“Now, what do you mean by that?” asked the Coroner chattily.
Charles glanced at him. “Well—just that, sir. It was a blazing hot day, and that room had had the sun on it for hours. It was pretty hot still when I was in it. I thought, from what I've told you, and from the fact that Mr. Warrenby was wearing morocco slippers, and had a clip of papers at his feet, that he'd strolled out for a breath of air. That's all.”
The Chief Inspector sat down, and the Coroner told Charles that he might leave the box. Dr. Warcop was summoned to take his place.
The Chief Inspector leaned across his assistant to speak to Sergeant Carsethorn. “Who's the blonde sitting three seats from the end of the row behind us, next to a fat girl in blue?”
The Sergeant turned his head, and was able to identify the blonde as Gladys Mitcham, cook-general at Fox House. Hemingway nodded, and sat back. Inspector Harbottle asked softly: “What is it, Chief?”
“Something young Haswell said made her sit up. Looked as though, for two pins, she'd have chipped in,” replied Hemingway briefly.
“Are you going to ask for an adjournment?”
“Soon as the doctors have had their innings. The police surgeon won't keep us long: he's all right. This old dodderer will hold the stage for as long as he's allowed to, from the look of him.”
This prophecy was soon found to have been correct. Dr. Warcop proved to be the worst kind of medical witness, and he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that he was addressing a class of students. Since he had been prevented by an emergency call from one of his more valued patients from assisting at the autopsy, even the Coroner, himself a talkative man, felt that his evidence might have been compressed into a very few sentences. He was extremely pompous, and when asked by the Chief Inspector if he could state the approximate time of the murdered man's death, he explained at great length and with many scientific terms, why it was impossible for him—or, he dared to add, for anyone—to pronounce with certainty on this point. He then perceived that his colleague, Dr. Rotherhope, was gazing abstractedly at the ceiling, a smile of dreamy pleasure on his face, and he said with meaning emphasis that he had had many years of experience, and had learnt the danger of asserting as incontrovertible facts statements which, in his humble opinion, were open to doubt. He was prepared to enlarge on this theme, but was balked by the Chief Inspector, who cut in neatly when he paused to draw breath, said: “Thank you, doctor,” and sat down.
“Er—yes, thank you very much, doctor!” said the Coroner, as Dr. Warcop turned towards him, with the evident intention of continuing his lecture. “That's quite clear: more than a quarter of an hour, but less than an hour, you think. If the Chief Inspector has no further question he wishes to put to you, we need not keep you any longer.”
Dr. Rotherhope rose briskly to his feet as his name was called.
His evidence was brief, technical, and, to the general public, very uninteresting. The Chief Inspector asked him no questions, but the Coroner was inspired to ask if he was able to give an opinion on the probable time of Warrenby's death.
Dr. Rotherhope was swift to seize opportunity. “No, sir,” he replied. “A considerable time had—unfortunately—elapsed before I saw the body.”
He then stood down, bearing the appearance of a man who considered the morning not wholly wasted; and the Chief Inspector rose to ask for an adjournment.
Colonel Scales, seeking him a few minutes later, found only Inspector Harbottle, who said, in answer to his enquiry: “I don't know where he is, sir. He slid out of the court as soon as he'd asked for an adjournment, and he didn't tell me where he was going. Though I fancy I know what he was after. Did you want to see him for anything special, sir?”
“No—only to ask whether he's had the report on those bullets.”
“Yes, sir, it came through this morning. None of the markings correspond at all.”
“Oh! That's disappointing. What does he mean to do now?”
“I can't tell you that, sir. He didn't say, but I don't think he's disappointed.”
“Well, I daresay I shall be seeing him later,” said the Colonel, passing on.
Sergeant Carsethorn said: “What did he slip off so quickly for?”
“From what I know of him, he went to intercept that fair girl—Warrenby's cook. He's probably standing her fruit sundaes in some tea-shop by this time,” replied the Inspector caustically.
“Whatever for?” demanded Carsethorn, staring.
“To get her to talk. She looked like the sort that shuts up like a clam the instant you start to ask a few straight questions, and this I will say for the Chief: to hear him getting people to tell him every last thing he wants to know, and a lot more besides, is a downright education!”
“I can see he's got a way with him,” agreed the Sergeant. “Sickening, none of those bullets matched! Seems to me we're back where we started.”
To this Harbottle vouchsafed no more than a grunt, and as he saw Mrs. Midgeholme bearing down upon them, the Sergeant effaced himself.
Mrs. Midgeholme, like Colonel Scales, wanted the Chief Inspector. Unlike the Colonel, she expressed her dissatisfaction at not finding him. She said that she particularly wished to drop a word in his ear.
“Well, madam, if you care to step across the road to the police-station, you can tell me whatever it is you wish the Chief Inspector to know, and I'll see he does know it,” offered Harbottle.
Mrs. Midgeholme betrayed an unflattering reluctance to accept him as a substitute. “I'd rather speak to the Chief Inspector,” she said.
“Just as you wish, madam,” said Harbottle, unmoved.
“When do you expect him back?” she asked.
“I couldn't say at all, madam.”
“Oh, dear, that's most awkward!”
Major Midgeholme, who was looking harassed, said: “We ought to be getting along, Flora, or we shall miss the 'bus. Really, you know, I don't think it's necessary for you to meddle in what isn't our business!”
This intervention was, in the Inspector's opinion, unfortunate, for it had the effect of strengthening Mrs. Midgeholme in her resolve. “No, Lion!” she said firmly. “It is every citizen's duty to help the police as much as they can. Besides, I think it only right that he should be put on his guard. If you're quite sure there's no chance of my being able to see the Chief Inspector himself, I suppose I'd better give you a message for him,” she added, to Harbottle. “Don't wait for me, Lion! I shall come out on the later bus.”
She then accompanied the Inspector to the police-station, informing him on the way that only her sense of duty had brought her to Bellingham, one of her more valuable bitches having produced her first litter during the night. Without receiving the smallest encouragement, she then described in enthusiastic detail the puppies, adding some useful tips on the correct feeding and care of brood bitches. To all of which the Inspector said, as he ushered her into Hemingway's temporary office: “Yes, madam?” He then put forward a chair for her, and himself sat down behind the desk, drawing a sheet of official paper towards him, and unscrewing the cap from his fountain-pen.
“Of course, I'm not making a statement, exactly,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, impressed by these preparations. “Not that I mind having what I say taken down.”
But in the event the Inspector found it unnecessary to take any notes at all.
“As soon as I found out what was going on,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, plunging into the middle of her disclosures, “I made up my mind that the Chief Inspector ought to know about it. Apart from anything else, I feel responsible for that poor girl. I might be her mother!”
“Are you speaking of Miss Warrenby?” asked Harbottle.
“Good gracious, whom else should I be speaking about? There she is, alone in the world, and I call it absolutely wicked! Mind you, I've never liked Thaddeus Drybeck, but that he would go about casting suspicion on an innocent girl I did not think! Believe it or not, that's what he's doing! He's been prying round Thornden, asking all sorts of questions, and trying to make out a case against the child! He even asked me things, because, of course, I do know Miss Warrenby better than anyone else does, and I won't deny I could tell you a lot of things about that household, and the disgraceful way Sampson Warrenby treated his niece. If she weren't a saint she'd never have put up with it! But you know what it is, with people like that!—they never have any sense! Which is another thing I want to speak to the Chief Inspector about, because anyone could impose on Miss Warrenby—anyone! But as for Thaddeus Drybeck, words fail me!”