't know exactly, but I think it was about then. Mr. Ainstable and I left together, by the garden-gate. He may know when it was. I haven't asked him.”

“When did you part from Mr. Ainstable, sir?”

“Couple of minutes later, I suppose. He turned off into his new plantation, which runs behind The Cedars. I went on. You'll see that one of my farm-gates opens on to the road opposite the footpath leading to the village. It's about a hundred yards up the road from here. I came in by that gate, and went to see how my chaps had got on with a job I set them to in one of my water-meadows. I was in the house by half-past seven: that I do know, because I happened to look at the clock in the passage.”

“Oh, darling, were you going by the grandfather?” said Mrs. Lindale quickly. “I thought you were relying on your watch! That clock was ten minutes fast: I put it right when I wound it up yesterday. I'm sorry: I ought to have told you, but I didn't know you were going by it.”

Her husband looked at her, and after a tiny pause said lamely: “Oh!” He went to the fireplace, and selected a pipe from a collection on the mantelshelf, and took the lid off an old-fashioned tobacco-jar. As he began to fill the pipe, his eyes on his task, the frown deepened on his brow. He said deliberately: “I don't think it can have been as fast as all that, Delia. I could hardly have been down to the water-meadows and got back here by twenty-past seven.”

She swallowed. “No. Of course not. Which is why I should think you really left The Cedars earlier than ten to seven. Time's so deceptive, and when you've got no particular reason for looking at your watch . . .” Her voice tailed off uncertainly and she did not finish the sentence.

“And did you happen to notice what the time was when you saw Mr. Lindale down in the water-meadow, madam?” asked Hemingway, his eyes not on her face, but on her husband's.

Lindale looked up quickly. “What's this?”

“Kenelm, you know I told you I'd caught sight of you from the attic window!”

If Lindale felt exasperation, no hint of it appeared in his face. He put an arm round Delia's shoulders, and hugged her slightly. “You silly kid!” he said. “You mustn't try to mislead the police, you know: you'll get had up for being an accessory after the fact, won't she, Chief Inspector?”

“Well, I might charge her with trying to obstruct me in the execution of my duties,” agreed Hemingway.

Lindale laughed. “Hear that? Now, you go and attend to Rose-Veronica before you get yourself into trouble! She was making a spirited attempt to tip the pram up when I came in.”

“But, Kenelm—”

“You don't want my wife, do you, Chief Inspector?” Lindale interrupted.

“No, sir, not at the moment.”

“Then you trot off, darling, and leave me to have a talk with the Chief Inspector,” Lindale said, propelling her gently but firmly to the door.

She looked up at him, a little flushed, her mouth unsteady. The she jerked out: “All right!” and left the room.

Lindale shut the door behind her, and turned to look at Hemingway. “Sorry about that!” he said. “My wife is not only extremely highly-strung, but she's also firmly convinced that anyone not provided with a cast-iron alibi must instantly become a red-hot suspect, in the eyes of the police. Queer things, women!”

“I could see Mrs. Lindale was very nervous, of course,” said Hemingway noncommittally.

“As a matter of fact, she's very shy,” explained Lindale. “And she didn't like Warrenby. I can't make her believe that that doesn't constitute a reason for suspecting either of us of having shot him.”

“Do I take it that you didn't like him either, sir?”

“No, I didn't like him. No one did here. Bit of an outsider, you know. Not that we ever had much to do with him. We don't go out much: no time for it.”

“I understand you haven't lived here long?”

“No, we're newcomers. I bought this place a couple of years ago only.”

“It must be a change from stockbroking,” remarked Hemingway.

“After the War, I couldn't settle down to the Stock Exchange again. I did have a shot at it, but what with one thing and another I was thankful to get out. Things aren't what they were.” He struck a match, and began to light his pipe. “That chap—don't remember what his name is—who came to pick up my .22 this morning! I take it you want to test it, and I've no objection to that, but I think it's only fair to say that I don't see how anyone could have taken it without my knowing. I keep it in the room I use as my office, and there's a Yale lock on the door. I don't run to a safe yet, you see, and I often have quite a bit of cash in the house. Wages, and that sort of thing, which I have to put in my desk.”

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Carsethorn did tell me that you said no one could have got hold of your rifle.”

“Well, he asked me several questions about it which he led me to think he had young Ladislas in mind. I expect you know about him: one of these unfortunate expatriates. It's quite true that I lent the rifle to him a little while ago—which I know is a technical misdemeanour—and that I also gave him some cartridges. I should like to make it quite plain that he returned the rifle to me the same evening, and gave me back all the unused cartridges.”

“Been up here worrying you about it, has he?” said Hemingway sympathetically. “Very excitable, these foreigners. That's all right, sir: I shan't arrest him because he borrowed your rifle a few weeks ago.”

“I can't be surprised that he's got the wind up. It seems that that Sergeant put him through it pretty strictly, and there's no doubt there's a lot of prejudice against the Poles.”