“And do you have a gun yourself, Mr Withering?” asked Chalmers.
There was a slight pause while Henry studied his nails. “I’ve got one somewhere,” he said eventually. “Probably at home at my parents’ place in Sussex.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Never was much good,” said Henry. “Can I go now?”
“Just a little longer,” said Chalmers soothingly. “How well did you know Captain Bartlett?”
“Well, I used to run into him a lot. He spent a little time in London before he rejoined his regiment. One meets the same people at parties and that sort of thing.”
“By parties, I assume you mean social parties?”
“Yes.”
“But it appears that, until recently, you did not go to social events. You are on record as saying you despised them.”
Henry laughed. “Very possibly,” he said. “I usually tell the press what they want to hear. But one went just the same.”
“I don’t know,” said Chalmers cautiously, “that I would say it was the press exactly, meaning the mass media. No-one had heard of you until recently. But I believe you wrote an article once for The Liberated Workers’ World?”
“One says silly things in one’s youth.”
“This was three years ago.”
“Look,” said Henry with an engaging smile, “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fraud. I had to go along with all that left-wing stuff simply because you have to be left-whig to get your plays put on. The big theatres only take trash. You’ve no idea what it’s like to sweat your guts out on a play and then find no-one wants to put it on.”
“So you only knew Captain Bartlett as someone you bumped into at parties?”
“Absolutely.”
“You must, on the other hand,” said Hamish Macbeth softly, “haff seen a good bit of the captain when you were both sharing that flat off Sloane Square. That would be two years ago.”
“Not really,” said Henry, not looking at Hamish, but continuing to smile at the superintendent. “I said he could share my digs when he was up in London, that sort of thing. I was away in the provinces most of the time. I came back to find the place a mess and that he’d been using my phone to call someone in the States. I left his suitcase with the porter at the block of flats and changed the locks.”
“Nonetheless, Mr Withering,” said the superintendent severely, “you said nothing in your earlier statement about having known Captain Bartlett particularly well.”
“I didn’t,” said Henry. “Casual acquaintance, that’s all.”
Chalmers took him slowly and carefully over all the things Henry had said in his earlier statement, congratulated him politely on his forthcoming marriage, and told him to tell Miss Halburton-Smythe to step along.
“You’ve been busy, Constable,” said Chalmers when Henry had left the room. “How did you find out Bartlett had been staying with him?”
“I have a relative who works for the Daily Chronicle.” said Hamish. “He asked the man whoruns the social column about Bartlett Seems this social editor has a memory like an elephant and he had written an article on Captain Bartlett, calling him the everlasting debs’ delight. It appears that part of doing the Season was to have an affair with Peter Bartlett. He had been an indefatigable, deb-chaser since he was a young man. A merry life o’ broken hearts and paternity suits.”
“Was he attractive?”
“Aye, he was a fine-looking man, a bit like a fillum star. I suppose you’ve had the forensic results of the swabs taken from everyone’s hands?”
“Yes, they’re all as clean as a whistle. We had a bit of excitement over the results of Pomfret’s swabs, but he turns out to be a heavy smoker and it can often turn up almost the same results. I understand it was you who discovered it was murder, not accident.”
“Did Mr Blair tell you that?”
“No, it was Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Much as he dislikes Blair, he is confident that an expert like myself will soon prove Blair was right and you were wrong.”
Hamish grinned. “And if it hadnae been for my interference, they could all have been feeling comfy?”
“Something like that.”
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked into the room. She was wearing a dark red silk blouse with a cream pleated skirt. Her smooth blonde hair was curled in at the ends.
Superintendent John Chalmers looked at her with approval.
He took her through her statement, ticking off each point. Then he half-turned and looked expectantly at Hamish.
And for the first time, the superintendent began to have serious doubts about Hamish’s intelligence. The constable was sitting staring vacantly into space, a half-smile curling his lips.
Chalmers frowned. The minute he had heard of this village constable and of how competently he had outlined how the murder had been done, he had lost no time in sending Anderson to fetch him. Unlike Blair, Chalmers was only interested in results. The fact that this trait had elevated him to the rank of superintendent should have told Blair something.
Hamish was in the grip of a powerful fantasy. He could see it all as clear as day. He was accusing Henry Withering of the murder, and Priscilla was throwing herself into Hamish’s arms for protection. Henry’s face was distorted in a villainous sneer.
“Macbeth!”
Hamish came back to reality with a bump.
“Have you any questions to ask?”
Hamish shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said, not meeting Priscilla’s clear gaze, “I wass, as you know, at the party afore the morning the murder took place. I am surprised you have not mentioned in your statement that Mrs Forbes-Grant threw her drink at the captain.”
Priscilla flushed and looked uncomfortable. “You must admit, when it came to women Peter was enough to try the patience of a saint,” she said. “I assumed at the time he had made one of his off remarks. Earlier in the day, he told me my home was the most pretentious, uncomfortable slum he had ever had the ill luck to be billeted in. I nearly slapped his face. I suppose you could describe him, on the face of it, as a man who could hold his drink in that he never fell over or was sick over your shoes or anything like that. But when he’d had a couple, he would turn immediately from being a very charming and attractive man to a downright nasty one.”
“Had you known him particularly well before this visit?” asked the superintendent.
“If you mean, was I ever one of his victims, the answer is no. As I said in my earlier statement, I had met him from time to time during the shooting season at other people’s houses.”
“And do you know how to handle a gun?”
“A shotgun? Yes.”
“And would you describe yourself as a good shot, Miss Halburton-Smythe?”
“Oh, no, Superintendent.” Priscilla suddenly smiled at Hamish. “I’m certainly not in Hamish’s class.”
“Hamish being…?”.
“Police Constable Macbeth.”
One watery blue eye swivelled curiously in Hamish’s direction. Hamish folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.
“That will be all for the moment,” said Chalmers, turning back to Priscilla. “Do you know who’s volunteered to be next?”
“Pruney…I mean Miss Prunella Smythe. She wants to get it over with so that she can go down to the village and buy some things.”
“Very well. Send her in.”
“I suppose you’re looking for a pair of gloves?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, we can’t eliminate the guests simply because they passed the forensic test. There is evidence that our murderer was wearing gloves,” said Chalmers.
Pruney fluttered in and sat down, crouched in the chair in front of the superintendent, and stared at her shoes – which were of the Minnie Mouse variety – as if she had never really seen them before.