She swallowed. “No. Of course not. Which is why I should think you really left The Cedars earlier than ten to seven. Time's so deceptive, and when you've got no particular reason for looking at your watch . . .” Her voice tailed off uncertainly and she did not finish the sentence.
“And did you happen to notice what the time was when you saw Mr. Lindale down in the water-meadow, madam?” asked Hemingway, his eyes not on her face, but on her husband's.
Lindale looked up quickly. “What's this?”
“Kenelm, you know I told you I'd caught sight of you from the attic window!”
If Lindale felt exasperation, no hint of it appeared in his face. He put an arm round Delia's shoulders, and hugged her slightly. “You silly kid!” he said. “You mustn't try to mislead the police, you know: you'll get had up for being an accessory after the fact, won't she, Chief Inspector?”
“Well, I might charge her with trying to obstruct me in the execution of my duties,” agreed Hemingway.
Lindale laughed. “Hear that? Now, you go and attend to Rose-Veronica before you get yourself into trouble! She was making a spirited attempt to tip the pram up when I came in.”
“But, Kenelm—”
“You don't want my wife, do you, Chief Inspector?” Lindale interrupted.
“No, sir, not at the moment.”
“Then you trot off, darling, and leave me to have a talk with the Chief Inspector,” Lindale said, propelling her gently but firmly to the door.
She looked up at him, a little flushed, her mouth unsteady. The she jerked out: “All right!” and left the room.
Lindale shut the door behind her, and turned to look at Hemingway. “Sorry about that!” he said. “My wife is not only extremely highly-strung, but she's also firmly convinced that anyone not provided with a cast-iron alibi must instantly become a red-hot suspect, in the eyes of the police. Queer things, women!”
“I could see Mrs. Lindale was very nervous, of course,” said Hemingway noncommittally.
“As a matter of fact, she's very shy,” explained Lindale. “And she didn't like Warrenby. I can't make her believe that that doesn't constitute a reason for suspecting either of us of having shot him.”
“Do I take it that you didn't like him either, sir?”
“No, I didn't like him. No one did here. Bit of an outsider, you know. Not that we ever had much to do with him. We don't go out much: no time for it.”
“I understand you haven't lived here long?”
“No, we're newcomers. I bought this place a couple of years ago only.”
“It must be a change from stockbroking,” remarked Hemingway.
“After the War, I couldn't settle down to the Stock Exchange again. I did have a shot at it, but what with one thing and another I was thankful to get out. Things aren't what they were.” He struck a match, and began to light his pipe. “That chap—don't remember what his name is—who came to pick up my .22 this morning! I take it you want to test it, and I've no objection to that, but I think it's only fair to say that I don't see how anyone could have taken it without my knowing. I keep it in the room I use as my office, and there's a Yale lock on the door. I don't run to a safe yet, you see, and I often have quite a bit of cash in the house. Wages, and that sort of thing, which I have to put in my desk.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant Carsethorn did tell me that you said no one could have got hold of your rifle.”
“Well, he asked me several questions about it which he led me to think he had young Ladislas in mind. I expect you know about him: one of these unfortunate expatriates. It's quite true that I lent the rifle to him a little while ago—which I know is a technical misdemeanour—and that I also gave him some cartridges. I should like to make it quite plain that he returned the rifle to me the same evening, and gave me back all the unused cartridges.”
“Been up here worrying you about it, has he?” said Hemingway sympathetically. “Very excitable, these foreigners. That's all right, sir: I shan't arrest him because he borrowed your rifle a few weeks ago.”
“I can't be surprised that he's got the wind up. It seems that that Sergeant put him through it pretty strictly, and there's no doubt there's a lot of prejudice against the Poles.”
“Well, I shan't arrest him for that reason either,” said Hemingway.
“There's apparently a lot of talk going on in Thornden about his having run after Mavis Warrenby,” said Lindale. “That's what's upset him. Says he meant nothing, and I believe him! Nice enough girl—kind-hearted and all that sort of thing—but she's no oil-painting. It's not my affair, but if I were you I wouldn't waste my time on Ladislas.” He bit on his pipe-stem for a moment, and then removed the pipe from his mouth, saying bluntly: “Look here! I don't want to meddle in what's no concern of mine, but I've got a certain amount of fellow-feeling with young Ladislas! I've had some! It's come to my ears that because my wife and I are a damned sight too busy to buzz around doing the social the village gossips are spreading it about that there's something queer about us! Mystery couple! Mystery my foot! The fact that you've turned up today shows me clearly enough that you've heard this tripe. Well, I've just about had it! I was barely acquainted with Warrenby; it doesn't matter two boots to me whether he's alive or dead. If you're looking for a likely suspect, you find out what Plenmeller was up to at twenty-past seven on Saturday!”
“Thank you, sir, I hope to. Can you help me?”
“No, I can't. I was on my own land at that time. I'm not even sure when he left The Cedars, though I have an idea we most of us left in a bunch—the Squire and I by the gate on to the footpath, the others by the front drive. I only know that he's apparently been occupying himself ever since the murder with casting suspicion on most of his neighbours—which may be his idea of humour, or not!”
“On you, sir?”
“God knows! I shouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't dare do so to my face, of course.”
“Well, you may be right,” said Hemingway, “but I'm bound to say that when I met Mr. Plenmeller he was sitting with Major Midgeholme, and he didn't make any bones about telling me I should soon discover what the Major's motive was for having shot Mr. Warrenby.”
Lindale stared at him. “Poisonous fellow! He knows better than to try that sort of thing on with me.”
“Do you know of any reason why he should have wanted Mr. Warrenby out of the way, sir?”
“No. Nor am I saying that I think he's your man. But I fail to see why he should have the sole right to fling mud about! What's he doing it for? I call it damned malicious—particularly if it's true that he's made that unfortunate girl, Mavis Warrenby, one of his targets. I shouldn't have said anything if it hadn't been for his behaviour, but if that's his line, all right, then, I'd like to know first why he had it in for Warrenby more than anyone else, and then why he made an excuse to leave that party on Saturday after tea!”
“Did he, sir?” said Hemingway. “I thought he left when you and Mr. Ainstable did, not to mention Miss Dearham and Mr. Drybeck?”
“Finally, yes. Before that, he made a futile excuse to go home and fetch something the Squire wanted.”
“What would that have been, sir?”
“Some correspondence to do with the appointment of a new solicitor to the River Board. The Squire wanted me to take a look at it, but any time would have done!”
“This River Board does keep cropping up,” remarked Hemingway. “Were you one of the Riparian Owners that were anxious to keep Warrenby out of the job?”
“I can't say I cared much either way,” said Lindale, shrugging. “I expect I should have allowed myself to be guided by the Squire: he knows more about it than I do, and he seemed inclined to think Warrenby would be a suitable man to appoint.”
“I see, sir. And when did Mr. Plenmeller leave The Cedars to go and fetch this correspondence—which I take it was in his possession!”