Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“The Squire?” said Harbottle sceptically. “Blackmailed for what?”

“Committing waste. No, I know you don't know what that is, but it doesn't matter: it's a civil offence, and though it could easily land him in a packet of trouble it isn't a thing that concerns the police. I'll explain it to you presently, but don't keep on interrupting me! As I say, there's him, which makes four—and we shall have to include his wife, though I can't say I fancy her much, so that's five. Next, we've got the Lindales. Either could have done it; he's the type who would, given a sufficient motive. That tots up to four in the Questionable class. Seven altogether.”

“Are you leaving out Plenmeller?” demanded Harbottle.

“Certainly not: I'm putting him at the head of the third class—those that might have done it, but who don't seem to have any reason to have done it. Three of them. Plenmeller, easily capable of murder; Haswell, a dark horse—”

“He had an alibi, sir!”

“Not the young man: his father. I met him today, with the Vicar, and he's one of these cool, level-headed customers who say just about as little as they need. Carsethorn verified that he did go to some place or other fifteen miles from Thornden on Saturday afternoon, but we've only got his word for it that he didn't get home till eight because he stopped at his office in Bellingham on his way, to polish off some job he had on hand. They close at midday on Saturdays, so there was no one there to corroborate his story.”

“What about the Vicar?” asked Harbottle. “He could have reached Fox House by way of his own meadow.”

“If the Vicar did it, I'm not fit to direct traffic, let alone conduct an investigation into a case of murder! The only other possible—unless you have a fancy for Mrs. Midgeholme, because Warrenby kicked one of her dogs—is Reg.”

“Who is he?”

“I haven't met him yet, but I've got reason to think he may have been cavorting about the common with the Vicar's gun on Saturday. He's a very unlikely suspect, but I'm including him because he's got that rifle hidden away somewhere. I've left orders he's to bring it in to us tomorrow on his way to work. From what I've seen of his family, I should say he would. If he doesn't, you can go and pull him in. All told, that makes nine people—but I admit I don't fancy some of them.”

“You've forgotten the Major,” said Harbottle dryly.

“I'm keeping him up my sleeve, in case all else fails,” retorted Hemingway, gathering the papers on the desk into a pile, and tying them up. “Come on! We've done enough for today.”

“Are you asking for an adjournment tomorrow, sir? Who is going to preside over the inquest?”

“Fellow from Hawkshead. The Chief Constable tells me he's all right, but one of these chatty old boys that like to go into all the irrelevant details, so I daresay we shall waste the better part of the morning on the job. However, there's not much I can do till I hear from Hinckley again. Come on!”

On the following morning, Hemingway was greeted by the news, when he walked into the police station, that young Ditchling had arrived there ten minutes earlier, and was awaiting his pleasure.

“Did he bring in that rifle?” asked Hemingway.

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Knarsdale has it.”

“All right. Know anything about this lad?”

“No, sir—nothing against him, that it. It's a very respectable family. All in steady jobs, and none of them been in any kind of trouble. This kid's just over sixteen. Works at Ockley's Stores, and is well spoken of by the boss. But I'd say he's pretty scared.”

“Fancy that!” marvelled Hemingway. “Send him in to me!”

The youth who was presently ushered into the small office was a shock-headed boy with a slightly pimpled countenance, and the rather clumsy limbs of the rapidly growing adolescent. He entered the room with every evidence of reluctance, and remained just inside it, staring at the Chief Inspector out of a pair of round, serious eyes, and tightly gripping a trilby hat before him.

Hemingway looked him over. “So you're Reg Ditchling, are you?” he said.

“Yessir,” acknowledged Reg, with a gulp.

“All right. Come and sit down in that chair, and tell me what you mean by not giving his gun back to Mr. Cliburn!”

This command was uttered in quite a friendly tone, but it was apparent that Reg saw the prison gates yawning wide before him. He shrinkingly approached the chair in front of the desk, and sat down on the extreme edge of it, but the power of speech seemed to have deserted him.

“Come on!” said Hemingway kindly. “I'm not going to eat you. Where was the rifle? Did you have it in that shed I saw?”

“Ted put it here, “cos of Alfie, sir.”

“Well, that was a sensible thing to do, at all events. Was the shed locked every day?”

“Yessir.”

“Where do you keep the key?”

“Ted and me had a place for it the others don't know about, sir, so as Claud and Alfie couldn't get in and monkey with the tools when we wasn't there.”

“Well, where was this place?”

Reg twisted his hat round and round between his hands. “Ted and me put tarred felt over the roof, to keep the rain out, sir. There's a place where you can slip the key underneath it.”

Hemingway's brows snapped together. “Is that where you always put the key?”

“Yessir,” said Reg nervously. “Nobody knows about it, “cept Ted and me—honest, sir!”

Hemingway said nothing for a moment, visualising the row of cottages, from the upper back-windows of which, he judged, a sufficiently good view could be obtained of the line of narrow gardens. Reg swallowed convulsively, and went on twisting his hat.

“Now, look here, my lad!” said Hemingway. “I'm not going to ask you why you didn't do what your brother told you, and take that rifle back to Mr. Cliburn, because I know why you didn't. Nor am I going to tell you that you've been breaking the law by having in your possession a gun without a Firearms licence, because I've no doubt Constable Hobkirk's already torn you off the strip.”

“Yessir,” acknowledged the culprit, with a sickly smile. “I'm very sorry, sir.”

“Well, see you don't do it again! You answer what I am going to ask you truthfully, and very likely you'll hear no more about it. Did you have that rifle out on the common on Saturday?”

“Yessir, but honest I never shot the gentleman!” said Reg, sweating a little.

“What did you shoot?”

“Nothing, sir! It was only target-practice, like Ted told me I ought to do. It was Ted learnt me to shoot, and I only went out with him the three times. And then he got his call-up papers, and he said to take the rifle back to the Reverend, and, honest, I meant to! Only there was some cartridges left, and I thought if I was to use them for practice the Reverend wouldn't mind, and I could take the rifle back on the Sunday.”

“Well, why didn't you?”

“It—it was all over the village Mr. Warrenby had been shot.”

“Had the wind up, eh?”

“Well, I— Well, sir—”

“Because,” pursued Hemingway relentlessly, “this target-practice of yours was quite close to Fox House, wasn't it?”

“No, sir!” asserted Reg, the colour rising to his face. “That's what old Mr. Biggleswade told you, but it isn't true! I went to Squire's gravel-pit, “cos there's no one there of a Saturday afternoon, and it's a safe place. And I brought my cards, sir, just to show you it's true, what I'm telling you!”

With these words, he produced from his pocket several small cardboard targets, and laid them on the desk before the Chief Inspector. If they were valueless as proof that Reg had not fired the Vicar's rifle in the vicinity of Fox House, they did at least convince Hemingway that only by accident could he have shot a man through the head at a range of nearly a hundred yards. There was a decided twinkle in his eye as he looked at the targets. He said: “What was your range?”