The Mystery at Lovers’ Cave

by Anthony Berkeley



Contents

     I. Our Special Correspondent
    II. Girls and Murder
   III. Inspector Moresby Is Reluctant
    IV. Anthony Interviews a Suspect
     V. Roger Takes Up the Cudgels
    VI. An Unwelcome Clue
   VII. Sidelights on a Loathsome Lady
  VIII. Introducing a Goat-faced Clergyman
    IX. Colin, Who Art Thou?
     X. Tea, China and Young Love
    XI. Inspector Moresby Conducts an Interview
   XII. Real Bad Blood
  XIII. A Midnight Expedition
   XIV. Roger Is Argumentative
    XV. Interesting Discovery of a Shoe
   XVI. Inspector Moresby Intervenes
  XVII. Shocking Ignorance of a Clergyman
 XVIII. Preparations for an Arrest
   XIX. End of a Scoundrel
    XX. Poisons and Pipes
   XXI. Roger Plays a Lone Hand
  XXII. New Discoveries
 XXIII. Colin Upsets the Apple-cart
  XXIV. Inspector Moresby Is Humorous
   XXV. Roger Solves the Mystery
  XXVI. Caustic Soda



Chapter I.

Our Special Correspondent

“If,” said Roger Sheringham, helping himself to a third piece of
toast, “your brain had as many kinks in it as your trousers have few,
Anthony, you would have had the intelligence to find out our train
from St. Pancras this morning before you ever arrived here last
night.”

“There’s a telephone here and an enquiry office at St. Pancras, I
believe,” retorted his cousin. “Couldn’t the two be connected in some
way?”

“You write to me and ask me to waste my valuable time in amusing you
on your holiday,” Roger pursued indignantly. “I not only consent but
very kindly allow you to choose the place we shall go to and book our
rooms for us; I even agree to harbour you here for a night before we
start and submit to your company and your chattering at my own
breakfast-table (a thing peculiarly offensive to any right-minded man
and destroying at one blow the chief and abiding joy of bachelorhood).
I do all this, I say, and what is my reward? You refuse point-blank
even to find out the time of our train from St. Pancras!”

“I say, did you see this?” exclaimed Anthony, glancing up from the
_Daily Courier_. “Kent all out for forty-seven on a plumb wicket at
Blackheath! Whew!”

“If you were to turn to the centre of the paper,” replied Roger
coldly, “I think you might find some rather more interesting reading
matter than the performances of Kent on plumb wickets at Blackheath.
The editorial page, for instance.”

“Meaning there’s another of your crime articles in?” Anthony asked,
flicking back the pages. “Yes, I’ve been reading some of them. They’re
really not at all bad, Roger.”

“Thank you very much indeed,” Roger murmured gratefully. “Out of the
mouths of babes and sucklings! Anyhow, you understood them, did you?
That’s good. I was trying to write down to the standard of
intelligence of the ordinary _Courier_ reader. I appear to have
succeeded.”

“This is rather interesting,” Anthony remarked, his eyes on the
required page.

“Well, yes,” said Roger modestly, folding up his napkin. “I did rather
flatter myself that I’d——”

“This article on ‘Do Shingled Heads Mean Shingled Hearts?’ By Jove,
that’s an idea, isn’t it? You see what he’s getting at. Boyishness,
and all that. He says——”

“I think you’ve mistaken the column,” Roger interrupted coldly. “The
one you’re looking for is on the right, next to the correspondence.”

“Correspondence?” repeated Anthony vaguely. “Oh, yes; I’ve got it.
‘Clergymen Who Gabble. Sir: I attended the burial service of my
great-aunt by marriage last Thursday and was exceedingly distressed by
the slipshod way in which the officiating clergyman read the——’”

“I don’t think I’ll go for a holiday with you, Anthony, after all!”
observed Roger suddenly, rising to his feet with such vehemence that
his chair fell violently to the floor behind him.

“You’ve knocked over your chair,” said Anthony, quite seriously.

At this point, very fortunately, the telephone-bell rang.

“Hullo!” said Roger into the mouth-piece, more loudly than was
strictly necessary.

“Hullo!” answered a voice. “Is that Mr. Sheringham?”

“No! He left for Derbyshire early this morning.”

“Oh, come!” chided the voice gently. “Not before eleven o’clock,
surely. He wouldn’t go without his breakfast, would he?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“Burgoyne, _Daily Courier_. Seriously, Sheringham, I’m very relieved
that I’ve caught you. Listen!”

Roger listened. As he did so his face gradually cleared and a look of
intense excitement began to take the place of the portentous frown he
had been wearing.

“No, I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Burgoyne,” he said at
length. “I’m just off for a fortnight in Derbyshire with a cousin of
mine, as you know. Rooms booked and everything. Otherwise I should
have been delighted.”

Expostulatory sounds made themselves heard from the other end of the
wire.

“Well, I’ll think it over if you _like_,” Roger replied with a great
show of reluctance, “but I’m very much afraid— Anyhow, I’ll let you
know definitely in a quarter-of-an-hour. Will that do?”

He listened for a moment, then hung up the receiver and turned to
Anthony with a beaming face. “Our little trip’s off I fear,” he said
happily.

“_What?_” exclaimed Anthony. “But—but we’ve booked our rooms!”

“_You_’ve booked them,” Roger corrected. “And there’s nothing to
prevent you from occupying them. You can sleep in one and brush your
hair in the other, can’t you? Of course I shall be delighted to
reimburse you for any expense you may have incurred through your
misunderstanding that I would accompany you, though I must take this
opportunity of pointing out, without prejudice, that I am not legally
liable; and should my heirs or fellow-directors dispute the claim, my
solicitors will have instructions not to——”

“What are you talking about?” Anthony shouted. “Why do you want to
back out at the last minute like this? What’s happened? Whom were you
talking to then?”

Roger resumed his seat at the breakfast-table and poured himself out
another cup of coffee.

“To take your questions in inverse order,” he said at length, and with
a slight diminution of his bantering air, “that was the editor of the
_Daily Courier_, a very great man and one before whom politicians
tremble and duchesses stand to attention. You may remember that I had
some truck with him last summer over that Wychford business. He wants
me to go down at once to Hampshire as Special Correspondent to the
_Courier_.”

“To Hampshire?”

“Yes. I don’t know whether you saw a little paragraph in the papers
yesterday about a woman who fell over the cliffs at Ludmouth Bay and
was killed. The idea now appears to be that it might not have been an
accident after all, and there’ve been one or two important
developments. They want me to follow up those articles I’ve been doing
by covering the business for them, to say nothing of putting in a
little amateur sleuth-work if the chance arises. It’s a job after my
own heart!”

“But I heard you say that it was out of the question, because you were
going away with me?”

Roger smiled gently. “There’s a way of doing these things, little boy,
as you may find out when you get a little older. But, seriously,
you’ve got the first claim on me; if you’re dead set on this
Derbyshire trip, I’ll come like a shot and chuck the other.”

“Of course not!” Anthony said warmly. “I wouldn’t dream of it. What do
you take me for? Run off and sleuth to your heart’s content. I may
even buy the _Courier_ once or twice to see how big an idiot you’re
making of yourself.”

“If you can drag your eyes away from the cricket page! Well, it’s
jolly sporting of you to take it like this, Anthony, I must and will
say. I know how maddening it is to have one’s plans upset at the last
minute.”

“I dare say I shall be able to survive it,” Anthony opined
philosophically, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “I’m not much of a
whale for my own company, it’s true, but I’ll probably fall in with
somebody or other up there; one often does. Baccy?”

“Thanks.” Roger took the extended pouch and transferred some of its
contents to the bowl of his own pipe with a somewhat absent air.
Suddenly his face cleared and he smote the table lustily. “I’ve got
it! Why on earth shouldn’t you come too? It ought to be interesting
enough and I’d be jolly glad of your company. Of course!”

“But the other rooms have been booked,” Anthony demurred.

“For goodness’ sake, stop harping on the bookedness of those rooms!
You’re getting positively morbid about them. They can be cancelled,
can’t they? Would you _like_ to come down with me?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Then go out and cancel them by wire, and I’ll send the woman a cheque
from Ludmouth; so that’s settled. I’ll ring up the _Courier_ and say
I’ll go, and then I shall have to fly down there and see them before I
start. There’s a train for Bournemouth at twelve-ten, I know, because
I caught it a fortnight ago. Greene will have got my bag packed by
now, so after you’ve wired come back here and collect the luggage and
go on to Waterloo. Take two first singles to Ludmouth and I’ll meet
you in front of the little place where you book for Sandown Park five
minutes before the train goes. Shoot!”

“What’s your second name, Roger?” Anthony asked admiringly. “Pep or
Zip?”

As he made his way down the main stairs of the building in which Roger
Sheringham’s bachelor flat was situated, Anthony Walton smiled slowly
to himself. The little holiday he had fixed up with Roger was going to
be even more amusing than he had expected.

Although there were more than ten years between the cousins (Roger was
now thirty-six, Anthony a bare twenty-five), they had always been good
friends, and that also in spite of the fact that they had scarcely a
taste or a feeling in common. It is often remarked, and even by people
whom one would certainly expect to know better, that opposites make a
happy marriage. Nothing could be more ludicrously untrue, but they do
frequently make a happy male friendship. This one was a case in point.

Anthony, big, broad-shouldered, good-natured and slow-witted, had got
his blue for rugger at Oxford, and now regularly left his father’s
office, where he sat and amiably did nothing for the rest of the week,
each Saturday morning to play for the Harlequins. It was his secret
opinion that games were the only things that mattered in this world.
In the matter of brains he was no match for the keen-witted if
slightly volatile Roger, and his slow deliberation was in equal
contrast with that gentleman’s dynamic energy; nor did he possess
enough imagination to be impressed in the slightest degree by his
cousin’s fame as a novelist with an already international reputation,
though he did afford him a qualified respect as the owner of a
half-blue for golf obtained at Oxford nearly fifteen years ago.

With his usual methodical care Anthony set about carrying out the
string of orders which had been entrusted to him. Seven minutes before
the train was due to leave he took up his position, tickets in hand,
at the appointed spot on the vast surface of Waterloo Station.
Punctually two minutes later Roger appeared and they passed through
the barrier together, followed by a staggering porter with their
combined traps. The train was not full, and an empty first-class
smoker was obtained without difficulty.

“We’re going to enjoy ourselves on this little trip, Anthony, my son,”
Roger remarked as the train began to move, settling himself
comfortably in his corner and beginning to unfold a large wad of
newspapers which he had brought with him. “Do you know that?”

“Are we?” Anthony said equably. “I shall enjoy watching you on the
trail, certainly. It must be a strange sight.”

“Yes, and now I come to think of it, you’re by way of being rather
indispensable there yourself, aren’t you?”

“Me? Why?”

“As the idiot friend,” Roger returned happily. “Must have an idiot
friend with me, you know. All the best sleuths do.”

Anthony grunted and began somewhat ostentatiously to turn the pages of
_The Sportsman_ with which he had prudently armed himself. Roger
applied himself to his bundle of papers. For half-an-hour or more no
word was spoken. Then Roger, throwing aside the last newspaper from
his batch, broke the silence.

“I think I’d better give you the facts as far as I can make them out,
Anthony; it’ll help to stick them in my own memory too.”

Anthony consulted his wrist-watch. “Do you know you haven’t spoken for
thirty-six minutes and twelve seconds, Roger?” he said in tones of the
liveliest astonishment. “I should think that’s pretty nearly a record,
isn’t it?”

“The name of the dead woman was Vane,” Roger continued imperturbably;
“Mrs. Vane. She appears to have gone out for a walk with a girl cousin
who was staying with her, a Miss Cross. According to this girl’s
story, Mrs. Vane sent her back as they were approaching the village on
their way home, saying that she wanted to call round and see a friend
on some matter or other. She never got there. A couple of hours later
a fisherman turned up at the police-station and reported that he had
seen something on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs as he was rowing
out to some lobster-pots half-an-hour earlier, though it had
apparently not occurred to him to go and see what it was. A constable
was sent off to investigate, and he and the fisherman climbed down the
cliffs, which seem to be fairly well broken up at that point. At the
bottom they found Mrs. Vane’s body. And that was that.”

“I believe I did see something about it,” Anthony nodded. “Wasn’t it
an accident?”

“Well, that’s what everybody thought, of course; and that was the
verdict at the inquest yesterday, Accidental Death. But this is the
important development. The _Courier’s_ local correspondent caught a
glimpse of Inspector Moresby, of all people, prowling about the place
this morning! He telephoned through at once, and——”

“Inspector Moresby? Who’s he?”

“Oh, you must have heard of him. He’s one of the big noises at
Scotland Yard. I suppose he’s been mixed up in nearly every big murder
case for the last ten years. Anyhow, you see the idea. If Moresby’s on
the job, that means that something rather important’s going to
happen.”

“By Jove! You mean she was murdered?”

“I mean that Scotland Yard seems to think she was,” Roger agreed
seriously.

Anthony whistled softly. “Any clues?”

“None that I know of, though of course they must be working on
something. All the local man can tell us is that Mrs. Vane was a
charming woman, quite young (twenty-eight, I think Burgoyne said),
pretty, attractive, and very popular in the neighbourhood. Her
husband’s a wealthy man, a good deal older than herself and a
scientist by hobby; in fact quite a fairly well-known experimentalist,
I understand.”

“Sounds queer!” Anthony ruminated. “Who on earth would want to murder
a woman like that? Did you gather whether any motive had come to
light?”

Roger hesitated for a moment. “What I did gather is that the girl
cousin benefits to the extent of over ten thousand pounds by Mrs.
Vane’s death,” he replied slowly.

“Oho! That sounds rather rotten, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Roger agreed gravely.

There was another little pause.

“And you’ve got to write about it for the _Courier?_” Anthony remarked
almost carelessly.

“Yes; as far as we know we’re the first in the field. It’ll be a
decent little scoop if we’re the only people to come out with the news
about Moresby to-morrow morning. I shall have to fly off and have a
chat with him the moment we arrive. Luckily I know him slightly
already.”

“Take your seats for lunch, pleece,” observed a head popping suddenly
into the carriage from the corridor. “Lunch is now being served,
pleece.”

“I say, Roger,” Anthony remarked, as they rose obediently, “what put
you on to this crime business? Before that Wychford affair, I mean.
You never used to be keen on it. What made you take it up?”

“A certain knotty and highly difficult little problem which I had the
felicity of solving about two years ago,” Roger replied modestly.
“That made me realise my own powers, so to speak. But I can’t tell you
names or anything like that, because it’s a most deadly secret. In
fact, you’d better not ask me anything about it at all.”

“Right-ho, I won’t, if it’s a secret,” Anthony promised.

Roger looked slightly disappointed.



Chapter II.

Girls and Murder

Ludmouth village is nearly a mile away from its station. On arriving
at the latter Roger and Anthony put their traps in the combined
ticket-office, porter’s room, luggage depot and cloakroom, and
proceeded to make enquiries regarding hotels.

“’Otel?” repeated the combined porter, station-master and
ticket-inspector, scratching the top of his head with an air of
profound cogitation. “Why, there ain’t no ’otel ’ereabouts.
Leastaways, not what you might call an ’otel, there ain’t.”

“Well, a pub, then,” rejoined Roger a trifle irritably. The journey
had been a long and tiresome one, and since changing at Bournemouth
they had seemed to progress at the rate of ten miles an hour. For one
who was as eager to get going as Roger had been all that day, few
things could have been more maddening than the journey as habitually
performed between Bournemouth and Ludmouth. It is not to say that the
train does not go fast when it is going, but stations seem to
demoralise it completely; it sits down and ruminates for a matter of
twenty minutes in each one before it can bring itself to go on to the
next. “What’s the name of the best pub in Ludmouth?”

The combination chuckled hoarsely. “The best pub?” he echoed with
considerable amusement. “The _best_ pub, hey? Oho! Hoo!”

“I’ve said something funny,” Roger pointed out to Anthony. “You see?
The gentleman is amused. I asked the name of the best pub, so no
wonder he’s convulsed with mirth.”

Anthony inspected the combination with some attention. “I don’t think
he’s laughing at you at all. I think he’s just seen a joke that
Gladstone made in 1884.”

“There ain’t nobbut one!” roared the combination. “So when you says
the _best_ pub I——”

“Where is the one pub in Ludmouth?” asked Roger patiently.

“Why, in the village, o’ course.”

“Where is the village of Ludmouth and its one pub?” Roger pursued with
almost superhuman self-restraint.

This time a more lucid reply was forthcoming, and the two strode out
into the hot sunshine and down the country road in the direction
indicated, leaving behind them a combination of porter, station-master
and ticket-inspector guffawing at irregular intervals as some fresh
aspect of this cream of jests appeared to occur to him.

It was a warm walk into the village, and they were glad enough to
plunge into the gloom of the little old-fashioned inn which stood in
the middle of the small cluster of houses which constitutes the
nucleus of the village. A smart rap or two on the counter brought the
landlord, a large man of aspect not unlike a benevolent ox and
perspiring almost audibly.

“Can’t serve you, gents, I’m afraid,” he rumbled cheerfully.
“Leastaways lemonade you can have, or ginger-beer, for the matter of
that; but nothing else.”

“That so?” said Roger. “Then produce two large tankards of beer, the
biggest tankards and the wettest beer you’ve got, for we came not as
travellers but as residents.”

“You don’t mean you want to stay ’ere as well? You want rooms?”

“Rooms we shall want, certainly; but what we want just at the moment
is beer—and don’t forget what I told you about the size of those
tankards.”

“Oh, well, that’s a different matter, that is,” agreed the landlord.
“I can let you have a couple of quart tankards, if they’re any use to
you.”

“Any _use?_ You watch!”

With much wheezing and creaking the landlord filled the two huge
tankards, and the two fell upon them gratefully. Then Roger replaced
his on the counter and wiped his mouth.

“So this is the only inn hereabouts, is it?” he asked with a careless
air.

“Yes, sir; it is that. Ludmouth’s a small village, you see, as far as
the village goes.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, there’s far more big ’ouses round and gentry and suchlike than
there is of us villagers, and naturally they don’t want
public-’ouses.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, quite so. By the way, I believe there’s a friend of
mine somewhere about here called Moresby. You seen or heard of him by
any chance?”

“Mr. Moresby?” beamed the landlord. “Why he’s staying ’ere, he is.
Took ’is room this very mornin’, he did. Well, fancy that!”

“Fancy it indeed! You hear that, Anthony? Dear old Moresby staying
under the very same roof-tree! What do you think of that, eh?”

“Good enough,” Anthony agreed.

“I should say so.” He took another pull at his tankard. “Been having
some excitement down here, landlord, haven’t you? Lady fell over a
cliff, or something?”

“Mrs. Vane, sir? Yes. Very sad business, very sad indeed. A wonderful
nice lady she was too, they say, though I can’t say as how I knew ’er
meself. A bit of a stranger in these parts, she was, you see. ’Adn’t
been married to the doctor more nor five years.”

“The doctor? Her husband is a doctor, is he?”

“Well, in a manner o’ speaking he is. He’s always called Dr. Vane,
though he don’t do no doctoring. Plenty o’ money he’s got now and
always ’as ’ad since he settled ’ere twenty or more years ago, but a
doctor he was once, they do say, an’ Dr. Vane he’s always called.”

“I see. And where does he live? Near here?”

“A matter of a mile or so out Sandsea way; big ’ouse standin’ in its
own grounds back from the cliffs. You couldn’t miss it. Very lonely,
like. You might take a stroll out there and see it if you’ve got
nothing to do.”

“By Jove, yes, we might, mightn’t we, Anthony?”

“I should think so,” said Anthony cautiously.

“But first of all about these rooms. How many have you got vacant,
landlord?”

“Well, besides Mr. Moresby’s, there’s four others altogether. If you’d
like to step up in a minute or two and see ’em, you could choose which
ones you’d like.”

“We won’t bother. We’ll take them all.”

“What, all four of ’em?”

“Yes; then we can have a bedroom and a sitting-room apiece, you see.”

“But there’s a sitting-room downstairs I could let you ’ave. A proper
sitting-room.”

“Is there? Good! Then we’ll take that too. I love proper
sitting-rooms. That’ll be five rooms altogether, won’t it? I should
think that ought to be enough for us. What would you say, Anthony?”

“I think that might be enough,” Anthony assented.

“You see, landlord? My friend agrees with me. Then that’s settled.”

“It’ll cost you more, sir,” the landlord demurred in some
bewilderment.

“Of course it will!” Roger agreed heartily. “Ever so much more. But
that can’t be helped. My friend is a very faddy man—a very faddy man
indeed; and if he thinks we ought to have five rooms, then five rooms
we shall have to have. I’m very sorry, landlord, but you see how it
is. And now I expect you’d like us to pay you a deposit, wouldn’t you?
Of course. And after that, there are our bags and things to be got
from the station, if you’ve got a spare man about the place; and you
might tell him from me that if the red-faced man who hands them over
begins to make curious noises all of a sudden, he needn’t take
offence; it only means that he’s just seen a joke that someone told
him the year Queen Victoria was born. Let’s see now; a deposit, you
said, didn’t you? Here’s ten pounds. You might make me out a receipt
for it, and be careful to mention all five rooms on the receipt or I
shall be getting into trouble with my friend. Thanks very much.”

The landlord’s expression, which had been growing blanker and blanker
as this harangue proceeded, brightened at the sight of the two
five-pound notes which Roger laid on the counter; words may be words,
but money is always money. He had not the faintest idea what it was
all about and it was his private opinion that Roger was suffering from
rather more than a touch of the sun, but he proceeded quite readily to
make out the required receipt.

Roger tucked it away in his pocket-book and, professing a morbid
interest in the late Mrs. Vane, began to ask a number of questions
regarding the exact spot where she had fallen over the cliff and how
best to get there. This information having been obtained and the
conveyance of the bags arranged for, he shook the puzzled landlord
heartily by the hand and drew Anthony out into the road.

“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing,” remarked that young man,
as they set off briskly in accordance with the landlord’s
instructions, “but I’m blessed if I do. Why on earth did you book four
bedrooms?”

Roger smiled gently. “To prevent all the other little journalists from
sharing our advantage in staying under the same roof as Inspector
Moresby of Scotland Yard, Cousin Anthony. A dirty trick, no doubt; but
nevertheless a neat one.”

“Oh, I see. Very cunning. And where are we off to now? The cliffs?”

“Yes. You see, I want to get hold of Moresby as soon as I possibly
can, and it seems to me that if he only arrived here this morning
he’ll still be hanging round those cliffs; so the best thing I can do
is to make for them too.”

“Seems a sound scheme. And after that?”

“Well, I ought to try to get an interview with one of the people at
the house, I suppose, though I don’t much fancy the idea of tackling
the doctor himself.”

“Dr. Vane? No, dash it, you can hardly butt in on him.”

“That’s what I feel. He has a secretary, I believe, though I don’t
know what her name is, and of course there’s the girl cousin, Miss
Cross. She’s the person one ought to make for, I think.”

Anthony frowned. “Seems rather rotten to me.”

“To interview her? Not necessarily, at all. She might have something
to say that she’d very much like published. She knows that the
uncompromising fact about that ten thousand pounds is going to be
talked about pretty hard if there’s any question of Mrs. Vane’s death
not being an accident; naturally she’d like an opportunity of putting
an indirect answer of her own forward.”

“I never thought of that,” Anthony confessed, his frown disappearing.

“Nor did I, till this minute,” Roger said candidly. “Still, it’s true
enough. And there’s a little job for you, Anthony. I shan’t want you
with me while I’m talking to Moresby; it’s going to be difficult
enough to get anything out of him in any case, but your presence would
probably dry him up altogether. So you might stroll along the cliffs,
locate the Vanes’ house, and see if you can discover unobtrusively any
information as to the girl’s movements or where I might be likely to
catch her—outside the house, of course, if possible. What about that?”

“Yes, I could do that for you. And meet you later on?”

“Yes; just stroll back along the top of the cliffs again and I shall
be sure to run into you. Well, there’s the sea not three hundred yards
ahead, and nothing but nice, open downs along the top of the cliffs up
there. We turn off to the right, I suppose, and you go straight along
while I make for the edge just over there. I expect I shall be through
in something under an hour. So long!”

As Anthony made his way leisurely over the springy turf in the
direction in which he judged his objective to lie, he pondered with no
little interest over the object of their journey down to this charming
part of the world and its possible outcome. There was in his make-up
none of that eager curiosity regarding his fellow-creatures, their
minds and the passions which sway them that had led Roger, after the
way had once been opened to him, to explore the vast field of
criminology with all its intense and absorbing interest for the
student of the human animal. Indeed the notion of nosing out hidden
facts and secret horrors (“like a bally policeman,” as he had
contemptuously phrased it to Roger over their lunch on the train) had
at first actually repelled him; it was not until Roger had been at
considerable pains to point out the moral duty which every living
person owes to the dead that his eyes were opened to any wider
conception of the idea. And even then, though admitting that there
must be detectives just as much as there must be hangmen, he was quite
firm in his gratitude to Providence that he at any rate was not one of
them; nor could Roger, expatiating on the glories of a clever piece of
deductive reasoning, the exquisite satisfaction of logical proof, the
ardour of the chase with a human quarry (but none the less a quarry
that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred deserved not a jot of
mercy) at the end of it, move him an inch from this position.

It was this state of mind which had caused him to receive with ominous
disapproval Roger’s pointed information about the girl cousin and her
ten thousand pounds. A girl, to Anthony’s mind, should not be
mentioned in the same breath as the word murder. Girls were things
apart. Murder concerned men; not girls. Girls might be and very often
were murdered, but not by other girls. If it were distasteful to hunt
down a man suspected of murder, how impossible would it not be to
harry a wretched girl in the same circumstances?

As his thoughts progressed with his steps, an idea began to form in
Anthony’s mind. He would not only seek out the whereabouts of Miss
Cross, as Roger had asked him; he would contrive to speak to her for a
minute or two and, if possible, drop a veiled warning as to the things
that might be expected to happen—that were, in fact, even now
happening—together with an equally veiled hint that at any rate he,
Anthony Walton, was prepared to extend to her any help within his
power, should she wish to accept it. After all, that was the least a
chap could do. It was the only decent thing. Ten to one she wouldn’t
need anything of the sort, but the offer—yes, of course it was the
only decent thing to do. Girls were weak, helpless things. Let them
know they’ve got a man behind them (even a perfect stranger if the
case is serious enough to warrant it) and it makes all the difference
in the world to ’em. Naturally!

In the glow of this resolution Anthony had unconsciously directed his
steps toward the sea, so that he was now striding along the very edge
of the cliffs. Coming to his senses with a jerk, he pulled up short
and looked inland. Not five hundred yards to his right there stood, in
a large fenced area which evidently stretched to the road half-a-mile
away, a big red house. As the landlord of the inn had said, there was
no mistaking it. Anthony gazed at it for a few moments without moving;
now that he was face to face with it, the task of penetrating its
purlieus and demanding speech with an unknown lady in order to warn
her against dangers which quite probably did not exist at all,
suddenly took on a somewhat formidable aspect.

His eyes left its red roof and began, probably with an instinctive
idea of looking for help, to sweep the remainder of the view, arriving
in due course at the edge of the cliff just in front of him. At this
point Anthony started violently, for seated on a small grassy ledge
not a dozen feet below the cliff top, which was crumbled away at the
point to form a steep but not impossible slope down, was a girl who
was occupied in gazing as hard at Anthony as he had been gazing at the
house. As his glance at last fell upon her she also started, coloured
faintly, and hurriedly transferred her eyes to the horizon in front of
her.

On an impulse Anthony stepped forward and raised his hat.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I am looking for Dr. Vane’s house.
Could you tell me if that is it?”

The girl twisted half round to face him. She wore no hat, and the sun
glinted on her dark hair, unshingled and twisted in two coils on
either side of her head; the eyes with which she looked at Anthony
were large and brown, and the simple little black frock she was
wearing suited her lithe, graceful body so well that one would have
said she should never wear anything else.

“I thought you must be,” she said calmly. “Yes, it is. Did you want to
see anyone in particular?”

“Well, yes; I— That is, I rather wanted to see Miss Cross.”

The girl suddenly stiffened. “I am Miss Cross,” she said coldly.



Chapter III.

Inspector Moresby Is Reluctant

The village of Ludmouth lies about half a mile back from the sea. At
the nearest point to the village, where Roger and Anthony had left the
road to strike across open country, the water had broken in upon the
stern lines of the high cliffs which form the coast-line for several
miles in either direction. The result is a tiny little inlet, almost
completely circular in shape, which has been dignified by the name of
Ludmouth Bay.

At either horn of this minute bay, which could hardly have been more
than a couple of hundred yards wide, the cliffs rise almost sheer to a
height of at least a hundred feet, to sink gradually down as they
follow the bay’s curve into a strip of sandy beach at the innermost
edge, whence a steep track leads up to the village on the high ground
behind. It is a charmingly picturesque spot and, lying as it does a
little way off the beaten track, has not yet been spoiled (except for
occasional excursion parties on bicycles from the neighbouring town of
Sandsea, half-a-dozen miles away to the West) by the ubiquitous
tripper; for the roads on all sides are too steep and too dangerous
for char-à-bancs—a matter of much comfort to those of the inhabitants
who keep neither public-houses nor banana shops.

The cliffs which stretch toward Sandsea face the open sea with
considerably less frowning austerity than those to the East; they
slope slightly backward instead of dropping sheer, and are so
irregular and split up into huge boulders, clefts and rocky knobs, as
to be by no means impossible for a determined man to climb. About a
third of the way down their face they bear a narrow ledge, which
proceeds more or less level for a considerable distance and has been
turned, by means of a flight of steps cut in the rock at either end,
into a pathway. At one time this pathway had been in some favour among
the lads of the village as a place from which to fish when the tide
was high; but customs change even in Ludmouth, and nowadays anyone in
search of solitude could usually be sure of finding it here. To add to
its advantages in this respect, a bulge in the rock just above served
to hide it completely for nearly its whole length from the eyes of
anybody standing on the top of the cliff overhead. Inspector Moresby,
sitting on a low boulder at a spot where the ledge widened out to a
depth of nearly a dozen feet, could be observed from nowhere except
the open sea.

Inspector Moresby was as unlike the popular idea of a great detective
as can well be imagined. His face resembled anything but a razor, or
even a hatchet (if it must be compared with something in that line, it
was far more like a butter-knife); his eyes had never been known to
snap since infancy; and he simply never rapped out remarks—he just
spoke them. Let us not shirk the fact: a more ordinary-looking and
ordinarily behaved man never existed.

To proceed to details, the inspector was heavily-built, with a
grizzled walrus moustache and stumpy, insensitive fingers; his face
habitually wore an expression of bland innocence; he was frequently
known to be jovial, and he bore not the least malice toward any of his
victims.

At the moment of our introduction to him he was gazing with an
appearance of extreme geniality, his chin on his knuckles and one
elbow perched on either knee, at a small rowing-boat half-a-mile out
at sea; but his expression was not inspired by any feeling of
affectionate regard for the boat’s horny-handed occupant. He was,
indeed, quite unaware of the boat’s existence. He was engaged in
wondering very intensely how a lady could have managed to fall
accidentally off this ledge at the particularly broad part where he
was now sitting; and why, if the lady had not fallen off accidentally
but had been committing suicide, she should have done so with a large
button from somebody else’s coat tightly clenched in her right hand.

Quite an interesting problem, Inspector Moresby had decided;
interesting enough, at any rate, to call him over semi-officially that
morning from Sandsea, where he had been in the middle of his annual
holiday with his wife and two children, to look into the matter a
little further pending instructions from Scotland Yard and the county
police authorities.

The sound of footsteps advancing along the path from the East caused
him to glance up sharply, his face just a shade less genial than
usual. The next moment a stockily-built man, hatless and wearing a
pair of perfectly shapeless grey flannel trousers and a disreputable
old sports coat, and smoking a short-stemmed pipe with an enormous
bowl, came into sight round a bend in the path, walking rapidly.

The newcomer slowed up at sight of the inspector and glanced at him
with an air of elaborate carelessness. A look of equally elaborate
incredulity appeared on his face, then he smiled widely and hurried
forward with outstretched hand.

“Great Scott, Inspector Moresby! Well, fancy seeing you here,
Inspector! You remember me, don’t you? My name’s——”

“Mr. Sheringham! Of course I remember you, sir,” returned the
inspector warmly, shaking the other’s hand with great heartiness.
“Shouldn’t be likely to forget you after enjoying your books so much,
you know, let alone the way you astonished us all at the Yard over
that business at Wychford. Let’s see now, it was with Mr. Turner of
the _Courier_, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. The ‘Hattan Garden jewel case,’ as the papers called
it. Well, Inspector, and what are you doing in this peaceful part of
the world?”

“I’m on my holiday,” replied the inspector with perfect truth.
“Staying over at Sandsea with the wife and children.”

“Oh, yes,” said Roger innocently.

“And how do you come here, sir? Holidaying too?”

Roger winked broadly. “Me? Oh, no. I’m down here in pursuit of a new
profession that’s just been thrust upon me.”

“Indeed, sir? What’s that?”

“Well, to put it quite bluntly, I’m down here to ask Inspector Moresby
on behalf of the _Courier_ what he’s got to tell me about a lady who
fell off the cliff somewhere about here a day or two ago, and why such
an important person as he should be so interested in an ordinary
accident.”

The inspector rubbed his chin with a rueful grin. “And I’d just
strolled over here from Sandsea to get away from the crowds for a
bit!” he deplored innocently. “I’ve only got to yawn at the wrong
time, and there’s half-a-dozen gentlemen of your new profession round
the next minute asking what the significance is.”

“Going to have a nice nap before you go back to Sandsea?” Roger asked
with a twinkle in his eye.

“A nap?”

“Yes; at least, I don’t suppose you booked that room at the Crown just
to brush your hair in, did you?”

The inspector chuckled appreciatively. “Got me there, sir! Well, I may
be staying over here for a day or two, yes. Even accidents can have
their interesting side, you know, after all.”

“Especially an accident that isn’t an accident, eh? Come on,
Inspector; you can’t put me off like that, you know. I’m developing a
nose like a bloodhound’s for this sort of thing, and it’s busy telling
me very hard that you’ve got something up your sleeve. What’s the
idea? Can’t you give me a pointer or two?”

“Well, I don’t know that perhaps I mightn’t. I’ll think it over.”

“Can’t you do it now? Just a few words to send the _Courier_ before
the other johnnies turn up. I’ll get ’em to splash your name all over
it, if that’s any good to you. Come now!”

The inspector considered. He was never averse to having his name
splashed about in an important paper like the _Courier_ if the
circumstances warranted it. As long as the bounds of discretion were
not overstepped a little publicity never did a police officer any
harm, and it has frequently done him a great deal of good.

“Well, without saying too much, I don’t mind telling you that there
_are_ one or two suspicious circumstances, Mr. Sheringham,” he
admitted at length. “You see, the lady was supposed to have been alone
at the time when she fell over here.”

“At this very spot, I take it?” Roger put in.

“At this very spot. But I’m not at all sure—not at _all_ sure!—that
she was alone. And that’s really all I can say at present.”

“Why do you think she wasn’t?”

“Ah!” The inspector looked exceedingly mysterious. “I can’t go so far
as to tell you that, but I think you can let your readers know that
I’m not speaking altogether at random.”

“‘Inspector Moresby, who has the matter in hand, intimated that he has
discovered an important clue. While not at liberty to disclose the
precise nature of this, he assured me that important developments may
be expected shortly,’” Roger intoned solemnly.

“Something like that,” the inspector laughed. “And of course I needn’t
point out to a gentleman like you how improbable it would be for
anyone to fall over accidentally just here where this ledge is so
deep.”

Roger nodded. “Suicide, by any chance?”

“May have been,” agreed the inspector in a perfectly expressionless
voice.

“But you’re quite sure it wasn’t!” Roger smiled. “Eh?”

The inspector laughed again. “I’ll be able to let you know a bit more
later on, no doubt, sir. In the meantime——” He paused significantly.

“In the meantime you’d be very much obliged if I’d stop these awkward
questions and leave you in peace again? I get you, Inspector. Very
well. But you don’t mind if I just have a look round here before I go,
do you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Sheringham,” said the inspector heartily. “By all
means.”

It was with a mild feeling of resentment, however, in spite of the
inspector’s friendly reception of him, that Roger embarked upon a
cursory examination of the ledge on which they were standing. It was
more in the nature of a demonstration than anything else, for he knew
perfectly well that there would be nothing for him to find; Inspector
Moresby would have seen to that. No doubt it was perfectly right and
proper to withhold from him the clues which he had most certainly
discovered—no doubt at all. But Roger did think the man might have
treated him somewhat differently from an ordinary reporter, especially
after his reference to Wychford. It was annoying in a way; decidedly
annoying. And still more annoying was the fact that he had nothing
whatever to be annoyed about. In the inspector’s eyes he was a
reporter, and that was all there was to it; he had come down here as a
reporter, he was acting as a reporter, he _was_ a reporter. Hell!

As he had expected, the ledge yielded nothing at all.

“Humph!” he observed, straightening up from a boulder behind which he
had been peering. “Nothing much here. And no signs of a struggle
either.”

“There wouldn’t be, on this rocky surface,” the inspector pointed out
kindly. “Too hard to take impressions, you see.”

“Yes, that idea occurred to me,” Roger remarked a trifle coldly. He
walked over to the western end of the ledge, where it narrowed down
rapidly into a pathway not more than four or five feet wide, and began
to stroll along it.

He had scarcely covered half-a-dozen paces before the inspector’s
voice pulled him up with a jerk. “Not that way, if you want to get
back, sir. I shouldn’t go that way if I were you; it’s very much
longer. You’ll find the way you came a good deal shorter.”

Roger started slightly. “Oho, old war-horse!” he murmured to himself.
“So the ears are pricking, are they?” He turned about and scrutinised
the inspector with interest. “Now I wonder just exactly why you don’t
want me to go this way, Inspector?”

“It’s no matter to me, sir,” returned the inspector very innocently.
“I was just trying to save you a bit of a walk round, that’s all.”

“I see. But do you know, I think I should like a bit of a walk round,”
Roger remarked with some care. “I feel it would do me good. Clear my
brain, and all that. Good-bye, Inspector; see you later, no doubt.”
And he set off again, though more slowly this time, in the confident
expectation of being called back once more.

He was not disappointed.

“I see I shall have to tell you,” said the inspector’s resigned voice
behind him. “But you understand, I don’t want this mentioned yet
awhile, sir. I’m not scaring my bird just at present if I can help
it—always provided there is one, of course. Come with me, and I’ll
show you.”

He led the way a few yards farther along the path and paused in front
of a wide patch of dry mud. Plainly marked in the mud were the
imprints of two pairs of feet, both women’s, one pair decidedly larger
than the other; the deep impressions of the high heels were clean and
distinct.

“Oho!” said Roger softly, staring hard.

“Yes, that’s why I said the lady wasn’t alone,” the inspector pointed
out. “I’ve ascertained pretty certainly that she came along from this
end, you see, and these marks were made yesterday morning or
thereabouts. It’s a bit of luck that they haven’t been obliterated
since, but everyone else seems to have come and gone from the other
end as it’s so near the steps. I’ve tried the shoes she was wearing,
by the way, and they fit exactly in the smaller impressions. That’s
nothing like so important as the story-books make out, of course (I
dare say there are at least twenty pairs of shoes even in this small
place which would fit one or other of those prints); but it’s a point
worth mentioning for all that.”

Roger turned eagerly from his contemplation of the mud. “This is jolly
significant, Inspector; anyone can see that. But it doesn’t absolutely
destroy the accident theory, does it? Not alone. No, I’m ready to bet
you’ve got something else up your sleeve as well.”

“Well, perhaps I have, sir,” twinkled the inspector, who was not
feeling inclined to talk about coat-buttons just at the moment.
“Perhaps I have. But you must take it from me that this is all I can
tell you for the moment, and that last bit isn’t for publication yet
awhile either, you won’t forget.”

They turned and walked back to the ledge again.

“Where was the body found?” Roger asked. “In the water?”

“No, a couple of feet above high-water mark. You see that big rock
down there—the one with the seaweed half-way over the top and a bunch
of yellow limpets on this side? Well, wedged between that and the
smaller one this side of it.”

“I see,” said Roger thoughtfully, gauging the distance from the edge
of the ledge. A person tumbling straight over the edge would miss it
by feet; quite a respectable little jump would be needed to reach it.
A jump, or—a push! Furthermore, there was, straight down below the
ledge, a deep pool among the rocks into which anybody just tumbling
over must inevitably have fallen. Mrs. Vane’s body had cleared the
pool and landed on the boulders beyond it. The inference was obvious;
any question of an accident was now almost definitely ruled out. It
was a matter of suicide or murder.

Roger turned to the inspector. “There’s been a post mortem, I
suppose?”

“Yes. This morning.”

“Were any bones broken?”

The inspector smiled. “Oh, yes; plenty. She hadn’t been murdered
anywhere else and put there, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It did cross my mind,” Roger smiled back. “I needn’t ask whether
anyone saw anything from the sea?”

“No, I was making enquiries on those lines this morning, myself.
Unfortunately there don’t seem to have been any boats out here at all
just then. But the old fisherman who subsequently discovered the body
seems to think he heard a scream coming from this direction about an
hour beforehand; in fact, he says that’s probably what made him look
over here as he was rowing past. But he didn’t pay any attention to it
at the time, thinking it was some dratted girl being tickled—his own
words, by the way.”

“That’s interesting,” observed Roger, the light in his eye belying his
laconic words. “By the way, I suppose you’ve been down to those
rocks?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t,” said the inspector a little guiltily.
“I should have done, I know, but I’m not built for climbing down from
here, and I don’t seem to have had time to get round there in a boat.
In any case, I’m pretty sure there’d be nothing to find. The constable
who recovered the body brought her hand-bag and her parasol, and he
said he’d had a good look round. Strictly between ourselves, Mr.
Sheringham, I was going to assume that his eyes are as good as mine;
but don’t put anything about that in the _Courier_.”

“I’ll have to think that over,” Roger laughed. “Anyhow, I’m a man of
stern duty: I’m going to see if I can scramble down and poke round. I
know there won’t be anything to find, but it’s the sort of thing that
gives one a lot of satisfaction afterward to have done.”

“Well, don’t you stumble and pitch on the rocks too,” said the
inspector humorously. “Somebody might come along and accuse me of
things.”

The way down was not nearly so difficult as it looked from above.
Everywhere the face of the cliff was so seamed and fissured that
foothold was easy, while half-way down a great piled-up pyramid of
boulders provided a kind of giant’s staircase tolerably simple to
negotiate. Within five minutes of leaving the inspector, Roger was
standing on the big rock beside which Mrs. Vane’s body had been found.

For some minutes he poked about, peering into pools and religiously
exploring the recesses of every cranny, while the inspector kept up a
running commentary upon the habits of crabs, lobsters and other
sea-going creatures which lurk in dark holes awaiting an opportunity
to deal drastically with exploratory hands; then he stood up and swept
a brief glance round before beginning the climb back.

“No,” he called up to the inspector, who had just finished recounting
an anecdote about the grandfather of a friend of his who had been
stung to death by a jellyfish while paddling among the rocks off
Sandsea. “Nothing here! Now tell me a story about the great-aunt of
another friend of yours who fell down a hundred feet when
rock-climbing in Cumberland. I shall be ripe for something like that
in about five minutes, when I’m clinging on to that last bit of cliff
up there with my teeth and eyebrows.”

The obliging inspector instantly embarked on the anecdote required,
and at the same moment Roger, in mid-stride between two boulders,
noticed something white glistening below him. Action was almost
instinctive.

“Hullo!” exclaimed the inspector in concern, breaking off his
narrative abruptly. “Hurt yourself?”

Roger picked himself up slowly and brushed a little green slime off
his trousers with his hands. “No, thanks,” he called back cheerfully.
“Not a bit!” And he went on brushing himself with his hands.

