Detection Unlimited

Chapter Seventeen

The two detectives, walking down the lane towards the Trindale-road, came within sight of Fox Cottage, and saw that an animated group was gathered at its gate. For the animation, what, at first glance, appeared to be a pride of Pekes was responsible. Closer inspection revealed that only five of the Ultimas were present, four of them harnessed on couplings, and winding themselves round their owner's legs, and the fifth, in whose stately mien Hemingway recognised Ulysses, the patriarch, unrestrained by a leash. Young Mr. Haswell's car was parked in the lane, but he and Mrs. Midgeholme both stood outside the gate. On the other side of it, and leaning on its top bar, were Miss Patterdale, wearing an overall and gardening-gloves, and her niece, looking remarkably pretty in a pink linen frock and an enormous and floppy sunhat. All four were engaged in discussion, Mrs. Midgeholme's demeanour being particularly impressive; and none of them noticed the approach of the detectives until Ulysses attracted attention by stalking up the lane towards the newcomers, and uttering a threatening bark.

“Now, what's the matter with you, old High and Mighty? Nice way to greet your friends!” said Hemingway, stooping to pat Ulysses.

Ulysses's eyes started with indignation at this familiarity. He growled, but he was not a dog of hasty disposition, and before proceeding to extreme measures he sniffed the Chief Inspector's hand, and realised that here was, if not a friend, at least a bowing acquaintance. His mighty mane sank, he slightly waved his tail, and sneezed.

“Isn't he the cleverest old fellow?” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme. “He knows you quite well!”

Her voice was drowned by frantic pleas from the four other Ultimas to their progenitor not to be taken in by the police. Ulysses, looking scornfully at them, gave further evidence of his sagacity by placing himself in a position clearly inviting the Chief Inspector to scratch his back. Hemingway very obligingly did so, while Mrs. Midgeholme unwound the other Ultimas, and besought them to be quiet.

“I guessed I should find you here,” she told Hemingway. “I saw the police-car just round the corner, waiting, and I put two and two together and deduced that you were visiting the scene of the crime. So I thought I'd just pop down on the off-chance of running into you.”

“Don't be a fool, Flora!” said Miss Patterdale trenchantly. “You don't suppose the Chief Inspector wants to listen to all these idiotic theories of yours, do you? You'd be better advised to pop home, and take a look at that new litter of yours. My father once had a field spaniel who buried her first pups alive. You can't be too careful.”

“My treasured Ullapool!” said Mrs. Midgeholme indignantly. “She's the most wonderful little mother! Beautiful pups, too! Tell it not in Gath, but I have a feeling that one of the dogs is going to be as big a prize-winner as Ulysses.”

“I've thought of a jolly good name for you,” offered Charles. “Call him Uzziah!”

Mrs. Midgeholme seemed a little doubtful. The Chief Inspector said judicially: “I don't say it's a bad name, but to my way of thinking there's a better. I lay awake for a good hour last night, trying to remember it. It came in a rattling good yarn I read when I was a boy—before your time, I expect, sir. Umslopogaas!”

“Before my time nothing!” retorted Charles. “Every right-minded person knows his Rider Haggard! Damn! Why didn't I think of that? It's terrific!”

Mrs. Midgeholme, though gratified that the Chief Inspector should have expended so much thought on the Ultimas, was plainly not enamoured of the name. She said that if she bred black Pekes she might think about it; and she was just about to explain to the company her reasons for not breeding black Pekes when Miss Patterdale put a summary end to the discussion by saying with a snort: “And then call one of the bitches Ullalume, and be done with it! I don't know whether the Chief Inspector wants to waste his time choosing absurd names for your dogs, Flora, but I'm not going to waste any more of mine. I'm going to get on with my weeding.”

She then favoured Hemingway with a curt nod, and strode off to where she had left her trug and gardening-fork.

Mrs. Midgeholme looked a trifle disconcerted, but laughed, and said: “Dear old Miriam! I always say, Abby, that your aunt is quite a character. But, of course, it wasn't the Ultimas I wanted to see you about, Chief Inspector. I did hope to catch you this morning, but it was not to be. You got my message?”

This question, uttered in a somewhat suspicious tone, seemed to be addressed as much to Harbottle as to Hemingway, and it was he who answered it, at his most wooden.

“Now, I know perfectly well that you think I'm interfering,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, upon receiving his assurance, “but what I feel is that anyone who lives in Thornden is bound to know more about all the people than a stranger. You see what I mean?”

“Yes, but you can't have it both ways,” interpolated Charles, evidently continuing an interrupted argument. “Old Drybeck was born and bred here, so why shouldn't the Chief Inspector listen to him as much as to you?”

“Oh, that's ridiculous!” she replied. “You can't possibly count him! And, anyway, that wasn't what I was going to say. No. The thing is, I've just been giving my angels a run on the common, Chief Inspector, and I met that dreadful old man, Biggleswade, and he told me all about what he thinks happened on Saturday. Well, of course, it's nonsense to suppose young Ditchling had anything to do with it, because anyone who knows the family could tell you at once that they're all above suspicion. I don't mind saying that my first thought was he was lying.”

“"Lied in every word,"' corrected Charles, grinning. “"That hoary cripple, with malicious eye"—I can't remember how it goes on, but it's exactly right! There's something about waylaying the traveller with his lies, too. "If at his counsel I should turn aside into that—something—tract"—No, I can't remember how it went on, but it's Biggleswade all right!”

“What on earth are you drivelling about?” asked Abby.

“I'm not drivelling, I'm quoting, Browning.”

“Oh! "Just for a handful of silver he left us,"' said Abby showing her erudition.

“Absolutely!” agreed Charles, his eyes dancing.

“I don't know anything about Browning,” said Mrs. Midgeholme impatiently, “but, as I say, I did think at first that Biggleswade was making the whole thing up. And then it came to me in a flash!”

She paused dramatically, and Hemingway, finding that she was looking in a challenging way at him, said, with an air of interest: “It did?”

“He was going by the Church clock!” said Mrs. Midgeholme triumphantly. “Summertime, you know! It's never changed so it's an hour wrong. So when he thought the time was 6.15, it was really an hour later!”

