“You would?” said Hemingway, staring up the bole of the tree. “You're very good, Horace: what do you make of that graze!”
The Inspector strode quickly to his side, and gazed up at a gleam of pale colour where a small splinter had been chipped from the tree-trunk. There was a good deal of surprise in his face, not unmixed with awe. “Well, I'll be—! I do believe you're right, sir!” he exclaimed.
“Well, don't say it in that tone of voice! What we want now is a ladder, or a pair of steps. Got a knife on you, Horace?”
The Inspector nodded. “Yes, I've got that, but where do we find the steps?”
“We'll borrow them from the house,” said Hemingway. “That is, if Gladys is in. If she's got the afternoon off, we'll see if there's a ladder in the gardener's shed.”
“It'll be locked,” prophesied the Inspector. “And if you ask that girl for a ladder she'll be bound to come and watch what we do with it.”
“She won't, because I shall keep her in the kitchen, asking her a whole lot of silly questions.”
They walked up the straight path which led from the tradesmen's gate to the back-door. The sound of loud music seemed to indicate that Gladys had not got the afternoon off, but was listening to Music While You Work, turned on at full blast. So it proved. Gladys was polishing the table-silver, and came to the door with the leather in one hand. The manner of her greeting to Hemingway led the Inspector to infer that his chief had not scrupled to charm and to natter her at their previous encounter. He cast a sardonic glance at Hemingway, but that gentleman was already engaged in an exchange of badinage. Beyond saying: “Whatever do you want a ladder for?” Gladys raised no demur at lending her employer's property to the police. She gave Harbottle the key to the gardener's shed, warning him that if he didn't put the ladder back where he found it the gardener wouldn't half raise Cain on the morrow, and invited Hemingway to step into the kitchen, and have a cup of tea. The kettle, she said, was just on the boil. When the Inspector reappeared, some fifteen minutes later, he interrupted a promising tête-à-tête, and it did not seem to him that his superior had found it necessary to ask his hostess any questions, silly or sensible. Gladys sat on one side of the table, both her elbows planted on it, and a cup of very strong and very sweet tea held between her hands, and as the Inspector came in she was giggling, and telling Hemingway that he was a one, and no mistake. “If my Bert was to hear you, I don't know what he wouldn't do!” she said.
“Ah!” said Hemingway, briefly meeting the Inspector's eyes over her head. “If I was a marrying man, I'd cut your Bert out!”
“Sauce!” said Gladys, greatly delighted. She looked over her shoulder at Harbottle, and added, politely, but without enthusiasm, “Would your friend like a cuppa?”