“Sauce!” said Gladys, greatly delighted. She looked over her shoulder at Harbottle, and added, politely, but without enthusiasm, “Would your friend like a cuppa?”
“No, he never drinks it,” said Hemingway, rising to his feet. “Besides, two's company, and three's none. Now, I've just got to check up on one or two points. Any objection to my going into the study?”
Gladys glanced at the clock. “Fat lot of good it would be to start objecting to the policemen!” she remarked. “I don't mind, but can't you wait a bit? It's just on the quarter, and I can't miss Mrs. Dale's Diary. Sit down, the pair of you, and listen to it! It's ever so nice.”
“No, we mustn't do that, because we've got to get back to Bellingham,” said Hemingway. “There's no need for you to come with us to the study, though. You stay here and listen-in! I'll see the Inspector doesn't go pinching anything.”
“You haven't half got a nerve! More likely him as'll keep an eye on you, I should think! You won't go turning the room upside-down, will you?”
Hemingway assured her that he would preserve apple-pie order in the room, and as, at that moment, a voice suddenly announced: “Mrs. Dale's Diary: a recording of the daily happenings in the life of a doctor's wife,” she temporarily lost interest in him, and turned the face of a confirmed addict towards the radio.
The two men quietly withdrew, and went along the passage at the back of the house to the hall.
“You found it?” Hemingway said.
The Inspector opened his hand, disclosing a small piece of lead.
“Now we are getting somewhere!” said Hemingway. “We'll send that off to town for comparison with the one that was dug out of Warrenby's head. Knarsdale can take it up tonight.”
“I wish I thought there was a hope of finding the cartridge-case of that one,” said the Inspector.
“Well, there isn't, and I should say there never was. Our operator didn't leave much to chance. We were meant to find the one under the gorse-bush. We weren't meant to find the other, and we shan't.”
He led the way into the study as he spoke, leaving the door open, so that he could hear any approaching footsteps.
“Over by the desk!” he said briefly. “He was probably shot while he was sitting behind it. There wouldn't have been much blood, but there must have been some.”
“There was none on the papers we found on the desk,” Harbottle reminded him. “And I see no sign of any on the desk itself.”
“The top of it, according to young Haswell, and to Carsethorn, was littered over with papers. I don't doubt they got spattered, and were carefully removed. We'll get Warrenby's clerk to go through the lot I took away: he may know if anything's missing. Try the window-curtains, and the woodwork of the window! I want to have a good look at the carpet.”
The carpet was a thick Turkey rug, with a groundwork of red, and a sprawling pattern of blue and green. On his hands and knees, Hemingway said: “Fresh blood falling on this wouldn't show up. He might have missed it. A couple of spots is all I ask for!”
“There's nothing on the curtains,” the Inspector informed him. “However, they hang well clear of the long window, so there might not be.” He too dropped on to his knees and closely studied the floorboards. “You'd expect to see a sign on the floor, though.”
“The murderer must have looked to see, and if there was blood on any of the woodwork he'd have wiped it carefully. May have tied something round Warrenby's head before he moved him. Come here, and tell me what you make of this!”
The Inspector went to him, took the magnifying-glass held out to him, and through it stared at two very small spots on the carpet which showed darker than the surrounding red. “Might be,” he grunted.
“Cut 'em off!” commanded Hemingway. “It's a lucky thing it's one of these shaggy rugs. Give me that glass again.”
With its aid, he presently discovered another stain, fainter and rather larger, as though it had been smeared over. “And I think that proves my theory, Horace,” he said cheerfully.
“If the stains turn out to be bloodstains,” amended his cautious assistant, putting the tufts he had sawn off into the match-box Hemingway was holding out to him.
“That'll be a job for Dr. Rotherhope,” said Hemingway. “They look remarkably like it to me.” He glanced at the desk. “And it accounts for the fountain-pen left with its cap off,” he remarked. “I ought to have paid more attention to that when Carsethorn told me that's how he found it. Come on! that sounds like my blonde coming to look for me!”
Chapter Seventeen
The two detectives, walking down the lane towards the Trindale-road, came within sight of Fox Cottage, and saw that an animated group was gathered at its gate. For the animation, what, at first glance, appeared to be a pride of Pekes was responsible. Closer inspection revealed that only five of the Ultimas were present, four of them harnessed on couplings, and winding themselves round their owner's legs, and the fifth, in whose stately mien Hemingway recognised Ulysses, the patriarch, unrestrained by a leash. Young Mr. Haswell's car was parked in the lane, but he and Mrs. Midgeholme both stood outside the gate. On the other side of it, and leaning on its top bar, were Miss Patterdale, wearing an overall and gardening-gloves, and her niece, looking remarkably pretty in a pink linen frock and an enormous and floppy sunhat. All four were engaged in discussion, Mrs. Midgeholme's demeanour being particularly impressive; and none of them noticed the approach of the detectives until Ulysses attracted attention by stalking up the lane towards the newcomers, and uttering a threatening bark.
“Now, what's the matter with you, old High and Mighty? Nice way to greet your friends!” said Hemingway, stooping to pat Ulysses.
Ulysses's eyes started with indignation at this familiarity. He growled, but he was not a dog of hasty disposition, and before proceeding to extreme measures he sniffed the Chief Inspector's hand, and realised that here was, if not a friend, at least a bowing acquaintance. His mighty mane sank, he slightly waved his tail, and sneezed.
“Isn't he the cleverest old fellow?” exclaimed Mrs. Midgeholme. “He knows you quite well!”
Her voice was drowned by frantic pleas from the four other Ultimas to their progenitor not to be taken in by the police. Ulysses, looking scornfully at them, gave further evidence of his sagacity by placing himself in a position clearly inviting the Chief Inspector to scratch his back. Hemingway very obligingly did so, while Mrs. Midgeholme unwound the other Ultimas, and besought them to be quiet.
“I guessed I should find you here,” she told Hemingway. “I saw the police-car just round the corner, waiting, and I put two and two together and deduced that you were visiting the scene of the crime. So I thought I'd just pop down on the off-chance of running into you.”
“Don't be a fool, Flora!” said Miss Patterdale trenchantly. “You don't suppose the Chief Inspector wants to listen to all these idiotic theories of yours, do you? You'd be better advised to pop home, and take a look at that new litter of yours. My father once had a field spaniel who buried her first pups alive. You can't be too careful.”
“My treasured Ullapool!” said Mrs. Midgeholme indignantly. “She's the most wonderful little mother! Beautiful pups, too! Tell it not in Gath, but I have a feeling that one of the dogs is going to be as big a prize-winner as Ulysses.”
“I've thought of a jolly good name for you,” offered Charles. “Call him Uzziah!”
Mrs. Midgeholme seemed a little doubtful. The Chief Inspector said judicially: “I don't say it's a bad name, but to my way of thinking there's a better. I lay awake for a good hour last night, trying to remember it. It came in a rattling good yarn I read when I was a boy—before your time, I expect, sir. Umslopogaas!”
“Before my time nothing!” retorted Charles. “Every right-minded person knows his Rider Haggard! Damn! Why didn't I think of that? It's terrific!”