No Wind of Blame Page 27

  ‘You certainly have been hard at it today, sir,’ said the Sergeant. ‘You want to get a good night’s rest.’

  Apparently, the Inspector enjoyed a very good night’s rest, for when his subordinate saw him next morning he was his usual brisk and bright-eyed self. He went off to Stilhurst Village to pursue inquiries into Robert Steel’s possible movements on the afternoon of the murder, and was coming out of the general shop there when he walked into Hugh Dering.

  ‘Hallo!’ Hugh said. ‘I rather wanted to see you.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said the Inspector. ‘I could do with a few minutes’ chat with you myself.’

  ‘Hold on while I buy some stamps, and I’ll be with you.’ Hugh vanished into the shop, reappearing presently to find that the Inspector had strolled on down the street to where Hugh had left his car. He soon overtook him. ‘Miss Cliffe tells me that you rang her up last night to make inquiries about the mythical aunt. I see what you’re after, of course, but do you really believe in the aunt?’

  ‘I’ve got an open mind, sir. What’s your feeling on the subject?’

  ‘I haven’t an idea. My instinct always prompted me to disbelieve any statement Carter made, but in this case I’ve nothing to go on, beyond the fact that Mrs Carter doesn’t seem ever to have set much store by the aunt. A rich aunt, conveniently mad, and hidden from sight in an asylum, sounds suspiciously unlikely to me.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘All the same, he went so far as to say that she lived in Chipston.’

  ‘H’m! Giving a local habitation and a name to an airy nothing, perhaps.’

  ‘Look here, sir, I don’t want a Job’s comforter, if it’s all the same to you!’ protested Hemingway. ‘What I do want, on the other hand, is a bit of expert information. You told Miss Cliffe in my presence, the day before yesterday, that there was no question of her inheriting this aunt’s money.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I take it you’re sure of your facts, sir?’

  ‘Quite sure. According to what Carter let fall from time to time, she became insane before she had made a Will. The Law regarding intestacy is perfectly clear.’

  ‘Would it be bothering you if I were to ask you to tell me this Law, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. When an intestate dies, leaving no issue, and his parents having predeceased him, the relations who can inherit his fortune are first, brothers and sisters of the whole blood, or their issue; second, brothers and sisters of the half-blood, or their issue; third, the grandparents, in equal shares; fourth, uncles and aunts of the whole blood of the intestate’s parents, or their issue; and fifth, uncles and aunts of the half-blood of the intestate’s parents, or—’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ said the Inspector. ‘Or their issue!’

  ‘Correct,’ said Hugh, with a twinkle.

  The Inspector eyed him respectfully. ‘And that’s your idea of perfectly clear?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Hugh assured him.

  ‘Well, if that’s so I’m bound to admit that you gentlemen at the Bar earn every penny you get, which is a thing I’ve often doubted. Let me be sure I’ve got this right! If this aunt is very old, we can take it she hasn’t got any parents or grandparents living, and I remember that Miss Cliffe said that she didn’t know of any relations other than her, that Carter had. So if she and Carter were the last of the family, what happens next?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll dig up some remote cousin! Failing the male line, you can try the female line. Almost endless possibilities, you perceive.’ He saw that the Inspector was frowning in an effort of concentration, and added: ‘It might go to a descendant of the grandmother’s family, her father being the intestate’s great grandfather. Get the idea?’

  ‘Yes, I get it,’ replied Hemingway. ‘What I’m thinking is, that I look like having started something, and no mistake! What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?’

  They had reached Hugh’s car by this time, and paused by it, in the shade of a great elm-tree. Hugh began to fill his pipe. ‘Something my father said. I got him to attend the Inquest yesterday, to see what he made of it. One circumstance rather puzzled him. It may have puzzled you.’

  ‘And what might that have been, sir?’

  Hugh struck a match, and guarded it in his cupped hand from the wind. Between puffs, he said: ‘Fact of the rifle’s having a hair-trigger pull. My father says he can’t imagine what Fanshawe wanted with a hair-trigger. Says he would have found it dam’ dangerous to use, and almost impossible to load.’ He pressed the smouldering tobacco gently down into the bowl of his pipe, puffed again, and flicked the match away. ‘He can’t see the point. Occurred to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it has, naturally. Might be several answers. Or whoever killed Carter with that rifle may have wanted a light pull.’

