No Wind of Blame

‘Yes, I’d heard, but I don’t know that I set much store by it.’

The Inspector, having given his Sergeant certain instructions, came walking back to them, and went off down the street with Hugh to where Hugh’s car was parked.

‘Nasty case, Inspector,’ said Hugh, opening the door for him.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, sir!’ Hemingway replied. ‘It’s got some very classy features, besides showing me a bit of real high life. Foreign princes,’ he added, as Hugh looked a trifle mystified.

Hugh laughed, and got into the car beside him. ‘I hope you’ll find him up to standard. Have you got a sense of humour?’

An intelligent eye was cocked at him. ‘Will I need one?’

‘Absolutely essential. Your predecessor suffered from a total lack of it.’

‘I can see it’s a fortunate thing I met you,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m not like some detectives: I’m grateful for a bit of help. Matter of fact, I came with you because there’s something I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you could put me right on.’

‘What is it?’ asked Hugh, letting in his clutch.

‘How do you pronounce this Prince’s unnatural name?’

Hugh grinned appreciatively. ‘It’s a privilege to know you, Inspector. Varasashvili.’

The Inspector sighed. ‘Wonderful what foreigners can get their tongues round, isn’t it? Now, don’t you drive too fast, sir, because I’m a very nervous man. Besides, it isn’t often I get a free ride, and I’m enjoying myself.’

‘Also you want to take in the features of the countryside,’ said Hugh, slowing to a sedate pace.

‘That’s right, I do,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Décor and scenery are my specialities. Where would this road lead to, supposing we were to follow it?’

‘To Kershaw, eventually. But we turn off to the right.’

‘I remember that. How long do you reckon it takes you to drive from Palings to Stilhurst?’

‘Ten minutes, possibly a little less.’

‘You’re very helpful,’ said the Inspector. ‘Whereabouts is Oaklands Farm?’

‘Towards Kershaw. Do you want me to take you there?’

‘No, but it’s put me in mind of another thing I want to ask you. They tell me you were at that shoot on Saturday. What do you reckon were the rights of that little mix-up?’

‘Oh, lord, are you on to that?’ said Hugh. ‘I don’t believe it has the least bearing on the case. Carter was just the sort of vague ass who would stray about and get himself shot.’

‘Is that so? Well, it’s a wonder to me there aren’t more accidents at shoots. Where does that lane lead to?’

‘A farm. It’s a dead end.’

‘Oh! Not much traffic down it?’

‘None at all on a Sunday.’ Hugh cast him a flickering smile. ‘Quite safe to park a car there.’

The Inspector shook his head admiringly. ‘It’s wonderful the way you read what’s in my mind, sir.’

The gates of the Dower House came into sight upon the left-hand side of the road, and beyond them the little humpbacked bridge over the stream. The lane curved away to the right, and the Inspector inquired whether they were running beside the grounds of Palings. Hugh nodded, and presently pointed out the entrance to the garage. Fifty yards on, he turned the car in at the main gate, and drove up the neat avenue to the front door.

‘Well, here we are,’ Hugh said. He got out of the car, and was just about to ring the bell when Vicky came round the corner of the house. ‘You can prepare yourself for the first shock, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hullo, Vicky! Gone into half-mourning?’

Vicky, who was wearing a frock of white organdie with an artless sash of black velvet ribbon with immensely long ends, replied: ‘Oh, I think white is so suitable for a young girl don’t you? I began to feel like Anna Karenina, so I changed, because it was all very exhausting.’

The Inspector had climbed out of the car, and was regarding Vicky with frank approbation. Hugh said: ‘Let me introduce Inspector Hemingway, of Scotland Yard, Miss Fanshawe.’