“Nerve enough to have shot Warrenby is what I think!”
“Lord, yes!” agreed Hemingway. “Nerve enough to shoot half the village, if it suited his book to do it! But if you're trying to make me believe he shot Warrenby just because he didn't happen to like him, you're wasting your time, Horace! I've been telling the Chief Constable that I don't know what constitutes a motive for murder, or what doesn't, but that was putting it a bit too high. I do know that no one, barring a lunatic, kills a chap because he thinks he's a pushing bounder! I daresay that's what his highness would like me to think, so as he can sit back and watch me making a fool of myself, but if he wants me to treat him as a hot suspect he'll have to give me a sniff of a real motive—and stop being the life and soul of the party! Did you find anything else at Warrenby's office?”
Harbottle glanced disparagingly at the papers on the desk. “I brought that lot along for you to look at, but I wouldn't say they were likely to lead you anywhere. There's some correspondence with one of the Town Councillors, which looks as if they'd had a row; and there's a whole lot of stuff about a trust for sale, which I can't say I quite get the hang of. Seems Mr. Drybeck was the principal trustee, and had the handling of it. Warrenby was acting for someone he calls by a fancy name I never heard before.” Harbottle picked up one of the clips of documents, and searched through them. “Here you are, sir! A Cestui que trust,” he said, laying the letter before his chief, and pointing to the words.
“Lawyers!” ejaculated Hemingway disgustedly. “Go and see if there's a dictionary on the premises, for the lord's sake!”
The Inspector went away, returning a few minutes later with a well-thumbed volume in his hand. “It's a person entitled to the benefit of a trust,” he announced.
“Good!” said Hemingway, who was running through the letters. “That's about what it looks like, from all this. This client wants his share of the trust: that's clear enough; and apparently it's all in order to sell the thing, only, for some reason or other Drybeck's being coy about doing it.”
“Yes, but only because it's a bad time to sell,” Harbottle pointed out. “He says so in one of the letters, and it sounds reasonable enough. You'll see that Warrenby doesn't quarrel with that at all. Writes perfectly civilly, and says he appreciates the situation, but his client is anxious to receive his share of the sale without loss of time. I don't see what bearing any of it could have upon the murder, sir. In fact, I was in two minds about bringing it to you. The thing that made me wonder was that Mr. Drybeck came into the office this afternoon—nosing around, I thought, but he said he'd come to find out if there was anything he could do to help Coupland. He tried to get me to tell him if—I'd discovered anything—at least, that's the way I read his chat, but I wouldn't be prepared to swear it wasn't just inquisitiveness. I got rid of him of course, and it did enter my mind that perhaps he was worried about this correspondence with Warrenby. I found nothing else that was any concern of his.”
“Well, that's interesting,” said Hemingway. “There's no doubt that this client of Warrenby's was determined to have his share of the trust, and there's no doubt that Drybeck's stalling. Of course, it may be that he's just trying to do his best for the beneficiaries—pity we don't know what the others felt about an immediate sale!—and on the other hand it may be that he's got reasons of his own for not wanting to sell the trust.”
“Good gracious, Chief, do you mean you think he's been embezzling the funds?” exclaimed Harbottle.
“No, not embezzling them, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's made a muck of the thing through being fatheaded, or half asleep. And if that's so, then I'd bet my last farthing Warrenby had got wind of it. It'll bear looking into, anyway. Is there anything in this?” He picked up an address book as he spoke, and opened it at random.