Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-Six

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

   

“You are wonderin’ what this plan of his might be.  Devilish cunnin’ bit of intrigue.  The first thing he had seen when he had begun to figure out his way of eliminatin’ his stepmother, was that he would need an accomplice.  And the first thing I saw, and I suppose the first thing all of us saw about this murder, was that an accomplice had been there.  Hang it, short of something supernatural the murderer had to have an accomplice to escape from the room and leave the door locked, and shew no sign of himself on his way of escape two minutes later.  And for Strickland there was an obvious assistant all handy and willin’—the chauffeur Fellowes.  But he wasn’t such a fool as to speak to Fellowes till he had made up his mind that this week-end was the time.

“Mind you, he knew his ground.  It is certain that this idea of murderin’ his stepmother had been in his mind a long while, and on all his recent visits he had chatted with the chauffeur.  He knew his story.  He knew the fellow had been in gaol.  He knew that his one ambition in life was to get clear of this place with enough money to buy a pub and marry Enid.  He knew that he was having some sort of an affaire with Mrs. Thurston.  And he judged him, and rightly, to be the very man to fall in with his plan.”

Here Sergeant Beef interrupted loudly.  “Well, I don’t believe it,” he said, folding his arms.  “I know young Fellowes.  Rough, if you like, and may ’ave got into a bit of trouble before now.  Done a bit of ’ousebreaking I dare say.  But not murder.  I don’t believe it.  ’E could put two darts out of three in the double eighteen as often as you like, and I don’t believe ’e’d ever ’ave ’ad nothink to do with cutting that lady’s throat.  Straight I don’t.  Besides, I know who did do it.”

Lord Simon smiled patiently.  “I’m glad to hear of Fellowes’s proficiency in the pastime which seems to occupy most of your time and attention, Sergeant.  But I’m afraid I can’t see its relevance quite.  Besides, have I asked you to believe our young friend guilty of murder?  You must learn the virtue of patience, Sergeant.  Useful in this job.  And don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions.  Where had we got to?  Oh yes.  On Friday morning we find Strickland arriving at the station after a week’s racin’ which might be called disastrous if you were to put it mildly.  He is met by Fellowes who has been seeing a good deal of his girl lately—takin’ her out in the car.  That may have been disastrous, too.  Judgin’ from what we have seen of Enid, I don’t suppose she was enjoyin’ this long waitin’, and savin’ money, and hopin’ before they could get married and own their pub.  Besides, one can’t imagine that she was delighted at her young man bein’ whistled for like a pet dog every time their lady employer was lonely or temperamental.  So that Fellowes, too, was probably approachin’ breakin’-point.

“I don’t think that Strickland will have said anything definite then.  He knew enough to be pretty sure of Fellowes.  But he may have arranged to see him after lunch, or even have asked him whether he would be prepared to come in on something that would see them on to Easy Street.  Can’t tell.  Anyway, they had that time for a chat, alone in the car from the station.

“He had already let Mrs. Thurston know that he would need money, and she, as we know, had drawn two hundred pounds ready for him.  But here was another difficulty.  The man Stall had intercepted, some three weeks ago, a letter from Mrs. Thurston to Fellowes.  It was a silly indiscreet letter, the sort of thing that someone as foolish and thoughtless as this lady might well have written.  But he had found it sufficient as a means to terrify her into parting with quite large sums of money.  The truth is that Mrs. Thurston was genuinely fond of her husband, and bein’ essentially an innocent soul she had imagined this silly little weakness of hers for a young chauffeur to be a far more terrible thing than it would have seemed to anyone else.  At all events, when Strickland got her alone for a minute after lunch and asked her if she had the money ready for him, she had to tell him she had not.  Perhaps she had not the time, or perhaps she did not wish, to tell him why she had not.  I imagine that the whole thing passed between them in this very room, and in the presence of some of you.  A hurried exchange of whispers.

