The Colonel raised his eyes from their frowning contemplation of the blotter on his desk. “That's a pretty serious charge, Chief Inspector.”
“It is, sir. Only, of course, I'm not concerned with what Mr. Ainstable may be doing with his estate, except in so far as it might have a bearing on this case. It isn't a criminal offence.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Get the Department to make a few discreet enquiries for me. There won't be any noise made over it, but it's got to be done.”
“Of course,” said the Colonel, a little stiffly. “If you think you have enough evidence to justify an enquiry.”
“Well, I do think so, sir. To start with, I've got reason to suspect that Warrenby had some sort of a hold over the Squire. To go on with, I've had a look at that estate, and I can see there's precious little money being spent on it, and a tidy sum being taken out of it. Then I find that it's going to a nephew who, by all accounts, is next door to being a stranger to the Squire. And I don't mind saying that I've got a lot of sympathy for the Squire, because he's been hamstrung by a settlement that was meant to make everything safe and snug. If the boy had lived to be twenty-one, I don't doubt the estate would have been resettled, and provision made for Mrs. Ainstable. But he didn't and it looks to me very much as if the Squire knows that nephew of his wouldn't look at it the same way his son would have. Well, when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Ainstable, I thought she looked a lot more likely to die than he did. But when I left Old Place, I went and paid a call on the Vicar, and that's where I learned that the Squire has a bad heart.”
“Angina,” said the Colonel shortly. “But, as far as I know, he's only had two not very severe attacks.”
“Yes, Mr. Haswell, who happened to be with the Vicar when I called, said there was no reason why Mr. Ainstable shouldn't live for a good many years yet. On the other hand, you don't have to be a doctor to know that he might go very suddenly. That adds quite a bit of colour to what I'd already noticed. Which was that when I mentioned those two letters Harbottle found in Warrenby's office I knew I'd given the Squire and Mrs. Ainstable a nasty jolt. I got the impression that the last thing either of them wanted me to do was to start nosing round that gravel-pit, or all the timber he's been felling. And on top of that, when the Vicar started to say something about the gravel-pit, Mr. Haswell nipped in as neat as you please, and flicked his mind off on to something quite different. Which leads me to think that he's got pretty much the same idea as I have about what the Squire's up to.”
There was a short silence. The Colonel broke it. “This is a damned, nasty affair, Hemingway! Well—it's up to you, thank God! If you're right—if Warrenby was blackmailing the Squire, not for money, but merely to force him to sponsor him socially—does that, in your view, constitute a sufficient motive for murder?”
Hemingway rose to his feet. “I don't remember, offhand, how many cases I've had, sir,” he said dryly. “A good few. But I couldn't tell you what constitutes a motive for murder, not yet what doesn't. Some of the worst I've handled were committed for reasons you wouldn't even consider to be possible if homicide didn't happen to be your job. You don't need me to tell you that, sir.”
“No,” said the Colonel. “But it depends on the type of man involved.”
“That's right, sir: it does.”
The Colonel glanced up. “Blackmail,” he said heavily. “Yes, that's a motive, Chief Inspector—a strong motive.”
“Yes, and it gives us a nice wide field,” agreed Hemingway. “Because, unless I miss my bet, I don't think the Squire was the only person Warrenby was putting the black on.” He glanced at his watch. “If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll be leaving you. I told my chief I'd be giving him a ring about now.” He walked over to the door, and looked back, as he opened it, a twinkle in his eye. “I've got upwards of half a dozen people who could have committed this murder, as far as their alibis go, which is nowhere,” he remarked. “At least four of them have got what'll pass for motives, and the end of it will very likely be that it'll turn out to be someone I haven't begun to consider yet.”
“I hope to God you may be right!” said the Colonel.
Chapter Thirteen
There was no one in the small office temporarily allotted to the Chief Inspector, but he saw that Harbottle had been there before him, for a pile of papers had been laid on the desk. He sat down, pushed the papers to one side, and drew the telephone towards him.
He was speedily connected with his immediate superior, Superintendent Hinckley, and was greeted by him with asperity, and a total lack of formality, the Superintendent saying, with awful sarcasm, that it was nice to hear his voice, and adding that there was nothing he liked better than to be kept hanging about at Headquarters, particularly when he happened to have a date. To which the Chief Inspector replied suitably, not omitting to animadvert upon persons who sat all day with their feet on their desks. After which interchange of civilities, the Superintendent laughed, and said: “Well, how's it going, Stanley?”
“I've seen worse. What have you got for me?”
“Nothing that's likely to interest you, I'm afraid. Seems quite straightforward. Born in 1914, in Nottinghamshire. Only son of the Reverend James Arthur Lindale. Father still living, mother died in 1933; two sisters, one married, the other single. Educated at Stillingborough College. Joined his uncle's firm of Lindale & Crewe, stockbrokers, in 1933. Became a member of the Stock Exchange, 1935. Called up in 1939, and served with the R.A. until 1946, when he was demobilised—do you want his military record? He served all over the place, and picked up a D.S.O. Ended up as a Major, with the Army of Occupation, in Germany.”
“No, I don't think that's likely to be of much use. What's he been doing since he was demobilised?”
“He went back to the Stock Exchange for nearly five years. Lived in bachelor chambers, in Jermyn Street. There's nothing known about him, barring the bare facts I've given you. Hasn't even had his driving licence endorsed. He left the Stock Exchange at the end of 1950. That's all I've got for you.”
“I'm bound to say it isn't promising,” said Hemingway. “What about his wife?”
“He hasn't got one.”
“Yes, he has!” Hemingway said impatiently. “And a baby! I told you so, and what's more I asked you to look into her record too!”
“I know you did, but I haven't got anything here about her.”
“Who handled this?” demanded Hemingway suspiciously.
“Jimmy Wroxham.”
“Oh,” said Hemingway. “Well, it's not like him to miss anything that's wanted. You did tell him to look into the wife, Bob?”
“Yes, I did, and if I ever see half a chance of getting you dismissed from the service with ignominy—”
“You won't,” interrupted Hemingway. “No, look here, Bob, Jimmy must have slipped up! I've seen the set-up: husband and wife, and one baby, a year old. By what Lindale told me, I should say he was married about two years ago.”
“No record,” replied the Superintendent. “Jimmy had a talk with one of the partners of the firm he used to be with, and he didn't seem to know where he was now, or what he was doing. Said he left the Stock Exchange because he was unsettled by the War.”
“That's pretty much what Lindale told me. But, by what you've just read out to me, it looks as though it took him five years to decide he couldn't stick city life any longer. Did you say he had a couple of sisters living?”