“I can't say I cared much either way,” said Lindale, shrugging. “I expect I should have allowed myself to be guided by the Squire: he knows more about it than I do, and he seemed inclined to think Warrenby would be a suitable man to appoint.”
“I see, sir. And when did Mr. Plenmeller leave The Cedars to go and fetch this correspondence—which I take it was in his possession!”
“When the sets were being arranged after we'd all finished tea. I should say it was at about six. As far as I remember he was gone about half an hour. He got back before my wife left: that I do know, because she told me so.”
“His house being half a mile from The Cedars, if I remember rightly,” said Hemingway.
“Oh, don't run away with the idea that I'm suggesting he didn't go to his house! I think he did. It could take him half an hour, and he could have done it in less time if he'd been put to it. That short leg of his doesn't incapacitate him as much as you might think.”
“No, he told me it didn't,” said Hemingway mildly. “So what is it you are suggesting, sir?”
Lindale did not answer for a minute, but stood frowning at his pipe, which had gone out. He looked up at last, and said: “Not suggesting anything except a possibility. Which is that he might have gone home to pick up his rifle—if he had one, but that I don't know: I've never seen him with a gun. And to cache it somewhere along the footpath, near The Cedars' front-gate.”
Hemingway eyed him speculatively. “Found he'd come out without it, so to speak?”
“No. Not having known, until he got to The Cedars, that he would have the opportunity to use it!” said Lindale. “Warrenby had also been invited to that party, and he cried off at the last moment. Which meant that he was certain to be at home, and alone. Now do you get it? Plenmeller left when young Haswell motored Abby Dearham and old Drybeck, and the Major home. Who's to say that he didn't nip into the footpath once the car was out of sight? What was he doing between the time he left The Cedars, at the end of the party, and the time—whenever that was—he turned up at the Red Lion?”
Hemingway shook his head. “I'm no good at riddles: you tell me!”