The Layton Court Mystery

by Anthony Berkeley



Contents

       I. Eight o’Clock in the Morning
      II. An Interrupted Breakfast
     III. Mr. Sheringham is Puzzled
      IV. Major Jefferson is Reluctant
       V. Mr. Sheringham Asks a Question
      VI. Four People Behave Remarkably
     VII. The Vase That Wasn’t
    VIII. Mr. Sheringham Becomes Startling
      IX. Mr. Sheringham Sees Visions
       X. Mrs. Plant is Apprehensive
      XI. Lady Stanworth Exchanges Glances
     XII. Hidden Chambers And What-Nots
    XIII. Mr. Sheringham Investigates a Footprint
     XIV. Dirty Work at the Ash Pit
      XV. Mr. Sheringham Amuses an Ancient Rustic
     XVI. Mr. Sheringham Lectures on Neo-Platonism
    XVII. Mr. Grierson Becomes Heated
   XVIII. What the Settee Had to Tell
     XIX. Mr. Sheringham Loses and Wins the Same Bet
      XX. Mrs. Plant Proves Disappointing
     XXI. Mr. Sheringham is Dramatic
    XXII. Mr. Sheringham Solves the Mystery
   XXIII. Mrs. Plant Talks
    XXIV. Mr. Sheringham is Disconcerted
     XXV. The Mystery Finally Refuses to Accept Mr. Sheringham’s
          Solution
    XXVI. Mr. Grierson Tries His Hand
   XXVII. Mr. Sheringham Hits the Mark
  XXVIII. What Really Did Happen



    To my Father


My dear Father,

I know of nobody who likes a detective story more than you do, with
the possible exception of myself. So if I write one and you read it,
we ought to be able to amuse ourselves at any rate.

I hope you will notice that I have tried to make the gentleman who
eventually solves the mystery behave as nearly as possible as he might
be expected to do in real life. That is to say, he is very far removed
from a sphinx and he does make a mistake or two occasionally. I have
never believed very much in those hawk-eyed, tight-lipped gentry, who
pursue their silent and inexorable way straight to the heart of things
without ever once overbalancing or turning aside after false goals;
and I cannot see why even a detective story should not aim at the
creation of a natural atmosphere, just as much as any other work of
the lighter fiction.

In the same way I should like you to observe that I have set down
quite plainly every scrap of evidence just as it is discovered, so
that the reader has precisely the same data at his disposal as has the
detective. This seems to me the only fair way of doing things. To hold
up till the last chapter some vital piece of evidence (which, by the
way, usually renders the solution of the puzzle perfectly simple), and
to achieve your surprise by allowing the detective to arrest his man
before the evidence on which he is doing so is ever so much as hinted
to the reader at all, is, to my mind, most decidedly not playing the
game.

With which short homily, I hand the book over to you by way of some
very slight return for all that you have done for me.



Chapter I

Eight o’Clock in the Morning

William, the gardener at Layton Court, was a man of melancholy
deliberation.

It did not pay, William held, to rush things; especially the important
things of life, such as the removal of greenfly from roses. Before
action was taken, the matter should be studied, carefully and
unhappily, from every possible point of view, particularly the worst.

On this summer’s morning William had been gazing despondently at the
roses for just over three quarters of an hour. Pretty soon now he
would feel himself sufficiently fortified to begin operations on them.

“Do you always count the greenfly before you slaughter them, friend
William?” asked a sudden voice behind him.

William, who had been bending forward to peer gloomily into the
greenfly-blown intricacies of a _Caroline Testout_, slewed hastily
about. He hated being accosted at the best of times, but there was a
spontaneous heartiness about this voice which grated intolerably on
all his finer feelings. The added fact that the act of slewing hastily
about had brought a portion of his person into sharp and painful
contact with another rose bush did not tend to make life any more
cheerful for William at that moment.

“Weren’t a-countin’ em,” he observed curtly; and added naughtily under
his breath, “Drat that there Mr. Sheringham!”

“Oh! I thought you must be totting up the bag in advance,” remarked
the newcomer gravely from behind an enormous pipe. “What’s your record
bag of greenfly, William? Runs into thousands of brace, I suppose.
Well, no doubt it’s an interesting enough sport for people of quiet
tastes. Like stamp-collecting. You ever collect stamps, William?”

“Noa,” said William, gazing sombrely at a worm. William was not one of
your chatty conversationalists.

“Really?” replied his interlocutor with interest. “Mad on it myself
once. As a boy, of course. Silly game though, really, I agree with
you.” He followed the direction of William’s eyes. “Ah, the early
morning worm!” he continued brightly. “And defying all the rules of
its calling by refusing to act as provender for the early bird. Highly
unprofessional conduct! There’s a lesson for all of us in that worm,
William, if I could only think what it is. I’ll come back and tell you
when I’ve had time to go into the matter properly.”

William grunted moodily. There were many things in this world of which
William disapproved; but Mr. Roger Sheringham had a class all to
himself. The gospel of laughter held no attractions for that stern
materialist and executioner of greenfly.

Roger Sheringham remained singularly unperturbed by the sublime
heights of William’s disapproval. With hands thrust deep into the
pockets of a perfectly incredible pair of gray flannel trousers he
sauntered off among the rose beds, cheerfully poisoning the fragrant
atmosphere with clouds of evil smoke from the peculiarly unsavoury
pipe which he wore in the corner of his rather wide mouth. William’s
eloquent snorts followed him unheeded; Roger had already forgotten
William’s existence.

There are many who hold that eight o’clock in the morning is the most
perfect time of a summer’s day. The air, they advance, is by that time
only pleasantly warmed through, without being burned to a cinder as it
is an hour or two later. And there is still quite enough dew sparkling
upon leaf and flower to give the poets plenty to talk about without
forcing them to rise at six o’clock for their inspiration. The theory
is certainly one well worth examination.

At the moment when this story opens Mr. Roger Sheringham was engaged
in examining it.

Not that Roger Sheringham was a poet. By no means. But he was the next
worst thing to it—an author. And it is part of an author’s
stock-in-trade to know exactly what a rose garden looks like at eight
o’clock on a summer morning—that and everything else in the world
besides. Roger Sheringham was refreshing his mental notes on the
subject.

While he is doing so let us turn the tables by examining him. We are
going to see quite a lot of him in the near future, and first
impressions are always important.

Perhaps the first thing we notice about him, even before we have had
time to take in his physical characteristics, is an atmosphere of
unbounded, exuberant energy; Roger Sheringham is evidently one of
those dynamic persons who seem somehow to live two minutes to
everybody else’s one. Whatever he happens to be doing, he does it as
if it were the only thing that he had ever really intended to do in
life at all. To see him now, looking over this rose garden, you would
think that he is actually learning it by heart, so absorbedly is he
gazing at it. At least you would be ready to bet that he could tell
you afterwards just how many plants there are in each bed, how many
roses on each plant, and how many greenfly on each rose. Whether this
habit of observation is natural, or whether it is part of the training
of his craft, there can be no doubt that Roger possesses it in a very
high degree.

In appearance he is somewhat below the average height, and stockily
built; with a round rather than a long face, and two shrewd, twinkling
gray eyes. The shapeless trousers and the disreputable old Norfolk
jacket he is wearing argue a certain eccentricity and contempt for
convention that is just a little too self-conscious to be quite
natural without going so far as to degenerate into a pose. The
short-stemmed, big-bowled pipe in the corner of his mouth seems a very
part of the man himself. Add that his age is over thirty and under
forty; that his school had been Winchester and his university Oxford;
and that he had (or at any rate professed) the profoundest contempt
for his reading public, which was estimated by his publishers at a
surprisingly large figure—and you have Roger Sheringham, Esq., at your
service.

The sound of footsteps approaching along the broad gravel path, which
separated the rose garden from the lawn at the back of the house,
roused him from his studious contemplation of early morning phenomena.
The next moment a large, broad-shouldered young man, with a pleasing
and cheerful face, came into sight round the bend.

“Good heavens!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the liveliest
consternation. “Alec! And an hour and a half before it need be! What’s
wrong with you this morning, Alec?”

“I might ask the same of you,” grinned the young man. “It’s the first
time I’ve seen you down before ten o’clock since we came here.”

“That only gives us three mornings. Still, a palpable point. By the
way, where’s our worthy host? I thought it was a distressing habit of
his to spend an hour in the garden every morning before breakfast; at
least, so he was telling me at great length yesterday afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” said Alec indifferently. “But what brings you here
anyway, Roger?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve been working. Studying the local flora and fauna, the
latter ably represented by William. You know, you ought to cultivate
William, Alec. You’d have a lot in common, I feel sure.”

They fell into step and strolled among the scattered beds.

“You working at this hour?” Alec remarked. “I thought you wrote all
your tripe between midnight and dawn.”

“You’re a young man of singular literary acuteness,” sighed Roger.
“Hardly anybody would dare to call my work tripe. Yet you and I know
that it is, don’t we? But for goodness’ sake don’t tell anyone else
your opinion. My income depends on my circulation, you know; and if it
once got noised about that Alexander Grierson considered——”

Alec landed a punch on the literary thorax. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,
shut up!” he grunted. “Don’t you ever stop talking, Roger?”

“Yes,” Roger admitted regretfully. “When I’m asleep. It’s a great
trial to me. That’s why I so much hate going to bed. But you haven’t
told me why you’re up and about so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” responded Alec, a trifle sheepishly.

“Ah!” Roger stopped and scrutinised his companion’s face closely. “I
shall have to study you, Alec, you know. Awfully sorry if it’s going
to inconvenience you; but there’s my duty to the great British public,
and that’s plain enough, my interesting young lover. So now perhaps
you’ll tell me the real reason why you’re polluting this excellent
garden with your unseemly presence at this unnecessary hour?”

“Oh, stow it, you blighter!” growled the interesting young lover,
blushing hotly.

Roger regarded him with close attention.

“Notes on the habits of the newly engaged animal, male genus,” he
murmured softly. “One—reverses all its habits and instincts by getting
up and seeking fresh air when it might still be frowsting in bed.
Two—assaults its closest friends without the least provocation.
Three—turns a bright brick-red when asked the simplest question.
Four——”

“Will you shut up, or have I got to throw you into a rose bed?”
shouted the harassed Alec.

“I’ll shut up,” said Roger promptly. “But only on William’s account;
please understand that. I feel that William would simply hate to see
me land on one of his cherished rose bushes. It would depress him more
than ever, and I shrink from contemplating what that might mean. In
passing, how is it that you were coming from the direction of the
lodge just now and not from the house?”

“You’re infernally curious this morning,” Alec smiled. “If you want to
know, I’ve been down to the village.”

“So early? Alec, there must be something wrong with you, after all.
And why on earth have you been down to the village?”

“To—well, if you must have it, to post a letter,” said Alec
reluctantly.

“Ah! A letter so important, so remarkably urgent that it couldn’t wait
for the ordinary collection from the house?” Roger mused with
interest. “Now I wonder if that letter could have been addressed, let
us say, to _The Times_? ‘Marvellous, Holmes! How could you have
surmised that?’ ‘You know my methods, Watson. It is only necessary to
apply them.’ Well, Alexander Watson, am I right?”

“You’re not,” said Alec shortly. “It was to my bookmaker.”

“Well, all I can say is that it ought to have been to _The Times_,”
retorted Roger indignantly. “In fact, I don’t mind going so far as to
add that it’s hardly playing the game on your part that it shouldn’t
have been to _The Times_. Here you go laying a careful train of facts
all pointing to the conclusion that this miserable letter of yours was
to _The Times_, and then you turn round and announce calmly that it
was to your bookmaker. If it comes to that, why write to your
bookmaker at all? A telegram is the correct medium for conducting a
correspondence with one’s bookmaker. Surely you know that?”

“Doesn’t it ever hurt you?” Alec sighed wearily. “Don’t you ever put
your larynx out of joint or something? I should have thought that——”

“Yes, I should have liked to hear your little medical lecture so
much,” Roger interrupted rapidly, with a perfectly grave face.
“Unfortunately a previous engagement of the most pressing urgency robs
me of the pleasure. I’ve just remembered that I’ve got to go and see a
man about—— Now what was it about? Oh, yes! I remember. A goat! Well,
good-bye, Alec. See you at breakfast, I hope.”

He seized his astonished companion’s hand, shook it affectionately,
and walked quickly away in the direction of the village. Alec gazed
after him with open mouth. In spite of the length of their
acquaintance, he had never got quite used to Roger.

A light tread on the grass behind him caused him to turn round, and
what he saw supplied the reason for Roger’s hurried departure. A quick
smile of appreciation flitted across his face. Then he hurried eagerly
forward, and all thought of Roger was wiped from his mind. So soon are
we forgotten when somebody more important comes along.

The girl who was advancing across the grass was small and slight, with
large gray eyes set wide apart, and a mass of fair hair which the
slanting rays of the sun behind her turned into a bright golden mist
about her head. She was something more than pretty; for mere
prettiness always implies a certain insipidity, and there was
certainly no trace of that in Barbara Shannon’s face. On the contrary,
the firm lines of her chin alone, to take only one of her small
features, showed a strength of character unusual in a girl of her age;
one hardly looks for that sort of thing at feminine nineteen or
thereabouts.

Alec caught his breath as he hurried towards her. It was only
yesterday that she had promised to marry him, and he had not quite got
accustomed to it yet.

“Dearest!” he exclaimed, making as if to take her in his arms (William
had long since disappeared in search of weapons with which to rout the
greenfly). “Dearest, how topping of you to guess I should be waiting
for you out here!”

Barbara put out a small hand to detain him. Her face was very grave
and there were traces of tears about her eyes.

“Alec,” she said in a low voice, “I’ve got rather bad news for you.
Something very dreadful has happened—something that I can’t possibly
tell you about, so please don’t ask me, dear; it would only make me
more unhappy still. But I can’t be engaged to you any longer. You must
just forget that yesterday ever happened at all. It’s out of the
question now. Alec I—I can’t marry you.”



Chapter II

An Interrupted Breakfast

Mr. Victor Stanworth, the host of the little party now in progress at
Layton Court, was, according to the reports of his friends, who were
many and various, a thoroughly excellent sort of person. What his
enemies thought about him—that is, provided that he had any—is not
recorded. On the face of it, at any rate, however, the existence of
the latter may be doubted. Genial old gentlemen of sixty or so,
somewhat more than comfortably well off, who keep an excellent cellar
and equally excellent cigars and entertain with a large-hearted good
humour amounting almost to open-handedness, are not the sort of people
to have enemies. And all that Mr. Victor Stanworth was; that, and,
perhaps, a trifle more.

If he had one noticeable failing—so slight that it could hardly be
called a fault—it was perhaps the rather too obvious interest he
displayed in the sort of people whose pictures get into the
illustrated weeklies. Not that Mr. Stanworth was a snob, or anything
approaching it; he would as soon exchange a joke with a dustman as a
duke, though it is possible that he would prefer a millionaire to
either. But he had not attempted to conceal his satisfaction when his
younger brother, now dead these ten years or more, had succeeded in
marrying (against all expectation and the more than plainly expressed
wishes of the lady’s family) Lady Cynthia Anglemere, the eldest
daughter of the Earl of Grassingham. Indeed, he had gone so far as to
express his approval in the eminently satisfactory form of settling a
thousand a year on the lady in question for so long as she continued
to bear the name of Stanworth. It is noticeable, however, that a
condition of the settlement was the provision that she should continue
the use of her title also. Gossip, of course, hinted that this
interest sprung from the fact that the origins of the Stanworth family
were themselves not all that they might be; but whether there was any
truth in this or not, it was beyond question that, whatever these
origins might be, they were by now so decently interred in such a
thick shroud of golden obscurity that nobody had had either the wish
or the patience to uncover them.

Mr. Stanworth was a bachelor, and it was generally understood that he
was a person of some little importance in that mysterious Mecca of
finance, the City. Anything further than that was not specified, a
closer definition being rightly held to be unnecessary. But the
curious could find, if they felt so minded, the name of Mr. Stanworth
on the board of directors of several small but flourishing and
thoroughly respectable little concerns whose various offices were
scattered within a half-mile radius of the Mansion House. In any case
these did not seem to make any such exorbitant demands on Mr.
Stanworth’s time as to exclude a full participation in the more
pleasant occupations of life. Two or three days a week in London in
the winter, with sometimes as few as one a fortnight during the
summer, appeared to be quite enough not only to preserve his financial
reputation among his friends, but also to maintain that large and
healthy income which was a source of such innocent pleasure to so
many.

It has been said already that Mr. Stanworth was in the habit of
entertaining both largely and broad-mindedly; and this is no less than
the truth. It was his pleasure to gather round him a select little
party of entertaining and cheerful persons, usually young ones. And
each year he rented a different place in the summer for this purpose;
the larger, the older, and possessing the longer string of
aristocratic connections, the better. The winter months he passed
either abroad or in his comfortable bachelor flat in St. James’s
Street.

This year his choice of a summer residence had fallen upon Layton
Court, with its Jacobean gables, its lattice windows, and its
oak-panelled rooms. Mr. Stanworth was thoroughly satisfied with Layton
Court. He had been installed there for rather more than a month, and
the little party now in full swing was the second of the summer’s
series. His sister-in-law, Lady Stanworth, always acted as hostess for
him on these occasions.

Neither Roger nor Alec had had any previous acquaintance with their
host; and their inclusion in the party had been due to a chain of
circumstances. Mrs. Shannon, an old friend of Lady Stanworth’s, had
been asked in the first place; and with her Barbara. Then Mr.
Stanworth had winked jovially at his sister-in-law and observed that
Barbara was getting a deuced pretty girl in these days, and wasn’t
there any particular person she would be glad to see at Layton Court,
eh? Lady Stanworth had given it as her opinion that Barbara might not
be displeased to encounter a certain Mr. Alexander Grierson about the
place; whereupon Mr. Stanworth, having ascertained in a series of
rapid questions that Mr. Alexander Grierson was a young man of
considerable worldly possessions (which interested him very much), had
played cricket three years running for Oxford (which interested him
still more), and was apparently a person of unimpeachable character
and morals (which did not interest him at all), had given certain
injunctions; with the result that two days later Mr. Alexander
Grierson received a charming little note, to which he had hastened to
reply with gratified alacrity. As to Roger, it had come somehow to Mr.
Stanworth’s ears (as in fact things had a habit of doing) that he was
a close friend of Alec’s; and there was always room in any house which
happened to be occupied by Mr. Stanworth for a person of the
world-wide reputation and attainments of Roger Sheringham. A second
charming little note had followed in the wake of the first.

Roger had been delighted with Mr. Stanworth. He was a man after his
own heart, this jolly old gentleman, with his interesting habit of
pressing half-crown cigars and pre-war whiskey on one at all hours of
the day from ten in the morning onwards; his red, genial face, always
on the point of bursting into loud, whole-hearted laughter if not
actually doing so; his way of poking sly fun at his dignified,
aristocratic sister-in-law; and the very faint trace of a remote
vulgarity about him that only seemed, in his particular case, to add a
more intimate, almost a more genuine note to his dealings with one.
Yes, Roger had found old Mr. Stanworth a character well worth
studying. In the three days since they had first met their
acquaintance had developed rapidly into something that was very near
to friendship.

And there you have Mr. Victor Stanworth, at present of Layton Court,
in the county of Hertfordshire. A man, you would say (and as Roger
himself was saying in amazed perplexity less than an hour later),
without a single care in the world.

But it is already ten minutes since the breakfast gong sounded; and if
we wish to see for ourselves what sort of people Mr. Stanworth had
collected round him, it is quite time that we were making a move
towards the dining room.

Alec and Barbara were there already: the former with a puzzled, hurt
expression, that hinted plainly enough at the inexplicable disaster
which had just overtaken his wooing; the latter so resolutely natural
as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had
noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to
smoothe over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of
nonsense. Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense
judiciously applied.

“Morning, Barbara,” he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling
all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names
after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for
bohemianism, and it saved trouble. “Going to be an excellent day, I
fancy. Shall I hack some ham for you, or do you feel like a boiled
egg? You do? It’s a curious feeling, isn’t it?”

Barbara smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Sheringham,” she said, lifting
the cosies off an array of silver that stood at one end of the table.
“Shall I give you tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please. Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a
mouth organ. It doesn’t go. Well, what’s the programme to-day? Tennis
from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a
little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like
that?”

“Don’t you like tennis, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Barbara innocently.

“Like it? I love it. One of these days I must get someone to teach me
how to play it. What are you doing this morning, for instance, Alec?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” Alec grinned, “and that’s playing
tennis with you.”

“And why not, you ungrateful blighter, after all I’ve done for you?”
demanded Roger indignantly.

“Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,” Alec retorted.
“Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful
lot of trouble.”

Roger turned to Barbara. “Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you.
My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but—— Oh, hullo, Major.
We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you
game?”

The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly
to Barbara. “Good-morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m
sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.”

He went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped
himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the
door opened again and the butler entered.

“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low
voice.

The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat
and followed the other out of the room.

“Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed.

“Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old
Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I
should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?”

“Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because
he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would
you call him exactly? A private secretary?”

“Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A
general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.”

“Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?”
Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything;
the atmosphere was still a little strained. “I thought when you left
the army, you had a pension.”

“So you do,” Roger returned. “But pensions don’t amount to much in any
case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the
job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no
doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.”

“Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?” observed Alec. “Can I have
another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?”

“Oh, he’s all right,” Roger pronounced. “But I wouldn’t like to be out
with that butler alone on a dark night.”

“He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,” said Barbara with
decision, manipulating the coffee-pot. “He positively frightens me at
times. He looks more like a prize-fighter than a butler. What do you
think, Mr. Sheringham?”

“As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,” Alec put in.
“He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some
reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.”

“I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,” Roger murmured
bloodthirstily. “There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.”

“Thanks,” Alec laughed. “Not to-day, I think. He’d simply wipe the
floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.”

“And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let
me know. I’ll put up a purse all right.”

“Let’s change the subject,” said Barbara, with a little shiver. “Oh!
Good-morning, Mrs. Plant. Hullo, Mother, dear! Had a good night?”

Mrs. Shannon, small and fair like her daughter, was in all other
respects as unlike Barbara as could well be imagined. In place of that
young lady’s characterful little face, Mrs. Shannon’s features were
doll-like and insipid. She was pretty enough, in a negative, plump
sort of way; but interest in her began and ended with her appearance.
Barbara’s attitude towards her was that of patient protectiveness. To
see the two together one would think, apart from their ages, that
Barbara was the mother and Mrs. Shannon the daughter.

“A good night?” she repeated peevishly. “My dear child, how many times
must I tell you that it is quite impossible for me to get any sleep at
all in this wretched place? If it isn’t the birds, it’s the dogs; and
if it isn’t the dogs, it’s——”

“Yes, Mother,” Barbara interrupted soothingly. “What would you like to
eat?”

“Oh, let me,” exclaimed Alec, jumping up. “And, Mrs. Plant, what are
you going to have?”

Mrs. Plant, a graceful, dark-haired lady of twenty-six or so, with a
husband in the Soudanese Civil Service, indicated a preference for
ham; Mrs. Shannon consented to be soothed with a fried sole.
Conversation became general.

Major Jefferson looked in once and glanced round the room in a worried
way. “Nobody’s seen Mr. Stanworth this morning, have they?” he asked
the company in general, and receiving no reply, went out again.

Barbara and Roger engaged in a fierce discussion on the relative
merits of tennis and golf, for the latter of which Roger had acquired
a half-blue at Oxford. Mrs. Shannon explained at some length to Alec
over her second sole why she could never eat much breakfast nowadays.
Mary Plant came to the aid of Barbara in proving that whereas golf was
a game for the elderly and crippled, tennis was the only possible
summer occupation for the young and energetic. The room buzzed.

The appearance of Lady Stanworth caused the conversation to stop
abruptly. In the ordinary course of events she breakfasted in her own
room. A tall, stately woman, with hair just beginning to turn gray,
she was never anything but cool and dignified; but this morning her
face seemed even more serious than usual. For a moment she stood in
the doorway, looking round the room as Major Jefferson had done a few
minutes before.

Then, “Good-morning, everybody,” she said slowly. “Mr. Sheringham and
Mr. Grierson, can I have a word with you for a moment?”

In deep silence Roger and Alec pushed back their chairs and rose. It
was obvious that something out of the ordinary had occurred, but
nobody quite liked to ask a question. In any case, Lady Stanworth’s
attitude did not encourage curiosity. She waited till they had reached
the door, and motioned for them to precede her. When they had passed
through, she shut the door carefully after her.

“What’s up, Lady Stanworth?” Roger asked bluntly, as soon as they were
alone.

Lady Stanworth bit her lip and hesitated, as if making up her mind.
“Nothing, I hope,” she said, after a little pause. “But nobody has
seen my brother-in-law this morning and his bed has not been slept in,
while the library door and windows are locked on the inside. Major
Jefferson sent for me and we have talked it over and decided to break
the door down. He suggested that it would be as well if you and Mr.
Grierson were present also, in case—in case a witness outside the
household should be required. Will you come with me?”

She led the way in the direction of the library, and the other two
followed.

“You’ve called to him, I suppose?” Alec remarked.

“Yes. Major Jefferson and Graves have both called to him, here and
outside the library windows.”

“He’s probably fainted or something in the library,” said Roger
reassuringly, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. “Or it
may be a stroke. Is his heart at all weak?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard, Mr. Sheringham.”

By the library door Major Jefferson and the butler were waiting; the
former impassive as ever, the latter clearly ill at ease.

“Ah, here you are,” said the Major. “Sorry to bother you like this,
but you understand. Now, Grierson, you and Graves and myself are the
biggest; if we put our shoulders to the door together I think we can
force it open. It’s pretty strong, though. You by the handle, Graves;
and you next, Grierson. That’s right. Now, then, one—two—three—heave!”

At the third attempt there was the sound of tearing woodwork, and the
heavy door swung on its hinges. Major Jefferson stepped quickly over
the threshold. The others hung back. In a moment he was back again,
his sallow face the merest trifle paler.

“What is it?” asked Lady Stanworth anxiously. “Is Victor there?”

“I don’t think you had better go in for the moment, Lady Stanworth,”
said Major Jefferson slowly, intercepting her as she stepped forward.
“Mr. Stanworth appears to have shot himself.”



Chapter III

Mr. Sheringham is Puzzled

Like many of the other rooms at Layton Court, the library had been
largely modernised. Dark oak panelling still covered the walls, but
the big open fireplace, with its high chimney-piece, had been blocked
up and a modern grate inserted. The room was a large one and (assuming
that we are standing just inside the hall with our backs to the front
door) formed the right-hand corner of the back of the house
corresponding with the dining room on the other side. Between these
two was a smaller room, of the same breadth as the hall, which was
used as a gunroom, storeroom, and general convenience room. The two
rooms on either side of the deep hall in the front of the house were
the drawing room, on the same side as the library, and the morning
room opposite. A narrow passage between the morning room and the
dining room led to the servants’ quarters.

In the side of the library which faced the lawn at the back of the
house had been set a pair of wide French windows, as was also the case
in the dining room; while in the other outer wall, looking over the
rose garden, was a large modern window of the sash type, with a deep
window seat below it set in the thickness of the wall. The only
original window still remaining was a small lattice one in the corner
on the left of the sash window. The door that led into the room from
the hall was in the corner diagonal to the lattice window. The
fireplace exactly faced the French windows.

The room was not overcrowded with furniture. An armchair or two stood
by the fireplace; and there was a small table, bearing a typewriter,
by the wall on the same side as the door. In the angle between the
sash window and the fireplace stood a deep, black-covered settee. The
most important piece of furniture was a large writing table in the
exact centre of the room facing the sash window. The walls were lined
with bookshelves.

This was the picture that had flashed across Roger’s retentive brain
as he stood in the little group outside the library door and listened
to Major Jefferson’s curt, almost brutal announcement. With
instinctive curiosity he wondered where the grim addition to the scene
was lying. The next moment the same instinct had caused him to turn
and scan the face of his hostess.

Lady Stanworth had not screamed or fainted; she was not that sort of
person. Indeed, beyond a slight and involuntary catching of her breath
she betrayed little or no emotion.

“Shot himself?” she repeated calmly. “Are you quite sure?”

“I’m afraid there can be no doubt at all,” Major Jefferson said
gravely. “He must have been dead for some hours.”

“And you think I had better not go in?”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” said the Major shortly.

“Very well. But we had better telephone for a doctor in any case, I
suppose. I will do that. Victor called in Doctor Matthewson when he
had hay fever a few weeks ago, didn’t he? I’ll send for him.”

“And the police,” said Jefferson. “They’ll have to be notified. I’ll
do that.”

“I can let them know at the same time,” Lady Stanworth returned,
moving across the hall in the direction of the telephone.

Roger and Alec exchanged glances.

“I always said that was a wonderful woman,” whispered the former
behind his hand, as they prepared to follow the Major into the
library.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” asked the butler from the doorway.

Major Jefferson glanced at him sharply. “Yes; you come in, too,
Graves. It makes another witness.”

The four men filed in silence into the room. The curtains were still
drawn, and the light was dim. With an abrupt movement Jefferson strode
across and pulled back the curtains from the French windows. Then he
turned and nodded silently towards the big writing table.

In the chair behind this, which was turned a little away from the
table, sat, or rather reclined, the body of Mr. Stanworth. His right
hand, which was dangling by his side almost to the floor, was tightly
clenched about a small revolver, the finger still convulsively
clasping the trigger. In the centre of his forehead, just at the base
of his hair, was a little circular hole, the edges of which looked
strangely blackened. His head lolled indolently over the top of the
chair-back, and his wide-open eyes were staring glassily at the
ceiling.

It was, as Jefferson had said, not a pretty sight.

Roger was the first to break the silence. “Well, I’m damned!” he said
softly. “What on earth did he want to go and do that for?”

“Why does anyone do it?” asked Jefferson, staring at the still figure
as if trying to read its secret. “Because he has some damned good
reason of his own, I suppose.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. “No doubt. But old
Stanworth of all people! I shouldn’t have thought that he’d got a care
in the world. Not that I knew him particularly well, of course; but I
was only saying to you yesterday, Alec——” He broke off suddenly.
Alec’s face had gone a ghastly white, and he was gazing with horrified
eyes at the figure in the chair.

“I was forgetting,” Roger muttered in a low voice to Jefferson. “The
boy was too young to be in the war; he’s only twenty-four. It’s a bit
of a shock, one’s first corpse. Especially this sort of thing. Phew!
There’s a smell of death in here. Let’s get some of these windows
open.”

He turned and threw open the French windows, letting a draught of warm
air into the room. “Locked on the inside all right,” he commented as
he did so. “So are the other two. Here, Alec, come outside for a
minute. It’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit turned up.”

Alec smiled faintly; he had managed to pull himself together and the
colour was returning to his cheeks. “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, a
little shakily. “It was just a bit of a shock at first.”

The breeze had fluttered the papers on the writing table and one fell
to the ground. Graves, the butler, stepped forward to pick it up.
Before replacing it he glanced idly at something that was written on
it.

“Sir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Look at this!”

He handed the paper to Major Jefferson, who read it eagerly.

“Anything of interest?” Roger asked curiously.

“Very much so,” Jefferson replied dryly. “It’s a statement. I’ll read
it to you. ‘To Whom it May Concern. For reasons that concern only
myself, I have decided to kill myself.’ And his signature at the
bottom.” He twisted the piece of paper thoughtfully in his hand. “But
I wish he’d said what his reasons were,” he added in puzzled tones.

“Yes, it’s a remarkably reticent document,” Roger agreed. “But it’s
plain enough, isn’t it? May I have a look at it?”

He took it from the other’s outstretched hand and examined it with
interest. The paper was slightly creased, and the message itself was
typewritten. The signature, Victor Stanworth, was bold and firm; but
just above it was another attempt, which had only got as far as V-i-c
and looked as if it had been written with a pen insufficiently
supplied with ink.

“He must have gone about the business with extraordinary
deliberation,” Roger commented. “He goes to the trouble of typing this
instead of writing it; and when he finds he hadn’t dipped his pen deep
enough in the ink-pot, calmly signs it again. And just look at that
signature! Not a trace of nerves in it, is there?”

He handed the paper back, and the Major looked at it again.

“Stanworth was never much troubled with nerves,” he remarked shortly.
“And the signature’s genuine enough. I’d take my oath on that.”

Alec could not help feeling that Jefferson’s words had supplied an
answer to a question which Roger had purposely refrained from asking.

“Well, I don’t know much about this sort of thing,” Roger observed,
“but I suppose one thing’s certain. The body mustn’t be touched before
the police come.”

“Even in the case of a suicide?” Jefferson asked doubtfully.

“In any case, surely.”

“I shouldn’t have thought it would have mattered in this case,” said
Jefferson, a little reluctantly. “Still, perhaps you’re right. Not
that it matters either way,” he added quickly.

There was a tap on the half-open door.

“I’ve telephoned to Doctor Matthewson and the police,” came Lady
Stanworth’s even tones. “They’re sending an inspector over from
Elchester at once. And now don’t you think we ought to tell the others
in the dining room?”

“I think so certainly,” said Roger, who happened to be nearest to the
door. “There’s no sense in delaying it. Besides, if we tell them now
it will give them time to get over it a little before the police
come.”

“Quite so,” said Jefferson. “And the servants as well. Graves, you’d
better go and break the news in the kitchen. Be as tactful as you
can.”

“Very good, sir.”

With a last, but quite expressionless glance at his late master, the
burly figure turned and walked slowly out of the room.

“I’ve seen people more cut up at the death of a man they’ve lived with
for twenty years than _that_ gentleman,” Roger murmured in Alec’s ear,
raising his eyebrows significantly.

“And I wish you would be good enough to break the news in the dining
room, Major Jefferson,” Lady Stanworth remarked. “I really hardly feel
up to it myself.”

“Of course,” said Jefferson quickly. “In fact, I think it would be
much better if you went up to your room and rested a little before the
police get here, Lady Stanworth. This is bound to be a very great
strain. I will tell one of the maids to take you up a cup of tea.”

Lady Stanworth looked a trifle surprised, and for a moment it seemed
that she was going to object to this course. Evidently, however, she
changed her mind if that was the case; for she only said quietly,
“Thank you. Yes, I think that would be best. Please let me know
directly the police arrive.”

She made her way, a little wearily, up the broad staircase and
disappeared from view.

Jefferson turned to Roger. “I think as a matter of fact that I should
prefer you to tell the ladies, if you would, Sheringham. You’d do it
much better than I. I’m not much use at putting unpleasant things in a
pleasant way.”

“Certainly I will, if you’d rather. Alec, you’d better stay here with
the Major.”

Jefferson hesitated. “As a matter of fact, Grierson, I was wondering
if you would be good enough to run across to the stables and tell
Chapman to have the car ready all day to-day, as it might be wanted
any time at a moment’s notice. Will you?”

“Of course,” said Alec promptly and hurried off, only too glad of the
opportunity for a little action. He had not yet quite got over that
first sight of the dead man in the streaming sunshine.

Roger walked slowly across to the dining-room door; but he was not
pondering over what he was going to say. He was repeating to himself
over and over again, “Why was Jefferson so infernally anxious to get
rid of the four of us in such a hurry? Why? Why? Why?”

With his hand on the very knob of the door a possible answer came to
him, in the form of another question.

“Why was Jefferson so reluctant to admit that the body must not be
touched before the arrival of the police?”

It was a somewhat distrait Roger who opened the dining-room door, and
proceeded to acquaint three astounded ladies with the somewhat
surprising fact that their host had just shot himself through the
head.

Their reception of his news did not speak very well for Roger’s
tactfulness. It may have been that his preoccupation with what was in
his mind prevented him from doing justice to himself; but the fact
remains that even he was considerably startled by the way in which his
hearers behaved, and it took a good deal to startle Roger.

Mrs. Shannon, it is true, merely remarked with a not unjustified
annoyance that it was really exceedingly awkward as she had made all
her arrangements for being here another ten days and now she supposed
they would have to leave at once, and where on earth did anyone think
they could go to with the house in town shut up and all the servants
away? Barbara rose slowly to her feet, with every trace of colour
drained out of her face, swayed a little and, sitting down abruptly,
stared with unseeing eyes out into the sunlit garden. Mrs. Plant
incontinently and silently fainted.

But Roger had other things to do than dancing attendance upon fainting
and hysterical ladies. Leaving Mrs. Plant somewhat unceremoniously to
the ministrations of Barbara and her mother, he hurried back to the
library, taking care to step lightly. The sight that met his eyes was
exactly what he had expected.

Major Jefferson was bending over the dead man, rapidly and
methodically searching his pockets.

“Hullo,” Roger remarked easily from the doorway. “Putting him straight
a bit?”

The Major started violently. Then he bit his lip and slowly
straightened his back.

“Yes,” he said slowly, after the least possible pause. “Yes. I can’t
bear to see this constrained attitude he’s in.”

“It’s beastly,” Roger said sympathetically, advancing unconcernedly
into the room and shutting the door behind him. “I know. But I
shouldn’t move him if I were you. Not till the police have seen him,
at any rate. They’re rather particular about that sort of thing, I
believe.”

Jefferson shrugged his shoulders, frowning. “It seems damned nonsense
to me,” he said bluntly.

“Look here,” Roger remarked suddenly, “you mustn’t let this thing get
on your nerves, you know. Come and take a turn in the garden with me.”

He linked his arm through the other’s and, observing his obvious
hesitation, drew him towards the open windows. “Do you all the good in
the world,” he persisted.

Jefferson allowed himself to be persuaded.

For some minutes the two strolled up and down the lawn, and Roger took
some care to keep the conversation on indifferent topics. But in spite
of all his efforts, Jefferson kept looking at his watch, and it was
clear that he was counting the minutes before the police might be
expected. What Roger, watch how he might, was unable to discover was
whether his companion was eager for their arrival or the reverse. The
only thing he knew for certain was that this imperturbable man was,
for some reason or other, very badly rattled. It might be the simple
fact of his employer’s unseemly end which had caused this unwonted
state of affairs, Roger thought; for certainly Jefferson and old
Stanworth had been a very long time together. On the other hand, it
might not. And if this was not the reason, what was?

When they had made the circuit of the rose garden three times,
Jefferson halted suddenly.

“The police should be here at any minute now,” he said abruptly. “I’m
going to walk down towards the lodge to meet them. I’ll call you when
we want you.”

Anything more obvious in the way of a congé could hardly be imagined.
Roger accepted it with the best grace he could.

“Very well,” he nodded. “I’ll be somewhere out here.”

Jefferson disappeared rapidly down the drive and Roger was left to
continue his walk alone. But he had no intention of being bored. There
was, he felt, quite a lot of thinking that he would rather like to do;
and the chance of a few minutes’ solitude was not unwelcome. He paced
slowly back to the lawn again, his pipe in full blast, and reeking
clouds trailing lazily behind him.

But Roger was not to do his thinking just yet. Scarcely had he reached
the lawn when Alec appeared from the direction of the stables,
somewhat hot and flushed. He fell into step with Roger and began to
explain why he had been so long.

“Couldn’t get away from the wretched fellow!” he exclaimed. “Had to
tell him the whole thing from beginning to—— Hullo! What’s up?”

Roger had halted and was staring in through the library windows. “I’ll
swear I left that door shut,” he said in puzzled tones. “Somebody’s
opened it. Come on!”

“Where are you going?” Alec asked in surprise.

“To see who’s in the library,” returned Roger, already halfway across
the lawn. He quickened his pace to a run and hurried in through the
French windows, Alec close on his heels.

A woman who was bending over something on the farther side of the room
straightened hastily at their approach. It was Mrs. Plant, and the
object over which she had been bending was a large safe that stood by
the wall close to the little typewriting table. Roger had just had
time to see that she was feverishly twisting the knob before she had
sprung up on hearing their footsteps.

She faced them with heaving bosom and horrified eyes, one hand
clutching the folds of her frock, the other clenched at her side. It
was obvious that she was frightened almost out of her wits.

“Were you looking for anything?” Roger asked politely, and cursed
himself for the banality of the words even as he spoke them.

With a tremendous effort Mrs. Plant appeared to pull herself together.

“My jewels,” she muttered jerkily. “I asked—Mr. Stanworth to—to lock
them in his safe the other day. I—I was wondering—would the police
take them? I thought it might be better if I——”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Plant,” said Roger soothingly, breaking in
upon her painful utterances. “The police wouldn’t take them in any
case, I expect; and you can easily identify what is yours. They’ll be
safe enough, I assure you.”

A little colour was coming slowly back into her cheeks and her
breathing was becoming less rapid.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Sheringham,” she said more easily. “It was
absurd of me, no doubt, but they’re rather valuable, and I had a
sudden panic about them. Of course I ought not to have tried to take
them myself. I can’t think what I can have been doing!” She laughed
nervously. “Really, I’m positively ashamed of myself. You won’t give
me away for being so foolish, will you?”

There was a note of urgent appeal in the last sentence that belied the
lightness of the words.

Roger smiled reassuringly. “Of course not,” he said promptly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I know I can rely on you. And on Mr. Grierson,
too. Well, I suppose I’d better run away before anyone else catches me
here.”

She made her way out of the room, carefully averting her eyes from the
chair by the writing table.

Roger turned to Alec and whistled softly.

“Now what did she want to lie like that for?” he asked with raised
eyebrows.

“Do you think she was lying?” Alec asked in puzzled tones. “I should
have said that Mrs. Plant was as straight as they make ’em.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. “And so should I! That’s
what makes it all the more extraordinary. Yet of course she was lying.
Like a trooper! And so ridiculously! Her story’s bound to be disproved
as soon as the safe is opened. She must have said the first thing that
came into her head. Alec, my son, there’s something damned queer going
on here! Mrs. Plant isn’t the only one who’s lying. Come out into the
garden and listen to the duplicity of Jefferson.”



Chapter IV

Major Jefferson is Reluctant

Inspector Mansfield, of the Elchester police, was a methodical person.
He knew exactly what he had to do, and just how to do it. And he had
precisely as much imagination as was required for his job, and not a
fraction more. Too much imagination can be a very severe handicap to a
conscientious policeman, in spite of what the detective stories may
say.

As the inspector entered the library with Jefferson from the hall,
Roger, who had heard his arrival and was determined to miss no more of
this interesting situation than he could possibly help, contrived to
present himself at the French windows, the faithful Alec still in tow.

“Good-morning, Inspector,” he said cheerfully.

Jefferson frowned slightly; perhaps he was remembering his last words
to Roger. “These are Mr. Sheringham and Mr. Grierson, Inspector,” he
said a little brusquely. “They were present when we broke the door
in.”

The inspector nodded. “Good-morning, gentlemen. Sad business, this.
Very.” He glanced rapidly round the room. “Ah, there’s the body.
Excuse me, Major.”

He stepped quickly across and bent over the figure in the chair,
examining it attentively. Then he dropped on his knees and scrutinised
the hand that held the revolver.

“Mustn’t touch anything till the doctor’s seen him,” he explained
briefly, rising to his feet again and dusting the knees of his
trousers. “May I have a look at that document you spoke of, sir?”

“Certainly, Inspector. It’s on the table.”

Jefferson showed where the paper was lying, and the inspector picked
it up. Roger edged farther into the room. The presence of himself and
Alec had not been challenged, and he wished to establish his right to
be there. Furthermore, he was uncommonly curious to hear the
inspector’s views on the somewhat remarkable document he was now
studying.

The inspector looked up. “H’m!” he observed noncommittally, laying the
paper on the table again. “To the point, at any rate. Was Mr.
Stanworth in the habit of using a typewriter instead of pen and ink?”

“Just the point I mentioned, Inspector,” Roger broke in.

“Indeed, sir?” said the inspector politely. He turned to Jefferson.
“Do you happen to know, Major Jefferson?”

“Yes, I think he was,” Jefferson said thoughtfully. “He certainly
always wrote his letters on it. I fancy he used it a good deal.”

“But to sit down and type a thing like that!” Roger exclaimed. “It
seems so unnecessary somehow.”

“And what do you make of it then, Mr. Sheringham?” the inspector asked
with tolerant interest.

“I should say it showed a cold-blooded deliberation that proves Mr.
Stanworth to have been a very exceptional man,” Roger replied quickly.

The inspector smiled faintly. “I see you’re more used to considering
characters than actions,” he said. “Now I should have said that a more
ordinary explanation might be that Mr. Stanworth, having already
something else to type on the machine, slipped in a piece of paper and
did that at the same time.”

“Oh!” Roger remarked, somewhat nonplussed. “Yes, I never thought of
that.”

“It’s extraordinary what simple things one doesn’t think of at times,”
said the inspector wisely.

