Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

Hemingway paused there for a few minutes, thoughtfully considering the lie of the land. He glanced along the path, but a bend in it hid Wood Lane from his sight. Over the stile Fox House could be seen, through the trees in its garden, and so too could the gorse clump on the rising common, gleaming gold behind the bole of an elm-tree growing beside the lane. Uncultured voices, and the flutter of a summer-frock, informed the Chief Inspector that in one of his surmises at least he had been right: Fox Lane had suddenly become attractive to sightseers. He pursed up his mouth, shook his head slightly, and walked back to the main road, disappointing his chauffeur by saying nothing more, as he got into the car, than: “Go ahead!”

The Hawkshead-road entrance to Old Place consisted merely of a white farm-gate, opening on to a narrow, unmade road, with grass growing between the wheel-ruts. Melkinthorpe explained that it was only a secondary way to the house, the real entrance, which he described as proper big gates, with a lodge and all, lying at the end of Thornden High Street.

“Nice place,” commented Hemingway, as they drove along the track. “Mixture of park and woodland. Does it end at the road, or was that the Squire's land beyond the road, where they've been felling all those trees?”

“I believe his land stretches as far as the river, sir. He owns a lot of the houses around here, too.”

“That's no catch, these days,” said Hemingway.

He said no more, but when the car presently drew up before the house his quick eye had absorbed more than the indestructible beauty of the park. The road had led them past a small home farm (with two more gates to be opened and shut), and what had once been an extensive vegetable-garden, with an orchard beyond it; and had reached the front-drive by way of the stable-yard, where weeds sprouted between the cobblestones, and rows of doors, which should have stood with their upper halves open, were shut, the paint on them blistered and cracked. Where half a dozen men had once found congenial employment one middle-aged groom was all that was to be seen. “Progress,” said Chief Inspector Hemingway. But he said it to himself, well-knowing that his companion, inevitably reared in the hazy and impracticable beliefs of democracy-run-riot, would derive a deep, if uninformed, gratification from the reflection that yet another landowner had been obliged, through excessive taxation, to throw out of work the greater part of his staff.

As though to lend colour to these sadly retrogressive thoughts, Constable Melkinthorpe said, as he drew up before the house: “They say the Squire used to have half a dozen gardeners, and I don't know how many grooms and game-keepers and such. Of course, things are different now.”

“They are,” said the Chief Inspector, getting out of the car. “And the people as notice it most are those gardeners and grooms and game-keepers. So you put that into your pipe, my lad, and smoke it!”

With which damping words he left Constable Melkinthorpe gaping at him, and walked up to the door of Old Place.

A tug at the iron bell-pull presently brought to the door a grizzled servitor, who, upon learning his name and calling, bowed in a manner that contrived to convey to the Chief Inspector his respect for the Law, and his contempt for its minions. Combining courtesy with disdain, he consigned the Chief Inspector to a chair in the hall, and went away to discover what his employers' pleasure might be.

When he returned he was accompanied by Mrs. Ainstable. Two Sealyham terriers, and a young Irish setter, who effusively made the Chief Inspector welcome.

“Down!” commanded Mrs. Ainstable. “I'm so sorry! Down, you idiot!”

Hemingway, having wrestled successfully with the setter's advances, and brushed the hairs from his coat, said: “Yes, you're a beauty, aren't you? Now, that'll do! Down!”

“How nice of you not to mind him!” said Mrs. Ainstable. “He isn't properly trained yet.” Her tired, strained eyes ran over the Chief Inspector. “You want to see my husband, I expect. He went down to the estate room a little while ago, so I'll take you there, shall I? It'll save time and since that's where he kept his rifle I'm sure you'd like to see the place.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Her light laugh sounded. “I don't think we've ever had so much excitement in Thornden before!”

“I should think you must hope you never will have again,” said Hemingway, following her down a passage to a door opening on to a rather overgrown shrubbery.

“I must admit that I wish it had never happened,” she replied. “So horrid to have a murder in one's midst! It worries my husband, too. He can't get over his belief that he's responsible for Thornden. Have you any idea who did it? Oh, I mustn't ask you that, must I? Particularly when my husband is one of the possibles. I wish I'd waited for him, and made him drive home with me.”

“You left the tennis-party early, didn't you, madam?”

“Yes, I only looked in for tea. I'm rather a crock, and don't play tennis. And it was so insufferably hot, that day!”

“Do you know what time it was when you left, madam?”

“No, I don't think I do. Does it matter? Sometime after six, I should say. Ask Mr. Plenmeller! I met him just as I was starting. He might know when that was.”

“That would have been when he was returning with some papers for your husband?”

Again she laughed. “Yes, were you told about that?”

“I was told he made an excuse to leave the party after tea, and came back half an hour later. I didn't know he had met you, madam.”

She paused, turning her head quickly to look at him. “That sounds as if someone were trying to make mischief! Well, it serves him right! Hoist with his own petard. Were you told why he made an excuse to go away?”

“No, I can't say I was madam. Do you know why?”

“Yes, of course: everyone knew! It was quite atrocious and entirely typical. When they made up two sets after tea, Miss Warrenby was one over, and she elected to sit out. Which meant she would talk to Gavin Plenmeller. So he said he must go home to fetch some papers for my husband. You can't be surprised that he makes enemies.”

“No,” agreed Hemingway. “And you think everyone knew why he went away?”

“Oh, well, everyone who heard him! Mrs. Haswell said that he and Miss Warrenby must keep one another company, upon which he told Mr. Lindale, in what he may have meant to be an undertone but which was all too audible, that this was where he must think fast. Whether Miss Warrenby heard it, I don't know: I did! Here we are: this is the estate room. Bernard, are you very busy? I have brought Chief Inspector Hemingway to see you.”

Two steps led up to the open door of the room, which was a large, square apartment, severely furnished with a roll-top desk, a stout table, some filing cabinets, and several leather-seated chairs. A map of the estate hung on one wall, and a door at one side of the room gave access to another and smaller office. The Squire was seated at the table, official forms spread before him. He looked up under his brows, and favoured Hemingway with a hard stare before rising to his feet. “Scotland Yard?” he said brusquely. “You ought to be resting, Rosamund.”

“Nonsense, dear!” said Mrs. Ainstable, sitting down, and taking a cigarette from the box on the table. “Resting, when we actually have the C.I.D. on the premises? It's far too interesting! Like living in one of Gavin's books.”

He looked at her, but said nothing. Glancing up, as she lit her cigarette, she smiled at him, reassuringly, Hemingway thought.

The Squire transferred his attention to Hemingway. “Sit down, won't you? What can I do for you?”

The tone was more that of a commanding officer than a man undergoing interrogation. Hemingway recognised it, appreciated it, and realised that the Squire was not going to be an easy man to question. But those responsible for putting him in charge of this case had not chosen him at random. “Old County families mixed up in this business. Likely to be sticky,” had said the Assistant Commissioner, to Hemingway's immediate superior and lifelong friend, Superintendent Hinckley. “I think we'll send Hemingway down. I don't pretend to know how he does it—and probably it's just as well that I don't, for I've no doubt he behaves in a thoroughly unorthodox fashion—but he does seem to be able to handle that kind of difficult witness.” To which Superintendent Hinckley had replied, with a grin: “He can be exasperating, can't he, sir? Still, there it is! Myself, I've got a notion it's those unconventional ways of his that kind of take people off their guard. And it's a fact, as you said yourself, that he does bring home the bacon. He's got what he calls—”