“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant. “I shall tell him the Chief Inspector properly tore me off the strip for not giving him a written report of what he said.”
“Of course, I would,” remarked Hemingway, as the door shut behind the triumphant Sergeant.
“You're having a thoroughly demoralising effect upon my officers,” said the Colonel severely. “By the way, have you done anything more about that other affair? Ainstable's business?”
“I asked my Chief to make discreet enquiries, sir. Which reminds me that I may as well tell him to forget it,” said Hemingway, getting up, and gathering his various papers together.
“I won't pretend I'm not glad you're dropping that,” said the Colonel frankly.
“Nothing to do with me, sir,” said Hemingway, tucking the papers under his arm. “Unless there's anything more you want to discuss with me, I'll be getting along. Precious little more I can do till Harbottle gets back, except get Warrenby's clerk to go through the documents I took away from Fox House, and that can wait till I've had my supper.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I'll find out, sir.”
The Colonel got up, and held out his hand, saying, with a faint smile: “You do find things out, don't you? Good-night, then—and good luck!”
Upon the following morning, the Chief Inspector consumed a leisurely and a somewhat belated breakfast. He liked to be left in peace at this meal, and since he did not expect Harbottle to arrive in Bellingham until twenty-seven minutes past ten, when the fast train from London made Bellingham its first stop, and knew very well that his identity had been disclosed by the landlord to the three Commercials who had arrived at the Sun on the previous day, it seemed desirable to him not to emerge from his bedroom until these fellow-guests had departed on their several errands. He timed his appearance in the coffee-room well, but he had reckoned without his host, Mr. Wick, proprietor of the Sun, and also its chef, not only fried for him four rashers of bacon, two eggs, two sausages, and a tomato, with his own far from fair hands, but elected to carry this slight repast in to the coffee-room as well, and to stand over the Chief Inspector while he ate it. Simply clad in a stained pair of grey slacks and a dirty vest, he leaned his hairy arms on the back of a chair, and entertained Hemingway with an account of his own career, inviting, at the same time, any interesting confidences Hemingway might feel encouraged to repose in him. But as the Chief Inspector's only contribution to the conversation took the form of an earnestly worded piece of advice, to the effect that he should never show himself to his clients for fear of putting them off their food, he took himself off at last, leaving Hemingway to drink a third cup of well-sweetened tea, and to peruse the columns of his chosen newspaper.
He left the inn a little while before the London train was due, and walked through the town towards the station. He found South Street extremely congested, with various persons trying to park their cars against the kerb, and holding up all the traffic while they performed their complicated evolutions; and when he reached the market-place he discovered the reason for all this activity. Wednesday was Bellingham's market-day, and the wide square was crowded with omnibuses, stalls, vociferous merchants, and keen shoppers. Every branch of trade seemed to be represented, from a stall displaying bric-a-brac to one presided over by a stout individual who invitingly slapped a large and bright yellow object, stentoriously proclaiming: “HaddOCKS, haddOCKS, haddOCKS!”
Hemingway, threading his way through the crowd, came upon Abby Dearham, who was carrying a basket already overflowing and who seemed to be in attendance on her aunt. She greeted him with her unaffected friendliness. “Hallo! Whatever are you doing here? Are you marketing?”
“No, but I can see I ought to be,” he replied.
“Well, you really do pick up the most marvellous bargains sometimes. Everyone always comes in on market-day: it's one of the done things. If you happen to like goats'-milk cheese, the Women's Institute, over there, beside the fruit-and-vegetables, have got some, which my aunt brought in and—”
Hemingway waited expectantly, but it was rapidly borne in upon him that Miss Dearham had suddenly lost interest in him. She appeared to have caught sight of a heavenly vision, and was staring beyond the Chief Inspector, an expression of fond idiocy upon her countenance. Turning his head, he perceived young Mr. Haswell was bearing down upon them, looking quite as foolish as Miss Dearham, and even more oblivious of his surroundings. “I thought you'd be here!” he said.
“Charles, you are dreadful!” said Miss Dearham, in a besotted voice. “You ought to be working!”
The Chief Inspector, realising that he was intruding into an idyll, and that two at least of Thornden's detectives had abandoned the search for truth, withdrew without excuse or leave-taking, and proceeded on his way to the station.
The train was just pulling out of it when he reached it, and he met Inspector Harbottle in the station-yard. The Inspector came striding briskly towards him. “You win, Chief!” he said.
“Well, I hope I shall, but I'm not liking it much at the moment,” replied Hemingway, disappointingly unenthusiastic. “Was it the date?”
“It was. The Superintendent had Acton stay on. He says you're a wonder, sir.”
“He's mistaken. However, I'm glad there's something I've managed to spot.”
“Anything gone wrong?” asked the Inspector anxiously.
“No, but I'm getting to be annoyed with myself. I don't deny that that letter strengthens my case a lot, but the one thing I want I'm damned if I know where to look for!”
“The gun,” said Harbottle. “I've been wondering about that all the way down from town. I don't see that we've a hope of finding it, but I think you've got enough on Plenmeller to justify you making an arrest. What did the doctor say about the stains on the carpet?”
“Oh, they're blood all right! Same group as Warrenby's, too. The doctor got hold of the collar he was wearing when he was shot: that was bloodstained, of course. And I took those papers round to Coupland last night, and he was quite sure two letters at least were missing. That's all right, as far as it goes, but neither the bloodstains nor the missing letters incriminates Plenmeller. I rather hoped I might be able to establish that he came down Wood Lane after the Vicar's wife did. Do you remember Carsethorn saying that one of the villagers had seen them both coming away from The Cedars on Saturday? Well, I sent Carsethorn out to Thornden after you left yesterday, to talk to this character.”
“No good?”
“I wouldn't go so far as to say that exactly. I should say, from what Carsethorn told me about a highly exasperating interview, that Plenmeller did come into the High Street later than Mrs. Cliburn, but as the old man contradicted himself three times, not to mention remembering what happened, because of its having been at that exact moment that something else happened, only, when he came to think it over, that wasn't on Saturday, but on Thursday—well, you know the sort of thing!—he isn't the kind of witness anyone would want to call.”
“We'll do without him, then,” said the Inspector, in a heartening tone. “Hallo! Market-day?”
“Yes. I ran into Miss Dearham and young Haswell on my way to the station—very far gone, both of them!—and I gather the better part of Thornden's in the town. We'll skirt round the side, or I may be made to buy a goats'-milk cheese.”
The Inspector had no idea why his dud should be made to buy cheese of any kind, but he forbore to enquire into the matter, suspecting him of ill-timed levity. Together they circumvented the market-place, and began to make their way down South Street.
“What does the Colonel feel about it?” asked Harbottle.
“Oh, he thinks it's doubtful! That isn't worrying me. I know Plenmeller did it, but I don't like a case that rests only on circumstantial evidence.”