“If you mean Drybeck, he was perfectly well-aware that I had done so,” said the Squire, his eyes never shifting from the Chief Inspector's face.
“No, not him, sir. Some London firm. Belsay, Cockfield & Belsay I think their names are.”
A draught from the open door stirred the papers on the table. The Squire methodically tidied them, and set a weight on top of the pile. “Belsay, Cockfield & Belsay are the solicitors to the Trustees of the Settlement of the estate,” he said. “The details of any transactions of mine would naturally be unknown to them. Do I understand you to say that Warrenby had been in communication with them?”
“That's right, sir. And seeing that it seems to have been pretty inconclusive I thought I'd ask you for the rights of it.”
“May I know the gist of this correspondence?”
“Well, it seems Mr. Warrenby had a client who was interested in gravel, sir. He wrote to these solicitors, making enquiries about terms, having been informed—so he wrote—that they were the proper people to approach in the matter. Which they replied that they were, in a manner of speaking, but that any arrangements would have to be with you. And, as far as the documents go, there it seems to have petered out. For I gather he didn't approach you, did he, sir?”
It was not the Squire but Mrs. Ainstable who answered, exclaiming: “No, he approached me instead! Really, what an impossible person he was! It's no use frowning at me, Bernard: he may be dead, but that doesn't alter facts! So typical of him to find out from me that you'd already leased the gravel-pit, instead of asking you! I can't bear people who go about things in a tortuous way for no conceivable reason! So dreadfully underbred!”
“He asked you, did he, madam?”
“Oh, not in so many words! He led the conversation round to it.”
“When was that?” asked Hemingway.