“What had happened, probably, is that Stall had been listening at the main of the telephone, when Strickland rang her up on Thursday morning to say he would need the money.  And Stall had heard her promise to have it ready for him.  Or else Stall had seen the counterfoil in her chequebook, and knew from it that she had just drawn the two hundred pounds.  Or he had chosen by chance this time for a last determined blackmail campaign, knowing that he was under notice to quit.  At all events he had got wind of the money, and made it clear that lie was to have it.

“Finding that he was not to receive this sum, which he had intended to get doubled, Strickland went straight to the chauffeur, and told him his plan.  At this point he shewed a most horrifyin’ sort of determination.  He did not hesitate.  He had his notions cut and dried and he was going to put them straight into action.’

Here Lord Simon hesitated.  Full of admiration I watched him light another cigar, before revealing to us what we were now burning to know.  He had told us who was the murderer, but his identity was not, I thought, as mysterious as his method, and I wanted to say “Go on!  Go on!” while the young man nonchalantly applied a match to his cigar.  But he took his time, and when he began to talk again it was from a new angle.

“When you were thinking about the escape from that room, and you had an inklin’ that there was a rope in it somewhere, did you wonder how that rope had been used?”  He asked the question directly of me.

“Wonder?  I’ve done nothing but wonder,” I replied irritably.  “Even supposing that the rope was let down from the floor above by an accomplice, I don’t see how it could have been of much use.  I’ve told you again and again that no one would have had time to climb out on to it, close the window after him, climb up it, and haul it up, before Williams opened the window again.  And even if he had, he couldn’t have reached us at the door as quickly as Strickland, Fellowes and Norris did.”

“What about droppin’ down it?” asked Lord Simon.

“The same thing applies.  Suppose that there was someone upstairs to haul it in, the murderer would have had to climb out on to it, close the window, drop to the ground, and get away before Williams looked out, and the rope would have had to be hauled up after he had dropped from it.  I don’t think that those are possible.  But even if they are, how was it he left no footprints on that soft bed which came out six feet from the wall?  And how did he get in again, and upstairs to us in the time?  And how did his accomplice haul in the rope and come downstairs as quickly as that?  No.  I don’t believe it’s possible.  In fact,” I added on a sudden inspiration, “I’m not sure that the ropes were not a blind!”

Lord Simon smiled.  “You are right about the first two things,” he admitted; “there wouldn’t have been time for anyone to have gone up or down the rope.”

“Well, then?”

“It didn’t occur to you perhaps that there are other directions in which it is possible to travel?”

“What do you mean?”

“He means,” put in Mgr. Smith suddenly from his arm-chair, “that a rope is not only used to let a man climb, but also to make a man swing.”

“Exactly, said Lord Simon; “swing is the word I want here and hereafter.  Strickland knew that he might not have time to climb a rope, or drop down a rope, and establish that unimpeachable alibi which was necessary to him.  But he would have time to swing on a rope, as comfortably as you please from outside Mary Thurston’s window to outside his own.  All he had to do was to have a rope hung beforehand from the window that was over his own, with the end of it caught and hooked at Mrs. Thurston’s ready, and his fire-escape, or escape from justice if you like, was ready.  An accomplice was only necessary to haul the rope in afterwards.”

I gasped.  Of course!  Why hadn’t I thought of that?  And there were Williams and I talking about the supernatural!

“But Strickland was no fool,” continued Lord Simon.  “He was judge enough of character to know that Fellowes would not come in on that.  For one thing, Fellowes would not have enough to gain by it.  There was the will made out to the servants—but Strickland didn’t feel that it would be enough inducement to a man to bring him into a murder plot.  I think he was right there.  Fellowes was not quite such a bad hat as all that.  No, Strickland went about it far more cleverly.  What he was going to do, he said, was to pinch Mrs. Thurston’s jewellery.