He couldn’t use his handkerchief, because that was lying in his breast
pocket, wrapped about the piece of paper on top of which he had
skilfully stage-managed his fall.



Chapter IV.

Anthony Interviews a Suspect

Anthony had not had very much experience with women. In the brief
instant after the girl had spoken it occurred to him with some force
that his ideas on the subject might require drastic revision. Women
were not necessarily weak, helpless creatures. Names such as Joan of
Arc, Boadicea, Florence Nightingale, Queen Elizabeth, occurred to him
with startling rapidity. Were they weak, helpless creatures? They were
not. Nor was the girl who was standing in front of him and regarding
him now with cold, haughty eyes. Anybody less weak and helpless,
anybody more obviously capable of looking after herself could hardly
have existed.

“I am Miss Cross,” she repeated in frigid tones. “What do you want?”

Anthony’s tongue seemed to have become jammed. His mission, which had
seemed a moment before so altogether right and proper, suddenly took
on the aspect of the most fatuous thing ever conceived by misguided
human mind. Even to connect this beautiful, proud creature with the
mere idea of bare self-interest appeared a kind of blasphemy.

“Oh, I—I wanted to speak to you for a minute,” he managed to stammer.
“But it doesn’t matter.” At this point Anthony ought to have turned
about and run off at top speed with his tail between his legs, making
a noise like a flat pancake. But he couldn’t. By some curious action
of nature his feet seemed to have taken root in the ground.

“Are you connected with the police?” the girl asked with incredible
scorn.

“Great Heavens, no!” cried Anthony, genuinely shocked. “I should think
not! Great Scott, no! Good Lord, no!”

The girl’s uncompromising attitude relaxed slightly. “Then why did you
want to see me?” she asked, as if very few people except the police
ever wanted to see _her_.

“Well, it was just about something I thought I ought to tell you,”
Anthony mumbled. “But it doesn’t matter. I see that now. It doesn’t
matter a bit.”

Curiosity could be seen struggling with resentment in the girl’s face.
Strangely enough, curiosity won.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve come all this way out to speak
to me, and now you’ve got here you’ve decided that it doesn’t matter?”
she said, and actually a faint hint of the merest shadow of a
suspicion of a smile flitted for a quarter-of-a-second into and out of
her eyes.

“Now I’ve seen you, I’m quite sure it doesn’t matter, Miss Cross,”
Anthony said simply.

“Well, thank Heaven my appearance seems to impress somebody
favourably,” murmured the girl wearily, more to herself than the
other, and for an instant the mantle of pride she had been wearing
seemed to drop from her and she looked utterly forlorn and miserable.

Anthony was emboldened into a sudden decision. “I’ll tell you why I
came, Miss Cross, after all. I just came to say that if you wanted any
help in the present circumstances, I should be very proud to— That is
to say, I should like you to know that—I mean——” He ceased
floundering, for the girl’s eyes were regarding him steadily with an
expression in their depths which he was finding peculiarly
disconcerting.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” she said haughtily. “I was not
aware that I needed any ‘help.’”

“No, of course not,” Anthony stammered. “Naturally not! I was only
thinking that——”

“And I must decline to discuss my private affairs with a stranger! So
if there is nothing else——” She paused, obviously waiting for him to
go.

Anthony felt himself becoming annoyed. He knew that his recent
embarrassment had made him look a fool and he resented the fact; he
knew that his motive in seeking speech with this girl had been a
completely altruistic one and here she was treating it as a piece of
unwarrantable impertinence, and he resented that still more.

“In that case,” he said stiffly, “there is nothing more to be said,
and I must apologise for bothering you. Though I think you should
understand,” he added on the impulse of the instant by way of a
parting shot as his temper momentarily got the better of his manners,
“I think you should understand that possibly your private affairs will
soon be becoming of some interest to the public at large, Miss Cross.”

The girl coloured violently and for a moment seemed incapable of
speaking. Her eyes blazed, she clinched her small fists by her sides
and her dark head was flung back as if to meet an actual attack.

“If you’ve come here to insult me——” she choked out.

“But I haven’t!” said Anthony in considerable alarm at this unexpected
result of his thrust. “I simply meant that I’ve come down here with a
friend of mine who’s working for the _Daily Courier_ and he said
something about getting you to give him an interview. I thought you
ought to know.”

As abruptly as it had arisen the girl’s anger disappeared and
something very like fear took the place of the fire in her eyes. She
stared at Anthony widely.

“A—a _reporter?_” she muttered. “Good Heavens, has it come to that
now?”

Men are curious creatures. A moment ago Anthony was severely annoyed
and wanted nothing better than to make this extremely crushing young
lady severely annoyed too. The instant he had succeeded in doing so,
he had been filled with alarm. Now that he had changed her mood once
more, from anger to fear, he began to feel the worst kind of inhuman
brute imaginable.

“No, but look here,” he said eagerly, “there’s nothing to be alarmed
about. They always do it, you know. Interviews and all that. He’s an
awfully nice chap too. Roger Sheringham, the novelist, you know.
Cousin of mine, as a matter of fact. I dare say he won’t try to see
you at all if you don’t want him to. Sure he won’t! I’ll tell him,
shall I? Dash it all, there are crowds of other people he can
interview if he must interview somebody. I was against it at the time,
to tell you the truth, but he thought you might want to be interviewed
for some reason or other. I’ll tell him, Miss Cross. Don’t you bother
about that. I’ll see it’s all right.”

It was doubtful if the girl had understood a single word beyond the
general drift of what Anthony was saying. She continued to stare at
him; but mechanically, as if paying attention only to her own
thoughts. When next she spoke her voice was under control again,
though her words were a little halting.

“Then am I to understand that—that the London papers are taking an
interest in—in my cousin’s death?” she asked.

“I’m afraid they are,” said Anthony humbly, apologising for the London
paper _en masse_.

The girl shifted her gaze and contemplated the horizon with unseeing
eyes, busy again with her thoughts. Anthony, judging he had received
permission to exist a little longer, made advantageous use of his
reprieve by contemplating her.

She really was extraordinarily pretty, he had no difficulty in
deciding. He liked her slimness and grace, he liked the way her head
was set on her neck, he liked the way her black hair curled over her
ears, he liked her wrists and her small feet, he liked— But why reduce
Margaret Cross to a catalogue? There was nothing about her Anthony did
not like. When he got back to his lodgings he would probably think
this over and the realisation would suddenly strike him that this was
the one girl in the world for him—expressly designed and manufactured
by a thoughtful Providence for the sole purpose of delighting,
harassing, maddening and ultimately very greatly gratifying one
Anthony Walton, bachelor. The realisation had already struck him
exactly twenty-three times before and twenty-three times he had
mistaken the intentions of Providence; but this time it was the _real_
thing. It always was.

Anthony continued his contemplation, each second more raptly than
before.

Suddenly the girl appeared to come to a decision. She turned to him
with an impulsive movement, and to his relief Anthony saw that she was
smiling.

“Will you come and sit down here a minute, Mr.——?”

“Walton!” Anthony supplied hastily.

“Mr. Walton. I owe you an enormous apology, I’m afraid. It was very
kind indeed of you to think of coming along to give me warning. I was
a pig to you.”

“Not a bit,” Anthony averred, scrambling eagerly down the little bank
to join her on the little grassy ledge a dozen feet down from the
cliff’s lip. “It was most natural. I ought to apologise if anyone
should. Frightfully tactless.”

“Not at all!” said the girl warmly. “It was entirely my fault. But if
you’ll forgive me, we’ll say no more about it. Now let’s sit down here
and make ourselves comfortable, because I’m going to take you at your
word.”

“Do, please,” Anthony said earnestly, as he seated himself on the
warm, springy turf at her side. “I should be awfully proud.”

The girl clasped her arms round her knees and stared out to sea.
Anthony, glancing at her covertly, noted with approval the firm and
resolute lines of her profile. She could not be more than one- or
two-and-twenty, he decided, but even he could read an experience
beyond her years of the world, its trials and its anxieties in the
tiny lines of care about her mouth and the faint markings on her white
forehead.

“You said something about my needing help,” she said slowly, as if
choosing her words with care. “Well, why should I be silly and pretend
I don’t? I do need it. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you; but I
feel I can trust you, and there’s nobody else to whom I can speak. Not
a single soul. I suppose you know that—that——”

“Yes,” Anthony interrupted gently. “I think I know all the facts.”

“I supposed so, or you wouldn’t have said that.” She fixed her big,
sorrowful brown eyes on Anthony’s face. “But what you don’t know, Mr.
Walton, is that a police inspector from Scotland Yard was with me for
nearly two hours this morning, asking me the most _horrible_
questions!”

A cold hand seemed to lay itself over Anthony’s heart. “I say, was he
really?” he muttered. “No, I didn’t know that.”

The girl nodded. She opened her mouth to speak again, but her lips
trembled and she turned her head quickly away. A little quiver shook
her body. Then suddenly the control that had borne her up all this
time, ever since that dreadful interview in the morning, gave way
before Anthony’s silent sympathy. She buried her face in her hands and
burst into tears.

“He seems to think—oh, the most awful things!” she sobbed.

Anthony stared at her in dismay. It was bad enough that she should
have burst into tears at all, without the terrible significance of her
last words. He was certain that Margaret Cross was not the sort of
person to give way to tears unless matters had reached an acute
crisis; the fact that she had done so impressed him with the
seriousness of the situation even more than had her decision to
confide in himself, a complete stranger. She must be not only utterly
alone in the world; she was very nearly at the end of her tether as
well.

Masculine sympathy with distressed femininity is nearly always
inarticulate (distrust it when it is not!), but fortunately it has
resource at its command far superior to mere words. Anthony did not
stop to think. He acted instinctively. Putting his arm about her he
drew her toward him without a word and laid her head on his shoulder.
Almost gratefully she buried her face in the hollow of it like a small
child seeking consolation from its mother and continued to weep.
Anthony had the wisdom to let her go on doing so without attempting a
single word of clumsy consolation—though indeed it is doubtful whether
he would have been able to do so had he wished, for he was vaguely
feeling himself almost sanctified by contact with something rather
holy and, for such an outwardly unemotional Briton, there was a most
unusual lump in his throat as he looked down on the sleek dark head
sheltering against his rough coat and felt the sobs shaking the slim
body he held in his arms.

By degrees the girl’s weeping subsided. Her form ceased to quiver and
she gently disengaged herself from Anthony’s encircling arm.

“I’m a fool,” she said, looking at him with rather a watery smile. “Is
my nose disgustingly red?”

“Not a bit!” Anthony lied stoutly, considerably relieved by the smile.
“It’s ripping.”

Margaret dived into her bag and produced a little mirror. Sounds of
dismay issued from her, and a powder-puff was hastily brought into
action.

“That’s better,” she observed a minute or two later, scrutinising her
image with close attention. She turned and faced Anthony with a frank
smile that was a tacit acknowledgment of the bond between them. “Will
you ever forgive me for making such an idiot of myself?”

“Look here,” Anthony said slowly, “I don’t want to butt in on anything
you don’t want to tell me, but wouldn’t you like to tell me the whole
story? You know I’m only too anxious to do anything I possibly can to
help you, and matters seem to be a bit—well, a bit more serious even
than I’d thought. If you would like to let me know the whole
circumstances——?”

He paused, and the girl nodded understandingly. “You mean it’s no good
asking you to help me unless you know what I’m up against?” she said
thoughtfully. “Well, that stands to reason. Of course I’ll tell you. I
was going to before as a matter of fact, only I——” She left the
sentence unfinished and, hunching her knees, resumed her former pose
and gazed out to sea.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Anthony asked, producing his pipe.

“Of course not. In fact I rather feel I need a cigarette myself. No,
don’t you bother!” she added quickly, as Anthony felt in his pockets.
“I’ve got some of my own particular brand here, and I hardly ever
smoke anything else.”

She produced a cigarette-case from her bag, and Anthony held a match
for her, lighting his own pipe from it afterward. She drew one or two
deep inhalations and sighed contentedly.

“Well, about myself; there’s really very little to tell you. Four
months ago I was in London, broke to the wide—as I had been off and on
for the last seven years. My father was an officer in the regular
army; he was killed in France in 1917, when I was fifteen years old. I
inherited about two hundred pounds from him and, of course, a pension;
the pension was just enough to keep body and soul together if one
lived on rice and cold water, but not much more.” She paused for a
moment as if in thought.

“Unfortunately,” she went on with a touch of cynicism, “it appears
that my father had ‘married beneath him.’ I don’t remember my mother
at all (she died when I was a baby), but I believe that she was the
daughter of a fraudulent bucket-shop proprietor in Liverpool who had
served two terms of imprisonment and my father was more or less
entrapped into marriage with her when he was a young subaltern. He
never hinted a word of all this to me, by the way; don’t think that.
He was a dear. But it’s been rubbed into me pretty thoroughly since by
other charming people.”

“I say,” Anthony put in in acute distress, “please don’t tell me
anything you’d rather not. I mean——!”

“Why not?” asked the girl in a hard voice. “Why shouldn’t I tell you
everything? That police inspector seems to know all about it. Probably
it will be in all the papers to-morrow.”

“But——” Anthony shifted his position and relapsed into uncomfortable
silence.

“Well, the consequence was that my father had been cut off by his
family. They wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. Nor would
they with me. One of his brothers sent five hundred pounds to daddy’s
solicitors to provide for my education and keep me till I was old
enough to earn my own living, but that was as far as any of them would
go. I’m not complaining; in the circumstances it was remarkably
generous of him. That money, with my own two hundred, kept me till I
was eighteen, after that I had to earn my own living. You’ve probably
heard that girls had some difficulty in getting jobs after the war.
It’s perfectly true. I was trained as a shorthand-typist, but
unfortunately nobody seemed to want a shorthand-typist. But I got work
all right. I had to. During the last three years I’ve been a
governess, a shop-assistant, a waitress and a parlour-maid.”

“Good God!” Anthony breathed.

The girl laughed suddenly with genuine amusement. “Oh, you needn’t
pity me for the last. That was the best of the lot. I can’t think why
I didn’t try it sooner. Governessing was the worst I think; but they
do work waitresses rather hard, I must admit. Well, that sort of thing
went on for three years, as I told you; and then I was dismissed from
my proud position of parlour-maid by an irate lady because her husband
wanted to kiss me and was tactless enough to try with the door open. I
boxed his ears for her, but apparently that wasn’t enough, so I was
turned out, with a month’s wages in my bag. I’d just come to an end of
them and was beginning to wonder rather desperately where the next was
to come from, when I got a letter from Elsie—Mrs. Vane, you know.”

Anthony nodded. “Your cousin?”

“Yes; her mother was my mother’s sister. I’d never seen her in my
life—hardly even heard of her, in fact—but to my astonishment she said
that she’d heard I was having rather a rough time and, as she had
plenty of money of her own, would like to extend a helping hand, so to
speak. Anyhow, the upshot was that she invited me to come and live
here, nominally as her companion and with a quite generous salary.”

“Jolly decent of her,” Anthony commented.

The girl glanced at him rather queerly. “Yes, wasn’t it? And very
extraordinary too. But there was something more extraordinary to come.
A day or two after I had arrived she broke the news to me quite
casually that she had made a new will that morning leaving all her
money and everything else unconditionally to me—ten thousand pounds or
more, to say nothing of her jewellery. As you can imagine, I was
absolutely astounded.”

“I should think so. But how topping of her!”

“Very,” said the girl drily. “But you see the position it puts me
in—combined with my excellent grandfather. Rather—difficult, to say
the least, isn’t it? And the trouble is that I’ve simply nobody to
advise me. The solicitor who managed my affairs is dead; George—Dr.
Vane—is—well, he’s not the sort of person one could talk to about this
sort of thing; nor is Miss Williamson, his secretary. I’m absolutely
alone.” She tossed her cigarette out over the sea and laughed a little
bitterly. “So now perhaps you can understand why I’m ready to take
into my confidence the very first person who comes along—though even
that doesn’t excuse my howling on his shoulder, I’m afraid.”

“It’s a perfectly damnable position,” growled Anthony. “I’d like to
wring that inspector’s neck. But one thing’s perfectly clear. You must
talk all this over with my cousin. He’ll help you if anyone can, and
I’m sure he won’t use anything you tell him for the _Courier_ without
your consent.”

The girl nodded slowly. “Ye-es, perhaps that would be best. Roger
Sheringham, you said, didn’t you? I’ve read some of his books. I think
he must be rather a nice person.”

“He is. He’d talk the hind-leg off a dead mule, but he’s a thoroughly
decent chap. Got a half-blue at Oxford, you know. Well, look here, I
was to meet him on these cliffs about this time; supposing if I dash
off and collect him and bring him along right away? I don’t think
we’ve any too much time to waste, you know.”

“You’re awfully kind, Mr. Walton,” said the girl gratefully. “I shall
lie awake for hours to-night cursing myself for being such a perfect
pig to you when you first arrived.”



Chapter V.

Roger Takes Up the Cudgels

On the whole Roger was feeling not a little pleased with himself as he
emerged on the top of the cliffs once more after his interview with
Inspector Moresby. That the inspector had one or two facts up his
sleeve (and probably highly important facts at that) was not a matter
for doubt; on the other hand Roger had gleaned considerably more
information than he had really expected. There was too at that moment
reposing in his breast pocket the piece of paper he had picked up
within a couple of yards of the spot where the body had been found,
about the existence of which the inspector had not the slightest
suspicion. Two people could play at the same game of withholding
information! He began to walk rapidly in the direction in which he had
arranged to meet Anthony.

Fifty yards ahead of him the ground rose to form a little hillock;
once over that Roger felt that it would be safe enough to examine his
find without fear of interruption. His hand was actually inside his
pocket as he breasted the rise when the figure of Anthony appeared
suddenly over the top. On seeing him Anthony broke into a run.

“Hullo, Anthony!” said Roger mildly. “You seem in a hurry.”

“Look here,” Anthony began breathlessly and without preamble. “Look
here, I’ve seen Miss Cross and it’s jolly serious. That infernal
inspector’s been up there and nearly frightened the life out of her. I
want you to come along and speak to her. And let me tell you, Roger,
that things are getting a bit thick. Anybody who’s hinting things
about that girl ought to be taken out and shot. The poor kid’s——”

“Here, wait a minute!” Roger interrupted. “Let’s get this straight.
You’ve seen Miss Cross, have you?”

“Yes, and she’s——”

“And she’s a remarkably pretty girl, isn’t she?”

Anthony stared. “How the devil did you know that?”

“Merely a simple piece of deductive reasoning,” replied Roger
modestly. “Now then, start at the beginning and tell me exactly what
happened.”

Rather more coherently this time, Anthony complied. He gave an account
of his meeting with the girl, told how she had broken down (glossing
as delicately as possible over the subsequent proximity of her dark
head and his shoulder) and went on to give his highly interested
listener a detailed synopsis of the story she had told him in order to
spare her the pain of having to recount it a second time. This recital
lasted them almost to the very spot where she was waiting, and Anthony
had only just time to reiterate in a fierce undertone the promise he
had given that they would do all in their power to help her and to
demand that a similar promise should be given by Roger himself within
the first five minutes of the interview, before her black dress sprang
into view on the little ledge just below them.

Roger was conducted down the bank and ceremoniously introduced and the
three of them disposed themselves on the soft turf to discuss the
situation.

“Now I want you to understand, Miss Cross,” Roger said briskly after a
few general remarks had been made, “that my cousin and I are entirely
on your side.” Roger had been as favourably impressed at first sight
with this slender, courageous-looking, proud-spirited girl as had
Anthony, and he was at no pains to attempt to disguise the fact.
“There’s no use pretending that this isn’t a bad business. It is—more
so than you know: and it may become even worse than that in the very
near future.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Sheringham?” asked the girl with anxiety. “How
more so than I know?”

Roger deliberated. “Well I don’t see that there can be any harm in
telling you,” he said gravely. “You’re bound to know sooner or later.
But please don’t tell anybody else just yet awhile.—I’m afraid there
can be very little doubt that your cousin’s death was not an
accident.”

“You don’t mean that—that——?” The girl broke off, white to the lips.

“I’m very much afraid so,” Roger said gently. There was no need to
mention the ugly word ‘murder’; its implication was sufficiently
obvious.

“Good God!” Anthony breathed, aghast. “Has that been definitely
proved?”

“As definitely as matters. She wasn’t alone when she met her death,
for one thing, though it isn’t known who was with her. And there are
one or two other details too into which I needn’t go now, small enough
in themselves but uncommonly convincing in the mass. Anyhow, you can
see that it’s a really bad business. So if I put one or two questions
to you, Miss Cross, you won’t think me unnecessarily impertinent, will
you?”

“Of course not,” said the girl earnestly. “And I can’t tell you how
grateful I am for your kindness. But you won’t—you won’t put too much
about me in the _Courier_, will you?”

“You can rely on my discretion,” Roger smiled. “I’ll see that you’re
not worried in that sort of way so far as I’m concerned at any rate;
and I’ll drop a word or two in season to any others of my kidney who
follow me down here. Well now, first of all I want you to tell me
exactly what happened on this walk you had with your cousin. Can you
do that?”

The girl frowned in an effort of memory. “Yes, I think so. It was
quite simple. We walked along the cliffs about a mile toward Sandsea
and then turned round and came back; just before we got as far as this
Elsie said she wanted to go over and speak to a Mrs. Russell, a
neighbour, about some treat for the village children that they were
getting up between them. She knew this was a favourite place of mine,
so she asked me to wait for her here, and we could go back to the
house for tea together.”

“One minute,” Roger interrupted. “Where does Mrs. Russell live?”

“About half-way between our house and the village.”

“I see. So it was really out of her way to come back and pick you up
here?”

“Yes, it was a little; but Elsie always liked walking along these
cliffs. She nearly always went into the village this way instead of by
the road.”

“The road lying on the other side of the house from here, of course.
Then is the Russells’ house on the same road?”

“Yes, but the road winds toward the cliffs farther along, so it
wouldn’t take her so much out of her way to come back to me here as if
it didn’t.”

“No, I see that. Yes?”

“Well, she didn’t come back. I must have waited for nearly an hour and
a half. Then, as it was past tea-time, I walked over to the house
alone.”

“Now, sitting down here, you couldn’t see anybody walking along the
cliff top, or they you, unless they happened to walk right over the
top of this bank at the back here?”

“No.”

“As a matter of fact, _did_ anybody pass while you were here?”

“No, not a soul.”

Roger frowned. “That’s a pity. That means you can’t actually prove
that you were here during that time, can you?”

“If Miss Cross says she was here,” Anthony put in warmly, “then she
was here. That ought to be good enough for anyone.”

“Except a court of law, Anthony. Courts of law are nasty, suspicious
things, I’m afraid. By the way, did Mrs. Vane ever get to the
Russells’ house, Miss Cross?”

“No, she didn’t; that’s the extraordinary thing. In fact nobody seems
to have seen her at all from the time she left me to the time her body
was found.”

“It’s a nasty gap,” Roger commented thoughtfully. “Isn’t it rather
curious that she should have been about here all that time without
being seen? Aren’t there usually plenty of people in the
neighbourhood?”

“No, as a matter of fact there aren’t. It’s usually fairly deserted up
here. Ours and the Russells’ are the only two houses out this way, you
see. And there’s another point about that; anybody walking along the
edge of the cliff can’t be seen from the road except in one or two
places, because of the high ground between, if you remember noticing
it.”

“Yes, that is so; you’re right. Hullo, what’s that bell?”

“That will be our dinner-bell,” said the girl with a faint smile. “A
most efficient one, isn’t it?”

“Highly. Well, Miss Cross,” Roger said, scrambling to his feet, “I
don’t think there’s any need to keep you any longer just now, though
there are one or two more things I shall want to ask you. Could you
meet us here at say half-past ten to-morrow morning for more
cross-examination, do you think?”

“Of course, Mr. Sheringham. I shall be only too pleased. And you will
try to—to——”

“To throw a little fresh light on that hour and a half?” Roger
suggested as he shook hands. “I promise you I will. That’s the crux of
the whole thing, isn’t it? I’ll do all I can, Miss Cross, you can be
sure.”

They climbed the little bank and Anthony, by a curious lapse of
memory, appeared to forget that he had already shaken hands on the
lower level; at any rate he did so again, even more warmly than
before.

“It’s a nasty business,” Roger remarked as the two of them set out on
their walk back to the inn. “Nastier than I let out. I didn’t tell the
little lady that the other person with Mrs. Vane was a woman, by the
way.”

“Was she?” said Anthony gloomily. “Hell!”

“Yes, I’ll tell you what I managed to find out down there. Not much,
but decidedly interesting. Mrs. Vane must have— By jove, I was nearly
forgetting!”

“What?”

“Something I picked up near where the body was found—a bit of
writing-paper. I haven’t been able to look at it yet. It may be
nothing, but on the other hand it may be something uncommonly
important. Anyhow, let’s have a look at it.” And digging into his
breast-pocket, Roger drew out his handkerchief and its precious
contents.

“Looks a bit sodden,” Anthony remarked, as the little ball of
bluish-grey paper emerged from its covering.

“Naturally, as it’s been in the water off and on for sixty odd hours
or so,” said Roger, straightening out the sodden little tangle with
infinite care. It was a ticklish business, for the least false move
would tear the flimsy stuff and it had to be unwrapped half-an-inch at
a time.

“Can you make anything out?” Anthony asked eagerly, as the sheet was
at last laid out flat on the palm of Roger’s hand.

“It’s a bit of ordinary notepaper,” Roger murmured, peering down at it
intently. “Good quality. Watermark a big crown and some kind of
inscription. Ought to be easy enough to trace.”

“Yes, but is there any writing on it?”

“There _has_ been, but that’s about as much as one can say. See these
faint pen-marks? But I should think it’s pretty well impossible to
make out what was written on it.”

“Then it’s no use?” Anthony asked disappointedly.

“I wouldn’t say that. An expert might be able to make them out. I
suppose there _are_ ways of testing this sort of thing. We’ll see,
anyhow. But we mustn’t build any hopes on it. Ten to one it had
nothing to do with Mrs. Vane at all, and even if it did it’s another
ten to one that it had nothing to do with what we’re after. However,
we’ll take it back and see if it’s possible to do anything with it.”

Roger took off his hat and laid the paper carefully inside to shield
it from the wind, and they resumed their journey.

“What did you think of Miss Cross?” Anthony asked very airily, gazing
at the easy feats of a neighbouring gull with an appearance of intense
interest.

“Oh, all right,” Roger said with malicious indifference. “Perfectly
ordinary sort of girl, I thought, didn’t you?”

“Personally, she struck me as being rather an exceptional one,”
Anthony said coldly.

“Did she? Ah, well! Bit long in the nose, wasn’t she?”

“Long in the nose!” exclaimed the indignant Anthony. “Why, her nose is
absolutely——” He caught sight of Roger’s grin and broke off abruptly.
“Damn you!” he growled, flushing vividly.

“Ah, you young people!” Roger continued to grin. “Ah, youth, happy
youth! Ah——”

“Roger, you ass, be serious for a minute. Do you think that girl’s in
any danger?”

“I do indeed,” Roger said with a quick change to gravity. “At least, I
don’t know about danger, but I certainly think she’s in a very awkward
position. Very awkward indeed.”

“But you don’t think—you don’t think there can be anything in—well,
what the inspector seems to be thinking, do you?”

“You mean, that she pushed her cousin over the cliff?” amplified
Roger, who was not a person to mince matters. “No, I don’t think I do.
I liked her, I must say—though that isn’t anything to go by, is it?”

“It’s a devil of a lot. And you really will do all you can to help
clear her, Roger?”

“Of course I will. Haven’t I told her so half-a-dozen times over?”

“Thanks, old man,” said Anthony simply.

It was a slightly awkward moment. To tide it over Roger embarked upon
a voluble account of his conversation with Inspector Moresby, what he
had discovered and what he had not, which took them right up to the
door of their inn.

“And that’s the first thing we’ve got to discover, fair coz,” he was
saying vehemently as they crossed the threshold. “What old Moresby’s
got up his sleeve. And that’s what I’m jolly well going to get out of
him somehow, by hook, or even, if it comes to the point, by crook. And
what’s more, I think I see a way of going about it. So now for our
four bedrooms and a little cold water. By Jove, Anthony, it’s hot
isn’t it? What about a tankard apiece before we go upstairs?”

“How you do think of things!” was Anthony’s strongly approving
comment.

They adjourned briskly into the cool little bar.

“Mr. Moresby back yet, do you know?” Roger asked the landlord in a
casual voice as he set the mighty tankard down on the counter after an
initial gulp at its contents.

“No, sir,” replied that mountainous man. “He said he’d be back for ’is
supper round about eight o’clock.”

“Well, we shall be ready for ours about that time too. You might as
well serve all three in our sitting-room. And send me up a bottle of
gin, half-a-dozen bottles of ginger-beer, a bottle of whisky, a couple
of syphons of soda and a corkscrew. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord benevolently. “That I can.”

“Excellent! I suppose it would be too much to ask if you’ve got any
ice as well?”

“I have an’ all, sir,” replied the landlord with conscious pride. “I
gets it three times a week from Sandsea in this ’ot weather. There’s
some come in this morning you can have, and welcome.”

“But this is sheer epicureanism!” Roger cried.

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord. “There’s been two gents in this evening
asking for rooms. London gents, by the look of ’em. I told ’em I
’adn’t got any.”

“That’s right, landlord,” Roger said with approval. “Speak the truth
and shame the devil, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord, and turned away to serve another
customer.

“I say,” Anthony asked hopefully as they climbed the stairs a few
minutes later, “I say, are we going to make old Moresby tight?”

“Certainly not,” said Roger with dignity. “I’m surprised at you,
Anthony. Do I look the sort of person to interfere with the sobriety
of the police in the execution of their duty?”

“Well, what’s all that gin and stuff for, then?”

“To pour libations to the great and _puissante_ Goddess of Bluff! Now
then, Anthony, how many bedrooms would you like to sleep in to-night?
One, two or three?”



Chapter VI.

An Unwelcome Clue

Inspector Moresby, it has been said, was a genial man. He had no
hesitation in falling in with Roger’s suggestion that the three of
them should sup together. Even a Scotland Yard detective is human, and
Inspector Moresby very much preferred to spend his moments of leisure
in the congenial company of his fellows than alone.

In the same way he had no hesitation in accepting a little gin before
a meal. In yet once more the same way he had not the slightest
hesitation in drinking some gin and ginger-beer with his supper
because, as anyone knows, gin and ginger-beer with a lump of ice
clinking invitingly against the glass is the greatest of all drinks on
a hot day and has the Olympian nectar beaten to a standstill; thus far
has civilisation progressed. And after a meal when, pleasantly tired
and a pleasant hunger pleasantly allayed, one sprawls in a horsehair
armchair and contemplates a case of stuffed birds, an iced whisky and
soda by one’s side is almost a _sine qua non_. Inspector Moresby _was_
a genial man.

Roger had behaved with exemplary tact. Not a word about their common
mission to Ludmouth had passed his lips. Instead, he had set out to be
as entertaining as he possibly could; and when Roger set out to be
entertaining he could prove a very good companion indeed. He had
recounted numberless anecdotes about the humours of his own early
struggles and experiences, and the inspector had been amused; he had
recounted further anecdotes of the great people he had met and knew,
all of whom he called by their Christian names, and the inspector had
been impressed; he had kept a judicious eye on his victim’s glass—or
rather, succession of glasses, and the inspector had become mellowed.
Roger loved the inspector, and the inspector loved Roger.

Roger chose his moment and struck.

“Look here, Inspector,” he said quite casually, “about this Mrs. Vane
business, by the way. I wish you’d look on me not as a reporter but as
an amateur criminologist, extraordinarily interested in the way the
police go about the solving of a mystery like this and only too ready
to put any small brains I may have at their assistance. I do happen to
be writing this thing up for a newspaper, it’s true; but that’s only
by the way. I’m not a reporter by instinct or profession or anything
else, and I only jumped at the chance of becoming one because it would
give me first-hand information about a very interesting little
mystery. Do you see what I mean?”

The inspector’s eyes twinkled. “I think so, sir. You want me to take
you into my confidence, don’t you?”

“Something like that,” Roger agreed. “And I must tell you that the
balance won’t be entirely on your side. I’ve got something rather
important to offer you—a clue I found this afternoon under your very
nose down among those rocks. I don’t want to hold it up or anything
like that; but candidly, I don’t want to give it away for nothing
either. Can’t we arrange a swap, so to speak?”

The inspector’s eyes twinkled more merrily than ever. “I’ve been
waiting for something like this ever since I came up here, Mr.
Sheringham; though I didn’t expect you to put it quite that way. I
thought you’d just got me here to try to pump me in the ordinary way,
as hundreds of new journalists have tried already before they found
out it wasn’t any use.”

“Oh!” said Roger somewhat crestfallen. “Did you? But about this clue,
I——”

“Lord, the number of clues I’ve had offered me in my time!” observed
the inspector reminiscently. “Thousands of ’em! And not a single one
worth a twopenny rap.”

“Oh!” said Roger again. “Then there’s nothing doing, I take it, in the
confidence line?”

The inspector continued to chuckle for a moment; it pleased him mildly
to score off Roger and he thought the latter deserved it. Even
Anthony, in spite of his disappointment, could hardly repress a smile
at that confident gentleman’s discomfiture.

Then the inspector proceeded to relent. “However, I’m not saying there
isn’t any sense in what you said. There is. I know you’re not an
ordinary journalist. I know what you did at Wychford and I’ve seen by
your articles in the _Courier_ that you really are interested in this
sort of thing for its own sake. So as long as I have your word that
you won’t publish anything that I want held up, perhaps I don’t mind
letting you in on a thing or two that I should keep back from anyone
else, and even talking the case over with you as well. Though mind
you, it’s highly unprofessional conduct, as they say, and I should get
into real hot water at the Yard if they ever came to hear of it.”

“I say, that’s awfully sporting of you, Inspector!” Roger cried with
vast relief. “I quite thought you were going to turn me down. Yes, I
promise you the Yard shan’t hear of it, and of course I won’t publish
anything without your consent. It’s a purely personal interest, you
know.”

“And you too, Mr. Walton? You agree to that?”

“Rather, Inspector! It’s extraordinarily decent of you.”

“Then let’s hear about this clue of yours first of all, Mr.
Sheringham, if you please.”

Roger rose and went to the sideboard, from a drawer of which he
produced the piece of paper, now almost dry. “I found this a couple of
rocks away from where the body was lying. It may have nothing to do
with the affair at all, of course, but there’s always a chance.
There’s been writing on it, but it’s quite obliterated. Can you make
anything of it?”

The inspector took the bit of paper and bent over it; then he held it
up to the light.

“I’ll keep this, if I may,” he said. “As you say, there’s probably
nothing in it, but I’ll send it up to our man at the Yard and I think
he’ll be able to read it all right; at any rate, we can’t afford to
neglect its possibilities.” He laid the paper down on a table nearby
and leaned comfortably back in his chair again. “So now you can fire
away, Mr. Sheringham. I know you’ve got half a hundred questions on
the tip of your tongue.”

“At least that,” Roger laughed, as he resumed his seat. “And I
certainly would like to polish off a few of them in rather a hurry. I
must get through to London on the telephone pretty soon and dictate my
article, and I can take notes for it as we go along.” He rummaged in a
side-pocket and produced a pencil and note-book. “Now first of all,
are you sure in your own mind that it’s a case of murder and not
accident or suicide?”

“Well, between ourselves, sir, I am. As sure, that is, as anyone can
be in my line without absolutely convincing proof. But don’t say that
in your article. I shouldn’t get further than ‘suspicious
circumstances’ in that yet awhile.”

Roger nodded. “Yes, I quite see that. By the way, that scream rather
clinches it, doesn’t it? I mean, if one allows that the distance of
the body from the edge of the cliffs rules out any question of
accident, the scream, equally seems to rule out suicide. A suicide
wouldn’t scream.”

“That was my line of thought exactly,” the inspector agreed.

“And you’ve also established the fact that she wasn’t alone. Have you
got any ideas who the second woman was?”

“I’ve got my suspicions,” said the inspector guardedly. “I was up at
the house for a goodish bit this morning,” he went on, delicately
shifting the ground of discussion. “Have you been along there?”

“No, not to the house, though I heard you had.”

“You ought to go; I think you’d find it interesting. The household, I
mean.”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t felt quite hardened enough to my new
profession yet. I don’t think I could butt in on Dr. Vane and ask him
for an interview just at present. Can’t you tell me about them and
save me the trouble?”

“Well, I daresay I could. There’s not really much to tell you. But the
doctor’s a queer stick. Big man, he is, with a great black beard, and
spends most of his time in a laboratory he’s had fitted up at the back
of the house. Research work of some kind. Bit brusque in his manner,
if you understand me, and doesn’t seem any too cut up by his wife’s
death—or doesn’t show it if he is, perhaps I ought to say.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, doesn’t he?”

“But I gather that the two of them didn’t hit it off any too well
together. That seemed the idea among the servants, anyhow. I had all
of them up and questioned them this morning, of course. Then there’s
his secretary, a dry stick of a woman with pince-nez and short hair,
who might be any age between thirty and fifty, and a cousin of Mrs.
Vane’s who’s been living there for the last few months called Miss
Cross. That’s the girl who’s come into all the money, as I expect
you’ve heard.”

“And the girl who was the last person apparently except one to see
Mrs. Vane alive,” Roger nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen her, had a chat with
her in fact.”

“Oh, you have, have you? And what did you think of her, Mr.
Sheringham?”

“I don’t know,” Roger hedged. “What did you?”

The inspector considered. “I thought she was quite a nice young lady,”
he said carefully, “though perhaps a bit deeper than one might
think—or than she’d like you to think, maybe. Did you get any
information from her?”

“Look here, Inspector,” Anthony burst out suddenly, “just tell me
this, will you? Do you really honestly think that——”

“Shut up, Anthony, and don’t be tactless!” Roger interposed hastily.
“Did I get any information out of her, Inspector? Nothing more than
you got yourself, I fancy. She told me that you’d been putting her
through it.”

“She’s a very important person in the case,” said the inspector with
an apologetic air. “Last one to see Mrs. Vane alive, as you said just
now.”

“I didn’t say that exactly,” Roger remarked drily; “but let it pass.
And you got no further impression from her than that she was a nice
young lady and might be a bit deep?”

“Well I didn’t say that, sir,” ruminated the inspector. “No, I
wouldn’t say that at all. I got the impression that she wasn’t
over-fond of that cousin of hers, for one thing.”

“Wasn’t fond of her cousin?” Roger cried in surprise. “But Mrs. Vane
had been extraordinarily kind to her. Taken her to live with them,
paid her a generous salary probably for doing nothing, made a will in
her favour! Why, she owed Mrs. Vane a tremendous lot!”

“Are we always over-fond of people we owe a tremendous lot to?” asked
the inspector pointedly.

“I’m sure,” Anthony began stiffly, “that Miss Cross——”

“Shut _up_, Anthony!—But why are you so sure about this, Inspector?
You must have something more to go on than just an impression.”

“I have, sir. What I learned from the servants. Mrs. Vane and Miss
Cross used to quarrel quite a lot, I understand. It seems to have been
a matter of common talk among the servants.”

“Of course, if you take any notice of the gossip of servants,” said
Anthony with fine scorn, “I daresay you’d——”

“Anthony, _will_ you shut up or have I got to send you to bed? For
goodness’ sake, help yourself to another drink and keep quiet.”

“You’ve seen Miss Cross too, Mr. Walton, I take it?” observed the
inspector mildly.

“Yes, I have,” Anthony said shortly.

“A very pretty young lady,” commented the inspector with vague
application.

“Oh, by the way!” Roger exclaimed suddenly. “I was very nearly
forgetting the most important question of all.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Sheringham?”

“Why, to ask you what you’ve got up your sleeve in the way of clues.
You admitted this afternoon there were some things you wouldn’t tell
me.”

“One,” acknowledged the inspector with a smile. “That’s all. A
coat-button.” He felt in his pocket and produced a light-blue bone
button with a white pattern, about an inch and a half in diameter,
which he held out on the flat of his palm. “This was found clenched in
the dead woman’s hand.”

Roger whistled softly. “I say, that is a clue and no mistake! The
first really definite one there’s been, except those footprints. May I
have a look at it?” He took the button from the other’s outstretched
hand and examined it intently. “It wasn’t one of her own, by any
chance?”

“No, sir; it wasn’t.”

“Have you found out whose it is?” Roger asked, looking up quickly.

“I have,” replied the inspector contentedly.

Anthony’s heart almost stopped beating. “Whose?” he asked in a
strained voice.

“It’s a button off a sports-coat belonging to Miss Cross.”

For a moment there was a tense silence. Then Roger asked the question
that was burning a hole in his brain.

“Was Miss Cross wearing the coat when she went out for her walk with
Mrs. Vane?”

“She was, sir,” replied the inspector with a more serious air than he
had yet displayed. “And when she got back to the house that button was
missing from it.”



Chapter VII.

Sidelights on a Loathsome Lady

“I tell you I don’t _care!_” Anthony almost shouted. “To say that girl
had anything to do with the wretched woman’s death is too damned silly
for words!”

“But I’m not saying so,” Roger pointed out patiently. “I don’t think
she had, in spite of everything. What I am saying is that we can’t
dismiss the possibility of it in this cocksure way just because she’s
got a pretty face. The inspector isn’t——”

“Blast the inspector!” observed Anthony savagely.

“Blast him by all means, but, as I was saying, he isn’t by any means a
fool, and it’s quite obvious what his opinion about Mrs. Vane’s death
is at present. After all, you must face the fact that the evidence is
absolutely overwhelming.”

“If his opinion is that Miss Cross murdered her cousin, then he _is_ a
fool,” growled Anthony finally; “and a damned fool at that.”

It was the following morning, and the two men were walking along the
top of the cliffs to keep their appointment with Margaret Cross. The
inspector had betaken himself to bed on the previous evening soon
after the bursting of his bombshell, and the discussion between
Anthony and Roger had lasted well into the small hours of the morning,
broken only by an interval of half-an-hour while Roger telephoned
through to the _Courier_. It was still raging.

Anthony had refused point-blank to consider even the possibility that
Margaret had not spoken the exact truth in every detail or had
wilfully suppressed any material fact, while as for the only logical
deduction to be drawn from the facts as they were then known, he would
rather have been torn in pieces by red-hot pincers than admit it
within the category of bare feasibilities. To Roger, who was no less
anxious that the girl’s name should be cleared, but had a livelier
conception of the difficulties in the way of doing so, this attitude
was a little trying. To Anthony’s final remark he forbore to reply,
only sighing gently to himself. It required an effort of will, but no
good purpose would be served by quarrelling with Anthony, and Anthony
was very ready to quarrel with someone. They traversed the rest of the
journey in difficult silence.

Margaret Cross was waiting for them by the little ledge, her face
anxious and bearing the marks of a sleepless night.

“Oh, I am glad to see you!” she exclaimed as she shook hands with
Roger. “Really I feel as if you were the only friend I’d got in the
world.”

“Don’t forget me, Miss Cross,” Anthony smiled, shaking hands with her
in his turn.

“No, of course not,” said the girl in a voice that was neither
enthusiastic nor chilling—just indifferent; and she snatched away the
hand that Anthony was manifestly attempting to press and, turning
ostentatiously back to Roger, began to question him eagerly as to
whether anything fresh had transpired.

Over Anthony’s face passed an expression such as might have been seen
on the face of a dog which has put out a paw to toy with a fly and
discovered it to be a wasp—hurt and yet puzzled. As Margaret Cross
continued to display to him only her back the puzzled part of his
expression gave way to resentment; as she made no effort to include
him in her eager conversation, but on the contrary quite pointedly
ignored him, resentment and chagrin alike were swallowed up by sheer
annoyance. As ostentatiously as herself, he strolled a few paces away
and began to amuse himself by throwing stones over the edge of the
cliff. Anthony was sulking.