It was apparent that Abby, Charles, and Inspector Harbottle were all wrestling with an unspoken problem. It was Harbottle who first reached a conclusion. “Earlier!” he said.

“No, she's right,” said Charles. “Later!”

“Wait a bit!” commanded Abby. “Do we put the clocks on, or back?”

“Go on, Horace!” said Hemingway encouraging. “Which?”

“On,” said Charles positively. “So if the Church clock says 6.15, it's really 7.15. By summertime, I mean. So Mrs. Midgeholme is right.”

“Well, I'm glad we've settled that point,” said Hemingway. “But I don't myself see that old boy making any mistake about opening-time. Not but what I'm very grateful to Mrs. Midgeholme for the trouble she's taken. I shall have to be getting along now, but—”

“What, don't you want to hear the rest of our theories?” said Charles, shocked. “I've worked out a very classy one; Miss Dearham has proved hers up to the hilt; Gavin Plenmeller's latest proves he did it, but it's too ingenious; the Squire has practically settled that the murder was committed by—”

“What, has the Squire gone in for detection too?” demanded Hemingway.

“Of course he has! Everyone in Thornden has! The Squire's idea is that the murderer was a Bellingham-man, who came out by car or motor-cycle, hid same in his gravel-pit, and then lay up in the gorse-bushes until the right moment.”

“And what's your own theory, sir?”

“No, no!” Charles replied, laughing. “I'm not going to do your job for you! Or get myself sued for uttering slanders!”

“Perhaps you're right,” agreed Hemingway.

“I wish I could ginger Mavis up to sue Mr. Drybeck!” said Abby, with feeling.

“Good lord, you haven't told her he thinks she did it, have you?” exclaimed Charles.

“I didn't tell her, but someone did. She said she would rather not talk about it, and one had to make allowances, and she was sure he didn't mean to hurt her feelings.”

“That girl is really a saint!” declared Mrs. Midgeholme. “She may be exasperating, but you have to admit that she's an example to us all!”

The Chief Inspector was amused to perceive, from their expressions, that the example set by Miss Warrenby was not one which either Charles or Abby meant to follow. He took his leave of the party, and went away with Harbottle to where the car awaited them.

“What do you suppose they were doing up at Fox House?” said Abby, watching the two detectives turn the corner into the main road.

“Probably having another look at the terrain,” said Charles.

“I only hope they haven't been pumping Gladys,” said Mrs. Midgeholme worriedly. “You know what servants are! She'd be bound to make the most of every little unpleasantness there had ever been in the house, and what with that, on top of Thaddeus Drybeck's really wicked attempt to throw suspicion on poor Mavis, I'm very much afraid the police may be thoroughly misled. Well! I've done my best, and I can't do more! Come along, Ulysses! Home to Father!”

Charles, watching with approval Ulysses's first assumption of deafness and subsequently leisurely progress in Mrs. Midgeholme's wake, said: “I like that dog. He knows what is due to his own dignity. All the same, I'm damned if I'd put up with being called his father.” He turned his head, and looked down at Abby. “You stood me up yesterday: what about running down to Filey Cove now?”

“Don't you ever do any work?” asked Abby provocatively.

“I do a great deal of work. I've been out on an important job this very afternoon. If you need reassurance, I shan't get the sack for not returning to the office. I'm a full partner, let me tell you! No, you don't!”

Miss Dearham, about to retire strategically, found her right wrist clamped suddenly to the top of the gate, and at once protested. She said that Charles was hurting her arm, upon which he lifted her wrist and kissed it. Much shaken, she could think of nothing to say, but, blushing, adorably, peeped up at him under the huge brim of her hat. Charles, quick to seize opportunity, kissed her in good earnest.

“What on earth are you doing?” demanded Miss Patterdale, suddenly emerging from her little potting-shed, and screwing her monocle into her eye, the better to observe her young friends.

“Asking Abby to marry me,” responded Charles brazenly, one arm round Abby's shoulders, his other hand still clasping her maltreated wrist.

“Nonsense! You don't ask a girl to marry you in front of her aunt!”

“I've already made several attempts to ask her to marry me not in front of her aunt, but you always turn up just as the words are hovering on my tongue!” Charles retorted.

Miss Patterdale looked suspiciously from one flushed face to the other. “Well, I don't know what the world's coming to, I'm sure!” she said. “Kissing and cuddling across my garden-gate! If you really are going to marry Abby you'd better come inside, and stop making a public exhibition of yourself! Or are you pulling my leg?”

“Certainly not!” said Charles, affronted. “You don't suppose I'd kiss Abby across your gate, or anyone else's, if I didn't hope to marry her, do you?”

“As far as I can make out,” said Miss Patterdale, “you're all so promiscuous these days that it would be unwise to suppose anything! Are you going to marry her?”

Charles looked at Abby. “Am I, my only love?”

“Yes,” said Abby. “If—if you think we could make a do of it, I'd like to—awfully!”

“Well, if that's a proposal I'm glad I never received one!” said Miss Patterdale. “However, it'll give you both something to think of beside meddling in a murder-enquiry, so I daresay it's a good thing. I'll go and put the kettle on for tea.”

“That,” said Charles, releasing his betrothed, and opening the gate, “I take to be an invitation and a general blessing. That's better! Now I can kiss you properly! To hell with the murder! Who cares?”

Miss Dearham returned his embrace with fervour, but said, as soon as she was able to say anything: “As a matter of fact, I've rather lost interest in it, too. Though I should like to know what those detectives were doing up the lane, and what they're up to now.”

They were, in fact, being driven back to Bellingham; and as neither placed any great reliance on Constable Melkinthorpe's discretion, their conversation would scarcely have interested Miss Dearham. It was not until they had been set down at the police-station, and Inspector Harbottle had given the deformed bullet he had dug out of the elm-tree into the safe-keeping of Sergeant Knarsdale, that the murder of Sampson Warrenby was even mentioned. The Sergeant said: “That looks like a .22 bullet all right. Well, if the rifle wasn't the last you brought in, sir, I'm blessed if I know what to make of it!”

“What we found out this afternoon puts an entirely different complexion on things,” said Hemingway. “You get going, Knarsdale! I want the report on that little fellow as soon as I can get it! Horace, ask the chaps here for the Firearms Register, and bring it along to me!”