  ‘Light, perhaps, but not hair-trigger, surely! It would only need a touch to set it off. Too risky.’

  The Inspector’s gaze was fixed meditatively on a large saloon car, approaching at a regal and stately pace down the village street. ‘Very shrewd of your father, sir. I’m much obliged to him.’ A grin suddenly spread over his face. ‘Well, I wondered whether it was Royalty for the moment, but I see now that you won’t be needing me any longer.’

  Hugh looked round, as the Rolls Royce, taking up most of the available space in the street, drew up outside the little butcher’s shop. In it, looking rather like the Tragic Muse, sat Vicky, swathed in black, and with her sunny curls smoothed into two demure wings that framed her face. A halo hat made an extremely becoming setting for this fair primness.

  ‘Now what’s she playing at?’ said Hugh in an annoyed voice.

  ‘Looks to me like Lady Jane Grey on her way to the block,’ remarked the Inspector, following him down the street to the Rolls Royce.

  By the time they had reached it, the chauffeur had opened the door, and received from one gloved and languid hand a scrap of paper bearing the order for the butcher. He went into the shop as Hugh came up. Hugh pulled the door open again, and demanded: ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing, got up like Queen Victoria?’

  Vicky surveyed him in an aloof fashion. ‘I feel like that,’ she said simply.

  Hugh looked grimly back at her. ‘I thought I told you you were not to start any more of your antics?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Vicky, ‘but my car died on me.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘This,’ said Vicky, waving a hand to indicate the opulence of her surroundings. ‘It came over me in a wave. Such a lonely, sad-looking figure, lost in the cushions of the great, sombre car. I think I was left a widow frightfully young, and all my fabulous wealth is simply dust and ashes in my mouth. Though I rather like the idea of being a notorious woman with a shocking reputation, only no one guesses the tragedy that lies in my past, and made me what I am.’

  ‘Come out!’ said Hugh, leaning into the car, and grasping one slim wrist somewhat ungently.

  ‘Oh, did you happen to think you’d got the slightest right to order me about?’ inquired Vicky in silken accents.

  ‘Don’t you argue with me!’ replied Hugh. ‘Out you come!’

  Vicky, dragged relentlessly out of the car, stamped her foot, and said: ‘Let me go, you horrible beast! I loathe and detest you!’

  ‘You’ll have cause to, if you make any further public exhibition of yourself,’ Hugh assured her.

  Vicky was just about to retort in kind when she caught sight of Inspector Hemingway, an admiring spectator. She promptly recoiled, lifting her free hand to her throat, and uttering faintly: ‘Ah! You! You’ve come to arrest me!’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind arresting you, just to oblige,’ offered the Inspector. ‘I’m never one to spoil another person’s big scene, and I haven’t anything particular on this morning.’

  ‘For God’s s
ake, don’t encourage her!’ said Hugh.

  ‘Yes, I thought somehow you wouldn’t be wanting me any longer,’ said Hemingway. ‘Intuition, they call it. I’ll be saying good morning to you, sir. I dare say we’ll meet again sometime or another.’

  Hugh nodded to him, and turned back to Vicky. ‘Come on, explain this act! What are you supposed to be doing?’

  ‘I’m buying a saddle of mutton. And talking of mutton—’

  ‘Yes, you can cut that bit. I know it. I remind you of a sheep. Your chauffeur seems to me to be buying the mutton. Did you swank into the village in that car just to play at being a wealthy widow?’

  ‘Or a notorious woman,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Vicky softly. ‘I’m being driven to Fritton to pick up my car, not that it has anything to do with you, and I wasn’t anybody but me until I suddenly caught sight of you looking like a lawyer, or something that’s been stuffed, and then I thought I might just as well as not put on the sort of act you’d be bound to disapprove of.’