Had he been a little wiser, he might have felt flattered. As it was,
how could he be expected to guess that to a young lady who is
accustomed to pride herself not a little on her self-reliance and
strength of mind, the thought of having been such a sloppy little
idiot as to weep on the shoulder of a complete stranger and actually
grovel before the protective feel of his unknown arm about her, might
possibly be a singularly ignominious one? In which case, of course (so
the older and wiser Anthony might have complacently assumed), her
resentment, directed naturally against himself as the witness of her
humiliation, would be only complimentary. But Anthony was neither
older nor wiser.

“I say, Anthony, come and listen to this!” called Roger, who had a
shrewd idea of the way in which the wind was blowing.

Very nonchalantly Anthony strolled across. “Yes?” he said in a voice
that was neither rude nor frigid—just bored.

“I’ve been telling Miss Cross about the coat-button. It may not be
quite playing the game with the inspector, but I really think it’s
only fair that she should know.” He turned to the girl. “And you say
you must have lost it on that walk?”

“Yes, I must have lost it on the walk,” the girl said in puzzled
tones, “but where, I haven’t the least idea. All I know is that it was
on when I started, and I noticed that it was off when I got back. It
might have dropped simply anywhere. How it got into Elsie’s hand I
can’t imagine. Mightn’t she have picked it up and been meaning to give
it back to me?”

“That does seem the only possible explanation,” Roger agreed. He did
not think it necessary for the moment to point out that as Mrs. Vane’s
subsequent steps would hardly have covered any of the ground that she
and Margaret had passed over together, the explanation was not very
probable.

“Oh, Mr. Sheringham, I do wish I could get away from this dreadful
atmosphere of suspicion!” cried the girl suddenly, her strained nerves
overcoming for the moment her self-control. “It’s really getting
almost unbearable! Every fresh fact that comes to light only makes it
worse. I shall really begin to think of jumping over the cliff myself
if something doesn’t happen soon. And they’re evidently beginning to
talk in the village already. Mrs. Russell cut me dead outside her own
house this morning.”

“Dear Mrs. Russell!” Roger murmured. “Wouldn’t I like to flay the hag.
Christian charity, I suppose she calls that. But look here, don’t you
give way before any nonsense like that, Margaret, my dear.” Roger
invariably addressed every unmarried lady below the age of thirty by
her Christian name after the briefest possible acquaintance, it
accorded with his reputation for mild Bohemianism, and it saved an
awful lot of trouble. “We’re going to see you through this, Cousin
Anthony and I. So keep your chin up and let all the old cats go to the
devil!”

Margaret turned away for a moment, biting her lip. “I don’t know how
to thank you,” she said in rather a shaky voice. “I really can’t think
what I should have done if I hadn’t met you two, Mr. Sheringham.”

“Roger!” exclaimed Roger briskly. “For Heaven’s sake do call me Roger,
Margaret! Only people who owe me money call me ‘Mr. Sheringham.’ It
has a nasty, sinister sound.”

“Very well, then,” the girl smiled. “Thank you—Roger!”

Roger drew a breath of relief as he saw the threatened tears disappear
before his calculated nonsense. “And this is Anthony,” he went on with
mock seriousness. “Let me introduce you. Anthony, Margaret. Margaret,
Anthony. Now shake hands and tell each other what a lovely day it is.”

“How do you do, Anthony?” Margaret said gravely, a little smile
dancing in her brown eyes; and somehow she managed to convey the
impression that she was sorry for having made a pig of herself ten
minutes before, that this was her apology and that would he please
forgive her?

“How do you do, Margaret?” said Anthony, taking the slim fingers in
his great paw; and the slight pressure he gave them said perfectly
plainly that it wasn’t his place to forgive anything; wouldn’t she
rather forgive him instead for sulking in that childish way, for which
he was heartily sorry?

So that was all right.

“Why stand up when we can sit down?” Roger remarked, observing the
results of his tactfulness with some satisfaction; and he set a good
example by throwing himself at full length on the springy turf. The
others followed suit.

“Now what we’ve got to do,” he went on, lying on his back and puffing
hard at his pipe, “is to form an offensive and defensive alliance of
three. Your job, Margaret, will be to get us any information we want
about the household and so on, and mine to put that information to the
most advantageous use.”

“What about Anthony?” asked Margaret.

“Oh, he’s the idiot friend. He came down on purpose to be it. We
mustn’t do him out of that, or he’d be awfully disappointed.”

“Poor Anthony!” Margaret laughed. “Roger, I think you’re horrid.”

“Not horrid,” Anthony said lazily. “Just an ass. But pretend not to
notice it, Margaret. We always try to ignore it in the family.”

“Reverting to the topic in hand,” Roger observed, unperturbed,
“there’s one thing that I really must impress on both of you. Rather a
nasty thing, but we’ve got to face it. From the facts as we know them
at present, there’s simply only one deduction to be drawn; if we want
new deductions, we must have new facts.”

“I see what you mean,” Margaret said slowly. “Yes, and I see that it’s
quite true too. But how on earth are we to get any new facts?”

“Well, let’s see if a little judicious questioning will bring anything
to light.” Roger paused for a moment as if considering. “I suppose you
were very fond of your cousin, Margaret?” he said after a second or
two in an almost careless voice.

It was Margaret’s turn to pause and consider. Then: “No!” she said
almost harshly. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you, though I
realise that it doesn’t make my position any better. I detested her!”

“You detested her?” Roger repeated, raising himself on his elbow to
look at her in his astonishment. “But I thought she’d been so kind to
you? I thought she was such a charming woman?”

Margaret laughed bitterly. “Quite a number of people think that. Elsie
took good care that they should. Isn’t there a saying about speaking
only good of the dead? Well, I never have been a conventional person.
Elsie was one of the most loathsome people who can ever have existed!”

“Oho!” said Roger softly. “She was, was she? Talk about new facts!
This looks like opening up a whole new field of enquiry. Perpend,
lady! Why was Elsie ‘one of the most loathsome people who can ever
have existed’?”

“It is rather a sweeping charge, isn’t it?” said Margaret soberly.
“Well, I’ll tell you the whole story and you can judge for yourself.
When Elsie met George she was in rather the same position as I was in
myself a few months ago—broke to the wide. But she didn’t let him know
that. She pretended to belong to a good family and to have plenty of
money of her own. In fact, she deliberately set out to deceive him.
George believed every word she said, fell in love with her and married
her—which, of course, was what she’d been aiming at.”

“You mean she married Dr. Vane for his money?”

“Purely and simply! I know, because she used to boast of it to me, and
advise me to do the same. Boast of it! How she’d taken him in and
hoodwinked him from beginning to end. She got a tremendous marriage
settlement out of him, too. All the money she left me. Ten thousand
pounds settled on her absolutely. Of course she hadn’t a penny of her
own. She often used to tell me how well she’d done for herself. Oh,
Elsie was a true daughter of her grandfather—_our_ grandfather, I
should say!”

“I see,” said Roger thoughtfully. “Yes, that does shed a somewhat
different light on the lady. And she took you to live with her so that
you could have the chance of meeting another wealthy man and
hoodwinking him similarly?”

“Indeed she didn’t! That’s what she used to tell me, but nothing could
be further from the truth. The fact is that there were several reasons
why she wanted me with her. In the first place, she wanted someone
whom she could order about in a way that no servant would stand for a
minute, someone who would do things for her that she would never have
dared to ask any servant to do. Oh, Roger, you can’t imagine the
things I’ve had to do since I came here! Menial things that she
couldn’t have made anybody else in the world do for her. And yet
nothing outrageous, if you understand—nothing that I could flare up at
and flounce out of the house over. Oh, it’s extraordinarily difficult
to explain. You see, you probably haven’t any idea what a beast one
woman can be to another in a subordinate position without ever doing
anything that you could actually call _beastly_.”

“I think I have, though, for all that,” Roger murmured
sympathetically.

Margaret knitted her brows. “Well, suppose we’d been out for a walk
together in the rain and come in rather tired and rather wet and
rather muddy. The first thing she’d do would be to send me upstairs
with her wet coat and hat and tell me to bring down a pair of dry
shoes. I should go down and find her sprawling in a chair in the
drawing-room in front of the fire, but otherwise just as I’d left her.
She’d want me to change her shoes for her, probably even pull her
gloves off for her as well. Then she’d find out that her stockings
were wet too, and I should be sent to get a dry pair—and probably
change those for her as well. Then she’d decide she didn’t like those
shoes with those stockings, and off I’d have to go to get another
pair. As soon as I’d done that, I’d be sent up again for something
else that she’d pretend to have forgotten all about, and then for
something more after that. In other words, she kept me on the go the
whole time: I was hardly ever allowed to have a single second to
myself.”

Roger nodded understandingly. “I know the type.”

“Well, that was one thing she wanted me for. Another was that she was
a horrid little bully, and she must have someone to bully. You can’t
bully servants; they give notice. There’s nobody like a poor relation
for bullying. And all with a sweet smile you know, that seemed to make
it even more unbearable if anything.”

“But why did you stick it?” Anthony asked indignantly.

Margaret flushed slightly. “Because I was a coward, I suppose. I’d had
about enough of roughing it by then, and I _was_ comfortable at any
rate. Besides, there was that ten thousand pounds she was dangling
over me. If you’d ever known what it’s like not to be able to afford a
penny bun or a cup of tea, you might realise what a tempting bait ten
thousand pounds can be and what a lot you’ll put up with to qualify
for it. Very mercenary, isn’t it? But Elsie knew all right. She’d been
through it herself.”

“I’m sorry, Margaret,” Anthony said in some confusion. “I was an ass
to say a thing like that. Of course I understand.”

“As a matter of fact,” Margaret went on more calmly, “I _was_ going to
cut and run for it. I’d discovered the game wasn’t worth the candle
after all. But I hadn’t fixed any date or made up my mind what to put
my hand to next, and then—and then _this_ happened.”

There was a little silence.

“Can you give me a few more details about your cousin?” suddenly asked
Roger, who seemed to have been pursuing a train of thought of his own.
“A little bit more about her character, and what she looked like, and
all that sort of thing?”

Margaret considered. “Well, she was little and fragile to look at,
with rather a babyish face, fair hair, and a slight lisp which she
cultivated rather carefully. She used to pose as the helpless,
appealing little woman, though anybody less helpless than Elsie, so
far as her own interests were concerned, I’ve never met. Her idea (as
she told me perfectly frankly) was that men liked the helpless,
appealing type; and judging by results, she wasn’t far wrong. As for
her character, I don’t see what else there is to tell you. She was a
hypocrite, a bully, utterly selfish, mean, and bad all through.”
Margaret gazed out to sea, breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed.
Evidently she was calling to mind some of the humiliations and
unkindnesses she had suffered at the dead woman’s hands. Anthony
watched her with deepening indignation.

“Did her husband know her real character?” Roger asked thoughtfully.

Margaret removed her eyes from the horizon and began to pluck with
aimless fingers at the turf by her side. “I don’t know!” she said
slowly, after a momentary hesitation. “As a matter of fact I’ve often
wondered that. Sometimes I think he must have, and sometimes I’m quite
sure he didn’t. Elsie was clever, you see. I don’t suppose she showed
her real self to anybody but me. And I shouldn’t say that George was
very observant. He was always perfectly courteous to her.”

“Is he very upset about her death?”

“Outwardly, not a bit; but what he’s feeling inside him I haven’t the
least idea. George never shows his feelings. He might be made of stone
for all the emotion he ever displays. Besides, he spends nearly all
his time shut up in his laboratory, just as he always has all the time
I’ve been here.”

“You can’t say whether they got on well together, then?”

“Not a word! All I can tell you is that he was always courteous to
her, and she——” Margaret uttered a cynical laugh. “Well, it was going
to pay her to keep on good terms with him, so I’ve no doubt she did.”

“I see. There’s nothing further you can tell me about her?”

“Well, there is one thing,” the girl said a little doubtfully, “but
it’s so very vague that I’m not sure whether I ought to mention it.
It’s this. I couldn’t help feeling once or twice that there was
somebody Elsie was _afraid_ of.”

“Afraid of? Hullo, that’s interesting! Who?”

“That I haven’t the least idea. In fact the whole thing is quite
probably moonshine. I’ve really got nothing definite to go on at all.
It’s just a sort of impression I formed.”

“Well, impressions are often valuable. And you can’t say anything more
definite than that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Probably I ought not to have mentioned it at all,
but it might give you a line of enquiry perhaps.”

“I should think so. That’s just the kind of thing I want to know.”
Roger plucked a handful or two of grass and scattered them over the
edge of the cliff. “Margaret,” he said suddenly, “what’s your opinion
about it all? Your perfectly private, not-for-publication opinion?”

“I think there’s a great deal more in it than meets the eye,” said the
girl without hesitation.

“So do I, by Jove!” Anthony concurred.

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” Roger said thoughtfully. “But it’s
all so infernally vague. If one could only get hold of a definite
thread to follow up, however tiny! You’ve widened the area of enquiry
enormously with what you’ve told us about your cousin, but even now
we’re quite in the dark. All we know is that, instead of nobody having
a grudge against her, any number of people might. Isn’t there one
single definite pointer you can get hold of for us? Somebody might
have a cause for hating her, say, or a reason for wanting her out of
the way. Rack your brains!”

Margaret racked them obediently and for some minutes there was
silence, broken only by the cries of the swooping gulls and the splash
of the waves against the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs.

“There’s only one person I can think of who had cause for hating
Elsie,” she said slowly at last. “Or rather, _did_ hate her, I’m quite
certain—whether with cause or without, I don’t know. Mrs. Russell!”

Roger popped up on his elbow. “Mrs. Russell?” he repeated eagerly.
“Why did she hate Mrs. Vane?”

“She had an idea that Elsie and Mr. Russell were a little too
friendly. A good deal too friendly, not to mince matters!”

“Oho! The plot thickens. And were they?”

“I don’t know. They were very friendly, certainly. Whether they were
_too_ friendly, I can’t say.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Quite—as far as Elsie is concerned. She had neither morals nor
scruples.”

“And Mr. Russell? What sort of a man is he?”

“Oh, jolly and red-faced and beefy, you know. The sort of man you see
in those old hunting prints.”

“Just the sort to whom her type might appeal, in fact. So I should
imagine it was quite possible as far as he was concerned too, eh?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Roger smote the turf with an enthusiastic fist. “By Jove, Margaret, I
believe you’ve hit on something here. Mrs. Russell was simply eaten up
with jealousy, of course. And there’s no motive like jealousy!”

“Aren’t we getting on a little too fast?” asked the girl dubiously.

“Not a bit! Now tell me—what sort of a woman is this Mrs. Russell?”

“Oh, she’s rather fat too; very downright and decided. A lot of people
would call her rude, but I rather liked her. Not at all good-looking
now, though she may have been once. Pince-nez, hair going a little
grey, about forty-five years old, I suppose.”

“In other words, exactly the sort of woman to be furiously jealous of
a young and pretty one throwing sheep’s eyes at her husband!” Roger
summed up, not without satisfaction.

“I say!” Anthony exclaimed excitedly. “You said she was big, didn’t
you? Has she got rather large feet?”

“Yes, I fancy she has. Why?”

The two men exchanged significant glances. Then Roger sprang to his
feet.

“Good for you, Anthony! You mean that second lot of footprints, don’t
you? Well, good-bye, my children. Amuse each other till lunch-time.”

“Where are you going, Roger?” cried Margaret.

“To look into this matter of the lady with the large feet and the
jealous disposition,” Roger called back, disappearing at full speed
over the bank.



Chapter VIII.

Introducing a Goat-faced Clergyman

Roger had no definite plan in his mind as he walked with quick strides
along the cliff-top in the direction of Ludmouth. His impulsive flight
from the other two had been dictated by two instinctive feelings—that
he wanted to be alone to ponder over the significance of this fresh
information, and that Anthony and Margaret would probably be not at
all averse to a little dose of each other’s undiluted company. His
first idea, equally instinctive, had been to make a bee-line for the
Russells’ house and pour out a torrent of eager questions into the
lady’s astonished ears. Second thoughts warned him against any such
precipitation. He sat down on a convenient little hummock facing the
sea, pulled out and re-lit his pipe and began to think.

It did not take him many minutes to see that, if this new lane of
enquiry were not to prove a blind alley, there were two questions of
paramount importance first requiring a satisfactory answer. Of these
one was concerned with Mrs. Russell’s shoes: did they fit the second
lot of footprints in that patch of mud on the cliff-path, or not? If
they did, that did not actually prove anything, but Mrs. Russell
remained a suspected person; if they did not, then she must be
exonerated at once. The second, and far more important, was this—who
had been at the Russells’ house during the time when Mrs. Vane might
have been expected to call?

Roger was still considering the interesting possibility depending on
the answer to this question, when a gentle voice behind him cut
abruptly into his reverie.

“A charming view from this point, sir, is it not?” observed the gentle
voice.

Roger turned about. A little elderly clergyman, with silvery hair and
a face like a benign but beardless goat, was peering at him
benevolently through a large pair of horn spectacles. “Oh, Lord, the
local parson!” Roger groaned to himself—not because he disliked
parsons, local or otherwise, but because parsons are inclined to talk
and Roger, at that particular moment in his existence, surprisingly
enough was not. Aloud he said, courteously enough, “It is indeed;
particularly charming.”

The little old parson continued to beam, the sunlight glittering on
his huge spectacles. He did not go nor did he very definitely stay—he
hovered.

“He’s going to talk,” Roger groaned to himself again. “He wants to
talk. He’s aching to talk—I know he is! My pipe to the Coliseum he’s
going to talk!”

Roger’s deduction was not amiss. It was only too plain that the little
old clergyman had every intention of talking. He had, to be accurate,
on seeing Roger’s back in the distance, come nearly a
quarter-of-a-mile out of his way for the express purpose of talking.
He began to talk.

“I don’t remember seeing you in our little village. Perhaps you have
walked over from Sandsea?”

“No,” said Roger patiently. “I’m staying in Ludmouth.”

“Ah! At Mrs. Jameson’s, no doubt? I did hear that she was expecting a
visitor.”

“No, at the Crown.”

“Oh! Oh, dear me! Surely I am not talking to Mr. Roger Sheringham, am
I?” twittered the little clergyman.

“That is my name, sir, yes,” Roger admitted, with a mental side-note
upon village gossip, its velocity and the surprising quarters it
reaches.

“My dear sir!” The little parson’s beam grew brighter than ever. “You
must permit me to shake hands with you. No, really you must! This is
indeed a gratifying moment. I have read all your books, every one; and
I cannot tell you how I enjoyed them. Well, fancy, now!”

Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this kind of encounter. He
shook hands with his admirer with the greatest heartiness.

“It’s very kind of you to say so,” he smiled. “Very kind indeed. I
won’t pretend I’m not gratified. Any author who pretends to be
indifferent to appreciation of his books is a hypocrite and a liar and
an anointed ass.”

“Quite so,” agreed the little clergyman in some bewilderment. “Quite
so, no doubt. Well, well, well!”

“How did you know I was staying at the Crown, sir?”

“Oh, these things get about in a little community like ours, Mr.
Sheringham; very rapidly indeed, if I may say so. And having read your
books, to say nothing of your recent articles in the _Courier_,
including even this morning’s—— Ah, a sad business that brings you
down here, Mr. Sheringham! Very sad indeed! Dear me, poor lady, poor
lady!”

Roger’s annoyance at the interruption to his thoughts, already
considerably lessened, vanished completely. If this garrulous old man
had anything of interest to tell, without doubt he could be induced to
tell it. Perhaps the encounter could be turned to good account; in any
case it would be no bad thing to be _persona grata_ with the vicar. He
indicated with the stem of his pipe the hummock on which he had been
sitting.

“Won’t you sit down, sir?” he asked with a fittingly serious face.
“Yes, indeed it is; extraordinarily sad.”

The little clergyman seated himself with a nod of gratitude and Roger
dropped on to the warm turf by his side.

“Do you know, there is a most distressing rumour going about in the
village, I understand,” remarked the former deprecatingly, but none
the less gossipingly. “Something about foul play. That is nothing new,
of course; your article this morning hinted quite plainly at it. But
they have got to the stage in the village of importing actual names
into their suspicions. Do you know that? Most regrettable; _most_
regrettable.”

“It’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?” said Roger a trifle shortly; he
had stayed to pump the other, not to be pumped himself. “What name or
names have they imported?”

“Really, Mr. Sheringham,” the parson hesitated, “I’m not sure whether
I ought——”

“I’ve only got to walk into the bar at the Crown and ask the nearest
loafer, if you don’t wish to tell me,” Roger pointed out with an air
of indifference.

“That is true. Yes, that is very true, I’m afraid. Yes, I fear you
have. Well, perhaps in that case—— Well, they are talking about Miss
Cross, you know; Mrs. Vane’s cousin. Most regrettable; _most_
regrettable! Surely _you_ don’t think, Mr. Sheringham, that——”

“I agree with you,” Roger interrupted brusquely, forestalling the
unwelcome question. “Most regrettable! But surely you, as their vicar,
could——?” He broke off meaningly.

The little clergyman looked at him in surprise. “Me?” he said
innocently. “Oh, but you are making a mistake. _I_ am not the vicar
here. Oh, dear, no! Meadows, my name is: Samuel Meadows. Wait a
moment; I have a card somewhere.” He began to fumble violently in all
his pockets. “Oh, dear, no; I am not the vicar. I have retired into
private life. A small legacy, you understand. Just a resident here,
that is all; and of only a few weeks’ standing. Oh, dear, no; my
parish was in Yorkshire. But Ludmouth is so— Ah, here we are!” With an
air of mild triumph he produced a card from the pocket which he had
first searched, and held it out to Roger. “Perhaps if you were passing
one day—? I should be extremely honoured.”

“Very kind of you indeed,” said Roger politely, his interest in the
little cleric now completely evaporated. He struggled to his feet.
“Well, I must be getting along.”

“You are going back to Ludmouth?” queried the other with gentle
eagerness, rising also. “So am I. We might perhaps walk in together.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going the other way,” returned Roger firmly. “Good
morning, Mr. Meadows. See you again soon, I expect.” And he set
briskly off in the direction of Sandsea.

Behind the first undulation he took cover and watched his late
interlocutor make for the road and pass slowly out of sight. Then he
came out of hiding and walked rapidly over to the little house which
lay half-way between that of Dr. Vane and the village—the house which
sheltered the frivolous Mr. Russell and his jealous lady.

A perfectly respectable parlour maid answered his ring and looked at
him enquiringly.

“Is Mrs. Russell in?” Roger asked. “I should like to speak to her for
a moment.”

“No, sir; I’m afraid she isn’t. And Mr. Russell is out too.”

“Oh! That’s a nuisance.” Roger rubbed his chin a moment in thought;
then he came to a sudden decision. “You read the _Courier_ sometimes I
expect, don’t you?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Yes, sir,” replied the maid in a puzzled voice. “Cook takes it in,
she does.”

“She does, does she? Good for Cook! Well, look here, I’ve come down to
Ludmouth specially for the _Courier_, to send them news about that
accident you had here the other day.”

The girl’s face cleared. “Mrs. Vane? Oh, yes, sir! Then you’re a—a
reporting gentleman, sir?”

“A reporting gentleman!” Roger laughed. “Yes, rather; that describes
me to a T. Well, now,” he went on very confidentially, “the fact of
the matter is this. I ran along to ask Mrs. Russell one or two
questions, and I’m in too much of a hurry to wait for her. Now, do you
think you could answer them for me instead?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” fluttered the maid. “I think I could. What would it be
that you want to know?”

“Well, now; Mrs. Vane was coming here that afternoon, wasn’t she? And
she never came. Now, I suppose you were in all the afternoon yourself,
weren’t you?”

“Me, sir? Oh, no. I was on my holidays. I only got back yesterday.”

“I see. Rotten, coming back to work again, isn’t it? But the cook
would have been in, of course?”

“No, sir; she was out too. It was her afternoon off. There was nobody
in that afternoon but Mrs. Russell herself.”

“Aha!” observed Roger all to himself. Aloud he said mechanically, “I
see,” and began to rack his brains furiously for a tactful way of
getting hold of a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes. It was not an easy
problem.

Usually a problem tended to lose its interest for Roger if it were too
easy, but for this one the time-limit was not sufficient. On the spur
of the moment he could only see one thing to do, so he did it.

“Can you lend me a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes for an hour or so?” he
asked blandly.

“Her _shoes?_” repeated the astonished maid.

“Yes; any pair of outdoor ones. I’ll let you have them back before she
notices they’re gone.” And he jingled significantly the loose silver
in his trouser-pocket.

“Not—not _foot-prints?_” twittered the maid, thrilled to the bone.

Roger made up his mind in a flash. After all, why not tell the truth?
There was no doubt that the maid would appreciate it, and a spy in the
enemy’s camp might be useful.

“Yes,” he nodded. “But keep this to yourself, mind. Don’t tell a
soul!”

“Not even Cook?” breathed the excited girl.

“Yes, you can tell Cook,” conceded Roger gravely, knowing the
paramount necessity of permitting a safety-valve. “But you’ll be
responsible for it going no further. Promise?”

“Oo, yes, sir! I promise.”

“Well, cut up and get me a pair of her shoes, then.”

The girl needed no second invitation. She cut.

In less than a minute she was back again. “Here you are, sir. I put a
bit of newspaper round them, so as nobody could see what you’re
carrying. But you’ll bring them back, won’t you, sir?”

“Oh, yes; some time this afternoon. In fact, I’ll tell you what I’ll
do. I’ll bring them to the back-door. How about that?”

“Yes, that would be better, sir. Thank you.”

“And if anybody else wants to know what I came for, say I’m a reporter
for the _Courier_ wanting to see Mrs. Russell; that’ll do as well as
anything else. Here!”

A ten-shilling note changed hands, and Roger turned to go. A stifled
sound from the girl caused him to look round.

“Yes?” he said enquiringly.

“Oo, sir! Mrs. Russell! You don’t think as how she _done_ it, do you?”

“Done what?” asked Roger gravely.

“P-pushed Mrs. Vane over the cliff! They hated each other like wild
cats, they did. Many and many’s the time I’ve heard the missis giving
it to the master about Mrs. Vane. ‘If I get hold of her, _I’ll_ give
her what-for!’ she says. ‘I’ll spoil her looks for her! I’ll show her
she can’t——’”

“No, no!” Roger interrupted hastily. “Good gracious, no! You mustn’t
think anything like that. I want the shoes for—for quite a different
reason.” And he fled for the front gate.

The maid looked after him with an air of distinct disappointment.

The newspaper parcel under his arm, Roger made at top-speed for the
point on the cliffs where the second stair-way emerged. It was only a
matter of form to try the shoes he was carrying into that second lot
of footprints; he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that they were going
to fit. Within a quarter-of-an-hour of leaving the lady’s own front
door his confidence was justified: her shoes fitted as perfectly into
the tracks as if they had made them—which Roger had very little doubt
they had! With a crow of triumph he turned round and scurried up the
stairs again two at a time. The Ludmouth Bay Mystery was as good as
ended.

Half-way across the open ground toward the house he caught sight of a
large and portly figure turning in at the front gate from the road.
Judging correctly that the mistress of the household was returning, he
changed his direction abruptly and made for the little ledge,
whistling loudly (and quite unnecessarily, as Anthony pointed out
later with some heat. “Dash it all, man, I haven’t known the girl for
twenty-four hours yet. That sort of thing makes a chap look such an
ass!”) as he approached within view of it.

“Victory! Victory!” he exclaimed dramatically to the startled couple
beneath him, waving the shoes above his head. “And here are the
spoils—your prize, fair lady! You might return them to the owner for
me some time, will you? Or rather, to the owner’s parlour maid for
preference. Catch!” And tossing the shoes down on to the ledge below,
he took a standing jump and hurtled through the air in their wake.

“Roger, you’ve discovered something!” Margaret cried, as the
victorious one landed with a thud perilously near her feet. “What?”

“I say, you haven’t got to the bottom of it, have you?” demanded
Anthony excitedly.

Roger folded his arms and, striking a Napoleonic attitude, grinned
down most un-Napoleonically at the other members of the alliance. “I
have solved the Mystery of Ludmouth Bay, my children!” he announced.
“Not alone _I_ did it, for you, Margaret, put me on the right track,
and yon pair of shoes also played their part. But the important thing
is that the mystery is solved, and you can hold up your head again,
Margaret, my dear, or your hands or your feet or anything else you
jolly well like; nobody will say you nay.”

“Oh, Roger, do explain! Not—not Mrs. _Russell?_”

The grin died slowly out of Roger’s face. His imagination was his
trade, yet it had simply never occurred to him that the rescue of
Margaret meant the snaring of somebody else—that through his
activities Mrs. Russell now stood in the perilous position from which
Margaret had been plucked only just in time.

“I’m afraid so,” he nodded seriously. “And by the way, there’s one
very obvious thing we overlooked about you, Margaret,” he went on,
glancing at the neat little feet upon which he had so nearly landed.
“However much the rest of the evidence might seem to compromise you,
you were never in any real danger; that second lot of footprints was
obviously never made by you, you see. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve
been doing.”

He dropped on to the turf, pulled out his pipe and began his story.

“I say, that’s great!” exclaimed Anthony in high glee, when he had
finished.

“Oh, poor Mrs. Russell!” was Margaret’s comment, and Roger glanced at
her with quick understanding. It was an echo of his own thoughts of a
few minutes before.

They began to discuss the situation.

“Well, Anthony,” Roger remarked half-an-hour later. “Time we were
getting back for lunch. And I want to hear what Moresby’s got to say,
too.”

“Moresby’s going to get the shock of his young life,” observed Anthony
grimly. “And I’m going to be in at the death.” Inspector Moresby, one
gathered, had infringed upon Anthony’s code of things that aren’t done
when he had the presumption to follow up a train of evidence to its
logical conclusion—Margaret; henceforward there was no good in him.

“Well, in that case come along,” Roger replied, scrambling up.
“Margaret, you’ll deliver those shoes at the back-door some time this
afternoon, will you? Thanks very much. Well, now, about meeting you
again, I should think——”

“Oh, we’ve fixed all that,” Anthony interrupted very airily.

It was about five minutes after this that Anthony delivered his views
upon whistling already recorded. At the same time he had something to
say on the subject of grins, and still more upon that of winks. Grins,
winks and whistles, it appeared, shared with Inspector Moresby the
murkiest depths of Anthony’s hatred and contempt.

Lunch was waiting for them when they arrived back, hot and thirsty, at
the inn—huge plates of cold beef, a salad, a white loaf and pleasantly
salt butter, raspberry tart and cream. Inspector Moresby was also
waiting for them, his face completely obscured at the moment of their
entering the room by the bottom of one of their host’s satisfactory
tankards (one cannot realise too strongly the fact that, when not
standing at street corners or arresting unarmed the most dangerous
criminals, members of the British Police Force are utterly and
completely human).

“Ah, here you are, gentlemen,” he observed heartily, emerging from the
tankard. “They asked me if we were going to take our meals together in
here, and I took the liberty of telling them we were. It’s a bit
lonely eating down there alone, if you’ve no objection.”

“None at all,” responded Roger, no less heartily. “Only too pleased,
Inspector. And I see you had the forethought to order up three of the
best. Excellent! Well, you’d better get ready to drink my health.”

“What have you been doing then, sir?” asked the Inspector humorously.
“Solving the mystery?”

“I have,” said Roger, and plunged into his story once more.

“So what do you think of that?” he concluded, not without a certain
triumph.

The Inspector wiped his moustache carefully. “It’s ingenious,” he
said. “Quite ingenious. But I shouldn’t pay too much importance to
footprints if I were you, Mr. Sheringham. Footprints are the easiest
thing in the world to fake.”

“It’s ingenious because we’re dealing with the deeds of an ingenious
criminal. That’s all. Anyhow, can you produce anything that can’t be
explained by the theory?” Roger challenged.

“Yes, sir, I can,” replied the inspector imperturbably. “That bit of
paper you picked up yourself. Our expert made it out all right. The
original’s coming on by special messenger, but I got a code telegram
half-an-hour ago, and I’ve written out for you what was on the paper.
How are you going to explain that by your theory?”

Roger took the piece of paper the other was holding out to him and
read it eagerly, Anthony craning over his shoulder. It was inscribed
as follows:——

                                                        Monday.
  “Elsie darling, for Heaven’s sake meet me once more before you do
  anything rash. You must let me explain. You _can’t_ do what you
  threaten when you think what we’ve been to each other. Meet me at
  the usual place to-morrow, same time. _Please_, darling!
                                                        “Colin.”
  “P. S. Destroy this.”



Chapter IX.

Colin, Who Art Thou?

Roger handed the letter back with a little smile. “How can I explain
this by my theory? Well, obviously enough, surely. ‘Colin’ must be Mr.
Russell.”

“Ah, but is he? Somehow I feel pretty sure he isn’t. Anyhow, that’s a
point we can soon settle. I bought a directory of the neighbourhood
yesterday—always do when I’m working on a case in the country. I’ll
run down and get it.”

“In the meantime,” said Roger, as the inspector’s heavy footsteps
echoed down the stairs, “we might as well get on with our lunch. I
wish I’d taken on a small bet with him about the identity of friend
Colin.”

“I shouldn’t have said there was much doubt about it,” observed
Anthony, helping himself largely to salad. “It all fits in, doesn’t
it?”

Two minutes later the inspector returned, an open book in his hand. He
laid it down on the table-cloth beside Roger and indicated an entry in
it with a large thumb.

“There you are, sir,” he said, with a commendable absence of triumph.
“‘Russell, John Henry, Rose Cottage.’ That’s your gentleman.”

“Humph!” said Roger, a little disconcerted. “But look here,” he added,
brightening, “Colin might have been a pet-name, or something like
that.”

The inspector took his place at the table. “It isn’t likely,” he said,
shaking out his napkin. “If it had been signed Tootles, or
Fuzzy-wuzzy, it might have been a pet-name all right. But Colin! No,
that doesn’t sound like a pet-name to me.”

“Then this appears to complicate matters pretty considerably,” Roger
remarked with some asperity.

“On the contrary, sir,” retorted the inspector cheerfully, applying
himself to his cold beef with every sign of satisfaction, “perhaps
it’s going to simplify them a lot.”

Roger knew that the inspector was confidently expecting to be asked to
explain this dark observation; he therefore went on with his meal in
silence. Somewhat to his surprise the inspector volunteered no
explanation of his own accord, his attention appearing to be entirely
divided between his plate and the directory, down the columns of which
he continued to run a careful thumb.

“There are two Colins in this neighbourhood,” he announced at last.
“Smith, Colin, plumber, East Row, Ludmouth, and Seaford, Colin James,
architect, 4 Burnt Oak Lane, Milbourne (that’s a village a couple of
miles inland). Neither of them looks like our man. But I hardly
expected to find him in here.”

“Why not?” asked Anthony.

“Because he’s probably a young man, living with his parents (isn’t
that a young man’s note, Mr. Sheringham, eh?); in which case of
course, he wouldn’t be mentioned. No, I shall have to spend the
afternoon making enquiries. In the meantime, I’d be much obliged if
you two gentlemen would not say anything about this. I stretched a
point in showing you what was on that paper, and I want you to
reciprocate by keeping quiet about it. I don’t want _anybody_ told,
you understand,” he added, with a significant look at Anthony; “male
_or_ female! You can promise me that, can’t you?”

“Naturally,” Roger said with a slight smile.

“Of course,” Anthony said stiffly.

“Then that’s all right,” observed the inspector with great heartiness.
“I shan’t be able to do anything until my man comes down with the
original document, of course; but he ought to be here any time now.
And by the way,” he added to Roger, “it may interest you to hear that
I’m officially in charge of the case now. I got my authorisation from
headquarters this morning.”

Roger picked up his cue. “I’ll mention that in my report to-night,
Inspector.”

“Well, you can if you want to, sir, of course,” said the inspector
with an air of innocent surprise.

As if by tacit agreement, the talk for the rest of the meal turned
upon general topics.

As soon as his pipe was alight the inspector rose to go. Roger waited
until he had left the room, then rose from his chair and darted in his
wake, closing the sitting-room door behind him.

“Inspector,” he said in a low voice, as he caught him up on the
landing, “there’s one question I must ask you. Are you intending to
arrest Miss Cross?”

The inspector looked at him quizzically. “Are you speaking as a
newspaper-man or as a friend of the lady’s, sir?”

“Neither. As Roger Sheringham, private and inquisitive citizen.”

“Well,” the inspector said slowly, “to a newspaper-man I should
answer, ‘Don’t ask me leading questions’; to a friend of the lady’s,
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about’; and to Mr. Sheringham,
private citizen and personal friend of my own, if I may say so, ‘No,
I’m not!’”

“Ah!”

“For one thing, you see,” the inspector added with a smile, “the
evidence against her isn’t quite complete yet.”

“But look here, you don’t mean to say you still think that she may
have——”

The inspector waved aside the awkward question with a large hand. “I’m
not going to say what I think about that, even to you, Mr. Sheringham.
But one word of warning I will give you, to pass on to your cousin or
not as you think fit—things aren’t always what they seem.”

“Ah!” Roger observed. “In other words, I suppose, ladies strongly
under suspicion on circumstantial evidence aren’t necessarily guilty
after all. Is that what you mean?”

“Well, sir,” replied the inspector, who seemed not a little pleased
with his conundrum, “that’s all I’ve got to _say_. What I _mean_, you
must decide for yourself.”

“Inspector, you’re hopeless!” Roger laughed, turning back to the
sitting-room.

Anthony was brooding darkly over his empty cheese-plate.

“I say, Roger,” he said at once, looking up, “does that damned
inspector still think that Margaret had anything to do with it?”

“No, I don’t imagine so, really. He may, but I’m more inclined to
think that he’s pulling our legs about her—yours especially. And you
are a bit of a trout over Margaret, aren’t you, Anthony? You rise to
any fly that he dangles over you.”

Anthony made a non-committal growling sound, but said nothing. Roger
began to pace the little room with restless steps.

“Dash that infernal letter!” he burst out a few minutes later.
“There’s no doubt that it does complicate matters most awkwardly.
Though it doesn’t rule out my bright solution of before lunch by any
means. The inspector ought to have seen that. What she was doing with
friend Colin doesn’t affect in the slightest degree the bad blood
between her and Mrs. Russell. We mustn’t get confused by issues that
lie outside the main chance.”

There was another pause.

“I must see Margaret!” Roger announced suddenly, stopping short in his
stride. “You muttered something this morning about having arranged a
meeting. For when?”

“Well, we didn’t actually _arrange_ anything,” Anthony replied with
preternatural innocence. “She happened to say that she’d probably be
going out to that ledge this afternoon about three o’clock with a
book, and I just mentioned that——”

“Cease your puling!” Roger interrupted rudely. “It’s a quarter to
three now. Get your hat and come along.”

Five minutes later they were walking briskly up the rise from the road
to the top of the cliffs, the wind blowing coolly about their heads.
It is perhaps not uninteresting to note in passing that Anthony wore a
hat and Roger did not. And one might go on to add at the same time
that Anthony’s grey flannel trousers were faultlessly creased, while
in Roger’s not a vestige of a crease could be seen. From this sort of
thing the keen psychologist draws any number of interesting
deductions.

“I say, you don’t mind me coming along, Anthony, do you?” Roger was
asking with an appearance of great anxiety.

“Of course I don’t. Why should I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t there some old saying about the difference
between a couple and a trio in connection with company? I mean——”

“Oh, dry up, for Heaven’s sake! You’re not funny, Roger.”

“That,” Roger maintained firmly, “is a matter of opinion. Well, let us
talk very seriously about gulls. There are no less than seven hundred
and forty distinct species of gulls known to the entomologist, of
which one hundred and eighty-two may be found by the intrepid explorer
around the rocky coasts of these Islands. Perhaps the most common
variety is the _Patum Perperium_, or Black-hearted Wombat, which may
be distinguished by——”

“What _are_ you talking about?” demanded his bewildered listener.

“Gulls, Anthony,” replied Roger, and went on doing so with singular
ardour right up to the ledge itself.

“Hullo, Margaret,” he greeted its occupant pleasantly. “Anthony and I
have been talking about gulls. Do you think you could invite us to tea
this afternoon with you?”

“To tea? Whatever for?”

“Well, it’s such a long way back to our own. Yours is so much easier.”

“Don’t take any notice of him, Margaret,” Anthony advised. “He’s only
being funny. He’s been funny ever since we left the Crown.”

“Yes, and about gulls, too,” Roger added with pride. “Extraordinarily
difficult things to be funny about, as you’ll readily understand. But
I’m quite serious about tea, Margaret. I want to have a chance of
studying the occupants of your household at close quarters.”

“Oh, I see. But why?”

“No particular reason, except that I ought to have as close a view as
possible of everybody mixed up with the case. And I must confess that
I’m rather interested to have a look at this doctor-man of yours; he
sounds interesting. Can it be done?”

The girl wrinkled her brow. “Ye-es, I should think so. Yes, of course
it can! I’m keeping house for the time being, you know. I’ll just take
you in with me, and that’s all there’ll be to it.”

“Good! You needn’t say what we are or anything about us. Just
introduce us as two friends of yours who are staying down here.”

“Yes, I understand, Miss Williamson will be there, of course, but I
don’t know about George; as often as not he has a tray sent into the
laboratory for him. Still, you can take the chance.”

“Thanks, we will,” Roger said, descending to the little ledge. “And
now, as we’ve got an hour or so to spare, I propose that we devote it
to an elevating discussion upon some subject as remote as possible
from the business in hand. How say you, my children?”

“Right!” agreed Anthony, who had taken the opportunity of propping
himself with his back to the rock as near as possible to Margaret’s
side as was consistent with the convention that a young man shall not
sit directly on top of a young woman to whom he is not engaged.
“Anything you like—except gulls!”

During the next excellent hour Roger, lying on his back in the shade a
couple of yards away and staring up into the blue sky, could not
possibly have seen a tentative hand emerge from Anthony’s pocket,
grope about the turf in an apparently aimless way for at least ten
minutes and then pluck up the courage at last to fasten firmly upon
another, and very much smaller, hand which had been lying quite still
by its owner’s side the whole time. He could not possibly have
seen—but he quite definitely knew all about it.



Chapter X.

Tea, China and Young Love

“By the way, I ought to warn you. Miss Williamson isn’t exactly an
ordinary secretary: she’s rather an important person. She does any
secretarial work George wants, of course, which is very little, but
her chief job is to help him in the laboratory. She took a science
degree at Cambridge—and I must say,” Margaret added with a little
laugh, “she looks it.”

It was nearly half-past four, and the three of them were sitting in
Dr. Vane’s drawing-room, waiting for tea and for the other members of
the household. Margaret and Anthony showed distinct signs of
nervousness, though for what exact reason was not really apparent to
either of them; Roger was as collected as ever. The five-odd minutes
which had elapsed since they entered the room had been spent happily
by him in examining with no little interest the really fine collection
of china which filled two large glass-fronted cabinets and overflowed
on to two or three shelves and, in the case of a few plates, even the
walls themselves. Roger’s knowledge of china was not a large one, but
he had a sufficiently good smattering to enable him to talk
intelligently on the subject with a collector.

“Don’t be catty, Margaret,” he said now, examining a Dresden ornament
depicting four persons at a whist-table, the lace of the little
ladies’ gowns and of the miniature fans they fluttered being picked
out with almost incredible daintiness. “I say, surely your cousin
never amassed this collection, did she?”

“No. It’s George’s. The only hobby he’s got apart from his test-tubes
and things. Why?”

“I thought it didn’t seem to fit in very well with the synopsis you
gave me of the lady’s character. Anyhow, that’s all to the good; I’ll
congratulate George on his collection and he’ll love me like a
brother. I’ve met these china-maniacs before and I think I know how to
deal with them.”

“You’re perfectly right,” Margaret smiled. “It’s certainly the
shortest cut to George’s heart.”

“And before George is much older he’s going to hear a few things about
china,” Anthony was beginning with heavy sarcasm, when the opening of
the drawing-room door cut him short.

