“What about Lindale's?”
“Yes, sir, I have that too. He wasn't best pleased: said no one could possibly have borrowed it without his knowing. But it wasn't him that made the real trouble over it. That was Mrs. Lindale. He wasn't in when I called, and had to be fetched off the farm. She sent the daily woman to find him, though I told her I only wanted to test the rifle, as a matter of routine. Very hostile she was. Scared, I thought. Started tearing me off the strip, the way women do when they've got the wind up. Only then her husband came in, and she quietened down as soon as he spoke to her. Very gone on one another they are, I'd say. He said if it was really necessary for me to take the rifle I could do so, but he'd be obliged to us if we wouldn't come bothering his good lady, because she's very nervous, and things like this murder upset her.”
“In that case,” said Hemingway, “I'm going to be unpopular, because I'm going to go out there to bother her this afternoon.”
Chapter Ten
The Chief Inspector was taken to Thornden by the young constable who had driven him there on the previous day; but since Rushyford Farm was his first objective Constable Melkinthorpe took the right fork out of Bellingham, which led to Hawkshead. This road, after a few miles, intersected the common, north of the Trindale-road, and about a quarter of a mile before it reached Rushyford, passed the Squire's gravel-pit. Men were working there; Hemingway asked whose men they were, and Melkinthorpe replied with the name of a local firm, adding that they did say that Mr. Ainstable made quite a good thing out of it. Constable Melkinthorpe, who was enjoying his present assignment more than any that had previously fallen to him, and dreamed of vague heroic deeds, turned circumspectly into the rather narrow entrance to Rushyford Farm, and asked hopefully if the Chief Inspector wanted him to go with him into the house.
“Not unless you hear me scream,” said Hemingway, getting out of the car. “Then, of course, you'll come in double-quick to rescue me.” He slammed the car-door, and paused for a moment, surveying the house before him, which was a rambling, picturesque building set in a small garden, and with its farm-buildings clustered to one side of it. The front-door stood open on to a flagged passage, but Hemingway very correctly knocked on it, and awaited permission to enter. He had to knock twice before he could get a response. Then Mrs. Lindale came running down the uncarpeted oaken stairway, hastily untying an apron as she descended, and casting it aside. “Sorry!” she said. “My daily has gone into Bellingham to get the rations, and I couldn't come down before. Do you want Mr. Lindale?”
“Well, I should like a word with him, madam,” said Hemingway. “My name's Hemingway—Chief Inspector, C.I.D. Perhaps you'd like to have my card.”
She made no attempt to take it, but stood in the doorway as though she would have denied him ingress. “We've already had one detective here today! What on earth can you want? Why do you come badgering us? My husband was barely acquainted with Mr. Warrenby! I think it's the limit!”
“I'm bound to say it must be a nuisance for you,” admitted Hemingway. “But if we weren't allowed to make enquiries we wouldn't get much farther, would we?”
“Neither my husband nor I can possibly be of any use to you!” she said impatiently. “What is it you want to know?”