When the Inspector presently entered the small office, he found his superior sorting the papers that had been taken from Sampson Warrenby's desk. He said, as he put them aside: “We must have Coupland on to these. There's one letter which seems to be written in answer to something I can't yet find, but it's a job for him, not for me. Got the Register? Good!”

“I don't know if you think I may have missed a .22 rifle, sir,” said Harbottle, somewhat starchily, “but I can tell you now I made a list of every one within a radius of twenty miles of Thornden.”

“Thirty-seven of them, which I never had any interest in, and never shall,” said Hemingway. “I wish you'd pull yourself together, Horace! Up till today we've never considered any weapon but a rifle, because the range seemed to make it certain it could only have been a rifle shot. Which is another of the things we were meant to think. We've now got every reason to believe Warrenby was shot at much closer range, and I want to know just what lethal weapons there are in the neighbourhood.”

“Carsethorn said something about the Major's army revolver, but that won't do, because—”

“Of course it won't! It's the wrong calibre! Stop trying to annoy me!” said Hemingway, opening the register.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Suddenly Hemingway looked up. “We're getting warmer, Horace. I find here that when his firearms permit was last renewed, a couple of years back, the late Walter Plenmeller had a .22 Colt Woodsman Automatic Pistol in his collection. Which, let me tell you, was not in the gun-cabinet at Thornden House. Now then!”

The Inspector came quickly round the corner of the desk to stare down at the entry.

“Could you carry a gun like that without anyone's knowing it?” demanded Hemingway.

“I suppose it could be done,” admitted Harbottle. “But—Good Lord, sir, what for?”

“Seems to me it's time we did a little research into Plenmeller's affairs,” said Hemingway, rather grimly.

“Yes, I see we shall have to, but what I'm thinking is that no one here knows anything against him. And I can't help feeling that if there was anything we should have been told fast enough. People don't like him, and the way they've all been searching for clues and motives you'd have expected several of them to have sicked us on to him, wouldn't you?”

“No, I wouldn't. Whatever it was that Warrenby found out—if that was the motive for his murder—you can bet your life it was something no one else knew anything about. That's obvious.”

“You're thinking Warrenby may have tried to blackmail him? That wasn't what was in my head, sir. To my mind, it was more likely he did Plenmeller some sort of an injury—because Plenmeller's the type of man who might easily kill out of sheer, wicked revenge. Only I haven't discovered a trace of anything like that. What's more, I put it to you, Chief, would he have gone round telling people he must take steps to get rid of Warrenby if he'd meant to shoot him? That's the last thing a murderer does!”

“Yes, my lad,” said Hemingway, in a dry voice. “And that's something he knows quite as well as you do. If he's the man I'm looking for, then I freely hand it to him! He's been remarkably clever. The killing wasn't done in some highly ingenious way that might have made us pay particular attention to a man who spends his life writing detective problems; he didn't try to fake an alibi for himself; he's told me and everyone else that he hated Warrenby's guts; and he's even told us all that he's quite capable of murdering someone—which I never doubted. He's even managed to stay as cool as a cucumber throughout, which isn't usual. That's probably because he's got a very good opinion of himself, and thinks he's far too clever for me to catch up with.”

“You don't think he could have done it just because he did hate Warrenby, do you?” asked the Inspector.

“No, I don't. Hating Warrenby was a lot more likely to make him think up ways of getting under his skin. Which I've a strong notion he did do. Warrenby wouldn't like that. We know what happened when he got a snub from Lindale. I'll bet he had worse to put up with from Plenmeller!”

“Now, wait a bit, Chief!” protested the Inspector. “If Warrenby was blackmailing him, he wouldn't have dared get under his skin!”

Hemingway shook his head. “I don't think it was ordinary blackmail. He hadn't anything Warrenby could want any more than Lindale had. But we know from what his clerk told us that Warrenby liked to find things out about people. He said you never knew when it might come in handy—and in the meantime it gave him a nice feeling of power. I should say he didn't really mean to let on to Lindale he knew what his secret was: he lost his temper, and out it came. Well, now, supposing he did know something to Plenmeller's discredit? Do you imagine he'd put up with Plenmeller being rude to him, shoving spokes in his wheel, and running him down to all and sundry if he could bring him to heel just by telling him that he knew what his secret was? If you ask me, Horace, he'd have thoroughly enjoyed lowering Plenmeller's crest! Anyone would, for that matter! Only that's where he slipped up: Plenmeller isn't the type it's safe to blackmail.”

“That may be,” agreed Harbottle, “but I'd also say he isn't the type you could blackmail easily! I mean, from the way he talks you'd think the chances are he'd be more likely to boast of having done something wrong than to try to keep it dark! Well, I ask you, sir. Look at the brazen way he told us he'd driven his brother to his death!”

“As a matter of fact,” said Hemingway slowly, “I was thinking of that. All things considered, I believe I'll take a look at that case. Did you read the whole of it?”

“The inquest on Walter Plenmeller? I haven't read any of it—barring the letter he left.”

Hemingway looked at him with a gathering frown. “What, didn't you even glance over the report? What made you pick the letter out?”

The Inspector blinked. “That's all there was. I found it in one of the tin boxes. I haven't been through any of the Coroner's records.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Hemingway, “that Warrenby had taken that letter out of the proper file, and put it amongst his own papers?”

“Yes, I suppose he must have, sir. I don't really know what they do with the reports on inquests. As Warrenby was the Coroner, I didn't make much of it, except to wonder whether he wanted that letter to taunt Plenmeller with, perhaps.”

“Next time you find a document like that where it has no business to be perhaps you'll be so good as to tell me!” said Hemingway wrathfully. “I thought you'd been running through that case!” He pulled open a drawer in the desk, and turned over the papers it contained.

A good deal chagrined, the Inspector said: “I'm sorry, sir. But there was nothing to the case! I had a talk with Carsethorn about it, and it was a straight case of suicide all right.”

Hemingway had found the letter, and was re-reading it. “Then what made Warrenby take this letter out of the record? Don't talk nonsense to me about wanting to taunt Plenmeller with it! Much he'd have cared! It must already have been read aloud in court!”