Of the two people who entered the room the next moment, it is hard to
say which presented the more striking figure. Miss Williamson, who
preceded her employer, would have drawn attention in any company. She
was a tall, angular woman, with high cheek-bones and close-cropped
fair hair, and the pince-nez she wore seemed to add emphasis to the
darting looks of her cold, slightly prominent blue eyes. Her clothes
were neat to the point of severity and there was that air of brisk
efficiency about her which is likely to reduce the ordinary man to a
condition of tongue-tied uneasiness when he encounters it in a strange
female, it clashes so persistently with all his ideas of what the word
“feminine” ought to convey. Yet with it all the secretary was not one
of those distressing creatures, a mannish woman; and though by no
means beautiful, she was not in a way unhandsome. “A distinct
personality here,” Roger told himself before his eyes had been resting
longer than two seconds upon her.

Dr. Vane, who followed close on her heels, bore out the picture
Margaret had already given—a great hulking man, six feet two inches
tall at least, with an enormous black beard and a stern eye, yet with
a gentleness and delicacy of movement which was in striking contrast
with the rugged strength of his appearance; as he closed the door
behind him, one could scarcely hear it meet the lintel, so restrained
was his action.

Margaret jumped to her feet as the two entered.

“Oh, George, these are two friends of mine, Mr. Sheringham and Mr.
Walton,” she said, not without confusion. “They called in to see me,
not knowing about—about——”

“I am very glad for you to welcome your friends here, Margaret,” the
doctor said with grave courteousness. “It is after all the very least
I can do now that you are so kindly looking after things here for me.”

Margaret thanked him with a quick smile, and introduced the two to
Miss Williamson. Bows were exchanged, and the latter rang the bell for
tea.

“We’ve only got ten minutes, Margaret,” she said briskly. “In the
middle of something rather important, and it was as much as I could do
to drag George in here at all.”

The two girls and Anthony formed a group by the window, and Roger
approached Dr. Vane.

“A magnificent collection of china you’ve got here, doctor,” he said
easily. “I’ve been admiring it ever since I came in. I’ve never seen
finer Spode in my life than those bits over there.”

Into the doctor’s stern eye leapt the light of the collector who hears
his collection praised, which is much the same as that of the mother
who is told that her infant possesses her own nose. “You are
interested in china, Mr. Sheringham?”

“I’m crazy about it,” returned Roger untruthfully.

The rest simply followed.

With the arrival of tea the conversation became more general, and
Roger was able to allow the novelist in him to rise to the surface and
survey this truly piquant situation. Here was a man whose wife only
three days ago had met with a violent death in circumstances which
were, to say the least of it, suspicious, receiving his tea-cup from
the hands of a young and pretty girl who, as he could hardly fail to
realise after Inspector Moresby’s visit, had come very closely under
the notice of the police in connection with the same violent death.
Yet the relations between the two, which might have been expected to
be almost intolerable, did not appear, on the surface at any rate, to
be even so much as strange. Margaret was perfectly natural; Dr. Vane
courteous, gentle and mildly affectionate. The more Roger watched, the
more he marvelled. Unconventional though he was in literature as in
life, he would hardly have dared to make use of such a situation for
one of his books; it would have been voted too wildly improbable.

The talk, which had shifted for a few minutes to trifles, showed a
tendency to revert, so far as Dr. Vane was concerned, to his former
topic. Somewhat to Roger’s surprise, Miss Williamson joined in as the
doctor warmed again to his theme, even going so far as to put him
right once or twice upon small points of detail.

“You’re an enthusiast too, then?” Roger could not help asking her.

“Now, yes,” she replied. “When I first came I knew nothing about it at
all, but George showed me the way and now I’m as much under the spell
even as he is.”

“And know a good deal more about it, Mary, don’t you?” commented the
doctor, with the first signs of a smile he had yet displayed. “Another
case of the pupil and the master, I’m afraid, Mr. Sheringham,” he
added to Roger, with an air of mock disgust.

“Oh, nonsense, George!” Miss Williamson laughed. “I only wish I did.
You’ve got a great deal to teach me yet, I fear.”

Fortunately it was clear that Dr. Vane had no idea of the identity of
his visitor, as also had not Miss Williamson (indeed, neither of them
looked the sort of person who might be expected to read the
_Courier_), so that no suspicion as to the reason of his call could
occur to either of them. Roger, content enough with the success of his
tactics, continued to play the safe card of china; while Margaret and
Anthony, to neither of whom china contained the least interest, were
reduced for the most part to sitting and looking at each other in
silence. They seemed perfectly content with this state of affairs.

When, half-an-hour later instead of ten minutes, Miss Williamson
issued her third ultimatum which had the effect of bringing the doctor
to his feet at last, Roger felt he had had enough of china to last him
for several years. Dr. Vane, however, could not have felt the same,
for he shook his visitor warmly by the hand and, having ascertained
that he and Anthony expected to be staying several days in Ludmouth,
invited both of them to supper on the following Sunday, brushing aside
Roger’s half-hearted attempts at a refusal with a firmness that was
almost genial.

Roger sank back into his chair as the door closed behind them and
fanned himself with a limp hand. “Did I happen to hear anyone mention
the word china just now?” he asked feebly.

“Well?” Margaret demanded. “What did you think of them?”

“What did I think?” Roger repeated, speaking for the moment from the
fullness of his heart. “I think that within a year or so the
wedding-bells will be heard once more in Ludmouth.”

“_What?_” cried Anthony and Margaret together.

Roger realised that he had spoken unguardedly, but it was too late to
withdraw his words. “I think,” he said more carefully, “that George
and that lady will make a match of it.”

“She’s head over heels in love with him,” Margaret nodded. “I’ve known
that for years. But I didn’t expect you to notice it.”

“That’s my business, fair lady,” Roger returned sweetly.

“You _saw_ she was keen on him?” Anthony asked in astonishment. “How
on earth did you do that?”

“For the answer to this question, refer to my last remark,” Roger
murmured. “Alternative answer—china!”

“Yes, that rather gave it away,” Margaret agreed. “Especially after
what I’d said before. Do you remember?”

“It was that I was thinking of,” Roger laughed.

Anthony looked from one to the other. “What _are_ you two talking
about?” he appealed.

“Nothing that you’d understand, little boy,” said Roger kindly. “Run
away and play with the blind-tassel. I like your doctor-man,
Margaret.”

“George? Yes, he’s a dear, isn’t he? Though it took me ever so much
longer to know him than it seems to have taken you. And he liked you
too. I’ve never known him to ask anyone to supper on such a short
acquaintance.”

“I _am_ rather likable,” Roger admitted.

The conversation then became purely frivolous.

Having achieved the object with which he had set out, Roger was
anxious to talk over its results with Anthony—a thing that could
hardly be done in this case in the presence of Margaret. It was not
long before he began to show signs of readiness to embark on the
process of leave-taking. He ostentatiously arranged a meeting with
Margaret the next morning “just in case,” he rose to his feet, hovered
near the door, sat down and rose again, and he said that they must be
going at least half-a-dozen times over, each time more as if he meant
it than before. At this point he realised that nothing short of heroic
measures would be likely to shift Anthony from that drawing-room.

Roger was not the person to shirk heroic measures when nothing short
of heroic measures was required. “Anthony,” he said with decision, “I
don’t think you realise that we’re out-staying our welcome. I’ve been
trying to hint gently for the last quarter-of-an-hour that it’s time
we were going. Margaret’s sure to have lots to do, you know.”

“But I haven’t, Roger,” Margaret objected. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you have,” Roger said firmly. “Lots. Come on, Anthony.”

“No, really I haven’t. Nothing at all.”

“Well, I have. Come _on_, Anthony!”

This time Anthony came.

Margaret said good-bye to them in the drawing-room, and from the hall
Anthony had to go back to tell her something he’d forgotten. Roger
waited five minutes; then he followed and dug Anthony out again.
Margaret came out into the hall with them and said good-bye there, and
from half-way down the drive Anthony had to go back for his stick.
Roger waited ten minutes, then he followed once more, running the
culprit to earth again in the drawing-room.

“Anthony, I think we ought to be going now,” he said. “Job speaking.
Anthony, I think we ought to be going now. Have you remembered to say
all you’d forgotten to remember to say? Have you your stick, your hat,
your shoes, your tie-pin, your spectacles and your lace cap? Anthony,
I think we ought to be going. Margaret, perhaps if you were to go and
immure yourself in your bedroom or the bathroom or the linen-cupboard
or any other suitable place of immurement, I think Anthony might be
induced in despair to——”

“Roger, I _hate_ you!” Margaret gasped in a stifled voice, hurrying
with burning cheeks out of the room.

“Portrait of a lady on her way to immurement,” murmured Roger
thoughtfully, gazing after her flying figure.

“Damn you, Roger!” spluttered the indignant Anthony, no less puce.
“What the deuce do you want to go and——”

“Anthony, I think it’s time we were going,” Roger pointed out gently.

This time Anthony really did go, not only out of the house but right
down the drive, over the road and on to the cliffs.

Roger gave him ten minutes to work off steam and simmer down again;
then he got on with the business in hand.

“Now, look here, Anthony, drop all that and tell me this—what
deductions did you draw at our little tea-party?”

“What deductions?” Anthony said a little reluctantly. “I don’t know
that I drew any. Did you?”

“One or two. That the lady we had the pleasure of meeting wouldn’t be
at all averse to becoming Mrs. Vane now that the post is vacant, for
one thing.”

“How on earth could you tell that, Roger?”

“It was sticking out in lumps all over her for anybody who had the
eyes to see. In fact it seemed to me that she wasn’t even troubling to
hide it. But was the doctor-man equally minded? Now that I’m not
nearly so sure about.”

“You think he isn’t?”

“No, I don’t say that for a minute. What I do say is that he’s very
much better at hiding his feelings. I couldn’t tell what he was
thinking at all, except that he’s fond of Margaret and anxious to show
it. The only really significant thing about him was the fact of his
asking us to supper like that.”

“You mean only four or five days after his wife’s death?”

“Exactly. Now what does that show?”

“That he’s not any too cut up about it.”

“Precisely. In other words, I should say, he knew his wife’s true
character. And not being sorry she’s dead, he’s not going to pretend
that he is; that’s how the man strikes me.”

“Yes,” Anthony said slowly. “I think I agree with you.”

“Nor is the woman. That was obvious enough. He may even be taking his
cue from her. She’s without doubt the stronger character of the two.”

“Is she?”

“Oh, yes. Then there’s another thing. Does the woman know Mrs. Vane’s
real character too? On the whole I should be inclined to say yes.
She’s pretty sharp.”

“That might even have started her being keen on him,” Anthony pointed
out; “if she really is. I mean, it must have been a pretty ghastly
sight to see a decent chap like that tied up to a little rotter of a
woman, mustn’t it?”

“That’s a very shrewd idea,” Roger agreed. “Yes, I shouldn’t be a bit
surprised if that isn’t how things did happen. Gradually, of course;
these things always do. I’m not hinting that there was an intrigue
between them or anything like that; I don’t for a moment think there
was. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if the doctor hasn’t got the
least idea about her feelings even now. But he’ll find himself
marrying her one day for all that. She’s a woman of unusually strong
mind and she’s made it up on that particular point all right, I
wouldn’t mind betting.”

“She had large feet,” said Anthony quite irrelevantly.

“So have a number of people. You, for instance. Did it strike you
whether she liked Margaret?”

“She’d be a fool if she didn’t,” said Anthony with complete
conviction.

“Do refrain from being maudlin, Anthony. Personally, I thought she
didn’t. She was inclined to be peremptory and not a little bossy, did
you notice? But jealousy would quite well account for that. After all,
Margaret is young and pretty and she’s neither. Did anything else
strike you about Dr. Vane? About his character, or anything like
that?”

Anthony considered. “I should think he’s probably got the very devil
of a temper,” he decided.

“You take the words out of my mouth. That’s precisely what struck me.
I don’t suppose it has any significance at all, but it’s a point that
we might well keep before us. Dr. Vane has the very devil of a temper.
Now, about that invitation, I don’t— Hullo! Isn’t that the inspector
on the road? Yes, it is; I’d know that bulky form anywhere. Let’s cut
across and see if he’s got any news. By the way, congratulations,
Anthony.”

“What on?”

“Not saying anything to Margaret about friend Colin’s letter. A most
admirable piece of self-restraint.”

A lusty hail from Roger brought the inspector to a standstill. He
halted and waited for them to catch up with him.

“It’s a hot day for running about, gentlemen,” he greeted them mopping
his large red face. “Uncommonly hot.”

“You’re right, Inspector. And has virtue brought its own reward, or
have you got any news?”

“I have got some news, sir, I’m glad to say. I’ve succeeded in
locating the gentleman who wrote that letter. Been a bit of a job, but
I’m pretty sure I’ve found him this time.”

“You have, have you? I say, that’s good! Who is he?”

“Gentleman by the name of Colin Woodthorpe; son of a Sir Henry
Woodthorpe who’s got a big place between here and Sandsea. I thought
of going round to call on him this evening.”

“Good,” said Roger promptly. “May I come?”

“It’s a bit irregular, sir.”

“I know it is. Frightfully irregular. But you do owe me something over
the letter, don’t you?”

“Very well, sir,” the inspector grinned. “I can see you’re determined
to come, so I suppose I shall have to take you with me. But it’ll have
to be as that personal friend of mine, mind, not as a newspaper-man.”

“On my oath!” said Roger piously. “In any case I wouldn’t— Oh,
Heavens, talk hard and don’t let me be buttonholed. This is the most
persistent talker in the south of England coming along the road toward
us.”

“When you’re in the north, Roger,” Anthony amended humorously.

“His name is the Rev. Samuel Meadows,” Roger went on to the inspector.
“He caught me on the cliffs this morning and held me for half-an-hour
by the clock. The Ancient Mariner couldn’t make a match of it with
him.”

In some curiosity the other two watched the little clerical figure
approach. He smiled benignly as he recognised Roger and touched the
wide brim of his hat in a somewhat expansive gesture, but made no
attempt to speak.

“Saved!” Roger murmured dramatically as they passed him. “Friends, I
thank you!”

But the inspector did not smile. His brow was corrugated and he was
tugging at his long-suffering moustache.

“Now, where the dickens,” he remarked very thoughtfully to his boots,
“have I seen _that_ face before?”



Chapter XI.

Inspector Moresby Conducts an Interview

Clouston Hall, the home of Sir Henry and Lady Woodthorpe, was a
stolidly built Georgian house, with the usual aspect of square
solidity so happily typical of its period. It stood in its own grounds
of nine or ten acres, and as Roger and the inspector made their way up
the trim drive the setting sun was burnishing the mellow brick of its
front to a deeper red and slanting over the velvety expanse of lawn,
unprofaned by tennis nets or chalk lines, which faced it across the
broad carriage-sweep.

“By Jove!” Roger exclaimed softly. “It’s a fine picture, isn’t it?
There’s something about these big Georgian country houses, you know,
Inspector, that does stir the imagination. Can’t you just see that
carriage-sweep stiff with huntsmen in red coats and jolly red faces,
all engulfing a couple of gallons of home-brew before going off to
give Reynard the run of his life?”

“It’s a tidy bit of property,” the inspector agreed. “But they’re
child’s-play for burglars, these old houses are.” To every man his own
point of view.

“I wonder what it is that always makes one associate Georgian houses
with hunting scenes,” Roger mused. “Must be the red, I suppose. Red
brick, red coats, red faces. Yes, red seems to be the key-colour of
the times. What would Rowlandson have done if there’d been no red on
his palette? He’d have had to draw people without any noses at all.”

They reached the white porch, and the inspector placed a large thumb
over the un-Georgian electric bell-push. “You’ll remember, Mr.
Sheringham, won’t you?” he said half apologetically. “We’re here on
official business, and it’s me who’s got to do all the talking.”

“Did I or did I not give you my solemn word, Inspector?” queried Roger
in hurt tones. “Besides, I would have you know that at school my
nickname was ‘Oyster.’ ‘Oyster Sheringham,’ I was invariably called.”

“There’s often an untrue word spoken in jest,” murmured the inspector
with a face of preternatural innocence.

Before Roger could reply suitably the door was opened by a large and
fish-like butler.

There are few men in this country who can remain their normal selves
in face of a truly fish-like specimen of the English butler. Roger’s
admiration of his companion increased almost visibly as he watched him
confront this monumental dolphin (that was the word which rose
unbidden into Roger’s mind the moment the door opened) without so much
as a blench.

“I want to see Mr. Colin Woodthorpe,” said the inspector heartily, in
a voice free from the slightest tremor. “Is he at home?”

“I will enquire, sir,” returned the dolphin coldly, eyeing their dusty
appearance with obvious pain, and made as if to close the door. “Would
you care to leave your name?”

The inspector placed a large foot in the aperture. “You needn’t put on
any of those frills with me,” he said with the utmost cheerfulness.
“You know whether the gentleman I want to see is at home or not.” He
paused and looked the other in the eye. “_Is he?_” he shot out with
startling abruptness.

Roger watched the dolphin’s reaction to this mode of attack with some
interest. His gills opened and closed rapidly, and a look of distinct
alarm appeared in his pale sandy eyes. Roger had never seen an alarmed
butler before, and he certainly never expected to see one again.

“He—he was in to dinner, sir,” gasped the dolphin, almost before he
knew what he was doing.

“Ha!” observed the inspector, evidently satisfied. “Then you cut
along, my man, and tell him that Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard
would like a word or two with him. And you needn’t shout it out for
all the rest of the world to hear, understand?” It appeared that the
dolphin understood. “Very well. Now show us somewhere where we can
wait.”

The chastened dolphin led them into a small room on the left of the
big hall, the gun-room. As the door closed behind him, Roger seized
the inspector’s hand and wrung it reverently. “Now I see how you can
arrest seventeen armed criminals in the most dangerous dive in
Limehouse with nothing but a walking-stick and a safety-pin,” he said
in awe-struck tones. “‘My man!’ And yet the heavens remain intact!”

“I never stand nonsense from butlers,” remarked the inspector
modestly.

Roger shielded his eyes and groaned.

Colin Woodthorpe, who made his appearance a couple of minutes later,
proved to be a pleasant-looking young man of some five- or
six-and-twenty, with fair hair and a sanguine complexion, big and
sturdy; he was wearing a dinner-jacket, but Roger instinctively saw
him in gaiters and riding-breeches. He was perfectly self-possessed.

“Inspector Moresby?” he asked with a little smile, picking out Roger’s
companion without hesitation.

“That’s me, sir,” assented the inspector in his usual genial tones.
“Sorry to bother you, but duty’s duty, as you know. I hope that butler
of yours didn’t make too much pother. I told him not to. Scotland Yard
has a nasty sound in the ears of the old people, I know.”

“Oh, no,” laughed the young man. “As a matter of fact I was alone,
though it was very kind of you to think of warning him. Well, what’s
it all about, Inspector? Sit down, won’t you? Cigarette?”

“Well, thank you, sir,” The inspector helped himself to a cigarette
from the other’s case and disposed his bulk in a comfortable
leather-covered armchair. Roger followed suit.

As the young man sat down, the inspector edged his chair round so as
to be able to look him directly in the face. “As I said, sir, I’m
sorry to bother you, but it’s this matter of Mrs. Vane’s death I’m
looking into.” He paused significantly.

Roger could have sworn that a look of apprehension flitted for an
instant across the young man’s face, but his voice when he spoke after
only a second’s hesitation was perfectly under control.

“Oh, yes?” he said easily (almost _too_ easily, Roger felt). “And why
have you come to me?”

The inspector’s hand shot out toward him, holding the piece of paper
he had already drawn from his pocket. “To ask you to explain this,
sir, if you please,” he said very much more brusquely.

Colin Woodthorpe looked at the paper curiously; then, as his brain
took in the significance of the words written upon it he flushed
deeply. “Where—how did you get hold of this?” he asked in a voice that
was none too steady.

The inspector explained briefly that the original had been found among
the rocks close to where the body was lying. “I want you to explain
it, if you please, sir,” he concluded. “I need not point out to you
its importance as far as we are concerned. You ask the lady to meet
you, and on the very day you arrange she meets her death. If you kept
the appointment, it seems to us that you ought to be able to shed some
light on that death. I need hardly ask you whether you did keep it?”

The young man had recovered himself to some extent. He frowned and
crossed his legs. “Look here, I don’t understand this. I thought Mrs.
Vane’s death was an accident. They’ve had the inquest, and that was
the verdict. Why are you ‘looking into it,’ as you say?”

“Well, sir,” the inspector returned in his usual cheerful tones, “I
came here to ask questions, not to answer them. Still, I don’t mind
answering that one. The fact of the matter is that we’re not at all
sure that Mrs. Vane’s death _was_ an accident.”

There was no doubt that the young man was genuinely startled. “Good
Heavens!” he cried. “What on earth do you mean? What else could it
be?”

The inspector looked at him quizzically. “Well—it might have been
suicide, mightn’t it?” he said slowly.

“Suicide!” Woodthorpe sat up with a jerk and his rosy face paled. “You
don’t—you don’t really mean to say you think it might have been,
Inspector?”

“Have _you_ any particular reason for thinking it might have been,
sir?” the inspector shot out.

The young man sat back in his chair again, moistening his lips with a
quick movement of his tongue. “No, of course not,” he muttered. “I
don’t understand.”

“Oh, yes, you do, sir,” retorted the inspector grimly. “Now look here,
Mr. Woodthorpe,” he went on in a more kindly voice. “I want you to put
down your cards on the table and tell me the whole story. Believe me,
it’s far and away the best thing to do, from your point of view as
well as ours. It’s bound to come out in the end you know. And——”

Woodthorpe had risen to his feet. “Excuse me, Inspector,” he
interrupted stiffly, “I must repeat that I don’t understand you. I
have nothing to tell you. Is that all you wished to see me about?”

He walked toward the door as if inviting the other to rise and take
his departure, but the inspector blandly ignored the hint.

“Of course I know what you’re feeling, sir,” he remarked. “You’re
trying to shield the lady’s reputation, I know that. Well, the best
way you can do so is to answer my questions. I’ve got to get my
information, and if I get it from you we may be able to keep it
between ourselves; if you force me to try other sources, I’m afraid
there’s no hope of keeping it dark. At present (if you haven’t given
yourselves away elsewhere) there’s nobody but you and us who knows
that you were Mrs. Vane’s lover.”

Woodthorpe looked at him steadily. “Inspector,” he said slowly, “may I
say that you are being offensive?”

“Can’t help that, sir, I’m afraid,” replied the inspector cheerily.
“And if you’re not going to be open with me, I daresay you’ll find me
more offensive still. And you can’t bluff me, sir, you know. Not that
I blame you for trying; I’d do the same myself for a lady I’d got into
a mess with.” The inspector’s choice of words may not have been
fortunate, but his sentiment was admirable. “Still, you’ve given
yourself away too much in this note, you know, sir—besides what I’ve
been able to find out elsewhere. For instance, I know that Mrs. Vane
had been your mistress for some little time, that you’d got tired of
her and were trying to break with her, and that she was threatening
you if you did. I know all the essentials, you see. It’s only a few
details I want you to tell me, and I’d much rather have them from you
than from anybody else.”

The young man had put up a good fight, but it was plain to Roger that
he now accepted defeat. Indeed, it was difficult to see what else he
could do. Dropping back into his chair, he acknowledged the truth of
the inspector’s words by a tacit hiatus. “If I answer your questions,”
he said curtly, “will you treat what I tell you as private and
confidential?”

“As far as I possibly can, sir,” the inspector promised. “It’s no wish
of mine to drag out unnecessary scandals, or make things awkward which
might have been better left undisturbed.”

“I can’t see what you’re driving at, in any case,” Woodthorpe said
wearily, lighting another cigarette. “Mrs. Vane is dead, isn’t she?
What does it matter whether her death was accident or suicide? It
can’t help _her_ to have these things raked over.”

“It’s my duty to look into it, sir,” replied the inspector primly.
“Now, when I mentioned the word ‘suicide’ just now you were startled,
weren’t you? Did it cross your mind that she might have killed herself
because you insisted on breaking with her, and she didn’t want to let
you go?”

Woodthorpe flushed. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “It did.”

“Ah!” Having succeeded in impressing the young man with his own mental
acuteness, the inspector proceeded to the questions of real
importance. “Did you keep that appointment, sir?”

“No.” Reconciled as he now was to the necessity of being frank,
Woodthorpe spoke with no hesitation or sullenness. “You were wrong
about that note of mine. It’s nearly three weeks old. That appointment
was for a fortnight ago last Tuesday, and I did keep it then.”

“I see.” The inspector’s voice did not show the slightest surprise at
this unexpected piece of news; Roger’s face, on the contrary, betrayed
the liveliest astonishment. “And where was the meeting held, sir?
What, in fact, is ‘the usual place’?”

“A little cave we knew of on that ledge, quite near the place she was
killed. I discovered it about a year ago; and was struck with its
privacy. Anyone who didn’t know of it would never find it. The mouth
is at an angle in the rock, and there’s a big boulder masking it.
We’ve been in there heaps of times when people have passed by outside
without spotting us.”

“How many times have you met Mrs. Vane since then?”

“Not at all. I broke with her finally at that meeting.” He shifted a
little uneasily in his chair, and Roger guessed that the process of
breaking had not been a simple one. “I’d like to add, by the way,” he
went on a little stiffly, “that the fault for the whole thing was
mine. Mrs. Vane was in no way to blame. I——”

“We’ll leave that for the moment, sir, if you don’t mind,” the
inspector interrupted. “It’s facts I’m after, not faults. Why did you
decide to break with Mrs. Vane?”

“For private reasons,” Woodthorpe replied shortly, setting his jaw and
looking very obstinate indeed.

The inspector abandoned that point. “What was Mrs. Vane threatening to
do if you broke with her?” he asked bluntly.

“Tell her husband,” replied the other, no less bluntly.

The inspector whistled. “Whew! The whole story?”

“The whole story.”

“But that would have meant divorce!”

“She said she didn’t mind about that.”

“Humph!” The inspector turned this surprising information over in his
mind. “How long had you been—well, friendly with her?” he continued,
somewhat inadequately, after a short pause.

“For about a year,” replied Woodthorpe, who evidently understood what
the inspector’s delicacy was intended to convey.

“Did you have many quarrels during that time?”

“About as many as other people do, I suppose.”

“Not more than you might expect to have with any other woman?”

“Well—perhaps a few more,” Woodthorpe admitted awkwardly.

Frantic signs from Roger conveyed the information to the inspector
that his companion was anxious to put a question of his own. As the
conversation had taken a psychological turn, the inspector saw no harm
in graciously according permission.

“Did you find that you had cause as time went on very considerably to
modify your original estimate of the lady’s character?” Roger asked,
choosing his words with some care.

Woodthorpe shot him a grateful look. “Yes,” he said instantly. “I
did.”

Roger held him with a thoughtful eye. “Would you call her,” he said
slowly, “an _imprudent_ woman?”

Woodthorpe hesitated. “I don’t know. In some things, damnably! In
others, very much the reverse.”

Roger nodded as if satisfied. “Yes, that’s just what I imagined.—All
right, carry on, Inspector. Sorry to have interrupted you.”



Chapter XII.

Real Bad Blood

“Well?” Roger asked, as the two of them walked down the drive again
half-an-hour or so later. “Well, what did you make of that young man,
Inspector?”

“A very nice young gentleman, I thought,” returned the inspector
guardedly. “What did you, Mr. Sheringham, sir?”

“I thought the same as you,” Roger replied innocently.

“Um!” observed the inspector.

There was a little silence.

“You brought out your deductions from the wording of that note very
pat and cleverly,” Roger remarked.

“Ah!” said the inspector.

There was another little silence.

“Well, I’m quite sure he knows nothing about it,” Roger burst out.

The inspector bestowed a surreptitious grin on a small rambling rose.
“Are you, sir?” he said. Mr. Roger Sheringham was perhaps not the only
psychologist walking down the drive of Clouston Hall at that moment.

“Aren’t you, Inspector?” Roger demanded point-blank.

“Um!” replied the inspector carefully.

“If he does, he’s a better actor than ever I’ve met before,” said
Roger.

“I was watching him closely, and I’m convinced his surprise was
genuine,” said Roger.

“He certainly believed her death had been accidental,” said Roger.

“I’ll stake my life he knows nothing about it,” said Roger defiantly.

“Will you, sir?” queried the inspector blandly. “Well, well!”

Roger cut viciously with his stick at an inoffensive daisy.

There was another little silence.

They turned out of the drive and began to tramp along the dusty
highroad.

“Still,” said Roger cunningly, “we got some extraordinarily valuable
information out of him, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” said the inspector.

“Which goes some way to confirm a rather interesting new theory of my
own,” said Roger, still more cunningly.

“Ah!” said the inspector.

Roger began to whistle.

“By the way,” said the inspector very airily, “what exactly was the
significance of that question you put to him about Mrs. Vane being an
imprudent woman, sir? Why ‘imprudent’?”

“Um!” said Roger.

In this way the time passed pleasantly till they returned to their
inn. An impartial spectator would probably have given it as his
opinion by that time that the honours were even, with, if anything, a
slight bias in favour of the inspector. Roger retired to telephone his
report through to London, stretching his meagre amount of straw into
as many bricks as possible, and the inspector disappeared altogether,
presumably to chew over the cud of his mission. Anthony was not in the
inn at all.

Returning from the telephone, Roger looked into the little
bar-parlour; three yokels and a dog were there. He looked into their
private sitting-room; nobody was there. He looked into each of their
bedrooms; nobody was there either. Then he took up his station outside
Inspector Moresby’s bedroom, laid back his head, and proceeded to give
a creditable imitation of a bloodhound baying the moon. The effect was
almost instantaneous.

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the startled inspector, emerging
precipitately in his shirt-sleeves. “Was—was that you, Mr.
Sheringham?”

“It was,” said Roger, pleased. “Did you like it?”

“I did not,” replied the inspector with decision. “Are you often taken
that way, sir?”

“Only when I’m feeling very chatty, and nobody will talk to me or
occasionally when I’ve been trying to thought-read, and nobody will
tell me whether I’m right or wrong. Otherwise, hardly at all.”

The inspector laughed. “Very well, sir. I guess I have been trying
your patience a bit. But now you’ve got that telephone business done
with, perhaps we might have a chat.”

“Distrustful lot of men, the police,” Roger murmured. “Disgustingly.
Well, what about a visit to the sitting-room? That bottle of whisky
isn’t nearly finished, you know.”

“I’ll be with you in half-a-minute, sir,” said the inspector quite
briskly.

Roger went on ahead and mixed two drinks, one stiff, one so stiff as
to be almost rigid. The inspector, smacking his lips over the latter
two minutes later, remarked regretfully that that was good stuff for
nowadays, that was, but it was a pity they filled the bottles half up
with water in these times before the stuff ever got into a glass at
all. It is a hard business, trying to loosen a Scotland Yard
Inspector’s tongue.

“Well, now,” said Roger, pulling himself together and settling down
more comfortably in his chair. “Well, now, Inspector, what about it
all? If you feel a little more disposed to be confidential, isn’t this
rather a good opportunity to review the case as it stands at present?
I’m inclined to think it is.”

The inspector set down his glass and wiped his moustache. “You mean,
while there’s only two of us to do the discussing instead of three?”
he asked with a large wink.

“Exactly. My cousin’s outlook is—well, not altogether unprejudiced.”

“And is yours, sir?” asked the inspector shrewdly.

Roger laughed. “A palpable hit. Well, I certainly do _not_ think the
young lady in whom you’ve been taking so much interest has anything to
do with it, I must confess. In fact, I’ll go further and say that I’ve
absolutely made up my mind on the point.”

“And yet the evidence points more conclusively to her than to anybody
else,” remarked the inspector mildly.

“Oh, no doubt. But evidence can be faked, can’t it? And you yourself
were pointing out to me only a few hours ago that things aren’t always
what they seem.”

“Was I, now?” queried the inspector, with an air of gentle surprise.

“Oh, Inspector, don’t start fencing with me again!” Roger implored.
“I’ve given you a perfectly good drink, I’m prepared to hand over to
you all my startling and original ideas—do try to be human!”

“Well, Mr. Sheringham, what is it you want to discuss?” asked the
inspector, evidently trying hard to be human.

“Everything!” returned Roger largely. “Our interview just now; my idea
about Mrs. Russell; your suspicions of Miss Cross (if you really have
suspicions, and aren’t just pulling my leg)—everything!”

“Very well, sir,” said the inspector equably. “Where shall we start?”

“Well, we began just now with Miss Cross. I want to add a word to the
very dogmatic statement I made, though it’s not really necessary. You
know, of course, why I’m so convinced she had nothing to do with it?”

“Well, I won’t make you wild by saying ‘because she’s an uncommonly
pretty girl,’” the inspector smiled. “I’ll wrap it up a bit more and
say ‘because you think she couldn’t commit a murder to save her
life.’”

“That’s right,” Roger nodded. “In other words, for overwhelmingly
psychological reasons. If that girl isn’t as transparently straight as
they make ’em, may I never call myself a judge of character again!”

“She _is_ uncommonly pretty, I must say,” remarked the inspector
non-committally.

Roger disregarded the irrelevance. “You must have to make use of
psychology in your business, Inspector, and continual use too. Every
detective must be a psychologist, whether he knows it or not. Don’t
all your instincts tell you that girl’s as innocent—I don’t mean
merely of this crime, but innocent-_minded_—as you’d wish any daughter
of your own to be?”

The inspector tugged at his moustache. “We detectives may have to know
a bit about psychology, as you say, sir; I’m not disputing that. But
it’s our business to deal in facts, not fancies; and the thing we’ve
got to pay most attention to is evidence. And in nine cases out of ten
I’ll back evidence (even purely circumstantial evidence like this)
against all the psychology in the world.”

Roger smiled. “The professional point of view, as opposed to the
amateur. Well, naturally I don’t agree with you, and as I said, I’m
not at all sure that you aren’t pulling my leg about Miss Cross all
the time. Let’s go on to that interview of ours this evening. I
needn’t ask you whether you saw that Master Colin wasn’t being
altogether as frank with us as he might have been. He was keeping
something back, wasn’t he?”

“He was, sir,” the inspector agreed cheerfully. “His real reason for
breaking with Mrs. Vane.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant. You don’t think it was the reason he
certainly wanted us to believe, then—that he was bored with her?”

“I know it wasn’t,” the inspector returned shrewdly. “He’s a
chivalrous young gentleman as far as the ladies are concerned, is Mr.
Woodthorpe, and he’d never break with an old flame who was still
desperately in love with him merely because he’d got bored with her.
There was some much more powerful reason than that behind it.”

“Ah!” said Roger. “I was right; you are a psychologist, after all,
Inspector. And what do you think of this reason that friend Colin is
so industriously hiding from us?”

“I think,” the inspector said slowly, “that it would go a long way
toward clearing up the case for us, if we knew it.”

Roger whistled. “As important as all that, eh? I must say, I hadn’t
arrived at that conclusion myself. And have you got any inkling as to
its nature?”

“Well—!” The inspector took a sup of whisky and wiped his moustache
again with some deliberation. “Well, the most likely thing would be
another girl, wouldn’t it?”

“You mean, he’d fallen seriously in love elsewhere?”

“_And_ wanted to get engaged to her,” the inspector amplified. “_Was_
engaged to her secretly, if you like. That’s the only thing I can see
important enough to make him resolve to break with Mrs. Vane at all
costs.”

Roger nodded slowly. “Yes, I think you’re right.—But I’m blessed if I
see how knowing it for certain is going to clear up the case for you?”

“Can’t you, sir?” the inspector replied cautiously. “Well perhaps it’s
only a whim of mine, so we’ll say no more about it for the time
being.”

Roger’s curiosity was piqued, but he knew that its gratification was
impossible. Accepting defeat, he turned to another aspect of the case.

“What did you think of that Russell theory of mine, by the way?” he
inquired.

“Since you ask me, sir,” answered the inspector with candour,
“nothing!”

“Oh!” said Roger, somewhat dashed.

“I’d already collected all the gossip on those lines,” the inspector
proceeded more kindly, “and I’ve had a few words with the lady
herself, as well as her husband. It didn’t take long to satisfy me
that there was nothing for me there.”

Roger, who had confidently assumed that the Russell idea had been his
and his alone, looked his chagrin. “But it _was_ a woman who was with
Mrs. Vane before she died,” he argued. “And a woman with large feet at
that. In fact, it hardly seems too much to assume that it was a woman
with large feet who pushed Mrs. Vane over that cliff. Find a woman
with large feet who’d got a big grudge against Mrs. Vane, and—! Well,
anyhow, why are you so sure that Mrs. Russell is out of it?”

“She’s got an alibi. I followed it up, naturally. Cast-iron. Whoever
the woman was, it wasn’t Mrs. Russell. But don’t forget what I said
once before, will you, Mr. Sheringham? Footprints are the easiest
things in the world to fake.”

“Humph!” Roger stroked his chin with a thoughtful air. “You mean, they
might have been made by a man with small feet, wearing a woman’s shoes
for the express purpose?”

“It might have been anything,” said the inspector guardedly. “All that
those footprints mean to me at present is that there was another
_person_ on that ledge with Mrs. Vane.”

“And that person was the murderer?”

“You might put it like that.”

Roger considered further. “You’ve gone into the question of motive, of
course. Has it struck you what a tremendous lot of people had a motive
for wishing this unfortunate lady out of the way?”

“The difficulty is to find anybody who hadn’t,” the inspector agreed.

“Yes, that’s what it really does amount to. Very confusing,
considering how valuable a motive usually is. Establish your motive
and there’s your murderer, is a pretty sound rule at Scotland Yard, I
understand. Help yourself to some more whisky, Inspector.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” said the inspector, and did so. “Yes, you’re
right. I can’t say I ever remember a case when so many people had a
reason, big or little, for wishing the victim dead. Here’s luck, Mr.
Sheringham, sir!”

“Cheerio!” Roger returned mechanically.

They fell into silence. Roger realised that the inspector, while
pretending outwardly to be ready enough to discuss the case, was in
reality determined to do nothing of the kind, at any rate so far as
giving away his own particular theory was concerned. Official
reticence, no doubt, and of course perfectly right and proper; but
distinctly galling for all that. If the inspector would only consent
to work with him frankly, Roger felt, they really might achieve
excellent results between them; as it was, they must work apart. This
professional jealousy of the amateur was really rather petty,
especially as Roger would not insist upon any large share of the
credit for a swift and successful solution. Well, at least he would
present his rival (for such, apparently, was what the inspector was
determined to be) with no more gratuitous clues such as that
interesting scrap of paper, that was flat!

In the meantime, all being fair in love and war, it was always open to
him to pick his opponent’s brains to the best of his ability. He tried
a new tack.

“You were asking me on the way back what I meant by applying the word
‘imprudent’ to Mrs. Vane,” he said with an air of ingenuous candour.
“I’ll tell you. From what I can gather about her, the lady was
anything but imprudent. She certainly married the doctor for his
money, so far as my information goes; she cozened that extremely
generous settlement out of him; and I’m quite sure that over anything
which might affect her material welfare, imprudent is the very last
thing in the world she would be. So if she struck that boy as being
so, she was bluffing.”

“You mean, that she never intended to tell her husband at all? I see.
Yes, that’s my opinion too. It wouldn’t square with my information
about her either, not by a long chalk.”

“Then what do you think her game was? Do you imagine she was genuinely
in love with him?”

“Well, sir, that’s impossible to say, isn’t it? But knowing what I do
about the lady, I should say she’d got some deeper game on than that.
Something that was going to turn out to her material welfare, as you
put it, I wouldn’t mind betting.”

“Of course you’ve had her past history probed into?” Roger remarked,
with careful indifference. “That’s where you Scotland Yard people can
always score over the free-lance sleuth. Did anything interesting come
to light? I gather she was a bit of a daisy.”

The inspector hesitated and filled in a pause by application to his
glass. Clearly he was debating whether any harm could be done by
divulging this official secret. In the end he decided to risk it.

“Well,” he said, wiping his moustache, “you’ll understand that this is
strictly confidential, sir, but we _have_ had a man on the job—or two
or three men, for that matter, both in London and up in the north,
where the lady originally came from; and a few very interesting facts
they were able to bring to light, too. Nobody has the slightest idea
down here, of course, but the woman who called herself Mrs. Vane—well,
she _was_ a bit of a daisy, as you say.”

Roger’s eyes gleamed. “What do you mean, Inspector? _Called_ herself
Mrs. Vane? Wasn’t she really?”

The inspector did not answer the question directly. He leaned back in
his chair and puffed at his pipe for a moment or two, then began to
speak in a meditative tone.

“There’s real bad blood in that family—proper criminal stock, you
might call ’em. The great-grandfather was one of the smartest burglars
we’ve ever had in this country; they knew all about him at
headquarters, but they never caught him. He never _was_ caught, in
fact. A lot of his jobs were put down later on to Charlie Peace, but
they weren’t, they were his all right; and he was lucky, while Peace
wasn’t. His son was a cut above burglaring. The old man left him a lot
of cash, and he set up a bucket-shop in Liverpool. But he did
over-reach himself. He served one stretch of three years, and one of
five.

“This chap had two daughters and one son. They were left in pretty
poor circumstances, because before he died their father managed to get
rid of all the money he’d been left and all he’d made for himself
besides. He’d managed to get rid of one of his daughters, as well
before this, however—Miss Cross’s mother, who married an army officer
and passes out of the family history. The son was a bit of a bad egg,
but he went over to America and operated there; he’s still alive, and
as a matter of fact in prison at the moment. Confidence-man, his
little game is.

“The other daughter, Mrs. Vane’s mother, we’ve got nothing particular
against either. She married a tradesman in Liverpool in a fair way of
business, but ran away with another man after she’d brought him into
the bankruptcy court by her extravagance, leaving her child, then ten
years old, behind her. Her husband removed to London, taking the child
with him, and took a post with a firm of wholesale chemists. He died
when Mrs. Vane was seventeen, leaving nothing but debts.

“That left the girl a bit in the air. She got three months for
shoplifting under an assumed name soon after her father died, and that
taught her to be a bit more careful. She went out for bigger game
after that. She was part-owner, and incidentally decoy, for a gambling
joint in the West End till the police shut it up, and when times were
hard she was usually able to make her keep out of the sort of rich
young idiot who can be taken in by a baby face and a clinging
manner—or rich old idiot too, for that matter. However, when she met
Vane she really does seem to have been on her uppers. Still, she took
him in all right, and he went further than all the other idiots and
offered her marriage. She played him well, one must say, because she
must have been in a blue funk all the time in case anything came out
about the sort of person she really was. Anybody can see that the
doctor’s got the very devil of a temper, and once he found out
anything it would all be U. P.” The inspector paused and refreshed
himself with a meditative air.

“Go on, Inspector!” Roger cried. “I know you’re keeping the tit-bit
for the last.”

“Can’t put anything past you, Mr. Sheringham,” grinned his companion.
“Yes, during the war, we’ve discovered, before she ever met Vane she
went through a form of marriage with a man called Herbert Peters. We
don’t know anything about Mr. Herbert Peters, but we’ve been looking
for him pretty hard during the last day or two. No, we haven’t found
him yet, and for all we know he may be dead.—He might even,” the
inspector added judicially, “have been dead at the time of her
marriage to the doctor.”

“But you’re pretty sure he wasn’t, eh?” asked Roger softly.

“I’d take my Bible oath on it!” returned the inspector piously.



Chapter XIII.

A Midnight Expedition

When the inspector had gone to bed that night, as he did very shortly
after this unprecedented outburst of confidence, Roger sat up to await
the return of Anthony. A plan of campaign had been forming in his
mind, and he was on tenterhooks to put it into operation.

Anthony made his appearance at half-past eleven, to be greeted by his
cousin with severity and heavy sarcasm.

“Have you been studying the beauties of nature under the pale crescent
moon?” Roger demanded. “Don’t attempt to deny it—you have! One of the
beauties of nature, at any rate. Well, it’s as well, I suppose,
because she certainly won’t be beautiful to-morrow under this
treatment. Her nose will be red, her eyes watery, and she’ll be
snuffling and sniffling with a streaming cold. There’s a picture for a
young lover! Will you love her in December, Anthony, as you did in
May?”