  Hugh stood looking down at her, torn between a desire to laugh, and to box her ears. Finally, he laughed. ‘Vicky, you abominable brat! Tell your chauffeur to finish the shopping, and go home. I’ll run you into Fritton.’

  ‘How lovely of you!’ said Vicky, with wholly deceptive effusiveness. ‘I expect if I had to choose between that and walking, I’d go with you.’

  ‘Ha! a snub!’ said Hugh.

  Vicky met his quizzical gaze with one of her blandest stares. Lady Dering walking briskly down the street with a shopping basket on her arm, had ample opportunity to observe her only son’s expression as he stood looking into the celestially blue eyes of the prettiest girl in the county. She came to a halt a few paces away from them, and said in her cheerful, matter-of-fact way: ‘You look like two cats, trying to stare one another out of countenance. What’s the matter?’

  Hugh turned quickly. A tinge of colour stole into his cheeks; he said with a touch of awkwardness: ‘Hullo, Mother! I didn’t know you were coming into the village. I’d have given you a lift.’

  ‘I hate men who neglect their mothers,’ said Vicky, sotto voce.

  ‘Walking,’ said Ruth Dering, ‘is good for my figure. How are you, Vicky?’

  Vicky looked piteously at her. ‘I was feeling quite extraordinarily well, but, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think your son is utterly loathsome, which makes me feel quite quite sick in my tummy.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind what you say about him!’ said Lady Dering cordially. ‘What’s he been doing?’

  ‘Exercising superhuman self-control,’ said Hugh. ‘Come on, Vicky, don’t be stuffy! are you going to let me drive you to Fritton, or are you not?’

  Vicky glanced towards his car, and shook her head. ‘Oh no! I dressed specially for a Rolls-Royce, and I wouldn’t look right in an open tourer.’

  Hugh grinned. ‘All right, Shylock! have your pound of flesh! I apologise for having spoilt your act. If there were any mud about, I’d eat it. Will that do?’

  Vicky looked at Lady Dering. There was a naïve question in her eyes. Lady Dering said: ‘Really, you know, you couldn’t expect him to say more. You’d better go with him.’

  ‘Yes, but wouldn’t you like him to drive you home instead?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘No,’ said Lady Dering, wondering at the sound of her own voice. ‘No, my dear. I like walking.’

  She was left standing outside the butcher’s shop, with her knees trembling a little under her. She went into the shop, and told the proprietor, to his bewilderment, that she wanted six pounds of granulated sugar. A jumble of thoughts seethed in her brain. What on earth have I done? she asked herself. What will William say? I quite thought it was going to be Mary Cliffe, but it’s obvious he means to marry Vicky. Of course that mother is impossible, but Geoffrey Fanshawe was all right. She’s an heiress, too, not that one ought to care tuppence about that, but in these days, what can one do? At any rate, William thinks she’s a beauty, and she isn’t any relation of that dreadful Wally Carter!

  Rebuffed by the butcher, she had walked out of the shop, and was suddenly recalled to a sense of her surroundings by a strident motor-horn that made her jump. She found that she was in the road, with Dr Chester’s car swerving across the street to avoid her. ‘Oh dear!’ she said guiltily. ‘I’m so sorry! Oh, it’s you, Maurice!’

  The doctor, pulling up with a jerk, leaned out to inquire with a note of considerable surprise in his voice whether she had joined a suicide club.

  ‘Dreadfully sorry!’ said Lady Dering. ‘So stupid of me!’

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asked. ‘I saw Hugh going towards Fritton, a minute or two ago, with Vicky Fanshawe.’

  ‘Yes, I know. No, I don’t want a lift, thanks.’

  He hesitated, and then said: ‘Is there anything in that, do you think?’

  The backward jerk of his head might have been taken to indicate almost anything in the street, but Lady Dering did not pretend to misunderstand him. ‘My dear man, that’s what bowled me over! Of course, I had begun to have a faint suspicion, but I wasn’t sure till this morning. I used to think he was rather attracted by Mary, but there’s no question of that now!’