“After what Coupland said to us, sir, I only thought it was rather typical of the man to want to get his hands on something to Plenmeller's disadvantage. Which, to my way of thinking, it is, because it shows him up to be a heartless sort of man, deliberately getting on his brother's nerves. But I'm sure I'm very sorry.”

“All right. I ought to have asked you where you found it. Get me that file! If the office is shut, find out where Coupland lives, and—”

“You needn't worry, sir: I'll get it,” interrupted the Inspector, his back very rigid.

“And find out if the Chief Constable's in the building! If he is, I'd like a word with him, at his convenience.”

A few minutes later, he was informed by the Sergeant on duty that Colonel Scales had come in a little while earlier, to do some business with the Superintendent, and had left a message in the charge-room that he would like to see the Chief Inspector before he left the police-station. “He says, would you go right in, sir?”

Colonel Scales was just nodding dismissal to a very stout Superintendent when Hemingway went to his room, and he said: “Come in, and sit down, Hemingway! Glad to hear you want to see me: I hope it means you've got something?”

“Yes, I have, sir,” responded Hemingway. “Several things. I've sent one of them round to your Dr. Rotherhope by one of my chaps, and I hope he'll be able to let me have a report on it tonight. He told me he'd got a small laboratory, so I don't think I shall have to send it all the way to Nottingham to be analysed.”

“What is it?”

“I can't tell you that, sir: I only know what I hope it may be. It's quite a long story.”

“Then have a cigarette, or light your pipe, and tell it to me!” invited the Colonel. “Nothing more you wanted to say to me, is there, Mitcham?”

“No, sir,” replied the stout Superintendent regretfully, and withdrew.

“Now!” said the Colonel.

“Well, sir, putting it baldly, Sampson Warrenby wasn't shot at 7.15; and in all probability he wasn't shot with a rifle.”

“Good God! How do you arrive at that?”

Hemingway told him. He listened in attentive silence, surprise in his face, and a good deal of respect, but when Hemingway reached the end of his story, and said, with a rueful smile: “I missed a lot of points on this case, and I don't deny it,” he gave a gasp, and exclaimed: “Did you, indeed? You must set yourself a pretty high standard! But this alters the whole case! If the murder was committed between 6.00 and 6.30 you've narrowed the field considerably.”

“Unless it was committed by someone we know nothing about, which I don't think, sir, it's narrowed to four people, only two of whom seem at all likely. Those unaccounted for at that time are the Vicar, Mr. Haswell, young Ladislas, and Gavin Plenmeller. If the Vicar got hold of a gun on the side, and shot Warrenby, or anyone else, with it, I'm resigning before I get kicked out. I can't form an opinion about Mr. Haswell, because he's not one who gives away much, but I don't at all fancy him, for various reasons—the principal one being that I haven't discovered even a hint of a motive for his having wanted to put Warrenby away.”

“I'm pretty confident you won't,” said the Colonel. “I've known him for years—in point of fact, he's a friend of mine—and although a thing like that mustn't be allowed to weigh with either of us, it does enable me to say that if he murdered Warrenby I've been deceived in his character ever since I first knew him!”

“That's all right, sir: he's not my fancy by any means. Which leaves us with Ladislas, and Plenmeller. And of those two I prefer Plenmeller.”

“The Pole—Ladislas, as you call him—has a definite motive,” the Colonel pointed out. “Plenmeller, I agree, is perhaps the more likely of the two to have thought out and executed such a careful murder, but he seems to have had no motive at all.”

“I wouldn't be too sure of that, sir. It's what I particularly wanted to talk to you about. One thing he had which, so far as we know, no one else had, and that's an automatic pistol of the calibre we're looking for. It's listed amongst his brother's guns, and it wasn't in his gun-cabinet when I went to his house. Of course, there's no saying what kind of an armoury Ladislas may have, but I never yet heard that a .22 pistol was issued by any army, English or foreign. And if it wasn't a leftover from the War, I don't know how he could have come by it, for, unless I'm very much mistaken, he's not a member of the underworld, and he wouldn't have the ghost of a notion how to get hold of an illicit gun. So that leaves Gavin Plenmeller, and it's about him I want to consult you, sir.”

“I can't tell you a thing,” the Colonel said. “I don't like the fellow; I agree that he'd be capable of planning such a murder; but I know of no reason why he should have done it—unless you think the thrillers he writes have gone to his head, and he wanted to prove he could baffle the police!”

“No, I don't think that, sir—though I don't doubt he thinks he can baffle us. I've got a strong suspicion it's the old story of a man getting away with one murder, and believing that because he's fooled the police once he can do it again.”

The Colonel sat up with a jerk. “What? Good God, are you suggesting—?”

“I want to know just what happened when Walter Plenmeller was supposed to have committed suicide,” said Hemingway.

For perhaps half a minute the Colonel sat staring at him, an expression of mingled incredulity and dismay in his face. Then he said, rather explosively: “Have you any reason for making such a suggestion?”

“Yes, sir, that!” said Hemingway, laying Walter Plenmeller's letter on the desk. “It was found amongst Warrenby's papers—and I should like to know why he took it out of the file, and kept it locked up in a tin-box.”

“Took it out of the file? But that is the most irregular— Good heavens!”

“Highly irregular,” agreed Hemingway. “It's safe to assume he had a good reason for doing it. I'm bound to say I don't see what it was, but I've got a hunch that letter contains the clue I'm looking for.”

The Colonel had picked the letter up, and was reading it. “I remember it well,” he said. “I hold no brief for Gavin, but in my opinion this is a damnable letter to have written! I thought so at the time. In fact, I was extraordinarily sorry for Gavin.”

“It seems to show that his brother hated him pretty bitterly, and I suppose he wouldn't have done that without cause.”

“That's nonsense!” the Colonel said. “Walter didn't hate him at all! What you've got to understand is that Walter was always an uncertain-tempered man, and after he got shot up in the War he used to fly off the handle at the smallest provocation. How much he actually suffered I don't know, and I doubt if anyone did, but he was a real case of nerves shot to pieces. He certainly used to get appalling migraines, and he was always complaining of insomnia. The London specialist he went to prescribed tablets for that. It was established that he took one on the night of his death.”

