“Boloney!” said Charles scornfully. “I may not have thought much about it, but I do recall that in one of her expansive moments she disclosed that it was such a surprise to her when Dear Uncle wrote to offer her a home, because she had never even met him. So if you're nourishing a vision of Warrenby being the prop of his sister-in-law's declining years, can it! He offered Mavis a home because, for one thing he needed a hostess in his big social climb, and, for another, he thought it would be grand to have a housekeeper and general dog's-body he wouldn't have to pay, and could bully!”
“Yes, that's perfectly true,” conceded Abby. “But I still say she didn't do it. Do you know what I did when you were all at Church this morning? I walked down to Mr. Drybeck's house, and then cut back to Fox House, across the common, timing myself, and I found he could have done it easily! It took me exactly six minutes to reach the gorse bushes. What's more, there's plenty of cover, because there are lots of bushes and things on that part of the common.”
“I don't say Drybeck couldn't have done it in the time, but I don't suppose he'd walk as fast as you did. He's too old.”
“What rot!” said Abby scornfully. “He's as thin as a herring, and look at him on the tennis-court!”
At this moment, Mr. Haswell walked into the room, saying, as he shut the door, that if Charles must borrow his clothes he did wish he would sometimes put them back where they belonged, instead of leaving them all over the house. He said this without ill-will, and certainly without any hope that his words would bear fruit; and his son replied, as he invariably did: “Sorry, Dad!” and then dismissed the matter from his mind.
Mr. Haswell, having by this time observed that a guest was present, shook hands with Abby, favouring her with an appraising look, which rather surprised her, since she was well acquainted with him and quite unaccustomed to exciting more interest in him than he felt for any of his son's young friends, all of whom he received in an uncritical and incurious spirit. Fortunately for her self-possession she did not know that this keen scrutiny was due to certain mysterious words uttered by Mrs. Haswell into his private ear on the previous evening. He was a well-built man, with a square, rather impassive countenance, and a taciturn disposition; and although he was a pleasant host, and accepted with perfect equanimity all the young people who invaded his house, and danced to the radio, or argued loudly and interminably on such subjects as Surrealist art, Anglo-Soviet Relations, and The Ballet, most of Charles's friends stood in considerable awe of him. Appealed to now by Sampson Warrenby, he replied calmly: “Certainly not,” and poured himself out a glass of sherry.
“Well, that's Abby's theory. I think it's possible, but my own bet is that it was Mavis. What's your view, Dad?”
“That you'd both of you do better to leave it to the police, and not talk quite so much about it,” replied his father.
Abby, who had been very well brought-up, would have abandoned the entrancing topic at once, but Charles, though extremely fond of his parents, naturally held them in no exaggerated respect. He said: “You know perfectly well we're bound to talk about it. It's quite the most interesting thing that's ever befallen Thornden.”
“Oh, Mr. Haswell!” said Abby, feeling that Charles had broken the ice, “there's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, and we actually talked to him, at the Red Lion!”
“Did you indeed?” he said, smiling faintly. “That must have been a thrill for you! I hope you didn't tell him what your theories are?”
“No, we were madly discreet,” she assured him.
“I didn't have to tell him my theory,” said Charles. “Gavin did that for me. Oh, I say, Mummy, do you know what became of my old .22, by any chance? The one Daddy got for me when I was at school?”
“Do you mean the one you used to shoot rabbits with, darling? Yes, I lent it to old Newbiggin's grandson: the one with the extraordinary ears, who was so helpful that time Woodhorn was ill, and I couldn't get the car to start.”
“Good lord! Did he bring it back?”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure he must have!” said Mrs. Haswell, folding up her tapestry-work, and removing the thimble from her finger. “Why? You don't want it, do you, Charles?”
“No, but it looks as if the Chief Inspector will. Gavin had the bright idea that it would have been just the rifle for Mavis to handle, and I should think they're bound to follow that up. And if it's sculling about the village—”
“No, it isn't. I remember now!” said Mrs. Haswell. “Jim Newbiggin returned it one day when I was in London, and Molly put it in the cloakroom. I meant to put it with the rest of your stuff, in the attic, and then I forgot, and I don't know what became of it.”
“Lord-love-a-duck!” said Charles inelegantly, and immediately left the room.
He returned in a very few minutes, carrying in one gloved hand a light rifle. “Shoved at the back of the coat-cupboard,” he said briefly. “Now, where would be a safe place to put it? I haven't touched it, and no one must, because of finger-prints. Look, Mummy, I'll put it on the top of the cabinet for the time being.”
“Must you use my gloves?” asked his father.
“Sorry, Dad! There weren't any others, and it isn't greasy.”
He then deposited the rifle well out of any housemaid's reach, stripped off the glove, and dropped it on a chair. Mr. Haswell observed this with disfavour, but as the gong sounded at that moment he said nothing, merely picking his glove up on his way out of the room, and restoring it to the cloakroom himself.
Since only one of her three servants was on duty on Sunday evenings, supper at The Cedars was cold, and no one waited at table. There was thus no other bar to exhaustive discussion of the murder than Mr. Haswell's silent disapproval. And as it was Mrs. Haswell who set the ball rolling again, by saying that she really didn't think Mavis was the kind of girl to borrow things without asking if she might, Abby felt herself at liberty to pursue her own theory. Exhaustively searching the inside of a large lobster-claw with a silver pick, she said: “Of course she wouldn't! Gavin only said it to be clever. Like saying that if he couldn't have Mavis, or himself, for the murder he'd have Mr. Ainstable.”
“What?” said Mr. Haswell, looking up.
“Yes, because he was the most unlikely person he could think of.”
“Do you mean to say that Plenmeller said that in front of this Chief Inspector you say you met?”
“Oh, lord, yes!” replied Charles, turning the contents of the salad-bowl over in chase of an elusive olive. “I thought it was a bit thick myself, but I don't suppose it really mattered much. Too fatuous!”
“Besides, he didn't mind Mr. Warrenby nearly as much as most people did,” Abby remarked. “I mean, he and Mrs. Ainstable have him to parties, don't they? Had him, I mean.”
“Yes—and, come to think of it, why?” said Charles slowly. “He was about the last man on earth you'd expect the Ainstables to have had any time for at all, and it wasn't even as though he was their solicitor. Why did they take him up, Dad?”
“I have no idea, nor should I have said that they did more than show him a little ordinary civility.”
Charles was frowning. “Well, I think they did. The Squire quite definitely introduced him to you, didn't he, Mummy? And he'd never have wormed his way into the Club if the Squire hadn't sponsored him.”
“I expect the Ainstables felt it was their duty to be neighbourly,” said Mrs. Haswell placidly.
“Well, they didn't feel it was their duty to be neighbourly to those ghastly people who evacuated themselves here from London during the blitz, and took Thornden House for the duration!” said Charles. “They never had anything to do with them at all!”
“No, but that was different,” replied his mother. “They weren't permanent residents, and they got things on the Black Market, and said that if you knew your way about you could always get extra petrol. You couldn't expect the Ainstables to have anything to do with them!”