The Inspector blinked. “That's all there was. I found it in one of the tin boxes. I haven't been through any of the Coroner's records.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Hemingway, “that Warrenby had taken that letter out of the proper file, and put it amongst his own papers?”
“Yes, I suppose he must have, sir. I don't really know what they do with the reports on inquests. As Warrenby was the Coroner, I didn't make much of it, except to wonder whether he wanted that letter to taunt Plenmeller with, perhaps.”
“Next time you find a document like that where it has no business to be perhaps you'll be so good as to tell me!” said Hemingway wrathfully. “I thought you'd been running through that case!” He pulled open a drawer in the desk, and turned over the papers it contained.
A good deal chagrined, the Inspector said: “I'm sorry, sir. But there was nothing to the case! I had a talk with Carsethorn about it, and it was a straight case of suicide all right.”
Hemingway had found the letter, and was re-reading it. “Then what made Warrenby take this letter out of the record? Don't talk nonsense to me about wanting to taunt Plenmeller with it! Much he'd have cared! It must already have been read aloud in court!”
“After what Coupland said to us, sir, I only thought it was rather typical of the man to want to get his hands on something to Plenmeller's disadvantage. Which, to my way of thinking, it is, because it shows him up to be a heartless sort of man, deliberately getting on his brother's nerves. But I'm sure I'm very sorry.”
“All right. I ought to have asked you where you found it. Get me that file! If the office is shut, find out where Coupland lives, and—”
“You needn't worry, sir: I'll get it,” interrupted the Inspector, his back very rigid.
“And find out if the Chief Constable's in the building! If he is, I'd like a word with him, at his convenience.”