“He didn't by any chance take a lethal dose?”

“No. Apart from what the post-mortem revealed, the housekeeper—she's there still, by the way—testified that when she dusted his room the morning before, she noticed that only one tablet was left in the bottle he kept on the bedside-table. Another bottle, unopened, was found in his medicine-chest.”

There was a very alert look in the Chief Inspector's face. “So that although he had the means to his hand to commit suicide in the easiest and most pleasant way possible, he chose to gas himself? That seems to me quite an interesting point, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“You mean it's a point we should have gone into.”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but it does rather strike one, doesn't it?” said Hemingway apologetically.

“It didn't. And in justice to Inspector Thropton, who was in charge of the case, I must say that there was no reason why it should have. It's quite possible that Walter didn't know what the lethal dose was, or what its immediate effect might be. I don't think it's surprising that he should have preferred to take his usual dose, to send him to sleep, and turned on the gas. Surely that was as pleasant a way of killing himself as any other?”

“I should think it would be,” agreed Hemingway, “if the tablet sent him to sleep in a matter of a minute or so. But if it was like any sleeping-draught I ever heard of, and took about half an hour to act—well, then I don't think it was such a pleasant way of dying. And, what's more, I don't see what he took it for at all.”

The Colonel laid his pipe down. “Damn you, Hemingway!” he said, with an uncertain laugh. “You're beginning to make me feel uncomfortable! I suppose we ought to have considered that—but there didn't seem to be the smallest reason to suspect that there had been foul play! It's true that Gavin was his half-brother's heir, but Plenmeller wasn't a rich man! There's the house, and what's left of the estate, but I can tell you with certainty that Plenmeller found it hard to make both ends meet. Would Gavin have murdered his brother just to possess himself of a dwindling income, and a house he can't afford to run as it should be run?”

“Well, sir, I take it that would depend on what the state of his own finances were,” said Hemingway. “Judging by that letter, they weren't any too healthy. "You only want to come here for what you can get out of me," seems to show that he was trying to get money out of Walter. Did anything come out about that at the inquest?”

“No. I don't think anything much was said about it. It was so obvious—it seemed so obvious that things had got to be too much for Walter. It wasn't as though he'd never had such an idea, you know. He'd often said that he was tempted to put an end to himself. No one thought he meant it—it sounds an unkind thing to say, but he was so wrapped up in his ailments that he was sometimes quite maudlin about himself, and damned boring, too!—but it turned out that he had meant it. Or so we believed.”

“Yes, I see, sir. But you said a minute or two ago that he didn't hate his brother. This letter looks to me as though he did.”

“Yes, but you didn't know him,” the Colonel said. “To me, this reads like Walter in one of his rages—Dr. Warcop called 'em nerve-storms. I can't tell you the number of flaming rows he had with people. He flew out at me once, in the Club, over something quite trivial. I didn't pay any heed, and it soon blew over. He was like that with Gavin, but I'm quite sure that he was fond of him, in his way. He was a good bit older, you know, and in the days before his own health was wrecked he was always very sorry for Gavin. He was proud of him, too. Used to talk a lot about his books, and how clever he was. There was nothing he liked better than hearing Gavin scoring off people. Only, of course, sooner or later, Gavin would score off him, and then the fat was in the fire again. It's fair to say that no one could amuse him more or infuriate him more. I can't tell you the number of times he's sworn he'd never have Gavin to his house again, and blackguarded him to anyone he could get to listen to his grievances. But it always ended in smoke. As soon as he'd cooled off, he used to start missing him, I think. You can imagine that he hadn't many real friends. People naturally shied off, and it's my belief he was lonely. Anyway, I can assure you that this sort of wild diatribe—” he flicked the letter with one finger—”didn't make much impression on those of us who'd known for years just how much his furies were worth. Why, it can't have been more than three weeks before he died that he had some sort of a row with Gavin, and bored everyone in the smoking-room one afternoon by talking in exactly the style of this letter, and swearing that this time he meant what he said, and that he wasn't going to see Gavin again, much less allow him to come down to Thornden House. Well, I can only tell you that about three days before his death he was here in Bellingham, to meet Gavin at the station, and to take him out to Thornden in a hired car, and as pleased as possible about it!”

“That's interesting,” said Hemingway. “And what did Gavin do, in three days, to drive his brother into committing suicide?”

“It does sound extraordinary, of course,” the Colonel admitted. “Dr. Warcop—yes, I know what you feel about him, but, after all, he was Walter's medical attendant, and he must have known a good deal about him!—Dr. Warcop, as I say, considered that the balance of his mind was disturbed at the time. How much Gavin may have had to do with that, no one can tell. He certainly thought that Walter exaggerated his ailments, and the letter Walter wrote indicates clearly that he didn't scruple to say so. He himself said at the inquest that Walter had complained of migraine on that last day. He described him as "more than ordinarily on edge". I remember that he was asked if there had been any quarrel between them, and he replied quite frankly that he had become so impatient with his brother for indulging in what he called "querulous self-pity", that he had spoken his mind on the subject. Dr. Warcop's opinion, which he expressed privately to me, was that this might well have been enough, in the mood Walter was then in, to have pushed him right over the edge. You can say, morally speaking, that Gavin was at least partly responsible for his brother's death. There's no doubt he behaved quite heartlessly to him. Whether he hoped to goad him into committing suicide is a question which, thank God, lay beyond our province! In fairness to him, I should tell you, perhaps, that his subsequent conduct was meticulously correct.”

“I expect he made a good witness,” said Hemingway thoughtfully.

“A very good witness, under extremely trying circumstances,” said the Colonel. “One could scarcely have blamed him had he destroyed that letter, but he did no such thing. He put it immediately into Inspector Thropton's hands. Of course, it's true that it was the housekeeper who first saw the letter, and gave it to him, but she gave me the impression of being fonder of Gavin than of Walter, and it's my private opinion that she might have been coaxed or bribed to say nothing about it. It's to Gavin's credit that he made no attempt to conceal it from us.”

An odd little smile flickered in Hemingway's eyes. “Very proper, sir, I'm sure.”

