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‘That’s insular prejudice,’ said Hemingway cheerfully. He opened the folder he had brought with him, and ran his eye over the first type-written sheet. ‘Well, let’s get down to it. What I want is a bit of local colour. By what I can make out, the murdered man’s no loss to his family.’
‘I’ll say he’s not!’ said Cook, and without further encouragement regaled Hemingway with a description of Wally Carter which, though crude, would have been sworn to by any member of Wally’s family.
Inspector Hemingway nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Now let’s go over the dramatis personnae. We’ll take the widow first. Anything on her?’
‘I can’t say as I have,’ replied Cook reluctantly. ‘She’s one of those flashy blondes, but apart from her silly way of carrying on, I’ve nothing against her. Mind you, if you was to ask anybody hereabouts, they’d tell you that Carter’s death just suits her plans. It’s common knowledge Mr Steel’s been hanging round her for the past three years. He only came to live in the district a few years ago. Grim sort of chap, not given to talking much. Until this Prince turned up, the general opinion was that it was a wonder Mrs Carter didn’t divorce Carter, and hitch up with Steel. But from what I can make out, the Prince has changed all that. He’s staying at Palings now, and if you was to ask me, he means to marry Mrs Carter. It was him told me about Carter suspecting that it was Steel took a pot-shot at him on that shooting-party.’
‘It was, was it? Didn’t hear him hiss, did you?’
‘Hiss?’ repeated Cook.
‘Let it go,’ said Hemingway. ‘Sounds a bit on the snakeish side to me, that’s all.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Cook. ‘It’s possible, of course, but there’s no doubt there wasn’t any love lost between Carter and Steel.’
Hemingway consulted the typescript under his hand. ‘No proper alibi, I see. Out on the farm, but can’t bring anyone forward to corroborate. Well, it’s my experience that that kind of alibi is the hardest of all to upset. Give me what looks like a water-tight alibi every time!’
‘Seems plausible to me,’ said Cook doubtfully. ‘You’ll see that he says he didn’t even know Carter was going to the Dower House that afternoon. Well, why should he? Stands to reason he wouldn’t hide himself in the shrubbery on the off-chance.’
‘I’m bound to say I don’t fancy him for the chief part,’ replied Hemingway. ‘All the same, that statement of his will bear looking into. As far as I can make out, you’ve only got his word for it he didn’t know about this assignation.’
‘I’d say he was speaking the truth. Didn’t turn a hair when I questioned him. No, nor he didn’t deny he’d no use for Carter.’
‘Well, that’s put a query against his name all right,’ said Hemingway. ‘There’s something about strong, silent men who don’t keep anything back, that makes me highly suspicious. Now, what about this Prince? I see he states he arrived at the doctor’s house more or less at the time the murder was being committed. Statement corroborated by the doctor’s housekeeper. Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure. What made her so certain of the time?’
‘She hadn’t any doubt. When I asked her, she said at once the Prince arrived before five o’clock.’
‘How did she know?’
Inspector Cook looked a little taken aback. ‘She didn’t hesitate. She said the Prince arrived before the doctor had got back from a case he’d been called out to, and it was a few minutes before five.’
‘That’s the kind of airy statement I like to see checked up on,’ said Hemingway. ‘Now, I see you’ve got a query against this Miss Fanshawe. Properly speaking, I don’t hold with women in shooting cases, but you never know with some of these modern girls.’
‘You wouldn’t know with her, that’s a certainty,’ said Cook. ‘She was in the shrubbery at the time the murder was committed, and she had her dog with her. It’s one of those Borzois, and a young one, and from what I can make out it’s the sort of noisy brute that ’ud bark its head off if it got wind of a stranger being about the place. But the point is the dog didn’t bark, nor yet give any sign that he knew anyone was near. Seems to me we’ve got something there.’
‘What you might call a highly significant feature of the case,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘Could this Fanshawe-dame have got across the stream other than by way of the bridge?’
‘Yes, she could,’ said Cook. ‘Though I’m bound to say my Sergeant couldn’t find any footmarks, which you’d expect to. You see, Inspector, the stream takes a bend to the south about thirty yards beyond that bridge. Anyone crossing it beyond the bend couldn’t be seen from the bridge. Get the idea? Well, there’s a bit of a pool just round the bend, but it isn’t any size, and the stream narrows beyond it, so that I reckon it would be an easy job to jump it. What’s more, the young lady wasn’t hampered by skirts, because I’ve discovered that she was wearing slacks at the time. The butler tells me she’s devoted to her mother, so that it seems to me it won’t do to rule her out of the case.’
Hemingway pursed his lips. ‘If it comes to that, it won’t do to rule anyone out, but if you were to think that every girl who’s devoted to her mother will up and shoot her stepfather as soon as look at him, you’d soon land yourself in a mess. What about this young fellow, Baker?’
Inspector Cook’s account of Percy Baker made Hemingway open his eyes. ‘You do see life in these parts, don’t you?’ he remarked. ‘Talk about the great, wicked city! Well, well, I think I’ll go and take a look at the scene of the crime.’
‘I’ll send one of my young chaps with you, shall I?’ offered the Superintendent. ‘Not that you’ll find anything there. Nothing to find. The murderer dropped the rifle, and bunked, and the ground’s too hard after this drought to show any footmarks.’
‘You never know,’ said Hemingway.
Waiting with his own Sergeant for the promised guide, he remarked that the conduct of this case was a very good object lesson for the student of crime.
‘Yes?’ said Sergeant Wake incredulously. ‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Police faults analysed,’ replied Hemingway. ‘What with Mr Silent Steel and his nice, open admissions, and the doctor’s housekeeper, you’ve got a couple of bits of unchecked evidence that aren’t doing us any good at all.’
A young constable joined them at this moment, and they set out for Palings, arriving at the Dower House shortly before five o’clock
. Janet was in the garden, and looked rather frightened when Inspector Hemingway’s identity was revealed to her. The Inspector, who had a genius for inspiring people with confidence, soon put her at ease, and drew her into a description of what had happened on the Sunday. His sergeant waited patiently in the background, and the local constable betrayed signs of boredom, but Hemingway listened to Janet’s spate of talk with keen interest. He learned about Alan White’s quarrel with his father, and his hasty departure from the house; he learned of White’s debt to Carter; of Janet’s dislike of Carter; of Alan’s opinion of Mr Sam Jones; Vicky Fanshawe’s cool way of greeting the news of Carter’s death; he even learned of the ruining of a new kettle, and the waste of a batch of scones. By the time he parted from Janet, even Sergeant Wake, who had a great respect for him, felt that he had allowed himself to be drawn into a singularly unprofitable conversation.
‘I wonder Inspector Cook didn’t warn you about Miss White,’ the constable ventured to say. ‘A regular talker, that’s what she is. Doesn’t know anything, either.’
