He made for the door, nearly colliding with Inspector Harbottle, who came into the office at that moment. The sight of the Inspector's stern countenance quite unnerved him; he stammered something unintelligible, and fairly fled from so quelling a presence.
The Inspector shut the door. “Is that young Ditchling? You seem to have shaken him up good and proper, sir!”
“Not me! He took one look at you, and thought you were the public hangman, and I'm sure I'm not surprised. Is that the report I'm waiting for?”
“Just come in,” said Harbottle, handing him a sealed envelope.
Hemingway tore it open, and drew out the single sheet it contained, and spread it open. “Not a sausage!” he said, assimilating its message.
“You mean to tell me, sir, that not one of the rifles we've tested is the one we're after?”
“Not one!” said Hemingway cheerfully. “What's more, don't need a comparing microscope to convince me the Vicar's rifle isn't the right one either. It'll have to be tested, of course, but you can put it out of your head, Horace! If every witness was as honest as that kid you saw, you'd be a Chief Inspector, instead of stooging round with me, and thinking how much better you could do the job yourself!”
“I don't,” said Harbottle, his rare smile flickering across his face. “But if the fatal shot wasn't fired from any of the rifles we've pulled in, nor yet from the one you have now, then it seems to me that we shall have to pull in some of the others which you wouldn't even let me tell you about!”
“We may,” agreed Hemingway. “On the other hand, we may not. I'm beginning to get some funny ideas about this case, Horace. However, there'll be time enough to tell you what they are when we've attended the inquest.” He glanced at his watch. “Which we'd better be thinking about,” he added. “What will you bet me the Deputy Coroner will be playing to capacity?”
“If he is, people will be disappointed,” said Harbottle. “I suppose you'll ask for an adjournment pretty quick on the doctor's evidence?”
“I probably will,” said Hemingway. “It all depends.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Chief Inspector was right. As he and Harbottle elbowed their way through the throng of persons seeking admission to the courtroom, he said, over his shoulder: “What did I tell you? Turning them away at the doors!”
Inside, the Chief Constable said: “It was bound to be a cause célèbre, of course. Half Bellingham's here. Silly fools! What do they think they're going to hear?”
Hemingway, scanning the audience, made no reply. Half Bellingham might be present, but Thornden was scantily represented. Neither the Ainstables nor the Lindales had apparently thought it worth while to attend the inquest; and of Gavin Plenmeller there was no sign. Major and Mrs. Midgeholme were seated beside Mr. Drybeck; and Mr. Haswell had found a place not far from them. Possibly he had come to hear his son give evidence.
Charles, who was suffering from a strong sense of ill-usage, had brought Mavis, Abby, and Miss Patterdale from Thornden, in his dashing sports car. So incensed was he with Abby for electing to accompany Mavis on her shopping expedition on the previous afternoon, rather than to have run down to the coast with him, as had been (he insisted) arranged, that he had invited Miss Patterdale to occupy the front seat in his car, and had even gone so far as to say that he didn't know why Abby wanted to attend the inquest at all. But Mavis, who (he savagely whispered to Miss Patterdale) had got herself up to look like a French widow, said gently that she had asked Abby to go with her, so there was nothing more to be said about that. Abby had then made a very rude grimace at him, an unendearing gesture which had had the extraordinary effect upon him of confirming him in his resolve to marry her, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it.
When he shepherded his party into the court-room, those who had come into Bellingham on the omnibus were already ensconced in front-row seats. Besides Mr. Drybeck and the Midgeholmes, these included Mr. Biggleswade, and the late Mr. Warrenby's cook-general, a sharp-eyed damsel with tow-coloured hair cut in the style adopted by her favourite film-star. Gladys, a good cook and a hard worker, was known to be a Treasure, but she was also one of those who believed in sticking up for her rights. Not even her late employer had ever been permitted to encroach on these; and since he was well aware of the difficulty of getting servants to live in quiet villages, and set a high value on Gladys's culinary skill, he had been content, after one attempt to subjugate her, to rate Mavis for being unable to manage the household better. Gladys considered it to be her unquestionable right to attend the inquest; and when Mavis had shown reluctance to grant her leave off in the middle of the morning, she had spoken so ominously about the Unsettled state of her feelings ever since Mr. Warrenby's death, that Mavis had hastily retracted her first refusal. An attempt on her part to convince Gladys that nice girls did not wish to attend sensational inquests failed entirely.
“Well, it's only natural, isn't it?” had said Gladys.
“I don't think it is, Gladys. I'd give anything not to have to go.”
“You'll enjoy it all right once you get there, miss,” had replied Gladys, briskly stacking the breakfast-china in a cupboard.”
“'Tisn't as though Mr. Warrenby was any loss.”
“He is a great loss to me,” had said Mavis, in a repressive tone.
“Well, it's quite proper you should say that, miss,” had been the paralysing response. “It wouldn't hardly be decent not to, being as he's left you all his money. But I know what I know, and many's the time I've wondered why ever you put up with him and his nasty, bullying ways.”
It was hardly surprising, after this, that Mavis had retreated from the kitchen, leaving her henchwoman mistress of the field.
The Deputy Coroner was a chubby little man with white hair, pink cheeks, and a general air of cosiness. It was plain to Inspector Harbottle, resigning himself, that he would conduct the inquest at unnecessary length, and entirely to his own satisfaction.
From the point of view of the audience, as Hemingway said in his assistant's ear, Mavis Warrenby was the biggest draw. Whether she was conscious of the stir her appearance created it was impossible to guess, for she conducted herself just as a heroine should, bravely, modestly, and with enough sensibility to win not only the sympathy of the mob, but also that of the Coroner, who handled her with the greatest tenderness, assuring her several times that he appreciated how painful it must be for her to be obliged to give her evidence.
She was followed by young Mr. Haswell, who had been so much revolted by a performance which he freely described, in a whisper, to Abby, as ham, that when the Coroner, by way of putting things on the friendly footing he apparently desired, repeated his remark about the painful aspect of having to describe what he had seen in the garden of Fox House, he replied with the utmost cordiality: “Oh, no, not a bit, sir! I don't mind!”
He then told the court, with admirable brevity, just how he had found the dead man, and what his own actions had been. Chief Inspector Hemingway provided everyone with a mild thrill by rising to his feet and putting a question to him.
“When you went into the study, to use the telephone, did you touch anything on the desk?”
“No, only the telephone,” Charles replied. “I took care not to. There was a mess of papers and things all over it.”
“Did you see anything to make you think someone might have looked for anything on, or in, the desk?”
“No,” Charles said unhesitatingly. “When I said, a mess, I meant only the sort of muddle of papers you'd expect, if a man had been working there. It looked to me, from the way the chair had been pushed back, and the fountain-pen left lying on the blotter, as though Mr. Warrenby had left the room rather suddenly, and meant to return.”