“Dashed funny, aren’t you?” growled the young lover, blushing warmly.
He helped himself to what the inspector had left in the whisky-bottle.

“That depends on the point of view,” Roger admitted very fairly. “_I_
think I am; you don’t. It’s all a matter of opinion.—Now, hurry up and
put that inside you, Anthony. There’s dirty work afoot for us
to-night.”

“To-night? You mean there’s something you want to do right away?”

“I do; and I’ve been waiting two or three hours for you to come in and
do it with me. I want to make a little nocturnal expedition, in
circumstances of some secrecy. To the fatal ledge, no less. You won’t
need a hat; come on. Everybody’s gone to bed, so for Heaven’s sake try
to plant your large feet down gently; I don’t want anybody to know
we’ve gone out.”

Obeying this injunction as well as possible, Anthony crept after his
cousin down to the back-door of the inn, guided by the light of the
latter’s torch. Roger softly drew back the bolts, unlocked the door
and pocketed the key. They passed cautiously through.

“I say, where are we going, Roger?” Anthony whispered.

“Yes, it is rather exciting, isn’t it?” Roger agreed, answering the
implication of the whisper rather than the actual words. “I told you,
to the ledge.”

“Yes, but why?”

“I’ll have to explain a few other things first. Wait till we’re out of
this yard.”

As they stepped out into the highroad Roger began to give his
companion an account of the evening’s work, describing the interview
with young Woodthorpe as accurately as he could. The recital took them
half-way across the stretch of turf, and then Anthony gave tongue.

“That’s the chap who did it,” said Anthony with the utmost confidence.
“Can’t you see his game? He wanted to shut her mouth; stop her telling
her husband, you see. Seems obvious to me.”

“So I suppose he put a pair of female shoes on his hands and walked
along on them beside Mrs. Vane to disguise his footmarks?” queried
Roger.

“He could easily fake those,” Anthony returned, unmoved by this
facetiousness. “The inspector himself said footprints were the easiest
thing in the world to fake.”

“Within limits,” Roger demurred. “Besides, you must remember that the
letter, which looked so suspicious at first, has rather lost its
importance. I told you, it didn’t refer to that Tuesday at all; it was
for last Tuesday fortnight.”

“You told me he _said_ it was,” Anthony retorted cunningly. “But he
can’t prove it, can he? You’ve only got his bare word to go on. And if
he did push her over, it seems to me he wouldn’t jib at telling you a
naughty fib or two, dear Roger.”

“Anthony, you overwhelm me!” Roger murmured. “To think that such a
possibility had never occurred to my simple mind. That’s the worst of
having such a trustful nature, I always believe everything I’m told.
If you were to tell me for instance that you’d been singing the Indian
Love Lyrics to a jellyfish between the hours of nine and eleven-thirty
this evening, I should believe you instantly.”

Anthony’s reply is unprintable.

When peace had been restored:

“You still haven’t told me what we’re coming here for,” Anthony
remarked.

They had reached the head of the nearer flight of steps, and Roger
began to descend, flashing his torch before and behind him for the
benefit of the following Anthony. “To have a look at that cave of
course,” he replied over his shoulder.

“But why the hurry?”

“Because if we leave it till a Christian time to-morrow,” Roger
explained patiently, “Moresby will certainly forestall us. And if
there _is_ anything interesting in the way of clues to be found there,
we shall decidedly never see it, and probably never even hear of it,
if we let Moresby get there first.”

“Oh!” said Anthony.

They gained the ledge and made their way cautiously along its narrow
width.

“By the way,” Anthony remarked airily, “Margaret was asking—that is,
do you happen to know whether that infernal inspector has still got
any comic ideas about Margaret in his head?”

“How the average Englishman does shirk a plain statement of unpleasant
fact,” Roger murmured. “He’d rather use a hundred innocent words to
wrap up his perfectly obvious meaning than half-a-dozen blunt ones.
You mean, I suppose, does Moresby still think that Margaret murdered
her cousin? Well, I don’t know. I did try to sound him, but he’s
indecently reticent on the subject. On the whole I’m inclined to think
that his ideas on that point are a little less rigid than they were.”

“Well, thank God the fellow’s beginning to see a little sense at
last,” was Anthony’s pious comment.

They progressed the rest of the way in silence, busy with their
respective thoughts.

“Walk carefully, Anthony,” Roger remarked as they approached the scene
of the tragedy. “We don’t want to leave our footprints at any rate.
Try to tread only on dry rock.”

They picked their steps with elaborate caution.

Roger halted and flashed his torch round him. “This is the spot. You
haven’t been here before, have you? That’s just about where she fell
off, by that little cleft on the edge. Now you sit down on that
boulder in front of you while I look round. We don’t want to leave
more traces than we need, and my tread is probably rather more catlike
than yours.” He began to poke about among the crevices and loose
boulders at the back of the ledge.

A subdued cry of triumph a few minutes later brought Anthony to his
side.

“This must be it,” Roger said, flashing his lamp upon a small aperture
in the cliff face, almost covered by a large boulder. “Look!” He held
his torch in the opening.

By screwing his head down to the level of his knees and peering round
a corner of the boulder Anthony was just able to make out a dim and
damp interior. “Great Scott,” he said in dismay, “I shall never be
able to get inside that.”

“It is going to be a struggle,” Roger admitted, comparing his cousin’s
burly bulk with the extremely small entrance. “A certain simile
concerning the eye of a needle occurs to me with some force. Still, if
friend Colin can do it, I should say you ought to be able to. But
don’t stick half-way, or you’ll annoy the inspector when he comes
exploring. Now then, expel a deep breath and follow Uncle Roger.” He
dropped on his hands and knees and began to worm his way inside.

“I can’t cope with that,” observed Anthony ruefully, as he watched his
cousin’s feet slowly and painfully drag themselves out of his field of
vision. “I’ll watch the proceedings from the doorway.” He assumed a
recumbent position and inserted his head and a portion of one shoulder
in the tiny opening.

Inside was a tolerably respectable little cavern, some ten feet wide
by a dozen deep, shelving at the back till ceiling met floor at an
acute angle amid a medley of small rocks and fragments of stone; along
one side a ledge two or three feet high and as many deep formed a
natural couch, while a large, flat boulder opposite was equally useful
as a table. Roger, standing upright in the centre without difficulty,
was throwing his light into the various nooks and crannies with which
the irregular sides were seamed.

“Any luck?” Anthony asked, twisting his head at an uncomfortable angle
to improve his field of view.

Roger turned his light on to the floor. “There’s no doubt the place
has been used,” he said slowly; “and used a lot. Cigarette-ends,
matches, candle-ends all over the place.” He took a couple of steps
toward the back and peered down among the rocks. “Half-a-dozen empty
chocolate boxes,” he continued, turning over his finds. “Paper bags,
sandwich wrappings, half a bun; there doesn’t seem to be anything very
exciting here.” He began to roam round the little enclosure, examining
its possibilities with careful attention. Stooping, he picked up
half-a-dozen cigarette-stubs and scrutinised them under his lamp.
“Four gaspers and two Turkish,” he delivered judgment, “the latter
marked with pink at the ends. Can you deduce anything from that,
Anthony? Pale ends, pink-tipped. . . . Probably Mrs. Vane smoked them
while chewing her chocolates, or, alternatively, chewed her chocolates
while smoking them—a purely psychological distinction which certainly
won’t interest you, but in either case an abominable practice; she
seems to me to have been that kind of woman. Well, Anthony, except so
far as we confirm friend Colin’s story, I’m very much afraid we’ve had
our journey for nothing. All these things are damp, and most of them
mildewed. I can quite believe that the place hasn’t been used for over
a fortnight.”

“Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“No, just hoping against hope.” He bent and peered into a cavity in
one of the sides. “Half-a-dozen banana skins and the remains of an
orange. Not very helpful. How very hungry this place seems to have
made those two! Well, I suppose we’d better be getting back.”

“What’s this thing just in front of me?” Anthony asked suddenly. “Bit
of newspaper or something. No, you can’t see it from where you’re
standing. Behind that big flat rock on your left.”

Roger retrieved the article in question. “A copy of _London Opinion_,”
he replied without very much interest. “That would be Master Colin’s
property, I should imagine; not the lady’s. Issue dated— Why, hullo!”

“What?” Anthony asked eagerly.

Roger paused and made a rapid mental calculation. “Good for you,
Anthony!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what this is? It’s last
Saturday’s number!”

“Oho!” observed Anthony with interest.

Roger stared at him. “So Colin was not telling the truth after all!”
he exclaimed softly.

“That’s just what I’ve been trying to din into you all the time,”
kindly pointed out his cousin.



Chapter XIV.

Roger Is Argumentative

Roger dabbled his bare foot in the wave which surged past the rock
upon which he and Anthony were sitting. Lifting it out of the water,
he contemplated his dripping toes with apparently deep interest. “Of
course,” he said slowly, “we must remember that Colin _may_ have been
telling the truth, after all.”

“How can he have been?” demanded his cousin.

It was after breakfast on the following morning. On the plea that
business was business and that if he was to be any use in this affair
at all Anthony must temporarily divest himself of the rôle of
interesting young lover and assume that of the idiot friend, Roger had
managed to restrain his cousin from making a hopeful bee-line,
immediately his last mouthful had been swallowed, along the top of the
cliffs in the direction of a certain small grassy ledge just below
their summit. With tactlessly patent reluctance Anthony had been
persuaded to bring his after-breakfast pipe down to the sea level,
where Roger had insisted upon scrambling out to the very farthest rock
which remained unsubmerged in order, as he carefully explained, to
obtain the necessary privacy for airing his theories. There he had
immediately removed his shoes and socks and proceeded to paddle.

Making the best of a bad business, Anthony had watched with a cold eye
his cousin’s undignified behaviour and unhesitatingly refused to
follow such infantile deportment.

“How can Woodthorpe have been telling the truth?” he repeated, as
Roger showed signs of being less interested in his question than in a
limpet which was sturdily countering all his efforts to dislodge it
from its native rock. “That copy of _London Opinion_ clinches that. If
the inspector’s got any sense at all, he’ll draw the same deduction
from it as we did and arrest the fellow right away, before he bolts.”

Roger abandoned the limpet with a slight sigh. “But supposing,
Anthony, that it wasn’t Woodthorpe who left it there at all?” he said
patiently. “Hadn’t that occurred to you?”

“No, it hadn’t,” Anthony returned, not without scorn. “It’s so dashed
likely, isn’t it? You said yourself that it couldn’t have been Mrs.
Vane. Who else could it have been?”

“Ah!” said Roger thoughtfully. “Who, indeed?” He withdrew his feet
from the water and, hunching his knees, clasped his hands round them
and stared out to sea. “Now just let’s see, for the sake of argument,
what we can deduce from that copy of _London Opinion_, shall we?
Forgetting for the moment all about Woodthorpe, I mean, and our slight
complex about his veracity. Shall we do that, Anthony?”

“Fire ahead, then,” replied his cousin resignedly.

“Well in the first place, and confining ourselves to bare
probabilities, with every likelihood of error, who constitute the
majority of _London Opinion’s_ public, would you say? Men. That’s why
I advanced the unlikelihood of Mrs. Vane having left it there; it
doesn’t sound to me at all the type of paper that we might expect to
find Mrs. Vane reading. Besides, she’s much more likely to have
brought a novel. Do you agree, so far?”

Anthony grunted.

“Very well, then; in all probability that paper was left there some
time since last Saturday morning, by a man. Now what _type_ of man
reads _London Opinion?_ Not the upper classes; they read _Punch_. Not
the lower classes either. The middle classes—upper, middle and lower
middle-classes. Our man, therefore, was probably an upper, middle or
lower middle-class man. Now that doesn’t sound very much like the son
of Sir Henry Woodthorpe, does it?”

“Are you trying to make out that just because a chap’s father is a
baronet, he never reads _London Opinion?_” enquired Anthony with some
sarcasm.

“No, Anthony, I am not. You tend to miss my point. What I am very
brilliantly endeavouring to convey to your moss-covered intelligence
is that if Mr. Colin Woodthorpe, son of Sir Henry Woodthorpe, Bart.,
wanted to take a piece of literature with which to amuse himself while
waiting for the other half of an appointment he’d probably take the
_Sporting Life_, _Punch_, or a detective novel. That he might very
nearly as well have taken _London Opinion_ I readily admit, but only
very nearly. What I’m considering, in fact, is the balance of
probabilities. Now are you there?”

“But how do you know that the chap, whoever he was, did take it to
amuse himself with while waiting for an appointment? How do you know
there was an appointment at all?”

“I don’t, bandicoot,” Roger returned with exemplary patience. “But do
you imagine (a) that he took it to read _during_ the appointment,
fearing lest he should be bored by the lady’s idle prattle; or (b)
that he went down to that ledge all alone and crept into that cave for
the sole purpose of reading _London Opinion_ in the dark?”

“He might just as well have simply happened to have it with him, and
chucked it away because he couldn’t be bothered to carry it home
again.”

“He might,” Roger agreed at once; “but it isn’t nearly so likely. No,
on the balance of probabilities I think we may assume that this man,
probably not Woodthorpe, probably took _London Opinion_ with him to
read on the ledge while waiting for the other half of a probable
appointment in that cave. He might have thrown it away then and there
as soon as she turned up, but with that instinctive inhibition which
most of us have against throwing something away with which we have not
completely finished, he took it with him into the cave when the lady
arrived and then, as you say, left it there because he couldn’t be
bothered to take it home again—psychologically speaking, there is a
large difference between throwing a thing away and leaving it behind.
And we know the lady _did_ turn up, dear little Anthony, because
otherwise he wouldn’t have gone into the cave at all, but would have
continued to sit outside where he could see to read. Are you with me?”

“Humph!” said Anthony.

“Now who was the other half of this man’s appointment?” Roger
continued in argumentative tones. “Personally, I’m putting my money on
Mrs. Vane. As far as friend Colin knew nobody but himself and Mrs.
Vane had any inkling about that cave. He discovered it himself, he
told us, about a year ago, and was at once struck with its suitability
for the purpose to which he afterward put it. He was quite positive
that he, at any rate, had told nobody else of its existence. To sum up
then—if Colin is telling the truth all through, Mrs. Vane herself
arranged an appointment with an unknown man belonging to the middle
classes for some time since last Saturday morning, to discuss business
of an obviously secret and confidential nature. And to stretch a
point, we’ll add that that appointment resulted in her death, and that
the unknown middle-class man is her murderer.—And how is all that,”
Roger concluded with legitimate pride, “out of just finding a copy of
_London Opinion_ in that little cave, eh?”

“So now I should think you’d better go off and talk it all over with
Moresby,” said Anthony hopefully.

“Anthony, you disgust me. Do you or do you not want to help me save
your young woman from the gallows? No, don’t trouble to reply to that
question; it’s a rhetorical one. You do. Very well, then. Continue, if
you please, to sustain the part of idiot friend which you play so
admirably.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Anthony asked uncomfortably.

“Listen to me while I clarify my own ideas, somewhat nebulous at the
moment, by putting them into speech. Let me go on examining
possibilities. Though by the way, since embarking on this one-sided
discussion I find I appear to have converted myself on one point. I do
_not_ believe it was Colin Woodthorpe who left that copy of _London
Opinion_ in the cave. What have you got to say about that?”

“You made out a pretty useful case against it,” Anthony was forced to
admit.

“Yes; I did. On grounds of pure reason I reject Colin as our unknown
man, but I can easily find that out for certain; I’ve got a little
test in mind for him, which I propose to apply as soon as I leave you.
Well, now, assuming Colin is out of it, can we find anybody else to
take his place? Think hard.”

“Wait a minute, though,” Anthony said after a little pause. “Aren’t
you forgetting those foot-prints? You’ve been saying all the time that
it must have been a woman with Mrs. Vane, not a man. How does that
square in with this idea?”

“No, I’m not forgetting them. They can be worked into this theory all
right. If we assume, you see, that the murder was a premeditated one,
as I think it certainly was, we can assume also that the murderer took
a few elementary precautions to throw the police off his track if ever
anything turned up to make them suspicious about the accident theory.
Well, supposing that Mrs. Vane arrived alone, as we now think she must
have done, what would be easier for the man than to put on a pair of
female shoes he’d brought with him for the purpose, go a little way
along the ledge and then walk back again beside Mrs. Vane’s tracks,
carefully making prints wherever he could and modifying his stride to
suit her smaller steps? That’s perfectly feasible. Footprints and how
to fake them are about the first thing to which your amateur murderer
would turn his attention.”

“Cunning,” commented Anthony.

“Oh, yes; but perfectly intelligible. Well now, having disposed of
that point, let’s get back to where we were before. Can you think of
anyone else to take young Woodthorpe’s place as the villain of the
piece?”

Anthony ruminated. “The only other men in any way mixed up in the show
seem to be Dr. Vane and Russell.”

“Ye-es. And that doesn’t help us much, does it? Dr. Vane we can wash
out right away; there’s no conceivable reason why a wife should want
to make an appointment in an out-of-the-way and thoroughly
uncomfortable place with her own husband when she can much better
interview him from her own drawing-room sofa. But Russell—! What does
Russell give us?”

“If she _had_ been carrying on an intrigue with him as well as
Woodthorpe,” Anthony murmured.

Roger shifted his position so that he could plunge both his legs in
the water up to their knees. “Ah, that’s better. You’re missing a lot,
Anthony, if you only knew it, by being so proud and superior; superior
people always do.—Yes, that’s perfectly true. Russell would then have
almost exactly the same motive for getting rid of her as Colin had,
wouldn’t he? Jealous wife instead of jealous unknown fiancée (I wonder
who friend Colin _is_ meditating an engagement with, by the way, if
Moresby’s right. It ought to be easy enough to find out), _plus_ fear
of jealous husband’s righteous wrath possibly into the bargain, if
she’d been trying the same bluff on with him too. But that does make
the lady a little—how shall I put it?—_promiscuous_, doesn’t it?”

“I shouldn’t think she’d stick at that,” said Anthony sagely.

“Oh, nor should I. Not for a moment. Especially if she’d got a little
game on with both of them, to her own ultimate advantage. But if that
were the case, I can’t help thinking it somewhat imprudent to meet
them both in the same very compromising spot. _That_ doesn’t sound
like Mrs. Vane at all to me.”

“But she _did_ meet the second man in the same place for all that,”
Anthony pointed out, “whether it was Russell or not.”

“Yes, that’s true enough. Of course, this may have been an isolated
assignation, made with the knowledge that Colin would be busy at that
time elsewhere. But Colin hasn’t an alibi for the time of Mrs. Vane’s
death, we discovered, whereas the inspector says that Russell himself
has, a cast-iron one. No, it’s a pure guess of mine, Anthony, but I
feel instinctively that this mysterious man is somebody who hasn’t
cropped up in the case at all yet.”

“Oh! That’s rather vague. And you haven’t the slightest notion who it
could be?”

“Yes, I have,” Roger replied thoughtfully. “Just the slightest notion.
It’s my opinion that this man will prove to be somebody out of Mrs.
Vane’s murky past. Quite possibly her real husband.”

“By Jove, that’s an idea,” Anthony concurred with enthusiasm. “Good
for you, Roger!”

“Thank you, Anthony,” Roger returned gratefully.

They discussed this interesting possibility for a short time, and then
Roger began to put on his shoes and socks.

“I think that’s really all there is to go into at present,” he said,
“so you can have leave of absence for the rest of the morning. You can
tell Margaret about our discovery last night and this new visitor Mrs.
Vane may have had recently. With any luck she ought to be able to give
us a pointer to the gent.”

Anthony rose to his feet. “If I happen to see her, I will,” he said a
little stiffly.

“‘If I happen to see her, I will!’” Roger scoffed. “Oh, very good,
Anthony; very good indeed. I must try you with the butter test at
lunch. If half-a-pound of butter, placed in the patient’s mouth, shows
no sign of melting within——”

“What are _you_ going to do?” Anthony asked hurriedly.

“Me? Oh, I’ve got to be busy. I’ve got to lay my trap for young Colin
first of all; then I want to have a word with Moresby and hear exactly
what he’s made of that _London Opinion_, if anything (he’s probably
concealing it from me in his breast-pocket at this very moment); and
lastly I want to tackle this business of the mysterious stranger from
the other end. I’m going to cross-examine every inhabitant of the
place within a square mile of that ledge to try and find someone who
was within sight of it early on Tuesday afternoon. I’m convinced I’m
on the right tack; if Margaret can’t help us, I’m going to exhaust the
possibilities of that line of information if it takes me a month.”

“But I thought everybody had been questioned about that already?”

“Not so,” Roger replied cunningly. “They were questioned before about
seeing Mrs. Vane. There was no word mentioned about a strange man.”

“I see,” said Anthony, balancing irresolutely on each foot in turn.
“Yes, that’s a sound scheme.—Well, I’ll be strolling along now, I
think, if you don’t want me any more.”

Roger waved a paternal farewell with an Oxford brogue.

After Anthony had departed Roger did not follow him immediately. For
quite a long time he sat on his rock, oblivious of the fact that other
and even tempting ones were being uncovered by the receding tide
straight in front of him. This talk with Anthony certainly had
clarified his ideas very considerably—had, indeed, presented him with
some highly interesting brand-new ones. The case had suddenly taken on
an entirely different aspect. From being merely complex it had become
downright complicated. He wondered what Inspector Moresby, with his
very much more conventional methods, would have to say about his
deductions from that copy of _London Opinion_, a piece of constructive
reasoning which Roger had not the slightest hesitation in
characterising in his own mind as brilliant.

There are some people who are said to know instinctively whether they
are in the right or wrong, without the aid of any extraneous evidence.
Roger had not the least doubt that he possessed this sixth sense, and
as he rose at last to his feet and began his scramble back to the foot
of the cliffs every instinct was busy telling him that he had got his
finger poised above the very heart of the problem. In some new actor,
not yet appeared on the stage, would the ultimate solution be found.
To lay his hands on him should only prove a matter of time and
patience.

Humming blithely, he clambered up the uneven ascent and hoisted
himself on the ledge. Well, first of all he would have to——

“Ah, _there_ you are, Mr. Sheringham! Do you know, I had quite an idea
I should find you here. I’ve been so anxious to see you again, after
our very brief conversation yesterday morning. I want to ask you what
you think of this terrible crime in our midst, and whether you have
formed a theory yet. I hope—I do so hope it will not prove to have
been committed by—ah, dear me, a terrible affair!”

Roger wheeled about. From above a boulder at the back of the ledge a
face like that of a benign and beardless goat was regarding him
benevolently through an enormous pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Oh, hell!” confided Roger Sheringham to his immortal soul.



Chapter XV.

Interesting Discovery of a Shoe

It was past noon when Roger made his appearance at the little grassy
ledge. To his surprise he found it occupied by only one tenant, who
was lying on his back and staring up into the blue sky, puffing
contentedly at his pipe. Roger scrambled down the little slope and
dropped on to the turf beside his cousin.

“How now, fair coz? What have you done with the lady? I wanted a word
with her.”

Anthony turned his head. “You can hardly expect her to be at your beck
and call _all_ the time,” he observed with some severity. “You know
she’s keeping house for the doctor.”

“Yes, Anthony,” Roger replied meekly. “Is she keeping house now?”

“She’s gone into the village to do some shopping. She’ll be coming
back here when she’s through.”

“A proper little gent,” remarked Roger, pulling out his own pipe and
filling it lazily, “a proper little gent, such as I could wish any
cousin of mine to be, would have gone with her and carried her parcels
for her.”

Anthony flushed slightly. “She wouldn’t let me, damn you. She said
that— She wouldn’t let me.”

“Yes, she’s quite right,” Roger admitted handsomely. “Villages _are_
appalling places for gossip, aren’t they?” He concealed his grin in
the operation of applying a match to his pipe.

“Did you have any luck?” Anthony asked hastily.

“Well, yes and no.” His cousin’s leg successfully stretched, Roger was
ready enough to revert to the main theme. “First of all I was waylaid
by that wretched little parson, whose curiosity strikes me as being
really indecent. He tried his best to pump me as to what I thought
about it all, what the inspector thought about it all, whether any
arrest was imminent, whether any other clues had been discovered, and
all the rest of it, and though I’m afraid I was outrageously rude to
him in my frantic efforts to get away, he managed to waste a perfectly
good quarter-of-an-hour of my valuable time; finally I told him that a
Bible and prayer-book marked with the initials ‘S. M.’ had been found
on the ledge close to where the tragedy had taken place, and the
police were looking for the owner. While he was still gasping, I
effected my get-away.”

“You are an ass, Roger,” grinned Anthony.

“So it may seem to you,” Roger replied blandly. “In reality I am a
person of remarkable astuteness and cunning. Well, then I went back to
the inn, borrowed mine host’s bicycle and headed for Clouston Hall. I
don’t mind walking it in the cool of the evening, but I was hanged if
I was going to do so in the middle of a day like this. All fell out as
arranged.”

“You mean, Woodthorpe’s cleared?”

“Yes. Luckily he was at home, and I pretended I wanted to clear up a
minor point arising out of our conversation last night. If I must be
forced to admit it, I’m afraid I took the inspector’s name in vain.
Then, by subtle and extremely cunning degrees, I led the conversation
round till I could quote the best illustrated joke in that issue of
_London Opinion_, having been at some pains previously to buy a copy
and study it. I quoted the first half of the joke only, and if friend
Colin had seen the paper he couldn’t possibly have failed to remember
it—but he couldn’t supply the point. _Ergo_, Colin had not seen that
issue of _London Opinion;_ _ergo_, Colin could not have been the
person to have left it in the cave.”

“You don’t think he saw through you?”

“I’m quite sure he didn’t. Colin is not a young man who impressed me
as teeming with intelligence, and of course I was on the alert for any
signs of bluff. He was perfectly natural. No, I’m sure Colin isn’t our
man. Now it’s your turn to report. Could Margaret give you any useful
information? You had time to tell her our conclusions to date, I
suppose?”

“Yes, I told her, but she couldn’t remember anything about a strange
visitor to Mrs. Vane. She said she’d rack her brains on the way to the
village and back, but she couldn’t think of one off-hand.”

“I see. And when do you expect her back?”

Anthony consulted his wrist-watch. “Any time now.”

“Good. Then let us recline on our backs, close our eyes and indulge in
blessed silence till she comes, because certainly we shan’t get any
when she does.” He proceeded to suit his action to his words.

Anthony regarded his horizontal cousin with a large grin. “‘_Blessed_
silence!’” he scoffed “Oh, very good, Roger; very good indeed. I must
try you with the butter test at lunch. If half-a-pound of butter,
placed in the patient’s mouth—how does it go on, eh?”

But Roger, serenely recumbent, took refuge in his blessed silence.

During the next ten minutes not a single word was spoken. Then
Margaret appeared, and Roger’s Trappist-like vow was a thing of the
past.

“Now then, Margaret,” he said briskly, when greetings were over and
they were all seated once more. “Now then, it’s up to you. Anthony
tells me he’s given you an account of my activities. Have you got any
information for me yet?”

“You mean, about the mysterious visitor?” said the girl, wrinkling her
white forehead. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Elsie never had a
mysterious visitor at all, to my knowledge.”

“And yet you said before that you thought there was someone or
something she was afraid of,” Roger mused. “That doesn’t help you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Margaret confessed. “I couldn’t say anything
definite about that when you asked me before, you remember.”

“Look here,” said Anthony suddenly, “are you sure she was _afraid?_
Not just worried? If she was just worried, you see, that chap
Woodthorpe would account for it.”

“Yes, that’s a good point,” Roger approved. “Whether she had any deep
game on with him or not, she’d naturally be put out by his wanting to
break with her. Is that more like it, Margaret?”

“It might have been that of course,” said the girl doubtfully,
“but—oh, I don’t know, but my impression certainly is that it was
something stronger than just worry.”

“All the better,” Roger said cheerfully. “That confirms my theory. If
it _was_ somebody out of her past, trying in all probability to
blackmail her, she certainly would show signs of fear.”

“I know!” Margaret exclaimed. “I could go through her things, couldn’t
I? Letters and papers, I mean. I could easily do that, and I should
think if there is anything to be found out that’s the most likely way
of discovering it.”

“I should say the inspector is almost certain to have done that
already,” Roger meditated. “Still, there’s no harm in your doing it
too.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Margaret, her face falling. “Then
it won’t be much use?”

“I doubt it. Still, we mustn’t disregard the possibility. Of course if
you could find some place that the inspector may have overlooked—!
Documentary evidence of that sort, you see, would be hidden very
carefully away by a person of Mrs. Vane’s criminal—shall we
say?—training. And after all, the inspector wouldn’t have been looking
for anything like that. Probably he’ll only have glanced through the
obvious, merely as a matter of routine.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best,” Margaret smiled. “Anyhow, if I don’t
find something I promise you it won’t be for want of looking.”

“By the way,” said Roger, dismissing this topic, “how’s Dr. Vane?”

“George? Oh, he’s all right. Why?”

“I only wondered. No interesting developments yet?”

Margaret laughed. “You mean Miss Williamson? Oh, give her time. I
don’t think any woman could be expected to propose to a man in less
than a week from his wife’s death, really.”

“Roger judges everybody by himself,” interposed Anthony maliciously.

“I wasn’t going so far as to suggest that she’d actually proposed to
him yet, Margaret,” Roger explained mildly. “I was just asking whether
there’d been any developments, of any sort.”

“If there have been, then, I don’t know them. I hardly ever see either
of them in these days. They seem to be spending more time in the
laboratory than ever.”

“Well, I don’t know that I personally should care to conduct my
courtship in an atmosphere of test-tubes, litmus-paper, and dead
rabbits, but there’s no accounting for tastes. A dead rabbit, I feel
convinced, would put me off my stroke altogether.”

“Roger, you’re disgusting. Well, is there anything else you want to
ask me?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll wait for one of your more helpful days. Does
that mean, by the way, that ‘Good-morning, Mr. Sheringham. It’s been
so nice to see you. You must come again some day’? Because if so, I
warn you that Anthony comes with me.”

“Roger, I think you’re being perfectly horrid this morning,” exclaimed
Miss Cross, blushing warmly.

“Shall I chuck _him_ over the cliff for you, Margaret?” suggested
Anthony, no less moist.

“It doesn’t mean anything of the sort,” Margaret went on, disregarding
this admirable offer. “I was simply going to say that if you don’t
want to discuss things with me any more, I wish you’d show me the
little cave where Elsie and Colin used to meet. It sounds most
thrilling.”

“What I deplore most of all in the young women of to-day,” remarked
Roger sadly, as he rose with reluctance to his feet, “is the
unpleasing morbidity of their tastes.”

As they walked abreast along the top of the cliff, Roger’s thoughts
were busy round a certain point. Margaret’s reference to her dead
cousin as Dr. Vane’s wife tended to show that Anthony had not told her
that the two were probably not legally married. Roger was glad of
this; he had meant to warn Anthony that morning to say nothing to the
girl on this delicate matter, but it had slipped his memory. Until the
matter was settled one way or the other, either by the discovery of
the living Herbert Peters or by the establishment of his death prior
to Mrs. Vane’s marriage to the doctor, it was much better to leave the
girl in ignorance of the issues involved. For (and this was the point
which was really worrying Roger) if Mrs. Vane’s second marriage turned
out to be a bigamous one, would that not mean that the settlement was
invalidated and Margaret’s legacy vanished into thin air? Without
knowing the exact terms of the document it was impossible to say, but
Roger meant to go into the matter with a solicitor on Margaret’s
behalf at the earliest possible moment.

His attention was recalled to the present moment with a jerk. “I can’t
tell you how thankful I was to hear of this new theory of yours,
Roger,” Margaret was saying with an effort of lightness. “It’s such a
change from—well, from the way things seem to have been heading. And
you really think you’ll be able to substantiate it?”

“I’m quite sure I shall, my dear,” Roger replied, perhaps with more
confidence than he actually felt at the moment. “I’ve what is termed,
I understand, a hunch about it. Don’t you worry any more; Uncle Roger
is going to see you through this and get to the bottom of it for you.”

“I shall never be able to thank you enough if you do,” the girl said
in a low tone. “Perhaps you can imagine something of the nightmare the
last day or two has been, since I realised that I—that they—” Her
voice broke.

Roger drew her arm through his and patted her hand paternally. “That’s
all over now, my dear. No need to worry about that again. Uncle
Roger’s on the job now. Besides,” he went on, instinctively shying
away from any such display of feeling, “to touch on lesser matters, I
believe I can promise you that even the inspector is giving up that
theory now too.”

“He is?” Margaret did not attempt to conceal her joy. She looked at
Roger with shining eyes. “He is really? Did he tell you so?”

“Well, not in so many words,” hedged Roger, who had not the least
solid ground for this assertion. “But he meant me to infer it, I
think. He’s a very cautious bird, though, and would never say anything
outright.”

“Oh, thank Heaven!” Margaret murmured. “At last I can begin to breathe
again!”

Anthony glared at the horizon and muttered beneath his breath. The
words “damfool,” “anointed ass” and “tommyrot” were indistinctly
audible.

The rest of the way Margaret seemed to dance on air, and Roger
rejoiced openly with her. Even Anthony was so far infected by the
general feeling as to forget his dark broodings regarding the
inspector’s state of anointed asininity and possess himself of
Margaret’s other arm. It was a singularly hot day, but Margaret did
not appear to mind the extra burden in the least. Perhaps she liked
having her arms carried for her.

They reached the nearer flight of steps and descended to the ledge.

“I’ve only been down here once since Elsie’s death,” Margaret
remarked, as they made their way along it in single file with Roger in
the van. “I’m not even sure whereabouts she—where it happened.”

“Just along there, it was,” Roger said, pointing ahead of them. “You
see where the ledge broadens out for twenty or thirty yards. Just in
the middle of that. The little cave’s there too.”

As they arrived at the spot where the ledge began to widen Margaret
stopped and peered over the edge. Down below the waves were thrashing
and beating, with a sullen roar and a seething of white foam, among
the huge boulders. She shuddered.

“How—how _horrible!_” she said in a low voice.

Roger had waited for her and she walked slowly on, but still gazing
down into the turmoil as if fascinated. Anthony watched her with a
nameless anxiety: there _were_ people (weren’t there?) who got a bit
rocky on heights and as often as not threw themselves over from sheer
fascinated funk. “Better not walk so near the edge, Margaret,” he
called out to her above the roar of the waves.

Suddenly she stopped short and stared down among the rocks, leaning
perilously over; it seemed as if something had riveted her attention.

“What’s that?” she asked Roger, pointing a slim forefinger. “Isn’t
there something on that big greeny rock, just out of the water? It
looks like a—yes, it’s a shoe, surely.”

Roger followed the direction she indicated. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s an
old shoe, I think. There must be a good man— Hullo, wait a minute!” He
stood for an instant staring down, frowning. “Shin down and get it,
Anthony, will you?” he said abruptly the next moment. “You’re younger
than I am. I’ve got an idea.”

“You have?” Margaret asked eagerly, as Anthony hastened to obey.
“What?”

“Half a minute, till I’ve had a look at it.”

Five minutes later Roger was turning the shoe over in his hands. It
was a lady’s, size six, soaked with sea-water and in a dilapidated
condition; the buckle had been torn off, and the leather was slit on
either side of the toe down to the sole.

Roger’s eyes gleamed. “Eureka!” he exclaimed softly. “Good for your
sharp eyes, lady. You understand what this is, both of you, don’t
you?”

“Roger!” Margaret cried. “Do explain! I don’t know what it is, except
an old shoe. What is it?”

“It’s one of the shoes worn by the murderer to disguise his
foot-prints, precisely as I said,” Roger explained, with a not
unjustified triumph. “Don’t you see why the leather’s cut like this?
To enable the shoe to be crammed on to a foot several sizes too large
for it. He had the pair all ready with him, made use of them, and then
threw them down into the sea.”

“Jolly good, Roger!” Anthony exclaimed, smiting his cousin on the back
in his exuberance. “Then you were right when you said the murderer was
a man.”

“I was, Anthony; and this clinches it once and for all. No woman would
want to make a shoe this size still larger to fit her foot. I shall
have to hare off and see the inspector about this. In the meantime,
you shin down again and hunt among those rocks for the second one;
it’s bound to be somewhere about. Children, this is the biggest thing
that’s happened since I took up the case!”



Chapter XVI.

Inspector Moresby Intervenes

“The biggest thing that’s happened since you took up the case, is it,
sir?” said a voice behind them. “Well, well, that’s interesting. May I
have a look at that shoe?”

They wheeled round, startled. Then Anthony glared, Margaret stiffened
and Roger grinned.

“Hullo, Inspector!” cried the last. “Where in the world did you spring
from?”

“The cave, sir,” the inspector replied, a little twinkle in his blue
eyes, as he possessed himself of the shoe. “Though not so much sprung
as crawled.” He turned the shoe over in his hand, examining it with
professional intentness.

“Find anything interesting in the cave, by the way?” Roger asked
airily.

The inspector glanced up from the shoe, his twinkle again to the fore.
“Only what you did, I fancy, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” he replied blandly.
“A copy of _London Opinion_, eh?”

“Well, I hope you found that as interesting as I did,” Roger returned,
somewhat discomfited.

Anthony had been watching this exchange without joy. When one has been
anointed ass enough to suspect, on grounds of mere material evidence,
a particularly high-souled young woman, it would only be decent, to
Anthony’s mind, on finding one’s self confronted with the said
high-souled young woman at least to exhibit signs of uncontrollable
embarrassment and gloom. Yet so far from exhibiting any such signs,
the inspector had completely ignored the high-souled young woman’s
existence. Things like that were simply not done.

“I expect you’d probably like to be getting back now,” said Anthony to
the high-souled young woman, in tones of frigid correctness. “May I
see you home?”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” replied the high-souled young
woman no less stiffly.

They turned and walked, like two faintly animated ramrods, back the
way they had come.

Inspector Moresby must have been singularly devoid of all sensibility;
even this pointed behaviour failed to move him to any exhibition of
remorse. “You’re quite right, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” he observed,
inhumanly unconscious of the censure conveyed in every line of the
dignified retreating figures. “This _is_ interesting, this shoe. I’ll
send a man down some time to look for its fellow. Now sit down and
tell me all about it. What made you think that the murderer is a man,
and what had that copy of _London Opinion_ got to tell _you?_”

Now it had certainly been no part of Roger’s plans to give the
inspector, for the time being at any rate, any idea of his new theory.
Beyond reporting to him, as in duty bound, the discovery of that
significant shoe, he was going to say nothing of the deductions he had
been able to draw from it. The inspector himself had chosen to
establish a rivalry between them, and Roger had not been slow to
accept the challenge. Yet in a quarter of an hour’s time, by a
judicious mixture of flattery, cajolery and officialism, the inspector
had succeeded in scooping from Roger’s mind every thought that had
passed through it during the last twelve hours, together with the full
story of his activities for that period. It was not for nothing that
Inspector Moresby had reached the heights he now adorned.

“Well, I’ll not say you’re on the wrong tack, sir,” he observed
cautiously, when Roger had hung the last bow and tied the final ribbon
about his newly decorated theory. “I’ll not say I think you’re on the
wrong tack, though I won’t say I think you’re on the right one either.
The reasoning’s clever, and though it’s easy enough for me to pick
holes in it, it’s just as easy for you to fill ’em up again. The
thing’s too vague to say either way just yet.”

“I made a perfectly legitimate set of deductions, and I’ve just had
them confirmed in a rather remarkable way,” Roger insisted not
altogether too pleased with this hardly exuberant praise of his
efforts.

“That’s quite right,” the inspector agreed soothingly. “But the
trouble is, you see, that in a case like this when the known facts are
so precious few, it’s possible to make half-a-dozen sets of deductions
from them, all quite different. For instance,” he went on with a
paternal air which Roger found somewhat hard to bear, “for instance
I’ve no doubt that if you gave me time, I could prove to you, just as
conclusively as you’ve proved your own theory, that the real murderer
is the doctor’s secretary—(what’s her name?) Miss Williamson.”

“Miss Williamson?” Roger echoed, startled out of his mild annoyance.
“Good Heavens, I never thought seriously of her. You don’t really
think——?”

“I do not, sir,” the inspector smiled. “Not for one minute. I can’t
say it ever entered my mind before. But—wait a minute!” He thought
rapidly for a moment, still smiling. “How’s this? Miss Williamson’s
setting her cap at the doctor,—” Roger caught his breath and looked at
the other narrowly, but the inspector returned his gaze with bland
innocence “—but knows she can’t get him, or _thinks_ of course that
she can’t get him, till Mrs. Vane’s out of the way. You’ve seen the
lady, and you probably gathered as well as I did that if Miss
Williamson makes up her mind to a thing, that thing’s going to happen.
She strolled over from the house to the top of the cliffs that Tuesday
afternoon to get a breath of air, and sees Mrs. Vane making for the
Russells’ house, alone; not a soul in sight. ‘Here’s my opportunity!’
she says, joins Mrs. Vane and easily persuades her, on some pretext or
other, to accompany her down to the ledge; and there all she’s got to
do is to push her over. That fits the facts all right, doesn’t it?”

“But was Miss Williamson out that afternoon?” Roger asked shrewdly.

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the inspector, with an air of mild surprise.
“Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Roger had to admit. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. She went out just as I said, for a breath of air. It was a
hot afternoon and the laboratory got a bit stuffy. She was on the top
of the cliffs for about half-an-hour, and says she saw nobody. It was
a bit before the time of the murder, but we’ve only got her word for
that. If nobody saw her go out and nobody saw her come in, how are we
to know she’s telling the truth? I tried to get some confirmation of
her statement from the doctor, but he’s as vague as you like. Might
have been the morning, so far as he remembers. Besides, he wasn’t in
the laboratory all the afternoon himself; I got that from the maid who
took his tea in to him there; he wasn’t there then.”

“Well, how about the coat-button? How is that going to fit in?”

“On her way down the drive,” responded the inspector glibly, “Miss
Williamson noticed a coat-button lying on the ground. She recognized
it as one of Miss Cross’s, and being a precise, careful sort of
person, picked it up and slipped it into her pocket, meaning to give
it to Miss Cross later. After the murder, however, she says to
herself: ‘Well, there’s nothing to beat a murder that looks like an
accident, but I’ll just make sure that if anybody _is_ going to be
suspected it shan’t be me!’ and with that she climbs down to where the
body’s lying (she’s a strong, active-looking woman, so that wouldn’t
give her overmuch difficulty) and puts the button in the dead woman’s
hand. As for the footprints, they might just as well have been made by
her as anyone else.”

“Very neat,” said Roger approvingly. “And the shoes, eh? What about
them?”

The inspector laid one finger along the side of his nose and rubbed
that organ slowly; his eyes began to twinkle again. “Ah! Well, I can
think of several ways of working those shoes in, sir, and I’ve no
doubt you can do the same.”

“Meaning that you’ve already made an interesting deduction or two from
them, about which you’re determined to keep as tight as a clam?” Roger
laughed. “All right, don’t be frightened; I won’t try to open you.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir,” returned the inspector
guardedly, and left the implication of his words tactfully vague.
“Anyhow, Mr. Sheringham,” he went on the next moment, “you see how it
is. It’s easy enough to twist the facts, when they’re so few, into
meaning exactly what we want them to mean, and away from meaning
exactly what we don’t want them to mean. It’s only in those detective
stories, where the inspector from Scotland Yard always shows up so
badly, that there’s only one inference drawn from a set of facts (not
one fact, I’m meaning; a set) and that’s invariably the right one. The
fact of the matter is, sir,” the inspector added in a burst of
confidence, “that what I said about Miss Williamson might just as well
apply to anyone. Given the motive in this case, _anybody_ might have
done it!”

“That’s true enough,” Roger agreed ruefully. “Heaven knows we’ve got a
big enough field to search. Still, I’m confident I’m on the right
track, and I shall jolly well remain confident, however much you try
to damp me. So the next thing I’m going to do is to carry on with my
enquiries about a strange man being seen round these cliffs between
three and four-thirty last Tuesday afternoon.”