“Now that, as you can see, was right in the chauffeur’s line of country.  He, or Enid’s brother, knew just where to plant it afterwards.  And Strickland’s plan was ingenious.  What they had to do, he said, was to make sure that no one inside the house could be suspected.  The door must be left bolted and an escape made via the window.  That was where Fellowes was to come in.  It was at that point that Strickland pretended to think of a snag.  Mrs. Thurston’s jewellery was valuable, and a safe had been let into her bedroom wall for it, and only she and the Doctor knew the combination.  So Strickland did a bit of his deep thinkin’ stuff.  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll stick a bally mask on, wear an old overcoat, and be waiting for her when she comes up to bed.  I’ll waggle a revolver in her face, and make her open the safe.  Then, if you have the rope ready, I can escape by the window, and it will never occur to her that it was anyone in the house.  And it won’t occur to the police, either, when they come to investigate it.  They’ll think that anyone who gets out of the window, got in by the window, and if we make it clear to everyone that we were inside a few minutes before, and inside a few minutes after, she was held up, we’re clear.’

“Now that plan did not sound to Fellowes as crazy as it may sound to you.  In the first place, Mrs. Thurston could be relied on to go to bed at eleven.  In the second place, she was obviously a woman who could be easily scared.  And in the third place, by escaping out of the window, Strickland would give a pretty fair imitation of a bloke from outside.  He would have to make sure of her silence, of course, till he was well away, and he would have to make certain that she did not follow him across to her window, and see him pop into his own.  But neither of those would be very difficult.

“Fellowes, in any case, was not hard to convince, because his own part in the affair wasn’t very difficult or.  incriminating.  All he had to do was to haul the rope in when Strickland was safely in his window, and afterwards collect his share of the oof.  That was not a hell of a job for a man who had already been to gaol for housebreaking.

“So the whole thing was arranged thus.  During dinner Fellowes was to get the rope from the gymnasium, hang it out of the window of his own bedroom, which, as you know, is over Strickland’s room, go down into Mrs. Thurston’s room, and by means of a hooked stick or something haul the end of the rope over to her window.  He could fix it there by the simple expedient of pulling the end into the room, and hauling the window down on top of it.  Even if anyone went into the room after him, and before Mrs. Thurston came to bed, those long curtains would hide it.

“When the rope was fixed, Fellowes was to take out the electric light bulb, so that when Strickland came the room would be in half-darkness.  And after that he had nothing to do until eleven, when he was to go up to his bedroom and haul in the rope.

“Meanwhile Strickland, so far as Fellowes knew, was to go to bed early, get into Mrs. Thurston’s room in his rough disguise, wait for her to come to bed, clap a hand over her mouth quickly to prevent her screaming, gag her, force her to open the safe, pocket the jewellery, tie Mary Thurston to something out of sight of the window, climb out on to the rope, let the rope swing him to his own window as it would kindly do in obeying the law of gravity, nip in, conceal the tomfoolery, and be ready to come out of his room and join the hue and cry.

“Fellowes thought it a splendid idea.  He saw only one snag in it.  That was his friend Miles.  He knew it was Miles’s day off, and that he, who would certainly be outside and not inside the house, would, as an experienced cat-burglar, be at once suspected.  But this he could easily avoid by seeing Miles that afternoon, and telling him to see that he had a cast-iron alibi in the evening.  So Fellowes was quite happy.

“And Strickland’s own real, and rather more private plan, was now perfect, too.  No paltry disguises for him.  A disguise might frighten her into giving a premature scream.  He would be waiting in Mrs. Thurston’s room in his own charmin’ and natural guise, and when she came up he would neatly slit her throat and swing home in safety.  He would then step out of his room with a perfect alibi almost before anyone could reach her door.  Afterwards, he would have to explain it to Fellowes as necessary.  And Fellowes would be too deeply involved to peach.  Fascinatin’ fellow—Strickland.”

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Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-Five

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

   

Once more we were in the library—Williams, Lord Simon, M. Picon, Mgr. Smith, Sergeant Beef and I.  Dr. Thurston had offered to come, but the investigators had agreed that since all the details were now to be revealed, it would be too painful for him.  Nor was his presence necessary.  He would hear of the arrest later.