“But in that case,” Roger observed thoughtfully, “wouldn’t you expect
to find the other thing he had been typing? It can hardly have left
the room, can it?”

“That’s impossible to say,” said the inspector, with the air of one
closing the subject. “We don’t in the least know what Mr. Stanworth
did last night. He might have gone out and posted a letter or two
before he shot himself; and unless anyone happened to see him we could
never know whether he did or not. Now I take it, sir,” he added,
turning to Major Jefferson, “that Mr. Stanworth was a rather brusque,
decisive sort of man?”

Jefferson considered. “Decisive, certainly. But I don’t know whether
you would call him brusque exactly. Why?”

“The wording of this statement. It’s a bit—well, out of the ordinary,
isn’t it?”

“It’s quite typical,” said Jefferson shortly.

“It is? That’s what I’m getting at. Now have you any idea at all as to
the reasons he hints at?”

“Not in the least. I’m absolutely in the dark.”

“Ah! Well, perhaps Lady Stanworth will be able to throw some light on
that point later.” He strolled over to the door and began to examine
the lock.

Roger drew Alec aside. “You know, this is jolly interesting, this
business,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen the police at work before.
But the story books are all wrong. This man isn’t a fool by any means;
very far from it. He caught me out properly over that typing; and
twice at that. Perfectly obvious points when they’re mentioned, of
course; and I can’t think why they didn’t occur to me. That’s the
trouble with an _idée fixe_; you can’t see beyond it, or even round
it. Hullo; he’s trying the windows now.”

The inspector had crossed the room and was testing the fastenings of
the French windows. “You said all these were fastened when you got in
as well as the door, sir?” he remarked to Jefferson.

“Yes. But Mr. Sheringham can answer for that better than I. He opened
them.”

The inspector flashed a quick glance at Roger. “And they were all
securely fastened?”

“Absolutely,” said Roger with conviction. “I remember commenting on it
at the time.”

“Why did you open them, sir?”

“To let some air into the place. It smelt of death, if you know what I
mean.”

The inspector nodded as if the explanation satisfied him, and at the
same moment the front door bell rang.

“I expect that’s the doctor,” Jefferson remarked, moving towards the
door. “I’ll go and see.”

“That man’s badly on the jump,” Roger commented to himself. Aloud he
took the opportunity of remarking, “I dare say you’ll find some
private papers in that safe which may throw some light on the
business.” Roger badly wanted to know what was inside that safe. And
what wasn’t!

“Safe, sir?” said the inspector sharply. “What safe?”

Roger pointed out where the safe stood. “I understand that Mr.
Stanworth always carried it about with him,” he remarked casually.
“That seems to point to the fact of there being something helpful
inside, I should say.”

The inspector glanced round. “You never know with these suicides,
sir,” he said in confidential tones. “Sometimes the reason’s plain
enough; but often there doesn’t seem any reason for it at all. Either
they’ve kept it to themselves, or else they’ve gone suddenly dotty.
‘Temporary Insanity’ is more often true than you’d say. Melancholia
and such-like. The doctor may be able to help us there.”

“And here he comes, if I’m not very much mistaken,” Roger observed, as
the sound of approaching voices reached their ears.

The next moment Jefferson reappeared, showing a tall, thin man with a
small bag in his hand into the room.

“This is Doctor Matthewson,” he said.

The doctor and the inspector exchanged nods of acquaintance. “There’s
the body, Doctor,” remarked the latter, waving his hand towards the
chair. “Nothing very remarkable about the case; but of course you know
the coroner will want a detailed report.”

Dr. Matthewson nodded again and, setting his bag upon the table, bent
over the still figure in the chair and proceeded to make his
examination.

It did not take him many minutes.

“Been dead about eight hours,” he remarked briefly to the inspector,
as he straightened up again. “Let’s see. It’s just past ten now, isn’t
it? I should say he died at somewhere round two o’clock this morning.
The revolver must have been within a couple of inches of his forehead
when he fired. The bullet may be——” He felt carefully at the back of
the dead man’s head, and, whipping a lancet out of his pocket, made an
incision in the skull. “Here it is,” he added, extracting a small
object of shining metal from the skin. “Lodged just under the scalp.”

The inspector made a few brief notes in his pocketbook.

“Obviously self-inflicted, of course?” he observed.

The doctor raised the dangling hand and scrutinised the fingers that
held the revolver. “Obviously. The grip is properly adjusted and must
have been applied during life.” With an effort he loosened the clasp
of the dead fingers and handed the weapon across the table to the
inspector.

The latter twirled the chamber thoughtfully before opening it. “Not
fully loaded, but only one chamber fired,” he announced, and made
another note.

“Edges of wound blackened and traces of powder on surrounding skin,”
supplied the doctor.

The inspector extracted the empty shell and fitted the bullet
carefully into it, comparing the latter with the bullets of the
unfired cartridges.

“Why do you do that?” Roger asked with interest. “You know the bullet
must have been fired from that revolver.”

“It’s not my job to _know_ anything, sir,” returned the inspector, a
little huffily. “My job is to collect evidence.”

“Oh, I wasn’t meaning that you weren’t acting perfectly correctly,”
Roger said hastily. “But I’ve never seen anything of this sort before,
and I was wondering why you were taking such pains to collect evidence
when the cause of death is so obvious.”

“Well, sir, it isn’t my business to determine the cause of death,” the
inspector explained, unbending slightly before the other’s obvious
interest. “That’s the coroner’s job. All I have to do is to assemble
all the available evidence that I can find, however trivial it may
seem. Then I lay it before him, and he directs the jury accordingly.
That is the correct procedure.”

Roger retired into the background. “I said there weren’t any flies on
this bird,” he muttered to Alec, who had been a silent but none the
less interested spectator of the proceedings. “That’s the third time
he’s wiped the floor with me.”

“By the way, sir,” the inspector was saying to Doctor Matthewson, “I
take it that as Lady Stanworth sent for you, you have been called in
here before since they arrived?”

“That’s right, Inspector,” nodded the doctor. “Mr. Stanworth called me
in himself. He had a slight attack of hay fever.”

“Ah!” remarked the inspector with interest. “And I suppose you
examined him more or less.”

The doctor smiled faintly. He was remembering a somewhat strenuous
half hour he had spent with his patient in this very room. “As a
matter of fact, I examined him very thoroughly indeed. At his own
request, of course. He said that it was the first time he had seen a
doctor for fifteen years, and he’d like to be properly overhauled
while he was about it.”

“And how did you find him?” the inspector asked with interest.
“Anything much wrong with him? Heart, or anything like that?”

“See what he’s getting at?” Roger whispered to Alec. “Wants to find
out if he was suffering from any incurable disease that might have led
to suicide.”

“There was nothing wrong with him at all,” the doctor said with
finality. “He was as sound as the proverbial bell. In fact, for a man
of his years he was in a really remarkably healthy condition.”

“Oh!” The inspector was clearly a little disappointed. “Well, what
about this safe, then?”

“The safe?” Major Jefferson repeated in startled tones.

“Yes, sir; I think I should like to have a look at the contents, if
you please. They may throw some light on the affair.”

“But—but——” Major Jefferson hesitated, and it seemed to the interested
Roger that his usually impassive face showed traces of real alarm.
“But is that necessary?” he asked more calmly. “There may be private
papers in there of a highly confidential nature. Not that I know
anything about it,” he added somewhat hastily; “but Mr. Stanworth was
always exceedingly reticent about the contents.”

“All the more reason for us to have a look at them, sir,” returned the
inspector dryly. “As for anything confidential, that will of course go
no farther. That is, unless there is some excellent reason to the
contrary,” he added darkly.

Still Jefferson hesitated. “Of course, if you insist,” he said slowly,
“there is no more to be said. Still, it seems highly unnecessary to
me, I must say.”

“That, sir, is a matter for me to decide,” replied the inspector
shortly. “Now, can you tell me where the key would be and what the
combination is?”

“I believe that Mr. Stanworth usually kept his key-ring in his
right-hand waistcoat pocket,” Jefferson said tonelessly, as if the
subject had ceased to interest him. “As for the combination, I have
not the least idea what it was. I was not in Mr. Stanworth’s
confidence to that extent,” he added with the least possible shade of
bitterness in his voice.

The inspector was feeling in the pocket mentioned. “Well, they’re not
here now,” he said. With quick, deft movements he searched the other
pockets. “Ah! Here they are. In the one above. He must have slipped
them into the wrong pocket by mistake. But you say you don’t know the
combination? Now I wonder how we can find that.” He weighed the ring
of keys thoughtfully in his hand, deliberating.

Roger had strolled round the room with a careless air. If that safe
was going to be opened, he wanted a good look at the contents. Now he
paused by the fireplace.

“Hullo!” he remarked suddenly. “Somebody’s been burning something
here.” He bent and peered into the grate. “Paper! I shouldn’t be
surprised if those ashes aren’t all that’s left of your evidence,
Inspector.”

The inspector crossed the room hastily and joined him. “I daresay
you’re right, Mr. Sheringham,” he said disappointedly. “I ought to
have noticed that myself. Thank you. Still, we must get that safe
opened as soon as possible in any case.”

Roger rejoined Alec. “One to me,” he smiled. “Now, if he’d been one of
the story-book inspectors, he’d have bitten my head off for
discovering something that he’d missed. I like this man.”

The inspector put his notebook away. “Well, Doctor,” he said briskly,
“I don’t think there’s anything more that you or I can do here, is
there?”

“There’s nothing more that I can do,” Doctor Matthewson replied. “I’d
like to get away, too, if you can spare me. I’m rather busy to-day.
I’ll let you have that report at once.”

“Thanks. No, I shan’t want you any more, sir. I’ll let you know when
the inquest will be. Probably to-morrow.” He turned to Jefferson. “And
now, sir, if you’ll let me use the telephone, I’ll ring up the coroner
and notify him. And after that, if there’s another room convenient,
I’d like to interview these gentlemen and yourself, and the other
members of the household also. We may be able to get a little closer
to those reasons that Mr. Stanworth mentions.” He folded up the
document in question and tucked it carefully away in his pocket.

“Then you won’t be wanting this room any more?” asked Jefferson.

“Not for the present. But I’ll send in the constable I brought with me
to take charge in the meantime.”

“Oh!”

Roger looked curiously at the last speaker. Then he turned to Alec.

“Now am I getting a bee in my bonnet,” he said in a low voice, as they
followed the others out of the room, “or did Jefferson sound
disappointed to you just then?”

“Heaven only knows,” Alec whispered back. “I can’t make out any of
them, and you’re as bad as anybody else!”

“Wait till I get you alone. I’m going to talk my head off,” Roger
promised.

The inspector was giving his instructions to a large burly countryman,
disguised as a policeman, who had been waiting patiently in the hall
all this time. While Jefferson led the way to the morning room, the
latter ambled portentously into the library. It was the first time he
had been placed in charge, however temporary, of a case of this
importance, and he respected himself tremendously for it.

Arrived on the scene of the tragedy, he frowned heavily about him,
gazed severely at the body for a moment and then very solemnly smelled
at the ink-pot. He had once read a lurid story in which what had been
thought at first to be a case of suicide had turned out eventually to
be a murder carried out by means of a poisoned ink-pot; and he was
taking no chances.



Chapter V

Mr. Sheringham Asks a Question

“Now, gentlemen,” said the inspector, when the four of them were
seated in the morning room, “there is a certain amount of routine work
for me to do, though it may strike you as unimportant.” He smiled
slightly towards Roger.

“Not a bit,” said that gentleman quickly. “I’m extraordinarily
interested in all this. You’ve no idea how useful it will be if I ever
want to write a detective novel.”

“Well, the chief thing I want to know,” the inspector resumed, “is who
was the last person to see the deceased alive. Now when did you see
him last, Major Jefferson?”

“About an hour and a half after dinner. Say ten o’clock. He was
smoking in the garden with Mr. Sheringham, and I wanted to ask him
something about the arrangements for to-day.”

“That’s right,” Roger nodded. “I remember. It was a few minutes past
ten. The church clock in the village had just struck.”

“And what did you want to ask him?”

“Oh, nothing very important. Only what time he wanted the car in the
morning, if at all. But I usually made a point of seeing him about
that time every evening, in case he had any instructions to give me
for the following day.”

“I see. And what did he tell you?”

“That he wouldn’t be wanting the car this morning at all.”

“And did he seem quite normal? Not agitated or upset in any way?
Perfectly ordinary?”

“Perfectly.”

“And had been all day? At dinner, for instance?”

“Certainly. He was in a very good temper at dinner, as a matter of
fact.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the inspector quickly. “Wasn’t he
usually in a good temper?”

“Oh, yes. Usually. But like most strong-minded, self-willed men he
could be thoroughly unpleasant if he chose.”

“Now in the course of your duties as his secretary, has it come to
your notice whether he has had any bad news lately? Either financial
or otherwise?”

“No.”

“Would you have known if he had?”

“I doubt it. If it had been financial, he might have told me, as I
frequently had to write letters for him regarding his investments and
so forth. But otherwise I am quite sure he would not. Mr. Stanworth
was very reticent indeed about his personal affairs.”

“I see. He was comfortably off, wasn’t he?”

“Very. You might call it more than that.”

“Rich, in fact. And how were his investments laid out? Did he, for
instance, put most of his money into one concern?”

“You mean, was he in a position to be ruined by the failure of any
single business? No, I’m sure he wasn’t. His money was spread over a
large number of investments; and to my certain knowledge he still has
a very large sum indeed in Government stock.”

“Then we can take it as fairly sure that, whatever caused him to take
his life, it was nothing to do with money matters?”

“Yes, I’m quite convinced of that.”

“Then we must look elsewhere. Now, had Mr. Stanworth any relations
besides his sister-in-law?”

“Not to my knowledge, and I’ve been with him six years. He had a
younger brother, of course, Lady Stanworth’s husband; but I’ve never
heard of any others.”

“I see. Well, Major Jefferson, am I to take it that you can’t throw
any light at all on the reasons for Mr. Stanworth’s suicide? Think
carefully, if you please. Suicide is a pretty serious step, and the
reasons must be correspondingly serious. The coroner is bound to do
his best to bring them to light.”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Jefferson quietly. “It is the last
thing in the world I should have expected from Mr. Stanworth.”

The inspector turned to Roger. “Now, sir, you were in the garden with
him last evening at ten. What happened after that?”

“Oh, we didn’t stay out very long after that. Not more than twenty
minutes, I should say. I had some work to do, and we went in
together.”

“What were you talking about in the garden?”

“Roses chiefly. He was very keen on roses and took a lot of interest
in the rose garden here.”

“Did he seem cheerful?”

“Very. He always struck me as an exceptionally cheerful person.
Genial, in fact.”

“Did anything he said lead you to think that he might be contemplating
taking his life? Not at the time, of course; but looking back on it.
No casual remark, or anything like that?”

“Good heavens, no! On the contrary, he talked quite a lot about the
future. What part of the country he was going to stay in next year,
and that sort of thing.”

“I see. Well, what happened when you went in?”

“We met Mrs. Plant in the hall, and he stopped to speak to her. I went
on to the drawing room to get a book I’d left there. When I came back
they were still in the hall talking. I said good-night to both of them
and went on up to my room. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Thank you. Then you can’t help, either?”

“Not in the least, I’m afraid. The whole thing beats me completely.”

The inspector looked at Alec. “And you, sir? When did you see him
last?”

Alec considered. “I hardly saw him after dinner at all, Inspector.
That is, I didn’t speak to him; but I caught a glimpse of him once or
twice in the garden with Mr. Sheringham.”

“You were in the garden, too?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

Alec blushed. “Well, I was——That is——”

Roger came to his rescue. “Mr. Grierson and Miss Shannon, whom you
have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, became engaged yesterday,
Inspector,” he said gravely, but with a side-long wink.

The inspector smiled genially. “Then I don’t think we need enquire
what Mr. Grierson was doing in the garden last night,” he remarked
jovially. “Or Miss Shannon, for that matter, when I come to question
her later. And you can’t help us either in any other direction?”

“I’m afraid not, Inspector. I really knew very little of Mr. Stanworth
in any case. I only met him for the first time when I arrived here
three days ago.”

Inspector Mansfield rose to his feet. “Well, I think that is all I
have to ask you, gentlemen. After all, even if we can’t find out what
his reasons were, the case is clear enough. The door and all the
windows locked on the inside; the revolver in his hand, which the
doctor says must have been there during life; to say nothing of his
own statement. I don’t think the coroner will take very long to arrive
at his verdict.”

“What about the inquest?” Roger asked. “Shall we be wanted?”

“You and Mr. Grierson will be, and the other person who was present
when the door was broken in—the butler, wasn’t it? And of course
yourself, Major, and Lady Stanworth; and the last person to see him
alive. Who else is there in the party? Mrs. and Miss Shannon and Mrs.
Plant? Well, I don’t think they will be required, unless they have any
further information of importance. Still, the coroner will notify whom
he wants to attend.”

“And the inquest will be to-morrow?” Major Jefferson asked.

“Probably. In a case as simple as this there is no point in delay. And
now, Major, I wonder if I might have a word with Lady Stanworth down
here. And I wish you’d look round and see if you can hit on the code
for that safe. I could get it from the makers, of course, if
necessary; but I don’t want to have to do that unless I must.”

Major Jefferson nodded. “I’ll try,” he said briefly. “And I’ll send
one of the maids to tell Lady Stanworth. She’s in her room.”

He rang the bell, and Roger and Alec strolled over to the door.

“And you might warn the others in the household not to leave the
premises till I have seen them,” they heard the inspector say as they
passed through it. “I shall have to interrogate everyone, of course.”

Roger drew Alec into the dining room and thence out into the garden.
They reached the middle of the lawn before he spoke.

“Alec,” he said seriously, “what do you make of it all?”

“Make of what?” asked Alec.

“Make of what?” Roger repeated scornfully. “Why, the whole blessed
business, of course. Alec, you’re uncommonly slow in the up-take.
Can’t you see that Jefferson is hiding something for all he’s worth?”

“He did seem a bit reticent, certainly,” Alec agreed cautiously.

“Reticent? Why, if that fellow’s telling one tenth of what he knows I
should be surprised. And what about Mrs. Plant? And why doesn’t
anybody know the combination of that safe? I tell you, there are
wheels within wheels going on here.”

Alec threw caution to the winds. “It _is_ curious,” he admitted
recklessly.

Roger was intent on his own thoughts. “And why was Jefferson searching
Mr. Stanworth’s pockets?” he demanded suddenly. “Oh, but of course,
that’s obvious enough.”

“I’m dashed if it is. Why was he?”

“To find the keys of the safe, I suppose. What else could it be? For
some reason or other Jefferson is all against having that safe opened.
By the police, at any rate. And so is Mrs. Plant. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Alec helplessly.

“Nor do I! That’s just the annoying part. I hate things I don’t
understand. Always have done. It’s a sort of challenge to get to the
bottom of them.”

“Are you going to get to the bottom of this?” Alec smiled.

“If there’s a bottom to get to,” said Roger defiantly. “So don’t grin
in that infernally sarcastic way. Dash it all, aren’t you curious?”

Alec hesitated. “Yes, I am in a way. But after all, it doesn’t seem to
be our business, does it?”

“That remains to be seen. What I want to find out is—whose business is
it? At present it seems to be everybody’s.”

“And are you going to tell the police anything?”

“No; I’m hanged if I am,” said Roger with conviction. “I don’t mind
whose business it is; but it isn’t theirs. Not yet, anyway,” he added
with a touch of grimness.

Alec was plainly startled. “Good Lord! You don’t think it might be
eventually, do you?”

“I’m blessed if I know what to think! By the way, reverting to
Jefferson, you remember when I found those ashes in the hearth and
suggested that they might be the remains of those mysterious private
documents Jefferson had been hinting about? Well, did it appear to you
that he looked uncommonly relieved for the moment?”

Alec reflected. “I don’t think I was looking at him just then.”

“Well, I was. And I made the suggestion on purpose, to see how he’d
take it. I’d take my oath that the idea appealed to him immensely. Now
why? And what’s he got to do with Mr. Stanworth’s private papers?”

“But look here, you know,” said Alec slowly, “if he really was hiding
something, as you seem to think, surely he wouldn’t go and give the
whole show away by telling us straight out like that what sort of
thing it is that he’s hiding? I mean, if he really is hiding something
he’d mention papers to put us off the scent, wouldn’t he? Really, I
mean, it would be something quite different. What I mean is——”

“It’s all right. I’m beginning to get an idea of what you mean,” said
Roger kindly. “But seriously, Alec, that’s rather an idea of yours.
After all, Jefferson isn’t the man to give himself away, is he?”

“No,” said Alec earnestly. “You see, what I mean is——”

“Hullo!” Roger interrupted rudely. “There’s the inspector going down
the drive. And without Jefferson, by all that’s lucky! Let’s cut after
him and ask him if he’s brought anything else to the surface.” And
without waiting for a reply he set off at a run in the wake of the
retreating inspector.

The latter, hearing their footsteps on the gravel, turned round to
wait for them.

“Well, sir?” he said with a smile. “Remembered something else to tell
me?”

Roger dropped into a walk. “No; but I was wondering whether you had
anything to tell me. Found anything more out?”

“You’re not connected with the press by any chance, Mr. Sheringham,
are you?” the inspector asked suspiciously.

“Oh, no; it’s just natural curiosity,” Roger laughed. “Not for
publication, and all that.”

“I was thinking you might get me into trouble if it came out that I’d
been talking more than I ought to, sir. But I haven’t found anything
more out in any case.”

“Lady Stanworth wasn’t any help?”

“Not a bit, sir. She couldn’t throw any light on it at all. I didn’t
keep her long. Or any of the others, either, for that matter. There
was nothing more to be got out of them, and I’ve got to get back and
make out my report.”

“Not even found the safe’s combination?”

“No,” returned the inspector disappointedly. “I shall have to ring up
the makers and get that. I’ve taken a note of the number.”

“And who saw him last?”

“Mrs. Plant. He stopped her in the hall to ask her if she liked some
roses he’d had specially sent up to her room for her, and left her to
go into the library. Nobody saw him after that.”

“And is the body still in there?”

“No, sir. We shan’t want that any more. The constable I brought with
me, Rudgeman, is helping them take it upstairs now.”

The lodge gates appeared in sight, and Roger halted.

“Well, good-bye, Inspector. Shall we see you over here again?”

“Yes, sir. I shall have to come over about that safe. I don’t suppose
we’ll find anything in it, and it’s a ten-mile bicycle ride for me in
this heat; but there you are!” He laughed ruefully and went on his
way.

Roger and Alec turned and began to pace slowly back to the house.

“So Mrs. Plant was the last to see him alive, was she?” observed the
former thoughtfully. “That means she’ll be staying over for the
inquest. The others will be going this afternoon, I suppose. What’s
the time?”

Alec glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Just past eleven.”

“And all that’s happened in two hours! My hat! Well, come along with
me. If the body’s been removed, we may find the coast clear with any
luck.”

“What are you proposing to do now?” Alec asked with interest.

“Look around that library.”

“Oh? What’s the idea?”

For once in his life a curious reluctance seemed to have settled upon
Roger. Almost nervously he cleared his throat, and when at last he did
speak his voice was unwontedly grave.

“Well,” he said slowly, picking his words with care; “there’s a thing
that nobody else seems to have noticed, but it’s been striking me more
and more forcibly every minute. I tell you candidly it’s something
rather horrible—a question that I’m honestly rather frightened of
finding the answer to.”

“What are you driving at?” asked Alec in perplexity.

Roger hesitated again.

“Look here,” he said suddenly, “if you were going to shoot yourself,
how would you go about it? Wouldn’t you do it like this?”

He raised his hand and pointed an imaginary revolver at a spot just
above the right-hand end of his right eyebrow.

Alec copied his action. “Well, yes, I might. It seems the natural way
to do it.”

“Exactly,” said Roger slowly. “Then why the devil is that wound in the
_centre_ of Stanworth’s forehead?”



Chapter VI

Four People Behave Remarkably

Alec started, and his broad, good-humoured face paled a little.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated in startled tones. “What on earth do you
mean?”

“Simply what I say,” returned Roger. “Why did Stanworth go out of his
way to shoot himself in such a remarkably difficult manner? Don’t you
see what I mean? It isn’t natural.”

Alec was staring up the drive. “Isn’t it? But he did it all right,
didn’t he?”

“Oh, of course he did it,” said Roger in a voice that was curiously
lacking in conviction. “But what I can’t understand is this. Why, when
he could have done it so easily, did he go about it in such a
roundabout way? I mean, a revolver isn’t such an easy thing to
manipulate unhandily; and the attitude he used must have twisted his
wrist most uncomfortably. Just try pointing your forefinger in a
straight line at the middle of your forehead, and you’ll see what I
mean.”

He suited his action to his words, and there was no doubt about the
constraint of his attitude. Alec looked at him attentively.

“Yes, it does look awkward,” he commented.

“It is. Infernally awkward. And you saw where the doctor took the
bullet from. Almost at the very back. That means the revolver must
have been nearly in a dead straight line. You try and see how
difficult it is. It almost dislocates your elbow.”

Alec copied the action. “You’re quite right,” he said with interest.
“It is uncomfortable.”

“I should call it more than that. It’s so unnatural as to be highly
improbable. Yet there’s the fact.”

“Can’t get away from facts, you know,” observed Alec sagely.

“No, but you can explain them. And I’m dashed if I can see the
explanation for this one.”

“Well, what’s the idea?” Alec asked curiously. “You’re being
infernally mysterious.”

“Me? I like that. It isn’t I who am being mysterious. It’s everything
else. Facts and people and everything. Look here, we won’t go in for a
moment. Let’s find a seat somewhere and try and get a grip on things.
I’m getting out of my depth, and I don’t like it.”

He led the way to where a few garden chairs were scattered beneath a
big cedar at one of the corners of the lawn, and threw himself into
one of them. Alec followed suit, somewhat more cautiously. Alec was a
big person, and he had met garden chairs before.

“Proceed,” he said, fishing for his pipe. “You interest me strangely.”

Nothing loth, Roger took up his tale.

“Well, then, in the first place let’s consider the human side of
things. Hasn’t it struck you that there are four separate and distinct
people here whose conduct during the last few hours has been, to say
the least of it, remarkable?”

“No,” said Alec candidly, “it hasn’t. Two have, I know. Who are the
other two?”

“Well, the butler is one. He didn’t seem particularly cut up over
Stanworth’s death, did he? Not that you look for a tremendous display
of emotion from a great hulking brute like that, true. But you do look
for some.”

“He wasn’t vastly upset,” Alec admitted.

“And then there is his position in the household. Why should an
ex-prize-fighter turn butler? The two professions don’t seem to
harmonise somehow. And why should Stanworth want to employ an
ex-prize-fighting butler for that matter? It’s not what you’d expect
from him. He always seemed to me particularly meticulous over points
of etiquette. I wouldn’t have called him a snob exactly; he was too
nice and jolly for that. But he did like to be taken for a gentleman.
And gentlemen don’t employ prize-fighting butlers, do they?”

“I’ve never heard of it being done before,” Alec conceded cautiously.

“Precisely. My point exactly. Alec, you’re positively sparkling this
morning.”

“Thanks,” Alec growled, lighting his pipe. “But apparently not enough
so to make out who the fourth of your suspicious people is. Get on
with it.”

“After you with that match. Why, didn’t it strike you that somebody
else took the news of Stanworth’s death with remarkable fortitude? And
that after it had been broken to her with a bluntness that verged on
brutality.”

Alec paused in the act of applying a second match to his refractory
pipe. “By Jove! You mean Lady Stanworth?”

“I do,” said Roger complacently.

“Yes, I did notice that,” Alec remarked, staring over his pipe at his
companion. “But I don’t think there was much love lost between those
two, was there?”

“You’re right. There wasn’t. I shouldn’t mind going farther than that
and saying that she absolutely hated old Stanworth. I noticed it lots
of times these last three days, and it puzzled me even then. Now——” He
paused and sucked at his pipe once or twice. “Now it puzzles me a good
deal more,” he concluded softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

“Go on,” Alec prompted interestedly.

“Well, that’s four people; two whose behaviour has not been quite what
you’d expect under the circumstances, and two who are downright
suspicious. Anyhow, you can say four curious people.”

Alec nodded in silence. He was thinking of a fifth person whose
conduct early that morning had been something more than curious. With
an effort he thrust the thought from him abruptly. At any rate, Roger
was going to know nothing about that.

“And now we come to facts, and the Lord knows these are curious
enough, too. First of all, we’ve got the place of the wound and the
extreme unlikelihood (as one would have said if one hadn’t actually
seen it) of anyone committing suicide by shooting himself in that
particular way. About that I’m not going to say any more for the
moment. But there are plenty of things to talk about without that.”

“There would be, with you anywhere about,” Alec murmured irreverently.

“You wait. This is serious. Now according to what they say, people
went to bed in pretty decent time, last night, didn’t they? Mrs. Plant
after meeting Stanworth in the hall; Barbara and her mother soon after
you came in from the garden; and Jefferson and you after you’d
finished playing billiards?”

“That’s right,” Alec nodded. “Eleven thirtyish.”

“Well,” said Roger triumphantly. “Somebody’s lying! I was working in
my room till past one, and I heard footsteps in the corridor not once
but two or three times between midnight and then—the last time just as
I was knocking off! Of course I didn’t pay any particular attention to
them at the time; but I know I’m not mistaken. So if everyone says
that they were in their rooms by eleven-thirty (except Stanworth, who
was presumably locked in the library), then I repeat—somebody’s lying!
Now what do you make of that?”

“Heaven only knows,” said Alec helplessly, puffing vigorously at his
pipe. “What do you?”

“Beyond the bare fact that somebody’s lying, nothing—yet! But that’s
quite enough for the present. Then there’s another thing. You remember
where those keys were? In the waistcoat pocket above the one in which
he usually kept them. The inspector just remarked that he must have
put them in the wrong pocket. Now, do you think that’s likely?”

“Might be done. I don’t see anything wildly improbable in it.”

“Oh, no; not wildly improbable. But improbable enough, for all that.
Have you ever done it, for instance?”

“Put a thing in the wrong pocket? Lord, yes; heaps of times.”

“No, you idiot. Not just in any wrong pocket. In the upper pocket of a
waistcoat instead of the lower.”

Alec considered. “I don’t know. Haven’t I!”

“Probably not. Once again, it’s an unnatural mistake. One doesn’t use
the upper pockets of a waistcoat much. They’re not easy to get at. But
consider this. When you want to slip a thing into the lower pocket of
a waistcoat that’s hanging on a chair, it’s the easiest thing in the
world to put it in the upper pocket by mistake. Done it myself
hundreds of times.”

Alec whistled softly. “I see what you’re getting at. You mean——”

“Absolutely! A waistcoat worn by somebody else is in the same category
as a waistcoat hanging on a chair. If we’re to go by probabilities,
then the most likely thing is that somebody else put those keys in
that pocket. Not Stanworth himself at all.”

“But who on earth do you imagine did it? Jefferson?”

“Jefferson!” Roger repeated scornfully. “Of course not Jefferson!
That’s the whole point. Jefferson was looking for those keys; and it’s
just because they were in the wrong pocket and he didn’t know it, that
he couldn’t find them. That’s plain enough.”

“Sorry!” Alec apologised.

“Well, this is all wrong, don’t you see? It complicates things still
more. Here’s a fifth mysterious person to be added to our list of
suspicious characters.”

“Then you don’t think it was Mrs. Plant?” Alec said tentatively.

“I _know_ it wasn’t Mrs. Plant. She was playing about with the knob of
the safe; she hadn’t got the keys. And in any case, even if she had,
there was no possibility of her getting them back again. No, we’ve got
to look elsewhere. Now let’s see, when was that library left empty?”
He paused for reflection. “Jefferson was there alone while I was in
the dining room (I should like to know why Mrs. Plant fainted, by the
way; but we’ve got to wait for that till the safe’s opened); but he
didn’t find the keys. Then we both went into the garden. Then I met
you, and we caught Mrs. Plant almost immediately afterwards. How long
was I with Jefferson? Not more than ten minutes or so. Then the keys
must have been disturbed in that ten minutes before Mrs. Plant went
into the library (there was no opportunity later; you remember we kept
the library under inspection after that till the police arrived).
Either then, or——” He hesitated and was silent.

“Yes?” said Alec curiously. “Or when else?”

“Nothing!—Well, anyhow, there’s plenty of food for thought there,
isn’t there?”

“It does give one something to think about,” Alec agreed, puffing
vigorously.

“Oh, and one other thing; possibly of no importance whatever. There
was a slight scratch on Stanworth’s right wrist.”

“Rose bush!” replied Alec promptly. “He was always playing about with
them, wasn’t he?”

“Ye-es,” Roger replied doubtfully. “That occurred to me, of course.
But somehow I don’t think it was a scratch from a rose. It was fairly
broad, for instance; not a thin, deep line like a rose’s scratch.
However, that’s neither here nor there; probably it’s got nothing to
do with anything. Well, that’s the lot. Now—what do you make of it
all?”

“If you want my candid opinion,” said Alec carefully, after a little
pause, “I think that you’re making mountains out of molehills. In
other words, attaching too much importance to trifles. After all, when
you come to think of it there’s nothing particularly serious in any of
the things you mentioned, is there? And you can’t tell; there may be a
perfectly innocent explanation even for Jefferson and Mrs. Plant.”

Roger smoked thoughtfully for a minute or two.

“There may be, of course,” he said at length; “in fact, I hope to
goodness there is. But as for the rest, I agree with you that they’re
only molehills in themselves; but don’t forget that if you pile
sufficient molehills on top of each other you get a mountain. And
that’s what I can’t help thinking is the case here. Separately these
little facts are nothing; but collectively they make me wonder rather
furiously.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he remarked
pointedly.

“Possibly,” Roger laughed. “But I’m not a cat, and I thrive on it.
Anyway, my mind’s made up on one point. I’m going to nose round and
just see whether there isn’t any more to be found out. I liked old
Stanworth, and as long as it seems to me that there’s the least
possibility of his having been——” He checked himself abruptly. “Of all
not being quite as it should,” he resumed after a momentary pause.
“Well, I’m going to make it my business to look into it. Now, what I
want to ask you is—will you help me?”

Alec regarded his friend silently for a minute or two, his hand
cradling the bowl of the pipe he was smoking.

“Yes,” he announced at length; “on one condition. That whatever you
may find out, you won’t take any important steps without telling me.
You see, I don’t know that I consider this absolutely playing the game
in a way; and I want——”

“You can make yourself easy on that score,” Roger smiled. “If we go
into it, we go in together; and I won’t do anything, not only without
telling you, but even without your consent. That’s only fair.”

“And you’ll let me know anything you may find out as you go along?”
asked Alec suspiciously. “Not keep things up your sleeve, like Holmes
did to old Watson?”

“Of course not, my dear chap! If it comes to that, I don’t suppose I
could if I wanted to. I must have somebody to confide in.”

“You’ll make a rotten detective, Roger,” Alec grinned. “You gas too
much. The best detectives are thin-lipped, hatchet-faced devils who
creep about the place not saying a word to anybody.”

“In the story-books. You bet they don’t in real life. I expect they
talk their heads off to their seconds-in-command. It’s so jolly
helpful. Holmes must have missed an awful lot by not letting himself
go to Watson. For one thing, the very act of talking helps one to
clarify one’s own ideas and suggests further ones.”

“Your ideas ought to be pretty clear then,” said Alec rudely.

“And besides,” Roger went on unperturbed, “I’d bet anything that
Watson was jolly useful to Holmes. Those absurd theories of the poor
old chap’s that Holmes always ridiculed so mercilessly (I wish Watson
had been allowed to hit on the truth just once; it would have pleased
him so tremendously)—why, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they
didn’t suggest the right idea to Holmes time and time again; but of
course, he would never have acknowledged it. Anyhow, the moral is, you
talk away for all you’re worth and I’ll do the same. And if we don’t
manage to find something out between us, you can write me down an ass.
And yourself, too, Alexander!”



Chapter VII

The Vase That Wasn’t

“Very well, Sherlock,” said Alec. “And what’s the first move?”

“The library,” Roger replied promptly, and rose to his feet.

Alec followed suit and they turned towards the house.

“What do you expect to find?” asked the latter curiously.

“I’m blessed if I know,” Roger confessed. “In fact, I can’t really say
that I actually expect to find anything. I’ve got hopes, of course,
but in no definite direction.”

“Bit vague, isn’t it?”

“Thoroughly. That’s the interesting part. All we can do is to look
around and try and notice anything at all, however slight, that seems
to be just out of the ordinary. Ten to one it won’t mean anything at
all; and even if it does, it’s another ten to one that we shan’t be
able to see it. But as I said, there’s always hope.”

“But what are we going to look for? Things connected with the people
you mentioned; or just—well, just things?”

“Anything! Anything and everything, and trust to luck. Now step
quietly over this bit of gravel. We don’t want everyone to know that
we’re nosing around in here.”

They stepped carefully over the path and entered the library. It was
empty, but the door into the hall was slightly ajar. Roger crossed the
room and closed it. Then he looked carefully round him.

“Where do we start operations?” Alec asked with interest.

“Well,” Roger said slowly, “I’m just trying to get a general sort of
impression. This is really the first time we’ve been able to look
round in peace, you know.”

“What sort of impression?”

Roger considered. “It’s rather hard to put into words exactly; but
I’ve got a more or less retentive sort of mind. I mean, I can look at
a thing or a place and carry the picture in my brain for quite a time.
I’ve trained myself to it. It’s jolly useful for storing up ideas for
descriptions of scenery and that sort of thing. Photographic, you
might call it. Well, it struck me that if there had been any important
alteration in this room during the last few hours—if the position of
the safe had been altered, for instance, or anything like that—I
should probably be able to spot it.”

“And you think that’s going to help now?”

“I don’t know in the least. But there’s no harm in trying, is there?”

He walked to the middle of the room and turned slowly about, letting
the picture sink into his brain. When he had made the complete
circuit, he sat on the edge of the table and shut his eyes.

Alec watched him interestedly. “Any luck?” he asked, after a couple of
minutes’ silence.

Roger opened his eyes. “No,” he admitted, a little ruefully. It is
always disappointing after such carefully staged preparations to find
that one’s pet trick has failed to work. Roger felt not unlike a
conjuror who had not succeeded in producing the rabbit from the
top-hat.

“Ah!” observed Alec noncommittally.

“I can’t see anything different,” said Roger, almost apologetically.

“Ah!” Alec remarked again. “Then I suppose that means that nothing is
different?” he suggested helpfully.

“I suppose so,” Roger admitted.

“Now are you going to tell me that this is really devilish
significant?” Alec grinned. “Because if you do, I warn you that I
shan’t believe you. It’s exactly what I expected. I told you you were
making too much fuss about a lot of trifles.”

“Shut up!” Roger snapped from the edge of the table. “I’m thinking.”

“Oh, sorry!”

Roger took no notice of his fellow sleuth’s unprofessionally derisive
grin. He was staring abstractedly at the big carved oak chimney-piece.

“There’s only one thing that strikes me,” he observed slowly after a
little pause, “now I come to think of it. Doesn’t that chimney-piece
look somehow a bit lopsided to you?”

Alec followed the other’s gaze. The chimney-piece looked ordinary
enough. There were the usual pewter plates and mugs set out upon it,
and on one side stood a large blue china vase. For a moment Alec
stared at it in silence. Then:

“I’m blessed if I see anything lopsided about it,” he announced. “How
do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Roger replied, still gazing at it curiously.
“All I can say is that in some way it doesn’t look quite right to me.
Side-heavy, if I may coin a phrase.”

“You may,” said Alec kindly. “That is, if you’ll tell me what it
means.”

“Well, unsymmetrical, if you like that better.” He slapped his knee
suddenly. “By Jove! Idiot! I see now. Of course!” He turned a
triumphant smile upon the other. “Fancy not noticing that before?”

“_What?_” shouted Alec in exasperation.

“Why, that vase. Don’t you see?”

Alec looked at the vase. It seemed a very ordinary sort of affair.

“What’s the matter with it? It looks all right to me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with it,” said Roger airily. “It is
all right.”

Alec approached the table and clenched a large fist, which he
proceeded to hold two inches in front of Roger’s nose.

“If you don’t tell me within thirty seconds what you’re talking about,
I shall smite you,” he said grimly. “_Hard!_”

“I’ll tell you,” said Roger quickly. “I’m not allowed to be smitten
before lunch. Doctor’s orders. He’s very strict about it, indeed. Oh,
yes; about that vase. Well, don’t you see? There’s only one of it!”

“Is that all?” asked Alec, turning away disgustedly. “I thought from
the fuss you were making that you’d discovered something really
exciting.”

“So I have,” returned Roger, unabashed. “You see, the exciting part is
that yesterday, I am prepared to swear, there were two of it.”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“Because now I come to realise it, I remember an impression of
well-balanced orderliness about that chimney-piece. It was a typical
man’s room chimney-piece. Women are the unsymmetrical sex, you know.
The fact of there being only one vase alters its whole appearance.”

“Well?” Alec still did not appear to be very much impressed. “And
what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing. It’s just a fact that since yesterday afternoon the
second vase has disappeared; that’s all. It may have been broken
somehow by Stanworth himself; one of the servants may have knocked it
over; Lady Stanworth may have taken it to put some flowers
in—anything! But as it’s the only new fact that seems to emerge, let’s
look into it.”

Roger left the table and strolled leisurely over to the fireplace.

“You’re wasting your time,” Alec growled, unconvinced. “What are you
going to do? Ask the servants about it?”

“Not yet, at any rate,” Roger replied from the hearthrug. He stood on
tip-toe to get a view of the surface of the chimney-piece. “Here you
are!” he exclaimed excitedly. “What did I tell you? Look at this! The
room hasn’t been dusted this morning, of course. Here’s a ring where
the vase stood.”

He dragged a chair across and mounted it to obtain a better view.
Alec’s inch or two of extra height enabled him to see well enough by
standing on the shallow fender. There was very little dust on the
chimney-piece, but enough to show a faint though well-defined ring
upon the surface. Roger reached across for the other vase and fitted
its base over the mark. It coincided exactly.

“That proves it,” Roger remarked with some satisfaction. “I knew I was
right, of course; but it’s always pleasant to be able to prove it.” He
bent forward and examined the surface closely. “I wonder what on earth
all these other little marks are, though,” he went on thoughtfully. “I
don’t seem able to account for them. What do you make of them?”

Dotted about both in the ring and outside it were a number of faint
impressions in the shallow dust; some large and broad, others quite
small. All were irregular in shape, and their edges merged so
imperceptibly into the surrounding dust that it was impossible to say
where one began or the other ended. A few inches to the left of the
ring, however, the dust had been swept clean away across the whole
depth of the surface for a width of nearly a foot.

“I don’t know,” Alec confessed. “They don’t convey anything to me, I’m
afraid. I should say that somebody’s simply put something down here
and taken it away again later. I don’t see that it’s particularly
important in any case.”

“Probably it isn’t. But it’s interesting. I suppose you must be right.
I can’t see any other explanation, I’m bound to say. But it must have
been a very curiously shaped object, to leave those marks. Or could it
have been a number of things? And why should the dust have been
scraped away like that? Something must have been drawn across the
surface; something flat and smooth and fairly heavy.” He meditated for
a moment. “It’s funny.”

Alec stepped back from the fender. “Well, we don’t seem to be
progressing much, do we?” he remarked. “Let’s try somewhere else,
Sherlock.”

He wandered aimlessly over towards the French windows and stood
looking out into the garden.

A sharp exclamation from Roger caused him to wheel round suddenly. The
latter had descended from his chair, and was now standing on the
hearth-rug and looking with interest at something he held in his hand.

“Here!” he said, holding out his palm, in which a small blue object
was lying. “Come and look at this. I stepped on it just now as I got
down from the chair. It was on the rug. What do you think of it?”

Alec took the object, which proved to be a small piece of broken blue
china, and turned it over carefully.

“Why, this is a bit of that other vase!” he said sagely.

“Excellent, Alexander Watson. It is.”

Alec scrutinised the fragment more closely. “It must have got broken,”
he announced profoundly.

“Brilliant! Your deductive powers are in wonderful form this morning,
Alec,” Roger smiled. Then his face became more grave. “But seriously,
this is really rather perplexing. You see what must have happened, of
course. The vase got broken where it stood. In view of this bit,
that’s the only possible explanation for those marks on the
chimney-piece. They must have been caused by the broken pieces. And
that broad patch was made by someone sweeping the pieces off the
shelf—the same person, presumably, as picked up the larger bits round
that ring.”

