“Nice work!” approved Hemingway, putting a tiny magnifying glass to one eye, and closely scrutinising the cartridge case through it. “Got some clear markings on it, too, which all goes to show you should never make up your mind in advance. I thought it wouldn't show anything much: nine times out of ten a .22 rifle is so worn it doesn't give you any help at all. We ought to be able to identify the gun this little fellow was fired from. Supposing we were to find it, which I daresay we shan't. If I didn't know that the easier a case looks at the start the worse it turns out to be in the middle, I should say this one's a piece of cake.”
“I hope you may find it so,” said the Colonel heavily.
“Yes, sir, but it's standing out a mile I shan't. From what you've told me I can see we've got a very classy decor, and, in my experience, that always makes things difficult.”
“Does it?” said the Colonel staring.
“Stands to reason, sir,” said Hemingway, flicking over a page of the police-surgeon's report. “For one thing, these people you've been telling me about—Squire, Vicar, family solicitor, retired Major—will all stand by one another. I'm sure I don't blame them,” he added cheerfully, oblivious of a slight stiffening on the Colonel's part. “They don't want to have a lot of nosy policemen prying into their affairs. They weren't brought up to it, like the more usual kind of criminal. And, for another, they're apt to have a lot more sense than the criminal classes. In fact, it's a good thing they don't take to crime more often. Yes, I can see this isn't going to be all beer and skittles, not by a long chalk it isn't!” He laid the report down. “Bit coy about the time of death, your Dr. Rotherhope, sir. Any doubt about that?”
“Dr. Rotherhope was unfortunately prevented from seeing the corpse until some hours had elapsed. Dr. Warcop—the deceased's medical adviser—was called in by young Haswell. It is true that he did not commit himself to any very precise time, but he is a man of strict integrity, and the time was, in any event, fixed by Miss Warrenby's evidence.”
“Any reason, barring a bit of professional jealousy, sir, why Dr. Rotherhope doesn't what-you-might-call confirm that?”
A laugh was surprised out of the Chief Constable. “You're very acute! None at all! Dr. Warcop has been for long established in Bellingham, and is perhaps thought by his colleagues to be a trifle—er—out of date! But a perfectly sound man!”
“I see, sir. Is it known yet who stands to benefit by this death?”
“Barring a few very minor legacies, his niece. His Will was in the safe at his office. If you want to go into his business affairs, you'll find his head clerk very helpful. Coupland's his name: decent little chap, living in Bellingham pretty well all his life.”
“On good terms with him, sir?”
“Oh, I think so! Speaks very nicely about him. He comes in for a small legacy—a couple of hundred pounds, I think: nothing much! A good deal shocked by the murder, wasn't he, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir, he was. Well, he's a very respectable man, Mr. Coupland is, so it's natural he would be shocked. Setting aside that it's a pretty serious thing for him. Head clerkships don't grow on every tree, as you might say, and I'm sure I don't know where he's to find another. Not in Bellingham, he won't, for even if Throckington & Flimby wanted a new head clerk it isn't quite the kind of business he'd fancy, and Mr. Drybeck's had his head clerk with him for thirty years.”
“Drybeck,” repeated Hemingway. “That's the gentleman you told me was given a lift to his home after this tennis-party. Where does he live?”
The Sergeant placed a spatulate finger on the plan. “Here sir, nearly opposite the opening into Fox Lane. As far as we can make out, he must have been set down there at about seven o'clock, or just after. He sat down to his supper at half-past seven. That's corroborated by his housekeeper. What he was doing before that she doesn't know, not having seen him.”
“What does he say he was doing?”
The Sergeant consulted his notes. “He states that he let himself into the house, and went straight upstairs, and had a shower. Which he might have done, because he's got one of those old-fashioned baths with a shower fixed up at one end of it. After that, he went out into the garden to water his flowers. According to his story, that was . . . what he was doing when the housekeeper sounded the gong for his supper. She states that she had to sound it twice, him not hearing it the first time.”
“Where was the housekeeper all this time?”
“Between the kitchen and the dining-room, getting supper ready, and laying the table. The dining-room's at the front of the house, and the kitchen's behind it, at the back. There's a pantry between the two, with communicating doors. She states that she always goes from one room to the other through the pantry, which would account for her not having seen Mr. Drybeck. What I mean is, she never went into the hall during that half-hour, so there was no reason why she should have seen him.”
