“If I did, it was because I've always been susceptible to suggestion. Anyway, when you first came to me, you used to think I was heading for the nearest looney-bin every time I got a hunch.”
“I didn't, because Sandy Grant warned me not to be misled,” retorted the Inspector. “He told me—”
“I don't want to know what he told you, for I'll be bound it was something insubordinate, not to say libellous, besides having a lot of that unnatural Gaelic of his mixed up with it. What did Mrs. Midgeholme come to tell me? Don't say Ultima Ullapool has whelped, and she wants me to be god-father to one of the pups!”
“One of her bitches has, but I don't know if it was Ullapool. I wasn't attending all that closely. She says old Drybeck's going round trying to prove Miss Warrenby murdered her uncle, and you're not to believe a word he says. And also that that Pole of yours has told everyone he's got no intentions towards Miss Warrenby, but went up to Fox House after dinner last night, and sat with her in the summerhouse. I don't know whether there might be something in that.”
“I've already had that from Gladys. Taking everything into account, I should say young Ladislas went up to beg Jessica's First Prayer to lay off till all this commotion has blown over. He's got intentions all right, and he's scared white I should think so. Jessica's gone up to London, by the way. I saw young Haswell driving her to the station, so it looks as if she was catching the 12.15. She may be escaping from justice; on the other hand, she may have gone up to see her uncle's solicitors, to find out how she stands, and what she's to use for money till probate's been granted. In fact, that's why she has gone, according to what Gladys tells me, which is why I didn't arrest her. Let's hope that's the Superintendent!”
The telephone-bell was emitting a discreet buzzing noise. Harbottle picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and said: “Yes, switch it through: he's here.” He handed the receiver to Hemingway. “It is the Superintendent,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
In the early part of the afternoon the police-car was once more proceeding along the Hawkshead-road. As Constable Melkinthorpe slowed to take the turn into Rushyford Farm, Hemingway said: “No, drive on slowly! If he's haymaking, I'll find him in one of his fields.”
He was right. Melkinthorpe coasted gently along, and the sound of a hay-cutter soon came to their ears. The hay was being cut in one of the fields abutting on to the road, and Kenelm Lindale could be seen, standing talking to one of his farmhands.
Hemingway got out of the car. “You stay here, Horace,” he said.