He paused and looked at Alec inquiringly.

“Well?” said that worthy.

“Well, don’t you see the difficulty? Vases don’t suddenly break where
they stand. They fall and smash on the ground or something like that.
This one calmly fell to pieces in its place, as far as I can see. Dash
it all, it isn’t natural!—And that’s about the third unnatural thing
we’ve had already,” he added in tones of mingled triumph and
resentment.

Alec pressed the tobacco carefully down in his pipe and struck a
match. “Aren’t you going the long way round again?” he asked slowly.
“Surely there’s an obvious explanation. Someone knocked the vase over
on its side and it broke on the shelf. I can’t see anything wrong with
that.”

“I can,” said Roger quickly. “Two things. In the first place, those
vases were far too thick to break like that simply through being
knocked over on a wooden surface. In the second, even if it had been,
you’d get a smooth, elliptical mark in the dust where it fell; and
there isn’t one. No, there’s only one possible reason for it to break
as it did, as far as I can make out.”

“And what’s that, Sherlock?”

“That it had been struck by something—and struck so hard and cleanly
that it simply smashed where it stood and was not knocked into the
hearth. What do you think of that?”

“It seems reasonable enough,” Alec conceded after consideration.

“You’re not very enthusiastic, are you? It’s so jolly eminently
reasonable that it must be right. Now, then, the next question is—who
or what hit it like that?”

“I say, do you think this is going to lead anywhere?” Alec asked
suddenly. “Aren’t we wasting time over this rotten vase? I don’t see
what it can have to do with what we’re looking for. Not that I have
the least idea what that is, in any case,” he added candidly.

“You don’t seem to have taken to my vase, Alec. It’s a pity, because
I’m getting more and more fond of it every minute. Anyhow, I’m going
to put in one or two minutes’ really hard thinking about it; so if
you’d like to wander out into the garden and have a chat with William,
don’t let me keep you.”

Alec had strolled over to the windows again. For some reason he seemed
somewhat anxious to keep the garden under observation as far as
possible.

“Oh, I won’t interrupt you,” he was beginning carelessly, when at the
same moment the reason appeared in sight, walking slowly on to the
lawn from the direction of the rose garden. “Well, as a matter of
fact, perhaps I will wander out for a bit,” he emended hurriedly.
“Won’t stay away long, in case anything else crops up.” And he made a
hasty exit.

Roger, following with his eyes the bee-line his newly appointed
assistant was taking, smiled slightly and resumed his labours.

Alec did not waste time. There was a question which had been worrying
him horribly during the last couple of hours, and he wanted an answer
to it, and wanted it quickly.

“Barbara,” he said abruptly, as soon as he came abreast of her, “you
know what you told me this morning. Before breakfast. It hadn’t
anything to do with what’s happened here, had it?”

Barbara blushed painfully. Then as suddenly she paled.

“You mean—about Mr. Stanworth’s death?” she asked steadily, looking
him full in the eyes.

Alec nodded.

“No, it hadn’t. That was only a—a horrible coincidence.” She paused.
“Why?” she asked suddenly.

Alec looked supremely uncomfortable. “Oh, I don’t know. You see, you
said something about—well, about a horrible thing that had happened.
And then half an hour later, when we knew that—I mean, I couldn’t help
wondering just for the moment whether——” He floundered into silence.

“It’s all right, Alec,” said Barbara gently. “It was a perfectly
reasonable mistake to make. As I said, that was only a dreadful
coincidence.”

“And aren’t you going to change your mind about what you said this
morning?” asked Alec humbly.

Barbara looked at him quickly. “Why should I?” she returned swiftly.
“I mean——” She hesitated and corrected herself. “Why should you think
I might?”

“I don’t know. You were very upset this morning, and it occurred to me
that you might have had bad news and were acting on the spur of the
moment; and perhaps when you had thought it over, you might——” He
broke off meaningly.

Barbara seemed strangely ill at ease. She did not reply at once to
Alec’s unspoken question, but twisted her wisp of a handkerchief
between her fingers with nervous gestures that were curiously out of
place in this usually uncommonly self-possessed young person.

“Oh, I don’t know what to say,” she replied at last, in low, hurried
tones. “I can’t tell you anything at present, Alec. I may have acted
too much on the spur of the moment. I don’t know. Come and see me when
we get back from the Mertons’ next month. I shall have to think things
over.”

“And you won’t tell me what the trouble was, dear?”

“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me that, Alec. You see, that isn’t
really my secret. No, I can’t possibly tell you!”

“All right. But—but you do love me, don’t you?”

Barbara laid her hand on his arm with a swift, caressing movement. “It
wasn’t anything to do with that, old boy,” she said softly. “Come and
see me next month. I think—I think I _might_ have changed my mind
again by then. No, Alec! You mustn’t! Anyhow, not here of all places.
Perhaps I’ll let you once—just a tiny one!—before we go; but not
unless you’re good. Besides, I’ve got to run in and pack now. We’re
catching the two forty-one, and Mother will be waiting for me.”

She gave his hand a sudden squeeze and turned towards the house.

“That was a bit of luck, meeting her out here!” murmured Alec raptly
to himself as he watched her go. Wherein he was not altogether correct
in his statement of fact; for as the lady had come into the garden for
that express purpose, the subsequent meeting might be said to be due
rather to good generalship than good luck.

It was therefore a remarkably jubilant Watson who returned blithely to
the library to find his Sherlock sitting solemnly in the chair before
the big writing table and staring hard at the chimney-piece.

In spite of himself he shivered slightly. “Ugh, you ghoulish brute!”
he exclaimed.

Roger looked at him abstractedly. “What’s up?”

“Well, I can’t say that I should like to sit in that particular chair
just yet awhile.”

“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Roger said, rising slowly to his feet.
“I’ve just had a pretty curious idea, and I’m going to test it. The
chances are several million to one against it coming off, but if it
_does_——! Well, I don’t know what the devil we’re going to do!”

He had spoken so seriously that Alec gaped at him in surprise. “Good
Lord, what’s up now?” he asked.

“Well, I won’t say in so many words,” Roger replied slowly, “because
it’s really too fantastic. But it’s to do with the breaking of that
second vase. You remember I said that in order for it to have smashed
like that it must have been struck extraordinarily hard by some
mysterious object. It’s just occurred to me what that object might
possibly have been.”

He walked across to where the chair was still standing in front of the
fireplace and stepped up on to it. Then, with a glance towards the
chair he had just left, he began to examine the woodwork at the back
of the chimney-piece. Alec watched him in silence. Suddenly he bent
forward with close attention and prodded a finger at the panel; and
Alec noticed that his face had gone very pale.

He turned and descended, a little unsteadily, from the chair. “My hat,
but I was right!” he exclaimed softly, staring at Alec with raised
eyebrows. “That second vase was smashed by a bullet! You’ll find its
mark just behind that little pillar on the left there.”



Chapter VIII

Mr. Sheringham Becomes Startling

For a moment there was silence between the two. Then:

“Great Scott!” Alec remarked. “Absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely. It’s a bullet mark all right. The bullet isn’t there, but
it must have just embedded itself in the wood and been dug out with a
pen-knife. You can see the marks of the blade round the hole. Get up
and have a look.”

Alec stepped on to the chair and felt the hole in the wood with a
large forefinger. “Couldn’t be an old mark, could it?” he asked,
examining it curiously. “Some of this panelling’s been pretty well
knocked about.”

“No; I thought of that. An old hole would have the edges more or less
smoothed down; those are quite jagged and splintery. And where the
knife’s cut the wood away the surface is quite different to the rest.
Not so dark. No; that mark’s a recent one, all right.”

Alec got down from the chair. “What do you make of it?” he asked
abruptly.

“I’m not sure,” said Roger slowly. “It means rather a drastic
rearrangement of our ideas, doesn’t it? But I’ll tell you one highly
important fact, and that is that a line from this mark through the
middle of the ring in the dust leads straight to the chair in front of
the writing table. That seems to me jolly significant. I tell you
what. Let’s go out on to the lawn and talk it over. We don’t want to
stay in here too long in any case.”

He carefully replaced the chair on the hearth-rug in its proper
position and walked out into the garden. Alec dutifully followed, and
they made for the cedar tree once more.

“Go on,” said the latter when they were seated. “This is going to be
interesting.”

Roger frowned abstractedly. He was enjoying himself hugely. With his
capacity for throwing himself heart and soul into whatever he happened
to be doing at the moment, he was already beginning to assume the
profound airs of a great detective. The pose was a perfectly
unconscious one; but none the less typical.

“Well, taking as our starting point the fact that the bullet was fired
from a line which includes the chair in which Mr. Stanworth was
sitting,” he began learnedly, “and assuming, as I think we have every
right to do, that it was fired between, let us say, the hours of
midnight and two o’clock this morning, the first thing that strikes us
is the fact that in all probability it must have been fired by Mr.
Stanworth himself.”

“We then remember,” said Alec gravely, “that the inspector
particularly mentioned that only one shot had been fired from Mr.
Stanworth’s revolver, and realise at once what idiots we were to have
been struck by anything of the kind. In other words, try again!”

“Yes, that is rather a nuisance,” said Roger thoughtfully. “I was
forgetting that.”

“I thought you were,” remarked Alec unkindly.

Roger pondered. “This is very dark and difficult,” he said at length,
dropping the pontifical manner he had assumed. “As far as I can see
it’s the only reasonable theory that the second shot was fired by old
Stanworth. The only other alternative is that it was fired by somebody
else, who happened to be standing in a direct line with Stanworth and
the vase and who was using a revolver of the same, or nearly the same,
calibre as Stanworth’s. That doesn’t seem very likely on the face of
it, does it?”

“But more so than that it was a shot from Stanworth’s revolver which
was never fired at all,” Alec commented dryly.

“Well, why did the inspector say that only one shot had been fired
from that revolver?” Roger asked. “Because there was only one empty
shell. But mark this. He mentioned at the same time that the revolver
wasn’t fully loaded. Now, wouldn’t it have been possible for Stanworth
to have fired that shot and then for some reason or other (Heaven
knows what!) to have extracted the shell?”

“It would, I suppose; yes. But in that case wouldn’t you expect to
find the shell somewhere in the room?”

“Well, it may be there. We haven’t looked for it yet. Anyhow, we can’t
get away from the fact that in all probability Stanworth did fire that
other shot. Now why did he fire it?”

“Search me!” said Alec laconically.

“I think we can rule out the idea that he was just taking a pot-shot
at the vase out of sheer _joie de vivre_, or that he was trying to
shoot himself and was such a bad shot that he hit something in the
exact opposite direction.”

“Yes, I think we might rule those out,” said Alec cautiously.

“Well, then, Stanworth was firing with an object. What at? Obviously
some other person. So Stanworth was not alone in the library last
night, after all! We’re getting on, aren’t we?”

“A jolly sight too fast,” Alec grumbled. “You don’t even know for
anything like certain that the second shot was fired last night at
all, and——”

“Oh, yes, I do, friend Alec. The vase was broken last night.”

“Well, in any case, you don’t know that Stanworth fired it. And here
you are already inventing somebody else for him to shoot at? It’s too
rapid for me.”

“Alec, you are Scotch, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing; except that your bump of native caution seems to be
remarkably well developed. Try and get over it. I’ll take the plunges;
you follow. Where had we got to? Oh, yes; Stanworth was not alone in
the library last night. Now, then, what does that give us?”

“Heaven only knows what it won’t give you,” murmured Alec
despairingly.

“I know what it’s going to give you,” retorted Roger complacently,
“and that’s a shock. It’s my firm impression that old Stanworth never
committed suicide at all last night.”

“What?” Alec gasped. “What on earth do you mean?”

“That he was murdered!”

Alec lowered his pipe and stared with incredulous eyes at his
companion.

“My dear old chap,” he said after a little pause, “have you gone
suddenly quite daft?”

“On the contrary,” replied Roger calmly, “I was never so remarkably
sane in my life.”

“But—but how could he possibly have been murdered? The windows all
fastened and the door locked on the inside, with the key in the lock
as well! And, good Lord, his own statement sitting on the table in
front of him! Roger, my dear old chap, you’re mad.”

“To say nothing of the fact that his grip on the revolver was—what did
the doctor call it? Oh, yes; properly adjusted, and must have been
applied during life. Yes, there are certainly difficulties, Alec, I
grant you.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “This affair’s gone to your
head,” he said shortly. “Talk about making mountains out of molehills!
Good Lord! You’re making a whole range of them out of a single
worm-cast.”

“Very prettily put, Alec,” Roger commented approvingly. “Perhaps I am.
But my impression is that old Stanworth was murdered. I might be
wrong, of course,” he added candidly. “But I very seldom am.”

“But dash it all, the thing’s out of the question! You’re going the
wrong way round once more. Even if there was a second man in the
library last night—which I very much doubt!—you can’t get away from
the fact that he must have gone before Stanworth locked himself in
like that. That being the case, we get back to suicide again. You
can’t have it both ways, you know. I’m not saying that this mythical
person may not have put pressure of some sort on Stanworth (that is,
if he ever existed at all) and forced him to commit suicide. But as
for murder——! Why, the idea’s too dashed silly for words!” Alec was
getting quite heated at this insult to his logic.

Roger was unperturbed. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I had an idea it
would be a bit of a shock to you. But to tell you the truth I was a
bit suspicious about this suicide business almost from the very first.
I couldn’t get over the place of the wound, you know. And then all the
rest of it, windows and door and confession and what not—well, instead
of reassuring me, they made me more suspicious still. I couldn’t help
feeling more and more that it was a case of _Qui s’excuse, s’accuse_.
Or to put it in another way, that the whole scene looked like a stage
very carefully arranged for the second act after all the débris of the
first act had been cleared away. Foolish of me, no doubt, but that’s
what I felt.”

Alec snorted. “Foolish! That’s putting it mildly.”

“Don’t be so harsh with me, Alec,” Roger pleaded. “I think I’m being
rather brilliant.”

“You always were a chap to let things run away with you,” Alec
grunted. “Just because a couple of people act a little queerly and a
couple more don’t look as mournful as you think they ought, you dash
off and rake up a little murder all to yourself. Going to tell the
inspector about this wonderful idea of yours?”

“No, I’m not,” said Roger with decision. “This is my little murder, as
you’re good enough to call it, and I’m not going to be done out of it.
When I’ve got as far as I can, then I’ll think about telling the
police or not.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re not going to make a fool of yourself to
that extent,” said Alec with relief.

“You wait, Alexander,” Roger admonished. “You may make a mock of me
now, if you like——”

“Thanks!” Alec put in gratefully.

“—but if my luck holds, I’m going to make you sit up and take notice.”

“Then perhaps you’ll begin by explaining how this excellent murderer
of yours managed to get away from the room and leave everything locked
on the inside behind him,” said Alec sarcastically. “He didn’t happen
to be a magician in a small way, did he? Then you could let him out
through the key-hole, you know.”

Roger shook his head sadly. “My dear but simple-minded Alexander, I
can give you a perfectly reasonable explanation of how that murder
might have been committed last night, and yet leave all these doors
and windows of yours securely fastened on the inside this morning.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” said Alec derisively. “Well, let’s have it.”

“Certainly. The murderer was still inside when we broke in, concealed
somewhere where nobody thought of looking.”

Alec started. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Of course we never searched
the place. So you think he was really there the whole time?”

“On the contrary,” Roger smiled gently, “I know he wasn’t, for the
simple reason that there was no place for him to hide in. But you
asked for an explanation, and I gave you one.”

Alec snorted again, but with rather less confidence this time. Roger’s
glib smoothing away of the impossible had been a little unexpected. He
tried a new tack.

“Well, what about motive?” he asked. “You can’t have a murder without
motive, you know. What on earth could have been the motive for
murdering poor old Stanworth?”

“Robbery!” returned Roger promptly. “That’s one of the things that put
me on the idea of murder. That safe’s been opened, or I’m a Dutchman.
You remember what I said about the keys. I shouldn’t be surprised if
Stanworth kept a large sum of money and other negotiable valuables in
there. That’s what the murderer was after. And so you’ll see, when the
safe is opened this afternoon.”

Alec grunted. It was clear that, if not convinced, he was at any rate
impressed. Roger was so specious and so obviously sure himself of
being on the right track, that even a greater sceptic than Alec might
have been forgiven for beginning to doubt the meaning of apparently
plain facts.

“Hullo!” said Roger suddenly. “Isn’t that the lunch bell? We’d better
nip in and wash. Not a word of this to anyone, of course.”

They rose and began to saunter towards the house. Suddenly Alec
stopped and smote his companion on the shoulder.

“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “Both of us! We’d forgotten all about the
confession. At any rate, you can’t get away from that.”

“Ah, yes,” said Roger thoughtfully. “There’s that confession, isn’t
there? But no; I hadn’t forgotten that by any means, Alexander.”



Chapter IX

Mr. Sheringham Sees Visions

They entered the house by the front door, which always stood open
whenever a party was in progress. The unspoken thought was in the
minds of both that they preferred not to pass through the library.
Alec hurried upstairs at once. Roger, noticing that the butler was in
the act of sorting the second post and arranging it upon the hall
table, lingered to see if there was a letter for him.

The butler, observing his action, shook his head. “Nothing for you,
sir. Very small post, indeed.” He glanced through the letters he still
held in his hand. “Major Jefferson, Miss Shannon, Mrs. Plant. No, sir.
Nothing else.”

“Thank you, Graves,” said Roger, and followed in Alec’s wake.

Lunch was a silent meal, and the atmosphere was not a little
constrained. Nobody liked to mention the subject which was uppermost
in the minds of all; and to speak of anything else seemed out of
place. What little conversation there was concerned only the questions
of packing and trains. Mrs. Plant, who appeared a little late for the
meal but seemed altogether to have regained her mental poise after her
strange behaviour in the morning, was to leave a little after five.
This would give her time, she explained, to wait for the safe to be
opened so that she could recover her jewels. Roger, pondering
furiously over the matter-of-fact air with which she made this
statement and trying to reconcile it with the conclusions at which he
had already arrived regarding her, was forced to admit himself
completely at sea again, in this respect at any rate.

And this was not the only thing that perplexed him. Major Jefferson,
who had appeared during the earlier part of the morning subdued to the
point of gloominess, now wore an air of quiet satisfaction which Roger
found extremely difficult to explain. Assuming that Jefferson had been
extremely anxious that the police should not be the first persons to
open the safe—and that was the only conclusion which Roger could draw
from what had already transpired—what could have occurred in the
meantime to have raised his spirits to this extent? Visions of
duplicate keys and opportunities in the empty library which he himself
ought to have been on hand to prevent, flashed, in rapid succession,
across Roger’s mind. Yet the only possible time in which he had not
been either inside the library or overlooking it were the very few
minutes while he was washing his hands upstairs before lunch; and it
seemed hardly probable that Jefferson would have had the nerve to
utilise them in order to carry out what was in effect a minor
burglary, and that with the possibility of being interrupted at any
minute. It is true that he had come in very late for lunch (several
minutes after Mrs. Plant, in fact); but Roger could not think this
theory in the least degree probable.

Yet the remarkable fact remained that the two persons who appeared to
have been most concerned about the safe and its puzzling contents were
now not only not in the least concerned at the prospect of its
immediate official opening, but actually quietly jubilant. Or so, at
any rate, it seemed to the baffled Roger. Taking it all round, Roger
was not sorry that lunch was such a quiet meal. He found that he had
quite a lot of thinking to do.

In this respect he was no less busy when lunch was over. Alec
disappeared directly after the meal, and as Barbara disappeared at the
same time, Roger was glad to find one problem at least that did not
seem to be beyond the scope of his deductive powers. He solved it with
some satisfaction and, by looking at his watch, was able to arrive at
the conclusion that he would have at least half an hour to himself
before his fellow-sleuth would be ready for the trail again. Somewhat
thankfully he betook himself to the friendly cedar once more, and lit
his pipe preparatory to embarking upon the most concentrated spell of
hard thinking he had ever faced in his life.

For in spite of the confidence he had shown to Alec, Roger was in
reality groping entirely in the dark. The suggestion of murder, which
he had advanced with such assurance, had appeared to him at the time
not a little far-fetched; and the fact that he had put it forward at
all was due as much as anything to the overwhelming desire to startle
the stolid Alec out of some of his complacency. Several times Roger
had found himself on the verge of becoming really exasperated with
Alec that morning. He was not usually so slow in the uptake, almost
dull, as he had been in this affair; yet just now, when Roger was
secretly not a little pleased with himself, all he had done was to
throw cold water upon everything. It was a useful check to his own
exuberance, no doubt; but Roger could wish that his audience, limited
by necessity to so small a number, had been a somewhat more
appreciative one.

His thoughts returned to the question of murder. Was it so
far-fetched, after all? He had been faintly suspicious even before his
discovery of the broken vase and that mysterious second shot. Now he
was very much more so. Only suspicious, it is true; there was no room
as yet for conviction. But suspicion was very strong.

He tried to picture the scene that might have taken place in the
library. Old Stanworth, sitting at his table with, possibly, the
French windows open, suddenly surprised by the entrance of some
unexpected visitor. The visitor either demands money or attacks at
once. Stanworth whips a revolver out of the drawer at his side and
fires, missing the intruder but hitting the vase. And then—what?

Presumably the two would close then and fight it out in silence. But
there had been no signs of a struggle when they broke in, nothing but
that still figure lying so calmly in his chair. Still, did that matter
very much? If the unknown could collect those fragments of vase so
carefully in order to conceal any trace of his presence, he could
presumably clear away any evidence of a struggle. But before that
there was that blank wall to be surmounted—how did the struggle end?

Roger closed his eyes and gave his imagination full rein. He saw
Stanworth, the revolver still in his hand, swaying backwards and
forwards in the grip of his adversary. He saw the latter (a big
powerful man, as he pictured him) clasp Stanworth’s wrist to prevent
him pointing the revolver at himself. There had been a scratch on the
dead man’s wrist, now he came to think of it; could this be how he had
acquired it? He saw the intruder’s other hand dart to his pocket and
pull out his own revolver. And then——!

Roger slapped his knee in his excitement. Then, of course, the unknown
had simply clapped his revolver to Stanworth’s forehead and pulled the
trigger!

He leant back in his chair and smoked furiously. Yes, if there had
been a murder, that must have been how it was committed. And that
accounted for three, at any rate, of the puzzling circumstances—the
place of the wound, the fact that only one empty shell had been found
in Stanworth’s revolver although two shots had been fired that night,
and the fact of the dead man’s grip upon the revolver being properly
adjusted. It was only conjecture, of course, but it seemed remarkably
convincing conjecture.

Yet was it not more than counterbalanced by the facts that still
remained? That the windows and door could be fastened, as they
certainly had been, appeared to argue irresistibly that the midnight
visitor had left the library while Mr. Stanworth was still alive. The
confession, signed with his own hand, pointed equally positively to
suicide. Could there be any way of explaining these two things so as
to bring them into line with the rest? If not, this brilliant
theorising must fall to the ground.

Shelving the problem of the visitor’s exit for the time being, Roger
began to puzzle over that laconically worded document.

During the next quarter of an hour Roger himself might have presented
a problem to an acute observer, had there been one about, which,
though not very difficult of solution, was nevertheless not entirely
without interest. To smoke furiously, with one’s pipe in full blast,
betokens no small a degree of mental excitement; to sit like a stone
image and allow that same pipe to go out in one’s mouth is evidence of
still greater prepossession; but what are we to say of a man who,
after passing through these successive stages, smokes away equally
furiously at a perfectly cold pipe under the obvious impression that
it is in as full blast as before? And that is what Roger was doing for
fully three minutes before he finally jumped suddenly to his feet and
hurried off once again to that happy hunting ground of his, the
library.

There Alec found him twenty minutes later, when the car had departed
irrevocably for the station. A decidedly more cheerful Alec than that
of the morning, one might note in passing; and not looking in the
least like a young man who has just parted with his lady for a whole
month. It is a reasonable assumption that Alec had not been wasting
the last half hour.

“Still at it?” he grinned from the doorway. “I had a sort of idea I
should find you here.”

Roger was a-quiver with excitement. He scrambled up from his knees
beside the waste-paper basket, into which he had been peering, and
flourished a piece of paper in the other’s face.

“I’m on the track!” he exclaimed. “I’m on the track, Alexander, in
spite of your miserable sneers. Nobody around, is there?”

Alec shook his head. “Well? What have you discovered now?” he asked
tolerantly.

Roger gripped his arm and drew him towards the writing table. With an
eager finger he stubbed at the blotter.

“See that?” he demanded.

Alec bent and scrutinised the blotter attentively. Just in front of
Roger’s finger were a number of short lines not more than an inch or
so long. The ones at the left-hand end were little more than scratches
on the surface, not inked at all; those in the middle bore faint
traces of ink; while towards the right end the ink was bold and the
lines thick and decided. Beyond these were a few circular blots of
ink. Apart from these markings, the sheet of white blotting paper,
clearly fresh within the last day or two, had scarcely been used.

“Well?” said Roger triumphantly. “Make anything of it?”

“Nothing in particular,” Alec confessed, straightening up again. “I
should say that somebody had been cleaning his pen on it.”

“In that case,” Roger returned with complacency, “it would become my
painful duty to inform you that you were completely wrong.”

“Why? I don’t see it.”

“Then look again. If he had been cleaning his pen, Alexander Watson,
the change from ink to the lack of it would surely be from left to
right, wouldn’t it? Not from right to left?”

“Would it? He might have moved from right to left.”

“It isn’t natural. Besides, look at these little strokes. Nearly all
of them have a slight curve in the tail towards the right. That means
they must have been made from left to right. Guess again.”

“Oh, well, let’s try the reverse,” said Alec, nettled into irony. “He
wasn’t cleaning his pen at all; he was dirtying it.”

“Meaning that he had dipped it in the ink and was just trying it out?
Nearer. But take another look, especially at this left-hand end. Don’t
you see where the nib has split in the centre to make these two
parallel furrows? Well, just observe not only how far apart those
furrows are, but also the fact that, though pretty deep, there isn’t a
sign of a scratch. Now, then, what does all that tell you? There’s
only one sort of pen that could have made those marks, and the answer
to that tells you what the marks are.”

Alec pondered dutifully. “A fountain pen! And he was trying to make it
write.”

“Wonderful! Alec, I can see you’re going to be a tremendous help in
this little game.”

“Well, I don’t see anything to make such a fuss about, even if they
were made by a fountain pen. I mean, it doesn’t seem to take us any
forrader.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Roger had an excellent though somewhat irritating
sense of the dramatic. He paused impressively.

“Well?” asked Alec impatiently. “You’ve got something up your sleeve,
I know, and you’re aching to get it out. Let’s have it. What do these
wonderful marks of yours show you?”

“Simply that the confession is a fake,” retorted Roger happily. “And
now let’s go out in the garden.”

He turned on his heel and walked rapidly out on to the sun-drenched
lawn. One must admit that Roger had his annoying moments.

The justly exasperated Alec trotted after him. “Talk about Sherlock
Holmes!” he growled, as he caught him up. “You’re every bit as
maddening yourself. Why can’t you tell me all about it straight out if
you really have discovered something, instead of beating about the
bush like this?”

“But I have told you, Alexander,” said Roger, with an air of bland
innocence. “That confession is a fake.”

“But _why_?”

Roger hooked his arm through that of the other and piloted him in the
direction of the rose garden.

“I want to stick around here,” he explained, “so as to see the
inspector when he comes up the drive. I’m not going to miss the
opening of that safe for anything.”

“Why do you think that confession’s a fake?” repeated Alec doggedly.

“That’s better, Alexander,” commented Roger approvingly. “You seem to
be showing a little interest in my discoveries at last. You haven’t
been at all a good Watson up to now, you know. It’s your business to
be thrilled to the core whenever I announce a farther step forward.
You’re a rotten thriller, Alec.”

A slight smile appeared on Alec’s face. “You do all the thrilling
needed yourself, I fancy. Besides, old Holmes went a bit slower than
you. He didn’t jump to conclusions all in a minute, and I doubt if
ever he was as darned pleased with himself all the time as you are.”

“Don’t be harsh with me, Alec,” Roger murmured.

“I admit you haven’t done so badly so far,” Alec pursued candidly;
“though when all’s said and done most of it’s guesswork. But if I
grovelled in front of you, as you seem to want, and kept telling you
what a dashed fine fellow you are, you’d probably have arrested
Jefferson and Mrs. Plant by this time, and had Lady Stanworth
committed for contempt of court or something.” He paused and
considered. “In fact, what you want, old son,” he concluded weightily,
“is a brake, not a blessed accelerator.”

“I’m sorry,” Roger said with humility. “I’ll remember in future. But
if you won’t compliment me, at least let me compliment you. You’re a
jolly good brake.”

“And after that, Detective Sheringham, perhaps you’ll kindly tell me
how you deduce that the confession is a fake from the fact that old
Stanworth’s pen wouldn’t write.”

Roger’s air changed and his face became serious.

“Yes, this really is rather important. It clinches the fact of murder,
which was certainly a shot in the dark of mine before. Here’s the
thing that gives it away.”

He produced from his pocket the piece of paper which he had waved in
Alec’s face in the library and, unfolding it carefully, handed it to
the other. Alec looked at it attentively. It bore numerous irregular
folds, as if it had been considerably crumpled, and in the centre,
somewhat smudged, were the words “Victor St——,” culminating in a large
blot. The writing was very thickly marked. The right-hand side of the
paper was spattered with a veritable shower of blots. Beyond these
there was nothing upon its surface.

“Humph!” observed Alec, handing it back. “Well, what do you make of
it?”

“I think it’s pretty simple,” Roger said, folding the paper and
stowing it carefully away again. “Stanworth had just filled his
fountain pen, or it wouldn’t work or something. You know what one does
with a fountain pen that doesn’t want to write. Make scratches on the
nearest piece of paper, and as soon as the ink begins to flow——”

“Sign one’s name!” Alec broke in, with the nearest approach to
excitement that he had yet shown.

“Precisely! On the blotting pad are the preliminary scratches to bring
the ink down the pen. What happens in nine cases out of ten after
that? The ink flows too freely and the pen floods. This bit of paper
shows that it happened in this case, too. Stanworth was rather an
impatient sort of man, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose he was. Fairly.”

“Well, the scene’s easy enough to reconstruct. He tries the pen out on
the blotting pad. As soon as it begins to write he grabs a sheet from
the top of that pile of fellow-sheets on his desk (did you notice
them, by the way?) and signs his name. Then the pen floods, and he
shakes it violently, crumples up the sheet of paper, throws it into
the waste-paper basket and takes another. This time the pen, after
losing so much ink in blots, is a little faint at first; so he only
gets as far as the C in Victor before starting again, just below the
last attempt. Then at last it writes all right, and his signature is
completed, with the usual flourish. He picks up the piece of paper,
crumples it slightly, but not so violently as before, and throws it
also into the waste-paper basket. How’s that?”

“That all seems feasible enough. What next?”

“Why, the murderer, setting the room to rights afterwards, thinks he’d
better have a look in the basket. The first thing he spots is that
piece of paper. ‘Aha!’ he thinks. ‘The very thing I wanted to put a
finishing touch to the affair!’ Smoothes it carefully out, puts it in
the typewriter and types those few words above the signature. What
could be simpler?”

“By Jove, I wonder! It’s jolly ingenious.”

Roger’s eyes were sparkling. “Ingenious? Yes; but in its very
simplicity. Oh, that’s what happened, sure enough. There’s plenty of
corroboration, when you come to think of it. The way the whole thing’s
got into the top half of the sheet of paper, for instance. That isn’t
natural, really, is it? It ought to be in the middle, with the
signature about two thirds down. And why isn’t it? Because the
signature was in the middle already, and the fellow had to work
upwards from that.”

“I believe you must be right,” Alec said slowly.

“Well, don’t be so grudging about it. Of course I’m right! As a matter
of fact, those scratches on the blotting paper gave me the idea as
soon as I saw them. I’d been puzzling after a way of getting round
that confession. But when I found that second sheet in the waste-paper
basket of course the thing was as plain as a pikestaff. That was a bad
blunder of his, by the way; not to look through the rest of the
basket’s contents.”

“Yes,” Alec agreed seriously. “And supposing the inspector had found
it. It might have given him something to think about, mightn’t it?”

“It might and it mightn’t. Of course from the inspector’s point of
view there’s been nothing to afford the least question as to the plain
fact of suicide; except the absence of motive, of course, and that’s
really nothing, after all. He hasn’t had his suspicions aroused more
or less by accident, as it were, like we have.”

“We’ve had the luck, all right,” Alec remarked, possibly in his rôle
of brake.

“Undoubtedly, but we haven’t let it lie about untouched,” Roger said
complacently. “In fact, I think we’ve done very well indeed up to
now,” he added candidly. “I don’t see how we could have done more, do
you?”

“No, I’m dashed if I do,” said Alec with decision.

“But there’s one thing needed to round it off nicely.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“To find the murderer,” Roger replied calmly.



Chapter X

Mrs. Plant is Apprehensive

“Great Scott!” Alec exclaimed, considerably startled. “Find the
murderer?”

Roger seemed pleased with the impression he had made. “Naturally. What
else? It’s the logical sequel to what we’ve already done, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Alec hesitated, “if you put it like that. But——
Well, we seem to be getting on so jolly fast. I mean, it’s rather
difficult to realise that a murder’s been committed at all. It all
seems so impossible, you know.”

“That’s simply because it’s something foreign to your usual experience
of life,” Roger said thoughtfully. “I admit that it is a bit of a
shock at first to face the fact that Stanworth was murdered instead of
committing suicide. But that’s not because there’s anything inherently
improbable about murder itself. Murder’s a common enough event if it
comes to that. But it doesn’t generally take place among the circle of
one’s immediate friends; that’s the trouble. Anyhow, there’s no
getting over it in this case. If ever a man was murdered, Stanworth
was. And very cleverly murdered, too. I tell you, Alec, it’s no
ordinary criminal we’re after. It’s an extraordinarily cool, brainy,
and calculating sort of person indeed.”

“Calculating?” Alec repeated. “Then do you think it was premeditated?”

“Impossible to say, as yet. But I should certainly imagine so. It
looks as if it had been very carefully thought out beforehand, doesn’t
it?”

“There doesn’t seem to have been much left to chance,” Alec agreed.

“And look at the deliberation of the fellow. Fancy stopping to collect
those bits of vase and cover up the traces of that second shot like
that! He must have some nerve. Yes, it certainly looks more and more
as if it was a prearranged thing. I don’t say for last night in
particular; that may only have been a favourable opportunity which the
chap was quick to seize. But I do think that he’d made up his mind to
kill Stanworth some time or other.”

“You think it was somebody Stanworth knew, then?”

“Oh, there’s not much doubt about that. And somebody he was vastly
afraid of, too, I should imagine. Why else should he keep a revolver
so handy, if he wasn’t expecting something of the kind? Yes, that’s
the line we ought to go on—see if we can discover whether there was
anybody among his acquaintances of whom Stanworth was thoroughly
frightened. If we can only find that out, and the name of the person
as well, the odds are ten to one that we shall have solved the mystery
of the murderer’s identity.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” said Alec with interest. “Got any
theory of how it was done?”

Roger beamed. “I believe I can tell you exactly how it was done,” he
said, not without pride. “Listen!”

He recounted at some length the results of his after-lunch meditations
and explained the reasons upon which his conclusions had been based.
It took the two of them several circuits of the rose garden before the
recital was completed, and then Roger turned expectantly to his
companion.

“You see?” he concluded eagerly. “That accounts for everything except
the facts of the confession and the murderer’s escape from the
library. Now I’ve cleared up the confession, and we’ve only got one
difficulty to get over. What do you think of it?”

“Humph!” observed Alec cautiously. He paused, and it was evident that
he was thinking deeply.

“Well?” asked Roger impatiently.

“There’s one thing I don’t quite see,” Alec said slowly. “According to
you the shot that killed Stanworth was fired from the other man’s
revolver. Then how is it that the bullet they took out of his head
fitted the empty shell in his _own_ revolver?”

Roger’s face fell. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “That never occurred to me.”

“I thought it couldn’t have,” said Alec complacently. “That rather
knocks your theory on the head, doesn’t it?”

“It’s one to you, Watson, certainly,” Roger smiled a little ruefully.

“Ah!” observed Alec deeply. He was evidently not going to spoil the
impression he had just made by any rash remarks. Alec was one of those
fortunate people who know just when to stop.

“Still, after all,” Roger said slowly, “that’s only a matter of
detail, isn’t it? My version of how it happened may be quite wrong.
But that doesn’t affect the main issue, which is that it _was_ done.”

“In other words, the fact of murder is definitely established, you
think, although you don’t know how it was carried out?” Alec asked
thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Humph! And do you still think the motive was robbery?”

“I do. And—— By Jove!” Roger stopped suddenly in his stride and turned
exultantly to his companion. “That may account for Mrs. Plant, too!”

“What about Mrs. Plant?”

“Well, didn’t you notice her at lunch? She was as cheerful and
unconcerned as anything. Rather a change from the very perturbed
person we surprised at the safe this morning, wasn’t it? And on the
face of it you’d have expected her to be still more worried, with the
prospect of the opening of the safe this afternoon and the proving of
her little story to us to be false. But was she? Not a bit of it. She
looked as if she hadn’t a trouble in the world. You must have noticed
it.”

“Yes, I did, now you come to mention it. I thought she must be
acting.”

“Mrs. Plant wasn’t acting at lunch any more than she was telling the
truth to us this morning,” said Roger with conviction. “And why wasn’t
she? Because for some mysterious reason or other she had no need to
be. In other words, she knew that when the safe was opened this
afternoon, everything would be all right as far as she was concerned.”

“How on earth did she know that?”

“I wish I could tell you. But consider. If the safe had been robbed
last night, Mrs. Plant’s jewels would have disappeared with the other
valuables, wouldn’t they? That is, assuming that they had ever been
there. Well, there’s her answer to us. ‘Oh, yes, my jewels _were_
there, and that’s why I wanted to get at the safe; but they’ve been
stolen with everything else, and that’s why they’re not there now.’
See?”

“Yes, but what I want to know is, how did she find out that the safe
had been robbed and her story to us would hold water after all?”

“And that’s exactly what I want to know, too, my excellent Alec. If we
only knew that, we should have advanced a long way to the solution of
the mystery. All that we can say definitely is that, some time between
our finding her in the library and lunch time, information must have
reached her about what happened to the safe last night. It seems to me
that Mrs. Plant is going to find herself in a very awkward position
rather soon.”

“But why do you think Mrs. Plant wanted to open the safe this morning,
if there’s no truth in her tale?”

“Obviously there must have been something inside that she badly wanted
to get hold of. Equally obviously she now either has got hold of it,
or knows that it’s in safe keeping. And then we get back to Jefferson
again. He’s been going through exactly the same sequence of emotions
as Mrs. Plant. What do you make of that?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that Jefferson and Mrs. Plant are in
league together, are you?”

“What other conclusion is there? They’re both anxious to get something
out of that safe before the police open it, and they’re both palpably
worried to death over something. Yet at one o’clock they’re both
smiling away to themselves as if a tremendous load had been taken off
their minds. I’m afraid that they’re not only in league with each
other, but with a mysterious third person as well. How else can you
account for their behaviour?”

“Good Lord! You don’t mean that they’re acting with—with the murderer,
do you?”

“It looks to me uncommonly like it,” said Roger gravely. “After all,
he’s the only person, so far as we know, who could have enlightened
them about the safe.”

“But it’s out of the question!” Alec burst out impulsively.
“Jefferson—I don’t know anything about him, though I should certainly
have set him down as quite a decent fellow and a sahib, even if he is
a bit reserved. But Mrs. Plant! My dear chap, you’re absolutely off
the rails there. Of all the obviously straightforward and honest
people in the world, I should have said that Mrs. Plant was the most.
Oh, you _must_ be on the wrong tack!”

“I only wish I were,” Roger returned seriously. “Three hours ago I
should have said that the idea of Mrs. Plant being mixed up in a
murder was not only unthinkable, but ludicrous. I’ve always thought
her a charming woman, and, as you say, absolutely sincere. Certainly
not a happy woman (one doesn’t know anything about that husband of
hers, by the way; he may be a bad egg); in fact, a woman with a good
deal of sorrow in her life, I should say. But absolutely as straight
as a die. Yet what can one think now? Facts speak louder than
opinions. And the facts are only too plain.”

“I don’t care,” said Alec obstinately. “If you’re trying to mix Mrs.
Plant up in this affair, you’re making a hopeless mistake, Roger.
That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“I hope you’re right, Alec,” Roger said dryly. “By the way, I think I
want to have a word with the lady. Oh, I’m not going to tax her with
the murder or anything,” he added with a smile, observing the look on
Alec’s face. “But I think she said at lunch that she was expecting to
leave here this afternoon. Of course that’s out of the question. She
was the last person to see Stanworth alive, and she’ll be wanted to
give evidence at the inquest. The inspector must have forgotten to
tell her. Let’s go and see what she’s got to say about it.”

Somewhat unwillingly Alec accompanied Roger on his quest. He did not
attempt to make any secret of his distaste for this aspect of his new
rôle. To hunt down a man who deserves no mercy and expects none is one
thing; to hunt down a charming lady is very much another.

Mrs. Plant was sitting in a garden chair on a shady part of the lawn.
There was a book in her lap, but she was staring abstractedly at the
grass before her and her thoughts were evidently very far away.
Hearing their footsteps she glanced up quickly and greeted the two
with her usual quiet, rather sad smile.

“Have you come to tell me that Inspector Mansfield has arrived?” she
asked, perfectly naturally.

Roger threw himself casually on the ground just in front of her.

“No, he hasn’t come yet,” he replied easily. “Very hot out here, isn’t
it?”

“I suppose it is. But the heat doesn’t worry me, I’m glad to say. I
had enough of it in the Soudan to inure me to anything that this
country can produce.”

“You’re lucky then. Alec, why on earth don’t you lie down and be
comfortable? Never stand up when you can sit down instead. By the way,
Mrs. Plant, I suppose you’ll be staying over for the inquest
to-morrow, won’t you?”

“Oh, no. I shall be off this afternoon, Mr. Sheringham.”

Roger glanced up. “But surely you’ll be wanted to give evidence? You
were the last person to see him alive, weren’t you? In the hall, you
know?”

“Oh, I—I don’t think I shall be needed, shall I?” Mrs. Plant asked
apprehensively, paling slightly. “The inspector didn’t—he didn’t say
anything about it.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know then that you were the last person,” said
Roger carelessly, but watching her narrowly. “And afterwards he must
have forgotten to warn you; or else he was intending to do so this
afternoon. But they’re certain to need you, you know.”

It was very clear that this piece of news was highly unwelcome. Mrs.
Plant’s hand was trembling in her lap, and she was biting her lip in
an effort to retain her self-control.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, in a voice that she strove
desperately to render unconcerned. “But I haven’t got anything of—of
any importance to tell, you know.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Roger said reassuringly. “It’s only a matter
of form, you know. You’ll just have to repeat what you told the
inspector this morning.”

“Will they—— Are they likely to ask me any questions, Mr. Sheringham?”
Mrs. Plant asked, with a little laugh.

“Oh, they may ask you one or two, perhaps. Nothing very dreadful.”

“I see. What sort of questions, would you imagine?”

“About Mr. Stanworth’s manner, probably. Whether he was cheerful, and
all that. And of course they’ll want to know what he spoke to you
about.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Mrs. Plant replied quickly. “Just about—— Oh,
nothing of any importance whatever. Er—you will be giving evidence,
too, won’t you, Mr. Sheringham?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Only the white knuckles of her clenched hand gave any hint of Mrs.
Plant’s feelings as she asked lightly enough, “And you’re not going to
give me away over that absurd panic of mine about my jewels this
morning, are you? You promised, didn’t you?”

“Of course not!” said Roger easily. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Not even if they ask you?” Mrs. Plant persisted, with a nervous
little laugh.

“How could they ask me?” Roger smiled. “Nobody knows anything about it
except us three. Besides, I shouldn’t think of giving you away.”

“Nor you, Mr. Grierson?” she asked, turning to Alec.

Alec flushed slightly. “Naturally not,” he said awkwardly.

Mrs. Plant fumbled with the handkerchief in her hand and
surreptitiously wiped her mouth.

“Thank you so much, both of you,” she said in a low voice.

Roger jumped suddenly to his feet.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, putting an end to a difficult pause. “Isn’t
that the inspector just going up to the front door? Let’s go in and
watch the safe being opened, shall we?”



