Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Also planting new trees, however.”

“Yes, I saw that too.”

“The Squire is a remarkable man,” said the Vicar warmly. “Indeed, I tell him sometimes that he has all the enterprise of a man half his age! I remember when he first made up his mind to turn the common to account—I should explain, Inspector, that the common—”

“Talking about the common,” interrupted Haswell, “can anything be done, Chief Inspector to dissuade people from trailing across it, dropping litter all over it, and staring over the hedge at Fox House? It's extremely unpleasant for Miss Warrenby, to say the least of it.”

“Poor girl, poor girl!” exclaimed the Vicar. “This is most disgraceful! One wonders what the world is coming to! This unmannerly craving for sensationalism! Gavin Plenmeller said something to me about it this morning, but I paid little heed, since the way in which he phrased it led me to believe that he was merely indulging in one of those jokes which I, frankly, neither like nor find any way amusing. Inspector, something must be done!”

“I'm afraid there's nothing the police can do about it, sir—not as long as people stick to the common and the public road, and don't go creating obstructions, which they really can't be said to do, right up the end of a blind road,” replied Hemingway.

An anxious look came into the Vicar's face. “I wonder, if I were to go up, and address a few words to them, pointing out to them how very—”

“Some of them would giggle, and others would be extremely rude to you,” interposed Haswell. “You'd do better to persuade Plenmeller to take on that job—he'd enjoy it, and might even succeed in dispersing the mob. Unless they lynched him.”

“Haswell, Haswell, my dear friend!” the Vicar reproved him.

Haswell laughed. “Don't worry! Can you imagine him lifting a finger on behalf of Warrenby's niece?”

The Vicar shook his head, and said that their poor friend had a very unkind tongue, but one must strive to make allowances, and the heart knew its own bitterness.

“Well, I daresay it would sour one a bit, to be as lame as he is,” said Hemingway. “It's certainly an education to hear him talk, and the things he can find to say about pretty well everyone he lays his tongue to fairly made me sit up. However, I don't know that I set much store by it. It wouldn't surprise me if he was living up to a reputation for coming out with something shocking every time he opens his mouth.”

The Vicar bent an approving look upon him, and said, in his gentle way that he was a wise man. “I have been much distressed at the attitude he has seen fit to assume over this shocking affair,” he said. “Upon the lack of Christian charity, I will not enlarge, but from the worldly point of view I have ventured to warn him that the unbridled exercise of his wit is open to misconstruction. In the event,” he added, inclining his head in the suggestion of a bow, “I perceive that my fears were groundless.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Hemingway cheerfully. “Come to think of it, I might feel a lot more suspicious if Mr. Plenmeller had seen fit to change his tone, because from what I'm told he's been saying for months that Mr. Warrenby would have to be got rid of. What I haven't yet been able to make out is why he had it in for Mr. Warrenby more than anyone else—which is saying something, according to what I'm told.” He paused, but the Vicar merely sighed, and Haswell gave a laugh and a shrug. “Or even,” he continued thoughtfully, “if the only difference between him and the rest of the good people here who couldn't stand Mr. Warrenby was that he said just what he thought, and they didn't.”

“I fear so, I fear so!” said the Vicar mournfully.

There was a decided twinkle in the Chief Inspector's eye. “You too, sir?”

“I cannot deny it,” replied the Vicar, sinking deeper into dejection. “One has tried not to entertain uncharitable thoughts, but the flesh is weak—terribly weak!”

“You will soon find yourself regarding with suspicion anyone who did not dislike Warrenby, Chief Inspector,” said Haswell. “Let me hasten to assure you that I found him quite as objectionable as the Vicar did!”

Hemingway laughed, and got up. “He does seem to have made himself unpopular,” he agreed. “I won't take up any more of your time now, sir.”

“Not at all,” said the Vicar courteously. “My time is at the disposal of those who may need it.”

He then escorted Hemingway to the front-door, shook hands with him, and said that he could have wished to have met him on a happier occasion.

Constable Melkinthorpe then drove away, asking the Chief Inspector, as he halted the car in the Vicarage gateway, which way he was to go. He was told to drive to Rose Cottages, and, after allowing a boy on a bicycle to pass down the High Street, he swung his wheel over to the left, and was just changing gear when the Chief Inspector told him to stop. He obediently pulled in to the side of the street, and saw Major Midgeholme crossing the road towards the car.

“Good-evening, sir!” said Hemingway. “Want me?”

“Yes,” said the Major, with an air of resolution. “I have been turning it over in my mind, and I think it's my duty to put you in possession of a piece of information. Mind you, it may be nothing! I don't say I attach much importance to it, but one never knows, and in such cases as this I consider it to be every man's duty to tell the police whatever he may know.”

“Quite right, sir,” said Hemingway, and waited.

But the Major seemed still to be a little undecided. “Can't say I like talking about my neighbours!” he said. “But when it comes to murder, things are different. My feeling is that if what I have to say is irrelevant, there's no harm done; and if it isn't—well! There's no denying that this business has made us all sit up—do a bit of thinking! I'm not going to pretend I know who did it, because I don't. Between you and me and the gate-post, there's a bit too much amateur detection going on in Thornden! Shouldn't like you to think I was trying to do your job for you, but of course I've thought about it a good deal, and talked it over with one or two people. As a matter of fact, I was discussing it with my wife last night—she's got her own theories, but I shan't go into that, for I don't agree with her. Point is, it's been in my mind all along that the two people who disliked Warrenby the most were Drybeck and Plenmeller. Now, when Drybeck and I were on our way to The Cedars on Saturday, Plenmeller joined us, and one of the things he said was that his was the only threshold in Thornden which Warrenby couldn't cross.” The Major paused impressively. “Well, I happened to mention that to my wife, and she told me that she had seen Warrenby go into Thornden House on Saturday morning! Of course, she doesn't know what he went for, or for how long he was with Plenmeller, for she was shopping, and she thought no more about it. I didn't set much store by it myself when she first told me, but I've been turning it over in my mind, and I've come to the conclusion you ought to know about it. As I say, there may be nothing in it. On the other hand, queer thing to do—boast that Warrenby had never crossed his threshold when he'd done so that very morning! Almost as if he wanted to make sure no one should think he'd had any dealings with the fellow.”

Constable Melkinthorpe, glancing at the Chief Inspector to see what effect this disclosure had upon him was not surprised to perceive that his calm was quite unruffled.

“I see,” said Hemingway, gravely. “He'd have to be a bit of an optimist, wouldn't he, sir to think no one would notice Mr. Warrenby going to call on him, on a Saturday morning, right on the village street?”