“Well, it can’t do any harm, can it?” observed the inspector
restraining his enthusiasm.

“And what are you going to do?”

“Me, sir?” said the inspector innocently.

“Yes, come on, Inspector; out with it. You know perfectly well you’ve
got your job of work all planned out. Be a pal.”

The inspector smiled. “Well, if you must know, sir, I’m going to make
a few enquiries about this shoe.”

“Ah!” Roger observed maliciously. “Well, it can’t do any harm, can
it?”

They laughed.

“Inspector,” said Roger softly, “can’t you forget for once that you’re
a member of an official body and be human? I found that shoe for you.
Isn’t it up to you to let me know what the result of the few enquiries
is? Not for publication, of course, unless you say the word.”

The inspector struggled for a moment with his official reticence.
“Very well, Mr. Sheringham,” he said. “That’s fair enough.”

“Sportsman!” Roger approved as they parted.

Before they had progressed fifty yards in opposite directions, Roger
had turned and was running back again. “Inspector!” he called. “Half a
minute!”

The inspector turned and waited for him, “Yes, sir?”

“There’s one thing I’ve always been meaning to ask a real live police
inspector,” Roger panted, “and always forgetting at the crucial
moment. What do you _really_ think at Scotland Yard of detective
stories?”

The inspector ruminated. “Well, sir,” he said darkly, “we must have
our amusements, I suppose, like everyone else.”

This time they really did part.

The inspector did not return to the inn for lunch, and Roger and
Anthony ate a somewhat silent meal, each having plenty to occupy his
own thoughts. Roger debated for a short time whether to depute some of
the enquiry work, which now seemed to be assuming gigantic
proportions, to his cousin, but decided on consideration that rather
more delicate handling was required than Anthony would probably be
able to bring to it. That young man therefore found himself with the
afternoon off duty once more, whereupon he announced casually that he
might not be back for tea and made a few guarded enquiries as to the
possibility of hiring a two-seater in Ludmouth, just in case one
happened to want to see something of the country round. By a
superhuman effort Roger managed to refrain from all attempts to amuse
himself.

Immediately after lunch he set out once more on his wearisome round.

It was nearly eight o’clock before he returned, and then it was with
the glad face and bounding step of one to whom success has come,
doubly sweet because almost hopelessly deferred. Anthony and the
inspector, half-way through their supper, looked round in astonishment
as the remaining member of their trio, almost unrecognisable beneath
the enormous grin which decorated his countenance, burst in upon them
like a dervish.

“I’ve done it!” shouted the dervish. “Alone, unaided, unhonoured and
unsung, frowned upon by the official police and snubbed by half the
small boys in Ludmouth, have I done it!” He produced a small piece of
paper from his pocket-book and laid it with a flourish beside the
inspector’s plate.

“There’s a present for you, Inspector Moresby,” he said. “The
thumb-print of Mrs. Vane’s murderer. Anthony, carve me a double
portion of that veal-and-ham pie, please!”



Chapter XVII.

Shocking Ignorance of a Clergyman

“Of course,” said Roger, disposing of a large mouthful of veal-and-ham
pie, “of course when I say _murderer_, I may be exaggerating a
trifle.”

“You haven’t told me yet who he is, sir,” said the inspector
patiently. It was the seventh time he had said something like this,
and his curiosity was still ungratified.

“Perhaps it would be safer to say, for the present, that it’s the
thumb-print of a man who knows how Mrs. Vane met her death,” went on
Roger, who was taking a malicious joy in deliberately thwarting his
professional rival’s inquisitiveness. “Anyhow, there it is.”

“Did you say it was a man in the village?” asked the inspector
innocently.

“He that searches diligently shall find,” Roger replied irrelevantly,
“and he that is on the right tack shall make all the thrilling
discoveries. Likewise, to him that hath shall be given; so give me
some more of this excellent pie, Anthony.—No, a slice just about twice
as big as the one you’re meditating.”

“Who _is_ this man, Mr. Sheringham, sir?” demanded the inspector in
desperation.

Roger gazed at him blandly. “Inspector, I’m not going to tell you! You
may arrest me for obstructing the police in the dereliction of their
duty, for arson, fraud, petty treason, or anything you darned well
like, but I’m not going to tell you. You insinuated yourself, as I now
realise, into my confidence this morning and very neatly picked my
brains, without giving anything in return. All along I’ve been making
you free presents of my discoveries, and got practically nothing in
exchange for them. This time I’m hanging on.”

The inspector refilled his tankard and applied himself to it with
gusto. He set it down and wiped his moustache. “Serious business,
sir,” he observed, apparently unmoved.

“Obstructing the police?” Roger agreed heartily. “Yes, jolly serious,
isn’t it? But awfully interesting. I’ve never obstructed one before. I
rather like it.”

The inspector laughed. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, sir, I
know. What do you want me to do?”

“Send that thumb-print up to headquarters and see if they can tell you
anything about its owner,” Roger said promptly. “Seriously, there may
be nothing in this at all, but there may be rather a lot. I’ve got my
own ideas, but I want to verify them before I tell you anything
definite. That’s all.”

“Well, I’m not saying it isn’t highly irregular, sir; it is. By rights
you ought to tell me just what you’ve discovered and let me be the
judge of whether it’s worth following up or not. Still, knowing you,”
the inspector concluded handsomely, “I’ll take the risk.”

“That’s right,” Roger approved. “And I promise to tell you the whole
story as soon as you’ve got the report, even if it’s a negative one.
By the way, if you jump to it you’ve just got time to get it into the
post to-night.”

“That’s true,” conceded the inspector, casting a reluctant eye on his
tankard. He rose to his feet. “You won’t be gone when I come back?”

“No, I shall be here, even though I can’t say the same for my cousin.
That little two-seater I saw outside wouldn’t have anything to do with
you, Anthony, of course?”

Anthony coloured slightly. “Well,” he began, “I——”

“Enough!” Roger interrupted kindly. “You haven’t taken it back yet,
therefore you’re proposing to use it again. Well, the country looks
very charming by moonlight, I’m told. _Bon voyage!_— Oh, Inspector!”

Inspector Moresby paused, his hand on the door-knob. “Yes, sir?”

“Did you find anything out about that shoe, by the way?”

Inspector Moresby continued to pause. “Do you expect me to tell you
that, Mr. Sheringham, when you’re withholding your own information?”

“A promise,” said Roger smugly, “is a promise, Inspector.”

“Well, and I can’t say it wasn’t made in return for services rendered.
Very well, sir, I’ll return good for evil. I traced that pair of shoes
(we found the other one all right, I should say).”

“Traced it, did you?” said Roger with interest. “Do you mean, found
out whom it belonged to?”

“Just that. The inner soles, with the name of the maker, had been torn
out, but it wasn’t a difficult job. The servant-girl recognised ’em at
once, and the mistress admitted to ’em without hesitation.”

“Stop this cat-and-mouse act!” Roger implored. “Whose were they?”

The inspector gazed at him stolidly for a moment, enjoying his
impatience. “Mrs. Russell’s, sir,” he said, and withdrew.

As the door closed Roger emitted a long whistle of astonishment. “Mrs.
Russell’s! Good Lord, that’s an unexpected development. How on earth—?
What do you make of that, Anthony?”

“Goodness knows,” said Anthony frankly.

Roger mused, helping himself abstractedly to gooseberry-pie and cream.
“Well, I suppose it’ll fit in all right. I shall have to think that
over.”

“Are you going to keep me in the dark too about the bird with the
thumb-print?” Anthony asked.

“You?” Roger recalled himself from his meditations. “Oh, no. I’ve got
to tell somebody or bust. Anthony, I’ve had a heartrending day. Man,
woman and child, I’ve been cross-questioning them all till my throat,
hardened as you might think it, nearly collapsed under the strain; and
not a helpful word could I elicit. And then at the very last gasp,
quite literally, a little child led me toward the light. I found an
urchin who’d actually been on the spot and seen just what I wanted him
to have seen.”

“Good egg!” quoth Anthony.

“I had a job to charm his information out of him, as his business on
the cliffs (I never did discover what it was) seems to have been of an
illicit nature; however, fearful oaths of secrecy and a couple of
half-crowns did the trick. He was close to the top of the nearer
flight of steps at half-past three that afternoon, apparently in
hiding, and saw a man go down them and walk along the ledge. He is
even prepared to swear, Anthony, that the man had a paper in his hand
which didn’t seem to be folded quite like a newspaper and might well
have been a copy of _London Opinion_.”

“Coo!” said Anthony. “And were you able to make out who the cove was?”

“There was no need to do that. The urchin very kindly supplied that
information himself. Anthony, my lad, who do you think it was? Just
about the very last person you’d expect.”

“Who?”

Roger regarded his companion with triumphant eyes. “That blighted
little parson, with a face like a goat—the Rev. Samuel Blinking
Meadows!”

“_What!_”

“Yes, that’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it? So off I made in a bee-line
for Samuel. He’d pressed me to drop in whenever I got the chance, so
there was no difficulty about that. I dropped. He was delighted to see
me—oh, delighted! And I was delighted to see him. We were both
delighted. We almost wept on one another’s necks with delight. It was
a touching scene. He wanted to discuss the murder, but I didn’t. I
wanted to discuss something quite different. Theology, Anthony.”

“Ah!” said Anthony.

“Quite so. I discussed theology. He didn’t. He didn’t even know the
name of Moses’s father-in-law, Anthony. Shocking ignorance for a
clergyman, wasn’t it? Of course I didn’t let him see how shockingly
ignorant I thought him. I was a model of tact. I told him that Omar
Khayyám was my favourite among the minor prophets, and he never turned
a hair. I remarked that if Queen Elizabeth hadn’t written the
Athanasian Creed, Cardinal Manning would never have condemned Joan of
Arc to a diet of worms, and he batted no eyelash. Oh, we _did_ enjoy
ourselves.”

“What you’re getting at, I suppose,” observed Anthony acutely, “is
that the chap isn’t a parson at all.”

“Anthony, you read my thoughts. No, the chap isn’t a parson at all.”

“Good!” said Anthony.

“So all I had to do then was to get his finger-print in the orthodox
manner, and come swiftly away. So that’s that.”

“How did you manage the finger-print?”

“Oh, that was simple enough. He was reading a newspaper when I was
shown in. I professed to find something extremely interesting on the
page he had been perusing, and he readily gave me permission to tear
it off and take it away. To hold a newspaper it is of course necessary
to grip the edge quite firmly. For a clergyman, Mr. Meadows evidently
doesn’t wash his hands as often as he might. It has also been a hot
day. Nicely planted in the margin was the perfect impression of a
somewhat greasy thumb. Thank you, Mr. Meadows.”

“Very cunning,” Anthony approved.

“I rather thought that, too,” Roger admitted.

“And you’re not going to say anything about it to the inspector?”

“For the time being, no. I like having Moresby on toast for a change,
I must say, but also I don’t want to commit myself. If anybody’s going
to solve this pretty little mystery, I want it to be Roger Sheringham;
so I’m not giving any information away unnecessarily. Of course it
_may_ turn out that this chap had nothing to do with it, but candidly,
I don’t see how that can possibly be the case.”

“And you think they’ll know about him at Scotland Yard?”

“It seems a reasonable inference. People don’t go about masquerading
as clergymen just as an interesting concomitant of their summer
holiday. He may never have been in the hands of the police at all, but
there’s always the hope.”

“It’ll make a better case against him if he has.”

“Yes, and help us in other ways too. You see, what I’m really hoping
is that he’s a slice out of Mrs. Vane’s past. If so, we ought to be
able to clear up quite a lot of things that are obscure at present. He
might even—” Roger paused. “Oh, there are all sorts of possibilities,”
he corrected himself.

There was a little pause.

“Well, thank goodness Margaret seems to be outside it at last,” said
Anthony.

“Yes, and talking of Margaret, Anthony, I want you to treat what I’ve
told you as highly confidential. It’s much better for her not to know
about this for the time being, at any rate till we hear from Scotland
Yard. It may only raise false hopes, and in any case I don’t want it
talked about. You can simply say that I’m still pursuing my enquiries.
Is it a bet?”

“I’m quite sure,” Anthony began, “that Margaret can be trusted not
to——”

“It isn’t a case of that at all,” Roger interrupted peremptorily.
“It’s simply that this information is to be looked on as my private
property till I choose to make it public. If I can’t rely on you to
keep things to yourself when I don’t want them to go any further, then
I simply shan’t be able to tell you anything. Now then, what about
it?”

“Of course if you make such a point of it,” said Anthony, a little
sulkily.

“I do!”

“All right, then.”

“Then that’s settled,” Roger said cheerfully. “Have some more beer.”

Anthony rose. “No thanks. As a matter of fact I—I’ve got to be getting
along now.”

“Isn’t that girl getting sick of the sight of you, Anthony?” Roger
asked with frank curiosity. “The only times you leave her alone seem
to be at meals.”

“Well, she’s all by herself,” Anthony replied defiantly. “She never
sees the other two, except at meals. If I didn’t go along there, she’d
be quite alone.”

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you to wonder whether she wouldn’t prefer
that?”

“Funny ass,” said Anthony tolerantly. “Well, cheerio! See you later, I
expect.”

“Grrrrr. . . .” said Roger coarsely.

However, Roger did not spend an uninteresting evening. For three whole
hours he was able to enjoy the unbounded felicity of listening to
Inspector Moresby trying by every means in his power, subtle and
official, to obtain the name of the man whose thumb-print was on its
way to London. In gently balking all these indefatigable attempts,
Roger managed to enjoy himself quite considerably.



Chapter XVIII.

Preparations for an Arrest

The next day was a Sunday, and Roger made it a day of rest. He did not
welcome inactivity, but pending the arrival of Scotland Yard’s report
on the thumb-print he did not quite see what there was to do. During
the morning he lay on the little grassy ledge and lazily discussed the
case and life in general with Margaret and Anthony; during the
afternoon he lay there alone, with a book, while Margaret and Anthony
discussed other aspects of life somewhere else by themselves. The
inspector appeared to be busy on some trail of his own, and was not in
evidence.

In the evening Roger and Anthony both went to supper at Dr. Vane’s. It
appeared that the doctor had taken a liking to Roger, and the
invitation had come from him. He even went so far as to close the
laboratory altogether from six o’clock onward, which Roger rightly
interpreted as a compliment of the first magnitude. They passed a
pleasant if quiet evening, and no reference was made by anybody to
Mrs. Vane, her death or the resulting investigations. “In fact,” as
Roger confided later to Anthony during their walk home, “if one hadn’t
been told it was a house of mourning, one would never have guessed for
an instant that the mistress of it died violently less than a week
ago.”

Roger found himself returning Dr. Vane’s liking almost with interest.
The big, burly man was so genuine, so sincere, and (as Roger felt) so
transparently honest. His predilections he did not attempt to
disguise, and where he hated Roger was sure he would be no less
candid. Summing up his impressions on their rather silent walk home,
Roger found himself convinced that, whatever his feelings may have
been once, the doctor had very little affection for his wife at the
time of her death. Equally certainly his attitude toward Miss
Williamson was one merely of rather impersonal camaraderie.

“A disheartening business for any modest girl who’s trying as hard as
that lady is, I should imagine,” Roger told himself.

The next day was also a period of enforced rest. On this occasion,
however, Roger had not only himself but Anthony as well to amuse.
Margaret, it transpired, burdened by the household duties of a Monday,
was unable to devote a single minute to anything outside them. Roger,
fancying that he was able to appreciate these tactics, watched a
restless Anthony moodily kicking small stones on the road in front of
the inn till eleven o’clock, when the second post brought no official
envelope for Inspector Moresby, and then carried him off in the hired
two-seater to spend the day in Sandsea. They got back at half-past
seven (the two-seater, which was of a decidedly decrepit nature,
having behaved not at all well by the roadside) and found the
inspector awaiting them in the sitting-room.

“Hullo, Inspector,” Roger said at once. “Any news by the last post?”

The inspector regarded him benevolently. “Yes, sir; I’ve heard from
headquarters.”

“Have you? Any luck?”

“Luck, sir?” said the inspector with maddening deliberation. “Well, it
depends what you call luck, doesn’t it? Are you two gentlemen ready
for supper? I’m so hungry, I could eat an ox. Funny thing, the heat
always seems to make me hungry. My wife says——”

“Inspector,” Roger interrupted rudely, “I’m sorry for your wife and
family. Very sorry. They must suffer a good deal. By the way, did you
say you _had_ heard from Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, sir; I have. Why?”

“I refuse to play mouse to your cat, Inspector Moresby,” Roger said
with dignity. “So hand over that report, before I break your head.
Even a mouse will turn, you know.”

“I thought we could talk about it after supper, Mr. Sheringham,” the
inspector remarked innocently.

“Did you? Well, think again. Report, please Inspector!”

“He’s an impatient sort of gentleman, your cousin, isn’t he?” the
inspector observed to Anthony, grinning maddeningly.

“Yes, but he’s awfully dangerous when roused. We always humour him in
the family.”

“Is that good for him though, in the long run?” asked the inspector
with an air of earnest enquiry. “Now my experience of these impatient
people is that you ought to——”

Roger opened the door and called downstairs. “Landlord, empty the
flowing bowl! We shan’t want our supper till midnight!”

“I give in, sir,” said the inspector hastily. “Here’s the report!”

“Fill the flowing bowl, landlord,” Roger countermanded in stentorian
tones. “We’ll have supper at once.”

The report was all that Roger could have desired. Its laconic wording
ran as follows:—

  “The impression is of the right thumb of Sam Field, _alias_ Slippery
  Sam, _alias_ The Shrimp, _alias_ The Sky Pilot, _alias_ Herbert
  Peters, _alias_ Herbert Smith, etc. etc. Served two years, 1909–11,
  for robbery with violence; three years, 1913–16, for burglary; five
  years, 1918–23, for fraud and embezzlement. Wanted now on three
  similar charges. Small, dark, mole on right cheek, blue eyes, large
  nose; good education, speaks well, ingratiating manners. Fond of
  disguising himself as a solicitor, clergyman or other member of the
  professional classes.”

“Golly!” observed Roger, and handed the report to Anthony.

“I thought you’d be interested, sir,” said the inspector blandly. “So
it’s the Rev. Samuel Meadows, is it? I thought I’d seen that man’s
face before, if you remember. Must have had a photograph of him
through my hands.”

“Herbert Peters!” Roger murmured raptly. “Do you know, I _guessed_
right inside me that he’d turn out to be Mrs. Vane’s husband, but I
daren’t put it into words; it seemed too good to be true. But I
thought you said you’d got no information about Herbert Peters?”

“Yes, that was a bad bit of routine work,” the inspector admitted
handsomely.

“You’ve got no doubts about it now, I suppose?” Roger persisted.

The inspector did not reply directly. “What do you imagine his motive
was?” he asked instead.

“Well, he was blackmailing her, obviously. It was a gift for him. She
married the doctor when he was in the middle of that five years’
stretch, evidently hoping that he wouldn’t be able to trace her. Oh,
yes; it was a gift for friend Peters.”

“But that doesn’t answer my question, sir,” the inspector pointed out
mildly. “That would be a motive for her murdering him, not he her.
What do you imagine _his_ motive was?”

Roger helped himself to pickled onions. “Well, it’s impossible to say
definitely, isn’t it? I daresay I could think of half-a-dozen
perfectly good motives, but this one strikes me as the most obvious:
she knew there were two or three warrants out against him, so she
countered his threat of blackmail with a threat of her own, to hand
him over to the police. He got the wind up and pushed her over the
cliff in a sudden panic. How’s that?”

“That’s quite plausible,” the inspector agreed.

“After you with the potatoes, Anthony,” said Roger. “Well, what do you
think about it, fair coz?”

“Seems clear enough to me. We know he was there, and as you say, he
probably had plenty of motives. Perhaps he was really in love with her
and frightfully jealous. Then he might have sort of seen red when she
told him what she’d done, mightn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Roger agreed. “No blackmail at all, you
mean. And that fits in with what Margaret said about her being
frightened of somebody a week or two before her death. By the way,
Anthony, you can tell Margaret now that she needn’t bother about
searching any more in Mrs. Vane’s papers.”

“What’s that, sir?” queried the inspector.

Roger explained how he had been trying to approach the identity of the
mysterious stranger by two different routes.

“Going behind the backs of the official police, eh?” the inspector
commented. “Well, well, reporters will be reporters, I suppose.”

“And officials will be official. Well, what are you going to do about
it all, official one? You’ll arrest him, of course?”

“Am I talking to a reporter?” asked the inspector cautiously.

“Not unless you want to. ‘Important developments are expected at any
minute.’ Is that what you mean?”

“For the time being, if you please, sir. I shan’t arrest him to-night,
you see.”

“Not to-night?”

“No. I’ll go along and see a magistrate and get a warrant after
supper, but I shan’t arrest him till to-morrow morning. There’s no
hurry, and it’s more convenient in a little place like this. He can’t
have taken alarm at your interview with him on Saturday, or he’d have
cleared out before now, and I’ve already made sure he hasn’t done
that.”

“But why trouble to traipse off to a magistrate and get a warrant?”
Roger asked curiously. “I thought you didn’t need a warrant for an
arrest on suspicion of murder.”

“But I’m not going to arrest him on suspicion of murder, sir.”

“You’re not?” Roger said in surprise. “Why not?”

“For several reasons,” the inspector returned non-committally. “For
one thing it’s handier, when there are other reasons for arresting a
man, not to do so on the murder charge. They’re more liable to give
themselves away than if you’ve started off by frightening them to
death already. We usually find it pays. And besides, it gives us an
excuse for holding them when our murder evidence may not be quite
complete.”

“I see. I’m learning things about our official criminologists.”

“We’re nasty people to get into the hands of, sir,” the inspector said
jovially.

“You are indeed. I shall think quite seriously before committing my
next murder. And you imagine you’ll be able to induce Meadows to give
himself away?”

“We have our ways of making people talk,” observed the inspector
darkly.

There was a short silence.

“Well, I must be getting along now,” said Anthony, and went.

Roger regarded the closed door for a moment. “It’s nice to be young,”
he said, from the depths of his thirty-six years.

“Humph, yes; but there’s a rude awakening coming, I’m afraid,” replied
the inspector with surprising gloom.

“Your profession seems to have made a pessimist of you, Inspector,”
Roger smiled.

The inspector meditated this. “Well, perhaps it has; but there’s one
thing I have learnt—things are seldom in reality as they appear on the
surface! And that’s a thing youth never has and never will learn.”

“Hark to the disillusionment of middle-age!” Roger laughed, refusing
to echo the other’s suddenly serious tone.

They settled down to a comfortable discussion of the case.

“There’s only one thing that still puzzles me,” Roger said a little
later. “Everything else falls into place neatly enough, but what on
earth is a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes doing in the jig-saw?”

“I was wondering when you’d come to them,” the inspector agreed.

“There _are_ ways in which the chap could get hold of them, of
course,” Roger mused. “I did myself. Or I suppose he could have bought
them at a jumble sale, or picked them out of the ash-bin. But why? And
why Mrs. Russell’s?”

“There are all sorts of ways of accounting for that pair of shoes, I
take it,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “Your idea is that his
object was to leave a female trail behind him, if he was going to
leave any trail at all?”

“Yes; the same as with the coat-button. Substituting the Rev. Samuel’s
name for Miss Williamson’s, by the way, I think the explanation you
put forward to account for the coat-button must be the correct one,
Inspector. It certainly seems the simplest.”

“Well, in that case, if all he wanted was to leave a female trail,”
continued the inspector, who evidently preferred to deal with one
point at a time, “the question of the ownership of the shoes becomes
unimportant. All that matters is that they shall be female shoes, and
large enough for him to be able to get into them more or less, after
their sides have been split. Isn’t that what you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“Well,” said the inspector, with an air of clinching the topic, “as I
said, then, there are all sorts of ways of accounting for his
possession of that pair.”

“That’s perfectly true,” Roger assented.

A few minutes later the inspector left to seek his magistrate.

He had not been gone long before Anthony returned. Margaret had seemed
a little seedy (reported the latter), admitting on pressure to a touch
of hay fever or incipient influenza or something equally depressing,
and had been unable to stop out long, nor had Anthony pressed her to
allow him to accompany her indoors for a time; with reluctance both
had agreed that she would be better in bed. However, he had been able
to break the great news to her and was now the bearer of her heartiest
and rapturous congratulations to Roger.

“Well, I’m not sorry you’re back, Anthony, I must say,” observed that
gentleman, having elicited these facts. “Entrancing though my company
should be, I was beginning to get just a trifle satiated with it.
Besides, it’s a shame and an abominable thing to stay indoors on an
evening like this. Let’s stroll down to the sea-level and gloat over
the moonlight on a rock somewhere, while your Uncle Roger tells you
what a great man he is.”
__________________________________________________________________

Before letting him out of his sight, Roger had extracted a promise
from the unwilling inspector, obtained by means of the most blatant
threats in connection with his capacity as a reporter, to allow him to
be in at the death on the following morning. Not altogether trusting
to the efficacy of a promise won under such conditions however, he was
out of bed at least an hour earlier than usual and proceeded to watch
the inspector’s door with lynx-eyed assiduity. He need not really have
troubled. Inspector Moresby, while quite alive to the advantages of
appearing to grant a difficult favour, had not the least objection to
figuring on a million breakfast-tables as the hero of a thrilling
arrest, complete with full details “from our special correspondent,
who was an actual eye-witness of the scene.” Not the very least
objection. Roger had lost an hour’s sleep for nothing.

They breakfasted and set out together, leaving Anthony to kick his
heels in the inn or meditate over the beauties of nature from the top
of a convenient cliff as he saw fit.

The house in which the Rev. Samuel Meadows, _alias_ Slippery Sam,
_alias_ Herbert Peters, _alias_ etc. etc., had taken rooms, was in the
centre of the village. The two walked briskly along to the front door,
Roger on his toes with excitement at reaching the end of the chase,
the inspector relating anecdotes of the _really_ interesting arrests
he had effected.

A stout woman opened the door to them and smiled as she recognised
Roger. “Yes, he’s in his sitting-room,” she said, in answer to their
inquiries. “I took his breakfast along not much over an hour ago, and
he hasn’t gone out yet. Not but what he isn’t a quiet gentleman
altogether, the Rev. Meadows; never does go out much, he doesn’t.
Keeps ’imself _to_ ’imself, as you might say. A better lodger I
couldn’t wish for. Now the last gentleman who had these rooms——”

“Can we go along?” asked Roger.

“To be sure you can, sir,” agreed the stout woman with much
heartiness. “You know the way, don’t you? Seeing as you were here only
the other day, I mean. And you might tell him I’ll be down in a minute
for the tray, will you, sir? Then you’ll be more comfortable-like, you
see. I ought to have fetched it sooner, I know, but what with one
thing and another, there! the time goes before you ever notice it’s
gone, doesn’t it?”

“Long before,” Roger murmured mechanically, following the inspector
down the narrow passage. Still discoursing, the stout woman
disappeared into the upper regions.

The two stopped out of sight of the stairs and Roger indicated the
door of the Rev. Samuel’s sitting-room. Dispensing with the formality
of a knock, the inspector pushed it open and entered.

Just inside the threshold he halted so abruptly that Roger, following
close on his heels, collided with his burly back. “Hullo!” he
exclaimed softly. “Hul-_lo!_”

Roger peered over his shoulder. The Rev. Samuel Meadows was certainly
there, for he could see him seated in a chair by the window, a copy of
the _Courier_ across his knees. But his head was sunk on his chest,
one arm hung limply by his side, and his whole attitude was twisted
and unnatural.

“Good God!” Roger exclaimed in shocked tones. “What’s the matter with
him?”

The inspector strode forward, bent to peer into the half-hidden face,
and thrust his hand inside the clerical coat. Then he stood up and
tugged at his moustache, staring down at the still, crumpled figure.

“The matter, sir?” he repeated slowly. “He’s dead—that’s what’s the
matter with him.”



Chapter XIX.

End of a Scoundrel

For a moment there was silence. Then:

“_Dead?_” Roger echoed incredulously. “You say he’s _dead?_”

“As a door-nail,” asserted the inspector without emotion. “Only just
(he’s still warm), but dead right enough.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.

The inspector turned his eyes back to the motionless form in the chair
and continued to tug his moustache. “Hell!” he observed simply. As an
epitaph for the Rev. Samuel the remark was perhaps not inapposite.

“This appears to have torn it,” Roger said, closing the door behind
him and advancing gingerly.

“It does indeed,” the inspector agreed, and his tone was one of
profound regret. Roger gathered that the inspector was feeling balked.

Together they gazed at the occupant of the chair.

“Well, what’s the next move?” Roger asked, after a full minute’s
silence.

The inspector seemed to recall himself with an effort from some
meditation of his own. “The next move?” he repeated vaguely. “Well, we
shall have to get a doctor in at once, of course. And as you’re here,
sir,” he went on in brisker tones, “I wish you’d be good enough to get
him for me, will you? By rights I ought to stay here and see that
nothing’s disturbed and the body left untouched; and I shall want a
word with the landlady too.”

“Of course I will,” Roger assented at once. “Any particular doctor?”

“Well, there probably won’t be more than one in a place this size. The
landlady can tell us his name and address. It’s early yet, so you
ought to be able to catch him before he goes out. And on your way back
you might see if you can get hold of the local constable (he lives
quite near here, I know) and send him along too. I don’t want to let
the body out of my sight for more than a second at a time till he
comes, and that’ll leave me a bit freer.”

“Yes, rather,” Roger said, opening the door, “I’ll go at once.”

They made their way out into the passage and the inspector sent a
stentorian voice flying upstairs in search of the landlady. She
appeared at the top of the stairs, wiping her hands on a floor-cloth.

“Mr. Meadows is ill,” said the inspector abruptly. “What’s the name
and address of the nearest doctor?”

“Ill, is he?” said the stout landlady, much concerned. “Well, that’s
funny. Poor gentleman! He seemed quite all right when I took his
breakfast in to him. Not serious, I do hope? ‘Good-morning, Mrs.
Harper,’ he said, just the same as usual. ‘What’ve you got for
breakfast to-day?’ he said. And I——”

Firmly the inspector cut short the flow of the volubility and
extracted the desired information. Roger set out, leaving him to break
the news to her of her lodger’s untimely death. It was strange, he
reflected, that although in the past few people could have ardently
desired for the Rev. Samuel, under any of his pseudonyms, a long lease
of life, yet his death was a matter of deep regret for everybody in
Ludmouth who had had anything to do with him.

The doctor’s house was over half-a-mile distant, and with the help of
an intermittent jog-trot Roger managed to cover the ground to it in
less than five minutes. As the inspector had predicted, the doctor had
not yet started out on his rounds and, his surgery being just over,
Roger was able to see him at once. Somewhat breathlessly he stated his
business, the doctor, a tall, angular man with pince-nez on a pointed
nose, asked a few pertinent questions and hastily stuffed some things
into a small leather bag, and they set off together on foot, Dr. Young
apologising briefly for not being able to offer a seat in his car,
which was not yet ready for its morning’s work.

They walked briskly, in spite of the growing heat of the day, but not
too briskly for Roger to volunteer the answers to various questions
which the doctor might have asked but didn’t.

Fortunately their route took them past the house of the local
constable, which Dr. Young was able to point out, and the latter
waited while Roger routed out its occupant and told him to get into
tunic and helmet and follow on as quickly as he could. The constable’s
large red jaw dropped ludicrously as he assimilated Roger’s terse
communication.

Let into the house by the now white-faced and speechless landlady,
they hurried down the passage and into the sitting-room. With a nod to
the inspector the doctor stood for a moment, allowing his trained eye
to take in and photograph on his brain every detail of the dead man’s
attitude. Then he approached to make a closer and more detailed
examination, scrutinising the surface of the skin and tilting back the
head to obtain a clear view of the face.

“No distortion,” he murmured, half to himself and half to the
inspector. “No convulsions before death.” He lifted an eyelid with his
thumb and peered into the eye. “Pupils not contracted,” he announced,
and went on with methodical care to examine the dead man’s tongue.

Roger watched the rather gruesome business with profound interest. He
had already formed a tentative theory to account for the man’s death,
and was anxiously awaiting some confirmation of it from the doctor’s
lips. In the passage outside the constable signalled his arrival by
blowing his nose importantly.

The doctor straightened up and adjusted his pince-nez, turning to the
inspector. “You’ve got the case in hand?” he remarked. “Inspector
Moresby, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir,” said the inspector, economically answering both
questions at once.

“Yes, I’ve heard about you, of course. Gossip soon travels in a place
like this, and the doctor’s always one of the first to hear it. Well,
it seems you’re going to have a second case to look after, Inspector.”

“Ah!” said the inspector.

The doctor indicated the body with a careless gesture. “Know anything
about him?”

“Very little,” the Inspector replied untruthfully. “I’d got my eye on
him, though,” he admitted.

“Any reason to suspect suicide?” asked the doctor curtly.

“Well—no reason to _ex_pect it, doctor,” returned the inspector with
some care. “No, certainly not.”

“Um!” The doctor removed his pince-nez and began to polish them with
his handkerchief. “You were on your way to arrest him, I understand?”

“Somebody seems to have been talking,” the inspector observed, and
grinned openly at Roger’s guilty blush.

“I mean,” amplified the doctor, “there may be some connection.”

“You think it’s poison, then?” enquired the inspector genially.

The doctor frowned. “I can’t possibly say that yet, till I’ve examined
the body. At present I see no marks of violence. I’d like to get him
on to his bed; will you give me a hand?”

Between them they carried the slight figure without difficulty
upstairs and into a room which the stout landlady, fluttering round
them like a corpulent hen on the landing, indicated as the dead man’s
bedroom. The doctor began to undress the body, the inspector helping
him, and Roger, for once feeling himself in the way, retired to the
sitting-room downstairs to await their verdict.

On the floor by the chair in which the dead man had been sitting lay
his pipe, fallen no doubt from his nerveless hand. Roger was about to
pick it up with aimless curiosity, when he remembered that nothing
should be handled except by the official police. He sat down on a hard
horsehair sofa of uninviting aspect and began to think furiously.

At the first shock this unexpected death had seemed completely to
upset his carefully worked out theory, the success of which had seemed
last night to be a foregone conclusion; but during his hurried mission
to the doctor even this had fallen into its place in the scheme. Long
before the word suicide had been mentioned at all Roger had arrived at
the same conclusion. This explanation, he had realised, so far from
upsetting the theory, comfortably confirmed it. Meadows must have got
wind of the fact that the net was being drawn round him, and had taken
in desperation the only way out. And how had he thus got wind? Even
though he was alone, Roger wriggled a trifle guiltily.

It would be an exaggeration to say that Roger had betrayed the
inspector’s confidence. It would be no exaggeration at all to say,
putting it on its mildest possible terms, that he had been indiscreet.
Actually in touch over the telephone with the editor of the _Courier_
(that great man) himself, he had let slip something more than the
demure “important developments are expected at any minute” of his
official report; he had, in fact, so far given way to his
temperamental volubility as to hint that the important developments
were due entirely to the _Courier’s_ own special correspondent and his
remarkable acumen, the said correspondent having unearthed in the
neighbourhood, by a cunning and perspicacity far exceeding that of his
official colleague and rival, the presence of a notorious criminal
whose past life had been discovered to be bound up with that of the
deceased, who had ample motive for compassing her death, and who was
actually going to be arrested, though not ostensibly on this account,
the very next day—all of which had duly appeared, in a little
laudatory article upon the special correspondent, as a preface to his
own article that morning. It is true that Roger had imagined himself
to be speaking in the strictest confidence, but he had certainly erred
in overestimating a newsman’s sense of personal honour where his
paper’s interests are concerned.

He glanced across at the _Courier_ which had been taken from the dead
man’s knees and wriggled again. Reading that little paragraph, Meadows
could hardly fail to realise that his game was up; nobody else perhaps
could see the personal application, but to the man concerned it must
have been as clear as daylight. Roger ruefully anticipated a bad
quarter-of-an-hour with the inspector. However leniently the latter
might be disposed to treat the slip and however readily he might
accept Roger’s own explanation, this must mean the end of even such
meagre confidences as he had been cajoled into bestowing.

Roger began to compose a letter to the editor of the _Courier_ in
which he purposed to acquaint that great man with the precise and
unvarnished state of his feelings toward him.

He was still in the middle of its vitriolic sentences when the
inspector and the doctor reappeared.

“Yes,” the former was saying, “I’ll arrange all that with the Coroner,
doctor. Ten o’clock to-morrow morning, the inquest (I don’t see that
we can put it much earlier than that) so you’ll be able to get going
by eleven.”

“Mr. Simpson—the Coroner—I’m afraid you’ll find him rather a fussy
little man,” said the doctor doubtfully. “Very full of his own dignity
and importance.”

“Oh, I won’t tread on his toes,” the inspector laughed. “I’m used to
fussy coroners, I can tell you. I promise you he’ll call the inquest
for ten all right, when I’ve done with him. And you’ll get in touch
with the Sandsea man right away?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, but of course the Coroner will have to
confirm it.”

“I’ll see he does that,” returned the inspector confidently. “Dear me,
look like having a busy day in front of me, don’t I? And then there’s
all these things in here to seal up and send to Sir Henry Griffen for
analysis. Bother the Rev. Samuel Meadows! What did he want to go and
give me all this trouble for?”

“It is suicide, then?” eagerly put in Roger, who had been waiting with
impatience during this exchange for an opportunity of learning what
had been discovered. “He did take poison?”

Dr. Young looked disapproving before this leading question. “Really,
it’s quite impossible to say yet; we must look to the post-mortem to
establish the cause of death. There are no signs of apoplexy, it’s
true, but he may have had a bad heart. It’s impossible to say anything
definitely yet.”

“You’ll have to wait for the adjourned inquest for all that, Mr.
Sheringham, sir,” said the inspector reprovingly, though his eyes
twinkled. “Be careful what you say to this gentleman,” he added to the
doctor. “He’s a pressman. They’re all unscrupulous, but he’s worse
than most.”

“Yes,” said Roger, considerably relieved to find that the other was
disposed to treat his blunder so jocularly. “Yes, I’ve got to grovel
to you, Inspector, I know. I’ve got a perfectly good explanation, but
I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Say when you’ve got a spare
quarter-of-an-hour to-day, and I’ll come and grovel _ad lib_.” He
turned to the doctor. “Then those are the only three
possibilities—apoplexy, heart or poison?”

“So far as one can say,” agreed the doctor guardedly.

“And you’ve no idea at all what poison it is?”

“I’ve no idea that it is even poison at all.”

Roger eyed his interlocutor sadly. There was such a lot of possible
information to be obtained, and apparently so little probability of
obtaining it. For the life of him he did not know what to ask next.

“Well, doctor, you’ll be wanting to get along now, I suppose,” the
inspector broke in on this dilemma. “And Mr. Sheringham, I’m afraid I
shall have to turn you out of here. This room’s got to be kept locked
from now on, and nobody allowed in except under orders from me.”

“Right-ho, Inspector,” Roger acquiesced. “And of course all these
breakfast things and so on will have to be analysed, if they do find
poison in the body, won’t they? By the way, there’s his pipe on the
floor there; he may have been smoking it just before he died.—Well,
doctor, if we’re to be turned out, I’ll stroll along part of the way
with you.”

The doctor managed to conceal his joy at the prospect.

Inspector Moresby watched them go with his twinkle in full action. His
obvious surmise was not amiss. Roger obtained some excellent exercise,
but nothing else. For half-a-mile he walked by the doctor’s side,
pumping busily; but either the well of his companion’s information had
run dry or else the pumping machinery was out of gear. In either case,
truth remained coyly in her fastness and none of Roger’s strenuous
efforts succeeded in bringing her to the surface.

Returning disconsolate to the inn, however, he had a pleasant surprise
in finding Anthony unexpectedly in attendance. For the next hour or
two he was able to discourse, on the farthest unsubmerged rock, to a
thrilled audience of one to his heart’s content.



Chapter XX.

Poisons and Pipes

Roger did not see the inspector again that day till supper, when he
was obviously tired out and disinclined to talk. He referred in terms
of gentle sarcasm to Roger’s breach of trust, though quite without
heat, his attitude being one rather of disillusionment than anger; one
gathered that the person he really blamed for the business was
himself, for being such a consummate idiot as to trust a journalist.
He listened to Roger’s explanation and apologies and accepted the
latter, but retaliated, as the culprit had foreseen, by refusing to
utter a single word about the case.

The inquest was duly opened the following morning, but though Roger
attended in a spirit of pious hope nothing of the least importance
transpired. Twelve solemn rustics viewed the body and then sat
perspiring in the village schoolroom, and that was practically all
that happened. Almost the only witness was the stout landlady, who was
able to give evidence of identity and who also had been the last
person to see the deceased alive. She agreed, in the time-hallowed
formula, that he had then seemed in his usual health and spirits, and
added, with more originality, that had he been there when she heard of
his death the Coroner could have knocked her down with a feather. She
was going on to add a good deal more, but was held with a testy hand.

Inspector Moresby deposed to finding the body, and Roger, somewhat to
his surprise, was called to give corroborative evidence. As to who the
dead man really was, the inspector preserved a strict silence; and
whether the Coroner had been taken into the secret or not, the court
was apparently content to accept the Rev. Meadows as a chance visitor
to Ludmouth on a prolonged stay and made no inquiry into his
antecedents. The whole proceedings had not lasted more than a
quarter-of-an-hour when, Dr. Young being called and stating his
inability to give the cause of death, the enquiry was adjourned for
this to be ascertained and the Coroner formally ordered a post-mortem
to be made.

Naturally the news of this second death increased the public interest
in the Ludmouth Mystery, as it was now generally called, and in spite
of Inspector Moresby’s careful reticence popular imagination was not
slow to link the two tragedies together. Newspapers which had hitherto
paid little attention to the affair made haste to send down their own
representatives, and Roger had cause half-a-dozen times a day to
congratulate himself on his foresight in preventing all other
intruders from finding foothold in the Crown. To all enquirers the
landlord, that mountainous man, presented an ox-like front of stolid
imperturbability: they couldn’t have a room, for why? there wasn’t
one, that was why. Even offers of double or treble the market-price
failed to move him. He seemed to have conceived a bovine affection for
Roger (opposites, it has already been said, do sometimes make for a
male friendship), and followed out his guest’s wishes to the letter,
bewildered but faithful. By way of some return Roger felt compelled to
drink as much beer as he could possibly contain.
__________________________________________________________________

Thereafter matters progressed for the next ten days or so, inasmuch as
the actual case was concerned, not at all. Indeed so far as Roger
could see the whole thing was over, bar the shouting. The finding of
poison of some description in the body and the subsequent verdict
(after Inspector Moresby had unfolded the real story) of suicide
during temporary insanity, was practically a foregone conclusion.
Roger’s articles in the _Courier_ grew shorter and shorter as he found
it increasingly difficult to find anything new to say, and he would
have given them up altogether had the editor not made it a personal
favour that he should carry them up to the adjourned inquest in order
to help the paper as much as possible over the slack season. And all
the time Inspector Moresby gave a really first-class imitation of a
sphinx, so far as any unusual happenings in Ludmouth were concerned.

During these days Roger converted for the most part what had been
chiefly a duet during the proceeding week, into a trio. The original
members made no audible protest, but whatever their real feelings on
the point Roger saw no reason why, having brought Anthony for the
express purpose of keeping him company, he should be callously
abandoned to loneliness just because his susceptible cousin’s fancy in
companionship happened to have strayed temporarily elsewhere—or so at
any rate he phrased it to himself; for after all, one could hardly
expect Roger to admit, even privately, to jealousy of a young man
nearly a dozen years his junior. At other times he told himself
seriously that it was no less than his duty to break up his cousin’s
_tête-à-têtes_ with a young woman of (when all was said and done)
distinctly doubtful origin and antecedents; it might be an awkward
thing, Roger pointed out earnestly to himself, were Anthony to become
in any way _involved;_ his mother would have a good deal to say about
it, and she would certainly say it, and forcibly, to him. Roger
continued to martyr himself to duty.