“Now what's in your mind?” demanded the Colonel suspiciously.

“Well, sir, it was the letter which made you all take it for granted the unfortunate gentleman had committed suicide, wasn't it?” suggested Hemingway.

A buzzer sounded in the room; the Colonel picked up one of the two telephones on his desk, listened, and said shortly: “Send him in!” He then laid the instrument down and said: “Harbottle, wanting you.”

“Good!” said Hemingway. “I sent him round to Warrenby's office to pick up the file of that inquest. He must have found Coupland still there.”

“I think you'd better read the transcript of the proceedings before I say anything more,” said the Colonel.

“I will, sir.” Hemingway picked up Walter Plenmeller's letter, and looked meditatively at it. “When you first read this, it strikes you like any other suicide-letter doesn't it? It's only when you come to think about it that you get the idea that there's something not quite right about it.”

“In what way?”

Hemingway cocked his head a little to one side, dubiously surveying the letter. “This is the last letter you'll ever receive from me, and I don't propose ever to set eyes on you again,” he read aloud. “Well, I suppose that's one way of saying you mean to do yourself in, but it doesn't seem to me a natural way to put it.”

“You only want to come here for what you can get out of me, and to goad me into losing my temper with your damned tongue, and to be maddened by you on top of all I have to suffer is too much.” He lowered the paper. “You know, sir, the more I think about that, the less I like it. Sounds to me more as if he was telling his brother he wouldn't have him about the place any more than that he meant to kill himself.”

“What about "I've reached the end of my tether"?” countered the Colonel. “Then, that bit about the place being Gavin's sooner than he expected?”

“". . . and when you step into my shoes you can congratulate yourself on having done your bit towards finishing me off,"” read Hemingway. He rubbed the tip of his nose reflectively. “Doesn't say Gavin had driven him to commit suicide, does he? More like a general strafe against him for plaguing him when his health wasn't good enough to stand any worry.” He saw the scepticism in the Colonel's face, and added: “Take it this way, sir! Supposing he hadn't committed suicide, and Gavin had happened to show you that letter: would you have thought that was what he'd had in mind?”

The door opened to admit Inspector Harbottle. The Colonel grunted a greeting, and took the letter out of Hemingway's hand, and read it through once more. “No,” he said, having considered it for a minute or two. “I don't know that I should. I should probably have thought it was written in one of his fits of temper. But he did commit suicide!”

Hemingway turned to Harbottle, and received from him a sheaf of papers, saying briefly: “Thanks, Horace! Mind if I go through this lot now, sir?”

“No, I should prefer you to. Sit down, Inspector!”

Harbottle pulled up a chair to his Chief's elbow, and together they read the report of the inquest, while the Colonel, after watching Hemingway's face for a few minutes, chose a fresh pipe from the rack on his desk, filled and lit it, and sat smoking, and staring out of the window. For some time nothing broke the silence but the crackle of the sheets as they were turned over, and, once, a request from Harbottle, not so swift a reader as his Chief, that a page should not be turned for a moment. A frown gathered on Hemingway's brow as he read, and several times he flicked the pages back to refer to something which had gone before. When he finally laid the sheaf down there was a very intent look in his eyes, and he did not immediately speak.

The Colonel glanced at him. “Well? Quite straightforward, isn't it?”

“Wonderfully,” said Hemingway. “Just as if all the wheels had been oiled—which I don't doubt they had been.”

The Colonel flushed. “You believe that we missed something?”

“Sorry, sir! I do. Mind you, I'm not surprised! You'd none of you any reason to suspect Walter's letter wasn't what it seemed to be. I daresay I wouldn't have started to smell a rat, if I hadn't come upon it amongst Warrenby's own papers, where it had no business to be. It was that which set me thinking.”

“But, good heavens, Hemingway, are you suggesting that Warrenby, acting as Coroner, suspected all along that the letter was a fake?” exclaimed the Colonel, in horrified accents.

“Not all along, no,” replied Hemingway. “I should say it was only when he got to thinking about it more particularly that he began to have his doubts, same like me. Probably after Gavin took up his residence in Thornden, and showed clearly what sort of a neighbour he was going to be. Silly of him to have made an enemy of Warrenby. That was his conceit, of course, thinking he could run rings round anyone he chose. Well, I've got plenty of evidence to lead me to suppose that Warrenby's reaction to the sort of contemptuous way Gavin probably treated him would have been to see if he couldn't get some kind of a hold over him. He'd be bound to think over Walter Plenmeller's death. It was easy for him to go over the inquest again, at his leisure. He may have felt as I do about the letter, or there may be something in it, which I haven't spotted, that struck him as fishy. You can take it he didn't remove it from the file because he wanted a bit of bedtime literature.”

“Do you believe it to be a forgery? I don't set up to be a handwriting expert, but I'd swear to it as Walter's handwriting.”

Hemingway nodded. “Oh, yes, I wasn't questioning that, sir! Do you know if the envelope was preserved?”

“I can't remember that I ever saw an envelope, but if Carsethorn's in the station, we'll soon find out. He was on that case with Thropton,” replied the Colonel, picking up the house-telephone.

“He is, sir,” said the Inspector. “I've just been having a word with him.”

The Sergeant came quickly in answer to the summons. Upon the question being put to him, his eyes narrowed, as though he were bringing a distant view into focus. After a moment's exercise of memory, he said positively: “No, sir. We never saw the envelope. Mr. Plenmeller handed the letter to Inspector Thropton, spread open, like it is now. He said something about supposing he'd got to give it to the police, though his instinct—no, his baser self was what he said—made him a sight more inclined to put it on the fire.”

“Sounds lifelike.” commented Hemingway. “If you ask me, it was his baser self that made him hand you the letter. I wish I could see the envelope, though I don't suppose there was ever a chance that anyone would have been allowed to.”

“The housekeeper saw it,” said the Sergeant. “I remember she told us how she was the one who saw the letter first. On the bedside-table it was. She said it had the one word, Gavin, written on it.”

“It had, had it? Well, it can't be helped: it's a safe bet the housekeeper wouldn't know whether it was Walter's writing, or only a copy of it.”

“What are you getting at?” demanded the Colonel. “Why do you think the envelope may have been significant?”