Chapter XI

Lady Stanworth Exchanges Glances

Leaving Alec to accompany Mrs. Plant to the house, Roger hurried on
ahead with a muttered excuse. He was anxious not to miss a moment of
the highly significant scene which was about to take place. As he
reached the hall, Jefferson was in the act of greeting the perspiring
inspector.

“I’m sorry you have had all this trouble, Inspector,” he was saying.
“It’s too bad on a day like this.”

“It is a bit warm, sir,” the inspector admitted, mopping vigorously.

“I should have thought they might have provided you with a car or
something. Hullo, Sheringham. Come to see the safe opened?”

“If the inspector has no objections,” Roger said.

“Me, sir? Not in the least. In fact, I think everybody concerned ought
to be present. Not that I really expect to find anything particularly
important, but you never know, do you?”

“Never,” said Roger gravely.

“Well, Lady Stanworth will be down in a minute, no doubt,” Jefferson
remarked; “and then we can see to it. You had no difficulty in getting
the combination, Inspector?”

“None at all, sir. It was only a question of ringing up the makers.
Whew! It _is_ hot!”

Roger had been watching Jefferson carefully. There was no doubt that,
whatever his feelings about the opening of the safe had been in the
morning, he was now quite unperturbed. Roger was more convinced than
ever that something of the first importance must have occurred to
effect this radical change.

A slow tread overhead caused him to look up. Lady Stanworth was
descending the stairs.

“Ah, here is Lady Stanworth,” the inspector observed, with a slight
bow.

Lady Stanworth inclined her head coldly. “You wish me to be present at
this formality, Inspector?” she asked distantly.

The inspector looked slightly taken aback.

“Well, I think it would be better, my lady,” he replied, a trifle
deprecatingly. “As the only surviving relative of the deceased’s, you
know. But of course if you have any——”

“I was not a relative of Mr. Stanworth’s,” Lady Stanworth interrupted
in the same tone. “I thought I had made that clear to you this
morning. He was my brother-in-law.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the inspector apologetically. “I should
perhaps have said _connection_. It is usual for the nearest connection
to be present when——”

“I ought to have warned you, perhaps, Lady Stanworth,” Jefferson put
in evenly. “But, unfortunately, I have not seen you to do so since
before lunch; and I did not care to take the responsibility of
disturbing you. The opening of the safe is, after all, a mere
formality; and both the inspector and myself have no doubt that
nothing of any importance will be found. Nothing whatever.”

Lady Stanworth looked hard at the last speaker for a moment, and when
she spoke again the former coldness of her tone had completely
disappeared.

“Of course I will come if you think it better, Inspector,” she said
graciously. “There is really no reason whatever why I should not do
so.” And without more ado she led the way towards the library.

Roger brought up the rear of the little party. He was thinking
furiously. He had watched the little exchange that had just taken
place with feelings almost of bewilderment. It was so unlike Lady
Stanworth to go out of her way to snub the poor inspector in that
highly unnecessary manner. Why had she done so? And why had she been
so very much on the high horse with regard to the opening of the safe?
It seemed almost as if she had been really apprehensive of something,
and had adopted this attitude in order to cloak her actual feelings.
But if that were the case, what earthly reason could she have for
apprehension? Roger asked himself despairingly.

Yet her sudden change of manner was no less remarkable. As soon as
Jefferson had spoken, she had become as gracious as ever and all
objections had been abruptly dropped. What was it Jefferson had said?
Something about nothing of importance being found in the safe. Ah,
yes. “Both the inspector and myself have no doubt that nothing of
importance will be found.” And myself! Now he came to think of it,
Jefferson had certainly stressed those two words a little. Could it be
that he had conveyed some kind of warning to her? Information of some
sort? And if so, what? Obviously the same information that he and Mrs.
Plant had received during the morning. Was it possible then that Lady
Stanworth herself could be in league with Mrs. Plant and Jefferson?
Surely this was making things altogether too complicated. Yet he could
take his oath that _something_ had passed between those two before
Lady Stanworth finally descended the last few stairs so amicably.

Thus the gist of the thoughts that whirled confusedly through Roger’s
brain during the few seconds occupied by the journey to the library.
As he passed the threshold he raised his eyebrows in mock despair and,
shelving this fresh problem for the time being, prepared to give all
his attention to present events.

Mrs. Plant and Alec were already in the library; the former perfectly
cool and collected, the latter, to Roger’s eyes at any rate, somewhat
ill at ease. It was clear, Roger reflected, with some uneasiness, that
Alec did not at all like the highly ambiguous position in which he
stood with regard to that lady. What would he say when he heard the
possibility that his hostess also might not be unconcerned with this
dark and mysterious business? It would be just like Alec to throw up
the whole affair and insist on all cards being laid upon the table;
and that would have broken Roger’s heart just at the moment.

Inspector Mansfield was regrettably lacking in an appreciation of
dramatic effects. He did not gaze around him from beneath lowered
brows. He did not mutter to himself so that everyone could strain
forward to catch his ominous words. He did not even make a speech.

All he did was to observe cheerfully, “Well, let’s get this business
over,” and casually open the safe. He could not have made less fuss
had it been a tin of sardines.

But in spite of the inspector’s lamentable behaviour, drama was not
altogether lacking. As the heavy door swung open, there was an
involuntary catching of breath and heads were craned anxiously
forward. Roger, watching the faces of the others instead of the centre
of attraction, noted quickly that a flicker of anxiety flashed across
the countenances of both Mrs. Plant and Jefferson. “Neither of ’em
have seen inside, then,” he thought. “Their information came from a
third person. That’s certain, anyway.”

But it was Lady Stanworth who held his attention most closely.
Thinking herself unobserved for the moment, she had not troubled to
hide her feelings. She was standing a little behind the others,
peering between their heads. Her breath was coming quickly, and her
bosom rising and falling almost tumultuously; her face was quite
white. For a few seconds Roger thought she was going to faint. Then,
as if she was reassured, the colour came back into her face and she
sighed ever so softly.

“Well, Inspector?” she asked in normal tones. “What is there?”

The inspector was rapidly scrutinising the contents.

“As I expected,” he replied, a trifle disappointedly. “Nothing of any
importance as far as I’m concerned, my lady.” He glanced quickly
through a bundle of papers that he held in his hands. “Share
certificates; business documents; contracts; more share certificates.”

He replaced the bundle in the safe and took out a cash-box.

“Whew!” he whistled softly, as he opened it. “Mr. Stanworth kept
plenty of ready money on hand, didn’t he?”

Roger pricked up his ears and followed the direction of the
inspector’s gaze. Lying loosely at the bottom of the cash-box was a
thick wad of banknotes. The inspector picked it out and flicked them
over.

“Upwards of four thousand pounds, I should say,” he remarked with
fitting awe. “That doesn’t look as if he was in financial
difficulties, does it?”

“I told you I thought it most unlikely,” Jefferson said shortly.

Mrs. Plant stooped and looked into the safe.

“Oh, there’s my jewel-box,” she said, in tones of relief. “On the
bottom shelf.”

The inspector bent down and extracted a small case of green leather.
“This, madam?” he asked. “You said this is yours?”

“Yes. I gave them to him to lock up for me yesterday morning. I never
like to leave them lying about in my room if I can help it, you know.”

The inspector pressed the catch and the lid of the case flew open. A
necklace, a bracelet or two, and a few rings were visible inside;
pleasant little trinkets, but not of any remarkable value.

Roger exchanged glances with Alec. In the eyes of the latter there was
a scarcely concealed derision which Roger found peculiarly difficult
to bear in silence. If ever a look said, “I told you so!” Alec’s did
at that moment.

“I suppose Lady Stanworth can identify these as yours, madam,” the
inspector was saying. “Purely as a matter of form,” he added, half
apologetically.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Plant easily, picking the necklace and a few
other things out of the case. “You’ve seen me wearing these, haven’t
you, Lady Stanworth?”

There was a perceptible pause before Lady Stanworth answered; and it
seemed to Roger that she was looking at Mrs. Plant in rather an odd
way. Then she said, naturally enough:

“Of course. And I remember the case, too. Yes, these belong to Mrs.
Plant, Inspector.”

“Then we may as well hand them over to her at once,” said the
inspector, and Lady Stanworth nodded approvingly.

“Is that all you require, Inspector?” Jefferson asked.

“Yes, sir; quite. And I’ve had my journey for nothing, I’m afraid.
Still, we have to go into everything, as you know.”

“Oh, naturally,” Jefferson murmured, turning away from the safe.

“And now I must get back and finish my report,” the inspector
continued. “The coroner will communicate with you this afternoon as
soon as I’ve seen him again.”

“Oh, by the way, Inspector,” Mrs. Plant put in, “Mr. Sheringham was
telling me that I might be wanted to attend the inquest. Is that
necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, madam. You were the last person to see Mr. Stanworth
alive.”

“Yes, but my—my evidence wouldn’t be of the least importance, would
it? The few words I had with him about those roses can’t throw any
light on the matter at all.”

“I’m very sorry, madam,” the inspector murmured, “but in these cases
the last person to see the deceased alive is invariably called,
whether the evidence appears to be of any importance or not.”

“Oh! Then I must take it as quite certain that I shall have to
attend?” Mrs. Plant asked disappointedly.

“Quite, madam,” the inspector returned firmly, moving towards the
door.

Roger hooked his arm through that of Alec and drew him out through the
French windows.

“Well?” asked the latter with an undisguised grin. “Still as sure as
ever that those jewels weren’t in the safe, Sherlock Sheringham?”

“Yes. I’ve been expecting a little subtle ridicule from you, Alec,”
Roger said with mock humility. “No doubt I deserve it.”

“I’m glad you’re beginning to realise that,” retorted Alec pleasantly.

“Yes, for drawing the only possible conclusions from a given set of
facts. Well, I suppose we shall have to go back to the beginning
again, and start to draw some impossible ones instead.”

“Oh, Lord!” Alec groaned.

“But seriously, Alec,” said Roger with a change of tone, “things are
going very curiously. Those jewels ought not to have been in the safe
at all, you know. Nor the money either, for that matter. It’s all
wrong.”

“Most annoying when things break rules like that, isn’t it? Well, I
suppose you’ll allow now that Mrs. Plant _was_ speaking the truth this
morning, after all.”

“I suppose I shall have to,” said Roger reluctantly. “For the present,
at any rate. But it’s very, very extraordinary.”

“That Mrs. Plant should have been speaking the truth? It seemed to me
far more extraordinary that she should have been lying, as you were so
jolly sure.”

“All right, Alec. Don’t get rattled. No, I wasn’t meaning that
exactly. But that she should have been so remarkably agitated about
those jewels of hers, as if she thought that somebody was going to
steal them! And then that yarn of hers that she thought the police
would take them and she wouldn’t get them back. No, say what you like,
Alec, it _is_ extraordinary.”

“Women are extraordinary,” said Alec wisely.

“Humph! Certainly Mrs. Plant is.”

“Well, at any rate, she’s exonerated, I take it.”

“No, that she isn’t,” said Roger with decision. “That lady isn’t free
from suspicion yet by any means. After all, the matter of the jewels
is only one of several curious circumstances. But look here, Alec;
another remarkable thing has cropped up since I saw you last. I’m
going to tell you, because I promised I’d share anything new with you
at the very beginning. But I won’t unless you’ll promise to take it
quite calmly, and not smite me with that great ham-fist of yours or
throw yourself despairingly into a rose bush or anything. You know,
you’re a very difficult sort of person to work with on this sort of
job, Alec.”

“Fire away!” Alec grunted. “What’s happened now?”

“You won’t like it, but I can’t help that. After all, I’m only telling
you facts, not theories; and there’s no getting away from them,
however unwelcome they may be. It’s about Lady Stanworth this time.
Listen.”

And Roger embarked upon a voluble recital of The Strange Behaviour of
Lady Stanworth.



Chapter XII

Hidden Chambers and What-Nots

“Oh!” said Alec carefully, when Roger had finished.

“You see? I carefully refrain from drawing any deduction. Aloud, at
any rate. All I say is that it _looks_ funny.”

“Lots of things seem to look funny to you, Roger,” Alec remarked
tolerantly.

“About this case?” Roger retorted. “You’re quite right. Lots of things
do. But let’s put all these side issues behind us for the moment.
There’s one thing that I’m simply aching to set about.”

“Only one?” said Alec nastily. “And what’s that?”

“To find out how the murderer got away from the library last night. If
we can solve that little problem, we’ve cleared up the last remaining
difficulty as far as the committing of the murder goes.”

“Yes, I suppose we have,” Alec replied thoughtfully. “But it seems to
me that we’ve rather got our work cut out there, haven’t we? I mean,
it’s pretty well impossible for a man to get out of a room like that
and leave everything locked up behind him, you know.”

“On the contrary, that’s just what it isn’t; because he did it. And
it’s up to us to find out how.”

“Got any ideas about it?” Alec asked with interest.

“Not a one! At least, I can think of one very obvious way. We’ll test
that first, at any rate. The library’s empty now, and I expect
Jefferson will be pretty busy for the rest of the afternoon. We can
sleuth away in peace.”

They turned their steps in the direction of the library.

“And what is the obvious solution to the library mystery?” Alec asked.
“I’m blessed if I can see one.”

Roger looked at him curiously. “Can’t you _really_?” he said.

“No, I’m dashed if I can.”

“Well—what about a secret door, then?”

“Oh!” Alec observed blankly. “Yes, I didn’t seem to think of that.”

“It’s the only obvious way. And it’s not outside the possibilities by
any means in an old house like this. Especially in the library, which
hasn’t been pulled about so much as some of the other rooms.”

“That’s true enough,” said Alec, quite excitedly. “Roger, old sleuth,
I really do believe you’re on the track of something at last.”

“Thanks,” Roger returned dryly. “I’ve been waiting for a remark like
that for some hours.”

“Yes, but this really is interesting. Secret passages and—and hidden
chambers and what-nots. Jolly romantic, and all that. I’m all in
favour of unearthing it.”

“Well, here we are, and the scent ought to be strong. Let’s get down
to it.”

“What shall we do?” asked Alec, staring curiously round the walls as
if he expected the secret door to fly suddenly open if he looked hard
enough.

“Well, first of all, I think we’d better examine this panelling. Now,
let’s see; this wall where the fireplace is backs on to the drawing
room, doesn’t it? And this one behind the safe on to the storeroom and
a little bit of the hall. So that if there is a door or anything, the
probability is that it will be in one of those two walls; it’s not
likely to be in either of the outside ones. Well, I tell you what we’d
better do. You examine the panelling in here, and I’ll scout round on
the other side of the walls and see if I can spot anything there.”

“Right-ho,” said Alec, beginning to scrutinise the fireplace wall with
great earnestness.

Roger made his way out into the hall and thence to the drawing room.
The dividing wall between that room and the library was covered with
paper, and one or two china cabinets stood against it. After a cursory
peep or two behind these, Roger mentally wrote that wall off, at any
rate, as blameless. The storeroom, similarly, was so full up with
trunks and lumber as to be out of the question.

Roger returned to the library, to find Alec industriously tapping
panels.

“I say,” said the latter, “several of these panels sound hollow.”

“Well, there’s no way through either into the drawing room or the
storeroom, I’m convinced,” Roger remarked, closing the door behind
him. “So that I don’t think it’s much use trying those walls
haphazard.”

Alec paused. “What about a secret chamber, though? That wouldn’t
necessarily need a way straight through. It might come out anywhere.”

“I thought of that. But the walls aren’t thick enough. They’re only
about eighteen inches through. No, let’s go and have a look at it from
the outside. There might possibly be some way into the garden.”

They went out through the open windows and contemplated the red-brick
walls attentively.

“Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?” said Alec.

“I’m afraid not,” Roger admitted. “No, I fear that the secret-door
theory falls to the ground. I thought it would somehow.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well, this house doesn’t belong to the Stanworths, you see, and
they’ve only been here a month or so. I don’t suppose they’d know
anything about secret passages, even if there were any.”

“No, but the other fellow might.”

“The murderer? It isn’t likely, is it?”

“I hate giving up the idea,” said Alec reluctantly. “After all, it’s
the only possible explanation of his disappearance, as far as I can
see.”

Roger suddenly smote his hands together. “By Jove! There’s one hope
left. Idiot not to have thought of it before! The fireplace!”

“The fireplace?”

“Of course! That’s where most of these old houses have their secret
hiding places. It will be there if anywhere.”

He hurried back into the library, Alec close at his heels. There he
stopped suddenly short.

“Oh, Lord, I was forgetting that the blessed place had been bricked in
so very thoroughly.” He gazed at the modern intrusion without
enthusiasm. “That’s hopeless, I’m afraid.”

Alec looked thoughtfully round the room. “I don’t think we’ve examined
these walls enough, you know,” he remarked hopefully. “There’s plenty
of scope in this panelling really.”

Roger shook his head. “It’s just possible, but I’m very much afraid
that——” He caught a sudden and violent frown from Alec, and broke off
in mid-sentence. The door was opening softly.

The next moment Jefferson entered.

“Oh, hullo, you two,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. Can you
manage to look after yourselves for the afternoon? Lady Stanworth and
Mrs. Plant are in their rooms. Both naturally rather upset. And I’ve
got to go into the town to see about a few things.”

“Oh, we’ll be all right,” Roger said easily. “Please don’t bother
about us.”

Jefferson glanced round.

“Looking for a book?” he asked.

“No,” said Roger quickly. “As a matter of fact, I was studying this
overmantel. I’m rather interested in that sort of thing—carving, and
panelling, and old houses. This is really rather a wonderful room.
What’s the date, do you know? Early Jacobean, I should say.”

“Somewhere about that,” Jefferson said indifferently. “I don’t know
the actual date, I’m afraid.”

“Very interesting period,” Roger commented. “And there’s usually a
priest-hole or something like that in houses built at that time.
Anything of the sort here? There ought to be, you know.”

“Can’t say, I’m afraid,” Jefferson replied, a little impatiently.
“Never heard of one, at any rate. Well, I must be getting along.”

As the door closed behind him, Roger turned to Alec.

“I didn’t expect anything, but I thought I might as well try it. He
didn’t give anything away, though, whether he knew or not. On the
whole, I should say that he didn’t know.”

“Why?”

“He was far too off-hand to be lying. If he wanted to put us off, he’d
have elaborated somewhat, I fancy. Well, if we can’t find our secret
door, we must try other means of providing an exit for our man. That
leaves us with one door and three windows. We’ll try the door first.”

The door proved to be a massive piece of wood, with a large and
efficient lock. Except where the socket in the lintel had been torn
away in the efforts to force an entrance, it was still undamaged.

“Well, that’s out of the question, at any rate,” Roger said with
decision. “I don’t see how anybody could possibly have got out through
that and left it locked on the inside, with the key still in the lock.
It might have been done with a pair of pliers, if the end of the key
projected beyond the lock on the other side. But it doesn’t; so that’s
out of the question. French windows next.”

These were of the ordinary pattern, with a handle which shot a bolt
simultaneously at the top and bottom. In addition there were small
brass bolts at the bottom and top, both of which had been fastened
when the window was opened that morning.

“It looks out of the question to me,” Roger muttered. “It _is_ out of
the question. Even if he had been able to turn the handle (which he
couldn’t possibly have done), he couldn’t have shot the bolts as
well.”

“I’m blessed if he could,” said Alec with conviction.

Roger turned away.

“Then that leaves these two windows. I don’t see how anyone could have
left this little lattice one closed behind him. What about the sash
one? That looks more hopeful.”

He climbed up on the window seat and examined the fastening
attentively.

“Any luck?” asked Alec.

Roger stepped heavily on to the floor again. “I regret to have to
confess myself baffled,” he said disappointedly. “There’s an
anti-burglar fitting on that window which would absolutely prevent the
thing being fastened from the outside. I’m beginning to think the
fellow must have been a wizard in a small way.”

“It seems to me,” said Alec weightily, “that if the chap couldn’t have
got out, as we appear to have proved, then he could never have been in
here at all. In other words, he doesn’t exist, and old Stanworth did
commit suicide, after all.”

“But I tell you that Stanworth _can’t_ have committed suicide,” said
Roger petulantly. “There’s far too much evidence against it.”

Alec threw himself into a chair. “Is there, though?” he asked
argumentatively. “As you put it, it’s certainly consistent with
murder. But it’s equally consistent with suicide. Aren’t you rather
losing sight of that in your anxiety to make a murder of it? Besides,
don’t forget that your motive has fallen to the ground since the safe
was opened. There wasn’t a robbery here last night, after all.”

Roger was roaming restlessly about the room. At Alec’s last words he
paused in his stride and looked at his companion with some irritation.

“Oh, don’t be childish, Alec,” he said sharply. “Money and jewels
aren’t the only things that can be robbed. The motive still holds
perfectly good if we’ve got to have a motive. It was robbery of
something else; that’s all. But why stick to robbery? Make it revenge,
hatred, self-protection, anything you like, but take it from me that
Stanworth _was_ murdered. The evidence is _not_ equally consistent
with suicide. Think it over for yourself and you’ll see; I can’t
bother to go through it all again. And if we can’t find the way the
chap got out, that’s because we’re a pair of idiots and can’t see what
must be lying under our noses, that’s all.” And he resumed his stride
again.

“Humph!” said Alec incredulously.

“Door, window, window, window,” Roger muttered to himself. “It must be
one of those four. There’s simply no other way.”

He wandered impatiently from one to the other, trying desperately to
put himself in the place of the criminal. What _would_ he have done?

With some ceremony Alec filled and lighted his pipe. When it was in
full blast he leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to rest
approvingly on the cool greens of the gardens outside.

“Life’s too short,” he remarked lazily. “If it really was a clear case
of murder, I’d be on the trail as strenuously as anyone. But really,
old man, when you come to consider—calmly and sanely, I mean—how
extraordinarily little you’ve got to go on and how you’re twisting the
most ordinary things, why I think even you will admit in a few weeks’
time that when all’s said and done we——”

“Alec!”

Something in Roger’s tone caused Alec to turn round in his chair and
look at him. He was leaning out of the lattice window, apparently
intent on the garden outside.

“Well?” said Alec tolerantly. “What is it now?”

“If you come here, Alec,” said Roger, very gently, “I’ll show you how
the murderer got away last night.”



Chapter XIII

Mr. Sheringham Investigates a Footprint

“Show me _what_?” Alec exclaimed, bounding out of his chair.

“How the murderer escaped,” Roger repeated, turning and smiling
happily at his dumb-founded accomplice. “It’s extraordinarily simple,
really. That’s why we never spotted it. Have you ever noticed, Alec,
that it’s always the simple things of life—plans, inventions, what you
like—that are the most effective? Take, for instance——”

Alec seized his too voluble friend by the shoulder and shook him
violently.

“_How_ did the chap escape?” he demanded.

Roger pointed to the window through which he had been leaning.

“There!” he said simply.

“Yes, but how do you know?” cried the exasperated Alec.

“Oh, is that what you meant? Come, friend Alec.” Roger took his
fellow-sleuth by the arm and pointed triumphantly to the window-sill.
On the surface of the white paint were a few faint scratches. “You see
those? Now look at that!” And he indicated something on the flower bed
beneath. “I said it must be lying under our noses all the time,” he
added complacently.

Alec leaned out of the window and looked at the bed. Just below the
window was an unmistakable footprint, the toe pointing towards the
window.

“You said _escaped_, didn’t you?” he asked, withdrawing his head.

“I did, Alexander.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you and all that,” said Alec, in a tone
that curiously belied his words, “but nobody escaped this way. Someone
got in. If you look again, carefully this time, you’ll see that the
toe is pointing towards the window; not the heel. That means that
somebody stepped from the ground to the window-ledge, not _vice
versa_.”

“Alec, you are on your day to-day, aren’t you?” said Roger admiringly.
“Precisely the same thought occurred to myself at a first glance.
Then, looking carefully, as you so kindly suggest, I noticed that the
indentation of the heel is very much deeper than that of the toe,
indicating that somebody stepped backwards from the window to the
ground, after thoughtfully closing the window behind him. If he’d been
stepping up, the toe would be deeper than the heel, as a moment’s
thought will show you, won’t it?”

“Oh!” said the crestfallen Alec.

“Sorry to have to score off you in that blatant Sherlockian way,”
Roger continued more kindly, “but you did ask for it, you know. No,
but seriously, Alec, this is most extraordinarily important. It clears
up the last difficulty about murder.”

“But how did he close the window behind him?” asked Alec, still half
incredulous.

“Oh! That’s the neatest thing of all. And delightfully simple,
although it took me a minute or two to discover it after I’d seen the
footprint. Look! You see this handle, the ordinary type for this sort
of window. It consists of an arm that fits into the lock and a heavy
handle set at right angles to it, the whole moving on a central pivot;
the weight of the handle end keeps the other end in position. Well,
watch!”

Carefully arranging the handle so that the heavy end was balanced
exactly above the pivot, Roger pushed the window sharply back into its
frame. Immediately the handle was dislodged by the jar, and, with a
little click, the fastener fell into place in its socket, the weight
of the falling handle driving it well home.

“Well, I’m dashed!” Alec said.

“Neat, isn’t it?” Roger said proudly. “He stood on the sill outside,
you see, and pulled it to behind him, having fixed the handle in
position before he got out. I suppose it’s a trick you could play with
any lattice window, though I’ve never come across it before.”

“That’s one to you, all right,” said the humbled Alec. “I take back
quite a lot of the unkind things I’ve said to you.”

“Oh, don’t trouble to apologise,” Roger said magnanimously. “Though I
did warn you that I should turn out to be right in the end, you
remember. Well, I don’t think you’ll trouble to dispute the fact of
murder any more, will you?”

“Don’t rub it in,” Alec protested. “I did it for the best, like the
doctor in the poem. Well, what’s the next move?”

“Let’s go out and have a look at that footprint at close range, shall
we?” Roger suggested. “There might be some others, too. Footprints! We
_are_ getting professional, aren’t we?”

On a more careful inspection the footprint fully bore out Roger’s
contention that it must have been made by a man stepping backward from
the sill. The heel end was nearly an inch and a half deep; the toe
scarcely half an inch. The edges were slightly blurred where the earth
had crumbled, but the mark was clearly that of a large foot.

“At least a ten boot,” Roger said, stooping over it. “Possibly eleven.
This may be very useful indeed, Alec.”

“It’s a bit of luck, certainly,” Alec agreed.

Roger straightened up and began to search among the plants near the
edge of the bed. After a moment he dropped on his knees on the grass
border.

“Look!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Here’s another!”

He parted two little shrubs and peered between them. Alec saw another
footprint, not so deep as the last, but quite plainly marked in the
dry earth. The toe of this one was also pointing towards the window.

“Same fellow?” he asked, bending over it.

“Yes,” Roger replied, examining the print intently. “The other boot.
Let’s see, this is well over a yard from the last one, isn’t it? He
must have stepped back on to the path in two big strides.” He rose to
his feet and dusted the knees of his trousers. “It’s a pity we can’t
track him any farther,” he added disappointedly.

“Can you do anything more with these?” Alec asked with interest.

“I don’t know. We ought to take accurate measurements of them some
time, I suppose. Oh, and there’s something else I should very much
like to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Get hold of a specimen boot from every male person in the house and
grounds and fit them into these prints,” Roger exclaimed, raising his
voice slightly in his excitement. “Yes, that’s what we ought to do if
we possibly can.”

Alec was pondering.

“But look here, wouldn’t you say that these footprints meant that the
fellow was someone outside the house? They show him getting away from
the place after Stanworth had been killed, don’t they? If the chap had
been someone inside the house, why should he have troubled to get out
so elaborately through the window, when all he’d got to do was to walk
out by the door? After all the other things he’d done to make it look
like suicide, it wouldn’t really be necessary to leave the door locked
on the inside, would it?”

“You mean we’re not likely to find a boot in the house to correspond
with these prints?”

“Not if the chap were someone from outside, no. What do you think?”

“Oh, yes, I agree. I think in all probability it was someone not
belonging to the household. You’re quite right about the existence of
these footprints all pointing to that conclusion. But we don’t
actually _know_, do we? And I believe in eliminating all
possibilities, however remote. If we can get a chance to try
everyone’s boots out and they don’t fit, then we know quite definitely
that everybody in this house is free from suspicion of committing the
crime itself; though not from suspicion of other things, by the way.”

“What other things?” Alec asked interestedly.

“Being an accessory after the fact. After, certainly; and not
improbably before, as well, some of them. It seems to me, Alec,” Roger
added pathetically, “that three quarters of this household seem to be
accessories after the fact! It isn’t fair.”

“Humph!” said Alec. This was trespassing upon ground which he had no
wish to cover. He felt thankful that at any rate Barbara Shannon’s
mysterious behaviour had not come to Roger’s ears. What would the
latter have said had he heard of that? Accessory after the fact seemed
mild in comparison.

“Hullo! What’s up?” he asked, suddenly catching sight of Roger.

That gentleman was listening intently, his head on one side. At Alec’s
words he held up his finger warningly.

“Thought I heard someone in the library!” he whispered. “You creep up
to the lattice window and look through. I’ll try the French ones.
Carefully!”

Enjoying himself thoroughly, he made his way stealthily to the side of
the French windows and peeped cautiously round them. He had his
reward. The library door was closing softly.

He hurried back to Alec. “Did you see?” he asked, in a voice thick
with suppressed excitement. “Did you see?”

Alec nodded. “Somebody was going out of the library,” he said.

“Yes, but did you see who it was, man?”

Alec shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. Got here too late.”

The two looked at each other in silence.

“The question is, were we overheard?” Roger said at last.

“Good Lord!” Alec exclaimed in dismay. “Do you think we were?”

“Impossible to say. I hope to goodness we weren’t, though. It would
rather give things away, wouldn’t it?”

“Hopelessly!” said Alec with fervour.

Roger looked at him curiously. “Why, Alexander, you’re actually
getting quite keen on the chase at last!”

“It’s—it _is_ rather exciting,” Alec confessed, almost apologetically.

“That’s the spirit. Well, come off that bed and let’s get farther away
from the house to discuss what’s to be done next. It’s not safe to
talk near these windows, evidently. Hullo, you’ve made rather a mess
of the bed. Steady! Don’t step on our two particular prints.”

Alec glanced ruefully at the bed, which was now embellished with
several extra footprints.

“I’d better smooth mine out,” he said hastily. “They look a bit
suspicious, all round that window, don’t they? Anyone can see that
we’ve been mucking about here.”

“Yes, do,” Roger said approvingly. “But hurry up, and for goodness’
sake, don’t let anybody see you. That would be worse still.”

“And now, Sherlock Sheringham,” said Alec, when they had gained the
security of the lawn, “what do you propose? Isn’t it time you
disguised yourself, or something? I’m sure the best detectives always
do that at about this stage of the proceedings.”

“Don’t be ribald, friend Alec,” Roger said reprovingly. “This is a
very serious business, and we’re getting along with it very nicely. I
think our next move is fairly clear, isn’t it? We embark on the quest
of the Mysterious Stranger.”

“What mysterious stranger?”

“I mean, we make some inquiries round about as to whether any stranger
was seen near the place last night. The lodge, the station, the
village, and the rest of it.”

“That seems a sound scheme.”

“Yes, but before we start there’s just one other thing I want to do.
You saw how productive the contents of the waste-paper basket were. I
should like to have a look at yesterday’s as well.”

“Haven’t they been destroyed?”

“No, I don’t think so. I made some inquiries while you were otherwise
engaged just now, saying that I had thrown away a letter I meant to
keep, and as far as I can make out the contents of all the waste-paper
baskets are emptied on to an ash pit at the back of the house, where
they lie till William sees fit to use them up in a bonfire. I want to
have a peep at that ash pit before we start. Not that I really expect
to find anything, but you never know.”

“How do we get there?”

“We’ll go round the front of the house; it’s somewhere on the farther
side, I think. We’d better get a move on; we’ve got no time to waste.”

“I’m game,” said Alec, quite enthusiastically.

They set off.

In front of the house the car was standing, the chauffeur lounging
negligently at the wheel as if he had been there some time.

Roger whistled softly.

“Hullo, hullo, hul-_lo!_” he said softly. “What’s this?”

“It’s the car,” replied the ever literal Alec.

“I said you’d make a great detective one day, if you ever took it up
seriously, Alec. No, you goop! What’s the car doing here? Who’s it
waiting for?”

“Better ask the chauffeur, I should think,” said Alec, quite
unruffled.

“I will.”

Alec slapped his pockets.

“Dash it all! I’ve left my pipe somewhere. In the library, I think.
I’ll run back for it while you’re speaking to the chauffeur; that’ll
give you a chance to dawdle. Won’t be a minute.”

He jog-trotted round the angle of the house, and Roger sauntered
towards the chauffeur.

When Alec reappeared, pipe in mouth, two or three minutes later, Roger
was waiting for him near the car. There was a look of mingled
apprehension and triumph on his face.

“Ah, here you are!” he exclaimed in a loud voice. “Well, we’d better
be off if we want anything like a decent long walk before tea.”

Alec opened his mouth to speak, but caught a warning look and was
silent. Roger took his arm and drew him at a rapid pace down the
drive. It was not till they had turned a corner and the house was
securely hidden from view that he spoke again.

“In here,” he observed briskly, and plunged into the thick bushes
which bordered the drive on either side.

In some bewilderment Alec followed. “What’s the idea?” he asked, as he
rejoined his companion.

“A little game of hide-and-seek. You heard what I fog-horned to you
just now? That was for the benefit of the chauffeur; so that just in
case anybody were to ask him what Messrs. Grierson and Sheringham are
up to this afternoon, he has his answer pat. Now I want to see just
how long it is after the disappearance of the two said gentlemen that
that car leaves its anchorage. You see, the chauffeur told me that he
is waiting to take Jefferson into Elchester, Alec.”

“I expect that’s right,” Alec replied intelligently. “Jefferson said
he’d got to go in, you remember.”

“He’s been waiting nearly half an hour, Alec.”

“Has he? Yes, probably he has. It must be getting on for that since
Jefferson came into the library.”

“Therefore Jefferson intended to go into Elchester half an hour ago,
Alec. And he didn’t go, Alec. And he’s been in the house all that time
instead, Alec. And somebody whom we couldn’t see came into the library
and went away very quietly indeed, Alec. And can you put two and two
together, Alec?”

“Do you mean that—that it was Jefferson who came into the library that
time?”

“Amazing!” observed Roger admiringly. “I can’t think how the man does
it. It must be something to do with wireless. Yes, Alec; you’re quite
right. I most certainly do think it was Jefferson who came into the
library that time. But don’t you see the other significance? Why
didn’t he go into Elchester half an hour ago? He was surely quite
ready when he came and told us. Was it because I somehow roused his
suspicions, asking him about priest-holes and things, and he stayed
behind to spy on us and find out what we were up to?”

“The Lord knows!” said Alec helplessly.

“Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it? It looks as if Jefferson is
getting suspicious. Uncommonly suspicious. I don’t like it. Things are
going to get awkward if they get wind of our little game. We shan’t be
able to investigate in peace any longer.”

“Dashed awkward,” Alec agreed feelingly.

“Hush!” Roger crouched down hastily behind a bush, and Alec followed
suit. As they did so, there came the noise of an approaching car, and
the big blue Sunbeam swept past them and down the drive.

Roger glanced at his watch.

“Humph! Started four minutes after we did. It all fits in, doesn’t it?
But there’s one thing that really is worrying me badly.”

“What’s that?”

They scrambled through the undergrowth and headed for the house once
more. Roger turned impressively to Alec.

“Did he or did he not hear what we were saying outside that window?
And if he did, how much?”



Chapter XIV

Dirty Work at the Ash Pit

The ash pit proved easy to locate. It lay among some outhouses and was
surrounded on three sides by mellow old red-brick walls, the space
within which was filled with a depressed-looking mass of rotting
vegetable matter, old paper, and tins. The smell that hung heavily
about it was not a nice one.

“Have we got to search that?” Alec asked, eyeing the view with
considerable disfavour.

“We have,” Roger returned, and plunged happily into the smell. “Can’t
expect to get through a job like ours without a certain amount of
dirty work, you know.”

“Personally, I prefer my dirty work at the crossroads,” Alec murmured,
following his intrepid leader with the greatest reluctance. “They’re
cleaner. Dirty work at the ash pit doesn’t seem to appeal to me in the
least.” He began gingerly to handle the cleanest pieces of paper he
could see, which happened to be old newspapers.

Roger was rooting contentedly among a heap of scraps and shreds in the
middle. “These on the top seem to be yesterday’s collection all
right,” he announced. “Yes, here’s the envelope from a letter of mine
that came by the first post. Hum! Nothing in this lot, as far as I can
see.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Alec asked after a short pause,
glancing with some interest at the county cricket page of a newspaper
three weeks old.

“What am _I_ looking for, you mean? Come on, you lazy blighter. This
is the waste-paper basket heap, over here. You won’t find anything
among those tins and newspapers. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“There won’t be anything here,” Alec urged earnestly. “Let’s chuck it,
and go off to make those inquiries.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Roger reluctantly. “I’ve gone back
about a week here, and haven’t struck anything of the faintest
interest. Below this everything pretty well rotted away, too. Still,
I’ll just—— Hullo! What’s this?”

“What?”

Roger had straightened up abruptly and was scrutinising with bent
brows a grimy piece of paper he held in his hand. The next moment he
whistled softly.

“Here is something, though!” he exclaimed, and scrambled to dry land.
“Here, what do you make of this?”

He handed the paper to Alec, who studied it carefully. It was very wet
and limp, but a few traces of writing in pencil could still be made
out on its surface, while here and there an isolated word or phrase
stood out fairly legibly.

“It looks like a letter,” Alec said slowly. “Hullo, did you see this?
‘Frightened almost out of my . . .’ Out of my life, that must be.”

Roger nodded portentously. “That’s exactly what caught my eye. The
writing’s Stanworth’s; I can recognise that. But I shouldn’t say it
was a letter. He wouldn’t write a letter in pencil. It’s probably some
notes; or it may be the rough draft of a letter. Yes, that’s more
likely. Look, you can make that bit out—see? ‘Serious dang—’ Serious
danger, my boy! Alec, we’re on the track of something here.” He took
the paper from the other’s hands and studied it afresh.

“Can’t see who it’s addressed to, can you?” Alec asked excitedly.

“No, worse luck; the first line or two has absolutely gone. Wait a
minute, there’s something here. ‘This n-e-i-’ and the last two letters
look like o-d. A long word. What’s that?” He pointed with a quivering
finger.

“N-e-i-g, isn’t it?” said Alec. “And that’s an r. Neighbourhood!”

“By Jove, so it is! ‘This neighbourhood.’ And here’s something else.
‘That br-u-t . . .’ ‘That brute——’”

“Prince!”

“Prince?”

“The next word. See? You can make it out quite distinctly.”

“So it is! Good for you, Alec. ‘That brute Prince.’ Good Lord, do you
realise what this means?” Roger’s excitement was showing signs of
becoming uncontrollable; his eyes were sparkling and he was breathing
as if he had just run a hundred yards in eleven seconds.

“It’s jolly important,” Alec concurred, beaming. “I mean, it shows
that——”

“Important!” Roger almost howled. “Don’t you see, man? It means that
we know the murderer’s name!”

“_What?_”

“It’s put the game right in our hands. Stanworth was murdered by a man
called Prince, whom he knew to be in the neighbourhood and—— But let’s
go somewhere rather more secluded and study this document some more.”

The nearest outhouse offering a safe refuge, they withdrew hastily and
scrutinised their find more closely. After ten minutes’ concentrated
effort they found themselves in possession of the following:

“. . . that brute Prince . . . this neighbourhood . . . serious
danger . . . fright of my life this morning on chancing to . . . be
locked up . . .”

“I think that’s absolutely all that’s decipherable, without a
magnifying glass, at any rate,” Roger said at length, folding up the
precious paper and stowing it carefully away in his pocketbook. “But
it’s plain enough, isn’t it? So forward!” He marched out of the shed
and turned in the direction of the drive.

“Where to now?” asked the faithful Alec, hurrying after him.

“To find Master Prince,” Roger returned grimly.

“Ah! You think he’s still about here?”

“I think it’s quite probable. He’s been in communication with
Jefferson this morning, hasn’t he? At any rate, we can soon find out.”

“What exactly have you deduced then?”

“Well, there’s precious little deduction needed; the thing speaks for
itself. Stanworth, for some reason still unknown to us, had cause to
fear a man named Prince. To his surprise and terror he chanced to
encounter him unexpectedly one morning about a week ago in this
neighbourhood, and knew at once that he was in serious danger. He
comes home at once, makes a rough draft of a letter, and then writes
off to some other person telling him all about it and asking,
probably, for help; at the same time expressing his conviction that
Prince ought to be locked up.”

“It’s curious,” Alec mused.

“Fishy, you mean? Yes, but we’ve had a suspicion for some time that
there was something fishy going on behind the scenes in all this,
haven’t we? Not only with regard to the behaviour of the other people
in the house, but even possibly in connection with old Stanworth
himself. But we’re hot on the trail this time, I think.”

“What’s your plan of campaign?” Alec asked, as they turned into the
drive.

“Well, we must make a few discreet inquiries. In fact, our course will
be much the same as we contemplated before, except that our field of
action has luckily been narrowed down very considerably. Instead of
chasing about after some nebulous stranger, we’ve now got a definite
goal. We had a pretty good idea of what he looks like before, but now
we even know the blighter’s name. Oh, this is going to be too easy.”

“How do you mean—we had a pretty good idea of what he looks like?”

“Well, haven’t we? We know he must be strong, because of what happened
in the library; Stanworth was no weakling, remember. Then the size of
his footprints shows that he was a large man, probably tall. I can’t
tell you the colour of his hair or how many false teeth he’s got; but
we’ve got a good working idea of his appearance for all that.”

“But what are you going to do, if you do succeed in finding him? You
can’t go up to him and say, ‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Prince. I believe you
murdered Mr. Stanworth at two o’clock this morning.’ It—it isn’t
done.”

“You leave all that to me,” Roger returned largely. “I’ll think of
something to say to him all right.”

“I’m sure you will,” Alec murmured with conviction.

“In the meantime, here’s the lodge. What about seeing if William’s in?
He lives here, doesn’t he? Or Mrs. William. They might have opened the
gates to this man Prince last night.”

“Right-ho. But be discreet.”

“Really, Alec!” said Roger with dignity, as he tapped on the lodge
door.

William’s wife was a round-faced, apple-cheeked old lady with a pair
of twinkling blue eyes that looked as if they saw something humorous
in most of the things upon which they rested; as no doubt they did,
considering that they belonged to the wife of William.

“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, with a little old-fashioned
bob. “Would it be me you were wanting?”

“Good-afternoon,” Roger replied with a smile. “We were wondering if
William happened to be at home.”

“Me ’usband? Lor’, no, sir; he’s never at home at this time. He’s got
his work to do.”

“Oh, I suppose he’s about the garden somewhere, is he?”

“Yes, sir. Cuttin’ pea-sticks in the orchard, I think he is. Was it
anything important?”

“Oh, no; nothing important. I’ll call around and see him later on.”

“Shocking business this, sir; about the master,” Mrs. William began
volubly. “Shocking! Such a thing’s never been known at Layton Court
before, not in my time it ’asn’t; nor ever before that, so far as I’ve
’eard tell. An’ did you see the corpse, sir? Shot hisself in the ’ead,
didn’t he?”

“Yes, shocking,” said Roger hastily. “Shocking! By the way, I was
expecting a friend last night rather late, but he never turned up. You
didn’t see anything of him here I suppose, did you?”

“About what time would that be, sir?”

“Oh, somewhere about eleven o’clock, I should think; or even later.”

“No, sir; that I didn’t. William an’ me was both on us in bed and
asleep before half-past ten.”

“I see. And you close the gates when you lock up for the night, don’t
you?”

“That we do, sir. Unless there’s orders come down to the contrary.
They was shut near after ten o’clock last night, an’ not opened till
Halbert (that’s the showfure) came down early this mornin’. Was your
friend coming by motor car, sir?”

“I don’t know. It depended. Why?”

“Because there’s always the little gate at the side left open, which
people on foot can come in by. All I can tell you, sir, is that nobody
came to my knowledge, which he naturally wouldn’t ’ave done if he
never came up to the house, would he? Not without he got lost in the
drive, which isn’t very likely in a manner of speaking.”

“No, I’m afraid he can’t have come at all. In any case, you say that,
up to the time you went to bed, no stranger at all came in? Absolutely
nobody?”

“No, sir. Nobody to my knowledge.”

