Джорджетт Хейер - Envious Casca

"Take another look," advised Hemingway. "Notice anything about the hilts?"

The Sergeant glanced quickly at him, and then once more bent over the weapons. As Hemingway held them up the dust on them was clearly visible. Each sheath, where it had lain against the wall, was thinly coated with dust, and so was one hilt. The other hilt had no speck of dust on it, on either side.

The Sergeant drew in his breath. "My lord, Chief, you're quick!" he said respectfully.

"You can put this one back," said Hemingway, unmoved by the compliment, and handing him the knife with the dusty hilt. "It hasn't been touched. But this little fellow has been drawn out of its sheath very recently, or I'm a Dutchman!" He held it up to the light, closely inspecting the hilt for finger-prints. No smudge on its polished surface was visible to the naked eye, and he added disgustedly: "What's more, when the experts get on to it, they'll find that it's been carefully wiped. However, we won't take any chances. Lend me that handkerchief of yours, will you?"

The Sergeant gave it to him. Carefully grasping the base of the hilt between his finger and thumb through the folds of the linen, Hemingway drew the knife from the sheath. It slid easily, a thin blade which revealed a slight stain close to the hilt. The Sergeant pointed a finger at this, and Hemingway nodded. "Overlooked that, didn't he? Well, I fancy we have here the weapon that killed Nathaniel Herriard." Perceiving a look of elation on his subordinate's face, he added dampingly: "Not that it's likely to help us, but it's nice to know."

"I don't see why it shouldn't help us," objected Ware. "It proves the murder was an inside job, anyway."

"Well, if that's your idea of help, it isn't mine," said Hemingway. "Of course it was an inside job! And a nice, high-class bit of work too! There won't be any fingerprints on this. You have to hand it to our unknown friend. Thinks of everything. He chooses a weapon which nine people out of ten would stare at every day of their lives without attaching any importance to. He chooses a time when the house is full of visitors who all have their reasons for wanting old Herriard out of the way; and seizes the moment when everyone's dressing for dinner to stab his host, and restore the knife at his leisure. It's an education to have to do with this bird."

The Sergeant gazed meditatively up at the wall over the fireplace. "Yes, and what's more, he might have taken the knife at any time," he said. "There's no sign he took the sheath as well."

"There's every sign he didn't."

"That's what I mean. I daresay no one would have noticed if that knife had been taken out of the sheath quite a while before the murder was committed. It isn't even as if it was on a line with your eyes: you have to look up to catch sight of it."

"What's more important," said Hemingway, "is that it could have been put back at any time. After everyone had gone to bed, as like as not. So now perhaps you begin to see that the chances are that this nasty-looking dagger is going to rank as a matter of purely academic interest."

The Inspector had barely packed the knife and its sheath away into a case when Sturry entered the room, and stood upon the threshold with an expression of lofty resignation on his face. Hemingway, no respecter of persons, said: "Well, what do you want?"

Sturry gave him a quelling look, and replied with meticulous politeness: "Mr. Joseph, Inspector, desired me to enquire whether you, and the Other Policeman, will be requiring luncheon. If this should be the case, a Cold Collation will be served in the morning-room."

"No, thanks," said Hemingway, who had no opinion of cold collations at midwinter.

Sturry bowed slightly. His arctic gaze took in the position of the chair which the Sergeant had used to enable him to reach the knives on the wall, and travelled upwards. He acknowledged the disappearance of one of the pair of knives by a pronounced elevation of the eyebrows, and moved forward to restore the chair to its place against the wall. He then plumped up a couple of cushions, looked with contempt at the partially dismantled Christmas tree, and at last withdrew.

The Sergeant, who had been watching him with considerable disfavour, said: "I don't like that chap."

"That's only inferiority complex," said Hemingway. "You didn't like being called the Other Policeman."

"Snooping round," said the Sergeant darkly. "He saw the knife had gone all right. He'll spread that bit of news round the house."

"Then we may get some interesting reactions," responded Hemingway. "Come on! We'll take the knife back to headquarters, and get a bit of dinner at the same time. I want to think."

He was unusually silent during the hot and substantial meal provided by the cook at the Blue Dog inn; and the Sergeant, respecting his preoccupation, made no attempt to converse with him. Only when the cheese was set before them did he venture to say: "I've been thinking about that weapon."

"I haven't," said Hemingway. "I've been thinking about that locked door."

"I don't seem to get any ideas about that," confessed the Sergeant, "The more I think about it the more senseless it seems."

"There must have been a reason for it," said Hemingway. "A pretty strong one, too. Whoever murdered Nathaniel Herriard, and locked the door behind him, was taking the hell of a chance of being caught in the act. He didn't do it for fun."

"No," agreed the Sergeant, thinking it over. "It looks as though you're right there. But what reason could he possibly have had?"

Hemingway did not answer. After a few moments, the Sergeant said slowly: "Supposing the murdered man didn't lock the door himself, in the first place? We've no proof that he did, after all. I was just wondering… If the murderer walked into the room, and locked the door behind him -"

"Old Herriard would have kicked up a rumpus."

"Not if it had been his nephew he wouldn't. He might have thought Stephen wanted to have a straight talk with him, without the valet's coming in to interrupt them."

"Well?" said Hemingway, showing a faint interest.

"Well, Stephen, or someone else, killed him. You remember the valet telling us that he came along, and tried the door, and found- it locked? Suppose the murderer was still in the room then?"

"All right, I'm supposing it. So what?"

The Sergeant caressed his chin. "I haven't worked it all out, but it does strike me that he may have thought he'd got to leave that door locked when he left the room."

"Why?"

"Might be the time element, mightn't it? He may have thought that if anyone was to come along and try the door a minute or two later, and find it unlocked, he'd be whittling down the time of the murder a bit dangerously. I don't say I quite see -"

"No, nor anyone else," interrupted Hemingway.

"There might have been a reason," persisted the Sergeant doggedly.

"There might have been half a dozen reasons, but what you seem to forget is that it isn't all that easy to turn keys from the wrong side of the door. If the door was locked from the outside, the man who did it must have provided himself with a tool for the purpose. He couldn't have done it extempore, so to speak."

"He could, by slipping a pencil through the handle of the key, with a bit of string attached."

"He could, but we haven't any evidence to show that he did. In fact, we've plenty of evidence to show that he didn't."

"Were there any finger-prints on the key?" asked the Sergeant.

"Old Herriard's, and the valet's, considerably blurred. Just what you'd expect."

The Sergeant sighed. "Nothing seems to lead anywhere, does it, sir? I'm blessed if I know how to catch hold of this case."

"We'll go back to the station," decided Hemingway. "I'm going to have another look at that key."