‘Don’t bother,’ said Wimsey. ‘I only wanted to look up the next train to Colney Hatch.’
The constable stared in his turn.,
‘The mare is guilty,’ said Wimsey. ‘She was at the Flat-Iron, and she saw the murder done.’
‘But I thought, my lord, you proved that that was impossible.’
‘So it is. But it’s true.’
Wimsey returned to report his conclusions to Superintendent Glaisher, whom he found suffering from, nerves and temper.
‘Those London fellows have lost Bright,’ he remarked, curtly. ‘They traced him to the Morning Star office, where he drew his reward in the form of an open cheque. He cashed it at once in currency notes and then skipped off to a big multiple outfitters — one of those places all lifts and exits. To cut a long story short, he diddled them there, and now he’s vanished. I thought you could rely on these London men, but it seems I was mistaken. I wish we’d never come up against this qualified case,’ added the Superintendent bitterly. ‘And now you say that the mare was there and that she wasn’t there, and that none of the people who ought to have ridden her did ride her. Are you going to say; next that she cut the bloke’s throat with her own shoe and turned herself into a sea-horse?’
Saddened, Wimsey went home to the Bellevue and found a telegram waiting for him. It had been despatched from a West-end office that afternoon, and ran:
DOING BRIGHT WORK HERE. EXPECT RESULTS SHORTLY. COMMUNICATING CHIEF INSPECTOR PARKER. HOPE FIND OPPORTUNITY DESPATCH LOVAT TWEEDS FROM FLAT. — BUNTER
Chapter XXVII. The Evidence Of The Fisherman’s Grandson
‘Has it gone twelve?
This half-hour. Here I’ve set
A little clock, that you may mark the time.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
Wednesday, I July
‘THERE’S one thing that stands out a mile,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘If there was any hanky-panky with that horse round about; two o’clock at the. Flat-Iron,’ Pollock and his precious grandson must have seen it. It’s not a mite of use saying they didn’t. I always did think that lot was in it up to the eyes. A quiet, private, heart-to-heart murder they might have overlooked, but a wild horse careering about they couldn’t, and there you are.’
Wimsey nodded.
‘I’ve seen that all along — but how are you going to get it out of them? Shall I have a go at it, Umpelty? That young fellow, Jem — he, doesn’t look as surly as his grandpa — how about him? Has he got any special interest or hobbies?’
‘Well, I don’t know, my lord, not without it might be football. He’s reckoned a good player, and I know he’s hoping to get taken on by the Westshire Tigers.’
‘H’m. Wish it had been cricket — that’s more in my line. Still, we can but try. Think one might find him anywhere about this evening? How about the Three Feathers?’
‘If he’s not out with his boat, you’d most likely find him there.’
Wimsey did find him there, It is always reasonably easy to get conversation going in a pub, and it will be a black day for detectives when beer is abolished. After an hour’s entertaining discussion about football and the chances of various teams in the coming season, Wimsey found Jem becoming distinctly more approachable. With extreme care and delicacy he then set out to work the conversation round to the subject of fishing, the Flat-Iron and the death of Paul Alexis. At first, the effect was disappointing. Jem lost his loquacity, his smile vanished, and he fell into a brooding gloom. Then, just as Wimsey was deciding to drop the dangerous subject, the young man seemed to make up his mind. He edged a little closer to Wimsey, glanced over his shoulder at the crowd about the bar, and muttered:
‘See here, sir, I’d like to have a word with you about that.’
By all means. Outside? Right! — Dashed interesting,’ he added, more loudly. Next time I’m down this way I’d like to come along and see you play. Well, I must be barging along. You going home? I can run you over in the car if you like — won’t take a minute.’
‘Thank’ee, sir. I’d be glad of it.’
‘And you could show me those photographs you were talking about.’
The two pushed their way out. Good-nights were exchanged, but Wimsey noticed that none of the — Darley inhabitants seemed particularly cordial to join. There was a certain air of constraint about their farewells.
They got into the car, and drove in silence till they were past the level crossing. Then Jem spoke:
‘About that business, sir. I told Grandad he’d better tell the police how it were, but he’s that obstinate, and it’s a fact there’d be murder done if it was to get out. None the more for that, he did ought to speak, because this here’s a hanging matter and there’s no call as I see to get mixed up with it. But Grandad, he don’t trust that Umpelty and his lot, and he’d leather the life out of Mother or me if we was to let on. Once tell the police, he says, and it ‘ud be all about the place.’
‘Well — it depends what it is,’ said Wimsey, a little mystified. ‘Naturally, the police can’t hide anything — well, anything criminal, but—’
‘Oh, ’tis not that, sir. Leastways, not as you might take notice on. But if they Bainses was to hear tell on it and was to let Gurney know — but there! I’ve always told Grandad as it wur a fool thing to do, never mind if Tom Gurney did play a dirty trick over them there nets.’
‘If it’s nothing criminal,’ said Wimsey, rather relieved, ‘you may be sure I shan’t let anybody know.’
‘No, sir. That’s why I, thought I’d like to speak to you, sir. You see, Grandad left a bad impression, the, way he wouldn’t let on what he was doing off the Grinders, and I reckon I did ought to have spoke up at the time, only for knowing as Grandad ‘ud take it out of Mother the moment my back was turned.’
‘I quite understand. But, what was it you were doing at the Grinders?’
‘Taking lobsters, sir.’
‘Taking lobsters? What’s the harm in that?’
‘None, sir; only, you see, they was Tom Gurney’s pots.’
After a little interrogation, the story became clear. The unfortunate Tom Gurney, who lived in Darley, was accustomed to set out his lobster-pots near the Grinders, and drove a very thriving trade with them. But, some time previously, he had offended old Pollock in the matter of certain nets, alleged to have sustained wilful damage. Mr Pollock, unable to obtain satisfaction by constitutional methods, had adopted a simple method of private revenge. He chose suitable moments when Tom Gurney was absent, visited the lobster-pots, abstracted the greater part of their live contents and replaced the pots. It was not, Jem explamed, that Mr Pollock really hoped to take-out the whole value of the damaged nets in lobsters; the relish of the revenge lay in the thought of ‘doing that Gurney down’ and in hearing ‘that Gurney swearing from time to time about the scarcity of lobsters in the bay. Jem thought the whole thing rather foolish and, didn’t care for having a hand in, it, because it would have suited his social ambitions better to keep on good terms with his neighbours, but what with one thing and another (meaning, Wimsey gathered, what with old Pollock’s surly temper — and the possibility of his leaving, his very considerable savings to some other person, if annoyed), Jem had humoured his grandfather in this matter of lobster-snatching.