“Well, sir, seeing as his movements, between the time he left The Cedars, at 6.50, as near as I can get at it, till close on 7.30, aren't corroborated by any witness—”
“Oh, yes, yes, Carsethorn, you were quite right to interrogate him!” the Colonel said impatiently.
“What does he say his movements were?” asked Hemingway.
“At or around 6.50,” said the Sergeant, his eyes on his book, “he left The Cedars, in company with Mr. Ainstable, by way of the gate on to the footpath. Mrs. Lindale had gone off home by the same route about a quarter of an hour earlier. The woman who works for her daily isn't prepared to swear to the time when she got back to the farm, but she says she'd been in a considerable time by seven o'clock, which is when the woman leaves. Of course, she could have gone out again later, but it don't seem likely, not with the baby. She's not one to leave her baby. Mr. Lindale accompanied Mr. Ainstable a little way up the path. Then the Squire turned off to look at his new plantation, and Mr. Lindale walked on to Rushyford Farm. He says he didn't go into the house immediately, but went off to see whether his chaps had finished a job they had to do, repairing some fencing in one of his water-meadows. That's some little distance from the house. The men had gone off by that time, of course, and he didn't meet anyone. He says he went home by way of his wheat-field, and was in by 7.30. Which Mrs. Lindale corroborates.”
“Well, that's all right, as far as it goes,” said Hemingway. “What about this Squire you talk of?”
“Mr. Ainstable. It's like I told you, sir. He went off to look at the plantation, and didn't get home till about a quarter to eight. Mrs. Ainstable, I should mention, had left the party early, by car, at 6.30. That's corroborated by Mr. Plenmeller. He met her in the drive—he'd been back to his house to fetch some papers the Squire wanted—and she stopped to have a word with him. Seems she wasn't very well: he says she looked bad, and was very nervy. She's a bit of an invalid. Another person who went away early was Mr. Cliburn, the Vicar. He went directly after tea, to visit a sick parishioner. I should say that's all right, sir. I haven't yet checked up on him, but—”
“Well, don't, unless you're hard up for a job,” Hemingway advised him. “Of course, we may have to fall back on him, but if we do, all I can say is I shall be surprised, and it takes a lot to surprise me. I might be able to swallow the Vicar's wife, at a pinch, but even that'll take a hit of doing.”
“Mrs. Cliburn and Miss Warrenby were the last to leave, sir,” said the Sergeant, uncertain how to take the Chief Inspector. “They both left at ten past seven, Miss Warrenby going by way of the garden-gate, and Mrs. Cliburn down the drive to Wood Lane. I've checked up on that. There's an old chap who lives in one of the cottages in the High Street, facing Wood Lane. He was sitting on his doorstep, and he saw Mrs. Cliburn come down the lane. He couldn't say what time that was, because he wasn't noticing particularly, but it seems Mrs. Cliburn stopped to pass the time of day with him, and then went straight into the Vicarage. He says he saw Mr. Plenmeller too, and that he didn't go to Thornden House but along the street to the Red Lion. And he didn't have a rifle, because that's something old Rugby would have been bound to have noticed.”
“Well, we can rule out Mrs. Cliburn, too,” said Hemingway. “Which brings us to this chap with the queer name. I've heard it before, but I don't seem able to put a face to it.”
“I suppose you might have heard it,” said the Colonel grudgingly. “He writes detective stories. Don't read 'em myself, but I'm told they're very ingenious.”