In the course of his devotion to this stern mistress, he observed
Margaret closely. Now that she had been definitely cleared of the
horrible suspicion of causing her cousin’s death, her demeanour had
altered perceptibly. The iron self-control which she must have been
exerting during that week was relaxed, and signs of a corresponding
reaction were not infrequent. At one moment she would be more
self-reliant than she had appeared before, and less dependent upon
their strength; at another she would laugh almost hysterically and
propose the maddest escapades on the spur of the moment. Anthony she
kept continually upon tenterhooks of bewilderment, treating him one
day as if she were seriously in love with him and the next as if he
bored her beyond words.

Roger was convinced that there was really nothing of the coquette in
her, that she was as straightforward and unguileful as he could wish a
girl to be, so that he found himself at times seriously perturbed
about her. The place, he felt sure, exercised a distressing effect
upon her, and he continued to urge her to leave it, if only for a
temporary holiday. Her manner of receiving these suggestions was on a
par with the rest of her behaviour: one day she would say shortly that
it was quite impossible for the moment, that she must stay and look
after George till everything had quite blown over; on another she
would jump eagerly at the idea and begin to discuss, quite seriously,
the feasibility of flying over to Paris and embarking on a hectic
European tour the very next day—yet when it came to the point of a
final decision it was always the first mood which prevailed with her.
In some vague way Roger felt a certain responsibility for her, and it
worried him more than he would have cared to admit.

Inspector Moresby evidently also felt that the case was only marking
time during these days, pending definite confirmation of the existence
of poison in the body from Sir Henry Griffen, the Home Office analyst,
for he took the opportunity of going over to Sandsea for a couple of
days to resume his interrupted holiday with his wife and family. It
seemed as if he was anxious not to lose touch with Ludmouth, however,
for he only took two days when he might have taken five, and was back
again at the inn considerably before Roger expected him.

As for Anthony, that young business man began to feel seriously
alarmed as the days went by that he would have to return to London
before the adjourned inquest brought the case definitely to an end. He
had only got three weeks’ holiday, and already two of them were gone.
Careful though he had been to conceal any exuberant display of
admiration, Anthony really had found himself profoundly impressed by
Roger’s handling of the case and his laying bare of its hidden core
which even such a tough bird as Inspector Moresby had failed to
uncover, and it would have broken his heart to be compelled to leave
before all the threads were finally unravelled and the last knots
smoothed out.

Fortunately he was not called upon to do so. The Rev. Samuel had died
on a Tuesday; on the following Friday the inspector had gone over to
Sandsea, returning on Sunday evening; on the next Thursday, exactly a
fortnight after his arrival in Ludmouth, Roger was sitting alone with
the inspector after supper—and for once Inspector Moresby was not
feeling quite so official as usual.

It happened like this:

“I wonder,” Roger had said, “when you’ll hear from Sir Henry about the
cause of death.”

And the inspector replied, surprisingly: “Oh, I heard yesterday
morning!” He may have felt tempted to bite his tongue out immediately
afterward, but indubitably that is what Inspector Moresby replied.

“You did?” squeaked Roger. “Inspector, you—you taciturn devil!”

The inspector applied himself to such small remnants of beer as were
still to be found at the bottom of his tankard. “Perhaps it was about
time for me to be a little more taciturn than I have been sometimes,”
he remarked with ominous application from its depths.

“But I’ve grovelled about that,” Roger said eagerly. “Simply
grovelled. Also I’ve explained it all away. Nothing like that will
ever occur again.—Inspector, you—you _are_ going to tell me what Sir
Henry said, aren’t you?”

The inspector, having arrived at the regretful conclusion that his
tankard really was empty this time, replaced it on the table. “No, Mr.
Sheringham, sir,” he said with a good deal of firmness. “I’m not.”

“Oh, you are!” Roger wailed. “Don’t you remember? Think again. You—you
are, really.”

“I’m really not,” retorted the inspector still more firmly.

They eyed one another in silence.

“Have some more beer!” said Roger helpfully.

“Are you trying to bribe me, sir?” asked the inspector sternly.

“Certainly I am,” Roger replied with dignity. “Do you want everything
put into blatant words?”

“Then thank you, sir,” said the inspector. “I could do with another
pint on a night like this.”

Roger went with alacrity to the door. “Not a quart?” he suggested,
“Come, it’s a hot night as you say. What about a gallon? No? You’re no
sportsman, I’m afraid.” He shouted out the order to the landlord and
returned to his seat.

“Seriously, though, sir,” the inspector resumed, “I’m afraid I can’t
say anything about Sir Henry’s report. You’ll have to wait for the
inquest. It’ll all come out then.”

“And when’s that?”

“It was adjourned to to-day week, if you remember.”

“Oh, Lord!” Roger groaned. “I can’t possibly wait till then.”

“Looks as if you’d have to, doesn’t it?” said the inspector, with
hypocritical sympathy.

The landlord brought in two pint tankards of beer and retired again,
breathing heavily.

Roger raised his. “Well, here’s confusion to you,” he said with deep
gloom.

“Best luck, sir,” returned the inspector politely.

They eyed one another above their respective rims. Then each set down
his tankard and laughed.

“You were going to tell me all the time, weren’t you?” said Roger
confidently.

“Well, I ought not to, you know, Mr. Sheringham,” the inspector
demurred. “Still, I mustn’t forget that it was you who put me on to
the man in the first place, must I?”

“You must not,” Roger agreed with feeling.

“But this really isn’t for publication, mind. In fact I’d rather you
undertook not to tell a single living soul. It’s only on that
condition I can say anything to you.”

“Not even Anthony?”

“Not even Mr. Walton.”

“Not even Anthony it is, then,” Roger said cheerfully. “Shoot! What
was the poison?”

“Aconitine.”

Roger whistled. “Aconitine, was it? By Jove! That explains the
rapidity, of course. But it’s not exactly a common one, by any means.
Lamson’s specialty, eh? I wonder how Meadows got hold of it.”

“Exactly,” agreed the inspector laconically.

“Aconitine!” observed Roger in deep thought. “Well, well! Of course
one of the merits of aconitine is the smallness of the fatal dose.
Somewhere about one-tenth of a grain, or less, isn’t it? But that
doesn’t usually kill for three or four hours. This must have been a
good deal more than a fatal dose to work so quickly.”

“It was. At least a grain, Sir Henry reckons.”

“Yes, probably all that. Always the way with the lay suicide, of
course, to give himself about ten times as much as he needs. You know
that better than I do, no doubt. But aconitine’s about the last thing
I was expecting, I must say. I should have put my money on arsenic, or
strychnine, or even prussic acid; something more easily procurable
than aconitine, at any rate.”

“The symptoms showed it couldn’t be any of those three.”

“Yes, that’s right; they did, of course. Still aconitine is a bit
unexpected. Weren’t you surprised?”

“I’m never surprised at anything, sir.”

“Aren’t you really? _Blasé_ fellow! I am, and aconitine is one of the
agents. I wonder how he _did_ manage to get hold of it. Forged a
medical prescription, I suppose. Have you any idea how he took it? In
his breakfast coffee, or something like that?”

“Sir Henry found no trace of it in any of the breakfast things.”

“Oh? Did he take it neat, then? Rather unpleasant. And not very safe
either; a grain of the stuff wouldn’t be much larger than a big pin’s
head.”

“Sir Henry found a considerable quantity of it,” said the inspector
steadily, “mixed up with the contents of the tobacco-jar.”

“The tobacco-jar?” echoed Roger in incredulous tones.

“He also found it,” pursued the inspector, “in the pipe which Meadows
had been smoking, particularly in the stem. He says there can be no
doubt that that was the vehicle through which it entered his system.
There was no trace of it in anything else.”

“His—his _pipe!_” Roger stammered, staring at his companion with round
eyes. “But—but in that case——!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well—that seems to put suicide almost out of the question!”

“Exactly,” agreed the inspector blandly.

Roger continued to stare at him. “Good Heavens, you don’t mean——?”

“What, sir?”

“That—well, that somebody else poisoned him?”

“There can’t be a shadow of doubt about it,” said the inspector with
the utmost cheerfulness. “The Rev. Samuel never committed suicide at
all. He was murdered!”



Chapter XXI.

Roger Plays a Lone Hand

It was some minutes before Roger would agree to abandon, once and for
all time, his cherished theory of suicide. Suicide had smoothed all
difficulties away; suicide had explained both deaths in the simplest
possible terms, reduced them to a common denominator; in spite of
superficial appearances surely in some way it _must_ be suicide. Not
until the inspector had patiently, and for half-a-dozen times in
succession, pointed out that the very last place in which a voluntary
consumer of aconitine would put the poison was among the contents of
his tobacco-jar, and the very last way he would choose of imbibing it
was through the stem of his pipe, did Roger reluctantly admit that,
hang it! yes, it really did begin to look as if the man had been
murdered after all.

“But you don’t think he was under the impression that aconitine was a
narcotic and that he could smoke it like opium and so have an easy
passage?” he suggested as a final gleam of hope.

“I do not,” said the inspector, briskly extinguishing the gleam. “A
man who’s going to use a drug like aconitine at all is going to know
something about it; and the very least he’d know is that it isn’t a
narcotic. No, sir, there’s no other conclusion at all. Meadows was
murdered.”

“Curse the man, then!” Roger observed with feeling. “He’d simply got
no right to be, that’s all I can say. Now we’re put right back to the
beginning again. Well, who murdered him, Inspector? Perhaps you’ll
tell me that too?”

The inspector tugged at his moustache. “I was hoping you’d be able to
tell me that, Mr. Sheringham.”

“I see,” Roger said bitterly. “I might have known you weren’t pouring
out all this confidential information for nothing. You want to pick my
magnificent brains again, I suppose?”

“Well, if you like to put it that way, sir,” remarked the inspector in
deprecating tones.

“I do. I hate calling a pick-axe an ‘agricultural implement.’ All
right, pick away.”

The inspector drank a little beer with a thoughtful air. “Let’s begin
with a motive, then. Now can you see anyone in the case with a motive
for Meadow’s death?”

“Wait a minute. You still think his death is mixed up with Mrs.
Vane’s? You’re taking that as a starting-point?”

“Well, we can always keep the other possibility before us, but it
seems a fair enough assumption, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes; the balance of probability is certainly in favour of it. But I
don’t think we ought to forget that Meadows (we’ll call him Meadows;
it’s easier) was quite possibly a blackmailer, among his other
activities; and once we admit blackmail the field is enormously
widened.”

“Oh, yes, sir; I’m not forgetting that. But you must remember that he
was certainly down here for some specific purpose to do with his
wife—the coincidence otherwise would be so great that I think we can
wash it out altogether; so if he _was_ blackmailing, it was either his
wife or somebody very closely connected with his wife.”

“Such as her husband?”

“Such as Dr. Vane,” said the inspector meticulously. “Well, you see
what I mean. It seems to me we can take it for granted that his death
_is_ due to somebody already mixed up with the case.”

“Yes,” Roger agreed. “I think you’ve clinched that point.”

“So that brings us back to what I asked you first of all: can you see
anyone in the case with a motive for getting him out of the way?”

“Plenty!” said Roger promptly. “And the one with the biggest motive of
all was Mrs. Vane herself.”

“Excluding her, I was really meaning,” the inspector amplified, with
quite exemplary patience.

“Well, confining ourselves for the moment to the blackmail _motif_, I
suppose Dr. Vane’s the next on the list. He’d have plenty of reason to
get rid of his wife’s real husband, especially if he was threatening
to give the whole show away—as he probably was.”

“Even after his wife was dead? What would it matter to the doctor
then?”

“Everything! Nobody likes to be shown up as a credulous fool, imposed
upon by a clever and unscrupulous woman. Besides, there are bound to
be reasons there that we don’t know anything about, wheels within
wheels. How do we know, for instance, that she hadn’t somehow made him
an accessory to some real breach of the law? It would be a useful
weapon for a woman in such a precarious position as she was. And
Meadows might have got wind of it.”

“Very ingenious, sir,” the inspector approved. “Yes, you make out
quite a pretty case against the doctor; though how you’re going to
prove it is a different matter. And now cutting out the blackmail
idea—or rather, taking another aspect of it. Who after all, whether it
was Dr. Vane or not, would have the greatest incentive to put Meadows
out of the way—to ensure his mouth being shut for ever, if you like?”

Roger nodded slowly. “I see. Yes; of course. And we know Meadows was
on the spot at the time; I was forgetting that. Yes, certainly that’s
the strongest motive of all.”

“That’s how I look at it, anyway,” said the inspector cheerfully. “In
fact, the way I see it is this. Meadows was in that little cave at the
time, probably waiting to keep an appointment with his wife. Along she
comes, but—with somebody else; not alone. Naturally he lies low;
doesn’t want his name connected with hers at all; that might be
killing the goose with the golden eggs. And while he’s waiting, this
other person pushes his wife over the cliff—_and he knows who that
person is_.”

“A masterly reconstruction,” Roger commented. “So although the
original goose is killed, the gander that did it has delivered himself
into his hands; and contrary to all the laws of nature, that gander is
going to be made to shell out golden eggs just as fast as a
sausage-machine!”

“That’s one way of putting it,” the inspector smiled. “But the gander
thinks differently, and——”

“As Samuel is promptly despatched to fresh meadows and pastures
new!—Well, yes, Inspector, one must admit that’s a sound enough
theory, and very cogently stated.”

“Doesn’t it seem to you the only reasonable theory, sir? Or at any
rate, the most reasonable?”

“I suppose it does,” Roger said thoughtfully. “Yes, the most
reasonable, without doubt. So now we come back to the good old
problem, which I solved so extremely neatly last week—who killed Mrs.
Vane?”

“We do, sir. And as to that, do you see one big fact in this second
case which is going to give us a valuable pointer to the identity of
the double murderer?”

“This is as good as a correspondence course,” Roger murmured: “‘How to
Be a Detective,’ in three lessons—Yes, Teacher, I do. Aconitine.”

“That’s right, sir. It must have been somebody who had access to
aconitine; I think we can take _that_ for granted. I shall make
enquiries at the chemist’s in Sandsea and elsewhere, of course, as a
matter of form; but I don’t fancy they’ll lead to anything. The
murderer knew all about poisons; that’s obvious. Something was wanted
that would act quickly, so the choice was practically limited to
prussic acid, strychnine, aconitine and curare. Prussic acid smells
too strong, so the man could hardly be induced to take it
unsuspectingly; with strychnine he’d shout out and make too much fuss;
curare won’t act except on an open wound; aconitine (a _big_ dose of
aconitine, that is) was just what was wanted.”

“Humph!” Roger said seriously, stroking his chin. “I see what you’re
getting at, of course. But do you really think he——”

“Hullo, you two!” said a voice from the door. “Still yapping? Hope
you’ve got something to drink up here. I’ve got a throat like a
mustard plaster after walking along that road in this heat.”

“Anthony,” said his cousin with not unjustified annoyance, “you’re
gross.”

The conversation swerved abruptly from matters criminal.
  __________________________________________________________________

Lying in bed that night, Roger did not get to sleep very quickly.
Apart from this fresh development of the case which in itself was
enough to prolong his meditations well into the small hours, he had
another problem to engage his attention scarcely less closely—_why_
had the inspector emerged, practically unbidden, from his shell of
reticence and volunteered this startling information? The pretext of
picking his amateur colleague’s brains was of course only an empty
excuse, for in the subsequent discussion it was the inspector who had
taken the lead, pointed out the possibilities and established a
workable theory; Roger had contributed nothing of any value to it.
Why, in other words, had the inspector gone out of his way to drop
unmistakable hints that the author of both crimes was Dr. Vane
himself? It was only as he was at last dropping off to sleep that an
illuminating answer occurred to him—the inspector had done this
because that is what he wished Roger to think: his real theory was
something entirely different!
__________________________________________________________________

Shaving the next morning, Roger pursued this train of thought. That
certainly was the explanation of the inspector’s otherwise
inexplicable conduct. Laughing maliciously up his sleeve, he had been
trying to head the officious journalist, against whom he already had a
score to pay, not toward the truth but away from it. Roger grinned at
his reflection in the mirror: very well, but two could play at that
game. Likewise, forewarned was forearmed. He began to ponder a plan of
campaign which should end in extracting the wind from the inspector’s
sails.

Obviously the only thing to do was to go straight ahead with his
investigations as if nothing had been said. It was possible of course
that Dr. Vane really was the murderer, although the inspector clearly
did not think so. Nor for that matter did Roger himself. Not that Dr.
Vane struck him as likely to shrink from murder if murder should be
necessary, but somehow he did not _feel_ him as the murderer of his
wife—he could put it no more reasonably than that; the eliminator of
Meadows, yes, quite possibly; but not the other.

And in that connection, was it so unlikely that the two deaths should
have been brought about by different agents? The inspector had
pretended to think so and had certainly made out a strong case to
support his hypothesis, but did that not now point all the more
strongly to the opposite conclusion? The inspector had been at some
pains even to labour the point; all the more reason therefore to
suspect that his real opinion was just the opposite. Well, well,
things did seem to be getting really very involved. The only way of
straightening them out was to keep a clear head, forget no
possibilities and yet allow none to bias him unduly—and might the best
sleuth win!

Roger brushed his hair with his usual care, put on his coat and walked
demurely down to breakfast.

The inspector was already half-way through his meal, and Anthony had
not put in an appearance. For ten minutes the two exchanged
platitudes, the topic bulking largest in both of their minds being as
if by common consent avoided. Then the inspector mumbled something
about having a busy day in front of him and took his departure. Almost
simultaneously Anthony entered the room.

Roger helped himself to marmalade and watched Anthony scoop the
remainder of the dish of bacon and eggs on to his plate. He had
devoted some earnest thought between platitudes during the last ten
minutes to the promise the inspector had extracted from him the
evening before, and while deprecating any temptation to break it even
in the circumstances, fancied that he had found a blameless way round
it. “Anthony,” he began with some care, “you’re on duty this morning.”

“Right-ho!” said Anthony with equanimity. “But what’s the idea?
Nothing for us to do, is there?”

“Well, yes,” Roger said, with elaborate carelessness. “At least,
nothing _necessary;_ just something I’d rather like to play about
with. To tell you the truth, Anthony, I’m getting a little tired of
this enforced idleness, so I’ve propounded a neat little puzzle to
myself. It’s this: suppose Meadows turned out after all not to have
committed suicide, but to have been murdered!”

“Suppose the moon turned into pink cheese too,” responded Anthony
jocularly. “All right, I’ll suppose that. What about it?”

“Well, you know, it _is_ a possibility,” Roger said, with an air of
trying to convince himself against his reason. “We ought not to lose
sight of it just because it seems improbable. And it would be
remarkably interesting if we could make out some sort of a case to
support it, wouldn’t it?”

“Is that what you want to do?” Anthony asked, cutting himself a second
slice of bread. “Seems a bit of a waste of time to me. However, I’m
game if you want to amuse yourself. Things have been a bit quiet
lately, haven’t they?”

Roger glanced at his cousin in some surprise, but tactfully forebore
to comment on this remarkable statement. It had been his impression
that things had not been at all quiet lately, so far as Anthony and
his affairs were concerned. “You haven’t fixed anything up with
Margaret for this morning, then?” was all he said.

“No,” said Anthony very airily. “She’s got to go into Sandsea, I
believe. Shopping, or some rot. I shan’t be seeing her till to-morrow,
if then.”

Again Roger, with almost superhuman tact this time, refrained from
comment. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “What have you
quarrelled about now, you pair of idiots?” but he didn’t. For one
thing he had no wish to be accompanied all the morning by a glowering
and resentful Anthony.

“That’s all right then,” he remarked briskly, as if for Anthony and
Margaret not to meet during a whole twenty-four hours was quite the
most ordinary thing in the world. “Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do.
I think it would be rather fun, to say nothing of the exercise in
detectiveship, to assume for one day that Meadows was murdered
(poisoned, of course) and see if we can collect any evidence in
support of the notion. What do you say?”

“Frightful fun,” Anthony agreed mechanically.

“That’s the spirit,” said Roger with great heartiness. “Very well,
then; hurry up with your breakfast, and we’ll see what the Queen will
send us.”



Chapter XXII.

New Discoveries

Roger and Anthony stood in the sitting-room that had been occupied by
the Rev. Meadows, while the stout landlady entertained them with a
ceaseless flow of reminiscences concerning her late guest. Anthony’s
face was already feeling the strain of keeping an expression of polite
interest held firmly toward this stream of verbiage; Roger was
blatantly paying not the slightest attention. Anthony began to realise
why his cousin had been so anxious to bring him.

“Never was a one for making a fuss, neither,” the stout landlady
assured Anthony with considerable emphasis. “Not never, he wasn’t!
Always got a pleasant word for me when I’d bring his meals in or come
to ask him if he wanted anything, like. Make a little joke too, he
would, as often as not. Very fond of his little joke, the Rev. Meadows
was. Sometimes I couldn’t help but laugh at him, he’d say such comical
things. Seems dreadful to think of now, doesn’t it, sir, with the poor
gentleman lying stiff and cold in his grave, as you might say?” She
paused momentarily for breath.

“Very dreadful,” Anthony agreed, casting a harassed eye at a pink
china pig on the mantelpiece.

Roger, who had been gazing thoughtfully out of the low window, turned
round. “Did anybody come to see Mr. Meadows before breakfast on the
morning of his death?” he asked abruptly.

The landlady was so taken aback that she answered with equal brevity.
“No, sir, that there wasn’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure, sir,” replied the landlady, recovering herself. “You see,
I was in me kitchen from——”

“Did he have a visitor on the previous day, do you remember?” Roger
cut in ruthlessly.

“No, sir; he never had a visitor all the time he was here, not till
you came. Very quiet gentleman, he was; very quiet. I remember saying
to Mrs. Mullins, not three days before the end, ‘Mrs. Mullins,’ I
said, ‘there’s lodgers _and_ lodgers, as you know as well as I do, but
the Rev. Meadows, he——’”

“Did you go to bed early the night before Mr. Meadows’ death?” asked
Roger.

“Well, in good time, as you might say,” replied the landlady,
instantly directing her steady stream along this new course. “But then
I always do. Candle out by ten o’clock’s my rule and always has been.
An hour’s sleep before midnight’s worth two after, I always say. Now
my husband, when he was alive, would sit——”

“So if Mr. Meadows had had a late visitor, you wouldn’t have known?”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir,” said the stout landlady,
in no wise disconcerted, “because as a matter of fact I _should_ have
known. I should have heard the bell, you see. Because I didn’t get to
sleep after all that night, not till it was quite light I didn’t. I
had the toothache something chronic. I do get like that sometimes, and
then it’s as much as I can do to get a wink of sleep at all. I
remember it was that night, because when I heard about poor Mr.
Meadows the next morning, well, troubles never come singly, I thought.
Not but what I know the toothache oughtn’t to be mentioned in the same
breath as——”

“But supposing the visitor hadn’t rung the bell,” Roger persisted.
“Supposing he’d come round and tapped at this window and Mr. Meadows
had gone to the door and let him in. You wouldn’t have known anything
about it then, would you?”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir, too, because as it happens
I _should_ have. I should have heard them talking in here, you see. My
bedroom’s just above this room, and you can hear the voices through
the ceiling as plain as plain. Not what they’re saying, I don’t mean,
but just the voices. And I know _that_,” continued the landlady with
an air of mild triumph, “because I heard it meself a matter of three
weeks ago or more, when someone did come to see Mr. Meadows after I’d
gone to bed, just like you said.”

“Oh? Someone did come to see him, eh? But I thought you said he’d had
no visitors?”

“Well, I did,” admitted the landlady handsomely, “and that’s a fact.
But not having let this one in meself, well, it slipped my memory, I
suppose. Yes, the Rev. Meadows did have a visitor one night, and I
know that although I’d gone to sleep, because they woke me up with
their talking.”

“It was pretty late, then, and they were talking loudly. Good! Have
you any idea who it was?”

The landlady hesitated. “No, sir, I couldn’t say that, I’m afraid.”

“What could you say, though?” Roger asked, with his most winning
smile.

“Well, sir, I’m not a one for scandal,” said the landlady rapidly;
“never have been, and please God never will be. But this I must and
will say: if it’d been anybody else but the Rev. Meadows I should’ve
gone down to them then and there, in bed though I was and goodness
knows tired enough already. My house has always been respectable and I
look upon it as me duty to keep it respectable, but seeing it was the
Rev. Meadows—well, what’s wrong for other people would be right for
him, I thought. Being a clergyman does make a difference, doesn’t it,
sir? So I just shut me eyes——”

“Do you mean,” Roger put in gently, “that Mr. Meadows’ visitor was a
lady?”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir,” said the landlady doubtfully. “I
don’t know whether you’d call her a _lady_. You see, she was talking
that loud I could hardly get to sleep again, try as I might. And the
Rev. Meadows, he was talking louder than a clergyman ought, if you ask
me, sir. Not but what we ought to say any good of the dead, as the
saying goes, and the Rev. Meadows always being such a pleasant,
soft-spoken gentleman in the ordinary way, but——”

“Were they quarrelling, then?”

“Well, I suppose if you put it like that, sir,” said the landlady with
reluctance, “they were.”

Roger exchanged a significant look with Anthony. “And you haven’t the
least idea who the lady was?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir; I don’t know who she was. I never saw her, you see, and
she didn’t leave nothing behind her, only a handkerchief.”

“She left a handkerchief, did she?”

“Yes, sir; I found it the next morning, when I was doing this room
before Mr. Meadows was up. I meant to give it to him to give back to
her, but kept putting it off somehow. I thought, perhaps, he mightn’t
like me knowing anything about it, you see, him not having said a word
about her being here at all; and after all, least said soonest mended,
as the saying goes.”

“You haven’t,” said Roger, with elaborate carelessness, “still got
that handkerchief by you, have you?”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir, because just as it
happens, I have. I kep’ it by me, you see, meaning——”

“Would it be too much trouble to let me have a look at it for a
moment?” Roger asked in honeyed tones.

“Not a bit, sir,” replied the landlady cheerfully. “I’ll go and get it
now, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute.”

She bustled out of the room, and Anthony looked at his cousin with
raised eyebrows.

“Mrs. Vane, of course?” he said.

“Of course,” Roger nodded. “She could easily get in at that window
without being seen.”

“But it’s natural enough, isn’t it? I mean, why the excitement?”

“I’m not excited. And it is perfectly natural. She probably came here
several times. But having unearthed a brand-new fact, we may as well
find out all there is to be known about it. I admit that I don’t see
any fresh development that it can lead to, but there’s no harm in
following it up.”

The landlady bustled back again, decidedly the worse for breath, and
handed Roger a small piece of cambric entirely surrounded by lace.
Roger examined it and silently pointed out to Anthony a small E
embroidered in one corner. He turned to the landlady and significantly
rattled his loose change.

“I’d like to keep this, if I may,” he told her.

“And welcome,” responded the landlady with alacrity. If her visitors
were ready to pay good cash for such an insignificant souvenir of the
tragedy, who was she to stand in their way?

“I suppose you can’t say at all definitely which evening it was, can
you?” Roger asked, tucking the flimsy thing away in his pocket-book.

“Yes, I can, sir,” returned the landlady, not without triumph. “It was
the very night before that poor Mrs. Vane was thrown over the cliff.
That fixed it in my memory, like. Wasn’t that a dreadful thing, sir?
Really, I don’t know what’s happening to Ludmouth. First Mrs. Vane and
then the Rev. Meadows! Do you think that police-inspector is going to
find out anything, sir? You being with him last week and all, I
thought perhaps——”

Roger discouraged her inquisitiveness with gentle firmness and began
to prowl round the room. The excuse he had given for his presence,
that the dead man was an old friend of his, could be easily stretched
to cover any curiosity, bordering on the indecent, which he might
display regarding that old friend’s habits and possessions.

A rack on the wall containing three or four pipes arrested his
attention, and he drew one out of its socket. “Mr. Meadows was a heavy
smoker, wasn’t he?” he remarked.

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir,” observed the landlady,
who had been following his movements with interest, “because I
shouldn’t have said he was, meself, at all. Leastways, not compared
with my husband, he wasn’t. He’d smoke his pipe after breakfast, the
Rev. Meadows would, and again after his dinner and perhaps a bit in
the evening if he felt like it, but not much more than that. Now my
husband; you’d hardly ever see him without he had a pipe in——”

“But Mr. Meadows had a lot of pipes for so small a smoker?”

“Well, yes, he had, sir; I’d noticed that meself. But he was very
funny about his pipes, the Rev. Meadows was. He used to smoke them one
at a time, for a week; in roteration, he called it. Very comical about
it, he was too. ‘Pipes are like wives, ma,’ he used to say (always
called me ma, he did; said I mothered him better than his own mother
ever had; a very friendly sort of gentleman, the Rev. Meadows was).
Yes, ‘Pipes are like wives,’ he’d say; ‘a man ought never to have more
than one of ’em going at a time.’ That was just one of his
comicalities, you see. Always full of jokes like that, he was. ‘Pipes
are like wives,’ indeed! You see what he meant: a man ought never——”

“Yes, very comical indeed,” Roger agreed gravely. “Ha, ha! By the way,
you don’t know where Mr. Meadows bought his tobacco, do you?”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir, because as it happens I
do. Next door but one the shop is, and that’s the only place they sell
it in the village. Barring the Three Swans and the Crown, of course;
and the Three Swans being over a mile outside the village, you could
hardly expect him to go there for it, could you?”

“Certainly not,” Roger agreed with an air of great seriousness. “No, I
couldn’t possibly expect that. Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer, I
suppose. Thank you so much for letting me look round.” He held
something out toward her which the landlady received with ready palm.

“And welcome, I’m sure,” she said genially. “Thank you kindly, sir.
And if there’s anything else you want to see, you’ve only got to ask.
Wouldn’t like to have a look round his bedroom, I suppose, now you’re
here?”

“No, I don’t think we need trouble about that. Come along, Anthony.
Good-morning, madam.”

They were shown into the road and Roger turned to the left.

“Some day,” remarked Anthony chattily, “I must match you against that
woman, if I can find somebody to put up a purse. You’ll enter the ring
directly after breakfast and talk to each other till one of you gives
up. If either of the combatants is found at the time of the contest to
be suffering already from clergyman’s sore throat, he or she forfeits
the stake-money and all bets are null and void. Queensbury rules, no
kidney-punch, towels and sponges to be provided by——”

“Cease prattling, Anthony,” Roger remarked in tolerant tones, diving
into a shop in their left. “We’re going in here.”

They went in.

“By the way,” Roger opened the conversation, having paved the way by
buying an ounce of tobacco that he didn’t want. “By the way, this is
the same brand as poor Mr. Meadows used to smoke, isn’t it? You
remember; the clergyman who died next door but one last week.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the village grocer. “We all knew him here. But he
didn’t smoke that, sir. Crown and Anchor Coarse Cut was what he always
bought.”

“Is that so? I thought he told me once that he smoked this. But of
course he never did smoke very much.”

“That’s right, sir. About an ounce a week, that’s all.”

“Used to come in here for his ounce every week, did he?”

“Oh, no; he didn’t do that. He used to buy it a quarter-of-a-pound at
a time; but that works at an ounce a week, you see.”

“So it does,” observed Roger with an air of mild surprise, and took
his departure.

“So now, Anthony,” he confided to that young man outside, “we know
what Samuel smoked, how he treated his pipes, how much tobacco he
bought at a time and everything else; in fact, about the only thing we
appear not to know in this connection is the name of Samuel’s
tobacconist’s cousin’s great-aunt’s cat.”

“And what the deuce,” wondered Anthony, “do you imagine you’re going
to get out of it all?”

“That Heaven alone knows!” replied Roger, with pious agnosticism.

They went back to the inn for lunch.



Chapter XXIII.

Colin Upsets the Apple-cart

Inspector Moresby was evidently having a busy day. He did not put in
an appearance at lunch, and when Roger and Anthony strolled down to
the sea-level to smoke their post-prandial pipes there was still no
sign of him. Anthony surmised vaguely that his investigations must be
covering a larger field than their own.

Anthony had plenty of time for his surmises, for ever since their
return to the inn Roger had lapsed into a highly unaccustomed state of
taciturnity. To his cousin’s efforts to make conversation or discuss
their discoveries of the morning he replied with only a brief word or
grunt. Anthony, who was not always so tactless as he appeared,
realised that his mind was busy with some knotty problem connected
with the case, and was content to leave him to his meditations. They
scrambled out to their usual rock and composed themselves to smoke in
silence.

It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before Roger volunteered any
clue as to what was puzzling him. “I’m sure,” he said abruptly, “that
this information of the landlady’s ought to give us a pointer to the
truth, if we could only interpret it correctly.”

“You mean, about Mrs. Vane’s visit and their quarrel?” Anthony
enquired.

“No, no,” Roger said with unusual testiness. “That doesn’t give us
anything fresh. It’s natural enough for her to have visited him, and
we’d gathered already that they were on bad terms. No, about those
pipes.”

“Oh! But I don’t see how they come in.”

“Well, after all,” observed Roger sarcastically, “a pipe does play
rather a leading part in the affair, doesn’t it?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Anthony blankly.

Roger stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “Oh, sorry! I was
forgetting that you don’t know anything about that. And you mustn’t
ask me either, because I’m under the most fearful oaths of secrecy.
Anyhow, a pipe _does_ play a leading part—but don’t tell Moresby I
told you.”

“Mum’s the word,” agreed Anthony cheerfully. “All right, carry on,
then. You’ll get to the bottom of it, Roger, if you work your grey
matter hard enough.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” Roger murmured. “I do need a little
encouragement, it’s true.” He relapsed into his brown study.

Anthony sat on the rock till it became too hard to sit on any longer,
then he removed his shoes and socks, tucked up his trousers and began
to wander further afield. Anthony was growing up.

High overhead an aeroplane made its appearance, sweeping a vast circle
in the blue sky. The drone of its engine reached their ears as a
muffled hum.

“Wonder if that’s Woodthorpe’s bus,” Anthony called out, seeing his
cousin’s eyes following the tiny speck across space.

“Woodthorpe’s?” said Roger absently. “Didn’t know he’d got one.”

“So Margaret told me. He was in the Air Force during the war, and now
he keeps a bus of his own. They’re rolling in money, of course.”

“Lucky devils,” remarked Roger mechanically.

Anthony found a small crab under a flat stone and the conversation
lapsed.

It was another half-hour before Roger again broke the silence. He rose
from his cramped position and made his way over to Anthony, jumping
agilely from rock to rock and refilling his pipe as he went.

“Look here, Anthony,” he said, “is there absolutely no way of getting
hold of Margaret this afternoon? There’s something I particularly want
to ask her.”

“I don’t think there is,” Anthony replied doubtfully. “I wanted to
take her out in the car, as a matter of fact, but she said she
couldn’t possibly manage it; far too busy.”

“She’s gone into Sandsea, you said?”

“Yes.”

Roger frowned. “What an infernal nuisance! It’s a point I badly want
to clear up.”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask her whether by any remote chance Mrs. Vane had
expressed any intention before her death of going away in the near
future.”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, sir,” replied Anthony
humorously, “because as a matter of fact I _do_ know. She had. What’s
the great idea?”

“She had, had she?” Roger demanded eagerly. “Did Margaret tell you?”

“She mentioned it once, I remember; just casually. Mrs. Vane hadn’t
been away this summer, and she was going to stay with some friends for
the twelfth.”

“The twelfth, eh?” Roger made a rapid calculation. “Then she’d have
gone about a fortnight ago. Excellent! Anthony, I do believe I’m on
the track of something.”

“I say, are you really?” Anthony’s enthusiasm was all that the most
exacting detective could have required. “Mean you’ve solved the whole
thing?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Roger said modestly. “But
I do think I’m beginning to see daylight. I’ve got a rather stupendous
idea, at any rate, and things seem to be fitting into it rather
neatly.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, you mustn’t ask me that yet. I shall have to chew it over a lot
more before I can make a connected and logical story of it. Besides,
the best detectives always hold up their brilliant solutions for the
most effective moment (surely you know that), and I refuse to think
that an audience of Anthony Walton, two green crabs and a limpet would
be in the least effective.”

“Well, hurry up and think it out properly,” said Anthony, ignoring
this pleasantry. “You know we all want to see this damned business
cleared up once and for all.”

“Then let’s go back and have our tea. And after that, if you’ll leave
me to myself for a couple of hours, I’ll see what can be done.”

Inspector Moresby had still not returned to the inn when they got
there, as the landlord informed them on Roger’s enquiry. Roger
wondered uneasily what exactly he might be up to; feeling as he did
that he himself was on the verge of the truth he had no wish that
anybody should forestall him in crossing it.

Throughout tea he chattered incessantly about nothing at all,
explaining on Anthony’s remonstrance that he wished to clear his brain
of all stale notions in order to approach the problem afterward with
an entirely fresh mind.

As soon as they had finished he took his pipe down once more to the
rocks, and sternly forbade Anthony to come within half-a-mile of him.

More than the stipulated two hours had passed before he climbed once
more up to the little path along the face of the cliff and thence to
the top of the headland where Anthony, bored beyond tears with his own
company but far too eager to risk missing his cousin’s return, was
anxiously waiting.

“Well?” demanded the latter at once, hurrying forward. “Any luck?”

“Not so much luck, Anthony, as brilliance,” Roger replied with
pardonable pride. “Yes, I think I’ve solved this little problem, as
Holmes would have said if he’d been here instead of me.”

“Who’s the murderer, then?”

“Can you possess your soul in patience a little longer? I don’t want
to spoil a good story, but it’s such a long and complicated one that I
don’t want to have to tell it twice over. If you can wait till Moresby
arrives I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“But he may be ages,” Anthony grumbled.

“Well, give me till half-way through supper,” said Roger, “and if he
isn’t back by then I’ll promise to give you an outline of it in
advance.” And with that Anthony had to be content.

“By Jove,” Roger resumed, as they walked back to the inn. “By Jove, I
do hope Moresby hasn’t been working along this line himself. He’s such
a reticent devil, I never know what’s in his mind; he’ll spill a fact
or two occasionally, but never a theory—that is, not without some
ulterior motive. Yes, if this idea hasn’t occurred to him already, I
fancy I’ve got a little shock in store for Inspector Moresby.”

“Is the solution quite—quite unexpected, then?”

“Entirely, so far as I know—or at any rate, by me. Then I suddenly
caught a glimpse of things from a fresh angle, and all the facts
proceeded to arrange themselves in the neatest way possible.”

“You’ll be able to convince the inspector, I suppose? He’s a bit of a
sceptical devil.”

“He is that,” Roger agreed with feeling. “But I don’t see how I can
fail to convince even him. The facts ought to do that for themselves.
Of course the solution isn’t capable of cast-iron proof, that’s the
only trouble; but if it comes to that, what solution that depends only
on circumstantial evidence ever can be? And proof hasn’t necessarily
got to be cast-iron, it only needs to be reasonably convincing; and
that mine certainly is.”

“Good egg!” quoth Anthony with satisfaction.

In the hall of the inn the landlord intercepted them.

“There’s a gentleman come to see Inspector Moresby,” he said. “I told
him he was out, but he wanted to wait, so I said he could wait in your
sitting-room, thinking you wouldn’t mind, gents.”

“Of course not,” Roger concurred. “Did he leave his name?”

“Well, there wasn’t no need for him to do that,” replied the landlord
quite seriously. “I know who ’e is, you see. It’s young Mr.
Woodthorpe.”

Roger and Anthony exchanged glances. “Oh, yes?” said the former.
“Well, no doubt the inspector will be in soon. Thank you,
landlord.—And what the devil,” he observed to Anthony, as they made
their way up the stairs, “does young Mr. Woodthorpe want? We’d better
go in and see.”

Young Mr. Woodthorpe was standing by the window, his usually ruddy
face decidedly pale and set in grim lines. He wheeled round abruptly
as they entered the room.

“Hullo! You wanted to see Inspector Moresby?” Roger greeted him
pleasantly.

Woodthorpe nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Will he be long?”

“I can’t say, I’m afraid. We haven’t seen him since breakfast. Is it
anything important?”

“It is rather.”

“Well, have a drink while you’re waiting. I can recommend the beer
here.”

“Thanks.”

“Anthony, shout down for three tankards,” Roger said hospitably, quite
unperturbed by his guest’s noticeable failure to return his own
cordiality; indeed the young man’s manner was so abrupt and cold as to
be not far short of downright rude.

Anthony’s stentorian shout echoed down the dark stairs.

“Couldn’t I give the inspector a message, if he’s longer than you care
to wait?” Roger asked, turning back to Woodthorpe.

“I’m afraid not,” said the young man stiffly. “My business with him is
rather private.” He swallowed slightly and swept a nervous glance
toward the door, through which Anthony was just returning. “Oh, well,”
he burst out with sudden defiance, “you’ll know soon enough in any
case, so I may as well tell you now. I’ve come to give myself up. I
killed Mrs. Vane and—and Meadows.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.



Chapter XXIV.

Inspector Moresby Is Humorous

It is not an easy exercise in hospitality to entertain a guest who has
just announced that he is a double murderer. Small talk about the
weather and the latest books seems something of an anticlimax, while
to display a polite interest in his hobby and question him as to
details might be misconstrued as mere indecent curiosity. On the whole
it is difficult to see how the situation (should it ever occur to the
reader) could be better handled than it was by Roger.

“Did you really?” observed that gentleman politely, pulling himself
together with an effort as the three tankards preceded the landlord
into the room. “Well, well!—er—cheerio!”

“Cheerio!” echoed the self-confessed murderer gloomily, and extracted
what comfort he could from his tankard.

“Won’t you sit down?” mumbled Roger, still mechanically polite.

“Thanks.”

The trio seated themselves and looked at one another in silence.

“The—the inspector ought to be here soon, I should think,” volunteered
Roger helpfully.

“Will he?”

“Yes, I should think so.”

“I see.”

There was another pause. Roger frowned at Anthony. Anthony continued
to preserve unbroken silence; the situation was evidently beyond him.

It was rather beyond Roger too, but he flung himself valiantly into
the breach once more. “Have you been waiting long?” he enquired
desperately.

“Not very.”

“Oh!—Well—he ought to be in any minute now.”

“I see.”

There was another pause.

“Look here,” said Roger still more desperately, “what are we to talk
about?”

Woodthorpe smiled faintly. “I suppose it is a bit awkward for you
fellows,” he remarked.

“Infernally awkward,” Roger agreed warmly. “I don’t know what the
etiquette is on these occasions at all. Besides, they’ll be coming in
to lay the supper in a minute. Shall I tell them to lay a place for
you, by the way?”

“I don’t know. That rather depends on the inspector, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I should think he’ll allow you to have some food at any rate,
whatever he does with you afterward. I’ll tell the girl when she comes
up. In the meantime, if you don’t care for talking here’s the morning
paper.”

Colin Woodthorpe smiled again. “Thanks,” he said and began to read it
diligently, upside-down.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go along and wash,” Roger observed very
airily. “Coming, Anthony?”

They escaped from the room.

“Was this your solution, Roger?” Anthony asked, when they had gained
the privacy of one of their four bedrooms.

“Don’t rub it in!” Roger groaned. “And I’d got it all worked out so
beautifully. Dash it, I can’t believe I was wrong! I wonder if the
chap can be making a mistake?”

“Fellow ought to know whether he’s murdered somebody or not, surely,”
Anthony stated judicially.

“Yes, I suppose he ought. It would be a difficult thing to overlook,
wouldn’t it? Well, all I can say is, dash the chap! This is the second
time I’ve solved this mystery wrong.—Anthony, I don’t want to go back
to that room a bit. Let’s sit down and smoke and talk about Ibsen.”

“I’ll go down and tell them about that extra place first,” said
Anthony, and extricated himself with neatness and despatch.

Twenty minutes later the maid knocked on the door and informed them
that supper was ready. With reluctance they returned to the
sitting-room.