I do not exaggerate when I say that my excitement was terrific, and I have no doubt that Williams was just as expectant.  It was not merely that the mystery was to be elucidated, but that a human being was to be sent to a certain death—for with three such detectives to find evidence, surely no Counsel in the world would be able to exonerate him.  And this may have made our interest a morbid one, but it naturally gave real point and drama to the proceedings.  Someone was to be named, arrested, tried and hanged—someone we knew, someone we had conversed with to-day.  I looked down at my hand and saw that it was slightly trembling.

Just as Lord Simon had been the first to interrogate each of the witnesses, he began speaking now.  “I may as well outline this unfortunate affair,” he said, “and then my colleagues can amplify or correct any of the details.  How would that do?”

M. Picon nodded, and Mgr. Smith did not dissent, so Lord Simon began to talk.  There was a silence almost uncanny in the room as he drawled out the circumstances.

“Interestin’ case,” he said, “but not quite as bafflin’ as it looked at first.  However, it has kept us guessin’ for a time, so let’s give it its due.  Clearin’ up most crimes is as simple as shellin’ bally peas.  This certainly wasn’t that.

“First of all we must go back a little way.  Remember that will?  Unfortunate sort of document, when you come to think of it.  Mrs. Thurston’s first husband had a biggish fortune.  And between that fortune and the son who felt a right to it he set only one barrier—a woman’s life.  There you have the foundation of the whole story.  Conventional enough in essence.  Motive, as usual, money.

“The stepson you remember was abroad when that will was made, and may or may not have heard of his father’s death.  We know from Thurston that he was the type of chappie who was always turning up without a bob, to rest on his laurels and the family honour for a spell, so that his coming home may have been just the customary sort of thing.  But in the meantime he had changed his name.  You know how these things happen?  Half a dozen creditors, some little eccentricity in the way in which a cheque was drawn—something a trifle shady.  So stepson arrives with a brand-new name, an empty pocket, and a lot of curiosity.  Still conventional, you see.

“And the very first news that falls on his flappers is that his old man has kicked the bucket, and his step-mother has married again.  Well, well, thinks Stepson, and pops off down to his father’s solicitor to ask about the will.  Unpleasant set-back.  Interest left to the wife for lifetime; and only his measly allowance to go on with.  He had never seen Mrs. Thurston, you remember, so that not even knowing her as the good-natured soul she was, he set about cursing roundly at scheming females who nipped in to pinch his birthright.  He was a very furious young man.

“I don’t know whether any of you have been reversionary legatees, and had to twiddle your thumbs while someone lives on the money which will one day be yours.  I’m told it’s the most demoralizin’ business.  The most virtuous and temperate natures grow potentially murderous.  But this fellow was not exactly a born murderer.  He wanted money.  He meant to get money.  But if he thought of murder in the first place he was headed off by the penalty.  The fortune involved had surprised him.  The details had been given him by the solicitor, and the sum left by his father made his eyes pop.  And since he knew there was so much money in question he wasn’t the lad to hang back.

“So he started, more or less begging—which might have been harmless enough.  He found out that Mrs. Thurston was living here, and had a car, so he ran down to a village which was just near enough to make a meeting feasible, yet not too near.  And from this village, which was called Sidney Sewell, he wrote to Mrs. Thurston.  That first letter, one supposes, was quite a polite and pleasant affair.  Regret over his father’s death.  Sorry he had never met his stepmother.  Usual sort of thing laid on with a trowel, perhaps, but nothing too stirring.

“However, I feel convinced that it contained one phrase which troubled Mrs.  Thurston a good deal—a request that she should say nothing to her husband.  What reason he gave one cannot possibly suggest now, but it is pretty certain that he found a good reason.  Good enough, anyway, for as we know Mrs. Thurston never mentioned to her husband that her stepson had reappeared.  More’s the pity.  She might have saved her life.

“Instead of that she went to see her stepson, and in her usual, easily pleased way she liked the fellow.  Now I’m bein’ a bit psychological and all that sort of thing.  I’m goin’ on the characters of both of them to get an idea of what happened.  But I feel sure that in that meeting Mrs.  Thurston was very much herself, the woman you all knew primarily as a hostess.  She saw that her stepson would fit very well into her circle here.  She had a passion for entertaining.  She saw a way of fitting him in.  And she planted him on her husband without tellin’ Dr. Thurston who the fellow in reality was.