“Oh, well; that quite settles it. By the way, only yesterday afternoon
poor Mr. Stanworth was asking me to do him a favour the next time I
went for a walk. It was to call in and see someone called Prince for
him, and——”

“Prince?” Mrs. William interrupted with unexpected energy. “Don’t you
go going anywhere near _him_, sir.”

“Why not?” Roger asked eagerly, flashing a look of triumph at Alec.

Mrs. William hesitated. “You do mean Prince, sir? John?”

“Yes, John; that’s right. Why mustn’t I go anywhere near him?”

“Because he’s dangerous, sir,” said Mrs. William vehemently.
“Downright dangerous! In fact”—she lowered her voice
significantly—“it’s my opinion that he’s a little mad.”

“Mad?” Roger echoed in surprise. “Oh, come; I don’t think that can be
the case, can it?”

“Well, look how he went for Mr. Stanworth that time, sir. You know
about that, of course?”

Roger hurriedly checked a whistle. “I’ve heard something about it,” he
said glibly. “Er—attacked him, didn’t he?”

“That he did, sir. And all for no reason at all. In fact, if one of
Mr. Wetherby’s farm hands hadn’t luckily been by, he might ’ave done
Mr. Stanworth a power of harm. Of course they did their best to hush
it up; it gives the place a bad name if them things get about. But _I_
heard on it all right.”

“Indeed? I had no idea it was as bad as that. There was—how shall I
put it?—bad blood between them?”

“Well, you might call it that, sir. He seemed to take a dislike to Mr.
Stanworth the very first time ’e saw him, like.”

“Rather a drastic way of showing it,” Roger laughed. “Perhaps he has
got a screw loose, as you say. He hasn’t been here long then?”

“Oh, no. Not more’n a matter of three weeks or so, sir.”

“Well, I think I shall risk it. What I wanted to ask you was the
quickest way of getting there.”

“To Mr. Wetherby’s? Why, you can’t go quicker than follow the road
through the village, sir; that takes you straight there. It’s about a
mile an’ a half from here, or maybe a trifle more.”

“Mr. Wetherby’s; yes. Let me see, that’s——?”

“Hillcrest Farm, sir. A very nice gentleman he is, too. Him an’ Mr.
Stanworth was getting quite friendly before—before——”

“Yes,” said Roger hurriedly. “Well, thank you very much. I’m so sorry
to have kept you all this time.”

“You’re welcome, sir, I’m sure,” rejoined Mrs. William smilingly.
“Good-afternoon, sir.”

“Good-afternoon.”

Mrs. William popped back into her lodge again, and the two struck into
the main road.

Roger’s pent-up emotions burst forth as soon as they were out of
earshot. “_There!_” he exclaimed. “What do you think of that, eh?”

“Extraordinary!” Alec ejaculated, hardly less excited.

“But what a bit of luck just to hit on possibly the one person who
would have been willing to give us all the information. Luck? It’s
positively uncanny. Well, I never guessed that detecting was as easy
as this.”

“We’re going straight after this man Prince, then?”

“You bet we are. We want to catch our bird before he flies.”

“You think he intends flying?”

“Most probably, I should say,” Roger replied, striding along the dusty
road at top speed. “He’s only been in the place three weeks, you see,
so he evidently came with the full intention of doing what he has
done; now the job’s accomplished there’s no need for him to stay any
longer. Oh, he’s a clever one, is Master Prince. But not quite clever
enough.”

“He attacked Stanworth once before apparently and in broad daylight.”

“Yes, didn’t she bring that out beautifully? I could have screamed
with excitement. It all fits together, doesn’t it? ‘Seemed to take a
dislike to him at first sight, like.’ Ah, Mrs. William, that wasn’t
first sight; not by a long chalk. I expect that happened after
Stanworth wrote his letter; otherwise he’d have mentioned it.”

“It may have been in one of the bits that have disappeared.”

“That’s true; there were some long gaps. Look here, I’ll tell you what
we’d better do—call in at the village pub on our way and see if we can
get any more information out of the landlord. He’s sure to know
everything that happens round here.”

“That seems a sound scheme,” Alec agreed readily.

“In the meantime, let’s marshal our facts—that’s the correct phrase,
isn’t it? This man Prince has managed to obtain employment of some
kind on the farm of a Mr. Wetherby, who appears to be a gentleman
farmer. That was a cunning move of his, by the way; gives a reason for
his presence in the neighbourhood, you see. He came here for some
definite purpose connected with Stanworth; I don’t say murder
necessarily, that may not have been intended at first. The very first
time he saw Stanworth his feelings were so much for him that he went
for the old man bald-headed. The affair was hushed up, but there’s
certain to have been some gossip about it.”

“Silly thing to do, that,” Alec commented.

“Yes, very; showed his hand too soon. Still, there you are; he did it.
And now let us devote all our energies to reaching this scorching
village. Time’s precious, and I want to ruminate a little.”

They walked rapidly down the winding white road into the village and
made for the local public-house. Time was, indeed, so precious that no
considerations of temperature could be allowed to interfere with their
expenditure of it.



Chapter XV

Mr. Sheringham Amuses an Ancient Rustic

After the blazing sun and the dust, the cool bar of the old-fashioned
little village inn, with its sanded floor and its brasses gleaming in
the soft twilight, was remarkably welcome.

Roger buried his nose thankfully in his tankard before getting to
business.

“My word, that’s good!” he observed in heartfelt tones to the
landlord, setting the tankard down half empty on the polished counter.
“There’s nothing like beer for thirst, is there?”

“That’s true enough, sir,” replied the landlord heartily, both because
it was good for trade and because he thoroughly believed it. “And you
can’t have too much of it on a day like this, I’m thinking,” he added,
with an eye to the former consideration.

Roger looked about him appreciatively.

“Nice little place you’ve got here.”

“Not so bad, sir. There ain’t a better bar parlour within ten miles,
though I say it as shouldn’t. You two gentlemen come far to-day?”

“Elchester,” said Roger briefly. He did not wish to divulge the fact
that he was staying at Layton Court, having no desire to waste time in
parrying the stream of questions that would inevitably result from
this information.

“Ah, then, you would have a thirst on you and all,” the landlord
remarked approvingly.

“We have,” agreed Roger, finishing up the contents of his tankard, “so
you can fill these up again for us.”

The landlord replenished the tankards and leaned confidentially over
the counter.

“You heard the noos? There ain’t half been goings on round these parts
this morning. Up at Layton Court. You’d pass it on the left coming
from Elchester; nigh on a mile back. Gentleman shot hisself there,
they say. The showver, ’e told me about it. Came in for a glass o’
beer, ’e did, same as what you two gentlemen might be doing now, an’
told me all about it. Wasn’t ’arf put out about it, ’e wasn’t. Wanted
the day off to-morrow, an’ now he can’t ask for it, what with having
to cart the police an’ everyone backwards and forwards an’ all.”

Roger hurriedly subdued the involuntary smile that had risen to his
lips on learning Albert’s personal view of the tragedy. It would have
made a striking epitaph, he felt. “Sacred to the memory of John Brown,
who died, greatly regretted by everybody, especially his chauffeur,
who wanted the day off.”

“Yes, I did hear something about it,” he replied carelessly. “Shocking
affair. And how do you find business round here?”

“Mustn’t complain, I suppose,” said the landlord guardedly; “this
bein’ the only public in the village, y’ see. An’ good drinkers they
are round these parts, too,” he added with enthusiasm.

“That’s fine. I like a man who can appreciate good beer when he gets
it. And I suppose you get quite a few strangers in here from time to
time as well?”

“No, none too many,” said the landlord regretfully. “We lie a bit off
the chief roads here, y’ see. Not but what a few walking gentlemen
such as yourselves don’t drop in now and then, for all that.”

“Yes, I suppose you get a walking gentleman now and then,” Roger
replied vaguely, wondering what exactly constituted a walking
gentleman, and whether he was the opposite to a running gentleman.
“How often would that be?”

“Well, sir, that depends, don’t it?” said the landlord cautiously,
evidently determined to be entrapped into no rash statements. “Yes,
that depends.”

“Does it? Well, take a special day. How many strangers came in
yesterday, for instance?”

“Lor’ bless you, sir, we don’t get ’em in like that; not so many in a
day. In a month, more like. Why, I don’t suppose there’s been a
stranger in this bar before you gents come in not for a matter o’
nearly a week.”

“You don’t say!”

“I do, sir,” retorted the landlord with much earnestness. “I do an’
all.”

“Well, I should have thought you’d have got plenty in a cosy little
place like this. Anyhow, you can be sure that I shall warn all my
friends to come and pay you a visit if they happen to be in the
neighbourhood. Better beer I’ve never tasted anywhere.”

“It _is_ good beer,” the landlord admitted, almost reluctantly. “Thank
you kindly, sir. And anything I can do in return for you and your
friends, I’m sure I’ll be most happy.”

“Well, you can do something now, as a matter of fact,” Roger rejoined
caressingly. “We’ve come over from Elchester to see Prince—er John,
you know. Up at Hillcrest Farm.”

The landlord nodded. “Aye; I know.”

“So if you could put us on the right road from here, we should be very
grateful.”

“Turn to the left when you get out of here and go straight on, sir,”
returned the landlord promptly. “You can’t miss it. First farm on the
right-’and side past the crossroads.”

“Thanks very much. Let me see, I’ve never actually met Prince before,
but he’s pretty easy to recognise, I understand. Big fellow, isn’t
he?”

“Aye, that ’e is. Matter o’ nigh on six feet from the top of his ’ead
down; when he ’olds ’is ’ead up, that is.”

“Ah, stoops a bit, does he?”

“Well, you might call it that, sir. ’Angs ’is ’ead, in a manner of
speakin’. You know ’ow they do.”

“Oh, yes; quite. Strong chap, too, isn’t he?”

“’E is, an’ all. It ’ud take all of six men to ’old him, if ’e did get
rampageous.”

“Pretty quiet usually, then, is he?”

“Oh, aye. ’E’s quiet enough.”

“But no fool, I gather. I mean, he’s pretty intelligent, isn’t he?”

The landlord chuckled hoarsely. “Lor’ bless you, no. Prince ain’t no
fool. ’E’s a clever devil, all right. Cunning, you might call ’im. Nor
you wouldn’t be far wrong, neither.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“Oh, pretty nigh every way,” said the landlord vaguely. “But it’s a
pity you two gents should have ’ad this walk out to-day. Prince was in
Helchester ’isself yesterday.”

“Oho!” observed Roger softly, with a side-glance at Alec. “He was, was
he?”

“Aye, at the Hagricultooral Show, ’e was.”

“Oh? What was he doing there?”

“Showin’.”

“Showing himself, was he?”

“Aye, that ’e was. An’ took a prize, too.”

“What a pity we didn’t know that; it would have saved us a journey
to-day. By the way, you don’t know what time he came back, do you? Mr.
Wetherby was there, too, I suppose?”

“Mr. Wetherby was there, but Prince didn’t come back with ’im. I see
Mr. Wetherby pass by ’ere on ’is mare soon after seven o’clock. Prince
wouldn’t ’ave come till a deal later than that. But they’ll tell you
up at the farm better nor I can about that.”

“Oh, well, it isn’t really of the least importance, so long as I can
see him up there now.”

“He’s up there now right enough, sir. You ask any of the men up there
an’ they’ll show you.”

Roger finished up the remains of his beer and put the tankard down on
the counter with a business-like air.

“Well, Alec,” he said briskly. “Time we were getting along if we’re
ever to get back to Elchester to-day.”

“You really are rather marvellous, you know, Roger,” Alec observed, as
they set out along the road once more.

“I know I am,” Roger said candidly. “But why particularly?”

“Carrying on a chat with the landlord like that. I couldn’t have done
it to save my life. I shouldn’t know what to say.”

“I suppose it comes naturally,” Roger replied complacently. “I’m a bit
of what our American friends call a mixer. As a matter of fact, I
thoroughly enjoy a yap with somebody like that; friend William, for
instance. And it all comes in useful, you know; local colour and so
on. But what about the information I was able to extract, eh?”

“Yes, we got a few more details, didn’t we?”

“Highly important ones, too. What do you make of Master Prince showing
on his own account at Elchester? That puts him in rather an
independent position, doesn’t it? And he wasn’t back till late last
night, you see. It all tallies.”

“Yes, we seem to be on the right track this time.”

“Of course we’re on the right track. How could we be anything else?
The evidence is overwhelming. As a matter of fact,” Roger added
thoughtfully, “I believe I can make a pretty good guess as to what
actually happened last night.”

“Oh? What?”

“Why, friend Prince, naturally somewhat elated at winning a prize at
the show, got drinking with some of the new pals he must have picked
up here and had a couple of drops too much. On his way back he passes
Layton Court and either rattles the side door and notices it ajar; in
any case, walks in and up to the French windows, which are open.
Stanworth, who we know was mortally afraid of him, jumps at his
appearance and threatens him with a revolver. In the struggle,
Stanworth is shot, either on purpose or accidentally. That sobers
friend Prince up more than a little, and, with the cunning we know him
to possess, he sets the stage for us to find the next morning. How’s
that?”

“It’s quite possible,” Alec admitted. “But what I want to know is—how
are we going to tackle Prince now?”

“Wait and see what happens. I shall get into conversation with him and
try to get him to account for his movements last night. If he gets
obstreperous, we shall simply have to lay him out; that’s all. You’ll
come in useful there, by the way.”

“Humph!” Alec observed.

“In any case,” Roger concluded enthusiastically, “it’s going to be
dashed exciting. You can take my word for that.”

There was no mistaking Hillcrest Farm. It lay on the top of a sharp
rise just as the landlord had described it. The two instinctively
slackened their steps as they approached, as if unconsciously
reconnoitring the scene of battle.

“I don’t want to enlist Wetherby just yet,” Roger murmured. “I think
we ought to try and tackle him ourselves. And we don’t want to give
the alarm in any case, or arouse any suspicions. That’s why I didn’t
put hundreds more questions to that landlord. What do you think?”

“Oh, absolutely. What about asking that old chap if he knows where
Prince is?”

“Yes, I will.” Roger strolled over towards the spot where an ancient
rustic was clipping one of Mr. Wetherby’s hedges. “I want to speak to
Mr. Prince,” he confided to the ancient. “Can you tell me where I
shall find him?”

“Sir?” queried the other, curving a large and horny hand round an
equally large and horny ear.

“I want to speak to Mr. Prince,” Roger repeated loudly. “Where is he?”

The ancient did not move. “Sir?” he remarked stolidly.

“Prince!” bawled Roger. “Where?”

“Oh, _Prince_! ’E’s in the next field alongside. Up ’tother end I seed
’im last, not above five minutes back.”

The horny palm ceased to function as an ear-trumpet and became a
receptacle for a spare shilling of Roger’s, and the two moved on. In
the side of the next field was set a sturdy gate. Roger swung himself
easily over it, the light of battle in his eyes. Alec followed suit,
and they advanced together up the centre of the field.

“I can’t see anyone here, can you?” Roger remarked, when they had gone
some little distance. “Perhaps he’s gone somewhere else.”

“Nothing but a cow in that corner. Is there any other way out of the
field? He didn’t get over that gate into the road within the last five
minutes. We should have seen him.”

Roger halted and gazed round carefully. “Yes, there’s a—— Hullo!
What’s the matter with that cow? She seems very interested in us.”

The cow, a large, powerful-looking animal, had indeed quitted its
corner and was advancing purposefully in their direction. Its head was
swaying curiously from side to side and it was emitting a noise not
unlike the hoot of a steamer.

“My God!” Alec shouted suddenly. “That isn’t a cow; it’s a bull! Run
like hell!”

Roger needed no second invitation; he set off at top speed in the wake
of the flying Alec. The bull, observing this disappointing procedure,
thundered after them. It was an exciting race while it lasted.

The result, some six seconds later, was as follows:

      1. Mr. A. Grierson.
      2. Mr. R. Sheringham.
      3. Bull.

  _Distance between first and second, ten yards; between second and
  third, one five-barred gate (taken by the second in his stride)._

“’Strewth!” Roger observed with feeling, and collapsed incontinently
into a ditch.

A hoarse and grating noise caused them to look up. The noise emanated
from the ancient. He was laughing.

“Nearly ’ad you that time, gents,” he croaked joyfully. “Ain’t seen
him go fer anyone like that not since he went fer that Mr. Stanfoerth,
or whatever ’e calls ’isself—’im from Layton Court. I ought to ’ave
warned ’ee. You want ter be very careful o’ that there Prince John.”



Chapter XVI

Mr. Sheringham Lectures on Neo-Platonism

“Alec,” interrupted Roger plaintively, “if you say one more word to me
about bulls, cows, or any other farmyard impedimenta, I shall burst at
once into loud tears. I warn you.”

They were walking once more along the white, dusty road; but the
springy exhilaration of the outward journey had gone out of their
steps. A short but pithy conversation with the ancient rustic,
conducted mostly in ear-splitting yells, had speedily shown the
crestfallen Roger the precise nature of the wild goose (or should it
be wild bull?) he had been chasing. Alec, it might be noticed in
passing, was not being at all kind about it.

“If ever anything could have been more obvious!” Roger pursued
mournfully. “My reasoning was perfectly sound. It almost looks as if
Mrs. William and that idiot of a landlord were trying deliberately to
deceive me. Why couldn’t they have said straight out that the
disgusting animal was a bull and have done with it?”

“I don’t expect you gave them a chance,” Alec remarked with an
undisguised grin.

Roger gave him a dignified look and relapsed into silence.

But not for long. “So here we are, back again at the precise point we
had reached before we ever came across that miserable piece of paper,”
he resumed unhappily. “A whole valuable hour wasted.”

“You’ve had some exercise, at any rate,” Alec pointed out kindly.
“Jolly good for you, too.”

“The point is, what are we going to do next?”

“Go back to tea,” said Alec promptly. “And talking about wasting
valuable time, I believe that’s all we’re doing at all with regard to
this business. If such a clear clue as that fizzles out in this way,
why shouldn’t the whole thing be equally a mare’s nest? I don’t
believe there ever _was_ a murder, after all. Stanworth committed
suicide.”

“Let’s see,” Roger went on, completely disregarding this interruption,
“we were setting out to get on the trail of a Mysterious Stranger,
weren’t we? Well, that’s where we shall have to take the thing up
from. Luckily I kept my wits about me enough to put a few questions
about strangers to those two, and we drew a blank. We will now visit
the station.”

“Oh, no!” Alec groaned. “Tea!”

“Station!” returned Roger firmly; and station it was.

But even the station did not prove any more fruitful. On the plea of
making inquiries for a friend, Roger succeeded in extracting with some
difficulty, from a very bucolic porter, the information that only
half-a-dozen trains in a day stopped there (the place was indeed
little more than a halt), and none at all after seven o’clock in the
evening. The earliest in the morning was soon after six, and no
passengers had been picked up so far as he knew. No, he hadn’t seen a
stranger arrive yesterday; leastways, not to notice one like.

“After all, it’s only what we might have expected,” Roger remarked
philosophically, as they set off homewards at last. “If the fellow
came by train at all, he’d probably go to Elchester. He’s no fool, as
we knew very well.”

Alec, now that the prospect of tea and shade was definitely before
him, was ready to discuss the matter rather more amicably.

“You’re quite sure now that he is a stranger, then?” he asked. “You’ve
given up the idea that it’s anybody actually in this neighbourhood?”

“I’m nothing of the sort,” Roger retorted. “I’m not sure of any
blessed thing about him, except that he wears large boots, is strong,
and is no ordinary criminal; and that he corresponds closely with the
quite distinct mental picture I had formed of the late lamented Mr.
John Prince. He may be a stranger to the neighbourhood, and he may
not. We know that he was still in it during the morning, because he
managed to communicate with the occupants of the household. But as for
anything more definite than that, we simply can’t say, not knowing his
motive. By Jove, I do wish we could discover that! It would narrow
things down immensely.”

“I tell you something that never seems to have occurred to us,” Alec
remarked suddenly. “Why shouldn’t it have been just an ordinary
burglar, who got so panic-stricken when he found he’d actually killed
his householder that he hadn’t the nerve to complete what he came for
and simply hurried off? That seems to me as probable as anything, and
it fits the facts perfectly.”

“Ye-es; we did rather touch on the burglar idea at the very beginning,
didn’t we? Do you realise that it was only five hours ago, by the way?
It seems more like five weeks. But that was before the curious
behaviour of all these other people impressed itself upon us.”

“Upon you, you mean. I still think you’re making ever so much too much
of that side of it. There’s probably some perfectly simple
explanation, if we only knew it. I suppose you mean Jefferson and Mrs.
Plant?”

“_And_ Lady Stanworth!”

“And Lady Stanworth, then. Well, dash it all, you can’t expect them to
take us into their confidence, can you? And that is the only way in
which their part can be cleared up. Not that it seems to me in the
least worth clearing up. I don’t see that it could possibly have
anything to do with the murder. Good Lord, it’s practically the same
thing as accusing them of the murder itself! I ask you, my dear chap,
_can_ you imagine either Mrs. Plant or Lady Stanworth—we’ll leave
Jefferson out for the moment—actually plotting old Stanworth’s murder!
It’s really too ludicrous. You ought to have more sense.”

“This particular topic always seems to excite you, Alexander,”
observed Roger mildly.

“Well, I mean, it’s so dashed absurd. You can’t really believe
anything of the sort.”

“Perhaps I don’t. Anyhow, we’ll shelve it till something more definite
crops up. It’s quite hot enough already, without making each other
still more heated. Look here, let’s give the whole thing a rest till
we get back. It will clear our brains. I’ll give you a short lecture
on the influence of the Platonic ethics on Hegelian philosophy
instead, with a few sidelights on neo-Platonism.” Which, in spite of
Alec’s spirited protests, he at once proceeded to do.

In this way the time passed pleasantly and instructively till they had
passed the lodge gates once more.

“So you see,” concluded Roger happily, “that while in mediæval
philosophy this mysticism is in powerful and ultimately successful
opposition to rationalistic dogmatism, with its contemptuous disregard
for all experience, the embryonic science of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries was actually in itself a logical development of
neo-Platonism in this same opposition to barren rationalism.”

“Was it?” said Alec gloomily, registering a secret but none the less
fervent prayer that he might never hear the word neo-Platonism again
as long as he lived. “I see.”

“You do? Good. Then let us seek out and have speech with friend
William.”

“Are you going to give him a short lecture on rationalistic
dogmatism?” Alec asked carefully. “Because if so, I’m going indoors.”

“I’m afraid it would be wasted on William,” Roger replied seriously.
“William, I feel sure, is a dogmatist of the most bigoted type if ever
there was one; and to lecture to him on the futility of dogma would be
as ineffective as to harangue a hippopotamus on the subject of
drawing-room etiquette. No, I just want to sound William a little. Not
that I think it will really be of much help to us, but just at present
I’m turning every stone I can see.”

In due course William was run to earth in a large greenhouse. He was
mounted unhappily on an exceedingly rickety pair of steps and engaged
in tying up a vine. On seeing Roger he hastily descended to firm
ground. William did not believe in taking chances.

“Good-afternoon, William,” said Roger brightly.

“Arternoon, sir,” William responded suspiciously.

“I’ve just been having a chat with your wife, William.”

William grunted noncommittally.

“I was telling her that a friend of mine, whom I expected to come up
to the house to see me last night, never turned up; and I was
wondering if you’d seen anything of him down at the lodge.”

William ostentatiously busied himself with a small plant.

“Never see’d no one,” he observed with decision.

“No? Never mind, then. It doesn’t really matter. That’s an interesting
job you’ve got on hand, William. You take a plant out of its pot,
sniff its roots and put it back again; is that it? Now what operation
do you call that in the science of horticulture?”

William hastily relinquished the plant and glowered at his
interlocutor.

“Some folks mayn’t have no work to do,” he remarked darkly; “but other
folks ’ave.”

“Meaning yourself, I take it?” Roger said approvingly. “That’s right.
Work away. Nothing like it, is there? Keeps you cheerful and bright
and contented. Great thing, work, I agree with you.”

A flicker of interest passed across William’s countenance. “What did
that there Mr. Stanworth want to shoot hisself for, eh?” he demanded
suddenly.

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth,” said Roger, somewhat taken
aback at the unexpectedness of this query. “Why, have you got any
ideas about it?”

“I don’t ’old with it meself,” said William primly. “Not with
sooeycide.”

“You’re absolutely right, William,” Roger replied warmly. “If more
people were like you, there’d be—there’d be less suicides,
undoubtedly. It’s an untidy habit, to say the least.”

“It ain’t acting right,” William pursued firmly. “That’s what it
ain’t.”

“You put it in a nutshell, William; it isn’t. In fact, it’s acting all
wrong. By the way, William, somebody or other was telling me that a
stranger had been seen about the grounds during the last day or two.
You noticed him by any chance?”

“Stranger? What sort of a stranger?”

“Oh, the usual sort; a head and four pairs of fingers, you know. This
particular one, they said, was a rather large man. Have you seen a
rather large strange man round the house lately?”

William cogitated deeply.

“I ’ave an’ all.”

“Have you, though? When?”

William cogitated again. “It ’ud be a matter of ha’-past eight last
night,” he announced at last. “Ha’-past eight it ’ud be, as near as
anything. I was a-settin’ out in front o’ the lodge, an’ up he walks,
bold as brass, an’ nods at me an’ goes on up the drive.”

Roger exchanged glances with Alec.

“Yes, William?” he said warmly. “A man you’d never seen before? A
fairly large man?”

“A very large man,” William corrected meticulously.

“A very large man. Excellent! Go on. What happened?”

“Well, I says to the missus, ‘Oo’s that?’ I says. ‘A-walkin’ up the
drive as if he owned the place.’” William pondered. “‘As if he _owned_
the place,’ I says,” he repeated firmly.

“And a very good thing to say, too. Well?”

“‘Oh, ’im?’ she says. ‘’E’s the cook’s brother,’ she says. ‘I was
interjuiced to ’im at Helchester the other day,’ she says. ‘At least,
she _says_ ’e’s ’er brother,’ she says.” A strange rasping noise in
his throat appeared to indicate that William was amused. “‘At least,
she _says_ ’e’s ’er brother,’ she says,” he repeated with much
enjoyment.

“Oh!” Roger exclaimed, somewhat dashed. “Oh, did she? And did you see
him again, William?”

“That I did. Back ’e come nigh on a quarter of a hower later, an’ cook
with ’im, a-hangin’ on ’is arm like what she ought to have known
better not to ’ave done,” William rejoined, suddenly stern. “I don’t
’old with it meself, I don’t,” added this severe moralist. “Not at ’er
age, I don’t.” His expression relaxed reminiscently. “‘At least, she
_says_ ’e’s ’er brother,’ she says,” he added, with a sudden rasp.

“I see,” said Roger. “Thank you, William. Well, I suppose we mustn’t
interrupt you any more. Come on, Alec.”

Slowly and sadly they made their way back to the house.

“William got his own back then, if he only knew it,” Roger said with a
wry smile. “I did think for a moment that we might be getting at
something at last.”

“You really are a hell of an optimist, Roger,” Alec observed
wonderingly.

Their path took them past the library, and as they reached the bed in
which the footprints had been discovered Roger instinctively paused.
The next moment he darted forward and stared with incredulous eyes at
the bed.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, clutching Alec’s arm and pointing with an
excited finger. “Look! They’ve gone, both of them! They’ve been
smoothed out!”

“Great Scott, so they have!”

The two gazed at each other with wide eyes.

“So Jefferson _did_ hear what we were talking about!” Roger almost
whispered. “I have an idea that things are going to get rather
exciting very soon, after all.”



Chapter XVII

Mr. Grierson Becomes Heated

But however much Jefferson might guess of their activities, certainly
nothing was visible in his manner as Roger and Alec entered the
drawing room, twenty minutes late for tea. He greeted them in his
usual curt, rather brusque way, and asked casually how they had
managed to amuse themselves. Lady Stanworth was not present, and Mrs.
Plant was seated behind the tea tray.

“Oh, we went for a stroll through the village; but it was too hot to
be pleasant. Thanks, Mrs. Plant. Yes, milk and sugar, please. Two
lumps. You got through your business in Elchester all right? I saw you
starting.”

“Yes. Got off infernally late. Had to rush things. However, I managed
to get everything done all right.”

“Have they arranged about the inquest yet, by the way?” Alec asked
suddenly.

“Yes. To-morrow morning at eleven, here.”

“Oh, they’re going to hold it here, are they?” said Roger. “Which room
will you put them in? The library?”

“No. I think the morning room’s better.”

“Yes, I think it is.”

“Oh, I do wish it were over!” Mrs. Plant remarked with an involuntary
sigh.

“You don’t seem to be looking forward to the ordeal,” Roger said
quickly, with a slight smile.

“I hate the idea of giving evidence,” Mrs. Plant replied, almost
passionately. “It’s horrible!”

“Oh, come. It isn’t as bad as all that. It’s not like a law case, you
know. There’ll be no cross-examination, or anything like that. The
proceedings will be purely formal, I take it, eh, Jefferson?”

“Purely,” Jefferson said, lighting a cigarette with deliberation.
“Don’t suppose the whole thing will last more than twenty minutes.”

“So you see there won’t be anything very dreadful in it, Mrs. Plant.
May I have another cup of tea, please?”

“Well, I wish it were over; that’s all,” Mrs. Plant said with a
nervous little laugh, and Roger noticed that the hand which held his
cup shook slightly.

Jefferson rose to his feet.

“Afraid I shall have to leave you chaps to your own resources again,”
he remarked abruptly. “Lady Stanworth hopes you’ll do whatever you
like. Sorry to appear so inhospitable, but you know what things are
like at this sort of time.”

He walked out of the room.

Roger decided to put out a small feeler.

“Jefferson doesn’t seem extraordinarily upset really, does he?” he
said to Mrs. Plant. “Yet it must be rather a shock to lose an
employer, with whom one’s been so many years, in this tragic way.”

Mrs. Plant glanced at him, as if rather questioning the good taste of
this remark. “I don’t think Major Jefferson is the sort of man to show
his real feelings before comparative strangers, do you, Mr.
Sheringham?” she replied a little stiffly.

“Probably not,” Roger replied easily. “But he seems singularly
unperturbed about it all.”

“He is a very imperturbable sort of person, I imagine.”

Roger tried another tack. “Had you known Mr. Stanworth long, Mrs.
Plant?” he asked conversationally, leaning back in his chair and
pulling his pipe out of his pocket. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do
you?”

“Please do. Oh, no; not very long. My—my husband knew him, you know.”

“I see. A curious habit that of his, asking comparative, or, in my
case at any rate, complete strangers down to these little gatherings,
wasn’t it?”

“I think Mr. Stanworth was a very hospitable man,” Mrs. Plant replied
tonelessly.

“Very! A most excellent fellow in every way, didn’t you think?” Roger
asked with enthusiasm.

“Oh, most,” said Mrs. Plant in a curiously flat voice.

Roger glanced at her shrewdly. “You don’t agree with me, Mrs. Plant?”
he said suddenly.

Mrs. Plant started.

“I?” she said hurriedly. “Why, of course I do. I thought Mr. Stanworth
a—a very nice man indeed. Charming! Of course I agree with you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought for the moment that you didn’t seem very
enthusiastic about him. No earthly reason why you should be, of
course. Everybody has their likes and dislikes, don’t they?”

Mrs. Plant glanced quickly at Roger, and then looked out of the
window. “I was simply thinking how—how tragic the whole thing is,” she
said in a low voice.

There was a short silence.

“Lady Stanworth didn’t seem to be on very good terms with him, though,
did she?” Roger remarked carelessly, prodding at the tobacco in his
pipe with a match-stalk.

“Do you think so?” Mrs. Plant returned guardedly.

“She certainly gave me that impression. In fact, I should have gone
farther. I should have said that she positively disliked him.”

Mrs. Plant looked at the speaker with distaste. “There are secrets in
every household, I suppose,” she said shortly. “Don’t you think that
it is a little impertinent for outsiders to probe into them?
Especially under circumstances like these.”

“That’s one for me,” Roger smiled, quite unabashed. “Yes, I suppose it
is, Mrs. Plant. The trouble is, you see, that I simply can’t help it.
I’m the most curious person alive. Everything interests me, especially
every human thing, and I’ve just got to get to the bottom of it. And
you must admit that the relations between Lady Stanworth, of all
people, and the—shall we say?—somewhat plebeian Mr. Stanworth, are
uncommonly interesting to a novelist.”

“Everything is ‘copy’ to you, you mean?” Mrs. Plant retorted, though
less uncompromisingly. “Well, if you put it like that I suppose you
may have a certain amount of reason; though I don’t admit the
justification for all that. Yes, I believe Lady Stanworth did not get
on very well with her brother-in-law. After all, it’s only to be
expected, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” asked Roger quickly. “Why?”

“Well, because of the circumstances of——” Mrs. Plant broke off
abruptly and bit her lip. “Because of the blood and water idea, I
suppose. They were utterly unlike each other in every way.”

“That isn’t what you were going to say. What had you got in mind when
you corrected yourself?”

Mrs. Plant flushed slightly.

“Really, Mr. Sheringham, I——”

Alec rose suddenly from his chair. “I say, it’s awfully hot in this
room,” he remarked abruptly. “Come into the garden and get some air,
Roger, I’m sure Mrs. Plant will excuse us.”

Mrs. Plant flashed a grateful look at him.

“Certainly,” she said, in somewhat agitated tones. “I—I think I shall
go upstairs and lie down for a little myself. I have rather a
headache.”

The two men watched her go out of the room in silence. Then Alec
turned to Roger.

“Look here,” he said heatedly, “I’m not going to let you bully that
poor little woman like this. It’s a bit too thick. You get a lot of
damned silly notions into your head about her, and then you try to
bully her into confirming them. I’m not going to stand for it.”

Roger shook his head in mock despair.

“Really, Alexander,” he said tragically, “you are a difficult person,
you know. Extraordinarily difficult.”

“Well, it’s getting past a joke,” Alec retorted a little more calmly,
though his face was still flushed with anger. “We can do what we want
without bullying women.”

“And just when I was getting along so nicely!” Roger mourned. “You
make a rotten Watson, Alec. I can’t think why I ever took you on in
the part.”

“A jolly good thing for you that you did,” Alec said grimly. “I can
see fair play, at any rate. And trying to trick a woman who’s got
nothing to do with the thing at all into a lot of silly admissions is
_not_ playing the game.”

Roger took the other’s arm and led him gently into the garden.

“All right, all right,” he said in the tones of one soothing a
fractious child. “We’ll try other tactics, if you’re so set on it. In
any case, there’s no need to get excited. The trouble is that you’ve
mistaken your century, Alec. You ought to have lived four or five
hundred years ago. As a heavy-weight succourer of ladies in distress
you could have challenged all comers with one lance tied behind your
back. There, there!”

“Oh, it’s all very well for you to laugh,” returned the slightly
mollified Alec, “but I’m perfectly right, and you know it. If we’re
going on with this thing, we’re not going to make use of any dashed
underhand sneaky little detective tricks. If it comes to that, why
don’t you tackle Jefferson, if you’re so jolly keen on tackling
someone?”

“For the simple reason that the excellent Jefferson would certainly
not give anything away, my dear Alec; whereas there’s always the
chance that a woman will. But enough! We’ll confine ourselves to
sticks and stones, and leave the human element out of account; or the
feminine part of it, at any rate. But for all that,” Roger added
wistfully, “I _would_ like to know what’s going on amongst that trio!”

“Humph!” Alec grunted disapprovingly.

They paced for a time in silence up and down the edge of the lawn,
which ran parallel with the back of the house.

Roger’s thoughts were racing. The disappearance of the footprints had
caused him drastically to rearrange his ideas. He had now no doubt at
all that Jefferson not only knew all about the crime itself, but that
he was in all probability an actual participator in it. Whether his
part had been an active one and he had been present in the library at
the time, was impossible to say; probably not, Roger inclined to
think. But that he had helped to plan it and was now actively
concerned in endeavouring to destroy all traces of it was surely
beyond all disbelief. That meant one accomplice, at least, within the
house.

But what was really worrying Roger far more than the question of
Jefferson’s share in the affair was the possible inclusion of the two
women who seemed somehow to be mixed up with it. On the face of things
no doubt it was, as Alec so strongly held, almost incredible that
either Mrs. Plant or Lady Stanworth could be a party to a murder. Yet
it was impossible to dispute the facts. That there was a distinct
understanding between Jefferson and Lady Stanworth seemed as certain
to Roger as that there had been a murder in the house instead of a
suicide. And a similar understanding between Mrs. Plant and Jefferson
appeared to be even more strongly established. Added to which there
was her suspicious behaviour in the library that morning; for in spite
of the fact that her jewels had been in the safe, after all, Roger was
still no less firmly convinced that this excuse for her presence in
the library was a lie. Furthermore, Mrs. Plant certainly knew very
much more about Stanworth and his relations with his secretary and
sister-in-law than she was willing to admit; it was a pity that she
had checked herself just in time after tea, when she appeared to have
been on the point of allowing something of real importance to slip
past her guard.

Yes; though he was no more willing to believe it than was Alec
himself, Roger could see no loophole through which to escape from the
assumption that both Mrs. Plant and Lady Stanworth were as deeply
implicated as Jefferson himself. It was most unfortunate that Alec
should have chosen to adopt such a highly prejudiced view of the
matter; this was just the sort of thing for which nothing was required
so much as impartial discussion. Roger covertly eyed the face of his
taciturn companion and sighed softly.

The back of the house did not run in a single straight line. Between
the library and the dining room, where was the small room which was
used for storing trunks and lumber, the wall was set back a few feet
and formed a shallow recess; and this space was occupied by a little
shrubbery of laurels. As the two passed this shrubbery, a small blue
object, lying on the ground at the outer edge, caught the sun’s rays
and the gleam of it attracted Roger’s attention. Carelessly and half
unconsciously, he strolled towards it.

Then something in its particular shade of blue struck a sudden note in
his memory, and he stared at it curiously.

“What’s that little blue thing by the roots of those laurels, Alec?”
he asked, frowning at it. “It seems vaguely familiar somehow.”

He stepped across the path and picked it up. It was a piece of blue
china.

“Hullo!” he said eagerly, holding it up so that Alec could see it. “Do
you realise what this is?”

Alec joined him on the path and looked at the piece of china without
very much interest.

“Yes, it’s a bit of broken plate or something.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t! Don’t you recognise the colour? It’s a bit of the
missing vase, my boy. I wonder—— By Jove, I wonder if the rest is in
here.”

He dropped on his hands and knees and peered among the laurels. “Yes,
I believe I can see some other bits farther in. I’ll investigate, if
you’ll keep an eye open to see that nobody is coming.” And he crawled
laboriously into the little shrubbery.

A few moments later he returned by the same route. In his hands were
several more pieces of the vase.

“It’s all in there,” he announced triumphantly. “Right back by the
wall. You see what must have happened?”

“The fellow threw it in there,” said Alec wisely.

“Exactly. I expect he put the pieces in his pocket when he collected
them, in order to chuck them away somewhere as soon as he got clear.
Methodical sort of bird, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Alec agreed, looking at Roger with some surprise. “You seem
quite excited about it.”

“I am!” Roger said emphatically.

“Why? It’s what we expected, isn’t it? More or less. I mean, if the
vase was broken and the pieces disappeared, it’s a pretty reasonable
assumption that he threw them away somewhere, isn’t it?”

Roger’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, perfectly. But the point is _where_ he
threw them. Doesn’t it occur to you, Alec, that this place is not on
the route between the lattice window and the quickest way out of the
grounds? In other words, the drive. Also, doesn’t it occur to you that
if he wanted to throw them where nobody would be likely to find them,
the best place to do it would be that thick undergrowth on either side
of the drive—especially as he would be passing along it on his way
out? Don’t those points seem rather significant to you?”

“Well, perhaps it is a little curious, now you come to mention it.”

“A little curious!” Roger repeated disgustedly. “My dear chap, it’s
one of the most significant things we’ve struck yet. What’s the
inference? I don’t say it’s correct, by the way. But what _is_ the
inference?”

Alec pondered.

“That he was in a deuce of a hurry?”

“That he was in a deuce of a fiddlestick! He’d have gone on straight
down the drive if that is all. No! The inference to my way of thinking
is that he never was going down the drive at all.”

“Oh? Where was he going, then?”

“Back into the house again! Alec, it’s beginning to look as if that
Mysterious Stranger of ours may be going the same way as Mr. John
Prince.”



Chapter XVIII

What the Settee Had to Tell

Alec stared incredulously. “Back into the _house_? But—but what on
earth would he want to be going back into the house for?”

“Ah, now you’re asking me something. I haven’t the least idea. I don’t
even know that he was going back into the house. All I say is that
that is the only inference I can draw from the fact of these pieces of
vase being where they are. It’s possibly quite wrong.”

“But look here, if he wanted to go into the house again, why on earth
should he have taken the trouble to climb out of the window like that?
Why didn’t he just go out of the library door?”

“Obviously because he wanted to leave all ways into or out of the
library fastened on the inside, in order to further the idea of
suicide.”

“But why should he have gone back into the house at all? That’s what I
can’t understand.”

“Well,” Roger remarked very casually, “supposing he lived there?”

“_What?_”

“I said, supposing he lived there. He’d want to go up to bed, wouldn’t
he?”

“Good Lord, you’re surely not suggesting that somebody in the house
murdered old Stanworth, are you?” Alec asked in horrified tones.

Roger relit his pipe with some care.

“Not necessarily, but you keep asking me why he should want to get
back into the house, and I give you the most obvious explanation. As a
matter of fact, I should say that he probably wanted to communicate
with somebody inside before making his escape.”

“Then you don’t think it was somebody from inside the house who killed
Stanworth?” Alec asked with some relief.

“Heaven only knows,” Roger replied laconically. “No, perhaps on second
thoughts I don’t. We mustn’t forget that Jefferson couldn’t find those
keys this morning. Unless that was a blind, by Jove! I never thought
of that. Or he might have forgotten something important and wanted to
get at the safe again, not realising that he’d put the keys back in
the wrong pocket.”

“I suppose,” Alec said slowly, “that Jefferson is the only person
inside the house that you would suspect of having done it?”

“No, I’m hanged if he is,” Roger retorted with energy.

“Oh! Who else then?”

“I’m suspecting everybody at present; put it like that. Everybody and
everything within these four walls.”

“Well, look here, don’t forget your promise, mind. No decisive steps
to be taken without me, eh?”

“Yes, but look here, Alec,” Roger said seriously, “you really mustn’t
stand out unnecessarily if I might want to take steps that don’t
altogether meet with your approval. We’re playing a very grave game,
you know, and we can’t treat it as a joy-trip and only do the bits we
like and leave out all the nasty part.”

“Yes,” Alec said, a little reluctantly. “I see that. I won’t make a
fuss about anything unnecessarily. But we must go on working
together.”

“Right!” Roger answered promptly. “That’s a bargain, then. Well, look
here, there’s one thing we ought to have done earlier, but it quite
slipped my memory. We must have a look for that possible second
cartridge case. Personally I don’t believe there is one; I think there
was one shot fired from each revolver. But it’s a possibility, and we
ought not to overlook it.”

“Rather a tall order, isn’t it? It might be anywhere in the whole
grounds.”

“Yes, but there’s only one place that it’s any use to search—the
library. If we can’t find it there, we’ll give it up.”

“Very well.”

“Oh, Alexander,” Roger observed unhappily, as they strolled back to
the library. “Alexander, we’re very terribly handicapped in this
little problem, as Holmes would call it.”

“In what way particularly?”

“Not knowing the motive for the murder. If we could only get at that,
it would simplify matters tremendously. Why, I dare say we could put
our hands on the criminal at once. That’s the way all these murder
cases are solved, both in real life and in fiction. Establish your
motive, and work back from that. We’re groping utterly in the dark,
you see, till we’ve found that.”

“And you haven’t any idea of it at all? Not even a guess?”

“Not a one. Or, rather, too many. It’s impossible to say with a man
like Stanworth. After all, what do we know about him, beyond that he
was a cheery old gentleman and kept an excellent cellar? Nothing! He
might have been a lady-killer, and it may be a case of the jealous
husband, with Lady Stanworth and Jefferson in the know after it had
happened, and hushing it up for the sake of the name.”

“I say, that’s a good idea! Do you really think it was that? I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

“It’s possible, but I shouldn’t say it was likely. He was rather too
old to be acting as Lothario, wasn’t he? Or again it might have been
somebody whom he ruined in business (I shouldn’t say his methods were
any too scrupulous) and a somewhat drastic revenge, with the other two
also knowing what had happened and keeping quiet about it for reasons
that we don’t know anything about. But what’s the use? There are a
hundred theories, all equally possible and plausible, to fit the very
meagre array of facts that we’ve got in our possession.”

