The Inspector, knowing his chief's foibles, looked at him with deep foreboding, but Hemingway did not pursue his favourite study. He said thoughtfully: “I don't know when I've had so many possibles to choose from. It's to be hoped I don't lose my bearings amongst them. There are three with motives that stand out a mile: the dead man's niece, who inherits his money; her glamour-boy, who says he never thought of marrying her, which I take to be a highly mendacious statement; and old Drybeck, who's been losing ground to Warrenby for years, and may—if my guess is correct—have been standing in danger of being discovered by him to have made a mess of some trust. Those are what you might call the hot suspects. After them I've got the questionables, headed by the Squire. I think he was being blackmailed by Warrenby.”
“The Squire?” said Harbottle sceptically. “Blackmailed for what?”
“Committing waste. No, I know you don't know what that is, but it doesn't matter: it's a civil offence, and though it could easily land him in a packet of trouble it isn't a thing that concerns the police. I'll explain it to you presently, but don't keep on interrupting me! As I say, there's him, which makes four—and we shall have to include his wife, though I can't say I fancy her much, so that's five. Next, we've got the Lindales. Either could have done it; he's the type who would, given a sufficient motive. That tots up to four in the Questionable class. Seven altogether.”
“Are you leaving out Plenmeller?” demanded Harbottle.
“Certainly not: I'm putting him at the head of the third class—those that might have done it, but who don't seem to have any reason to have done it. Three of them. Plenmeller, easily capable of murder; Haswell, a dark horse—”
“He had an alibi, sir!”
“Not the young man: his father. I met him today, with the Vicar, and he's one of these cool, level-headed customers who say just about as little as they need. Carsethorn verified that he did go to some place or other fifteen miles from Thornden on Saturday afternoon, but we've only got his word for it that he didn't get home till eight because he stopped at his office in Bellingham on his way, to polish off some job he had on hand. They close at midday on Saturdays, so there was no one there to corroborate his story.”
“What about the Vicar?” asked Harbottle. “He could have reached Fox House by way of his own meadow.”
“If the Vicar did it, I'm not fit to direct traffic, let alone conduct an investigation into a case of murder! The only other possible—unless you have a fancy for Mrs. Midgeholme, because Warrenby kicked one of her dogs—is Reg.”
“Who is he?”