“How far he persuaded her into that we shall probably never know.  It suited him excellently.  And from that moment he began to sponge on Mrs.  Thurston with an ease and a greed which seem incredible now.  He never tried to blackmail or bully her.  That wasn’t necessary.  He played the part of the poor son who had been cheated out of his rightful due by her very existence.  He had the sense to play the part gently and good-humouredly.  He never grumbled, but he pointed out that he never grumbled.  He made her feel that it was hard luck on him, and that she must do all she could for him.  And he did very nicely, thank you.

“Now so far I have reconstructed the story as it looks to me, and filled in the gaps in a fanciful sort of way.  The bare facts I have confirmed.  The stepson did arrive in England soon after Mrs. Thurston’s second marriage, and did go to his father’s solicitor to hear about the will.  I’ve spoken on the ’phone to the solicitor myself.  Charming old boy, and remembers the visit distinctly.  Moreover, he did go to stay at Sidney Sewell, and Mrs. Thurston, as we know, was in touch with him there, And finally he did come to this house, was in this house at the time of the murder, and is, unless Beef has let him get away, in this house at this minute.”

Lord Simon paused at this point to re-cross his legs and sip some Napoleon brandy which Butterfield had craftily put into one of Dr. Thurston’s decanters so that his Lordship could enjoy his favourite beverage without ill-breeding.  The pause made me so impatient and curious that I could not help saying—“And you know who it is, Lord Simon?”

“Yes.  I know who it is.”

“How did you find out?”

“That was really too easy.  I instructed Butterfield to obtain photographs of all the men here who could, so far as age was concerned, have been the stepson.  And armed with these I went, as you know, to Sidney Sewell.  The public house was disappointing, for it has recently changed hands.  But the post-mistress had not only been there a long time, but had an excellent memory.  She instantly recognized one of the portraits as that of a young man who had stayed in the village some years ago.  There is no point in keepin’ the name from you.  It was David Strickland.  I have since confirmed it.  Strickland’s real name is Burroughs, and Burroughs, as you will remember, was the name of Mrs. Thurston’s first husband.  Strickland is in fact the stepson in question.”

“Well, Sergeant,” I said, rising, “you’d better arrest him.”

But Sergeant Beef did not move.  “I should want to know a great deal more than that before I was to arrest anyone,” he said.  “Very likely Mr.  Strickland was Mrs. Thurston’s stepson.  I’m not saying he wasn’t.  ’E was a very generous gentleman, and always stood drinks all round when he came down to the village.  So I don’t see that ’is being ’er stepson makes ’im a murderer, does it?”

Lord Simon smiled.  “All right, Sergeant,” he said.  “You shall hear the whole thing.  All in good time, what?”

I was relieved, I think.  Though I felt no personal animosity towards Strickland, I had no particular affection for him, and I was thankful, at least, that this continual suspecting of each person in turn was over, and I could hear the rest of the details undisturbed by doubt.  Nor was I greatly surprised.  The fact that Strickland’s room was next door to Mary Thurston’s had always seemed to me highly suspicious.

“There can be little doubt that the murder was a premeditated one.  It was very carefully planned.  But I think it was what you might call conditional premeditation.  Strickland wanted money, as we shall see later.  And if he had been given enough of it this week-end he might not have committed this highly unpleasant crime.  But he had his plans ready before he came here.  He knew the house well, and the people who worked in it, and those who were to be invited for the week-end.  He knew, too, that if Mrs.  Thurston was murdered, suspicion would certainly fall on him, for he had the strongest motive.  As the stepson who had changed his name, and who would inherit a fortune on Mrs.  Thurston’s death, he couldn’t escape suspicion.  So, knowin’ what he was up against he had to work things out pretty carefully.

