“No, Chief Inspector! No, no, none at all—I assure you! Well, I couldn't have! I never knew him privately, and in his practice—oh, no!” said Mr. Coupland, looking frightened and unhappy.
Hemingway, who had been watching him with his head a little on one side and an expression in his eyes which reminded Harbottle irresistibly of a robin on the watch for a titbit, nodded, and said briefly: “All right!”
At this point, the junior clerk slid into the room through as narrow an opening of the door as was possible, and stood hesitating on the threshold. Mr. Coupland glanced at the Chief Inspector for guidance, but as Hemingway did not seem to think that the intrusion in any way concerned him, he cleared his throat, and said, in rather a strained voice: “Yes, what is it?”
The youth trod delicately up to him, and murmured something to him, of which the only words which Hemingway heard were “Sir John Eaglesfield.” They appeared to exercise a powerful influence on Mr. Coupland, for, after exclaiming in a dismayed and startled way, he said: “I wonder if you would excuse me for a few minutes, Chief Inspector? One of Mr. Warrenby's most valued clients—!”
“That's all right,” said Hemingway. “You go and deal with him!”
Not unthankfully, Mr. Coupland removed himself. When the door had closed behind him and his junior, Harbottle, who had remained seated at Warrenby's desk throughout his chief's interview with the head-clerk, silent and observant, said: “What do you make of him, sir?”
“Oh, perfectly honest!” Hemingway replied, going to the desk, and looking at the mass of papers on it. “How are you doing, Horace? You seem to have got enough to keep you occupied!”
“I have,” said Harbottle, on a mordant note. “That chap was just explaining to me, when you came in, that things aren't as straight as he'd wish, owing to the office being so cramped. Which it certainly is. He was telling me that Warrenby was determined to get an office next to the Town Hall, which he says is the best pitch in the whole of Bellingham, and wouldn't be content with anything else.”
“And I don't doubt he would have got it,” remarked Hemingway.
“Nor I. I wish he had, for I should have found my job easier,” said Harbottle, casting a glance round the room, which was indeed crammed with cupboards, shelves with labelled deed boxes piled on them, a safe, standing open, two filing-cabinets, and a large bookcase. “If there's any scheme in this town he hadn't got a finger in, I can't think what it could be. That cupboard over there is full of the stuff, and I take it I'd better go through it. He seems to have kept all his private business letters and such here. Mostly in the safe, but this lot comes from the cupboard under the books. That's what you want me to work on, isn't it?”
Hemingway nodded. “Yes, don't try to meddle with the deed-boxes belonging to his clients: you'll be getting into hot water if you do, and wasting your time as well. Well, I've seen some solicitors' offices which I thought were so cluttered up no one could ever find a thing in them, but this fairly takes the cake! Poor old Horace!”
“Oh, it isn't in a muddle!” Harbottle said. “Everything's docketed, and bundled up. The trouble is there's so much of it, and what he's written on his bundles doesn't always convey as much to me as it no doubt did to him.”
“Coupland no use to you?”
“Not on all these side-lines. He only knows about the real business of the office. I've got hold of one bit of information I think'll interest you, Chief. Did you know Warrenby was the Clerk of the Peace?”
“No, but I'd have betted any money on it.”
“He was appointed last year,” said Harbottle. “I got it out of Coupland. Old Drybeck was laid up when the appointment fell vacant. Used to be held by some old solicitor, who died just before Quarter Sessions. Warrenby slid into the job when Drybeck was convalescing in Torquay.”
“Probably murdered the old Clerk to get the job,” commented Hemingway, who had picked up a sheaf of letters, and was running a rapid and practiced eye over them.
“I could tell from the way Coupland spoke Drybeck thought he ought to have been appointed.”
“Well, I don't know that I blame them for choosing Warrenby. I should think he was an efficient bloke, which is more than I'd be prepared to say of Drybeck on the evidence I've got so far. Yes, yes, Horace, I know what you're after! It gives Drybeck a bit more motive. You may be right, but I should think he must have got used to seeing Warrenby grabbing every job in sight. Don't tell me he didn't get himself appointed Town Clerk, Coroner, Sexton, Welfare Officer, and Town Crier as well, because I wouldn't believe it!”
“He was the Coroner, but as for the rest of them, he was not, and couldn't have been,” said the Inspector austerely.
“You don't know what the poor fellow would have managed to be if he hadn't been cut off in his prime. Have you come upon anything that might be of use to us?”
“Not unless you're interested in a letter about Mr. Ainstable's gravel-pit, or the negotiations for the purchase of Fox House. You might like to see that: it gives you a fair idea of what the deceased was like. The way he beat the owner down! But it's old stuff.”
“What was he writing about the Squire's gravel-pit? Trying to buy that too, at cost-price?”
“No, it's only a letter from some firm of London solicitors, which is an answer to one from him on behalf of a client. There ought to be a copy of that, but I haven't found it yet. Must have slipped out of the clip.”
“You don't seem able to find the answer either,” remarked Hemingway, watching him scuffle through the heaps of papers on the desk. “What was it about?”
“Seems Warrenby had a client who was interested in gravel, and he was making enquiries on his behalf.”
“The hobbies people go in for!”
“For goodness' sake!” snapped the Inspector, exasperated by his own failure to lay his hand on the letter he wanted. “I put it aside to show you, but there's no room to turn round in here! His client wanted a licence, of course!”
“Temper!” said Hemingway reprovingly. “What had these London solicitors got to do with it? I thought Drybeck was the Squire's solicitor. In fact, the Chief Constable told me he was.”
“I don't know anything about that, sir, but these people seem to be the solicitors for the estate, or some such thing. Ah!”
“Found it?”
“No, but this must be the copy of Warrenby's letter. Got into the wrong lot. Here you are, sir!”
Hemingway took the copy, and read it, while the Inspector continued his search. “Two years old, I see. You were quite right, Horace: he had a client who was interested in the Squire's gravel-pit! He was informed they were the proper people to apply to, and would be glad, etc. etc. Next instalment in tomorrow's issue—with luck! Go on, Horace! I can hardly wait!”
The Inspector cast him a fulminating look, and said coldly: “I have it here. You put those letters you were reading down on top of it.”
“That's right: you can't learn too early how to pass the buck, if you want to get on in life,” said Hemingway encouragingly. He read the letter, a crease between his brows. “Well, they seemed quite willing to do business, but I don't get the hang of this tenant-for-life business. The licence would have to be by arrangement with the tenant-for-life—oh, I see, it's the Squire! Some sort of an entail, I expect. And all moneys would have to be paid to these people for apportionment as between the tenant-for-life and the Trust funds. Well, I daresay it's all very interesting. Any more of it?”
“I've found nothing more so far.”
“No letters from the unnamed client?”
“No. Which is why I thought it worth while to show you those two. Looks as if nothing came of the proposal. I wondered if perhaps the Squire refused to do business, and whether there might have been bad blood between him and Warrenby over it,” said Harbottle slowly, frowning over it.