The Elm Tree Murder (Death on Sunday) by John Rhode

Author:John Rhode [Rhode, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781927716700
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

JIMMY got back to Barleyfield Park just before the house was locked up for the night. He went to bed meditating upon the hints which Dr. Priestley had thrown out, and determined to follow them up the first thing next morning.

His opportunity came at breakfast time when the butler brought him his coffee. “Oh, Almond, you’re the very man to help me,” he said. “The lock of one of my suitcases has got jammed and I can’t open it. If I had a good strong screwdriver, I could prise it open. You can lend me one, I dare say?”

“A screwdriver, sir?” the butler replied. “If I possessed such an implement I should be most happy to oblige you. But as matters stand I am quite unable to do so.”

“Well, you’ve got a file perhaps,” Jimmy persisted. “With a good sharp file I might manage to cut through the hasp.”

“I fear that I must again disappoint your expectations, sir,” the butler replied. “There is no implement of that description in the house. In fact, when I have occasionally found it necessary to drive a nail, I have had to have recourse to the coal-hammer. Any repairs of a more extensive nature are invariably undertaken by the local carpenter. It is, however, possible that Mr. Gibbs the gardener may be able to satisfy your requirements.”

So after breakfast Jimmy set out to interview Mr. Gibbs. He found him outside the potting shed, adjusting the blades of the lawn-mower, an operation which he carried out with the greatest deliberation. He listened to Jimmy’s story, then shook his head lugubriously.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think I’ve got anything that would suit you,” he replied. “I don’t know that I’ve seen a screwdriver about the place all the time I’ve been here. Nor the sort of file you’d want, either. There’s an old one lying about here somewhere that I use to sharpen my tools on, but he’s a bit rough.”

He hunted about the shed and eventually produced a flat file about eighteen inches long and a couple of inches wide. It fully justified the epithet which he had bestowed upon it. Jimmy could tell at a glance that it could not have been used to cut through the strap of the padlock.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” he said. “By the way, you’ll be clearing away that branch pretty soon, I expect?”

“I’ve got no orders about that,” Mr. Gibbs replied. “And when I do get them, I shall want to know who’s going to help me. I might knock off the twigs with my bill-hook, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I couldn’t do that. But before that branch can be moved, it’s got to be cut up into lengths, and it’ll want two chaps with a cross-cut to do that, and what my turf will be like underneath where it fell is more than I can say.”

Jimmy felt secretly amused. The damage to the turf was evidently in Mr. Gibbs’ eyes of far more consequence than the death of Mr.

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