“Good gracious, Chief, do you mean you think he's been embezzling the funds?” exclaimed Harbottle.
“No, not embezzling them, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's made a muck of the thing through being fatheaded, or half asleep. And if that's so, then I'd bet my last farthing Warrenby had got wind of it. It'll bear looking into, anyway. Is there anything in this?” He picked up an address book as he spoke, and opened it at random.
“I haven't studied it, sir. I thought I'd better do so, though.”
Hemingway nodded, turning over the thin leaves in a cursory survey. “Yes, quite right. You never know what—” He broke off suddenly. “Well, I'm damned!”
“What have you found, sir?” demanded the Inspector, bending over him to see what was written on the page.
“Something I wasn't expecting, and didn't more than half believe in. Horace, let it be a lesson to you! Always pay attention to what people say to you, no matter how silly you may think it sounds!”
“You do,” said Harbottle.
“I didn't this time. I had a suspicion that your friend Plenmeller was trying to see whether he could get me to follow a red herring. He told me to look for someone called Nenthall—and here he is, my lad! Francis Aloysius Nenthall, Red Lodge, Braidhurst, Surrey. Damn! I wish I'd looked at this book before I rang the Superintendent up! I'll have to get on to him again first thing tomorrow.”
“What did Plenmeller say about this man?”
“He said that Warrenby once asked Lindale if the name conveyed anything to him, and that it obviously conveyed a lot more than he liked—though he denied it. Which may, or may not be true. What I'm sure of is that Ultima Unlikely was right when she said there was something fishy about the Lindale set-up. There is. She's scared white, and he's playing every ball sent down to him with a dead bat. They've got something they're desperately anxious I shan't find out. So has the Squire—but I think I know what that is. This is a nice case, Horace.”
“I don't see it, sir.”
“No, and you never will, because you're not interested in psychology.”
The Inspector, knowing his chief's foibles, looked at him with deep foreboding, but Hemingway did not pursue his favourite study. He said thoughtfully: “I don't know when I've had so many possibles to choose from. It's to be hoped I don't lose my bearings amongst them. There are three with motives that stand out a mile: the dead man's niece, who inherits his money; her glamour-boy, who says he never thought of marrying her, which I take to be a highly mendacious statement; and old Drybeck, who's been losing ground to Warrenby for years, and may—if my guess is correct—have been standing in danger of being discovered by him to have made a mess of some trust. Those are what you might call the hot suspects. After them I've got the questionables, headed by the Squire. I think he was being blackmailed by Warrenby.”
“The Squire?” said Harbottle sceptically. “Blackmailed for what?”
“Committing waste. No, I know you don't know what that is, but it doesn't matter: it's a civil offence, and though it could easily land him in a packet of trouble it isn't a thing that concerns the police. I'll explain it to you presently, but don't keep on interrupting me! As I say, there's him, which makes four—and we shall have to include his wife, though I can't say I fancy her much, so that's five. Next, we've got the Lindales. Either could have done it; he's the type who would, given a sufficient motive. That tots up to four in the Questionable class. Seven altogether.”
“Are you leaving out Plenmeller?” demanded Harbottle.
“Certainly not: I'm putting him at the head of the third class—those that might have done it, but who don't seem to have any reason to have done it. Three of them. Plenmeller, easily capable of murder; Haswell, a dark horse—”
“He had an alibi, sir!”
“Not the young man: his father. I met him today, with the Vicar, and he's one of these cool, level-headed customers who say just about as little as they need. Carsethorn verified that he did go to some place or other fifteen miles from Thornden on Saturday afternoon, but we've only got his word for it that he didn't get home till eight because he stopped at his office in Bellingham on his way, to polish off some job he had on hand. They close at midday on Saturdays, so there was no one there to corroborate his story.”
“What about the Vicar?” asked Harbottle. “He could have reached Fox House by way of his own meadow.”
“If the Vicar did it, I'm not fit to direct traffic, let alone conduct an investigation into a case of murder! The only other possible—unless you have a fancy for Mrs. Midgeholme, because Warrenby kicked one of her dogs—is Reg.”
“Who is he?”
“I haven't met him yet, but I've got reason to think he may have been cavorting about the common with the Vicar's gun on Saturday. He's a very unlikely suspect, but I'm including him because he's got that rifle hidden away somewhere. I've left orders he's to bring it in to us tomorrow on his way to work. From what I've seen of his family, I should say he would. If he doesn't, you can go and pull him in. All told, that makes nine people—but I admit I don't fancy some of them.”
“You've forgotten the Major,” said Harbottle dryly.
“I'm keeping him up my sleeve, in case all else fails,” retorted Hemingway, gathering the papers on the desk into a pile, and tying them up. “Come on! We've done enough for today.”
“Are you asking for an adjournment tomorrow, sir? Who is going to preside over the inquest?”
“Fellow from Hawkshead. The Chief Constable tells me he's all right, but one of these chatty old boys that like to go into all the irrelevant details, so I daresay we shall waste the better part of the morning on the job. However, there's not much I can do till I hear from Hinckley again. Come on!”
On the following morning, Hemingway was greeted by the news, when he walked into the police station, that young Ditchling had arrived there ten minutes earlier, and was awaiting his pleasure.
“Did he bring in that rifle?” asked Hemingway.
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Knarsdale has it.”
“All right. Know anything about this lad?”
“No, sir—nothing against him, that it. It's a very respectable family. All in steady jobs, and none of them been in any kind of trouble. This kid's just over sixteen. Works at Ockley's Stores, and is well spoken of by the boss. But I'd say he's pretty scared.”
“Fancy that!” marvelled Hemingway. “Send him in to me!”
The youth who was presently ushered into the small office was a shock-headed boy with a slightly pimpled countenance, and the rather clumsy limbs of the rapidly growing adolescent. He entered the room with every evidence of reluctance, and remained just inside it, staring at the Chief Inspector out of a pair of round, serious eyes, and tightly gripping a trilby hat before him.
Hemingway looked him over. “So you're Reg Ditchling, are you?” he said.
“Yessir,” acknowledged Reg, with a gulp.
“All right. Come and sit down in that chair, and tell me what you mean by not giving his gun back to Mr. Cliburn!”
This command was uttered in quite a friendly tone, but it was apparent that Reg saw the prison gates yawning wide before him. He shrinkingly approached the chair in front of the desk, and sat down on the extreme edge of it, but the power of speech seemed to have deserted him.
“Come on!” said Hemingway kindly. “I'm not going to eat you. Where was the rifle? Did you have it in that shed I saw?”
“Ted put it here, “cos of Alfie, sir.”
“Well, that was a sensible thing to do, at all events. Was the shed locked every day?”
“Yessir.”
“Where do you keep the key?”
“Ted and me had a place for it the others don't know about, sir, so as Claud and Alfie couldn't get in and monkey with the tools when we wasn't there.”
“Well, where was this place?”