“Well, just a few things!” said Hemingway apologetically. “Not but what I'm much obliged to you, and I'll bear all you've said in mind. Now, I wonder what Ultima Untidy has found to roll in?”
This ruse was successful. Mrs. Midgeholme, who, once clear of the garden, had set the Ultimas down, turned, and hurried with admonishing cries towards Untidy. The Chief Inspector swiftly joined his subordinates in the car, and said: “Step on it!”
Chapter Seven
The Sergeant, concerned, said: “I'm sorry we walked into Mrs. Midgeholme, sir, wasting your time like that! If I'd known, I'd have warned you about her.”
“You'd have been wasting your time to have done so,” said Harbottle, from the seat beside the police-driver. “The Chief likes talkers.”
He spoke in the resigned voice of one forced to tolerate a weakness of which he disapproved, but Hemingway said cheerfully: “That's right, I do. You never know what they'll let fall. I picked up quite a lot from Mrs. Midgeholme.”
“You did, sir?” said the Sergeant, faintly incredulous.
“Certainly I did. Why, I didn't know one end of a Peke from another when I came to Thornden, and I could set up as a judge of them now, which will probably come in useful when I'm retired.”
The Sergeant chuckled. “She wins a lot of prizes with those dogs of hers,” he remarked. “That I will say.”
“Well, you have said it, so I can't stop you, but you don't need to say any more. I've got a very good memory, which means I don't have to be told things more than once in one afternoon,” said Hemingway unkindly. “Strictly speaking, it wasn't the Pekes I meant, either. Or that unnatural Pole. It was what she had to say about the Lindales that interested me.”
“Well, sir, but—just a bit of spite, wasn't it?”
“She doesn't like them, if that's what you mean, but I wouldn't call her spiteful. And I don't think she said anything about them that wasn't true. Or at any rate what she believes to be true. Of course, you can say that it's quite enough to make anyone nervy to have her bursting in on them, and I'm bound to agree that I should think up a lot of jobs to do myself if it happened to me. On the other hand, it isn't in human nature not to want to have a good gossip about a thing like this. Provided you know you're in the clear, that is. Anything known about these Lindales?”
“Why, no sir! I mean, there isn't any reason why we should know anything about them, barring what everyone knows. Seem to be quiet, respectable people, generally well-liked in the neighbourhood. They don't get about much, but I don't know that it's to be expected they would. Not with him having his hands full with the farm, and her with a baby, and only one daily woman to help her.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Hemingway. “And what do you make of them never having anyone to stay?”
“I don't know,” said the Sergeant slowly. “What do you make of it, sir?”
“I don't know either,” said Hemingway. “But I think it'll bear looking into. You can attend to that, Horace. If Lindale was a member of the Stock Exchange it won't be difficult to get his dossier.”
“You mean,” said the Sergeant, his brow furrowed, “that Warrenby might have known something to Mr. Lindale's discredit, and was blackmailing him?”
“Well, from all I've been able to gather about this bird that sounds like just the sort of parlour-trick he would get up to.”
“Yes, but whatever for?” objected the Sergeant.
“That's another of the things I don't know. Might not have been blackmailing him at all. If he happened to let on to Lindale that he knew something really damaging about him, Lindale might have shot him to make sure he didn't pass his information on. Depends on what it was, and what sort of chap Lindale is.”
“I wouldn't have said he was that sort at all,” said the Sergeant.
“You may be right,” said Hemingway, as the car pulled up outside Mr. Drybeck's house. “But I once arrested one of the nicest, kindest, most fatherly old codgers you ever saw. You'd have said he couldn't have hurt a fly. Well, I don't know what he was like with flies: it wasn't the right time of the year. I arrested him for sticking a dagger into his brother's back.”
With this encouraging reminiscence, he got out of the car, and trod up the path to Mr. Drybeck's front-door.
It was by this time past seven o'clock, and Mr. Drybeck, whose housekeeper did not allow him to dine at a late hour was just sitting down to an extremely depressing Sunday supper of cold ham, salad, and a pallid shape accompanied by a dish of custard. No one could be surprised that he showed no reluctance to leave this meal. Upon being informed that two gentlemen from Scotland Yard wished to see him, he threw down his napkin, and went at once into the hall, and primly made these visitors welcome.
“I was not unexpectant of a visit from the C.I.D.,” he said. “A very shocking affair, Chief Inspector. I am able to state with certainty that such a thing has never before sullied the annals of our parish. I shall be happy to render you whatever assistance may be within my power. You will first, of course, wish me to account for my own movements at the time of this outrage. That is perfectly proper. Fortunately my memory is a good one, and, I trust, exact. The result of legal training.”
He then, in the most precise terms, repeated the story he had told Sergeant Carsethorn already. At only one point did Hemingway intervene. He said: “You didn't hear the gong when it was sounded the first time, sir?”
“No, Chief Inspector, I did not, but that is not quite such a wonderful matter as it may appear. With your permission, we will put it to the test. There is the gong in question. If Sergeant Carsethorn will remain here, and in a few minutes' time sound it, moderately—for that, she tells me, is how Emma sounded it on that first occasion, believing me to be within the house—we three will repair to the part of the garden which I was watering at the time, and the Chief Inspector may judge for himself whether or not it can be heard.”
“I don't think that'll be necessary, sir,” said Hemingway.
Mr. Drybeck raised his hand. “Pardon me, I should prefer you to put my word to the proof!” he said sternly.
He then led the two Inspectors out into the back garden, through a small garden-hall. “My domain is not extensive,” he said, “but you will observe that it is intersected by several hedges. That one for instance, shuts off the vegetable garden, and this one, which we are approaching, encloses my little rose-garden. Here, gentlemen, I was engaged in watering when I was summoned to supper. Let us enter it!”
He stood back, and waved to them to precede him through an arch in the tall yew hedge into a pretty, square plot, laid out in rose-beds, with narrow grass walks between, and a tiny artificial pond in the centre. Once inside, he surveyed the garden with simple pride, and said: “You may be said to be seeing it at its best. A wonderful year for roses! You are looking at those red ones, Chief Inspector. Gloire de Hollander, quite one of my favourites.”
“And I'm sure I'm not surprised, sir,” said Hemingway. “You've certainly got a rare show here. And there's the gong, by the way.”
“I heard nothing!” declared Mr. Drybeck suspiciously.
“I didn't either,” confessed Harbottle. “Not to be sure.”
“You must have imagined it!” said Mr. Drybeck, inclined to be affronted. “I do not consider myself hard of hearing, not at all!”
“Well, I've got very quick ears, sir. What's more, I was listening for it. I'm quite prepared to believe that if you were busy with your roses here you mightn't have heard it. In fact, I always was, but I'm glad you made me come: it's been worth it.” He strolled forward to inspect a bed planted with Betty Uprichard. “I noticed some nice roses at Fox House, but nothing to compare with yours.”
“That I can well believe!” said Mr. Drybeck. “I fancy my friend Warrenby cared very little for such things.”