Джорджетт Хейер - No Wind of Blame

"I'd say he was speaking the truth. Didn't turn a hair when I questioned him. No, nor he didn't deny he'd no use for Carter."

"Well, that's put a query against his name all right," said Hemingway. "There's something about strong, silent men who don't keep anything back, that makes me highly suspicious. Now, what about this Prince? I see he states he arrived at the doctor's house more or less at the time the murder was being committed. Statement corroborated by the doctor's housekeeper. Well, that's very nice, I'm sure. What made her so certain of the time?"

"She hadn't any doubt. When I asked her, she said at once the Prince arrived before five o'clock." "How did she know?"

Inspector Cook looked a little taken aback. "She didn't hesitate. She said the Prince arrived before the doctor had got back from a case he'd been called out to, and it was a few minutes before five."

"That's the kind of airy statement I like to see checked up on," said Hemingway. "Now, I see you've got a query against this Miss Fanshawe. Properly speaking, I don't hold with women in shooting cases, but you never know with some of these modern girls."

"You wouldn't know with her, that's a certainty," said Cook. "She was in the shrubbery at the time the murder was committed, and she had her dog with her. It's one of those Borzois, and a young one, and from what I can make out it's the sort of noisy brute that 'ud bark its head off if it got wind of a stranger being about the place. But the point is the dog didn't bark, nor yet give any sign that he knew anyone was near. Seems to me we've got something there."

"What you might call a highly significant feature of the case," agreed Hemingway. "Could this Fanshawe-dame have got across the stream other than by way of the bridge?"

"Yes, she could," said Cook. "Though I'm bound to say my Sergeant couldn't find any footmarks, which you'd expect to. You see, Inspector, the stream takes a bend to the south about thirty yards beyond that bridge. Anyone crossing it beyond the bend couldn't be seen from the bridge. Get the idea? Well, there's a bit of a pool just round the bend, but it isn't any size, and the stream narrows beyond it, so that I reckon it would be an easy job to jump it. What's more, the young lady wasn't hampered by skirts, because I've discovered that she was wearing slacks at the time. The butler tells me she's devoted to her mother, so that it seems to me it won't do to rule her out of the case."

Hemingway pursed his lips. "If it comes to that, it won't do to rule anyone out, but if you were to think that every girl who's devoted to her mother will up and shoot her stepfather as soon as look at him, you'd soon land yourself in a mess. What about this young fellow, Baker?"

Inspector Cook's account of Percy Baker made Hemingway open his eyes. "You do see life in these parts, don't you?" he remarked. "Talk about the great, wicked city! Well, well, I think I'll go and take a look at the scene of the crime."

"I'll send one of my young chaps with you, shall I?" offered the Superintendent. "Not that you'll find anything there. Nothing to find. The murderer dropped the rifle, and bunked, and the ground's too hard after this drought to show any footmarks."

"You never know," said Hemingway.

Waiting with his own Sergeant for the promised guide, he remarked that the conduct of this case was a very good object lesson for the student of crime.

"Yes?" said Sergeant Wake incredulously. "How's that, sir?"

"Police faults analysed," replied Hemingway. "What with Mr. Silent Steel and his nice, open admissions, and the doctor's housekeeper, you've got a couple of bits of unchecked evidence that aren't doing us any good at all."

A young constable joined them at this moment, and they set out for Palings, arriving at the Dower House shortly before five o'clock. Janet was in the garden, and, looked rather frightened when Inspector Hemingway's identity was revealed to her. The Inspector, who had a genius for inspiring people with confidence, soon put her at ease, and drew her into a description of what had happened on the Sunday. His sergeant waited patiently in the background, and the local constable betrayed signs of boredom, but Hemingway listened to Janet's spate of talk with keen interest. He learned about Alan White's quarrel with his father, and his hasty departure from the house; he learned of White's debt to Carter; of Janet's dislike of Carter; of Alan's opinion of Mr. Sam Jones; Vicky Fanshawe's cool way of greeting the news of Carter's death; he even learned of the ruining of a new kettle, and the waste of a batch of scones. By the time he parted from Janet, even Sergeant Wake, who had a great respect for him, felt that he had allowed himself to be drawn into a singularly unprofitable conversation.

"I wonder Inspector Cook didn't warn you about Miss White," the constable ventured to say. "A regular talker, that's what she is. Doesn't know anything, either."

"I like talkers," replied Hemingway. "You never know what you may pick up from them. Now, I've found out a lot from Miss White that you people never told me. Is that the bridge?"

"That's it, sir, and if you'll follow me, I'll show you the spot where the rifle was found."

The Inspector plunged into the shrubbery in his wake, and the zealous constable pointed out to him not only where the rifle was found, which was close to a slim sapling, but also the view to be obtained of the bridge. Hemingway grunted, and asked if anything else had been found near the spot. The constable shook his head, and offered to show him next the way by which the murderer had probably made his escape. The ground was strewn with fallen leaves, which in some places made a thick bed, and the Inspector, tripping over a little mound, kicked some of these out of place, disclosing a small object which instantly caught his eye. He bent, and picked up a horn hair-slide.

"Didn't search very closely, did you?" he said. "Supposing you were to have another search? You never know: we might find some more little things of this nature."

The Sergeant joined in the search, but the result, though surprising, was not very helpful.

"In fact," said Hemingway, regarding the collection of objects which the shrubbery had yielded, "you might call it a bit confusing. It beats me how things get into places like this. Where did you find that old boot?"

"That was just by the wall by the road," said the constable.

"Thrown over by some tramp. It's been there for months, from the looks of it. You can take it away, and that broken bit of saucer with it. And if that rusty thing's the lid of a kettle, I shan't want that either. Now, what have we got left?"

"One broken nail-file, one toy magnet, and a pocketknife," said the Sergeant, as one checking an inventory.

Hemingway scratched his chin. "I'm bound to admit it's a mixed bag," he said. "Still, you never know. I don't myself carry nail-files in my pocket, nor magnets either, but that isn't to say others mayn't. Mind you, the nailfile, being broken, may have been chucked away, same as the kettle-lid, and that bit of china."

"Seems a funny place to use as a rubbish heap," demurred the Sergeant. "I knew a chap that used to carry a nail-file about with him. Sissy sort of fellow, with waved hair."

"He would be," said Hemingway. "We'll keep that file, in case it turns out to be relevant."

"What about the magnet?" asked Wake. "Who'd go dropping a thing like that around? Looks to me like it could only have been some kid, playing around in the shrubbery."

"Trespassing, do you mean?" inquired the constable. "Well, they could, easy, because the wall's only a low one, as you'll see, sir."

"Know of anyone, other than a kid, who'd be likely to carry a small magnet in his pocket?" asked Hemingway.

"Can't say I do, sir. Sort of engineer, it would have to be, wouldn't it?"