sufficient motive!'
'There's the Pole that seems to have been making passes at the niece, isn't there?' suggested Hemingway mildly. 'What's more, there's the young lady herself. If she inherits his money, I should call that a pretty good motive.'
'You'd better go and make Miss Warrenby's acquaintance!' recommended the Colonel, with a bark of laughter.
'I will, sir,' said the Chief Inspector.
6.
THE trouble with you, Horace, is that there's no pleasing you,' said the Chief Inspector, some little time later. 'I bring you down, in the middle of the summer, to as nice a part of the country as you could wish for, set you up in a pub which, as far as I can see, never got around to reading the Rationing Orders, and all you do is to sit there looking as though you'd been dragged to one of the Distressed Areas. I'll trouble you for the butter, my lad!'
The Inspector handed him a green dish fashioned into the semblance of a lettuce-leaf. 'It is butter, to,' he said severely. 'About a week's ration.'
Hemingway helped himself generously. Both men were sitting down, in the otherwise deserted coffee-room, to a high tea reminiscent of an almost forgotten age of plenty. The Sun, though perhaps its oldest, was by no means Bellingham's most fashionable hostelry. It was situated in a back street, and catered for Commercials; the rigours of its beds were alleviated by feather-mattresses; it had one bathroom, containing an antiquated painted bath, with an old fashioned plug, and a wooden surround; and several of its tiny lattice windows could, by the exercise of careful force, be induced to open. Since its clients were not persons of leisure, only one sitting-room had been provided for them, and that the coffee-room, which contained, besides one long table, a number of horsehair chairs; a massive and very yellow mahogany sideboard, supporting an aspidistra, a biscuit-tin commemorating the coronation of Edward VII, and an array of sauce-bottles and pickle-jars; several steel-engravings in maplewood frames; and a tall vase full of pampas-grass. Meals were not served with elegance, or dignified by menu-cards, but the food itself was excellent, and prepared by a largeminded person. An order for tea was understood by this person to include a plate piled with bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and chips, three or four kinds of jam, scones, a heavy fruit cake, a loaf of bread, a dish of stewed fruit, and one of radishes. Sergeant Carsethorn had recommended the Sun to Hemingway, a circumstance which was causing that cheerful officer to take what his assistant considered a roseate view of his ability.
'And I'd like to know how they come by all that bacon,' added Harbottle, in a sinister voice.
The Chief Inspector poured himself out another cup of tea, and lavishly sugared it. 'Why you ever went in for homicide beats me,' he remarked. 'What you ought to have done was to have got yourself a job as snooper for the Ministry of Food. What's it matter to you where they come by their bacon? I didn't hear you making any bones about eating it. Have another cup of tea!'
Harbottle accepted his offer, and sat for some minutes stirring the brew meditatively. 'It's all very well being sent into the country,' he said suddenly, 'but I don't like this case, Chief!'
'That's because you've got an inferiority complex,' responded Hemingway, unperturbed. 'I thought there's be trouble when they started talking about the Squire. It set you off remembering the days when you were one of the village lads, carting dung, and touching your forelock to the Squire.'
'I did no such thing!' said his indignant subordinate. 'What's more I never carted dung in my life, or touched my forelock! I hadn't got one, and I wouldn't have touched it if I had had!'
'One of the Reds, were you?' Well, it's no use brooding over the equality of man here, because that won't get us anywhere.' He observed that the Inspector was breathing heavily, and added soothingly: 'All right, Job!
'There's the Pole that seems to have been making passes at the niece, isn't there?' suggested Hemingway mildly. 'What's more, there's the young lady herself. If she inherits his money, I should call that a pretty good motive.'
'You'd better go and make Miss Warrenby's acquaintance!' recommended the Colonel, with a bark of laughter.
'I will, sir,' said the Chief Inspector.
6.
THE trouble with you, Horace, is that there's no pleasing you,' said the Chief Inspector, some little time later. 'I bring you down, in the middle of the summer, to as nice a part of the country as you could wish for, set you up in a pub which, as far as I can see, never got around to reading the Rationing Orders, and all you do is to sit there looking as though you'd been dragged to one of the Distressed Areas. I'll trouble you for the butter, my lad!'
The Inspector handed him a green dish fashioned into the semblance of a lettuce-leaf. 'It is butter, to,' he said severely. 'About a week's ration.'
Hemingway helped himself generously. Both men were sitting down, in the otherwise deserted coffee-room, to a high tea reminiscent of an almost forgotten age of plenty. The Sun, though perhaps its oldest, was by no means Bellingham's most fashionable hostelry. It was situated in a back street, and catered for Commercials; the rigours of its beds were alleviated by feather-mattresses; it had one bathroom, containing an antiquated painted bath, with an old fashioned plug, and a wooden surround; and several of its tiny lattice windows could, by the exercise of careful force, be induced to open. Since its clients were not persons of leisure, only one sitting-room had been provided for them, and that the coffee-room, which contained, besides one long table, a number of horsehair chairs; a massive and very yellow mahogany sideboard, supporting an aspidistra, a biscuit-tin commemorating the coronation of Edward VII, and an array of sauce-bottles and pickle-jars; several steel-engravings in maplewood frames; and a tall vase full of pampas-grass. Meals were not served with elegance, or dignified by menu-cards, but the food itself was excellent, and prepared by a largeminded person. An order for tea was understood by this person to include a plate piled with bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and chips, three or four kinds of jam, scones, a heavy fruit cake, a loaf of bread, a dish of stewed fruit, and one of radishes. Sergeant Carsethorn had recommended the Sun to Hemingway, a circumstance which was causing that cheerful officer to take what his assistant considered a roseate view of his ability.
'And I'd like to know how they come by all that bacon,' added Harbottle, in a sinister voice.
The Chief Inspector poured himself out another cup of tea, and lavishly sugared it. 'Why you ever went in for homicide beats me,' he remarked. 'What you ought to have done was to have got yourself a job as snooper for the Ministry of Food. What's it matter to you where they come by their bacon? I didn't hear you making any bones about eating it. Have another cup of tea!'
Harbottle accepted his offer, and sat for some minutes stirring the brew meditatively. 'It's all very well being sent into the country,' he said suddenly, 'but I don't like this case, Chief!'
'That's because you've got an inferiority complex,' responded Hemingway, unperturbed. 'I thought there's be trouble when they started talking about the Squire. It set you off remembering the days when you were one of the village lads, carting dung, and touching your forelock to the Squire.'
'I did no such thing!' said his indignant subordinate. 'What's more I never carted dung in my life, or touched my forelock! I hadn't got one, and I wouldn't have touched it if I had had!'
'One of the Reds, were you?' Well, it's no use brooding over the equality of man here, because that won't get us anywhere.' He observed that the Inspector was breathing heavily, and added soothingly: 'All right, Job!
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