Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

This question, uttered in a somewhat suspicious tone, seemed to be addressed as much to Harbottle as to Hemingway, and it was he who answered it, at his most wooden.

“Now, I know perfectly well that you think I'm interfering,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, upon receiving his assurance, “but what I feel is that anyone who lives in Thornden is bound to know more about all the people than a stranger. You see what I mean?”

“Yes, but you can't have it both ways,” interpolated Charles, evidently continuing an interrupted argument. “Old Drybeck was born and bred here, so why shouldn't the Chief Inspector listen to him as much as to you?”

“Oh, that's ridiculous!” she replied. “You can't possibly count him! And, anyway, that wasn't what I was going to say. No. The thing is, I've just been giving my angels a run on the common, Chief Inspector, and I met that dreadful old man, Biggleswade, and he told me all about what he thinks happened on Saturday. Well, of course, it's nonsense to suppose young Ditchling had anything to do with it, because anyone who knows the family could tell you at once that they're all above suspicion. I don't mind saying that my first thought was he was lying.”

“"Lied in every word,"' corrected Charles, grinning. “"That hoary cripple, with malicious eye"—I can't remember how it goes on, but it's exactly right! There's something about waylaying the traveller with his lies, too. "If at his counsel I should turn aside into that—something—tract"—No, I can't remember how it went on, but it's Biggleswade all right!”

“What on earth are you drivelling about?” asked Abby.

“I'm not drivelling, I'm quoting, Browning.”

“Oh! "Just for a handful of silver he left us,"' said Abby showing her erudition.

“Absolutely!” agreed Charles, his eyes dancing.

“I don't know anything about Browning,” said Mrs. Midgeholme impatiently, “but, as I say, I did think at first that Biggleswade was making the whole thing up. And then it came to me in a flash!”

She paused dramatically, and Hemingway, finding that she was looking in a challenging way at him, said, with an air of interest: “It did?”

“He was going by the Church clock!” said Mrs. Midgeholme triumphantly. “Summertime, you know! It's never changed so it's an hour wrong. So when he thought the time was 6.15, it was really an hour later!”

It was apparent that Abby, Charles, and Inspector Harbottle were all wrestling with an unspoken problem. It was Harbottle who first reached a conclusion. “Earlier!” he said.

“No, she's right,” said Charles. “Later!”

“Wait a bit!” commanded Abby. “Do we put the clocks on, or back?”

“Go on, Horace!” said Hemingway encouraging. “Which?”

“On,” said Charles positively. “So if the Church clock says 6.15, it's really 7.15. By summertime, I mean. So Mrs. Midgeholme is right.”

“Well, I'm glad we've settled that point,” said Hemingway. “But I don't myself see that old boy making any mistake about opening-time. Not but what I'm very grateful to Mrs. Midgeholme for the trouble she's taken. I shall have to be getting along now, but—”

“What, don't you want to hear the rest of our theories?” said Charles, shocked. “I've worked out a very classy one; Miss Dearham has proved hers up to the hilt; Gavin Plenmeller's latest proves he did it, but it's too ingenious; the Squire has practically settled that the murder was committed by—”

“What, has the Squire gone in for detection too?” demanded Hemingway.

“Of course he has! Everyone in Thornden has! The Squire's idea is that the murderer was a Bellingham-man, who came out by car or motor-cycle, hid same in his gravel-pit, and then lay up in the gorse-bushes until the right moment.”

“And what's your own theory, sir?”

“No, no!” Charles replied, laughing. “I'm not going to do your job for you! Or get myself sued for uttering slanders!”

“Perhaps you're right,” agreed Hemingway.

“I wish I could ginger Mavis up to sue Mr. Drybeck!” said Abby, with feeling.

“Good lord, you haven't told her he thinks she did it, have you?” exclaimed Charles.

“ I didn't tell her, but someone did. She said she would rather not talk about it, and one had to make allowances, and she was sure he didn't mean to hurt her feelings.”

“That girl is really a saint!” declared Mrs. Midgeholme. “She may be exasperating, but you have to admit that she's an example to us all!”

The Chief Inspector was amused to perceive, from their expressions, that the example set by Miss Warrenby was not one which either Charles or Abby meant to follow. He took his leave of the party, and went away with Harbottle to where the car awaited them.

“What do you suppose they were doing up at Fox House?” said Abby, watching the two detectives turn the corner into the main road.

“Probably having another look at the terrain,” said Charles.

“I only hope they haven't been pumping Gladys,” said Mrs. Midgeholme worriedly. “You know what servants are! She'd be bound to make the most of every little unpleasantness there had ever been in the house, and what with that, on top of Thaddeus Drybeck's really wicked attempt to throw suspicion on poor Mavis, I'm very much afraid the police may be thoroughly misled. Well! I've done my best, and I can't do more! Come along, Ulysses! Home to Father!”

Charles, watching with approval Ulysses's first assumption of deafness and subsequently leisurely progress in Mrs. Midgeholme's wake, said: “I like that dog. He knows what is due to his own dignity. All the same, I'm damned if I'd put up with being called his father.” He turned his head, and looked down at Abby. “You stood me up yesterday: what about running down to Filey Cove now?”

“Don't you ever do any work?” asked Abby provocatively.

“I do a great deal of work. I've been out on an important job this very afternoon. If you need reassurance, I shan't get the sack for not returning to the office. I'm a full partner, let me tell you! No, you don't!”

Miss Dearham, about to retire strategically, found her right wrist clamped suddenly to the top of the gate, and at once protested. She said that Charles was hurting her arm, upon which he lifted her wrist and kissed it. Much shaken, she could think of nothing to say, but, blushing, adorably, peeped up at him under the huge brim of her hat. Charles, quick to seize opportunity, kissed her in good earnest.

“What on earth are you doing?” demanded Miss Patterdale, suddenly emerging from her little potting-shed, and screwing her monocle into her eye, the better to observe her young friends.

“Asking Abby to marry me,” responded Charles brazenly, one arm round Abby's shoulders, his other hand still clasping her maltreated wrist.

“Nonsense! You don't ask a girl to marry you in front of her aunt!”

“I've already made several attempts to ask her to marry me not in front of her aunt, but you always turn up just as the words are hovering on my tongue!” Charles retorted.

Miss Patterdale looked suspiciously from one flushed face to the other. “Well, I don't know what the world's coming to, I'm sure!” she said. “Kissing and cuddling across my garden-gate! If you really are going to marry Abby you'd better come inside, and stop making a public exhibition of yourself! Or are you pulling my leg?”

“Certainly not!” said Charles, affronted. “You don't suppose I'd kiss Abby across your gate, or anyone else's, if I didn't hope to marry her, do you?”

“As far as I can make out,” said Miss Patterdale, “you're all so promiscuous these days that it would be unwise to suppose anything! Are you going to marry her?”

Charles looked at Abby. “Am I, my only love?”