“We are in a bit of a fog, yes,” Alec agreed as they entered the
library.

“But there’s rather more light I think, already, than an hour or two
ago,” Roger replied cheerfully. “No, when all’s said and done, we
haven’t done so badly as yet, what with luck and certain other things
which modesty forbids me to mention. And now for this cartridge case,
and let’s pray that we shan’t be interrupted.”

For some minutes they searched diligently in silence. Then Alec
scrambled up from his knees beside the little typist’s table and
inspected his hands ruefully.

“No sign of it,” he said, “and I’m in a filthy mess. I don’t think it
can be in here, do you?”

Roger was investigating the cushions of the big settee.

“Afraid not,” he replied. “I hardly expected it, but—— Hullo, what’s
this?”

He drew out a small piece of white material from between two of the
loose cushions and inspected it with interest.

Alec strolled across the room and joined him. “It looks like a woman’s
handkerchief,” he said carefully.

“More than that, Alexander; it _is_ a woman’s handkerchief. Now what
on earth is a woman’s handkerchief doing in Stanworth’s library?”

“I expect she left it here,” Alec remarked wisely.

“Alec, this is positive genius! I see it all now. She must have left
it here. And there was I thinking that she’d sent it by post, with
special instructions for it to be placed between those cushions in
case she ever wanted to find it there!”

“You are funny, aren’t you?” Alec growled wearily.

“Occasionally,” Roger admitted modestly, “quite. But reverting to the
handkerchief, I wonder whether this is going to prove rather
important. What do you think?”

“How could it?”

“I’m not quite sure yet, but I have a sort of feeling. It all depends
on several things. Whose handkerchief it is, for instance, and when
this settee was tidied up last, and when the owner of the handkerchief
admits she was in here last, and—— Oh, quite a large number of
things.” He sniffed at the handkerchief delicately. “H’m! I seem to
know that scent, at all events.”

“You do?” Alec asked eagerly. “Who uses it?”

“That unfortunately I don’t appear to remember for the moment,” Roger
confessed reluctantly. “Still, we ought to be able to find that out
with a few discreet inquiries.”

He put the handkerchief carefully in his breast pocket, crumpling it
into a small ball so as to retain as much of the scent as possible.

“But I think the first thing to do,” he continued, when it was safely
bestowed, “is to examine this settee rather more minutely. You never
know what you’re going to find, apparently.”

Without disturbing the cushions further, he began a careful scrutiny
of the back and arms. It was not long before he found himself
rewarded.

“Look!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing at a place on the left arm.
“Powder! See? Face powder, for a sovereign. Now I wonder what on earth
that’s got to tell us, if we only know how to read it.”

Alec bent and examined the place. A very faint smudge of white powder
stood out upon the black surface of the cloth.

“You’re sure that’s face powder?” he asked, a little incredulously.
“How can you tell?”

“I can’t,” Roger admitted cheerfully. “It might be French chalk. But
I’m sure it is face powder. Let me see, face powder just on the inner
curve of the arm; what does that mean? Or talking about arms, perhaps
it’s arm powder. They do powder their arms, don’t they?”

“_I_ don’t know. Probably.”

“Well, you ought to,” Roger said severely. “You’re engaged, aren’t
you?”

“No,” Alec replied mournfully. After all, Roger would have to know
some time that the engagement had been broken off.

Roger stared at him in amazement. “_No?_ But you got engaged to
Barbara yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Alec, still more mournfully. “But we broke it off to-day.
Or postponed it, rather, It may be on again in a month or so, I hope.”

“But why, in the name of goodness?”

“Oh, for—for certain reasons,” Alec said lamely. “We decided it was
the best thing to do. Er—private reasons, you know.”

“Good Lord, I’m awfully sorry to hear it, old man,” said Roger
genuinely. “I hope things will come all right for you in the end; and
if there’s anything in the world that I can do, you know you’ve only
got to say the word. There isn’t a couple anywhere that I’d sooner see
fixed up than you and Barbara. You’re quite the nicest two people _I_
know.” Roger was in the habit of disregarding the convention that a
man should never under any circumstances display emotion in the
presence of another man, just as heartily as he violated all other
conventions.

Alec flushed with pleasure. “Thanks awfully, old chap,” he said
gruffly. “I knew I could rely on you. But really, there isn’t anything
you could possibly do. And things will come out all right, I feel
sure.”

“Well, I sincerely hope so, or I’ll wring young Barbara’s neck for
her,” said Roger; and both men knew that the topic was closed, until
or unless Alec himself chose to reopen it.

“And about this powder?” Alec prompted.

“Ah, yes. I hadn’t finished with the settee, had I? Well, let’s see if
there’s anything more to be found first.”

He bent over the couch again, only to look up the next instant.

“See this?” he said, indicating a long fair hair in the angle between
the arm and the back. “There _has_ been a woman sitting here recently.
This confirms the face powder. What an extraordinarily lucky thing
that we thought of searching the place for that cartridge case. It
would never have done to have missed this. I have an idea that this
woman is going to be more useful to us than fifty cartridge cases.”
And taking a letter out of his pocket he drew out the sheet of paper
and carefully placed the hair in the envelope. “They always do this in
books,” he explained, observing Alec’s interested gaze, “so I suppose
it’s the right thing to do.”

“And what are you going to do next?” Alec asked, as the envelope
followed the handkerchief into Roger’s breast pocket. “You’ve only got
about half an hour before dinner time, you know.”

“Yes. I’m going to try and find out if I can when this settee was last
tidied up; that seems to me the point on which everything depends.
After that I’ve got to spot the owner of the handkerchief.”

“By the scent? There are no initials on it.”

“By the scent. This is the sort of occasion when being a dog must come
in so useful,” Roger added reflectively.



Chapter XIX

Mr. Sheringham Loses and Wins the Same Bet

At the top of the stairs the two parted, Alec going to his own room
and Roger to his. Arrived there, the latter did not proceed
immediately with his changing; for some moments he leaned, deep in
thought, on the window-sill overlooking the garden. Then, as if he had
come to a decision, he crossed the room briskly and rang the bell.

A cheerful, plump young person answered it and smiled questioningly.
Roger was always a favourite with servants; if not always with
gardeners.

“Oh, hullo, Alice. I say, I seem to have lost my fountain pen. You
haven’t seen it about anywhere, have you?”

The girl shook her head. “No, sir, that I haven’t. It wasn’t in here
when I did the room this morning, I’m sure.”

“H’m! That’s a nuisance. I’ve missed it since last night. The last
time I remember having it was in the library a short time before
dinner. I wonder if I can have left it in there. Do you do the
library?”

“Oh, no, sir. I only do the bedrooms. Mary does the downstairs rooms.”

“I see. Well, do you think I could have a word with Mary, if she’s not
too busy? Perhaps you could send her up here?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell her at once.”

“Thank you, Alice.”

In due course Mary made her appearance.

“I say, Mary,” Roger remarked confidentially, “I’ve lost my fountain
pen, and Alice tells me that she hasn’t come across it in here. Now
the last time I had it was in the library yesterday, some time between
tea and dinner; I’ve been looking round for it in there, but I can’t
see it. I suppose you haven’t tidied up the library since then, or
seen anything of it?”

“Yes, sir, I tidied up the library last night while they were in at
dinner. And little did I think when I was doing it that——”

“Yes, quite so,” Roger put in soothingly. “Shocking business! But what
did the tidying up consist of, Mary? I mean, if it was only cursory
you might not have noticed the pen. What did you do exactly?”

“Well, sir, I put the chairs straight and tidied up the cigarette ends
in the hearth and emptied the ashtrays.”

“What about the settee? I remember sitting on the settee with the pen
in my hand.”

“It wasn’t there then, sir,” Mary said with decision. “I took up all
the cushions and shook them, and there wasn’t anything there. I should
have noticed it if there had been.”

“I see. You did the settee quite thoroughly, in fact? Brushed it, and
all that sort of thing?”

“Yes, sir. I always run a brush over the settee and the armchairs of
an evening. They get so terribly dusty with all those windows, and
that black rep shows the dust up something awful.”

“Well, thank you, Mary. I suppose I must have left it somewhere else,
after all. By the way, you haven’t done the library at all to-day,
have you?”

“No, sir,” Mary replied with a little shiver. “Nor wouldn’t like to;
not alone, at all events. Creepy, I should call it, sir, with that
poor gentleman sitting there all night like a——”

“Yes, yes,” said Roger with mechanical haste. “Shocking! Well, I’m
sorry to have brought you all this way for nothing, Mary; but if you
ever come across it, you might let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” Mary said with a pleasant smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“And that is that!” Roger murmured confidentially to the closing door.

He completed his changing as rapidly as possible and, hurrying along
to Alec’s room, recounted the facts he had just learnt.

“So you see,” he concluded, “that woman must have been in the library
some time after dinner. Now who was it? Barbara was with you in the
garden, of course; so she’s out of the running. That leaves Mrs.
Shannon, Mrs. Plant, and Lady Stanworth—if it _was_ somebody in the
house, by the way,” he added thoughtfully. “I never thought of that.”

Alec paused in the act of tying his black tie to look round
interrogatively.

“But what’s all this getting at?” he asked. “Is there any particular
reason why one of those three shouldn’t have been in the library
yesterday evening?”

“No, not exactly. But it rather depends on who it is. If it was Lady
Stanworth, for instance, I shouldn’t say there was anything in it;
unless she specifically denied that she went into the library at all.
On the other hand, if it was someone from outside the household it
might be decidedly important. Oh, it’s too vague to explain, but what
I feel is that this is the emergence of a new fact—the presence of a
woman in the library yesterday evening. And a woman sitting down at
that, not just passing through. Therefore, like every other fact in
the case, it has got to be investigated. It may turn out to be
absolutely in order. On the other hand, it may not. That’s all.”

“It’s certainly vague, as you say,” Alec commented, fastening his
waistcoat. “And when do you expect to spot the woman?”

“Possibly the end of dinner. I shall sniff delicately and
unobtrusively at Lady Stanworth and Mrs. Plant, and if it isn’t either
of them, it may be Mrs. Shannon. If that’s the case, of course there’s
no importance to be attached to it at all; but if it isn’t any of
them, I don’t know what I shall do. I can’t go dashing all over the
county, sniffing at strange women, can I? It might lead to all sorts
of awkward complications. Hurry up, Alexander, the bell went at least
five minutes ago.”

“I’m ready,” Alec said, glancing at his well-flattened hair in the
mirror with approval. “Lead on.”

The others were already waiting for them when they arrived in the
drawing room, and the party went in to dinner at once. Lady Stanworth
was present, to all appearances unmoved, but even more silent than
usual; and her presence laid an added constraint on the little
gathering.

Roger tried hard to keep the ball rolling, and both Mrs. Plant and
Jefferson did their best in their respective ways to second him, but
Alec for some reason was almost as quiet as his hostess. Glancing now
and again at his preoccupied face, Roger concluded that the rôle of
amateur detective was proving highly uncongenial to that
uncompromisingly straightforward young man. Probably the introduction
of this new feminine question regarding the ownership of the
handkerchief was upsetting him again.

“Did you notice,” Roger remarked casually, addressing himself to
Jefferson, “when the inspector was questioning us this morning, how
very difficult it is to remember the things that have occurred, even
only twenty-four hours before, if they were not sufficiently important
to impress one in any way?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Jefferson agreed. “Noticed it often
myself.”

Roger glanced at him curiously. It was a strange position, this sort
of armed and forced friendliness between Jefferson and himself. If the
former had heard much of that conversation by the lattice window, he
must know Roger for his enemy; and in any case the disappearance of
the footprint showed that he was thoroughly on his guard. Yet not the
faintest trace of this appeared in his manner. He behaved towards both
of them exactly as he always had done; no more and no less. Roger
could not help admiring the man’s nerve.

“Especially as regards movements,” he resumed conversationally. “I
often have the very greatest trouble in remembering exactly where I
was at a certain time. Last night wasn’t so difficult, because I was
in the garden from the end of dinner till I went up to bed. But take
your case, for instance, Lady Stanworth. I’m prepared to bet quite a
reasonable sum that you couldn’t say, without stopping to think,
exactly what rooms you visited yesterday evening between the end of
dinner and going up to bed.”

Out of the tail of his eye Roger noticed a quick look flash between
Lady Stanworth and Jefferson. It was as if the latter had warned her
of the possibility of a trap.

“Then I am afraid you would lose your bet, Mr. Sheringham,” she
replied calmly, after a momentary pause. “I remember perfectly. From
the dining room I went into the drawing room, where I sat for about
half an hour. Then I went into the morning room to discuss certain of
the accounts with Major Jefferson, and after that I went upstairs.”

“Oh, that’s altogether too easy,” Roger laughed. “It’s not playing
fair. You ought to have visited far more rooms than that to make the
game a success. What about you, then, Mrs. Plant? Shall I transfer the
bet to you?”

“You’d lose again if you did,” Mrs. Plant smiled. “I was only in one
room, worse still. I stayed in the drawing room the whole time till I
met you in the hall on my way upstairs. There! What was the bet, by
the way?”

“I shall have to think of that. A handkerchief, I think, don’t you?
Yes, I owe you a handkerchief.”

“What a poor little bet!” Mrs. Plant laughed. “I wouldn’t have taken
it if I’d known it was going to be so unremunerative.”

“Well, I’ll throw in a bottle of scent to go with it, shall I?”

“That would be better, certainly.”

“Better stop there, Sheringham,” Jefferson put in. “She’ll have got on
to gloves before you know where you are.”

“Oh, I’m drawing the line at scent. What’s your favourite brand, by
the way, Mrs. Plant?”

“_Amour des Fleurs_,” Mrs. Plant replied promptly. “A guinea a
bottle!”

“Oh! Remember, I’m only a poor author.”

“Well, you asked for my favourite, so I told you. But that isn’t the
one I generally use.”

“Ah, now we’re getting warmer. Something about elevenpence a bottle is
more like my mark.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay just a little more than that. _Parfum
Jasmine_; nine and sixpence. And it will serve you right.”

“I shan’t bet with _you_ again, Mrs. Plant,” Roger retorted with mock
severity. “I hate people who win bets against me. It isn’t fair.”

For the rest of dinner Roger seemed to be a little preoccupied.

As soon as the ladies had left the room, he strolled over to the open
French windows which, like those of the library on the other side, led
out on to the lawn.

“I think a smoke in the open air is indicated,” he observed
carelessly. “Coming, Alec? What about you, Jefferson?”

“No rest for me, I’m afraid,” Jefferson replied with a smile. “I’m up
to the eyes in it.”

“Straightening things up?”

“Trying to; they’re in a dreadful muddle.”

“Finances, you mean?”

“Yes, that and everything. He always managed his own affairs and this
is the first time I’ve seen his passbooks and the rest. As he appeared
to have accounts at no less than five different banks, you can
understand something of what I’ve got to wade through.” Jefferson’s
manner was perfectly friendly and open, almost frank.

“That’s funny. I wonder why he did that. And have you found any reason
for his killing himself?”

“None,” said Jefferson candidly. “In fact, the whole thing absolutely
beats me. It’s the last thing you’d have expected of old Stanworth, if
you’d known him as well as I did.”

“You knew him pretty well, of course?” Roger asked, applying a match
to his cigarette.

“I should say so. I was with him longer than I like to remember,”
Jefferson replied with a little laugh that sounded somewhat bitter to
Roger’s suspicious ears.

“What sort of a man was he really? I thought him quite a good sort;
but then I’d probably only seen one side of him.”

“Oh, everyone has their different sides, don’t they?” Jefferson
parried. “I don’t suppose Stanworth was very unlike anyone else.”

“Why did he employ an ex-prize-fighter as a butler?” Roger asked
suddenly, looking the other straight in the face.

But Jefferson was not to be caught off his guard.

“Oh, a whim I should think,” he said easily. “He had plenty of whims
like that.”

“It seems funny to meet with a butler called Graves in real life,”
Roger said with a little smile. “They’re always called Graves on the
stage, aren’t they?”

“Oh, that isn’t his real name. He’s really called Bill Higgins, I
believe. Mr. Stanworth couldn’t face the name of Higgins, so he called
him Graves instead.”

“It’s a pity. Higgins is an admirably original name for a butler.
Besides, it harmonises much more with the gentleman’s general air of
ruggedness, doesn’t it? Well, what about this breath of air we
promised ourselves, Alec? See you later no doubt, Jefferson.”

Jefferson nodded amicably, and the two strolled out on to the lawn. It
was only just beginning to get dusk, and the light was still strong.

“I’ve found out who the handkerchief belongs to, Alec,” Roger said in
a low voice.

“Have you? Who?”

“Mrs. Plant. I was almost certain before we sat down to dinner, but
what she said clinched it. That scent is jasmine right enough.”

“And what are you going to do?”

Roger hesitated. “Well, you heard what she said,” he replied, almost
apologetically. “She didn’t actually deny it, because I never asked
her; but she wouldn’t admit to being in the library at all yesterday
evening.”

“But surely it’s a perfectly innocent thing to be in the library?”
Alec protested. “Why, Stanworth wasn’t even there. He was out in the
garden with you. Why shouldn’t she have been in the library?”

“And, equally, why shouldn’t she acknowledge it?” Roger retorted
quickly.

“It may have slipped her memory. That’s nothing. You were saying
yourself how difficult it is to remember exactly where one’s been.”

“It’s no use, Alec,” Roger said gently. “We’ve got to clear this up.
It may be innocent enough; I only hope it is! On the other hand, it
may be exceedingly important for us to find out just exactly why Mrs.
Plant was in that library, and what she was doing there. You must see
that we can’t leave it as it is.”

“But what do you propose to do? Tackle her about it?”

“Yes. I’m going to ask her point-blank if she was in the library last
night or not, and see what she says.”

“And if she denies it?”

Roger shrugged his shoulders. “That remains to be seen,” he said
shortly.

“I don’t like it,” Alec frowned. “In fact, I hate it. It’s a beastly
position. Look here, Roger,” he said with sudden earnestness, “let’s
chuck the whole thing! Let’s assume, as the police are doing, that old
Stanworth committed suicide and leave it at that. Shall we?”

“You bet we won’t!” Roger said grimly. “I’m not going to leave a thing
half threshed out like that; especially not such an interesting thing
as this. You can back out if you like; there’s no reason for you to be
mixed up with it if you don’t want. But I’m most decidedly going on
with it.”

“Oh, if you do, I shall, too,” Alec replied gloomily. “But I’d much
rather we both chucked it.”

“That’s out of the question,” Roger said briskly. “Couldn’t dream of
it. Well, if you’re going to stick to it with me, you’d better be
present at my chat with Mrs. Plant. Let’s stroll round to the drawing
room and see if we can find an excuse to speak with her alone.”

“All right, then,” Alec agreed unhappily. “If we must.”

Luck was on their side. Mrs. Plant was alone in the drawing room.
Roger drew a chair up so as to face her squarely and commented
casually on Lady Stanworth’s absence. Alec turned his back on them and
gazed moodily out of the window, as if washing his hands of the whole
affair.

“Lady Stanworth?” Mrs. Plant repeated. “Oh, she’s gone in to help
Major Jefferson, I think. In the morning room.”

Roger looked at her steadily. “Mrs. Plant,” he said in a low voice,
“you’re quite certain you won that bet of ours at dinner, aren’t you?”

“Certain?” asked Mrs. Plant uneasily. “Of course I am. Why?”

“You didn’t forget any room that you went into yesterday evening by
any chance?” Roger pursued firmly. “The morning room, the storeroom,
or—the library, for instance?”

Mrs. Plant stared at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean, Mr.
Sheringham?” she asked in somewhat heightened tones. “Of course I
didn’t forget.”

“You went into none of those rooms, then?”

“Certainly not!”

“H’m! The bet was a bottle of scent and a handkerchief, wasn’t it?”
Roger remarked musingly, feeling in his pocket. “Well, here’s the
handkerchief. I found it where you left it—on the couch in the
library!”



Chapter XX

Mrs. Plant Proves Disappointing

For a moment Mrs. Plant sat perfectly rigid. Then she put out her hand
and mechanically took the handkerchief that Roger was still holding
out to her. Her face had gone quite white and her eyes were wide with
terror.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” said Roger gently, touching her hand
reassuringly. “I don’t want to frighten you, or anything like that;
but don’t you think it would be better if you told me the truth? You
might get into very serious trouble with the police, you know, if it
came out that you had been concealing any important fact. Really, I
only want to help you, Mrs. Plant.”

The colour drained back into her face at that, though her breath still
came in gasps and she continued to stare at him fearfully.

“But—but it wasn’t anything—important,” she said jerkily. “It was
only——” She paused again.

“Don’t tell me if you’d rather not, of course,” Roger said quickly.
“But I can’t help feeling that I might be able to advise you. It’s a
serious matter to mislead the police, even in the most trivial
details. Take your time and think it over.” He rose to his feet and
joined Alec at the window.

When Mrs. Plant spoke again, her composure was largely restored.

“Really,” she said, with a nervous little laugh, “it’s absurd for me
to make such a fuss over a trifle, but I have got a horror of giving
evidence—morbid, if you like, but none the less genuine. So I tried to
minimise my last conversation with Mr. Stanworth as much as possible,
in the hope that the police would attach so little importance to it
that they wouldn’t call on me to give evidence.”

Roger seated himself on the arm of a chair and swung his leg
carelessly.

“But you’ll be called in any case, so why not tell exactly what
happened?”

“Yes, but—but I didn’t know that then, you see; not when I made my
statement. I didn’t think they’d call me at all then. Or I hoped they
wouldn’t.”

“I see. Still, I think it would be better not to conceal anything as
things are, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I quite see that now. Quite. It’s very good of you to help
me like this, Mr. Sheringham. When—when did you find my handkerchief?”

“Just before I went up to change for dinner. It was between two of
those loose cushions on the couch.”

“So you knew I must have been in the library? But how did you know
what time I was there?”

“I didn’t. In fact, I don’t know,” Roger smiled. “All I know is that
it must have been after dinner, because the maid always tidies the
room at that time.”

Mrs. Plant nodded slowly. “I see. Yes, that was clever of you. I
didn’t leave anything else there, did I?” she added, again with that
nervous little laugh.

“No, nothing else,” Roger replied smoothly. “Well, have you thought it
over?”

“Oh, of course I’ll tell you, Mr. Sheringham. It’s really too
ridiculous. You remember when you passed us in the hall? Well, Mr.
Stanworth was speaking to me about some roses he’d had sent up to my
room. And then I asked him if he’d put my jewels in his safe for me,
as I——”

“But I thought you said this morning that you asked him that the other
day?” Roger interrupted.

Mrs. Plant laughed lightly. She was quite herself again.

“Yes, I did; and I told the inspector it was yesterday morning. Wasn’t
it dreadful of me? That’s why I was so upset when you told me this
afternoon that I should have to give evidence. I was so afraid they’d
ask me a lot of questions and find out that I was in the library,
after all, when I hadn’t said anything about it, and that I had told
the inspector a lie about the jewels. In fact, you frightened me
terribly, Mr. Sheringham. I had dreadful visions of passing the rest
of my days in prison for telling fibs to the police.”

“I’m very sorry,” Roger smiled. “But I didn’t know, did I?”

“Of course you didn’t. It was my own fault. Well, anyhow, Mr.
Stanworth very kindly said he’d be delighted to put them away safely
for me, so I ran upstairs to get them and brought them down into the
library. Then I sat on the couch and watched him put them in the safe.
That’s all that happened really, and I quite see now how absurd it was
of me to conceal it.”

“H’m!” said Roger thoughtfully. “Well, it certainly isn’t vastly
important in any case, is it? And that’s all?”

“Every bit!” Mrs. Plant replied firmly. “Now what do you advise me to
do? Admit that I made a mistake when I was with the inspector and tell
the truth? Or just say nothing about it? It may be very silly of me,
but I really can’t see that it makes the least difference either way.
The incident is of no importance at all.”

“Still, it’s best to be on the safe side, I think. If I were you I
should take the inspector aside before the proceedings open to-morrow
and tell him frankly that you made a mistake, and that you took your
jewels in to Mr. Stanworth in the library last night before saying
good-night to him.”

Mrs. Plant made a wry face. “Very well,” she said reluctantly, “I
will. It’s horrid to have to admit that one was wrong; but you’re
probably right. Anyhow, I’ll do that.”

“I think you’re wise,” Roger replied, getting to his feet again.
“Well, Alec, what about that stroll of ours? I’m afraid it will have
to be a moonlit one now.” He paused in the doorway and turned back.
“Good-night, Mrs. Plant, if I don’t see you again; I expect you will
be turning in fairly early. Sleep well, and don’t let things worry
you, whatever you do.”

“I’ll try not to,” she smiled back. “Good-night, Mr. Sheringham, and
thank you very much indeed.” And she heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief
as she watched his disappearing back.

The two made their way out on to the lawn in silence.

“Hullo,” Roger remarked, as they reached the big cedar, “they’ve left
the chairs out here. Let’s take advantage of them.”

“Well?” Alec demanded gruffly when they were seated, disapproval
written large in every line of him. “Well? I hope you’re satisfied
now.”

Roger pulled his pipe out of his pocket and filled it methodically,
gazing thoughtfully into the soft darkness as he did so.

“Satisfied?” he repeated at last. “Well, hardly. What do you think?”

“I think you scared that wretched woman out of her wits for absolutely
nothing at all. I told you ages ago you were making a mistake about
her.”

“You’re a very simple-minded young man I’m afraid, Alec,” Roger said,
quite regretfully.

“Why, you surely don’t mean to say you disbelieve her?” Alec asked in
astonishment.

“H’m! I wouldn’t necessarily say that. She _may_ have been speaking
the truth.”

“That’s awfully good of you,” Alec commented sarcastically.

“But the trouble is that she certainly wasn’t speaking the whole of
it. She’s got something up her sleeve, has that lady, whatever you
choose to think, Alec. Didn’t you notice how she tried to pump me? How
did I know what time she’d been in there? Had she left anything else
there? When did I find the handkerchief? No, her explanation sounds
perfectly reasonable, I admit, as far as it goes. But it doesn’t go
nearly far enough. It doesn’t explain the powder on the arm of the
couch, for instance; and I noticed at dinner that she doesn’t powder
her arms. But there’s one thing above all that it leaves entirely out
of the reckoning.”

“Oh?” Alec asked ironically. “And what may that be?”

“The fact that she was crying when she was in the library,” Roger
replied simply.

“How on earth do you know that?” said the dumbfounded Alec.

“Because the handkerchief was just slightly damp when I found it. Also
it was rolled up in a tight little ball, as women do when they cry.”

“Oh!” said Alec blankly.

“So you see there is still a lot for which Mrs. Plant did most
certainly not account, isn’t there? As to what she did say, it may be
true or it may be not. In gist I should say that it was. There’s only
one thing that I’m really doubtful about, and that’s the time when she
said she was in the library.”

“What makes you doubt that?”

“Well, in the first place I didn’t hear her come upstairs immediately
to fetch her jewels, as I almost certainly should have done. And,
secondly, didn’t you notice that she carefully asked me if I knew what
time she was there, before she gave a time at all? In other words,
after I had let out like an idiot that I didn’t know what time she was
there, she realised that she could say what time she liked, and as
long as it didn’t clash with any of the known facts (such as Stanworth
being out in the garden with me) it would be all right.”

“Splitting hairs?” Alec murmured laconically.

“Possibly; but nice, thick, easily splittable ones.”

For a time they smoked in silence, each engaged with his own thoughts.
Then:

“Who would you say was the older, Alec,” Roger asked suddenly, “Lady
Stanworth or Mrs. Shannon?”

“Mrs. Shannon,” Alec replied without hesitation. “Why?”

“I was just wondering. But Lady Stanworth looks older; her hair is
getting quite gray. Mrs. Shannon’s is still brown.”

“Yes, I know Mrs. Shannon looks the younger of the two; but I’m sure
she’s not, for all that.”

“Well, what age would you put Jefferson at?”

“Lord, I don’t know. He might be any age. About the same as Lady
Stanworth, I should imagine. What on earth are you asking all this
for?”

“Oh, just something that was passing through my mind. Nothing very
important.”

They relapsed into silence once more.

Suddenly Roger slapped his knee. “By Jove!” he ejaculated. “I wonder
if we dare!”

“What’s up now?”

“I’ve just had a brain wave. Look here, Alexander Watson, it seems to
me that we’ve been tackling this little affair from the wrong end.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, we’ve been concentrating all our energies on working backwards
from suspicious circumstances and people. What we ought to have done
is to start farther back and work forwards.”

“Don’t quite get you.”

“Well, put it another way. The big clue to any murder must after all
be supplied by the victim himself. People don’t get murdered for
nothing—except by a chance burglar, of course, or a homicidal maniac;
and I think we can dismiss both of those possibilities here. What I
mean is, find out all you can about the victim and the information
ought to give you a lead towards his murderer. You see? We’ve been
neglecting that side of it altogether. What we ought to have been
doing is to collect every possible scrap of information we can about
old Stanworth. Find out exactly what sort of a character he had and
all his activities, and then work forwards from that. Get me?”

“That seems reasonable enough,” Alec said cautiously. “But how could
we find out anything? It’s no good asking Jefferson or Lady Stanworth.
We should never get any information out of them.”

“No, but we’ve got the very chance lying close to our hand to find out
pretty nearly as much as Jefferson knows,” Roger said excitedly.
“Didn’t he say that he was going through all Stanworth’s papers and
accounts and things in the morning room? What’s to prevent us having a
look at them, too?”

“You mean, nip in when nobody’s about and go through them?”

“Exactly. Are you game?”

Alec was silent for a moment.

“Hardly done, is it?” he said at last. “Fellow’s private papers and
all that, I mean, what?”

“Alec, you sponge-headed parrot!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the
liveliest exasperation. “Really, you are a most maddening person!
Here’s a chap murdered under your very nose, and you’re prepared to
let the murderer walk away scot-free because you think it isn’t ‘done’
to look through the wretched victim’s private papers. How remarkably
pleased Stanworth would be to hear you, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course if you put it like that,” Alec said doubtfully.

“But I do put it like that, you goop! It’s the only way there is of
putting it. Come, Alec, do try and be sensible for once in your life.”

“All right then,” Alec said, though not with any vast degree of
enthusiasm. “I’m game.”

“That’s more like it. Now look here, my bedroom window is in the front
of the house and I can see the morning-room window from it. You go to
bed in the ordinary way, and sleep, too, if you like (all the better,
in case Jefferson should take it into his head to have a look in at
you); and I’ll sit up and watch for the morning-room light to go out.
I’m safe enough in any case, as I can always pretend to be working;
I’ll put my things out, in fact. Then I’ll wait for an hour after it’s
out, to give Jefferson plenty of time to get to sleep; and then I’ll
come along and rouse you, and we’ll creep down at our leisure. How
about that?”

“Sounds all right,” Alec admitted.

“Then that’s settled,” Roger said briskly. “Well, I think the best
thing for you to do is to go to bed at once, yawning loudly and
ostentatiously. It will show that you have gone, for one thing; and
also it will show that we’re not pow-wowing together out here. We’ve
got to remember that those three, in spite of their fair words and
friendliness, are bound to be regarding us with the greatest
suspicion. They don’t know how much we know, and of course they
daren’t give themselves away by trying to find out. But you can be
sure that Jefferson has warned the others about that footprint; and I
expect that as soon as our backs were turned just now, Mrs. Plant ran
into the morning room and recounted our conversation to them. That’s
why I pretended to be taken in by her explanation.”

The bowl of Alec’s pipe glowed red in the darkness.

“You’re still convinced, then, in spite of what she said, that those
three are in league together?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

“Run along to bed, little Alexander,” said Roger kindly, “and don’t be
childish.”



Chapter XXI

Mr. Sheringham is Dramatic

Long after Alec’s not altogether willing departure, Roger sat smoking
and thinking. On the whole, he was not sorry to be alone. Alec was
proving a somewhat discouraging companion in this business. Evidently
his heart was not in it; and for one so situated the ferreting out of
facts and the general atmosphere of suspicion and distrust that is
inevitably attendant on such a task, must be singularly distasteful.
Roger could not blame Alec for his undisguised reluctance to see the
thing through, but he also could not help thinking somewhat wistfully
of the enthusiastic and worshipping prototypes whose mantle Alec was
at first supposed to have inherited. Roger felt that he could have
welcomed a little enthusiasm and worshipping at the end of this
eventful and very strenuous day.

He began to try to arrange methodically in his mind the data they had
collected. First with regard to the murderer. He had made an effective
escape from the house only, in all probability as it seemed, to enter
it again by another way. Why? Either because he lived there, or
because he wished to communicate with somebody who did. Which of
these? Heaven only knew!

He tried another line of attack. Which of the minor puzzles still
remained unsolved? Chiefly, without doubt, the sudden change of
attitude on the part of Mrs. Plant and Jefferson before lunch. But why
need they have been apprehensive at all, if the murderer had been able
to communicate with them after the crime had been committed? Perhaps
the interview had been a hurried one, and he had forgotten to reassure
them on some particularly vital point. Yet he had been able to do so
in the course of the next morning. This meant that, up till lunch time
at any rate, he had still been in the neighbourhood. More than that,
actually on the premises, as it seemed. Did this point more definitely
to the probability of his being one of the household? It seemed
feasible; but who? Jefferson? Possibly, though there were several
difficult points to get over if this were the case. The women were
obviously out of the question. The butler? Again possibly; but why on
earth should the man want to murder his master?

Yet the butler was a strange figure, there was no getting away from
that. And as far as Roger could judge, there had been no love lost
between him and Stanworth. Yes, there was undoubtedly a mystery of
some kind connected with that butler. Jefferson’s explanation of why
Mr. Stanworth should have employed a prize-fighting butler did not
strike one as quite satisfactory.

Then why had Mrs. Plant been crying in the library? Roger strove to
remember some scenes in which she and Stanworth had been thrown into
contact. How had they behaved towards each other? Had they seemed
friendly, or the reverse? As far as he could recollect, Stanworth had
treated her with the same casual good-fellowship which he showed to
everybody; while she—— Yes, now he came to think of it, she had never
appeared to be on particularly good terms with him. She had been quiet
and reserved when he was in the room. Not that she was really ever
anything else but quiet and reserved under any circumstances; but yes,
there had been a subtle change in her manner when he was about.
Obviously she had disliked him.

Clearly there was only one hope for finding the answer to these
riddles, and that was to investigate Stanworth’s affairs. In all
probability even that would prove futile; but as far as Roger could
see there was no other way to try with even a moderate chance of
success. And while he was racking his brains out here, Jefferson was
sitting in the morning room surrounded by documents which Roger would
give anything to see.

A sudden idea occurred to him. Why not beard the lion in his den and
offer to give Jefferson a hand with his task? In any case, that would
form a direct challenge, the answer to which could not fail to be
interesting.

With Roger to think was, in nine cases out of ten, to leap into
precipitate action. Almost before the thought had completed its
passage through his mind, he was on his feet and striding eagerly
towards the house.

Without troubling to knock he burst open the door of the morning room
and walked in. Jefferson was seated in front of the table in the
centre of the room, surrounded, as Roger’s mind’s eye had seen him,
with papers and documents. Lady Stanworth was not present.

He glanced up as Roger entered.

“Hullo, Sheringham,” he said in some surprise. “Anything I can do for
you?”

“Well, I was smoking out there in the garden with nothing to do,”
Roger remarked with a friendly smile, “when it occurred to me that
instead of wasting my time like that I might be giving you a hand
here; you said you were up to the eyes in it. Is there anything I can
do to help?”

“Damned good of you,” Jefferson replied, a little awkwardly, “but I
don’t really think there’s anything. I’m trying to tabulate a
statement of his financial position. Something like that is sure to be
wanted when the will’s proved, or whatever the rigmarole is.”

“Well, surely there’s something I can do to help you out, isn’t
there?” Roger asked, sitting on a corner of the table. “Add up
tremendous columns of figures, or something like that?”

Jefferson hesitated and glanced round at the papers in front of him.
“Well,” he said slowly.

“Of course if there’s anything particularly private in Stanworth’s
affairs——!” Roger remarked airily.

Jefferson looked up quickly. “Private? There’s nothing particularly
private about them. Why should there be?”

“Then make use of me by all means, my dear chap. I’m at a loose end,
and only too glad to give you a hand.”

“Of course if you put it like that, I should be only too pleased,”
Jefferson replied, though not without a certain reluctance. “H’m! I
was just wondering what would be the best job for you to tackle.”

“Oh, anything that comes along, you know.”

“Well, look here, I tell you what you might do,” Jefferson said
suddenly. “I want a statement made out showing his holdings in the
various companies of which he was a director, with the approximate
value of the shares, their yield for the last financial year, his
director’s fees, and all the rest of it. Manage that, could you?”

“Like a shot,” said Roger with great cheerfulness, concealing his
disappointment at the comparative unimportance of the task allotted to
him. Such details as these could be obtained from any work of
reference on the subject; he had hoped for a little insight into
something that was rather less public property.

Still, half a bun was better than no cake, and he settled down at the
opposite side of the table and set to work willingly enough on the
data with which Jefferson supplied him. From time to time he tried to
peep surreptitiously at some of the documents in which the latter was
immersed, but Jefferson was guarding them too jealously and Roger
could obtain no clear idea of their contents.

An hour later he sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

“There you are! And a very charming and comprehensive statement, too.”

“Thanks very much,” Jefferson said, taking the statement which Roger
was holding out to him. “Damned good of you, Sheringham. Saved me a
lot of trouble. And you’ve done it in about a quarter of the time I
should have taken. Not my sort of line, this game.”

“So I should imagine,” Roger observed with studied carelessness. “In
fact, it’s always surprised me that you should have taken a job like
this secretaryship on at all. I should have put you down as a typical
open-air man, if you’ll allow me to say so. The type of Englishman
that won our colonies for us, you know.”

“No option,” Jefferson said, with a return to his usual curt manner.
“Not my choice, I assure you. Had to take what I could jolly well
get.”

“Rotten, I know,” Roger replied sympathetically, watching the other
curiously. In spite of himself and what he felt he knew he could not
help a mild liking for this abrupt, taciturn person; a typical soldier
of the wordless, unsocial school. It struck Roger at that moment that
Jefferson, whom he had been inclined to regard at first as something
of a sinister figure, was in reality nothing of the sort. The man was
shy, exceedingly shy, and he endeavoured to hide this shyness behind a
brusque, almost rude manner; and as always in such a case, this had
produced an entirely mistaken first impression of the man himself
behind the manner. Jefferson was downright; but it was the
downrightness of honesty, Roger felt, not of villainy.

Roger began, half unconsciously, to rearrange some of his ideas. If
Jefferson was concerned in Stanworth’s death, then it would be because
there was a very excellent reason for that death. All the more reason
to probe into Stanworth’s affairs.

“Going to stay down here long, Jefferson?” he asked, with an obvious
yawn.

“Not very. Just got to finish off this job I’m on now. You turn in.
Must be getting pretty late.”

Roger glanced at his watch. “Close on twelve. Right, I think I will,
if you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

“Nothing, thanks. I shall have a go at it before breakfast myself. Got
to get cleared up in here by eleven. Well, good-night, Sheringham, and
many thanks.”

Roger sought his room in a state of some perplexity. This new
conclusion of his with regard to Jefferson was going to make things
very much more complicated instead of more simple. He felt a strong
sympathy with Jefferson all of a sudden. He was not a clever man;
certainly he was not the brains of the conspiracy. What must his
feelings be when he knew, as indeed he must know, that Roger was
tracking out things that would, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred
and with only very ordinary luck, have remained undiscovered for ever?
How must he regard the net which he could see spread to catch him, and
with him—whom?

Roger dragged a chair up to the open window, and sat down with his
feet on the sill. He felt he was getting maudlin. This had every
appearance of a thoroughly cold-blooded crime, and here he was feeling
sorry already for one of its chief participants. Yet it was because
Jefferson, as he saw now that the scales had suddenly fallen from his
eyes, was such a fine type of man—the tall, thin, small-headed type
that is the real pioneer of our race—and because he himself genuinely
liked all three members of that suspicious trio, that Roger, without
necessarily giving way to maudlin sentiment, was yet unable to stifle
his very real regret that everything should point so decisively to
their guilt.

Still, it was too late to back out now. He owed it to himself, if not
even to them, to see the thing through. Roger could sympathise more
fully now with Alec’s feelings on the matter. Curious that he should
after all have come round in the end to that much-derided point of
view of Alec’s!

He began to review the personal element in the light of this new
revelation. How did it help? If Jefferson was an honest man and would
only kill because nothing short of killing would meet some unknown
case, then what was most likely to have produced such a state of
affairs? What is the mainspring that actuates three quarters of such
drastic deeds? Well, the answer to that was obvious enough. A woman.

How did that apply in this case? Could Jefferson be in love with some
woman, whose happiness or peace had been threatened in some mysterious
way by Stanworth himself, and if so, who was the woman? Lady
Stanworth? Mrs. Plant? Roger uttered an involuntary exclamation. Mrs.
Plant!

That, at any rate, would fit in with some of the puzzling facts. The
powder on the arm of the couch, for instance, and the wet
handkerchief.

Roger’s imagination began to ride free. Mrs. Plant was in the library
with Stanworth; he was bullying her, or something. Perhaps he was
trying to force some course of action upon her which was repugnant to
her. In any case, she weeps and implores him. He is adamant. She hides
her face against the arm of the couch and goes on weeping. Jefferson
enters, sees at a glance what is happening and kills Stanworth in the
madness of his passion with as little compunction as one would feel
towards a rat. Mrs. Plant looks on in horror; tries to interfere,
perhaps, but without effect. As soon as the thing is done she becomes
as cool as ice and sets the stage for suicide.

Roger jumped to his feet and leaned out over the sill.

“It fits!” he murmured excitedly. “It all fits in!”

Glancing downwards, he noticed that the morning-room light had been
extinguished and made a note of the time. It was past one. He sank
back in his chair and began to consider whether the other pieces of
the puzzle would slip as neatly into this general scene—the safe
incident, the change of attitude, Lady Stanworth, and so on. No, this
was not going to be quite so easy.

At the end of the hour he was still uncertain. The main outline still
seemed convincing enough, but all the details appeared hardly so glib.

“I’m getting addled,” he murmured aloud, as he rose from the chair.
“Better give this side of it a rest for a little.”

He made his way softly out of the room and crept along the passage to
Alec’s bedroom.

Alec sat abruptly up in bed as the door opened.

“That you, Roger?” he demanded.

“No, this is Jefferson,” Roger said, hastily shutting the door behind
him. “And very nicely you’d have given things away if it had been,
Alexander Watson. And you might try and moderate your voice a bit. The
sound of a foghorn in the middle of the night is bound to make people
wonder. Ready?”

Alec got out of bed and put on his dressing-gown.

“Right-ho.”

As quietly as possible they stole downstairs and into the morning
room. Roger drew the thick curtains together carefully before
switching on the light.

“Now for it!” he breathed excitedly, eyeing the crowded table with
eagerness. “That little pile there I’ve already been through, so you
needn’t bother about those.”

“Already?” Alec asked in surprise.

“Yes, in company with my excellent friend, Major Jefferson,” Roger
grinned, and proceeded to explain what he had been doing.

“You’ve got some cheek,” Alec commented with a smile.

“Yes, and I’ve got something more than that,” Roger retorted. “I’ve
got a thoroughly sound working idea as to who killed Stanworth and
under what circumstances. I can tell you, friend Alec, I’ve been
uncommonly busy these last two hours or so.”

“You have?” said Alec eagerly. “Tell me.”

Roger shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he said, sitting down in
Jefferson’s chair. “Let’s get this little job safely done first. Now
look here, you go through these miscellaneous documents, will you? I
want to study the passbooks first of all. And I’ll tell you one thing
I’ve discovered. The income from those various businesses of his
didn’t amount to a quarter of what he must have been spending. He
cleared just over two thousand out of all five of them last year, and
I should say that he’s been living at the rate of at least ten
thousand a year. And besides all that, he’s been investing heavily as
well. Where does all the extra cash come from? That’s what I want to
find out.”

Alec began to wade obediently through the sheaf of papers that Roger
had indicated, while the latter picked out the passbooks and glanced
at them.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Two of these accounts are in his own
name, and the other three appear to be in three different names.
Jefferson never said anything about that. Now I wonder what the devil
that means?”