Their guest was by this time a little more composed, and a scrappy
conversation upon various subjects of no interest at all was
determinedly maintained. Nevertheless it was with considerable relief
that Roger hailed the arrival of Inspector Moresby ten minutes later.
He did not wish to see young Woodthorpe, to whom he had taken a
liking, being bundled off to prison, but the situation really was a
very difficult one.

Woodthorpe jumped to his feet immediately the door opened.
“Inspector,” he said, with a return to his former abrupt manner, “I’ve
been waiting to see you. I want to give myself up for the murders of
Mrs. Vane and Meadows.”

The inspector gazed at him coolly for a moment. Then he closed the
door behind him. “Oh, you do, do you?” he said without emotion. “So it
was you who did it after all, was it, Mr. Woodthorpe?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well,” said the inspector tolerantly, “boys will be boys, I
suppose. What’s for supper, eh, Mr. Sheringham?”

“C-cold veal and salad,” stammered Roger, somewhat taken aback. He had
never seen an experienced policeman arresting a murderer before, but
this certainly did not coincide with his ideas of how it should be
done.

“Well, let’s hope the salad’s better than it was last night,” observed
the inspector with some severity, and took his seat at the table.

Roger was not the only person to whom things did not seem to be going
right. “Well, aren’t you going to arrest me, Inspector?” asked
Woodthorpe in bewilderment.

“All in good time, sir, all in good time,” replied the inspector,
busying himself with the veal. “Business first and pleasure afterward,
perhaps, but food before either of them.”

“And drink before that,” murmured Roger, who was beginning to recover
himself. Roger thought he saw a gleam of light in the darkness.

Woodthorpe dropped back into his seat. “I—I don’t understand,” he
muttered.

“You’ve got no salad, sir,” said the inspector in tones of some
concern. “Help yourself and then pass the bowl across to me.—Well,
well! So it’s you who’s been giving us all this trouble, is it?”

“If you like to put it that way,” replied Woodthorpe stiffly.
Certainly it must be galling to any conscientious murderer, who has
just brought off a neat right and left, to hear his exploit described
merely as ‘troublesome.’ There is nobody like an inspector of police
for showing things up as they prosaically are.

“And why did you suddenly make up your mind to come and tell me all
about it, sir?” pursued the inspector, with the air of one making
polite conversation.

“I don’t see that I’m called upon to give you my reasons.”

“Of course not,” the inspector agreed with the utmost heartiness.
“Worst thing in the world you could do. Never give reasons, that’s my
advice. Have some more veal? Mr. Walton, you’ve finished; cut Mr.
Woodthorpe some more veal.”

Anthony, who had been watching this exchange with open mouth, started
violently and began to cut the bread.

“I don’t want any more veal, thank you,” said Mr. Woodthorpe, flushing
angrily.

“Just as you like, sir, of course,” murmured the inspector, and
bestowed a large wink on Roger.

Roger, to whom the gleam of light had now become a broad beam,
returned the wink with interest.

Unfortunately Woodthorpe intercepted both. He sprang wrathfully to his
feet again, knocking his chair over behind him. “Look here,” he burst
out, “I’ve had about enough of this fooling. I told you what I came
here for, Inspector. Are you going to arrest me or are you not?”

The inspector looked up from his plate. “Well, sir,” he said blandly,
“since you ask me so candidly—no, I’m not!—But I’d like to ask you a
few questions, perhaps.”

For a long moment the eyes of the two men held each other, while a
deep flush slowly overspread the younger’s face. Then Woodthorpe
turned away and marched over to the door.

“Then you can jolly well come up to my home and ask me them there,” he
announced as he opened it. “I’ve had about enough of this.” The door
closed behind him with a bang.

“That looks like a walk for me, I’m afraid,” observed the inspector
with regret.

“Yes,” Roger laughed. “He got one back on you there, Inspector.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Anthony. “Good Lord!”

“What’s the matter, Anthony?” Roger asked sympathetically.

“You mean—that chap never did it at all?”

“No, not exactly that, Anthony,” said Roger with a grave face. “It’s
simply that Inspector Moresby has a conscientious objection to
arresting anybody for murder under the age of thirty.”

“Ass!” growled his cousin, and helped himself to stewed gooseberries.
“Well, what about your story now, then? Did you know Roger had solved
the mystery, Inspector?”

“No, Mr. Walton, I didn’t,” said the inspector with interest. “Has
he?”

“Well, he thinks he has,” said Anthony nastily.

“Now, now, Anthony,” Roger reproved. “Don’t be vindictive.—Yes,” he
added modestly to the inspector. “I’ve solved the mystery all right.
And I warn you that I’m going to telephone part of it at any rate to
London to-night, though not the bit you wanted suppressed for the
present, of course.”

“Well, well!” said the inspector. “These gooseberries seem to me a bit
sour, didn’t you think?”

“Inspector Moresby,” said Roger with heat, “there are some people for
whose murder it’s well worth while to be hanged. You’re one of them.
So take this as a friendly warning and don’t try me too far.”

“But they are a bit sour, Mr. Sheringham,” protested the inspector.
“Really!”

“So are the grapes too, I’m afraid,” Roger grinned. “Never mind,
Inspector; perhaps I shan’t be on your next case.—So the story-books
are right after all when they talk about Scotland Yard’s professional
jealousy of the amateur.”

“True, sir,” said the inspector, shaking his head. “Terribly true.”

“See in the paper this morning that Glamorgan have won their eleventh
match this season, Anthony?” Roger remarked airily. “Extraordinary how
they’ve come on, isn’t it? We shall see them head of the table soon.”

“Yes, it’s nice to see a county that plays more than one amateur doing
well for a change,” Anthony responded with alacrity.

Roger kept the conversation firmly upon cricket till the inspector had
swallowed his last mouthful and the dinner things had been cleared
away, and even till the inspectorial pipe was well alight and the
inspectorial countenance decidedly bored.

“By the way, sir,” remarked Inspector Moresby, relaxing comfortably in
the armchair to which he had transferred himself. “By the way, didn’t
I hear you say something about having solved the mystery?”

“I thought you’d come round, with time and gentle treatment,” Roger
laughed. “Yes, Inspector, joking apart, I really think I have solved
it. Care to hear?”

“Of course I would, sir. You mustn’t mind if I pull your leg now and
then.”

“Well, I do a bit of that myself,” Roger admitted. “But look here, the
trouble is Anthony. I haven’t told him yet, because it’s all bound up
with what you confided to me the other night; but of course he wants
to hear. Can’t you stretch a point and let me just give him a quick
idea of what you told me?”

The inspector hesitated. “You’ll give me your word that it wouldn’t go
any further, then, Mr. Walton? Not to another mortal soul?”

“On my oath,” Anthony agreed eagerly.

“It’s highly irregular,” sighed the inspector, “but—very well, Mr.
Sheringham; fire away!”

Roger proceeded to give Anthony a brief outline of how Meadows had met
his death and the discovery of the aconitine in the tobacco-jar.

“And that’s why I was so interested in tobacco this morning, Anthony,
you see,” he concluded, and went on at once to acquaint the inspector
with the new discoveries he had then made.

The inspector nodded sagely. “Yes, I wondered whether you’d get hold
of that,” he remarked.

“You knew it already?” Roger asked, somewhat dashed.

“A week ago,” replied the inspector laconically.

“But she never told me she’d told anyone before.”

“She didn’t know she had. She doesn’t know she’s told you now. With
that sort of person, if you don’t ask ’em direct questions but just
let ’em dribble their information out in their own way, they’ll tell
you everything they know just the same and they won’t realise five
minutes later that they’ve told you anything at all. Yes, well, what
did you make of it all, Mr. Sheringham?”

Roger drew a deep breath.



Chapter XXV.

Roger Solves the Mystery

“Well, I’d better begin at the beginning,” said Roger.

“Now, in the very first place I made up my mind, as you know,
Inspector, that the person whom you seemed to be suspecting (whether
you really did or not, I don’t know; but you certainly gave me that
impression)—I made up my mind that that person was not responsible for
Mrs. Vane’s death. The evidence was against her, of course, and badly,
but there are some cases where circumstantial evidence, however
apparently convincing, can lead one rather badly astray, and I was
sure this was one of them. I admit that I had nothing definite to go
on; my reasons were purely psychological. I felt, quite simply, that
to suspect Margaret Cross of murder—and a seemingly cold-blooded,
carefully-planned murder at that—was nothing short of ridiculous. The
girl was transparently sincere and honest.”

“If it wasn’t she, then, who was it?”

“Well, both of you know that my suspicions finally centred upon this
fellow Meadows, _alias_ all the rest of it. I thought I had a pretty
good case against him even before we knew anything about him at all;
afterward it almost amounted to a foregone conclusion. And then
Meadows apparently committed suicide. Well, that didn’t affect my
case; if anything (and the circumstances being as they were) it was
actually strengthened. But Meadows, it turned out, could hardly have
committed suicide at all. He must have been murdered. How did that
make things look?

“Now, this is where we jumped to the wrong conclusion, Inspector. At
least I did, I can’t answer for you; I’ve never known what was really
in your mind from the very beginning. Misled, intentionally or
otherwise, by you, I practically assumed that the two murders had been
committed by one and the same person—or if I didn’t actually assume
that, I came so near it as automatically to wash out the idea that
Meadows committed the first. We agreed that they must almost certainly
be interdependent, and I accepted your very plausible theory that the
strongest and most obvious motive for the second was that Meadows had
been an actual eye-witness of the first. And that theory of course
eliminated him from the list of suspects. At the same time you made
out a very useful case against Vane for the double murder.

“And now I’m afraid we become a little personal.

“Thinking things over in bed last night, away from your magnetic
influence, I was suddenly struck by this bright thought: _why_ does
Inspector Moresby go to such pains to plant in my mind the idea that
both murders were committed by the same person, and to give me the
impression that this is what he himself thinks? He’s a reticent sort
of devil; he’s never volunteered any ideas of his own worth speaking
of before; he knows that in a way we’re rivals here; the last person
he’d want to help toward a solution is Roger Sheringham—_why?_ And of
course the answer to that came pat: because he wants to put me on the
wrong track! He _doesn’t_ think those murders were committed by the
same person. On the contrary, he’s convinced they weren’t. How’s that,
Inspector?”

The inspector laughed heartily. “No, no, Mr. Sheringham,” he said,
shaking his head. “You do me an injustice, you do really. That was my
honest opinion when I was talking to you last night. I had no doubt at
all that Mrs. Vane and Meadows were murdered by the same person and I
don’t mind admitting it.”

“Humph!” observed Roger, not altogether without scepticism. “And do
you still think so?”

“I’m always open to conviction, I hope,” replied the inspector
carefully. “Yes, go on, sir. This is very interesting.”

“Well, whether you really thought there were two murderers or whether
you didn’t, my base suspicions of you did me one good turn: they
biased me in favour of thinking so myself. So when I set out to pay a
visit to Meadows’ lodgings this morning, I was already prepared to
look for his murderer in somebody other than that of Mrs. Vane. Well,
I made my investigations, I unearthed a few new facts which looked
interesting but which I was blessed at the moment if I could make head
or tail of, and I sat down after lunch to try to think the whole thing
out.” Roger re-lit his pipe, which had gone out, and settled himself
more comfortably in his chair.

“It wasn’t for some little time that a very simple question occurred
to me, to which the answer began at last to put me on the right track.
The question was this: what after all has happened to make it so
impossible that Meadows _should_ be the murderer of Mrs. Vane, as
seemed so obvious before? And the answer, of course, was—nothing! Very
well, then. Could I get any further with the second mystery by
utilising my theory of the two agents to make Meadows the solution of
the first?

“Now there were two pointers toward the murderer of Meadows, both
somewhat vague—motive and aconitine. Assuming, as I think one had
every right to do, that Meadows would not have shrinked from
blackmail, the first of these was so wide that I shelved it for a time
and concentrated on the second. This was wide too, but it could be
narrowed down. If one took the working assumption that the aconitine
had come from Dr. Vane’s laboratory, there were, excluding servants
and so on, three people who could have got hold of it: Dr. Vane
himself, Miss Williamson and Miss Cross. Well, for some reason or
other (psychological again) I wasn’t drawn toward Dr. Vane as the
murderer although, as you showed, Inspector, it was possible to make
out a pretty convincing case against him—probably because you _had_
gone out of your way to make a pretty convincing case against him,
perhaps. In the same way, of course, I had already discarded Miss
Cross. There remained Miss Williamson.

“Well, Miss Williamson was a difficulty. Why in the name of goodness
should she want to kill Meadows? I could see no possible reason. There
would have been a reason, of course, if she had already murdered Mrs.
Vane—an idea that had already occurred to me by the way, Inspector,
and for the same motive, before you put it forward once as a joke, if
you remember. There would have been a motive in that case, if Meadows
had seen her do it; but I was working on the theory that he had
murdered Mrs. Vane himself. For the life of me I couldn’t see, if that
were the case, how she could possibly be his murderess.”

“Out of the question, I should have said,” interjected the inspector.

“Yes, that’s what I decided. Well, there were all my three suspects
discharged without a stain on their characters; so I was driven to the
conclusion that either the aconitine had not come from Dr. Vane’s
laboratory at all, or else Meadows had not killed Mrs. Vane. In either
case I was in an _impasse_ and had to go back a little way. I went
back to motive.

“Now this is where we really do begin to warm up. Do you remember last
night, Inspector, you asked me who had the biggest motive for wanting
Meadows out of the way, and I replied, somewhat facetiously, that Mrs.
Vane had? I began to play with that idea.”

“Mrs. Vane?” repeated Anthony incredulously. “But she was dead
already.”

“When Meadows died, yes; but she had plenty of motive, I imagine, for
wanting him out of the way before she died herself. Anyhow you see the
idea. I was asking myself, with growing excitement: was there any way
in which Mrs. Vane could have brought about Meadows’ death, although
she herself was already dead? And the answer, of course, was obvious.
Yes, there was!” Roger leaned back in his chair and beamed
triumphantly at his audience.

“This is very clever, Mr. Sheringham,” said the inspector
ungrudgingly. “Very clever indeed. Yes, I see now what you’re driving
at, but let’s have it in your own words.”

“Well, as you probably discovered yourself, Meadows had had no
visitors during the last few weeks, so far as the landlady knew. Any
theory, then, which was to cover the insertion of poison in his
tobacco must presuppose the murderer’s visit late at night and,
probably, through the sitting-room window, with or without Meadows’
own knowledge. But on the night before the murder the landlady,
although awake, heard no sounds at all, whereas she had heard a
visitor’s voice, quite distinctly, some three weeks beforehand, that
visitor being proved to be Mrs. Vane.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” said the inspector. “What’s all this about? I
don’t know anything of a visit of Mrs. Vane’s.”

“Ah!” Roger grinned. “Well, I’m one up on you there at any rate. Look
at this!” He drew the little handkerchief out of his pocket-book,
tossed it over to the other and explained how it had come into his
possession.

“Yes,” agreed the inspector with a rueful air. “Yes, you’re certainly
one up on me there, Mr. Sheringham.”

“That’s good,” said Roger with undisguised satisfaction. “Well, to
continue. Apart from the information about Mrs. Vane’s visit, two
other facts emerged: one, that Meadows changed his pipes once a week,
to which no significance appears to attach, the other, that he was a
very small smoker—and that’s very important indeed. I found out from
the village shop, you see, that he bought a quarter-of-a-pound at a
time, but only smoked it at the rate of an ounce a week. As he
evidently emptied the whole lot into that tobacco-jar in his room
which you sent away to be analysed, that would mean that the bottom
contents of the jar would remain in place for between three and four
weeks. For anybody conversant with his habits, this knowledge might be
very useful indeed.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “Very ingenious, sir; very ingenious.”

“Glad you think so, Inspector,” Roger smiled. “I’m quite sure that
praise from you is praise worth having. Well, that’s my theory. Mrs.
Vane and Meadows, to cut a long story short, were both planning to
murder each other. Meadows believed in direct methods; Mrs. Vane was
more painstaking. Both their motives are obvious, I think. Meadows had
been threatening her with exposure, no doubt, if she didn’t satisfy
his financial demands, which, as Mrs. Vane with her knowledge of the
type must have realised, would gradually grow bigger and bigger. She
had retaliated by threatening to inform the police of his whereabouts,
knowing that he was badly wanted by them on more than one charge. The
result was that both had succeeded in thoroughly frightening the
other, and each decided on the other’s elimination as the only escape
from an intolerable situation. That’s perfectly reasonable, I think?”

“Perfectly,” assented the inspector at once.

“Damned cunning,” commented Anthony warmly.

“Thank you, Anthony. Well, as I said, Mrs. Vane was the more
painstaking of the two. She elaborated her plan with, I think,
considerable ingenuity. Her knowledge of poisons, you see, was
probably two-fold; her father was with a firm of wholesale chemists,
you said, and she might well have picked up a few tips from him, apart
from what she could have got out of her husband’s books. She knew
enough at any rate to recognise aconitine as pre-eminently her
requirement. And she hit upon poison in the first place, I should have
said, because she had an unlimited supply of all brands ready to her
hand. What did she do, then? Simply this: having made an excuse for
visiting her real husband’s rooms (necessarily in circumstances of
profound secrecy), she sent him out of the room on some pretext,
slipped the stuff into the _bottom_ of his tobacco-jar, and went
calmly away to await developments.”

“Which turned out to be somewhat different from what she’d expected,”
supplied the inspector.

“Very much so. But of course she thought she was on velvet. She knew
the fact of her having been to Meadows’ rooms that night would never
leak out, because it was to his advantage to keep quiet about it
(though it certainly was short-sighted of her to talk loudly enough to
waken the landlady); and having placed the poison at the bottom of the
jar, with two or three ounces of harmless stuff on top of it, she knew
that it would be at least a fortnight before he would reach it, and by
that time she would be miles away with a complete alibi established.”

“Ah, but how do you know that, sir?” asked the inspector, with the air
of one who puts his finger on a weak point.

“Because Miss Cross happened to mention it casually to Anthony!” Roger
returned triumphantly. “I’d got as far as that in my reasoning, you
see, when it occurred to me that the only possible purpose Mrs. Vane
could have in delaying the death was this one, to provide herself with
an alibi. If I could find out, I felt at that stage, that Mrs. Vane
actually _had_ expressed her intention of going away in the very near
future, then my case was as good as clinched. And up pops Anthony with
the very information I wanted!”

“So I haven’t lived in vain after all, Inspector, you see,” murmured
Anthony facetiously.

“Well, hitherto I’d been working entirely on guesswork, but that
seemed to give me the one bit of proof I wanted. After that it was
simply a case of using one’s imagination to reconstruct what must have
happened. And what did happen can be put baldly in a couple of
sentences. Before Mrs. Vane’s ingenious scheme could take effect,
Meadows had pushed its author over the cliff. Result, Meadows murdered
Mrs. Vane and Mrs. Vane murdered Meadows, in spite of the handicap of
being already dead herself. I should think that must be the first time
in Scotland Yard’s history that a man had been murdered by a corpse,
Inspector, isn’t it? If I wanted to make a detective story out of it
and was looking for a nice lurid title, I should call it ‘The Dead
Hand.’ Well, now, comments, please. What have you got to say about it
all?”

“I’ll say this, sir,” replied the inspector without hesitation. “It’s
as clever a bit of constructive reasoning as ever I’ve heard.”

“And the idea had never occurred to you?” pursued Roger, pleased.

“Never,” admitted the inspector handsomely. “And so after all this
excitement the public is to be disappointed of an arrest, eh?”

“Well, I’m afraid so.”

There was a little silence.

“Of course it isn’t capable of what you might call _proof_, Mr.
Sheringham, is it?” remarked the inspector thoughtfully. “Not the kind
of proof to satisfy a court, I mean.”

“No, it isn’t; I know that. But as they’re both dead, justice isn’t
going to be cheated.”

“You’re going to publish your solution in the _Courier_, after the
facts have come out at the inquest next Thursday?”

“Yes, but only as an interesting theory, of course. I don’t know
whether there’s any law about libelling the dead, but in any case I
couldn’t very well do more than put it forward as a workable solution,
in the complete absence, as you say, of all proof.”

The inspector smoked a few more minutes in silence.

“I think, sir,” he said slowly, “that you’ll find the official
explanation of the whole thing, for the benefit of the public, will be
that Mrs. Vane’s death was an accident and Meadows committed suicide.”

Roger nodded. “Yes, I’d rather expected that. It’s tame, of course,
but it’s safe. Do you mean, you don’t want me to attack that too
fiercely in the _Courier?_”

“Well, we don’t want to stir up mud which it’s impossible to clarify,”
replied the inspector, in somewhat deprecating tones.

“I see that. Very well, I promise not to be sarcastic. You must let me
put my theory forward, just as an interesting piece of deductive
reasoning, but I won’t insist upon its being the truth.—And after
all,” Roger added, “I can’t defend it, except on the grounds of
probability and commonsense. However convinced we ourselves may be
that it’s the right solution, we’re always up against this unfortunate
absence of decisive proof.”

The inspector nodded as if satisfied. “I think you’re wise, Mr.
Sheringham, sir,” he said.

“Well, well,” remarked Anthony robustly. “What about a drink?”

“Anthony,” observed his cousin, “your ideas are sometimes nearly as
good as mine.”

Anthony removed himself to the lower regions and returned with the
wherewithal for celebrating the occasion fittingly. In the intervals
of celebration, they continued to discuss the case, the inspector now
paying ungrudging acknowledgments to his unprofessional rival’s acumen
and ingenuity. Roger decided that after all he really liked that
hitherto somewhat maddening man very much indeed.

Half-an-hour or so later the recipient of Roger’s new affection put
down his glass with a sigh and looked at his watch. “Well,” he said
with deep regret, “I suppose I’ll have to be getting along.”

“To interview Woodthorpe?” said Roger in some surprise. “But surely
there’s no hurry about that?”

“When a man bothers to confess to a double murder, the least one can
do is to ask him why,” the inspector pointed out. “It’s merely a
matter of form, I know, but I think I ought to get it done to-night.
I’ve got a motor-bicycle outside; it won’t take me a minute. By the
way, Mr. Sheringham, how do you account for that, I wonder?”

“Woodthorpe’s confession?” said Roger thoughtfully. “Yes, that is a
little puzzling, I admit. But you do get all sorts of comic people
confessing to crimes they haven’t committed, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, sir; they’re always doing it. Sort of muddled mentality, I
suppose. But you wouldn’t call Mr. Woodthorpe a comic person, would
you?”

“No, I certainly shouldn’t. There’s only one other explanation that I
can see—a super-quixotic sense of chivalry. The village gossip must
have reached him, and he would naturally be acquainted with the other
members of the Vane _ménage_.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head again,” the inspector agreed. “That
must be the explanation. No doubt the report in the village is that
I’m going to make an arrest at any minute.”

“But super-quixotic, for all that,” Roger smiled. “Now if it had been
Anthony who had made the confession I should have understood it much
better.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked that gentleman in high
bewilderment. “This is all Greek to me.”

“Then Greek let it remain, Anthony,” replied his cousin kindly. “Greek
let it remain. That shows the advantage of a classical education.”

The low hum of a distant engine floated in through the open window,
increasing rapidly to a loud roar.

“Powerful sort of car, that,” Roger commented.

“That isn’t a car engine,” remarked Anthony, with all the scorn of the
mechanically-minded for those not similarly gifted. “That’s an
aeroplane, you ass.”

The inspector jumped hastily to his feet. “An aeroplane, did you say?”

Anthony cocked an ear towards the now shattering din. “Yes,” he was
forced almost to shout. “Nearly overhead, and flying low. Making for
the sea apparently. Young Woodthorpe celebrating his escape from
arrest, I expect. You can tell it’s a——”

“I must go and look into this,” observed the inspector shortly, and
vanished with rapidity. A minute later the noise of a motor-cycle
engine drowned that of the swiftly receding aeroplane.

“What on earth’s the trouble now?” wondered Anthony.

“Heaven knows,” replied Roger philosophically. “Probably friend Colin
is still trying to make himself look guilty by pretending to do a bolt
for the Continent. Dear me, what a handicap to a man a super-developed
sense of chivalry must be! It’s as bad as a disease.”

The next hour passed pleasantly enough; there was plenty for the
cousins to discuss, and Roger had not by any means yet got over his
elation at triumphing over the inspector. He talked at considerable
length. The second hour passed more slowly. By a quarter to twelve
both were frankly yawning.

At ten minutes past twelve the buzz of a distant engine heralded
Inspector Moresby’s return. They heard him pushing his bicycle round
into the yard at the back, and then his heavy tread on the stairs
outside.

“Thought you’d gone for the night,” Roger greeted him. “Well, was I
right? Has Colin bolted for the Continent?”

“He has, sir,” replied the inspector, shutting the door and advancing
into the room.

“Ah!” said Roger, not without satisfaction.

The inspector was looking decidedly grim. He did not return to his
chair, but stood in the middle of the room, looking down on the other
two. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Mr. Walton,” he said
slowly. “Mr. Woodthorpe hasn’t gone alone.”

Anthony stared at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, in a curiously
high voice.

The inspector looked still more grim. “Miss Cross has gone with him,”
he said shortly.



Chapter XXVI.

Caustic Soda

“Miss Cross!” exclaimed Roger.

The inspector continued to address himself to Anthony. “You must be
ready for a bit of a shock, I’m afraid. It’s Miss Cross that Mr.
Woodthorpe has been engaged to all the time. She’s been just amusing
herself with you. She’s——”

“I think I shall go to bed,” observed Anthony abruptly, and rose from
his chair. “It’s pretty late. Good-night, you two.”

He went.

The inspector watched the door close, then dropped into his seat.
“It’s a nasty smack for him,” he said sympathetically. “But he’s
young. He’ll get over it.”

Roger found his tongue. “But—but that is almost incredible,
Inspector!”

The inspector looked at him quizzically. “Is it, sir?”

“I can’t believe it of her. Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?”

“Perfectly. I’ve known it for some time as a matter of fact, but I
couldn’t very well drop a hint to your cousin.”

“Of course,” Roger said slowly, readjusting his ideas in the light of
this startling development, “of course this makes Woodthorpe’s
confession a good deal more understandable.”

“Oh, yes, I knew what he was getting at.”

“She must have shown him she was frightened,” Roger pursued, thinking
rapidly. “But the last time I saw her she seemed quite all right.
Something must have happened since then. Inspector—you’re looking
guilty! Out with it!”

“I had a long interview with her this morning,” the inspector
admitted. “Perhaps I _did_ press her pretty closely. I knew she was
concealing her engagement from me, you see, so she might have been
concealing other things as well. Yes, I certainly did press her pretty
closely.”

“What you really did, I suppose, was to convey to her quite obviously
that you still suspected her after all and that if she couldn’t
produce a better explanation of certain matters, she’d be finding
herself very shortly in distinctly hot water?”

“We have to do these things, you know, sir,” confessed the inspector
almost apologetically.

“Well, thank goodness I’m not a policeman,” retorted Roger, making no
effort to conceal his distaste. “No wonder you frightened the poor
girl out of her wits. I suppose you practically told her you were
going to apply for a warrant against her. The rest was inevitable, of
course. So what do you suppose is going to happen now?”

“Perhaps when she finds there isn’t a warrant out against her, Mr.
Woodthorpe will bring her back the same way as he took her away.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to apply for a warrant after all?” said Roger
sarcastically.

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“Very nice for the girl’s reputation, I must say, to be careering
about the Continent with a young man for goodness knows how long.”

“She’s engaged to him,” the inspector pointed out mildly. “It _is_
possible for them to get married abroad, you know.”

Roger snorted.

There was a little silence.

“You seem very put out on her behalf,” the inspector ventured,
curiosity overcoming discretion. “Considering how she’s been treating
your cousin, I mean.”

“She was a minx, I admit,” Roger said, with a little laugh. “I also
admit that she took me in properly; I really thought she was quite
fond of Anthony. But after all, I suppose she had some justification.
If she was engaged to friend Colin all the time, the position must
have been a very difficult one for her, both before Mrs. Vane’s death
and afterward, whether she knew anything about her fiancé’s intrigue
with that lady or not. She couldn’t admit the engagement while she was
under that cloud, you see, and all her energies must have been
concentrated on clearing her name. I don’t say she behaved very
nicely, but that must be the explanation. Having had it forcibly
impressed on her that not only public opinion but the official police
as well were dead against her, she deliberately set out to attach
Anthony to her in order to make sure of getting him and me on her side
and enlisting our energies on her behalf. Don’t you think that’s the
truth of the matter?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir,” agreed the inspector heartily. “That’s the
truth of that all right.”

“And very well she succeeded,” added Roger modestly. “Well, now that
the whole thing’s at an end, so to speak, Inspector, what about a
little bed?”

The inspector’s answer was not a direct one. “So you think the whole
thing’s at an end, do you, Mr. Sheringham?” he said, with a return to
his quizzical expression.

“I do, yes,” said Roger, surprised. “Don’t you?”

“I’m very much afraid it is,” the inspector agreed.

Roger looked at him. “What are you driving at, Inspector? Have you
still got a card or two up your sleeve? You surely don’t mean to say
you don’t accept my solution of the mystery?”

The inspector puffed once or twice at his pipe. “If you’d asked me
that question before, when Mr. Walton was still here,” he said slowly,
“I should have said that I did accept it. But as we’re alone—well, no!
I certainly don’t accept it.”

“But—but why ever not?” Roger asked in astonishment.

“Because I happen to know it isn’t correct, sir,” returned the
inspector placidly.

Roger stared at him through the blue haze of tobacco-smoke. “Isn’t
correct? But—but—well, dash it, man, it must be correct!”

The inspector shook his head. “Oh, no, sir, if you’ll pardon me. It
isn’t correct at all. You see, my trouble hasn’t been to find out the
truth; I’ve known that all along. My trouble has been to prove it. To
prove it, I mean, definitely enough to satisfy a court of law. And
that I haven’t been able to do, and I’m afraid, never shall. The
truth’s plain enough, but there’s too many gaps in the chain of legal
proof. It’s a great pity.” The inspector shook his head again, this
time expressing gentle regret.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Roger cried. “Truth obvious all
the time? What do you mean? I haven’t found the truth obvious all the
time!”

Once more the inspector shook his head, now conveying the disappointed
reproof of the master at the too easy failure of a fairly gifted
pupil. “And yet it was staring at you in the face all the time, sir,”
he said in tones of reproach. “The trouble was you wouldn’t look at
it.” He drew again at his pipe for a moment or two, as if collecting
in his mind what he wanted to say. Roger watched him in frank
amazement.

“Yes, that was your trouble, sir,” resumed the inspector, in a
slightly didactic voice. “All the time you’ve been refusing to look
the facts in the face. This was a simple case, so far as just finding
out the truth went; as simple as ever I’ve come across. But that
wouldn’t do for you. Oh, dear, no! You must go and make a complicated
business out of it. As simple a little murder as ever was, but you
want to run about and raise all sorts of irrelevant issues that had
nothing to do with the case at all.”

“Who did murder Mrs. Vane, then?” demanded Rogers, disregarding these
strictures. “If Meadows didn’t, as you seem to be meaning, who the
devil did?”

“That’s the trouble with you people with too much imagination,”
pursued the inspector. “A simple murder’s never enough for you. You
can’t believe a murder can be simple. You’ve got to waste your time
ferreting out a lot of stuff to try to make it look less simple than
it really is. No good detective ought to have too much imagination. He
doesn’t need it. When all——”

“Oh, cut the cackle for the time being!” interrupted Roger rudely.
“Who _did_ murder Mrs. Vane?”

“When all the evidence points to one person, and motive and
opportunity and everything else as well, the real detective doesn’t
waste his time saying, ‘Ah, yes! I know a thing or two worth that.
When all the evidence and the rest of it points to one person, then
the odds are that that person is innocent and someone else has made it
look like that. That’s how I should commit a murder, by Jove! I’d fake
all the evidence to point to somebody else. That’s what must have been
done in this case. So whoever may be guilty, we know one person at any
rate who isn’t, and that’s the one that the foolish inspector from
Scotland Yard, who hasn’t got a nice big imagination like me, is going
to go and suspect. Haw, haw!’” The mincing accent with which the
inspector strove to represent the speech of this superior person with
imagination was offensive in the extreme.

“Who murdered Mrs. Vane, Inspector?” asked Roger coldly.

“Why ask me, Mr. Sheringham?” retorted the inspector, still more
offensively. “I’m only the man from Scotland Yard, without any
imagination. Don’t ask yourself either, though, because the answer’s
staring you in the face; so of course you’d never be able to see it.
Go and ask any child of ten in the village. He’d know. He’s known all
the time, for the matter of that.”

“Good God!” Roger exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “You don’t seriously
mean that——” He paused.

“Of course I do!” returned the inspector more genially. “Good
gracious, sir, I can’t think how you can have persuaded yourself she
didn’t. Everything was against her—every single thing! There wasn’t a
loophole, so far as commonsense went (I’m not talking about legal
proof, mind you). Of course she did it!” He lay back in his chair and
roared with callous laughter at Roger’s unmistakable discomfiture. It
was the inspector’s hour, and he was evidently going to enjoy every
minute of it.

“But—but I can’t believe it!” Roger stammered. “Margaret Cross! Good
Lord!”

“Well, perhaps I ought not to laugh at you, sir,” the inspector went
on, continuing nevertheless to do so with the utmost heartiness.
“After all, you’re not the first one to be taken in by a pretty face
and a nice, innocent, appealing sort of manner, are you? Why, there’s
mugs in London being taken in by ’em every day!”

The country mug winced slightly, but no words came to him.

“Of course I wouldn’t be saying any of this if Mr. Walton were here,”
said the inspector, ceasing to laugh. “It’d be a nasty shock for him,
very nasty indeed; and the one he’s got already is quite enough.
You’ll keep it all dark from him, of course.”

Roger found his voice. “Who killed Meadows, then?” he asked abruptly.

“Why, the girl!” ejaculated the inspector. “She killed ’em both, I
keep telling you. Meadows saw her with Mrs. Vane, lay low for a few
days, then sprang it on her and started in to blackmail her, no doubt;
probably wanted most of that ten thousand pounds she was to get under
the will. So she finished him off, too.”

“Oh, rot!” Roger cried incredulously.

“It’s true enough, sir,” said the inspector more seriously. “I saw it
all the time; knew he must have been murdered when we found him there
dead. It was a nasty blow for me too, I can tell you, because he was
my only witness against her for the murder of Mrs. Vane. That’s what I
was going to arrest him for, as a matter of fact, to keep him safe in
prison and make him talk—not because I thought he’d committed the
murder himself, like you; I never did think so. In fact, I knew he
hadn’t. Yes, she spoilt my case against her there completely.”

“But—but look here, can you prove these extraordinary assertions in
any way, Inspector?”

“Well enough for commonsense, sir, though not beyond all reasonable
doubt, which is what the law wants. Let’s take the two cases in turn.
What were the clues in the first one? The coat-button and the
footprints. Well, the footprints had been made by a number six shoe,
fairly new, the heels not worn at the side; Miss Cross I found out,
had been wearing shoes that afternoon which answered to that
description. That wasn’t conclusive, of course; half-a-dozen people
might have been wearing shoes like that. But the coat-button was.
There was no getting round that. The maid was dead certain that button
had been on Miss Cross’s coat when she went out, and there it was in
the dead woman’s hand. That would want a lot of explaining away.”

“But it _could_ be explained away.”

“Oh, yes, sir; it could,” agreed the inspector cheerfully. “I showed
you how myself.”

“But what about those shoes I found in the sea? You said they were
Mrs. Russell’s.”

“So they were, sir. But what about them? You never seriously thought
those were really the shoes the murderer had worn, did you?”

Roger choked slightly, but made no reply.

“Oh, I can’t believe you thought that,” continued the inspector with
relish. “Why, that was an old pair, not new like the pair that had
made those footprints. A child could have seen that. Besides, they’d
only been in the water an hour or two.”

“What?” Roger cried.

“Oh, didn’t you know that, sir?” asked the inspector innocently. “Oh,
yes; they weren’t much more than wet through. And you don’t mean to
say you never recognised them, sir? Well, dear me!”

“Rub it in, rub it in,” Roger groaned. “Dance on my body if you like.
I’ve no doubt I deserve it. No, I didn’t recognise them. Would you
mind explaining to my futile intelligence what exactly you mean by
that?”

“Well, seeing that you’d had them in your hands not twenty-four hours
before, I thought you might have recognised them. Didn’t you get hold
of a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes, and give them to Miss Cross to give
back for you?”

“Great Scott, you don’t mean to say _those_ were the ones?”

“Indeed they were, sir, as it wouldn’t have taken you five minutes to
find out, if you’d ever thought of it. The girl lost her head a bit
over that. It’s easy enough to see what happened. You’d been putting
forward the idea that the murderer was a man, who’d made those marks
with a pair of woman’s shoes to throw us off the track. She’s getting
pretty desperate by then, seeing how strongly I suspected her (I never
troubled to hide that), so she makes some excuse to get away, nips
back to the house, slashes the shoes up the sides to give the
impression they’d been prepared for big feet, and throws them over the
top of the cliff. Then she makes another excuse to get you down on to
the ledge, where they can be found. Why, bless you, sir, _you_ never
found those shoes! She did!”

“It’s perfectly true,” Roger muttered. “She did. I remember.”

“Yes, it’s all plain enough as far as commonsense goes, but no good
for a court of law, I’m afraid. A smart counsel could tear all that to
shreds with his eyes shut. The same with the second case too.”

“Yes, go on to that.”

“Well, there, sir, I really did my best to put you on the right track.
I _told_ you that Meadows was murdered by the same person who killed
Mrs. Vane, and because he’d seen the first murder done, I told you
that, and I told you that it must have been someone who had access to
aconitine. You said just now you thought I meant Dr. Vane, but I
didn’t of course; I meant the girl. And then the funny thing is you
thought I was trying to pull your leg. Why, it’s all been staring you
in the face. I’ve heard you with my own ears talking with Mr. Walton
about how funnily Miss Cross was behaving, wanting to go over to
France one minute and stay here the next and all the rest of it; and
all you thought was that it was nerves. So it was, but not the kind
you meant!

“And I’d given you another hint long before that, when I told you
there was real bad blood in that family. I told you straight out they
were practically all of them criminals; and still you thought she
couldn’t be, just because she had an innocent face. Of course the
first thing I’d done was to have the records searched for her at the
Yard, _and_ found her in them too. Never actually been in prison, you
understand, but mixed up before she came here with a very shady crew
indeed; a house she got a job in as a parlourmaid was burgled for
instance, and another where she was supposed to be the governess; we
never laid our hands on the lot that did it but there’s no doubt that
she was in with them, though nothing could be proved against her. Oh,
and several other things too. She was a bad lot all right before she
ever came here, but clever—oh, yes, clever enough.”

“Go on to the second case,” said Roger feebly.

The inspector paused and marshalled his ideas. “Well, now, there, sir,
you made a very bad mistake indeed,” he said with some severity. “You
jumped to the conclusion that Meadows was killed by aconitine in his
tobacco. If you’d troubled to read up aconitine as you ought to have
done, you’d have found out that it’s a vegetable alkaloid, and
vegetable alkaloids lose all their power if they’re burnt. You can
smoke as much aconitine in your tobacco as you like, and it isn’t
going to do you any harm.”

“But that’s what killed him,” Roger protested.

“Oh, no, it isn’t, sir, if you’ll pardon me. He was killed by
aconitine placed in his _pipe_, not his tobacco. Aconitine was put in
the bowl or the stem of his _pipe_, sir, where his saliva melted it,
and he swallowed it before he knew what he’d done. And that not only
proves that it couldn’t have been put there three weeks before, as you
thought, but must have been during the previous night, but also that
it was put there by someone who knew a little about poisons but not
very much, for otherwise there’d have been none wasted in the tobacco.
She meant to make sure of the job all right, by the way; there was
enough of the stuff there to kill a hundred people.”

“But wait a minute!” Roger interrupted. “You’re wrong there,
Inspector. It _could_ have been put there by Mrs. Vane. I found out
that Meadows only smoked his pipes a week at a time, remember!”

The inspector’s expression was more pitying than chagrined. “Yes, but
did you find out when he changed them, Mr. Sheringham, sir? I did, you
see. On Sunday mornings. So it couldn’t have been Mrs. Vane after all.
It was somebody who came during that previous night, while he was
asleep. It wasn’t the doctor, because he’d never have put the stuff in
the tobacco; there’s no conceivable reason why it should have been
Miss Williamson; it _must_ have been Miss Cross. But there again
there’s no absolute proof.”

“Well,” said Roger, “I’ll be damned!”

The inspector helped himself with an absent air from the bottle of
whisky which stood, flanked by a couple of syphons, on a small table
at his elbows. He sipped his drink thoughtfully.

“And you’re not going to apply for a warrant?” Roger asked, when all
this had sunk into him. “You’re going to let her get away with it?”

The inspector allowed a little whisky to sink into him. “No help for
it, I’m sorry to say. We could never get a conviction. As I said, I
think you’ll find that the verdict next Thursday will be suicide, and
we shall let it rest at that; the verdict of accidental death on Mrs.
Vane as well. It isn’t the first time this has happened, you know.
There’s any number of people walking about to-day, free men and women,
that we _know_ to be murderers, but we can’t prove it to the
satisfaction of a court.”

“Yes, I know that, of course,” Roger nodded. “Legal proof is a very
different thing from moral conviction. Well, I must say I’m not sorry.
They were two distinctly unpleasant specimens of humanity of which she
ridded the world, and I should be sorry to hear of her hanging for
them. But—poor Colin!”

“Be thankful she hasn’t got into your own family, Mr. Sheringham,
sir,” replied the inspector philosophically. “And I daresay she won’t
make him a bad wife when all’s said and done. It was his money she was
after, of course; now she’s got that, and an established position, she
may settle down all right.”

“Not the sort of wife I’d choose myself for all that,” Roger said with
a little shiver. “Yes, she must have been after his money, I suppose.
As no doubt Mrs. Vane was before her.”

“No, sir,” said the inspector meditatively. “I’m inclined to think
Mrs. Vane wasn’t; I think she was genuinely fond of the boy. Margaret
knew about her affair with him, of course, and that was another reason
for wanting her out of the way. That’s why the engagement was kept so
secret too. She knew her cousin would never give him up to her, and
would certainly cut her out of her will as well. By the way, it may
interest you to know that the doctor’s marriage settlement is
invalidated, as Mrs. Vane was never his legal wife; I had the wording
looked into and a legal opinion taken. So the girl doesn’t get that
ten thousand after all.”

“‘Much Ado About Nothing,’” Roger commented ironically.

“Or ‘The Dead Hand,’” smiled the inspector. “That was a good title of
yours after all, sir, because it was the button in Mrs. Vane’s dead
hand that makes the whole thing so certain.”

Roger stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. “Good Heavens, do you
know it’s past two, Inspector? We’d better get to bed. Though whether
I shall sleep very much is another question. All this is a little
upsetting, you must understand.—By Jove,” he added as he rose to his
feet, “do you know, even now I can hardly believe that she did it!”

The inspector smiled at him tolerantly as he also rose. “Because she
looked pretty and innocent, and you thought at one time she might be
going to make a match of it with your cousin, sir? Because you saw
her, in fact, as the pretty little heroine of one of your own books?”

“I suppose so,” Roger admitted.

The inspector patted him on the shoulder with a large and consoling
hand. “Do you know what’s the matter with you, sir?” he said kindly.
“You’ve been reading too many of those detective stories.”


THE END



Transcriber’s Notes

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by Simon
and Schuster in 1927. However, the following alterations have been
made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:
  * “Maragaret” to “Margaret” (Chapter IX);
  * “Couston Hall” to “Clouston Hall” (Chapter XI);
  * “witholding” to “withholding” (Chapter XVII);
  * “Morseby” to “Moresby” (Chapter XVII);
  * “currare” to “curare” (Chapter IX); and
  * the phrase “any he was” to “and he was” (Chapter XXVI).