“Which he could have done.”
Lindale stopped, and said: “Look here, Chief Inspector, I'd better be quite open with you! As far as I'm concerned, Warrenby was welcome to tell the whole world all he knew. Neither my—neither Mrs. Nenthall nor I have done anything to be ashamed of. There was never any furtive intrigue. We—well, we cared for one another for years, and Nenthall knew it. She married him during the War, when she was only a kid, and—well, it just didn't work out! I'm not going to say anything about Nenthall, except that if I murdered anyone it would be him! There was a child, a little boy, which made it all impossible. My wife is a woman of very strong principles. Then the kid died—meningitis, and—I shan't take you into all that. She was ill for months, and then—well, we had it out, the three of us, and the end of it was that she came to me. There couldn't be a divorce, so nothing ever got into the papers. My own view is that it's a mistake to make any secret of the situation. People aren't anything like as hidebound as they used to be. Her family, of course, have cut her out: they're Catholics, and pretty strict; and my father disapproves. But I think that most people, knowing the facts, wouldn't ostracise us—none that we've the least desire to be on friendly terms with. That's my point of view, but I said I'd be open with you, and so I'll tell you that my wife doesn't share it. She believes that she's living in sin, poor girl. We're very happy—but there's always that behind. Which is why I'd do a lot to keep the whole thing secret. A lot, but not commit murder—though I don't expect you to believe that. But whatever you believe, I'm dead sure you haven't enough evidence against me to justify an arrest! The bullet wasn't fired from my rifle, and I infer that you already know that, or you wouldn't be asking me questions: you'd be clapping handcuffs on me! Well, I quite see that you'll have to try to find out more, and I've no objection to that. All I do ask is that you'll refrain from worrying my wife. I won't have her driven into another nervous breakdown: she's been through enough!”
“Well, sir, I can't promise you anything,” Hemingway replied, “but I don't mind saying that I shan't worry her, unless I must. I won't keep you any longer now: you'll be wanting to get back to your hay-cutting.”
“Thanks!” Lindale said, turning, and walking with him towards the gate. “I shan't run away.”
They parted at the gate. Constable Melkinthorpe, straining his ears, managed to hear a snatch of dialogue, and found it disappointing.
“Well, you've got wonderful weather,” Hemingway remarked.
“Couldn't be better. Touch wood!” said Lindale, shutting the gate behind him.
Hemingway crossed the road to the car. “Take a walk with me, Horace,” he said. “You can drive the car round to the end of Fox Lane, Melkinthorpe, and wait for us there.”
He led Harbottle to the entrance to the footpath, and turned into it.
“Well?” said Harbottle.
“He's no fool. In fact, he's very plausible.”
“Too plausible?”
“No, I wouldn't say that. He didn't overplay his part at all. What he told me tallied with what the Superintendent gave me. He also said that as far as he was concerned the whole world could know the truth about him, and I'm inclined to believe him. The trouble is—and he told me this too, which may have been honesty, or may have been because he knew I was wise to it—Mrs. Lindale doesn't look at it like that.”
“I'm not surprised,” said Harbottle austerely.
“Now, don't lets have any psalm-singing!” said Hemingway, with a touch of irritability. “I've got a lot of sympathy for that chap. I should say life isn't all beer and skittles for him, with a wife—or whatever you like to call her, which I can guess, knowing you!—who can't get over thinking she's a black sinner. What's more, I don't suppose it ever will be—not unless Nenthall is obliging enough to pop off. And don't give me any stuff about the wages of sin!”
“I won't. But it's true, for all that,” said the Inspector. “Is this the footpath he and the Squire came along together? I've never seen this end of it till today.”
“It is, and it was about here that the Squire turned off into the plantation. I should say he did, too—either when he said he did, or a bit later. Perhaps both.”
“Both?”
“Well, if he's the man I'm after, he had to park the rifle somewhere, hadn't he? Seems to me his own plantation would have been as good a place as any. Easy to have picked it up, and to have nipped back to Fox Lane when Lindale was out of sight.”
“But the shot wasn't fired from his rifle,” objected Harbottle.
“I know it wasn't. It may be that we shall have to pull in his agent's rifle, and his game-keeper's as well.”
Harbottle frowned over this. “I don't think the Squire's the man to commit a murder with another man's gun—and that man one of his own people,” he said.
“Very likely you don't. You didn't think he was the kind of man to cheat his heir either.”
“You don't yet know that he is doing that, sir. And I don't mind telling you I wouldn't want the job of accusing him of such a thing!”
“Well, you haven't got the job. Now, this is Mr. Haswell's spinney—separated from his garden by a wall, as you see. Any amount of cover to be had. We won't follow the path to his gates, but you can see where it runs and you can see that it would have been possible for Miss Warrenby to have got home by pushing through that very straggly hedge into her uncle's grounds.”
The Inspector smiled wryly. “You're forgetting, sir, that you're not to believe a word Mr. Drybeck says.”
“Well, I don't believe many of them,” said Hemingway, climbing over the stile. “Come on! I've got a fancy to take another look at the scene of the crime.”
Together they walked down the lane for some twenty yards, and then climbed the slope on to the common. Fox House had ceased to attract sightseers, and there seemed to be no one about. Hemingway paused by the gorse-clump, and stood looking thoughtfully at the gardens of Fox House. The seat had been removed, but a bare patch in the lawn showed where it had stood.
“I seem to remember that someone told me once you were by way of being a good shot, Horace,” said Hemingway. “How does a man's head, at this range, strike you, as a target?”
The Inspector, whose modest home was made magnificent by the trophies that adorned it, appreciated this, and at once retorted: “It's wonderful, how you discover things no one else has ever heard of, sir! I have done a bit of shooting in my time, and I should consider it a certain target.”
“All right, you win!” said Hemingway, grinning. “Would you call it a certain target for the average shot?”
“I think a man would need to be a good shot, but not necessarily a crack shot. I thought so when I first saw this place, and it's one reason why I've never seriously considered Miss Warrenby. I don't say women aren't good shots: I've known some who were first-class, but they're few and far between, and we've no reason to think Miss Warrenby has ever had a gun in her hand.”
“It seems to rule Reg out too,” said Hemingway. “Pity you didn't ice his targets! I'm always trying to find something that'll give you a laugh.”
“Are you ruling out the possibility of an accident as well?”
“For the lord's sake, Horace—! If a chap was standing here, do you see him firing into a man's garden, with the owner in full view?”
“No,” admitted the Inspector. “It does seem unlikely.” He glanced curiously at his chief. “What's in your mind, sir?”
“I'm wondering why the murderer fired from here, instead of trying for a closer shot. Unless he was a very good shot, I think it was chancy.”
“There's the question of cover,” the Inspector pointed out.
“If he came from the stile, he couldn't have got a shot from the lane, without coming into Warrenby's sight. I took particular note of that. Those trees at that side of the lawn make it impossible for you to get a view of the seat until you're almost abreast of it. I should say that the murderer didn't cross the stile, but climbed up on to the common beyond it, and worked his way round under cover of the bushes.”