The Boathouse Riddle by J. J. Connington

Author:J. J. Connington [Connington, J. J.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781471906022
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2013-11-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Dramatis Personæ

“I’M sorry for Severn,” Sir Clinton admitted to Wendover, as they sat in the Grange smoking room after lunch. “He’s got enough work on his hands to keep two men busy. He didn’t blench, though. A sound man.”

Though sparing in praise of subordinates to their faces, the Chief Constable never failed to give them full credit for good work.

“Not very brilliant,” Wendover qualified, in a doubtful tone. “He didn’t elicit much, after all.”

“He didn’t ask useless questions; and when he had a free hand he got at the relevant facts,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “There’s more in that than you’d think, Squire. Unfortunately, if this affair’s to be cleared up, we’ll need some imagination as well as the facts; and whether Severn will rise to that or not, one can’t tell just yet.”

“You mean: ‘Has he enough wit to fill in the missing bits in the puzzle?’”

“The trouble with this case is that the most important desiderata aren’t facts at all, in the dictionary sense of the word. We’ve unearthed a lot of facts. We’ve picked up a fair amount of evidence bearing on what happened last night—and a pretty jumble it makes. What’s obviously missing is the whole psychology of the thing: the motives at work behind the façade.”

“Admitted,” said Wendover judicially.

“That’s where I’m afraid Severn may fall down, through no fault of his own,” Sir Clinton argued in defence of his subordinate. “He may be all right in his judgment of people like Horncastle, But he’s a middle-class Protestant. What chance has he of fathoming the motives of a Roman Catholic like Mrs. Keith-Westerton, let alone those of my friend the Abbé Goron? He and Mrs. Keith-Westerton come from different social strata; their conventions are dissimilar; his moral views may be quite at variance with hers, for all one can tell. So far as the mere collecting of facts goes, Severn is all right; but when he tries to get behind the facts . . . well, he’s likely to be badly handicapped, I’m afraid. I can understand his difficulty because I’m in much the same boat myself, in this case.”

“How? You’ve met the Keith-Westertons more than once.” Wendover pointed out. “You haven’t Severn’s handicap there.”

“True,” said Sir Clinton, taking a fresh cigarette, “but I didn’t know the late Horncastle, for instance. You could help me out there, Squire.”

Wendover leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and reflected for a moment or two before answering.

“Nil nisi bonum, and all that,” he said at length, “but the plain truth is that I never liked Horncastle much. I suppose he must have been all right when Keith-Westerton’s agent took him on; but he was an unlikeable fellow at the best. The village Don Juan is a nuisance, sometimes. And there were stories about him, too. If they were true, then some of the poulterers around about here were getting pheasants a good deal cheaper than they might have done. It was never proved, of course, but Horncastle wasn’t quoted, locally, as an example of honesty.

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