"Did Mr. Seaton-Carew entertain many ladies?" asked Hemingway.
"Well," replied Caister coyly, "not what one would properly term ladies. But," he added, with a touch of vicarious pride, "he used to visit in very nice houses."
"Had he any relatives?"
Mr. Caister was unable to answer this: he had never seen any; nor could he oblige the Chief Inspector with the name of Seaton-Carew's solicitor. A search through the desk in the sitting-room yielded little result: Mr. Seaton-Carew had apparently made a habit of destroying his correspondence, nor did he keep an addressbook. A cheque-book, however, furnished Hemingway with the name and address of his Bank. Leaving Inspector Grant to visit the Manager of the Branch patronised by Seaton-Carew, Hemingway went off to ring up Mr. Timothy Harte, at his chambers in Dr Johnson's Buildings. Mr. Harte, not being engaged in Court that morning, most obligingly said that he would be happy to entertain an old acquaintance there and then, but suggested (since he shared a small room with another budding barrister) that the rendezvous should be at his home address, in Paper Buildings. Thither the Chief Inspector wended his way.
He was admitted to Timothy's chambers by a middle aged man, who had Old Soldier written clearly all over him, and ushered into a comfortable room overlooking the garden, which smelt of tobacco and leather, and was lined with bookshelves. Most of these carried ranks of depressing Law Reports, and other legal tomes, some of which, having been acquired at second or third hand, had a slightly mildewed appearance. An aged Persian rug covered most of the floor, and a large knee-hole desk stood in the window. Young Mr. Harte, in the black coat and striped trousers of his calling, was seated at this, smoking a pipe, and glancing through a set of papers, modestly priced on the covering sheet at 2 guar. He threw these aside when Hemingway came into the room, and got up. "Come in, Chief Inspector! Welcome to my humble abode!" he said. "Chuck those things off that chair, and sit down! Sorry about the general muddle: that's the way I like it!"
"Well, I'm bound to say I like it better than the last set of gentleman's apartments I was in, sir!" responded Hemingway, shaking hands.
"You do? Whose were they?"
"Mr. Seaton-Carew's."
"Fancy that now!" said Timothy. "I should have thought he would have done himself very artily."
"He did," said Hemingway, removing The Times, a paperbacked novel, a box of matches, two bundles of papers tied up with red tape, and a black cat from a deep chair, and seating himself in it. "Quite upset Inspector Grant. But then, he's a Scot! I'm more broadminded myself. No, thanks, sir, if it's all the same to you, I'll light my pipe. I thought I'd just look in to have a crack with you about old times."
"Having the morning on your hands," agreed Timothy. "Come off it! What am I? Chief Suspect, or Information Bureau?"
"Yes," said Hemingway, "you always were about as sharp as a bagful of monkeys, sir, weren't you? I daresay it'll get you into trouble one of these days. I do want some information, but I'd like to know what you've been up to since I saw you last."
"School - War - Cambridge - Bar," replied Timothy succinctly.
"I'm glad to see you came through the War safe and sound, anyway. Where were you?"
"Oh, all over the place!"
"I'll bet you were. Don't tell me you weren't in that Commando gang, because I shouldn't believe you! Right down your street that must have been!"
Timothy laughed. "I did end up with them," he admitted.
"I knew it! In fact, if I'd found a nasty-looking knife stuck into Mr. Seaton-Carew I'd have arrested you on the spot."
"Ah, I was too clever for you, wasn't I? Beer, or whisky?"
"I'll take a glass of beer, thank you, sir. Now, joking apart, you could help me a bit on this case, if you wanted to. I don't mind telling you that I'm all at sea. Very unfamiliar decor. What I want is some kind of an angle on a few of the dramatis personae, so to speak. Well, here's your very good health, sir!"
Timothy returned the toast, and sat down on the other side of the fireplace. "I don't promise to answer you, but what do you want to know?"
"I want first to know what sort of a man this. Seaton-Carew was, and what he did for a living."
"Search me!" replied Timothy. "I've often wondered. I thought the breed was dead. In fact, how anyone can live in these piping times as what used to be known as a gentleman of leisure has me beat. No visible means of support. Lives at a good address, dressed well, drove a high-powered car, generally to be seen at first-nights, Ascot, the Opera, the Ballet, and at quite a number of slightly surprising houses. Women were inclined to fall for him; men very rarely. That," added Timothy, "is not to be understood to include what we will politely term The Boy Friends. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Melchizedek!"
The cat, which had sprung on to his knee, arched its back under his caressing, turned round twice, and settled down, purring loudly.
"Would you say he was a gentleman, sir?"
"I should say he was a high-class bounder," promptly replied Timothy. "Still, I know what you mean, and I suppose the answer is Yes. I don't know what school had the rare privilege of rearing him, but unless he was uncommon quick at picking up ways and tricks which can't possibly be described he was certainly at a decent one. I never heard him mention any relations, nor have I met anyone else of his name. You'd think anyone with a fine double-barrelled name like that would have hundreds of cousins littering the country, wouldn't you? Not so, but far otherwise! However, one must be fair, and he had no military prefix to his name. It always seemed to me the one thing lacking to complete the picture. Anything more I can tell you about him, or have I been defamatory enough to be going on with?"
"Something seems to tell me that you didn't like him," said Hemingway, with a twinkle.
"I expect your instinct gets pretty highly developed at your job," said Timothy. "I didn't. Broadly speaking, I'm in sympathy with his murderer, though I can't say I'm in favour of strangling people at Bridge-parties. Breaks the evening up so."
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're a coldblooded young devil!" said Hemingway frankly. "Of course, if you do, I shall have to take it back, but I shall go on thinking it! My next question is what you might call delicate. Who is this Mrs. Haddington?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Chief Inspector. Widow in comfortable circumstances who gate-crashed Society about eighteen months ago. Previously unknown to Society, according to my Mamma. Said to have lived much abroad. Obvious reason for the gate-crash, one staggeringly beautiful daughter. How it was done, God knows! You wouldn't call her an attractive type, would you?"
"I would not, sir. Would money do it?"
"It would do a bit. Wouldn't get her into the houses I've seen her in. I'm told she was sponsored by Lady Nest Poulton. They appear to be bosom friends - which is another surprising thing. Lady Nest isn't exactly choosey, but she usually takes up celebrities, or very amusing types: not dull and rather off-white widows with lovely daughters. The money angle wouldn't interest her - her husband is rolling in the stuff. Nor is she the kind of woman who has a yen for launching debutantes. But she actually presented Cynthia Haddington last spring, and gave a ball for her. All very obscure."
"Tell me a little about these Poultons, sir, will you? Lady Nest, now - would she be Lady Nest Ellerbeck that used to get her picture in all the papers when she was a girl?"
"That's right: Greystoke's daughter. Went the pace no little in the Gay Twenties. Sort of Pocket Venus. Still pretty easy on the eyes, though she must be quite as old as my Mamma. Restless, unsteady type, very Athenian - always seeking some new thing, I mean. Poulton is Big Business. I hardly know him. Seems a quiet, dull sort of a chap. Doesn't figure much at his wife's parties. I don't mean that there's anything wrong: merely that he's a man of affairs, and more often than not flying to the States, or the Continent, or somewhere on business."