“Just an idea I've got at the back of my mind, sir,” replied Hemingway, stretching out his hand to pick up the letter. “A little while ago, you were telling me that only three weeks before Walter's death he was saying that he wouldn't have Gavin in the house again, or even see him.”

“But he did have him in the house again. Whatever the quarrel may have been, it was made up.”

“Yes, sir. But it occurs to me that that's exactly what he says in this letter.” Hemingway raised his eyes from the letter, one brow lifting quizzically, but no one spoke. All three men were watching him closely, and in the Colonel's face was an expression of dawning comprehension. “Well,” Hemingway continued, “I've now studied this letter till I'm sick of the sight of it, and, apart from the points I've already mentioned, there's only one thing about it which looks to me a little suspicious. Walter had a sprawling sort of writing, and a trick of joining one word to the next through not bothering to take his pen off the paper. Will you take a look at the date at the top of the page, sir, and tell me what you think?”

He laid the letter down before the Colonel, and, with one accord, Harbottle and Carsethorn moved round the table to obtain a view of it. The Colonel looked closely at it, and then across the desk at Hemingway. “The figure 2 seems rather close to the 5,” he said slowly.

“Look where the light, upward stroke from the Y of May reaches it!” said Hemingway. “It joins the 2 at the bottom of the figure, not, as you'd expect, at the loop at the top. How he made a 2, starting from the bottom of the diagonal line, I can't imagine. But if you carry that faint line from the Y on, in your mind's eye, the way it's going, I think you'll find it would join the 5 exactly where it should, supposing Walter had dated his letter May 5^th, and not May 25^th.”

The Sergeant drew in his breath with a hissing sound; Harbottle cast a glance of grim, vicarious pride at his Chief; the Colonel sat back rather limply in his chair, and said; 'Good God! You think this letter may have been written at the time of the quarrel I told you about— But it's diabolical!”

“Well, it'll have to go up to our expert immediately, sir, before we can be sure. It's little more than guess-work as yet. And I wonder whether it's already been in the hands of an expert?” he added pensively. “I should say it had—though not our chap.”

Harbottle, who had glanced at his watch, said: “Let me take it, Chief! I can catch the 6.35 train, and come back first thing in the morning. I've just time to put a call through to Headquarters, and warn them to stand by.”

Hemingway nodded, and gave him the letter. As he left the room, with his long stride, Sergeant Carsethorn said in a shocked voiced: “But—but are you telling us, sir, that it wasn't a case of suicide at all?”

“I won't put it as high as that till I get a verdict on that letter,” replied Hemingway. “But, assuming for the moment that the letter was written on the 5^th May, and not the 25^th, the suicide doesn't look anything like as good. If you hadn't been given that letter, you'd have looked a deal more closely into it than you did, wouldn't you? Let's take a look at it now! First, we have this Mrs. Bromwich deposing that her master had been in one of his bad moods that day. What put him in a bad mood? Migraine, or his brother Gavin, carefully working him up? We shall never know the answer, of course, so we'll leave that. At 10.00, Mrs. Bromwich goes up to bed. Her room's over the kitchen, and there's a door that shuts the servants' quarters off from the main bedrooms. I expect it corresponds with the one downstairs, which I've seen, the gardener, we find, sleeps over the stables. Half an hour later, Gavin goes to bed—or so he states. The Coroner put a question to him about that. I wonder if he had his suspicions as early as that?” Hemingway hunted through the transcript. “Yes, here we are. Asked him if he usually went to bed so early. Answer: No, very rarely. Had you any reason for changing your custom? Answer: My presence appeared to exacerbate my brother, so I thought it wise to remove myself. Quite neat. Gives the picture of Walter beside himself, and leaves us to suppose that Gavin may have been asleep when the gas fumes began to creep out of Walter's room. I should say he took his own measures to keep them out of his room. We have nothing after that until we come to Mrs. Bromwich taking Walter's early tea to his room. She said there was a funny smell, which made her cough, and she couldn't get into Walter's room. So she goes across the upper hall to wake Gavin. Finds him asleep, tells him there's something wrong. He smells the gas at once, and gets up quickly, and goes with her to Walter's room, first putting on his dressing-gown and slippers. All very natural—and I daresay the dressing-gown had a pocket. He tries the door, finds it's locked, and sets his shoulder to it, breaking the lock. Gas fumes make them both reel back. Then we come to the handsome tribute Mrs. Bromwich paid to "Mr. Gavin". He didn't hesitate. He dashed into the room, flung back the curtains, and opened all three casements. The wind was blowing in at that side of the house; it seemed to blow the gas right down Mrs. Bromwich's throat, and fair made her choke. And considering how much gas there must have been in the room, I'm sure I'm not surprised Mr. Gavin then makes another dash for the gas-stove, and turns off the tap, and gasps out an order to Mrs. Bromwich: she was to go downstairs at once, and ring up the doctor. So that gets Mrs. Bromwich nicely out of the way. By the time she gets back, Mr. Gavin is standing at the head of the staircase, looking dreadfully bad, and coughing fit to break a blood-vessel. Very likely, I should think: there were quite a few things he had to do in the room before she came back. If I'm right, he had to slip the door-key under Walter's pillow, for Dr. Warcop to find in due course; he had to stuff a bit of rag into the keyhole; he had to finish off the job of fixing adhesive tape round the door. I should think he put most of it on when he went in the night before: it was bound to get broken as soon as the door was opened, so he was safe to stick it on everywhere but on the side where the door opens. As for that towel, which we hear got thrust back when the door was burst open, and had obviously been stuffed between the bottom of the door and the floor, my guess is that it was carefully arranged a little way away from the door, to present just that appearance. Well, back comes Mrs. Bromwich, saying the doctor's coming at once. Gavin then tells her it's too late: Walter must have been dead for hours, and it's a case for the police. Well, we know Dr. Warcop isn't what you might call good at fixing times, but he doesn't seem to have much doubt about this. Walter was cold. When he turned up, Gavin told him it was too late for him to do anything, and he let Mrs. Bromwich go with him into the room. Which is when Mrs. Bromwich sees that letter, and gives it to him, and Dr. Warcop finds the key of the room. So there it is: an open-and-shut case, with everyone behaving very properly all round. Later, Gavin gives evidence at the inquest, and the result of that is that all the people who'd been thinking he'd behaved pretty badly to his brother start thinking that, after all, it's a bit rough on him to have to sit there listening to Walter's letter being read aloud in court, and very noble it was of him not to have destroyed it. I'll bet he enjoyed that day!”

