Hemingway gave him his card, which he put on his spectacles to read. “Chief Inspector Hemingway: dear me, yes! You must tell me what I can do for you. Oh, this is one of our Church wardens—Mr. Haswell!”
“Perhaps you'd like me to clear out?” said Haswell, nodding briefly to the Chief Inspector.
“Not on my account, sir,” said Hemingway. “Very sorry to come interrupting you, Vicar. It's quite a small matter, really. I see by the Firearms Register that you own a .22 rifle. Could I have a look at it?”
“Rifle?” said the Vicar blankly. “Oh, yes, so I do! But it is really my son's. That is to say, I got it for him originally, though of course he has no use for it now he lives in London. Still, one never knows when he might like to have it, beside getting a little sport when he comes to visit us. I don't shoot myself.”
“No, sir. Might I see it?”
“Now let me think!” said the Vicar, looking harassed. “Dear me, this is very awkward! I wonder—? Excuse me, I'll go and look! Do take a chair!”
Hemingway watched him leave the room, and said, with a resigned sigh: “Yes, I can see this is another rifle which has been allowed to go astray. I think you were responsible for the first, sir.”
“Not unless you consider me responsible for my wife's—misdemeanours, Chief Inspector,” replied Haswell calmly. “Nor can I agree that the rifle in question has gone astray. It is true that it was lent—improperly, of course—to the local plumber, who once got my wife's car to start for her; but it is equally true that he returned it some days ago, since when it has not, to my knowledge, been out of the house.”
“Yes, that's all very well, sir,” retorted Hemingway, “but my information is that it was left hanging about in a cupboard in your cloakroom, so that as far as I can make out anybody could have borrowed it without you being the wiser!”
“Quite so, but may I point out that it was found in that cupboard no later than yesterday evening? While I can—with some difficulty—visualise the possibility of its having been abstracted by one of the people who came to my wife's tennis-party, I am quite unable to arrive at any satisfactory explanation of how anyone knew that there was a rifle at the back of a coat-cupboard, or how he or she could have restored it without having been seen by any member of my household. Have you collected the rifle? My son left it ready for you.”
“No, I didn't, sir, but Sergeant Carsethorn did, which is how I come to know what happened to it.”
Haswell smiled faintly. “You must admit we've kept nothing from you, Chief Inspector!”
“Very open and aboveboard, sir. Is there a door into your cloakroom from the garden?”
“No. The only entrance is through the hall, and the ventilation is by ventilator, above a fixed, frosted-glass window. In fact taking into consideration my son's alibi—there seems really to be only one person who might, without much difficulty, have both removed the rifle from the cupboard, and restored it. Myself, Chief Inspector—as I feel sure you've realised.” He paused, and his smile grew, a tinge of mockery in it. “But I don't think I should have put it back,” he added. “Cliburn, have your sins found you out?”
“They have, they have!” said the Vicar, who had come back into the room, an expression of guilt in his face. “I am exceedingly sorry, Inspector, but I fear I cannot immediately lay my hand upon the weapon. If one could but see the pitfalls set for one's feet! Not but what I am aware that I have erred, well aware of it!”
“All right, sir! You've gone and lent it to someone,” said Hemingway. “Which, of course, you've got no business to do.”
“I cannot deny it,” said the Vicar mournfully. “But when one possesses a sporting gun—selfishly, I feel for I have no use for it—it seems churlish to refuse to lend it to lads less fortunate, particularly when the example is set me by our good Squire, who allows shooting on his waste-land, and is always the first to encourage the village-lads to spend their leisure hours in sport rather than the pursuits which, alas, are by far too common in these times! Splendid fellows, too, most of them! I've watched many of them grow up from the cradle, and I can assure you, Inspector, though I have undoubtedly broken the law in lending a rifle to any unauthorised person, I should not dream of putting it into the hands of anyone I could not vouch for.”
“Well, sir, whose hands did you put it into?” asked Hemingway patiently.
“I think,” said the Vicar, “and such, also, is my wife's recollection, that I lent it last to young Ditchling. One of my choirboys, till his voice broke, and a sterling lad! The eldest of a large family, and his mother, poor soul, a widow. He has just received his call-up papers, and I fear that in the excitement of the moment he must have forgotten to return the rifle to me, which was remiss of him, and still more so of me, for not having reminded him. For young people, you know, Inspector, are inclined to forget things.”
“They are, aren't they, sir?” agreed Hemingway, with commendable restraint. “Did you say he was the eldest of a large family? With a whole lot of young brothers, I daresay, who have been having a high old time with a gun that doesn't belong to them, and have very likely lost it by this time!”
The Vicar, much dismayed, said: “Indeed, I trust not!”
“Yes, so do I,” said Hemingway grimly. “Where does this large family live?”
“At No. 2 Rose Cottages,” replied the Vicar, regarding him with an unhappy look in his eye. “That is the row of cottages facing the common, on the Trindale-road.”
“It is, is it?” said Hemingway, his excellent memory at work.
“I know what you are thinking,” said the Vicar, sitting down heavily in the chair behind his desk. “I can never sufficiently blame myself for having been the cause—unwitting, but equally unpardonable!—of bringing suspicion to bear upon a member of a gallant and a persecuted nation, and one, moreover, of whom I know no ill!”
“Well, I won't deny, sir, that it did come into my mind that this Pole with the unnatural name whom you all call Ladislas lodges in one of those cottages,” admitted Hemingway. “But if you know what I'm thinking it's more than I do myself, because I've always found it a great waste of time to think about things until I've got a bit more data than I have yet. However, I'm glad you've mentioned him, because what any gentleman in your position has to say about one of his parishioners seems to me well worth listening to.”
“I cannot, I fear, describe Ladislas as my parishioner,” said the Vicar depreciatingly. “He is not, you know, of my communion. One is apt, of course, to look upon every soul living in one's parish as a member of one's flock, and particularly in such a case as this, when the young man is so tragically bereft of family, home, even country, one feels impelled to do what one can to bring a little friendliness into a lonely life.”
“And I'm sure it does you credit, sir,” said Hemingway cordially.
“I am afraid it rather does Ladislas credit,” said the Vicar, with a sudden smile. “We had Poles stationed in the vicinity during the War, and the impression they made upon us was not entirely happy. One makes allowances, of course, but still— No, not entirely happy! Indeed, to my shame I must confess that I was far from being pleased when I heard that one had come to live permanently amongst us. However, I thought it my duty to visit the young man, and I was agreeably surprised by him. A very decent fellow, determined to make his way in his job, and combating, I grieve to say, a good deal of insular prejudice. I had no hesitation in introducing him to one or two people whom I thought he might find congenial, and I have had no reason to regret having done so. I should add, perhaps, that his landlady, our good Mrs. Dockray—a most respectable woman!—is quite devoted to him, and that is a more valuable testimony than mine, Inspector!”
“I wouldn't say that, sir, but at least it means he hasn't been spending his spare time getting all the village girls into trouble—not to mention the wives whose husbands are doing their military service,” said Hemingway.