“If the kitchen's at the back doesn't it overlook the garden?”
“No, sir, not properly speaking. There's just a bit of ground outside the kitchen-window, like a gravel-yard, and then there's a laurel-hedge, shutting off the kitchen from the garden.”
“Nice, cheerful look-out,” commented Hemingway, his eyes on the plan. “So what it boils down to is that from about seven o'clock to seven-thirty this Mr. Drybeck might have been anywhere. If this plan of yours is accurate, I make it under half a mile from his place to Fox House.”
“Yes, sir. He'd have had to pass Miss Patterdale's cottage, of course.”
“Any reason why he shouldn't have walked across this common?”
“He could have done that,” admitted the Sergeant.
“Well, that isn't to say he did,” said Hemingway, in consoling accents. “I can see he isn't a popular candidate for the chief role in this highly interesting drama. What terms was he on with Sampson Warrenby?”
The Sergeant hesitated, casting a glance at Colonel Scales. But the Colonel did not raise his eyes from his pipe, which had gone out, and needed attention. The Sergeant said, a little awkwardly: “Well, sir, I wouldn't say they was on good terms. I don't want to put it too high, but it's a fact that Mr. Warrenby has done Mr. Drybeck a good deal of harm, professionally speaking—him being what you might call very go-ahead, and Mr. Drybeck more old-fashioned, like. Very successful, Mr. Warrenby has been.”
“All right,” said Hemingway, apparently dismissing Mr. Drybeck. “Tell me a bit about the rest of the dramatis personae! You can skip this Miss Patterdale of yours, and young Mr. Haswell, and the niece—I've forgotten her name, but as she's got an alibi, same like the other two, I daresay it doesn't matter.”
The Colonel looked up. “You have a good memory, Chief Inspector!”
Inspector Harbottle, casting upon his superior a look of vicarious and slightly melancholy pride, made his voice heard. “He has that, sir.”
“That'll be all from you, Horace!” said the Chief Inspector conclusively. “Let's take this Pole of your first, Sergeant! If I'd been told there was a Pole mixed up in this case I'd have reported sick. What's his unnatural name?”
The Sergeant once more consulted his notes. “Zamagoryski,” he enunciated painstakingly. “Though they mostly seem to call him Mr. Ladislas, that being his Christian name.”
“Well, we'll call him that too, though a more unchristian name I never heard!” said Hemingway. “The sooner we can be rid of him the better. I've had one case with a Georgian mixed up in it, and two more with Poles, and they pretty nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. This Ladislas, now, who was seen riding his motor-bike up Fox Lane shortly after five-thirty, how does he come into the picture?”
“Well, sir, they do say, in the village, that he's running after Miss Warrenby, and that her uncle wouldn't have him, not at any price. He's some sort of an engineer by profession, and he's got a job at Bebside's. He lodges with Mrs. Dockray, in one of the cottages beyond Mr. Drybeck's house. That one,” the Sergeant added, indicating it on the plan. “Nice-looking young fellow, in his way, but a bit excitable. By what he told me, though I'm bound to say I wasn't attending very closely, it not being any of my business, he used to be very well-off before the War. Estates, and such, in Poland. He was so keen on telling me I thought it best to let him get it off his chest. One or two of the gentry have taken him up, but most of them don't know him. He got to know Miss Warrenby, through meeting her at the Vicarage, and it seems she took a fancy to him. She's a very kind-hearted young lady. She told me she was sorry for him in the first place, and got to like him enough to be very friendly. Quite frank she was about it. Said it was true her uncle had forbid her to have anything to do with him, but that she hadn't held with that kind of snobbishness. Seems they used to go for walks together, and to the pictures once or twice, when Mr. Warrenby was away. Well, it was like I told you, sir. He was seen turning into Fox Lane on his motor-bike, round about five-thirty, by Miss Kingston. She keeps the sweet-shop in the village, and she'd gone out for a bit of an airing on the common, after she closed the shop. Quite definite it was him. Well, you wouldn't mistake him: he's a very dark, handsome sort of chap, and foreign-looking.”