There was a pause. The Sergeant, who had been listening, fascinated, to this exposition, said: “You've got me believing that's how it happened!”

“I've got myself believing it,” returned Hemingway.

“If it's true,” said the Colonel, “if we find that you're right about the letter, you've got a strong case against Gavin, without any further evidence.”

“I want a stronger,” said Hemingway. “I want that Colt Woodsman pistol.”

“Ah!” said the Sergeant heavily. “And he's had plenty of time to get rid of it.”

“If he has got rid of it,” agreed Hemingway.

“Good lord, sir, you don't think he'd keep it, do you?”

“I don't know. You've got to bear in mind that he thinks we're searching for a rifle. What's more, it isn't all that easy to dispose of a pistol, particularly when you haven't got a car to get you well away from your own district, to some likely pond, or something of that nature. The thing I'm afraid of is that he may have thrown it into this river I've heard so much about.”

“You needn't be afraid of that,” said the Colonel. “It's quite shallow, and at the moment there's hardly any water in it at all. I've never known such a season: we haven't had a spate since the beginning of March. He's more likely to have thrust it down a rabbit-hole, or to have buried it.”

“Not anywhere near Fox Lane, or Wood Lane, or the footpath, sir!” struck in the Sergeant. “If you happened to be thinking he might have done it straight away! We fair combed the ground there, that I'll swear to! I had five chaps out there all Sunday morning.”

“I don't see this bird burying it,” intervened Hemingway. “Nor yet pushing it down a rabbit-hole, with all respect to you, sir! If he buried it, he'd have run the risk of the new-turned earth's being spotted. There's his own garden, of course, but that seems to me even more risky, with that gardener-groom of his on the premises. As for shoving it down a rabbit-hole, I don't see him doing that. Setting aside, rabbit-holes are places we'd be bound to suspect, you never know when some dog won't sneak off hunting and start excavating the very hole you've chosen. What's more, unless he's found some place where it can stay safely for ever, it's got to be where he can retrieve it as soon as the hunt's been called off. So he wouldn't have poked it into a midden, or a haystack, or anything like that. It wouldn't altogether surprise me if he's got it hidden away somewhere in his house.”

“Well, it would me!” said the Sergeant suddenly. “Not when he knew you were on the case, sir! He wouldn't have taken any chances once he'd seen you.”

Hemingway regarded him in some amusement. “Now, come on, my lad, what do you want to borrow?” he demanded.

The Sergeant grinned, but stuck to his guns. “Look here, sir, I was with you on Sunday evening, when you met him for the first time, in the Red Lion! Do you remember I didn't have to tell him who you were, because he recognised you straight off? Talked about a case you'd been on. Well, it was plain enough that he had a pretty fair idea of what he was up against! I could tell from the way he spoke that he knew the Yard had sent down one of their best men.”

“What do you mean, one of their best men?” interrupted Hemingway.

The Colonel laughed. “Spare the Chief Inspector's blushes, Carsethorn! But he may easily be right, Hemingway. Since Plenmeller hadn't an alibi, he must have faced the possibility of having his house searched. But if you don't think he buried the gun, what do you imagine he could have done with it?”

“Well, looking at it from the psychological angle, sir, I should say he'd go in for something a bit more classy.”

“Railway cloakroom?”

Hemingway shook his head. “Too hackneyed for him. Besides, he might expect it to be one of the first places I'd check up on, if ever I got on to the real weapon. If this were London, I should want to know if he rented a safe deposit, but I don't suppose you've got any here, have you?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Ah, well! I daresay it would have been a bit too obvious anyway,” said Hemingway philosophically. “He's probably put it somewhere I should never think of looking for it, which means that I shall have to rely more than I like on circumstantial evidence, or read all the books he's written, on the chance that he's used the idea before.”

The Sergeant, who had been thinking profoundly, said abruptly: “You know what, sir? Mr. Plenmeller ought to have handed in his brother's guns as soon as he was dead. It's illegal for him to keep them. I don't mean it's a thing we should make a fuss about, in the circumstances, because very likely he isn't well-up in the regulations, and he may think that if the licence for them hasn't run out, which it hasn't, it's all right for him to hang on to them. How would it be if I was to send one of our chaps out to call on him, like it was a routine-job? Just a uniformed constable, sent to explain that all this business has brought it to the attention of the police that the late Mr. Plenmeller's guns were never handed in, and that they must be. He can have a list of them, and check it over with Mr. Gavin Plenmeller. What's Mr. Plenmeller going to do then?”

“Hand over the guns in the cabinet, and deny all knowledge of the Colt,” answered Hemingway promptly.

“If he did that, it would look pretty suspicious, wouldn't it, sir?”

“It would, but you'd never prove he was lying. From what I've seen of Mr. Gavin Plenmeller, I wouldn't envy your uniformed constable his job, either. He'd find Gavin all readiness to oblige, and he could think himself lucky if he got away without having had to help turn out every chest and cupboard trunk in the house in an attempt to find the gun. And all he'd have achieved at the end would be to have put Plenmeller wise to what I'm up to. No, thanks! I'd as soon that gentleman went on thinking he's fooled me until I'm ready to put handcuffs on him. You never know: he might take it into his head I'd look well on a mortuary-slab.”

“He wouldn't dare do that!” said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.

“Oh, wouldn't he? Seems to me that if he thinks I'm the original Sherlock Holmes it's about the best thing he could do! It's a pity I'm not, because if I were I daresay I should have deduced by this time where I ought to look for that Colt. As it is, I shall have to work on the evidence I've got.”

“Look here!” said the Colonel, a little uneasily. “What you've been saying is extraordinarily plausible, but aren't we going too fast? We're all three of us talking as though there were no doubt Gavin murdered Warrenby!”

“There isn't, sir,” said Hemingway calmly.