He began to pore over them methodically, and for some time there was
silence in the room. Then Roger looked up with a frown.

“I don’t understand these at all,” he said slowly. “The dividends are
all shown in his own two passbooks, and various checks and so on; but
the other three seem to be made up entirely of cash payments, on the
credit side at any rate. Listen to this: Feb. 9th, £100; Feb. 17th,
£500; Mar. 12th, £200; Mar. 28th, £350; and then April 9th, £1,000.
What on earth do you make of that? All in cash, and such nice round
sums. Why a thousand pounds in cash?”

“Seems funny, certainly,” Alec agreed.

Roger picked up another of the books, and flicked the pages through
carefully.

“This is just the same sort of thing. Hullo, here’s an entry of £5,000
paid in cash. £5,000 in cash! Now why? What does it mean? Does your
pile throw any light on it?”

“No, these are only business letters. There doesn’t appear to be
anything out of the ordinary here at all.”

Roger still held the book mechanically in his hand, but he was staring
blankly at the wall.

“Nothing but cash,” he murmured softly; “all sorts of sums between £10
and £5,000; each sum a multiple of ten, or some other round figure; no
shillings or pence; and _cash!_ That’s what worries me. Why cash? I
can’t find a single check marked on the credit side of these three
books. And where in the name of goodness did all this cash come from?
There’s absolutely nothing to account for it, as far as I can make
out. It’s not the proceeds of any sort of business, apparently.
Besides, the debit side shows nothing but checks drawn to self. He
paid it in as cash and he drew it out himself. Now what on earth does
all this mean?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Alec helplessly.

Roger stared at the wall in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, his
mouth opened, and he whistled softly.

“By—Jove!” he exclaimed, transferring his gaze to Alec. “I believe
I’ve got it. And doesn’t it simplify things, too? Yes, it _must_ be
right. It makes everything as clear as daylight. Good lord! Well, I’m
damned!”

“Out with it, then!”

Roger paused impressively. This was the most dramatic moment he had
yet encountered, and he was not going to spoil it by any undue
precipitation.

He smote the table softly with his fist by way of preparation. Then:

“Old Stanworth was a professional blackmailer!” he said in vibrant
tones.



Chapter XXII

Mr. Sheringham Solves the Mystery

It was past ten o’clock on the following morning, and Roger and Alec
were engaged in taking a constitutional in the rose garden after
breakfast before the inquest proceedings opened. Roger had refused to
say anything further on the previous evening—or, rather, in the small
hours of the same morning. All he had done was to remark that it was
quite time they were in bed, and that he wanted a clear head before
discussing the affair in the light of this new revelation of
Stanworth’s character. He remarked this not once, but many times; and
Alec had perforce to be contented with it.

Now, with pipes in full blast, they were preparing to go further into
the matter.

Roger himself was complacently triumphant.

“Mystery?” he repeated, in answer to a question of Alec’s. “There
isn’t any mystery now. I’ve solved it.”

“Oh, I know the mystery about Stanworth is cleared up,” said Alec
impatiently; to tell the truth, Roger in this mood irritated him not a
little. “That is, if your explanation is the right one, which I’m not
disputing at the moment.”

“Thank you very much.”

“But what about the mystery of his death? You can’t have solved that.”

“On the contrary, Alexander,” Roger rejoined, with a satisfied smile;
“that is exactly what I have done.”

“Oh? Then who killed him?”

“If you want it in a single word,” Roger said, not without a certain
reluctance, “Jefferson.”

“_Jefferson?_” Alec exclaimed. “Oh, rot!”

Roger glanced at him curiously. “Now that’s interesting,” he
commented. “Why do you say ‘rot’ like that?”

“Because——” Alec hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems such rot to
think of Jefferson committing a murder, I suppose. Why?”

“You mean, you don’t think it’s the sort of thing he would do?”

“I certainly don’t!” Alec returned with emphasis.

“Do you know, Alec, I’m beginning to think you’re a better judge of
character than I am. It’s a humiliating confession, but there you are.
Tell me, have you always thought that about Jefferson, or only just
recently?”

Alec considered. “Ever since this business cropped up, I think. It
always seemed fantastic to me that Jefferson could be mixed up with
it. And the two women as well, for that matter. No, Roger, if you’re
trying to fix it on Jefferson, I’m quite sure you’re making a bad
mistake.”

Roger’s complacency was unshaken.

“If the case were an ordinary one, no doubt,” he replied. “But you’ve
got to remember that this isn’t. Stanworth was a blackmailer, and that
alters everything. You may murder an ordinary man, but you execute a
blackmailer. That is, if you don’t kill him on the spur of the moment,
carried away by madness or exasperation. You’d do that sort of thing
on your own account, wouldn’t you? Well, how much more so are you
going to do it on behalf of a woman, and that a woman with whom you’re
in love? I tell you, Alec, the whole thing is as plain as a
pikestaff.”

“Meaning that Jefferson is in love?”

“Precisely.”

“Who with?”

“Mrs. Plant.”

Alec gasped. “Good Lord, how on earth do you know that?” he asked
incredulously.

“I don’t,” Roger replied with a pleased air. “But he must be. It’s the
only explanation. I deduced it.”

“The devil you did!”

“Yes, I’d arrived at that conclusion even before we discovered the
secret of Stanworth’s hidden life. That clears up absolutely
everything.”

“Does it? I admit it seems to make some of the things more
understandable, but I’m dashed if I can see how it makes you so sure
that Jefferson killed him.”

“I’ll explain,” Roger said kindly. “Jefferson was secretly in love
with Mrs. Plant. For some reason or other Mrs. Plant was being
blackmailed by Stanworth unknown to Jefferson. He has a midnight
interview with her in the library and demands money. She weeps and
implores him (hence the dampness of the handkerchief) and lays a face
on the arm of the couch as women do (hence the powder in that
particular place). Stanworth is adamant; he must have money. She says
she hasn’t got any money. All right, says Stanworth, hand your jewels
over then. She goes and gets her jewels and gives them to him.
Stanworth opens the safe and tells her that is where he keeps his
evidence against her. Then he locks the jewels up and tells her she
can go. Enter Jefferson unexpectedly, takes in the situation at a
glance, and goes for Stanworth bald-headed. Stanworth fires at him and
misses, hitting the vase. Jefferson grabs his wrist, forces the
revolver round and pulls the trigger, thus shooting Stanworth with his
own revolver without relaxing the other’s grip on it. Mrs. Plant is
horror-struck; but, seeing that the thing is done, she takes command
of the situation and arranges the rest. And that,” Roger concluded,
with a metaphorical pat on his own back, “is the solution of the
peculiar events at Layton Court.”

“Is it?” Alec said, with less certainty. “It’s a very pretty little
story, no doubt, and does great credit to your imagination. But as to
being the solution—well, I’m not so sure about that.”

“It seems to me to account for pretty well everything,” Roger
retorted. “But you always were difficult to please, Alec. Think. The
broken vase and the second bullet; how the murder was committed; the
fact that the murderer went back into the house again; the agitation
about the safe being opened; Mrs. Plant’s behaviour in the morning,
her reluctance to give evidence (in case she let out anything of what
really happened, you see), and her fright when I sprang on her the
fact that I knew she’d been in the library, after all; the
disappearance of the footprints; the presence of the powder and the
dampness of the handkerchief; Lady Stanworth’s indifference to her
brother-in-law’s death (I expect he had some hold over her, too, if
the truth were known); the employment of a prize-fighter as a butler,
obviously a measure of self-protection; the fact that I heard people
moving about late that night; everything! All cleared up and
explained.”

“Humph!” said Alec noncommittally.

“Well, can you find a single flaw in it?” Roger asked, in some
exasperation.

“If it comes to that,” Alec replied slowly, “why was it that both Mrs.
Plant and Jefferson suddenly had no objection to the safe being
opened, after they’d both shown that they were anxious to prevent it?”

“Easy!” Roger retorted. “While we were upstairs, Jefferson opened the
safe and took out the documents. It would only take a minute, after
all. Any objection to that?”

“Did the inspector leave the keys behind? I thought he put them in his
pocket.”

“No, he left them on the table, and Jefferson put them in _his_
pocket. I remember noticing that at the time, and wondering why he did
it. Now it’s obvious, of course.”

“Well, what about that little pile of ashes in the library hearth? You
suggested that it might be the remains of some important documents,
and you thought that Jefferson looked uncommonly relieved at the
idea.”

“My mistake at the time,” Roger said promptly. “As for the ashes, they
might have been anything. I don’t attach any importance to them.”

“But you did!” Alec persisted obstinately.

“Yes, excellent but sponge-headed Alexander,” Roger explained
patiently, “because I thought at first that they _were_ important. Now
I see that I was mistaken, and they _aren’t_. Are you beginning to
grasp the idea?”

“Well, tell me this, then,” Alec said suddenly. “Why the dickens
didn’t Jefferson get the documents out of the safe directly after
Stanworth’s death, instead of waiting till the next morning and
getting so agitated about it?”

“Yes, I thought of that. Presumably because they were both so
flustered at what had happened that they forgot all about the
documents in their anxiety to cover up their traces and get away.”

Alec sniffed slightly. “Rather unlikely that, isn’t it? Not natural,
as you’re always so fond of saying.”

“Unlikely things do happen sometimes, however. This one did, for
instance.”

“Then you’re absolutely convinced that Jefferson killed Stanworth, and
that’s how it all happened, are you?”

“I am, Alexander.”

“Oh!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No,” Alec said uncompromisingly. “I’m not.”

“But dash it all, I’ve proved it to you. You can’t shove all my proofs
on one side in that off-hand way. The whole thing stands to reason.
You can’t get away from it.”

“If you say that Jefferson killed Stanworth,” Alec proceeded with
obstinate deliberation, “then I’m perfectly sure you’re wrong. That’s
all.”

“But _why_?”

“Because I don’t believe he did,” said Alec, with an air of great
wisdom. “He’s not the sort of fellow to do a thing like that. I
suppose I’ve got a sort of intuition about it,” he added modestly.

“Intuition be hanged!” Roger retorted, with a not unjustified
irritation. “You can’t back your blessed intuition against proofs like
the ones I’ve just given you.”

“But I do,” Alec said simply. “Every time,” he added, with a careful
attention to detail.

“Then I wash my hands of you,” said Roger shortly.

For a time they paced side by side in silence. Alec appeared to be
pondering deeply, and Roger was undisguisedly huffy. After all, it is
a little irksome to solve in so ingenious yet so convincing a way a
problem of such apparently mysterious depth, only to be brought up
against a blank wall of disbelief founded on so unstable a foundation
as mere intuition. One’s sympathy is certainly with Roger at that
moment.

“Well, anyhow, what are you going to do about it?” Alec asked, after
some minutes’ reflection. “Surely you’re not going to tell the police
without troubling to verify anything further, are you?”

“Of course not. In fact, I haven’t made up my mind whether I shall
tell the police at all yet.”

“Oh!”

“It depends largely on what the two of them—Jefferson and Mrs.
Plant—have to tell me.”

“So you’re going to tackle them about it, are you?”

“Of course.”

There was another short silence.

“Are you going to see them together?” Alec asked.

“No, I shall speak to Mrs. Plant first, I think. There are one or two
minor points I want to clear up before I see Jefferson.”

Alec reflected again. “I shouldn’t, Roger, if I were you,” he said
quite earnestly.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Speak to either of them about it. You’re not at all sure whether
you’re really right or not; after all, it’s only guesswork from
beginning to end, however brilliant guesswork.”

“Guesswork!” Roger repeated indignantly. “There isn’t any guesswork
about it! It’s——”

“Yes, I know; you’re going to say it’s deduction. Well, you may be
right or you may not; the thing’s too deep for me. But shall I tell
you what I think about it? I think you’d be wise to drop the whole
thing just as it is. You think you’ve solved it; and perhaps you have.
Why not be content with that?”

“But why this change of mind, Alexander?”

“It isn’t a change of mind. You know I’ve never been keen on it from
the very beginning. But now that Stanworth’s turned out to be such a
skunk, why——”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Roger said softly. “You mean that if
Jefferson did kill Stanworth, he was perfectly right to do so and we
ought to let him get away with it, don’t you?”

“Well,” Alec said awkwardly, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,
but——”

“But I don’t know that _I_ wouldn’t,” Roger interrupted. “That’s why I
said just now that I hadn’t decided whether I’d tell the police or
not. It all depends on whether things did happen as I imagine, or not.
But the thing is, I must find out.”

“But must you?” Alec said slowly. “As things are at present, whatever
you may think, you don’t actually _know_. And if you do find out for
certain, it seems to me that you’ll be deliberately saddling yourself
with a responsibility which you might wish then that you hadn’t been
so jolly eager to adopt.”

“If it comes to that, Alec,” Roger retorted, “I should have said that
to take no steps to find out the truth now we’re so near it is
deliberately to shirk that very responsibility. Wouldn’t you?”

Alec was silent for a moment.

“Hang that!” he said with sudden energy. “Leave things as they are,
Roger. There are some things of which it’s better that everyone should
remain in ignorance. Don’t go and find out a lot of things that you’d
give anything afterwards not to have discovered.”

Roger laughed lightly. “Oh, I know it’s the right thing to say, ‘Who
am I to take the responsibility of judging you? No, it is not for me
to do so. I will hand you over to the police, which means that you
will inevitably be hanged. It’s a pity, because my personal opinion is
that your case is not murder, but justifiable homicide; and I know
that a jury, directed by a judge with his eye on the asinine side of
the law, would never be allowed to take that view. That’s why I so
much regret having myself to place a halter round your neck by handing
you over to the police. But how is such a one as me to judge you?’
That’s what they always say in storybooks, isn’t it? But don’t you
worry, Alec. I’m not a spineless nincompoop like that, and I’m not in
the least afraid of taking the responsibility of judging a case on its
own merits; in fact, I consider that I’m very much more competent to
do so than are twelve thick-headed rustics, presided over by a
somnolent and tortuous-minded gentleman in an out-of-date wig. No, I’m
going to follow this up to the bitter end, and when I’ve got there
I’ll take counsel with you as to what we’re going to do about it.”

“I wish to goodness you’d leave it alone, Roger,” said Alec, almost
plaintively.



Chapter XXIII

Mrs. Plant Talks

The inquest, in spite of the snail-like deliberation demanded by all
legal processes, did not occupy more than an hour and a half. The
issue was never in the least doubt, and the proceedings were more or
less perfunctory. Fortunately the coroner was not of a particularly
inquisitive disposition and was quite satisfied with the facts as they
stood; he did not waste very much time, beyond what was absolutely
necessary, in probing into such matters as motive. Only the minimum
possible number of witnesses were called, and though Roger listened
carefully, no new facts of any description came to light.

Mrs. Plant gave her evidence clearly and without a tremor; Lady
Stanworth’s statuesque calm was as unshaken as ever. Jefferson was in
the witness box longer than anyone else, and told his story in his
usual abrupt, straightforward manner.

“You’d never think, to see and hear him, that his whole evidence is
nothing but a pack of lies, would you?” Roger whispered to Alec.

“No, I wouldn’t; and what’s more I don’t,” retorted that gentleman
behind his hand. “It’s my belief that he thinks he’s telling the
truth.”

Roger groaned gently.

As far as minor witnesses went, Graves, the butler, and Roger were
both called to corroborate Jefferson’s tale of the breaking down of
the door; and the former was questioned regarding his discovery of the
confession, while Roger told of the locked windows. Alec was not even
called at all.

The verdict, “Suicide during temporary insanity,” was inevitable.

As they left the morning room Roger caught Alec’s arm.

“I’m going to try and get hold of Mrs. Plant now, before lunch,” he
said in a low voice. “Do you want to be present, or not?”

Alec hesitated. “What exactly are you going to do?” he asked.

“Tax her with having been blackmailed by Stanworth, and invite her to
tell me the truth about the night before last.”

“Then I don’t want to be there,” Alec said with decision. “The whole
thing absolutely sickens me.”

Roger nodded approvingly. “I think it’s better that you shouldn’t be,
I’m bound to say. And I can tell you afterwards what happened.”

“When shall I see you, then?”

“After lunch. I’ll have a word with you before I tackle Jefferson.”

He edged away from Alec and intercepted Mrs. Plant, who was on the
point of ascending the staircase. Jefferson and Lady Stanworth were
still talking with the coroner in the morning room.

“Mrs. Plant,” he said quietly, “can you spare me a few minutes? I want
to have a little chat with you.”

Mrs. Plant glanced at him sharply.

“But I’m just going up to finish my packing,” she objected.

“What I have to say is very much more important than packing,” Roger
returned weightily, unconsciously regarding her from beneath lowered
brows.

Mrs. Plant laughed nervously. “Dear me, Mr Sheringham, you sound very
impressive. What is it that you want to speak to me about?”

“If you will come out into the garden where we shall not be overheard,
I will tell you.”

For a moment she hesitated, with a longing glance up the staircase as
if she wished to escape from something peculiarly unwelcome. Then with
a little shrug of her shoulders she turned into the hall.

“Oh, very well,” she said, with an assumption of lightness. “If you
really make such a point of it.”

Roger piloted her out through the front door, picking up a couple of
folding garden chairs as he passed through the hall. He led the way
into a deserted corner of the rose garden that could not be overlooked
from the house, and set up his chairs so that they faced one another.

“Will you sit down, Mrs. Plant?” he said gravely.

If he had been trying to work up an atmosphere with a view to
facilitating further developments, Roger appeared to have succeeded.
Mrs. Plant seated herself without a word and looked at him
apprehensively.

Roger sat down with deliberation and gazed at her for a moment in
silence. Then:

“It has come to my knowledge that you were not speaking the truth to
me yesterday about your visit to the library, Mrs. Plant,” he said
slowly.

Mrs. Plant started. “Really, Mr. Sheringham!” she exclaimed, flushing
with indignation and rising hurriedly to her feet. “I fail to
understand what right you have to insult me in this gross way. This is
the second time you have attempted to question me, and you will allow
me to say that I consider your conduct presumptuous and impertinent in
the highest degree. I should be obliged if you would kindly refrain
from making me the target for your abominable lack of manners in
future.”

Roger gazed up at her unperturbed.

“You were really there,” he continued impressively, “for the purpose
of being blackmailed by Mr. Stanworth.”

Mrs. Plant sat down so suddenly that it seemed as if her knees had
collapsed beneath her. Her hands gripped the sides of her chair till
the knuckles were as white as her face.

“Now look here, Mrs. Plant,” Roger said, leaning forward and speaking
rapidly, “there’s been something very funny going on here, and I mean
to get to the bottom of it. Believe me, I don’t mean you any harm. I’m
absolutely on your side, if things are as I believe them to be. But I
must know the truth. As a matter of fact, I think I know pretty well
everything already; but I want you to confirm it for me with your own
lips. I want you to tell me the plain, unvarnished truth of what
happened in Stanworth’s library the night before last.”

“And if I refuse?” almost whispered Mrs. Plant, through bloodless
lips.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. “You leave me with absolutely no
alternative. I shall have to tell the police what I know and leave the
rest in their hands.”

“The _police_?”

“Yes. And I assure you I am not bluffing. As I said, I think I know
almost everything already. I know, for instance, that you sat on the
couch and begged Mr. Stanworth to let you off; that you cried, in
fact, when he refused to do so. Then you said you hadn’t any money,
didn’t you? And he offered to take your jewels instead. Then—— Oh, but
you see. I’m not pretending to know what I don’t.”

Roger’s bow, drawn thus at a venture, had found its target. Mrs. Plant
acknowledged the truth of his deductions by crying incredulously, “But
how do you know all this, Mr. Sheringham? How can you possibly have
found it out?”

“We won’t go into that at the moment, if you don’t mind,” Roger
replied complacently. “Let it suffice that I do know. Now I want you
to tell me in your own words the whole truth about that night. Please
leave out nothing at all; you must understand that I can check you if
you do so, and if you deceive me again——!” He paused eloquently.

For a few moments Mrs. Plant sat motionless, gazing into her lap. Then
she raised her head and wiped her eyes.

“Very well,” she said in a low voice. “I will tell you. You understand
that I am placing not only my happiness, but literally my whole future
in your hands by doing so?”

“I do, Mrs. Plant,” Roger said earnestly. “And I assure you I will not
abuse your confidence, although I am forcing it in this way.”

Mrs. Plant’s eyes rested on a bed of roses close at hand. “You know
that Mr. Stanworth was a blackmailer?” she said.

Roger nodded. “On a very large scale, indeed.”

“Is that so? I did not know it; but it does not surprise me in the
least.” Her voice sank. “He found out somehow that before I was
married I—I——”

“There’s not the least need to go into that sort of detail, Mrs.
Plant,” Roger interposed quickly. “All that concerns me is that he
_was_ blackmailing you; I don’t want to know why.”

Mrs. Plant flashed a grateful look at him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Well, I will just say that it was in
connection with an incident which happened before I was married. I
have never told my husband about it (it was all past and done with
before I ever met him), because I knew that it would break his heart.
And we are devotedly in love with each other,” she added simply.

“I understand,” Roger murmured sympathetically.

“Then that devil found out about it! For he was a devil, Mr.
Sheringham,” Mrs. Plant said, looking at Roger with wide eyes, in
which traces of horror still lingered. “I could never have imagined
that anyone could be so absolutely inhuman. Oh! It was hell!” She
shuddered involuntarily.

“He demanded money, of course,” she went on after a minute in a calmer
voice; “and I paid him every penny I could. You must understand that I
was willing to face any sacrifice rather than that my husband should
be told. The other night I had to tell him that I had no more money
left. I lied when I told you what time I went into the library. He
stopped me in the hall to tell me that he wanted to see me there at
half-past twelve. That would be when everyone else was in bed, you
see. Mr. Stanworth always preserved the greatest secrecy about these
meetings.”

“And you went at half-past twelve?” Roger prompted sympathetically.

“Yes, taking my jewels with me. I told him that I had no more money.
He wasn’t angry. He never was. Just cold and sneering and horrible. He
said he’d take the jewels for that time, but I must bring him the
money he wanted—two hundred and fifty pounds—in three months’ time.”

“But how could you, if you hadn’t got it?”

Mrs. Plant was silent. Then gazing unseeingly at the rose bed, as if
living over again that tragic interview, she said in a curiously
toneless voice, “He said that a pretty woman like me could always
obtain money if it was necessary. He said he would introduce me to a
man out of whom I—I could get it, if I played my cards properly. He
said if I wasn’t ready with the two hundred and fifty pounds within
three months he would tell my husband everything.”

“My God!” said Roger softly, appalled.

Mrs. Plant looked him suddenly straight in the face.

“That will show you what sort of a man Mr. Stanworth was, if you
didn’t know,” she said quietly.

“I didn’t,” Roger answered. “This explains a good deal,” he added to
himself. “And then, I suppose, Jefferson came in?”

“Major Jefferson?” Mrs. Plant repeated, in unmistakable astonishment.

“Yes. Wasn’t that when he came in?”

Mrs. Plant stared at him in amazement.

“But Major Jefferson never came in at all!” she exclaimed. “What ever
makes you think that?”

It was Roger’s turn to be astonished.

“Do I understand you to say that Jefferson never came in at all while
you were in the library with Stanworth?” he asked.

“Good gracious, no,” Mrs. Plant replied emphatically. “I should hope
not! Why ever should he?”

“I—I don’t really know,” Roger said lamely. “I thought he did. I must
have been mistaken.” In spite of the unexpectedness of her denial, he
was convinced that Mrs. Plant was telling the truth; her surprise was
far too genuine to have been assumed. “Well, what happened?”

“Nothing. I—I implored him not to be so hard and to be content with
what I had paid him and give me back the evidence he’d got, but——”

“Where did he keep the evidence, by the way? In the safe?”

“Yes. He always carried the safe about with him. It was supposed to be
burglar-proof.”

“Was it open while you were there?”

“He opened it to put my jewels in before I went.”

“And did he leave it open, or did he lock it up again?”

“He locked it before I left the room.”

“I see. When would that be?”

“Oh, past one o’clock, I should say. I didn’t notice the time very
particularly. I was feeling too upset.”

“Naturally. And nothing of any importance occurred between his—his
ultimatum and your departure upstairs?”

“No. He refused to give way an inch, and at last I left off trying to
persuade him and went up to bed. That is all.”

“And nobody else came in at all? Not a sign of anybody else?”

“No; nobody.”

“Humph!” said Roger thoughtfully. This was decidedly disappointing;
yet somehow it was impossible to disbelieve Mrs. Plant’s story. Still,
Jefferson might have come in later, having heard something of what had
taken place from outside the room. At any rate, it appeared that Mrs.
Plant herself could have had no hand in the actual murder, whatever
provocation she might have received.

He decided to sound her a little farther.

“In view of what you’ve told me, Mrs. Plant,” he remarked rather more
casually, “it seems very extraordinary that Stanworth should have
committed suicide, doesn’t it? Can you account for it in any way?”

“No, I certainly can’t. It’s inexplicable to me. But, Mr. Sheringham,
I am so thankful! No wonder I fainted when you told us after
breakfast. I suddenly felt as if I had been let out of prison. Oh,
that dreadful, terrible feeling of being in that man’s power! You
can’t imagine it; or what an overwhelming relief it was to hear of his
death.”

“Indeed I can, Mrs. Plant,” Roger said with intense sympathy. “In
fact, what surprises me is that nobody should ever have killed him
before this.”

“Do you imagine that people never thought of that?” Mrs. Plant
retorted passionately. “I did myself. Hundreds of times! But what
would have been the use? Do you know what he did—in my case, at any
rate, and so in everyone else’s, I suppose? He kept the documentary
evidence against me in a sealed envelope addressed to my husband! He
knew that if ever he met with a violent death the safe would be opened
by the police, you see; and in that case they would take charge of the
envelope, and presumably many other similar ones, and forward them all
to their destinations. Just imagine that! Naturally nobody dared kill
him; it would only make things worse than before. He used to gloat
over it to me. Besides, he had always a loaded revolver in his hand
when he opened the safe, in my presence at any rate. I can tell you,
he took no chances. Oh, Mr. Sheringham, that man was a fiend! Whatever
can have induced him to take his own life, I can’t conceive; but
believe me, I shall thank God for it on my bended knees every night as
long as I live!”

She sat biting her lip and breathing heavily in the intensity of her
feelings.

“But if you knew the evidence was kept in the safe, why weren’t you
frightened when it was being opened by the inspector?” Roger asked
curiously. “I remember glancing at you, and you certainly didn’t seem
to be in the least perturbed about it.”

“Oh, that was after I’d had his letter, you see,” Mrs. Plant explained
readily. “I was before, of course; terribly frightened. But not
afterwards, though it did seem almost too good to be true. Hullo!
isn’t that the lunch bell? We had better be going indoors, hadn’t we?
I think I have told you all you can want to know.” She rose to her
feet and turned towards the house.

Roger fell into step with her.

“Letter?” he said eagerly. “What letter?”

Mrs. Plant glanced at him in surprise. “Oh, don’t you know about that?
I thought you must do, as you seemed to know everything. Yes, I got a
letter from him saying that for certain private reasons he had decided
to take his own life, and that before doing so he wished to inform me
that I need have no fears about anything, as he had burnt the evidence
he held against me. You can imagine what a relief it was!”

“Jumping Moses!” Roger exclaimed blankly. “That appears to bash me
somewhat sideways!”

“_What_ did you say, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Mrs. Plant curiously.

Roger’s dazed and slightly incoherent reply is not recorded.



Chapter XXIV

Mr. Sheringham is Disconcerted

Roger sat through the first part of lunch in a species of minor
trance. It was not until the necessity for consuming a large plateful
of prunes and tapioca pudding, the two things besides Jews that he
detested most in the world, began to impress itself upon his
consciousness, that the power of connected thought returned to him.
Mrs. Plant’s revelation appeared temporarily to have numbed his brain.
The one thing which remained dazzlingly clear to him was that if
Stanworth had written a letter announcing his impending suicide, then
Stanworth could not after all have been murdered; and the whole
imposing structure which he, Roger, had erected, crumbled away into
the sand upon which it had been founded. It was a disturbing
reflection for one so blithely certain of himself as Roger.

As soon as lunch was over and the discussion regarding trains and the
like at an end, he hurried Alec upstairs to his bedroom to talk the
matter over. It is true that Roger felt a certain reluctance to be
compelled thus to acknowledge that he had been busily unearthing
nothing but a mare’s nest; but, on the other hand, Alec must know
sooner or later, and at that moment the one vital necessity from
Roger’s point of view was to talk. In fact, the pent-up floods of talk
in Roger’s bosom that were striving for exit had been causing him
something very nearly approaching physical pain during the last few
minutes.

“Alexander!” he exclaimed dramatically as soon as the door was safely
shut. “Alexander, the game is up!”

“What do you mean?” Alec asked in surprise. “Have the police got on
the trail now?”

“Worse than that. Far worse! It appears that old Stanworth was never
murdered at all! He did commit suicide, after all.”

Alec sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed
limply. “But what on earth makes you think that? I thought you were so
convinced that it was murder.”

“So I was,” Roger said, leaning against the dressing table. “That’s
what makes it all the more extraordinary, because I really am very
seldom wrong. I say it in all modesty, but the fact is indisputable.
By all the laws of average, Stanworth ought to have been murdered. It
really is most inexplicable.”

“But how do you know he wasn’t?” Alec demanded. “What’s happened since
I saw you last to make you alter your mind like this?”

“The simple fact that Mrs. Plant received a note from old Stanworth,
saying that he was going to kill himself for private reasons of his
own or something.”

“Oh!”

“I can tell you, it knocked me upside down for the minute. Anything
more unexpected I couldn’t have imagined. And the trouble is that I
don’t see how we can possibly get round it. A note like that is a very
different matter to that statement.”

“You know, I’m not sure that I’m altogether surprised that something
like this has turned up,” Alec said slowly. “I was never quite so
convinced by the murder idea as you were. After all, when you come to
look at all the facts of the case, although they certainly seemed to
be consistent with murder, were no less consistent with suicide,
weren’t they?”

“So it appears,” Roger said regretfully.

“It was simply that you’d got the notion of murder into your head—more
picturesque, I suppose—and everything had to be construed to fit it,
eh?”

“I suppose so.”

“In fact,” Alec concluded wisely, “it was an _idée fixe_, and
everything else was sacrificed to it. Isn’t that right?”

“Alexander, you put me to shame,” Roger murmured.

“Well, anyhow, that shows you what comes of muddling in other people’s
affairs,” Alec pointed out severely. “And it’s lucky you hit on the
truth before you made a still bigger idiot of yourself.”

“I deserve it all, I know,” Roger remarked contritely to his
hair-brush.

It was Alec’s turn to be complacent now, and he was taking full
advantage of it. As he lay back leisurely in his chair and smoked away
placidly, he presented a perfect picture of “I told you so!” Roger
contemplated him in rueful silence.

“And yet——!” he murmured tentatively, after a few moments’ silence.

Alec waved an admonitory pipe.

“Now, then!” he said warningly.

Roger exploded suddenly. “Well, say what you like, Alec,” he burst
out, “but the thing is dashed queer! You can’t get away from it. After
all, our inquiries haven’t resulted in nothing, have they? We did
establish the fact that Stanworth was a blackmailer. I forgot to tell
you that, by the way. We were perfectly right; he had been
blackmailing Mrs. Plant, the swine, and jolly badly, too.
Incidentally, she hadn’t the least idea that his death might be
anything else than suicide, and Jefferson didn’t come into the library
while she was there; so I was wrong in that particular detail. I’m
satisfied she was telling the truth, too. But as for the rest—well,
I’m dashed if I know what to think! The more I consider it, the more
difficult I find it to believe that it was suicide, after all, and
that all those other facts could have been nothing but mere
coincidences. It isn’t reasonable.”

“Yes, that’s all very well,” Alec said sagely. “But when a fellow
actually goes out of his way to write a letter saying that——”

“By Jove, Alec!” Roger interrupted excitedly. “You’ve given me an
idea. _Did_ he write it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, mightn’t it have been typed? I haven’t seen the thing yet, you
know, and when she mentioned a letter it never occurred to me that it
might not be a hand-written one. If it was typed, then there’s still a
chance.” He walked rapidly towards the door.

“Where are you going to now?” Alec asked in surprise.

“To see if I can get a look at this blessed letter,” Roger said,
turning the handle. “Mrs. Plant’s room is down this passage, isn’t
it?”

With a quick glance up and down the passage, Roger hurried along to
Mrs. Plant’s bedroom and tapped on the door.

“Come in,” said a voice inside.

“It’s me, Mrs. Plant,” he replied softly. “Mr. Sheringham. Can I speak
to you a minute?”

There came the sound of rapid footsteps crossing the floor and Mrs.
Plant’s head appeared at the door.

“Yes?” she asked, not without a certain apprehension. “What is it, Mr.
Sheringham?”

“You remember that letter you mentioned this morning? From Mr.
Stanworth, I mean. Have you still got it, by any chance, or have you
destroyed it?”

He held his breath for her reply.

“Oh, no. Of course I destroyed it at once. Why?”

“Oh, I just wanted to test an idea. Let me see.” He thought rapidly.
“It was pushed under your door or something, I suppose?”

“Oh, no. It came by post.”

“Did it?” said Roger eagerly. “You didn’t notice the postmark, did
you?”

“As a matter of fact I did. It seemed so funny that he should have
taken the trouble to post it. It was posted from the village by the
eight-thirty post that morning.”

“The village, was it? Oh! And was it typewritten?”

“Yes.”

Roger held his breath again. “Was the signature written or
typewritten?”

Mrs. Plant considered.

“It was typewritten, as far as I remember.”

“Are you sure of that?” Roger asked eagerly.

“Ye-es, I think so. Oh, yes; I remember now. The whole thing was
typewritten, signature and all.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Plant,” Roger said gratefully. “That’s all
I wanted to know.”

He sped back to his own room.

“Alexander!” he exclaimed dramatically, as soon as he was inside.
“Alexander, the game is on again!”

“What’s up now?” Alec asked with a slight frown.

“That letter sounds like a fake, just the same as the confession. It
was all typewritten, even the signature, and it was posted from the
village. Can you imagine a man in his sane senses deliberately going
down to the village to post his letter, when all he had to do was to
push it under her door?”

“He might have had others to post as well,” Alec hazarded, blowing out
a great cloud of smoke. “Would Mrs. Plant’s be the only one?”

“H’m! I never thought of that. Yes, he would. But still, it’s rather
unlikely that he should have posted hers as well, I should say. By the
way, it was that letter which accounted for her change of attitude
before lunch. She knew then that she had nothing to fear from the
opening of the safe, you see.”

“Well, how do matters stand now?”

“Exactly as they did before. I don’t see that this really affects it
either way. It’s only another instance of the murderer’s cunning. Mrs.
Plant, and possibly, as you say, one or two others, might raise
awkward questions at Stanworth’s sudden death; therefore their
apprehensions must be allayed. All that it really does as far as we
are concerned, is to confirm the idea that the murderer must have a
very intimate knowledge of Stanworth’s private affairs. Of course it
shows that the safe _was_ opened that night, and it brings our old
friends, the ashes in the hearth, into prominence once more as being
in all probability the remains of the blackmailer’s evidence. Curious
that that first guess of mine should have turned out to be so near the
truth, isn’t it?”

“And what about Jefferson?” Alec asked quietly.

“Ah, yes, Jefferson. Well, I suppose this affair of the letter and the
fact that he did not break in on Mrs. Plant and Stanworth in the
library that night and consequently was not helped by that lady—I
suppose all this gives him credit for rather more brains than I had
been willing to concede him; but otherwise I don’t see that his
position is affected.”

“You mean, you still think he killed Stanworth?”

“If he didn’t, can you tell me who did?”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve told you I’m convinced you’re
barking up the wrong tree. It’s no good going on repeating it.”

“Not a bit,” Roger said cheerfully.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Exactly what I was before. Have a little chat with him.”

“Rather ticklish business, isn’t it? I mean, when you’re so very
uncertain of your ground.”

“Possibly. But so was Mrs. Plant for that matter. I think I shall be
able to handle friend Jefferson all right. I shall be perfectly candid
with him, and I’m willing to wager a small sum that I shall be back
here within half an hour with his confession in my pocket.”

“Humph!” Alec observed sceptically. “Are you going to accuse him
directly of the murder?”

“My dear Alec! Nothing so crude as that. I shan’t even say in so many
words that I know a murder has been committed. I shall simply ask him
a few pointed and extremely pertinent questions. He’ll see the drift
of them all right; Master Jefferson is no fool, as we have every
reason to know. Then we shall be able to get down to things.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake do bear in mind the possibility (I won’t put
it any stronger than that) that Jefferson never did kill Stanworth at
all, and walk warily.”

“Trust me for that,” Roger replied complacently. “By the way, did I
tell you that Mrs. Plant received that letter just before going into
lunch? It caught the eight-thirty post from the village.”

“Did it?” Alec said without very much interest.

“By Jove!” Roger exclaimed suddenly. “What an idiot I am! That’s
conclusive proof that Stanworth couldn’t have posted it himself, isn’t
it? Fancy my never spotting that point before!”

“What point?”

“Why, the first post out from the village is five o’clock. That letter
must have been posted between five and eight-thirty—four hours or more
after Stanworth was dead!”



Chapter XXV

The Mystery Finally Refuses to Accept Mr. Sheringham’s Solution

Roger had no time to waste. Mrs. Plant, Alec, and himself were all to
leave by the train soon after five o’clock; the car would be ready to
take them into Elchester at half-past four. Tea was to be at four, and
the time was already close on three. He had an hour left in which to
disentangle the last remaining threads. As he stood for a moment
outside the morning-room door it seemed to Roger as if even this
narrow margin were half an hour more than he needed.

Jefferson was still at work among the piled-up papers. He glanced up
abstractedly as Roger entered the room and then smiled slightly.

“Come to offer me a hand again?” he asked. “Devilish good of you, but
I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can turn over to you this
time.”

Roger drew a chair up to the other side of the table and seated
himself deliberately.

“As a matter of fact, I hadn’t,” he said slowly. “I wanted to ask you
one or two questions, Jefferson, if you would be good enough to answer
them.”

Jefferson looked slightly surprised.

“Questions? All right, fire away. What can I tell you?”

“Well, the first thing I want to ask you,” Roger shot out, “is—where
were you at the time that Stanworth died?”

A look of blank astonishment was followed in Jefferson’s face by an
angry flush.

“And what the devil has that got to do with you?” he asked abruptly.

“Never mind for the moment what it has to do with me,” Roger replied,
his heart beating a little faster than usual. “I want you to answer
that question.”

Jefferson rose slowly to his feet, his eyes glittering ominously. “Do
you want me to kick you out of the room?” he said in a strangely quiet
voice.

Roger leaned back in his chair and watched him unmoved.

“Do I understand that you refuse to answer?” he said evenly. “You
refuse to tell me where you were between, say, one and three o’clock
on the morning that Stanworth died?”

“Most decidedly I do. And I want to know what the hell you think that
has to do with you?”

“It may have nothing and it may have everything,” Roger said calmly.
“But I advise you to tell me, if not for your own sake at least for
the lady’s.”

If this was a chance shot, it had certainly got home. Jefferson’s face
took on a deeper tinge and his eyes widened in sheer fury. He clenched
his fists till the knuckles showed up white and menacing.

“Damn you, Sheringham, that’s about enough!” he muttered, advancing
towards the other. “I don’t know what the devil you think you’re
playing at, but——”

A sudden bluff darted into Roger’s mind. After all, what was a man
like Jefferson doing as secretary to a man like Stanworth? He decided
to risk it.

“Before you do anything rash, Jefferson,” he said quickly, “I’d like
to ask you another question. What was Stanworth blackmailing you for?”

There are times when bluff pays. This was one of them. Jefferson
stopped short in his stride, his hands fell limply to his sides and
his jaw drooped open. It was as if he had been struck by a sudden and
unexpected bullet.

“Sit down and let’s talk things over quietly,” Roger advised, and
Jefferson resumed his seat without a word.

Roger reviewed the situation rapidly in his mind.

“You see,” he began in conversational tones, “I know quite a lot of
what’s been going on here, and in the circumstances I really have no
alternative but to find out the rest. I admit that it places me in
rather an awkward situation, but I can’t see that I can very well do
anything else. Now what I suggest, Jefferson, is that we both put our
cards on the table and talk the thing over as two men of the world. Do
you agree?”

Jefferson frowned. “You don’t appear to give me much option, do you?
Though what it has to do with you, I’m really hanged if I can see.”

It was on Roger’s lips to retort that Jefferson would very probably be
hanged if he didn’t, but fortunately he was able to control himself.

“I should have thought that would have been obvious,” he said
smoothly. “I can hardly leave things as they are, can I? Still, we’ll
pass over that for the present. Now Stanworth was, as I know, a
blackmailer, and there can be no doubt as to that affecting the
situation in no small degree.”

“What situation?” Jefferson asked in puzzled tones.

Roger glanced at him shrewdly. “_The_ situation,” he said firmly. “I
think we both understand to what I am referring.”

“I’m blessed if I do,” Jefferson retorted.

“Of course if you take up that attitude——!” Roger said tentatively.
“Still, perhaps it’s a little early to get down to brass tacks,” he
added, after a moment’s pause. “We’ll confine ourselves to the other
aspect for a time, shall we? Now Stanworth, I take it, had some
definite hold over you. Would you mind telling me exactly what that
was?”

“Is this necessary?” Jefferson demanded shortly. “My private affair,
you know. Why the deuce should you want to concern yourself in it?”

“Don’t talk like that, Jefferson, please. You must see what course
you’ll force on me if you do.”

“Damned if I do! What course?”

“To put the whole thing in the hands of the police, naturally.”

Jefferson started violently. “Good God, you wouldn’t do that,
Sheringham!”

“I don’t want to do so, of course. But you really must be frank with
me. Now please tell me all about your relations with Stanworth. I may
tell you, to save you trouble, that I am already in full possession of
all the similar facts with regard to—well, the lady in the case.”

“The devil you are!” Jefferson exclaimed in undisguised astonishment.
“Oh, well, if I’ve got to tell you, I suppose I must. Though what in
the name of goodness it can have to—— However!”

He leaned back in his chair and began to fiddle abstractedly with the
papers in front of him.

“It was this way. My regiment was in India. Pal of mine and I were
both in love with the same girl. No bad blood or anything like that.
Good friends all the time. He got her. Wanted to get married at once,
but very hard up, of course. We all were. He’d got a lot of debts,
too. Damned fool went and drew a check on another man’s account.
Forged it, if you like. Absurd thing to do; bound to come out. There
was a hell of a row, but we managed to keep it confined to a few of
us. Chap came and confessed to me; asked what on earth he’d better do.
They hadn’t found out who’d done it yet, but when they did it would be
all up with him. Lose the girl and everything; she was fond enough of
him, but straight as a die herself. Couldn’t have stood the disgrace.
Well, what could I do? Couldn’t stand by and see all this happen. Went
to the colonel and told him I’d done the blessed thing. Only thing to
do.”

“By Jove, you sportsman!” Roger exclaimed involuntarily.

“Sportsman be damned! Wouldn’t have done it for him alone. I was
thinking of the girl.”

“And what happened?”

“Oh, it was hushed up as much as possible. I had to send in my papers,
of course, but the fellow didn’t prosecute. Then that hound Stanworth
got wind of the story somehow and managed to lay his hands on the
check, which had never been destroyed. Perfect godsend to him, of
course. Gave me choice of taking on this job with him or letting the
whole thing be passed on to the police. No alternative. I had to take
on the job.”

“But why on earth did he want you as his secretary? That’s what I
can’t understand.”

“Simple enough. He wanted to push his way in among the sort of people
I knew. I was a sort of social sponsor for him. Damned unpleasant job,
of course, but what could I do? Besides, when I took the job on I
didn’t know anything about him. Thought he was just a new-rich
merchant and I was his only victim in the threatening line. Soon found
out, of course; but too late to back out then. That’s all. Satisfied?”

“Perfectly. Sorry I had to ask you, but you see how it is. Well, I’m
dashed if I can blame you. I’d have done the same thing myself. But
I’d like to have the story of it from your own lips.”

“Just told you the story.”

“No, the other one, I mean.”

“What other one?”

“Oh, don’t beat about the bush like this. You know perfectly well what
I’m driving at. I’ll put it in the original form, if you like. Where
were you during the night that Stanworth died?”

Jefferson’s angry flush returned.

“Now look here, Sheringham, that’s too much. I’ve told you things I
never dreamed I’d have to tell anyone, and I’m not going to have you
probing any farther into my business. That’s final.”

