“For goodness' sake!” snapped the Inspector, exasperated by his own failure to lay his hand on the letter he wanted. “I put it aside to show you, but there's no room to turn round in here! His client wanted a licence, of course!”
“Temper!” said Hemingway reprovingly. “What had these London solicitors got to do with it? I thought Drybeck was the Squire's solicitor. In fact, the Chief Constable told me he was.”
“I don't know anything about that, sir, but these people seem to be the solicitors for the estate, or some such thing. Ah!”
“Found it?”
“No, but this must be the copy of Warrenby's letter. Got into the wrong lot. Here you are, sir!”
Hemingway took the copy, and read it, while the Inspector continued his search. “Two years old, I see. You were quite right, Horace: he had a client who was interested in the Squire's gravel-pit! He was informed they were the proper people to apply to, and would be glad, etc. etc. Next instalment in tomorrow's issue—with luck! Go on, Horace! I can hardly wait!”
The Inspector cast him a fulminating look, and said coldly: “I have it here. You put those letters you were reading down on top of it.”
“That's right: you can't learn too early how to pass the buck, if you want to get on in life,” said Hemingway encouragingly. He read the letter, a crease between his brows. “Well, they seemed quite willing to do business, but I don't get the hang of this tenant-for-life business. The licence would have to be by arrangement with the tenant-for-life—oh, I see, it's the Squire! Some sort of an entail, I expect. And all moneys would have to be paid to these people for apportionment as between the tenant-for-life and the Trust funds. Well, I daresay it's all very interesting. Any more of it?”
“I've found nothing more so far.”
“No letters from the unnamed client?”