“Well, there's one person as has seen us, sir,” said the Sergeant, after a glance at the Red Lion. “That's Mr. Plenmeller, sitting in the window. I don't know but what I wouldn't as soon wait in the car.”
“What you want to do is get the better of these prejudices of yours,” said Hemingway severely. “What with your having it in for this author, and the Inspector getting a down on poor old Mr. Drybeck—as helpful a gentleman as I ever met—you'll very likely infect me, between the pair of you. You come and introduce me to the local crime-expert!”
This, in the event, proved to be unnecessary. No sooner had the three officials entered the bar-parlour than Gavin Plenmeller, who was standing drinks to Miss Dearham, Major Midgeholme, and young Mr. Haswell, hailed them with every evidence of delight. “If it isn't my friend, Sergeant Carsethorn, with—unless my instinct betrays me, which it rarely does—dignitaries from Scotland Yard! Come over here, Sergeant! You'll never guess what we've been talking about! George, serve these gentlemen, and chalk it up to my account! That,” he added, addressing himself to Hemingway, after one piercing scrutiny of his face, “is to put you under a sense of obligation, in case you decide to arrest me. You're Chief Inspector Hemingway: you had charge of the Guisborough case. At some future date, I shall do my best to get you into a malleable condition: I would give much to know the details of the evidence which was suppressed. I was in court every day. Let me make you known, by the way, to Miss Dearham! She, like Mr. Haswell here, doesn't come into this case, much to her regret, and quite unlike Major Midgeholme, whose motive for shooting Sampson Warrenby, though obscure, you will no doubt discover.”
“Really, Plenmeller, your tongue runs away with you!” said the Major stiffly. “Good-evening, Chief Inspector. Sad business, this.”
“What a mendacious thing to say!” remarked Gavin. “When we are all perfectly delighted! Or did you mean sad for Warrenby?”
“Yes, I rather got the impression that Mr. Warrenby wasn't what you might call popular,” said Hemingway. “Good-evening, Major: I've had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Midgeholme already.”
The Major looked startled. “You've been to see my wife?”
“Not properly speaking, sir: no. I met her up at Fox House. With Ulysses and Untidy,” he added calmly. “Very handsome little dogs. Prize-winners, I understand.”
“The way the police ferret out information!” murmured Gavin, causing the Major to flush slightly. “But I don't think Mrs. Midgeholme ought to have forced Ulysses to visit the scene of his humiliation. Rather sadistic, don't you agree?”
“No, I do not!” snapped the Major.