Roger rose to his feet. “I’m sorry you take it like that, Jefferson,”
he said quietly. “You leave me no alternative.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Tell the police the whole story.”

“Are you mad, Sheringham?” Jefferson burst out angrily.

“No, but I think you are, not to trust me,” Roger retorted, hardly
less so. “You don’t think I want to tell them, do you? It’s you who
are forcing me to do so.”

“What, through not telling you what—what I was doing that night?”

“Of course.”

There was a short pause, while the two glared at each other.

“Come back in a quarter of an hour,” Jefferson said abruptly. “I’ll
think it over. Have to consult her, of course, first.”

Roger nodded acquiescence to this proposal and hurried out of the
room. Exultantly he sought Alec.

“I told you so, Alexander,” he cried triumphantly, as soon as he was
fairly inside the room. “Jefferson’s on the point of confession!”

“He’s not!” Alec exclaimed incredulously.

“He is indeed. And there’s a lot more to it than that. I’ve bluffed
him into believing that I know a lot more than I do really, and he’s
going to tell me all sorts of other things as well. He’s let one cat
out of the bag already. I can tell you. Mrs. Plant is in it, after
all!”

“Oh, rot!” Alec replied with decision. “That’s out of the question. I
know she isn’t.”

“Don’t be so absurd, Alexander,” Roger retorted somewhat nettled. “How
can you possibly know?”

“Well, anyhow, I’m sure she isn’t,” Alec replied obstinately.

“But my dear chap, friend Jefferson has just gone off to consult her
as to whether he shall tell me the whole story or not. I threatened
him with the police, you see, if he didn’t.”

“I suppose you taxed him outright with the murder, did you?”

“No, Alexander, I didn’t,” Roger answered wearily. “The word murder
was never so much as mentioned. I simply put it that I wanted to know
what he was doing on the night of Stanworth’s death.”

“And he wouldn’t tell you?” Alec asked, somewhat surprisedly.

“He certainly would not. But he told me a lot of other things. He was
in Stanworth’s power all right. I haven’t got time to tell you the
whole story, but there’s motive enough for him to kill Stanworth
himself, even without the introduction of Mrs. Plant’s side of it. Oh,
the whole thing’s as plain as a pikestaff. I can’t understand why
you’re so sceptical about it all.”

“Perhaps I make a better detective than you do, Roger,” Alec laughed,
a trifle constrainedly.

“Perhaps,” Roger said without very much conviction. He glanced at his
watch. “Well, I’d better be getting back. I wonder if you’d believe it
if I showed you Jefferson’s confession in writing! Would you?”

“I very much doubt it,” Alec smiled.

Jefferson was no longer alone in the morning room when Roger returned
to it. To the latter’s surprise Lady Stanworth was also there. She was
standing with her back to the window and did not look round at his
entrance. Roger shut the door carefully behind him and looked
inquiringly at Jefferson.

That gentleman did not waste time.

“We’ve talked the matter over,” he said curtly, “and decided to tell
you what you want to know.”

Roger could hardly repress an exclamation of surprise. Why should
Jefferson have imported Lady Stanworth into the matter? Obviously she
must be involved, and deeply, too. Could it be that Jefferson had
taken her into his confidence with regard to Mrs. Plant? How much did
she know, if that were the case? Presumably everything. Roger felt
that the situation was about to prove not a little awkward.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, half apologetically.

Jefferson was carrying the thing off well. Not only did he appear to
be feeling no fear at all, but his manner was not even that of
defiance. The attitude he had adopted and which sat perfectly
naturally upon him was rather one of dignified condescension.

“But before I answer you, Sheringham,” he said stiffly, “I should like
to say, both on behalf of this lady and myself, that we consider——”

Lady Stanworth turned to him. “Please!” she said quietly. “I don’t
think we need go into that. If Mr. Sheringham is incapable of
understanding the position into which he has forced us, there can
hardly be any need to labour the point.”

“Quite, quite,” Roger murmured still more apologetically, and feeling
unaccountably small. Lady Stanworth was perhaps the only person in the
world who consistently had that effect upon him.

“Very well,” Jefferson bowed. He turned to Roger. “You wanted to know
where I was on the night that Stanworth shot himself?”

“On the night of Stanworth’s death,” Roger corrected, with a slight
smile.

“On the night of Stanworth’s death then,” Jefferson said impatiently.
“Same thing. As I said before, I fail entirely to see how it can
concern you, but we have decided under the circumstances to tell you.
After all, the fact will be common knowledge soon enough now. I was
with my wife.”

“Your _wife_?” Roger echoed, scarcely able to believe his ears.

“That is what I said,” Jefferson replied coldly. “Lady Stanworth and I
were married secretly nearly six months ago.”



Chapter XXVI

Mr. Grierson Tries His Hand

For some moments Roger was incapable of speech. This disclosure was so
totally unexpected, so entirely the reverse of anything that he had
ever imagined, that at first it literally took his breath away. He
could only stand and stare, as if his eyes were about to pop out of
his head, at the two entirely unmoved persons who had sprung this
overwhelming surprise upon him.

“Is that what you wished to know?” Jefferson asked courteously. “Or
would you wish my wife to confirm it?”

“Oh, no; no need at all,” Roger gasped, doing his best to pull himself
together. “I—I should like to apologise to you for the apparent
impertinence of my questions and to—to congratulate you, if you will
allow me to do so.”

“Very kind,” Jefferson muttered. Lady Stanworth, or Lady Jefferson as
she was now, bowed slightly.

“If you don’t want me any more, Harry,” she said to her husband,
“there are one or two things I have to do.”

“Certainly,” Jefferson said, opening the door for her.

She passed out without another glance at Roger.

“Look here, Jefferson,” exclaimed the latter impulsively, as soon as
the door was closed again, “I know you must be thinking me the most
appalling bounder, but you must believe that I shouldn’t have tackled
you in that way if I hadn’t got very solid and serious reasons for
doing so. As things have turned out, I can’t tell you at present what
those reasons are; but really it’s something of the greatest possible
importance.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Sheringham,” Jefferson returned with gruff
amiability. “Guessed you must have something up your sleeve. Bit
awkward, though. Ladies, and all that, y’know,” he added vaguely.

“Beastly,” Roger said sympathetically. “As a matter of fact, that’s a
development that had never occurred to me at all, you and Lady
Stanworth being married. If anything, it makes things very much more
complicated than before.”

“Bit of a mystery or something on hand, eh?” Jefferson asked with
interest.

“Very much so,” Roger replied, gazing thoughtfully out of the window.
“Connected with Stanworth, and—and his activities, you understand,” he
added.

“Ah!” Jefferson observed comprehendingly. “Then I’d better not ask any
questions. Don’t want to learn anything more about that side of
things. Seen too many poor devils going through it already.”

“No, but I tell you what,” Roger said, wheeling suddenly about. “If
you could answer a few more questions for me, I should be more than
grateful. Only as a favour, of course, and if you refuse I shall
understand perfectly. But you might be able to help me clear up a very
tricky state of affairs.”

“If it’s anything to do with helping somebody Stanworth got hold of,
I’ll answer questions all night,” Jefferson replied with vigour. “Go
ahead.”

“Thanks, very much. Well, then, in the first place, will you tell me
some details regarding your wife’s relations with Stanworth? It
doesn’t matter if you object, but I should be very glad if you could
see your way to do so.”

“But I thought you said you knew that story?”

Roger did not think it necessary to explain that the lady to whom he
had been referring was not Lady Jefferson. “Oh, I know most of it, I
think,” he said airily, “but I should like to hear it all from you, if
I could. I know that she was in Stanworth’s power, of course,” he
added, making a shot in the twilight, “but I’m not quite clear as to
the precise way.”

Jefferson shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well, as you seem to know so
much, you’d better have the whole lot straight. Stanworth nosed out
something about her father. His brother was in love with her, and
Stanworth gave her the option of marrying him or having her father
shown up. He could have had the old earl put in the dock, I believe.
Naturally she chose the brother, who, by the way, didn’t know anything
about Stanworth’s activities, so I understand. Quite an amiable,
rather weak sort of a fellow.”

“And since then, of course, Stanworth had the whip hand over her?”

Jefferson winced. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Even after her father died,
she wouldn’t want the family shown up.”

“I see,” said Roger thoughtfully. So Lady Stanworth had little enough
reason to love her brother-in-law. And since Jefferson fell in love
with her, her cause would naturally become his. Truly he had motive
and to spare for ridding the world of such a man. Yet, although
Jefferson and his wife might easily have concocted the story of his
whereabouts that night, Roger already felt just as convinced of the
former’s innocence as he was before of his guilt. The man’s manner
seemed somehow to preclude altogether the idea of subterfuge. Had he
really killed Stanworth, Roger was sure that he would have said so by
the time that matters had reached this length, bluntly and simply,
just as he had told the story of his own downfall.

But in spite of his convictions, Roger was not such a fool as not to
put the obvious questions that occurred to him.

“Why was your marriage secret?” he asked. “Did Stanworth know about
it?”

“No; he wouldn’t have allowed it. It would have looked like a
combination against him. He wanted us separate, for his own ends.”

“Did you hear the shot that killed him?” Roger said suddenly.

“No. About two o’clock, wasn’t it? I’d been asleep two hours.”

“You did sleep with your wife then, in spite of the necessity of
preserving secrecy?”

“Her maid knew. Used to go back to my room in the early morning.
Beastly hole-and-corner business, but no alternative.”

“And only Stanworth’s death could have freed you, so to speak?” Roger
mused. “Very opportune, wasn’t it?”

“Very,” Jefferson replied laconically. “You think I forced him somehow
to shoot himself, don’t you?”

“Well, I—I——” Roger stammered, completely taken aback.

Jefferson smiled grimly. “Knew you must have some comic idea in your
head. Just seen what you’ve been driving at. Well, you can rest
assured I didn’t. For the simple reason that nobody or no threats on
earth could have made him do a thing like that. Why he did it, Heaven
only knows. Complete mystery to me. Can’t fathom it. Thank God he did,
though!”

“You don’t think he might have been—murdered?” Roger suggested
tentatively.

“Murdered? How could he have been? Out of the question under the
circumstances. Besides, he took jolly good care of that. I’d have
murdered him myself before this—hundreds of times!—if I hadn’t known
it would make things worse than before all round.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that. Kept the evidence addressed to the
interested parties, didn’t he? I suppose everyone knew that?”

“You bet they did. He rubbed it in. No, Stanworth never meant to be
murdered. But my God, I had a fright when I saw him lying there dead
and the safe locked.”

“You were going to try and open it when I interrupted you yesterday
morning, of course?”

“Yes, properly caught out then,” Jefferson smiled ruefully. “But even
if I’d found the keys, I didn’t know the combination. Lord, what a
relief that note of his was. You know about that, I suppose?”

“You got a note by the post before lunch, did you?”

“That’s right. Saying he was going to kill himself. Rum business.
Can’t explain it. Almost too good to be true. I feel another man.”

“And so are a good many other people, I imagine,” Roger said softly.
“And women, too. His activities were fairly widespread, weren’t they?”

“Very, I believe. Never knew much about it, though. He kept all that
sort of thing to himself.”

“That butler now,” Roger hazarded. “He looks a pretty tough customer.
I suppose Stanworth employed him as a sort of bodyguard?”

“Yes, something like that. But I don’t know about ‘employed.’”

“What do you mean?”

“He was no more employed than I was. That is to say, we got a salary
and we did our work, but it wasn’t a sort of employment either of us
could leave.”

Roger whistled softly. “Oho! So friend Graves was another victim, was
he? What’s his story?”

“Don’t know all the details, but Stanworth could have had that man
hanged, I believe,” Jefferson said coolly. “Instead he preferred to
use him as a sort of bodyguard, as you say.”

“I see. Then Graves hadn’t much cause to love him either, I take it?”

“If he hadn’t known what would happen afterwards, I wouldn’t have
given Stanworth ten minutes of life in Graves’s presence.”

Roger whistled again.

“Well, thanks very much, Jefferson. I think that’s all I wanted to
know.”

“If you’re trying to look for someone who induced Stanworth to shoot
himself, you’re wasting your time,” Jefferson remarked. “Couldn’t be
done.”

“Oh, there’s a little more in my quest than that,” Roger smiled, as he
let himself out of the room.

He hurried upstairs, glancing at his watch as he did so. The time was
nearly five minutes to four. He scurried down the passage to Alec’s
room.

“Finished packing?” he asked, putting his head round the door. “Good,
well come along to my room while I do mine.”

“Well?” Alec asked sarcastically, when they were once more ensconced
in Roger’s bedroom. “Has Jefferson written out his confession?”

Roger paused in the act of laying his suitcase on a chair.

“Alec,” he said solemnly, “I owe friend Jefferson an apology, though I
can’t very well tender it. I was hopelessly wrong about him, and you
were hopelessly right. He didn’t kill Stanworth at all. It’s extremely
annoying of him considering how neatly I solved this little problem of
ours; but there’s the fact.”

“Humph!” Alec observed. “I won’t _say_, ‘I told you so,’ because I
know how annoying it would be for you. But I don’t mind telling you
that I’m thinking it hard.”

“Yes, and the most irritating part is that you’re fully entitled to do
so,” Roger said, throwing his pyjamas into the case. “That’s what I
find so irksome.”

“But I suppose you’ve found somebody else to take his place all
right?”

“No, I haven’t. Isn’t it maddening? But I’ll tell you one significant
fact I’ve unearthed. That butler had as much cause as anyone, if not
more, to regret the fact that Stanworth was still polluting the
earth.”

“Had he? Oh! But look here, how do you know that Jefferson didn’t do
it?”

Roger explained.

“Not much so far as actual hard-and-fast-evidence goes, I’m afraid,”
he concluded, “but we greater detectives are above evidence. It’s
psychology that we study, and I feel in every single bone in my body
that Jefferson was telling the truth.”

“Lady Stanworth!” Alec commented. “Good Lord!”

“Some men are brave, aren’t they? Still, I daresay she’ll make an
excellent wife; I believe that’s the right thing to say on this sort
of occasion. But seriously, Alec, I’m absolutely baffled again. I
think I shall have to turn the case over to you.”

“Well, do,” Alec retorted with unexpected energy, “and I’ll tell you
who killed Stanworth.”

Roger desisted from his efforts to close the lid of his bulging case
in order to look up in surprise.

“You will, eh? Well, who did?”

“Some unknown victim of Stanworth’s blackmail, of course. The whole
thing stands to reason. We were looking for a mysterious stranger at
first, weren’t we? And we thought he might be a burglar. Translate the
burglar into the blackmailer’s victim and there you are. And as he
burnt the evidence himself, and we haven’t the least idea who was on
Stanworth’s blackmailing list, we shall never find out who he was. The
whole thing seems as clear as daylight to me.”

Roger turned to his refractory case again. “But why did we give up the
burglar idea?” he asked. “Aren’t you rather overlooking that? Chiefly
because of the disappearance of those footprints. That must mean
either that the murderer came from inside the house or that he had an
accomplice there.”

“I don’t agree with you. We don’t know how or why the footprints
disappeared. It might have been pure chance. William might have raked
the bed over, somebody might have noticed it and smoothed it out;
there are plenty of possible explanations for that.”

With a heave Roger succeeded in clicking the lock with which he was
struggling. He straightened his bent back and drew his pipe out of his
pocket.

“I’ve talked enough for a bit,” he announced.

“Oh, rot!” Alec exclaimed incredulously.

“And it’s about time I put in a little thinking,” Roger went on,
disregarding the interruption. “You run along down to tea, Alexander;
you’re ten minutes late as it is.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to spend my last twenty minutes here doing some high-speed
cogitating in the back garden. Then I shall be ready to chat with you
in the train.”

“Yes, I have a kind of idea that you’ll be quite ready to do that,”
said Alec rudely, as they went out into the passage.



Chapter XXVII

Mr. Sheringham Hits the Mark

Roger did not reappear until the car was at the front door and the
other members of the party already making their farewells on the
steps. His leave-taking was necessarily a little hurried; but perhaps
this was not altogether without design. Roger did not feel at all
inclined to linger in the society of Lady Jefferson.

He shook hands warmly enough with her husband, however, and the manner
of their parting was sufficient to assure the latter, without the
necessity of any words being spoken on the subject, that his
confidences would be regarded as inviolate. The taciturn Jefferson
became almost effusive in return.

Arrived at the station, Roger personally superintended the purchase of
the tickets and deftly shepherded Mrs. Plant into a non-smoking
carriage explaining that the cigars which he and Alec proposed to
smoke would spell disaster to the subtleties of _Parfum Jasmine_. A
short but interesting conversation with the guard, followed by the
exchange of certain pieces of silver, ensured the locking of the door
of their own first-class smoker.

“And so ends an extremely interesting little visit,” Roger observed as
soon as the train started, leaning back luxuriously in his corner and
putting his feet on the seat. “Well, I shan’t be sorry to get back to
London, on the whole, I must say, though the country is all very well
in its way. I always think you ought to take the country in small
doses to appreciate it properly, don’t you?”

“No,” said Alec.

“Or look at it in comfort from the windows of a train,” Roger went on,
waving an appreciative hand towards the countryside through which they
were passing. “Fields, woods, streams, barley——”

“That isn’t barley. It’s wheat.”

“—barley, trees—delightful, my dear Alexander! But how much more
delightful seen like this in one charming flash, that leaves a picture
printed on the brain only to give way the next instant to another
equally charming one, than stuck down in the middle, for instance, of
one of those fields of barley——”

“Wheat.”

“—of barley, with the prospect of a ten-mile walk in this blazing
sunshine between you and the next long drink. Don’t you agree?”

“No.”

“I thought you wouldn’t. But reflect. Sunshine, considered from the
purely æsthetic point of view, is, I am quite willing to grant you, a
thing of——”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Alec asked despairingly.

“Sunshine, Alexander,” returned Roger blandly.

“Well, for goodness’ sake stop talking about sunshine. What I want to
know is, have you got any farther?”

Roger was evidently in one of his maddening moods.

“What with?” he asked blankly.

“The Stanworth affair of course, you idiot!” shouted the exasperated
Alec.

“Ah, yes, of course. The Stanworth affair,” Roger replied innocently.
“Did I do that bit well, Alec?” he asked with a sudden change of tone.

“What bit?”

“When I said, ‘What with?’ Did I say it with an air of bland
innocence? The best detectives always do, you know. When they reach
this stage of the proceedings they always pretend to have forgotten
all about the case in hand. Why they do so, I’ve never been able to
imagine; but it’s evidently the correct etiquette for the job. By the
way, Alec,” he added kindly, “you did your part very well. The idiot
friend always shouts in an irritated and peevish way like that. I
really think we make quite a model pair, don’t you?”

“Will you stop yapping and tell me whether you’ve got any farther with
Stanworth’s murder?” Alec demanded doggedly.

“Oh, _that_?” said Roger with studied carelessness. “I solved that
exactly forty-three minutes ago.”

“_What?_”

“I said that I solved the mystery exactly forty-three minutes ago. And
a few odd seconds, of course. It was an interesting little problem in
its way, my dear Alexander Watson, but absurdly simple once one had
grasped the really vital factor in the case. For some extraordinary
reason I appeared to have overlooked it before; hence the delay. But
don’t put that bit in when you come to write up the case, or I shall
never land the next vacancy for a stolen-crown-jewels recoverer to an
influential emperor.”

“You’ve solved it, have you?” Alec growled sceptically. “I seem to
have heard something like that before.”

“Meaning Jefferson? Yes, I admit I backed the wrong horse there. But
this is a very different matter. I’ve really solved it this time.”

“Oh? Well, let’s hear it.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Roger responded heartily. “Let me see
now. Where shall I begin? Well, I think I’ve told you all the really
important things that I managed to elicit from Mrs. Plant and
Jefferson, haven’t I? Except one.” Roger dropped his bantering manner
with startling suddenness. “Alec,” he said seriously, “that man
Stanworth was as choice a scoundrel as I’ve ever heard of. What I
didn’t tell you is that he gave Mrs. Plant three months in which to
find two hundred and fifty pounds for him; and hinted that if she
hadn’t got it already, a pretty woman like her would have no
difficulty in laying her hands on it.”

“Good God!” Alec breathed.

“He even went farther than that and offered to introduce her to a rich
man out of whom she would be able to wheedle it, if she played her
cards properly. Oh, I tell you, shooting was much too easy a death for
friend Stanworth. And the person who did it ought to be acclaimed as a
public benefactor, instead of being hanged by a grateful country; as
he certainly would be, if all this had got into the hands of the
police.”

“You can hardly expect the law to recognise the principle of poetic
justice for all that,” Alec objected.

“I don’t see why not,” Roger retorted. “However, we won’t go into that
at present. Well, to my mind there were two chief difficulties in this
Stanworth business. The first one was that at the beginning there
didn’t seem to be any definite motive for killing him; and afterwards,
when we’d found out about him, there were far too many. All those
people in the house, Mrs. Plant, Jefferson, Lady Stanworth, the butler
(who, by the way, appears to be a murderer in a small way already, as
I gather from Jefferson; that was the hold which Stanworth had over
him)—all of them had every reason to kill him; and the case began to
take on the aspect not so much of proving who did it, but, by a
process of elimination, of finding out who didn’t. In that way I
managed eventually to dismiss Mrs. Plant, Jefferson, and Lady
Stanworth. But besides the people actually under our noses in the
house, there were all the others—goodness only knows how many of
them!—of whose very existence we knew nothing; all his other victims.”

“Were there many of them, then?”

“I understand that Stanworth’s practice was a fairly extensive one,”
Roger replied ironically. “Anyhow, I was able to narrow down the field
to a certain extent. Then I began to go over once more the evidence we
had collected. The question I kept asking myself was—is there a single
item that gives a definite pointer towards any certain person, male or
female?”

“Female?” Roger repeated surprisedly.

“Certainly. In spite of everything—the footprint in the flower bed,
for example—I was still keeping before me the possibility of a woman
being mixed up in it. It didn’t seem altogether probable, but I
couldn’t afford to lose sight of the bare possibility. And it’s lucky
I did, for it was just that which finally put me on the right track.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes; I admit I was slow in the up-take, for the fact had been staring
me in the face the whole time, and I never spotted it. You see, the
key to the whole mystery was that there was a _second_ woman in the
library that night.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Alec asked in consternation.

“By the hair we found on the settee. I put it away in the envelope,
you remember, and promptly forgot all about it, assuming it to have
been one of Mrs. Plant’s. It struck me suddenly in the garden just now
that it wasn’t anything of the sort; Mrs. Plant’s hair is very much
darker. Of course that opened up an entirely new field for
speculation.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, it is rather surprising, isn’t it?” Roger continued equably.
“That set my brain galloping away like wildfire, I need hardly tell
you; and five minutes later the whole thing became absolutely plain to
me. I’m a little hazy about some of the details, of course, but the
broad lines are clear enough.”

“You mean you guessed who the second woman was?”

“Hardly guessed. I knew at once who she must be.”

“Who?” Alec asked, with unconcealed eagerness.

“Wait a bit. I’m coming to that. Well, then I began to put two and two
together. I’d got a pretty shrewd idea already of the personal
appearance of the man himself.”

“Oh, it was a man then?”

“Yes, it was a man right enough. There was never any doubt that a man
must have done the actual killing. No woman would have been strong
enough for the struggle that must have taken place. Stanworth was no
weakling, so that gives us the fact that the man must have been a
strong, burly sort of person. From the footprint and the length of
those strides across the bed he was evidently both tall and largely
built; from the clever way in which everything was left he must have
been possessed of a fund of cunning; from the manner in which he left
that window fastened behind him it was clear that he was thoroughly
accustomed to handling lattice windows. Well, what does all that give
us? It looked obvious to me.”

Alec was staring intently at the speaker, following every word with
eager attention. “I think I see what you’re getting at,” he said
slowly.

“I thought you would,” said Roger cheerfully. “Of course there were
other things that clinched it. The disappearance of that footprint,
for instance. That _must_ have been done by somebody who knew what he
was doing. And somebody who heard me say that I was going to fit every
male boot in the house into the mark, you remember. Of course it was
that which made me so sure at first about Jefferson, because I jumped
to the conclusion that it must have been Jefferson whom we saw edging
out of the library door. After that I more or less had Jefferson on
the brain.”

“I did my best to put you off that track,” said Alec with a slight
smile.

“Oh, you did. It wasn’t your fault that I clung to him so
persistently.”

“I tried hard to stop you putting your foot in it, if you remember.”

“I know. And I daresay it’s lucky you did. I might have put things a
good deal more plainly to him, with extremely awkward results, if you
hadn’t dinned it into me so hard.”

“Well,” Alec said slowly, “what are you going to do about it, now
you’ve presumably got at the truth at last?”

“Do about it? Forget it, of course. I told you my views just now, when
I said the man who killed Stanworth ought to be acclaimed as a public
benefactor. As that is unfortunately out of the question, the next
best thing is to forget as diligently as possible that Stanworth did
not after all shoot himself, as everybody else believes.”

“Humph!” said Alec, gazing out of the window. “I wonder! You’re really
sure of that?”

“Absolutely,” said Roger with decision. “Anything else would be
ludicrous under the circumstances. We won’t discuss that side of it
again.”

There was a little pause.

“The—the second woman,” Alec said tentatively. “How were you able to
identify her so positively?”

Roger drew the envelope out of his breast pocket, opened it, and
carefully extracted the hair. He laid it across his knee for the
moment and contemplated it in silence. Then with a sudden movement he
picked it up and threw it through the open window.

“There goes a vital piece of evidence,” he said with a smile. “Well,
for one thing, there was nobody else in the house with just that
particular shade of hair, was there?”

“I suppose not,” Alec replied.

There was another silence, rather longer this time.

Then Roger, glancing curiously across at his companion, remarked very
airily:

“Just to satisfy my natural curiosity, Alec, why exactly _did_ you
kill Stanworth?”



Chapter XXVIII

What Really Did Happen

Alec contemplated the tips of his shoes for a moment. Then he looked
up suddenly. “It wasn’t exactly murder, you know,” he said abruptly.

“Certainly not,” Roger agreed. “It was a well-merited execution.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, if I hadn’t killed Stanworth, he would
probably have killed me. It was partly self-defence. I’ll tell you the
whole story in a minute.”

“Yes, I should like to hear what really happened. That is, if you feel
yourself at liberty to tell me, of course. I don’t want to force
confidences about—well, about the second lady in the case.”

“About Barbara? Oh, there’s nothing that reflects on her, and I think
you ought to hear the truth. I always meant to tell you the whole
thing if you found out that I did it, and of course, if you were
intending to take any drastic step, such as telling the police or
trying to get Jefferson arrested. That’s why I made you promise to
tell me before you did anything like that.”

“Quite so,” Roger nodded understandingly. “A good many things are
plain to me now. Why you hung back so much and were so unenthusiastic
and threw cold water on everything and pretended to be so dull and
refused to believe that a murder had been committed at all, although
I’d proved it to you beyond any shadow of doubt.”

“I was trying to keep you off the right track all the time. I really
never thought you’d find out.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have done if the significance of that hair hadn’t
dawned on me at last. After that everything seemed to come in a series
of flashes. Even then I might not have hit on the truth with such
certainty if two particular photographs hadn’t suddenly developed
themselves in my mind.”

“Tell me all your side of it, then I’ll tell you mine.”

“Very well. As I said, that hair was the clue to the whole thing. I’d
taken it quite idly out of my pocket out there in the garden and was
having a look at it, when it suddenly struck me that whosoever it
might be it was certainly not one of Mrs. Plant’s. I stared at it hard
enough then, I can tell you, and the second realization occurred to me
that, from the colour at any rate, it looked uncommonly like one of
Barbara’s. Then the first of the pictures flashed across my mind. It
was of Graves sorting the post just before lunch yesterday. He had
only three letters, and they were all of exactly the same appearance;
same shaped envelopes and typewritten addresses. One was for Mrs.
Plant, one for Jefferson—and one for Barbara. The first two I’d
already accounted for, now I seemed to be accounting for the third.
Add to all that Barbara’s ill-concealed agitation the next morning and
the fact that, for no apparent cause whatever, she broke off her
engagement to you at the same time, and the thing was as plain as
daylight—Barbara was also in the library that night and for some
reason or other the poor kid had got into Stanworth’s clutches.”

“_She_ hadn’t,” Alec put in. “It was——”

“All right, Alec; you can tell me all that in the proper place. Let me
finish my story first. Well, having got so far, of course I asked
myself—What light does this throw on Stanworth’s death? Does it give a
definite pointer to any person? The answer was obvious. Mr. Alexander
Grierson! I gasped at first, I can assure you, but when I got rather
more used to the idea, daylight simply flooded in. First of all, there
was your hanging back all the time; that began to take on a very
significant aspect. Then there was your height and your strength,
which fitted in very nicely, and I knew that your place in
Worcestershire, where you must have spent most of your boyhood, is
liberally supplied with lattice windows, so that you might be expected
to be up to all the tricks of the trade regarding them. So far, in
fact, so good.”

“But what about that footprint? I thought I’d managed that rather
neatly. By Jove, I remember the shock you gave me when you discovered
that and the way I got out of the library that night. I’d thought that
was absolutely untraceable.”

“Yes, that did give me an awkward couple of minutes, until I
remembered that you’d run back to get your pipe while I was talking to
the chauffeur! And that’s where the second of my little pictures comes
in. The scene flashed across my mind on that flower bed just after you
had stepped on to the path when we were trying to find out who had
been in the library and before you smoothed out the fresh footprints
you’d made. The old and the new prints were absolutely identical, you
see. I suppose I must have noted it subconsciously at the time without
realizing its significance.”

“I noticed it all right,” Alec said grimly. “It gave me a bad turn for
the moment.”

“After that all sorts of little things occurred to me,” Roger
continued. “I began to test each of the facts I’d collected, and in
each case the explanation was now obvious. Those letters, for
instance. I knew they must have been posted between five and
eight-thirty that morning; and at eight o’clock behold you coming back
from the village and actually saying you’d been down there to post a
letter!”

“Couldn’t think of any other explanation on the spur of the moment,”
Alec grinned ruefully.

“Yes, and curiously enough I questioned the bookmaker motif at the
time, didn’t I? Then there was your quite genuine anxiety to stop me
from assuming complicity on the part of Mrs. Plant. I suppose you knew
all the time about her and Stanworth, didn’t you?”

Alec nodded. “I was present at the interview between them,” he said
briefly.

“The devil you were!” Roger exclaimed in surprise. “I never gathered
that. She didn’t say anything about it.”

“She didn’t know. I’ll tell you all about that. Anything else on your
side?”

Roger considered. “No, I don’t think so. I gathered that you had
somehow got to know that Stanworth was blackmailing Barbara, and had
simply waded in and shot him, as any other decent chap would have done
in your place. That’s the gist of it.”

“Well,” Alec said slowly, “there’s a little more in it than that. I’d
better begin right at the beginning, I think. As you know, Barbara and
I had got engaged that afternoon. Well, I suppose you can imagine that
a thing like that rather unsettles a chap. Anyhow, the upshot was that
when I got to bed that night I found I couldn’t sleep. I tried for
some time, and then I gave it up as hopeless and looked round the room
for a book. There was nothing I particularly wanted to read there, so
I thought I’d slip down to the library and get one. Of course I had no
idea that everyone wouldn’t be in bed, so I didn’t trouble to put on a
dressing-gown but just went down as I was, in pyjamas. There were no
lights on the landing or in the hall, but to my surprise when I got
there I found all the lights in the library full on. However, there
wasn’t anyone inside and the door was open, so I went in and began to
look round the shelves. Then I heard unmistakably feminine footsteps
approaching and, hardly wishing to be caught like that, I nipped
behind those thick curtains in front of the sash window and sat down
on the seat to wait till the person, whoever it might be, had gone. I
thought it was someone come down like me for a book, and probably also
more or less in a state of undress. Not that I really thought much
about it at all. I just didn’t want to be mixed up in a rather
embarrassing situation.”

“Quite natural,” Roger murmured. “Yes?”

“Through the chink in the curtains I could see that it was Mrs. Plant.
She was still in evening dress, and I saw at once that she looked
rather worried. Very worried, in fact. She began to wander aimlessly
about the room, twisting her handkerchief about in her hands and it
looked rather as if she’d been crying. Then Stanworth came in.”

“Ah!”

Alec hesitated. “I don’t want to exaggerate or turn on the pathetic
tap too much,” he resumed a little awkwardly, “but I hope to God I
never have to see anything again like the scene that followed. Roger,
it was almost unbearable! I don’t know how I sat it out without
dashing through the curtains and getting my hands into Stanworth’s
throat; but I had the sense to see that anything like that would only
make matters very much worse. Have you ever seen a woman in agony? My
God, it was absolutely heart-rending. I could never have imagined that
a man could be such an indescribable brute.”

He paused, shivering slightly, and Roger watched him sympathetically.
He was beginning to realise just how terrible that scene must have
been, if it could move the stoical Alec to such a display of emotion.

“You know the main lines of what happened, don’t you?” Alec went on,
rather more calmly. “So I needn’t go into details. The wretched woman
begged and wept, but it had no more effect upon Stanworth than if he
had been a stone image. He just went on smiling that infernal, cynical
smile and told her not to make such an unnecessary fuss. Then he made
that suggestion to her that you told me about, and for the moment I
very nearly saw red. As for her, it finished her off completely. She
just crumpled up on the chesterfield and didn’t say another word. A
few minutes later she got up and tottered out of the room. Then I came
out of my hiding place.”

“Good man,” Roger murmured.

“Well, of course I knew by this time just how the land lay. I knew
what Stanworth was, and I knew where he kept his evidence against
these people. I didn’t quite know what I was going to do, but it was
pretty clear that something had got to be done. Well, he was a bit
startled at first, but recovered himself wonderfully and began to be
infernally sarcastic and cynical. I told him that I wasn’t going to
stand the sort of thing I’d just seen; and unless he stopped the whole
thing and let me burn all the evidence he’d been talking about, I’d go
straight to the police and tell them all about it. That seemed to
amuse him quite a lot; and he pointed out that if I did that,
everything would come to light which all these people had been paying
money to keep concealed, and they’d all be very much worse off than
before. That had never occurred to me, and I was rather taken aback
for the minute; then I told him that if that was the case I’d unlock
the safe myself, even if I had to lay him out to get the key. He
simply laughed and tossed his keys on the table. ‘That’s the one for
the safe,’ he said. ‘I don’t quite know how you’re going to open it as
you happen to be ignorant of the combination, but doubtless you have
provided for that contingency.’ Of course that took me in the wind
again, but before I could answer him I heard somebody coming down the
stairs.

“‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I was quite forgetting. I’ve got another visitor
coming to see me to-night. As you seem to have mixed yourself up in my
affairs, the least I can do is to invite you to be present at this
interview also. Get behind that curtain again, and I think I can
promise you an interesting quarter of an hour.’

“Well, I hesitated, while the footsteps began to cross the hall, till
he caught me by the arm and sort of snarled, ‘Get out of sight, you
fool. Can’t you see you’ll make it ten times worse for her by letting
her see you?’

“Even then I didn’t realise what he meant, but I saw that there was
something in what he said, and just managed to get behind the curtain
in time. You can imagine what I felt like when the door opened and I
saw Barbara come into the room.”

“Ghastly!” Roger exclaimed with feeling.

“Ghastly! That’s putting it mildly. Well, I’m not going to tell you
the details of what happened then, because there’s really no need to
and it’s only giving people away unnecessarily. All I need say is that
Stanworth had got hold of some information about—well, about Mrs.
Shannon. I don’t even know what it was. He ostentatiously pulled a
revolver out of his desk, opened the safe, and showed her two or three
pieces of paper, holding them so that she could read them without
taking them into her hands. Then he told her to sit down on the settee
to talk things over, keeping the revolver in front of him on the desk
all the time. Well, Barbara sat down, looking very white and
frightened, poor kid, but still not knowing in the least what
Stanworth was getting at. He didn’t keep her in ignorance long. He
just leaned back in his chair, informed her calmly that if she didn’t
fall in with his wishes he’d make the information he’s just shown her
public property and calmly proceeded to state his terms.

“Lord, Roger, old man, I had some difficulty in holding myself in.
What do you think he wanted? He told her absolutely plainly that what
he was after was money, and went on to say that he knew quite well
that she herself hadn’t got enough to satisfy him. Therefore she’d got
to marry me within a month, so that she would be able to pay the very
moderate sums which he would from time to time require. She could
either tell me or not, as she saw fit; it didn’t matter to him in the
least. If she refused, he was very much afraid she and her mother
would have to take the consequences.

“Of course you see what he was getting at. Me! He was practically
saying to me that if I didn’t marry her and pay his blackmail, he
would disgrace and ruin the mother of the girl I loved. Very neat sort
of trap, wasn’t it? Incidentally, he went on to point out, also for my
benefit, that it wasn’t the least use trying to do him any sort of
bodily harm, because that would only bring things to a head in the way
you know, and he never opened the safe without a loaded revolver in
his hand, which he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to use if it became
necessary.

“Well, Barbara behaved like an absolute thoroughbred. In fact, she
told him, in so many words, to go to the devil; she wouldn’t dream of
involving me in the affair, and as for her and her mother, they’d have
to take what was coming to them if he chose to behave in such a
damnable way, but they’d take it alone. Great Scott, she was
wonderful! She practically defied him to do his worst, and said that
she was going to break off her engagement to me the very next morning.
Then she sailed out of the room with her head in the air, leaving him
sitting there. No tears, no entreaties; simply the most overwhelming
contempt. Roger, she was just marvellous!”

“I can believe you,” Roger said simply. “What happened then?”

“I came out again. I think I meant to kill Stanworth then if I got a
chance to do so without making a worse mess of things. Remember, I
knew already to what lengths he was ready to push the wretched women
that he had in his clutches, and though Barbara would certainly never
give way to him an inch, I wasn’t so sure about Mrs. Shannon. Well,
there was the safe still open, and there was Stanworth sitting in his
chair with the revolver in his hand. He looked at me with a grin as I
appeared, and said he hoped I hadn’t been too bored. I walked straight
up to him without a word (I was beyond talking by then), and I suppose
he could see from my face what I had in mind. Anyhow, when I was only
a few feet away he whipped up the revolver and fired. Luckily he
missed, and I heard the vase shatter behind me. I lunged forward,
grabbed his wrist and used all my strength to twist it round till the
muzzle was pointing straight at his own forehead. Then I simply
tightened my finger over his on the trigger and shot him.

“I didn’t stop to think what I was doing, or anything like that; I
hardly imagine I was capable of thought at the moment. I just knew
that Stanworth had got to be killed, in the same way that one knows
that a mad dog or a rat or any other vermin has got to be killed. In
fact, once he was dead, I hardly paid any more attention to him at
all. He was a filthy thing wiped out, and that’s all there was about
it. I never felt, nor have felt since, a single moment’s compunction.
I suppose it’s curious in a way.”

“You’d have been a sentimental fool if you had,” Roger said with
decision.

“Well, I suppose I’m not a sentimental fool then,” Alec replied with a
slight smile; “for I most certainly haven’t. Well, as soon as the man
was dead I became as cool as ice. I knew exactly, almost without
thinking about it, what had got to be done. First of all, and in case
I was interrupted, the evidence in the safe had got to be destroyed,
and then I had to make my escape. It didn’t take long to burn the
documents in the safe. There was one shelf full of them, all done up
in envelopes inscribed with various addresses; about sixteen or
seventeen altogether, I suppose. I burnt them in the hearth without
opening them, and just ran through the contents of the other shelves
to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything.

“Up till then, mind, it had never occurred to me that the case would
ever appear to be anything but murder; and if it was traced back to
me, I should simply say that I had shot him in self-defence, after he
had first shot at me. I would have gone to the police straight away
and told them the whole thing, if it wasn’t that that would have given
away the facts of blackmail, which it was of course essential to hush
up. Then I glanced at the chair in which he was lying, and it struck
me that he looked exactly as if he had shot himself, so I began to
wonder if I couldn’t make the whole thing look like suicide.

“I knew you weren’t such a blithering fool as you’ve been trying to
make yourself out to be for the last forty-eight hours——”

Roger interjected, “Yes?”

“Well, the whole finished effect didn’t occur to me at once. I started
off by shutting the safe and putting the keys back in his waistcoat
pocket; the wrong pocket, as it turned out afterwards. Then I cleared
up the bits of vase and shoved them into my pocket for the time being,
and examined the revolver in Stanworth’s hand. To my joy, I found that
I could get at the chamber and extract the first shell without
loosening his grip, which I proceeded to do. You were right about my
knowledge of lattice windows. I knew that trick with the handle when I
was a boy, and patted myself on the back when I realised how I could
get out of the room and leave everything locked behind me. Lord, I
never thought anyone would spot that!”

“You weren’t reckoning for me to be on the trail, my boy,” Roger said
with modest pride.

“Well, you certainly made me jump when you discovered it. Let’s see
now, what did I do next? Oh, yes, the letters. I knew that all these
people would be scared to death at the idea of Stanworth having shot
himself with the safe still locked, as even if they had the keys
nobody could open it without the combination; and I thought that in
the agitation of the moment Mrs. Plant or somebody might give some
vital point away. So I sat down and hammered out letters to the three
of them on the typewriter, for I knew by what I’d seen in the safe
that both Jefferson and Lady Stanworth were involved in it also. You
know what I said in the letters, of course. Well, then, I had a final
look round and just by chance thought I’d better glance into the
waste-paper basket. The very first thing I saw there was a sheet of
paper, only very slightly crumpled, that bore Stanworth’s signature.
Instantly I thought to myself—why not rig up a statement of suicide
just to clinch things? And I typed one out above the signature.

“Of course all this took a devil of a time. In fact, it was about four
o’clock by now. I’d been as cool as a cucumber for two hours, but I
was getting so tired that I made one or two mistakes after that. I
never searched the waste-paper basket, for instance, and so left that
other piece of paper with the signature there for you to find; and I
forgot to smooth over that footprint on the bed. I did curse myself
for that when you found it! Also I ought not to have thrown those bits
of vase into the shrubbery between the library and the dining room, I
suppose.”

“But how did you get back into the house?” Roger asked.

“Oh, before I locked up the library I went through and opened the
dining-room windows. Then I just walked round from the lattice window
and in through the dining room, locked the dining-room door, and went
up to bed. And that’s all.”

“And very nicely timed,” Roger remarked, glancing out of the window.
“We shall be at Victoria in five minutes. Well, thanks very much for
telling me like that, Alec. And now let us proceed madly to forget all
about it, shall we?”

“There’s one thing that’s been worrying me rather,” Alec said slowly.
“Do you think I ought to tell Barbara?”

“Good heavens above, no!” Roger shouted, staring at his companion in
dismay. “What on earth would you want to tell her for? She’d only be
overcome with shame that you knew anything about her mother’s
shortcomings; and the fact that you’d killed a man more or less on
account of her would simply make her wretchedly miserable. Of course
you mustn’t dream of telling her, you goop!”

“I think you’re probably right,” Alec said, gazing out of the window.

The train began to slacken speed, and the long, snaky Victoria
platforms appeared in sight. Roger stood up and began to lift his
suitcase off the rack.

“I think we might stay up in town this evening and do a dinner and a
show, don’t you?” he said cheerfully. “I feel as if I want a little
relaxation after my strenuous mental efforts of the last two days.”

Something seemed to be troubling Alec.

“You know,” he said awkwardly, “somehow I can’t help wondering. Are
you really sure, Roger, that it wouldn’t be best for me to go and tell
the police? I mean, it isn’t as if they’d have me up for a murder or
anything like that; nothing worse than manslaughter, I should imagine.
And I daresay I should get off altogether on the self-defence idea.
But are you sure it isn’t really the right thing to do?”

Roger gazed down at his companion with disfavour.

“For heaven’s sake, Alec, _do_ try sometimes not to be so disgustingly
conventional!” he said scornfully.


    The End



Transcriber’s Notes

“The Layton Court Mystery” was first published anonymously in 1926,
the author being identified only as “?”. This transcription follows
the text of the edition published by Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc.
in 1929 (which identifes the author as Anthony Berkeley). The
following alterations have been made to correct what are believed to
be unambiguous errors in the text:

 * “enploymemt” to “employment” (Chapter XIV);
 * “Alter all” to “After all” (Chapter XVI);
 * “acquiesence” to “acquiescence” (Chapter XXV);
 * “whoseever” to “whosoever” (Chapter XXVIII);
 * “overwheleming” to “overwhelming” (Chapter XXVIII).