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘I don’t know. It isn’t what I’d have chosen for him, though in some ways I quite see – well, never mind! But all this horrid scandal! I can’t think what my husband will say!’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about the scandal. Neither of the girls has anything to do with that.’

  ‘Well, I wish it could be cleared up. Do you know if the police are any nearer to reaching a solution?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I know nothing. Hugh seems to be the one the Inspector from London has taken to his heart. Doesn’t he know anything?’

  ‘If he does, he hasn’t told me. I shouldn’t think the Scotland Yard man would take him into his confidence. I haven’t met him: is he any good?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. He doesn’t give away much. We shall have to wait for results.’

  This was what Inspector Hemingway was doing, somewhat to the surprise of the local Superintendent, who told Sergeant Wake that he couldn’t for the life of him make out what kind of game his chief was playing.

  ‘If you were to ask me,’ he said severely, ‘I should say you’d enough material to work on right under your nose here, without going off on any wild-goose chases. However, doubtless I’m wrong.’

  Sergeant Wake did not consider it incumbent upon him to deliver any opinion on this point. After a great deal of painstaking research, he had succeeded in bringing to light one witness, in the shape of a twelve-year-old boy, who had seen a white sports-car, with black wings, upon the road to Kershaw on Sunday afternoon. The boy’s notions of time were too vague to be trusted, nor had he observed the white car’s driver; but he seemed to be quite sure that the car was travelling towards Kershaw, a circumstance which certainly tallied with Prince Varasashvili’s story.

  ‘What’s more,’ said Hemingway, when this was reported to him, ‘it isn’t likely there’s more than one white sports-car with black wings in this district. I reckon that lets his Highness out. If he wants to go away, he can; but get his address, in case of accidents.’

  ‘He told Inspector Cook he hadn’t got one,’ said Wake dubiously.

  ‘Then he’d better think one up!’ said Hemingway.

  The Prince, however, discovered disconsolately flicking over the pages of a book in the doctor’s pleasant library, was so relieved to hear that his presence in Stilhurst was no longer necessary, that he made no bones at all about divulging his address, but informed Sergeant Wake that he had a pied-à-terre in a private hotel in Bloomsbury. The Sergeant wrote it down, and the Prince said that for himself he would be very glad to be in London aga
in. ‘I find it does not suit me, this English country life,’ he announced. ‘One stifles, in fact! There is no conversation; it is not amusing.’

  But when he informed his host of his imminent departure, nothing could have exceeded the grace with which he assured him that these days spent under his roof would remain in his memory as some of the most pleasant in his whole life.

  The doctor said something conventionally civil; and, in answer to an anxious inquiry, advised the Prince most strongly not to adventure his person within the precincts of Palings.

  ‘But it is absurd!’ the Prince said. ‘It is seen that I had nothing to do with Carter’s death! Rather it is Mr Steel whom the police suspect, is it not so?’

  ‘I really can’t say,’ replied Chester stiffly.

  ‘I wash my hands of the affair!’ said the Prince. ‘But I must tell you, since you have been to me so extremely kind, that if it is Mr Steel whom the police suspect, I must be glad, for he is not, after all, de nous autres, and I have had some fears that you, my friend, might suffer a little unpleasantness.’

  The doctor looked up quickly. ‘I?’

  ‘But, yes!’ smiled the Prince. ‘An absurdity, you say, but I find that your English police are very stupid, what you call thickheaded. Ah, pardon! It is ridiculous, without sense! Yet when one considers how I have been suspected, for no reason, except that I was out in Vicky’s auto, one must be prepared for the police to suspect you, who were also not at home.’

  ‘I was out on a case,’ said Chester, his eyes stern under his frowning brows.

  The Prince made a deprecatory gesture. ‘But of course! Do I not know it? It is merely that these policemen—’

  ‘Nor,’ interrupted Chester, ‘do I know what conceivable motive I could have had for murdering one of my patients!’

  ‘My friend!’ The Prince flung up his hands. ‘I am sure you had none! I am sorry that I spoke of it, but indeed it seemed to me that you must have thought of it yourself. It is forgotten! Do not fear that I shall speak of it!’