“And, believe me, he did.  I don’t like to think how long it took for the plan to mature in his somewhat turgid brain.  Months probably.  And it wasn’t a bad plan—as plans go.  It had its weak spots, of course, but we must remember that this was our friend’s first effort in this line.  He couldn’t be expected to be perfect.  And I think on the whole his attempt at bein’ bafflin’ was creditable for an amateur.  If he had been just a little bit cleverer he might have deceived me.  But then if he had been just a little bit cleverer he wouldn’t have gone in for murder at all.  It’s a mug’s game.

“However, thus we have him, arriving for this week-end, in urgent need of money, and determined to get it from Mary Thurston, by persuasion if possible.  And if that failed, he had in his brain a complete plan for murderin’ her in a way which would perplex half a dozen Scotland Yards.  But I don’t think we should run away with the idea that, had she handed over what he wanted, it would have saved her life.  It might have postponed his crime, but no more.  When her first husband made that will he pretty well did for Mrs. Thurston.  It should be a lesson to people who make wills on those lines.

“I have got the facts of Strickland’s financial situation last week.  I needn’t bore you with them—tedious things, debts.  But you can take it from me that he was desperate.  He had to have money—snappily too.  And he came here to get it.”

❦

Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-Four

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

   

M. Picon left me in the village, where he was staying, and I hurried on towards the house alone.  It was dusk now and in the autumn breeze, which had risen with the evening, the trees cracked and swayed.  I was thinking how pleasant it would be to warm my hands over a fire and drink some hot tea, when I noticed something in the road before me which at first seemed too shapeless for a human being, as though a sack of coals had become animated and was moving forward between the hedges.  As I came nearer I recognized Mgr. Smith.

I had noticed that people who had not the advantage of a long acquaintance with him, often expressed a wholly superfluous pity for the little man who had the trick of appearing vague and ineffectual.  So I was determined not to sympathize with him over the fact that both Lord Simon and M. Picon had got ahead of him, lest I should find myself looking foolish when he revealed that he had solved the problem long ago.

Besides, Dr. Tate, the local G.P., was with him, and addressed me at once.  “I have been telling our friend here,” he said, “of a rather curious legend connected with this village.  I thought it might be rather in his line.”

I could see that Mgr. Smith was smiling at that, but he made no reply and Dr. Tate continued.  “The archæologists call it the story of the Angel of Death,” he said, “but I don’t know how that name was first used.  It seems that this story itself had been handed down from mediæval times, when the house that is now called Tipton Farm House was the only habitation of any size about here, and must have been something like a small castle.  It was in ruins for centuries, and rebuilt in Georgian times.  If you go there any time you can see that some of the walls are three feet thick.  What those walls could tell!”

“Why?” asked Mgr.  Smith innocently.  “Does their thickness mean that they are the kind of walls which have ears?”

Dr. Tate continued.  “I forget the name of the family,” he admitted, “but they were, of course, Catholics, and had all the faith of people of your religion in bogeys, and what not.”

“Bogeys?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“Well, you know the sort of thing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Mgr. Smith.

“Well, hang it, do you believe in devils?” challenged Dr. Tate.

“Do you believe in germs?” retorted Mgr. Smith.

Dr. Tate decided to leave this treacherous ground.  “At all events, the members of this family were superstitious.  And the head of it, Sir Giles something or other, was the most superstitious of all.  For years before he finally died, he claimed to have visions of the death that awaited him.  It was no ordinary death . . .”

“What is an ordinary death?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“Well—death from some illness . . . death in bed.”

“I see.  An ordinary death is one in which the deceased was attended by a doctor, perhaps?”

“Yes.  No.  I mean . . . well, whatever an ordinary death may be, the death visualized for himself by Sir Giles was very far from ordinary.  He said he could see him coming—the Angel of Death himself.  He came through the air on great black wings.  He was clad in black from head to foot, and he held a sword in his hand.

“What was the sword for?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“To strike with.”

“I see.  I thought its use might be to perform an operation.”

“Sir Giles saw this a number of times—always the same.  The Angel of Death came winging through the air from a great distance, and came to avenge himself on the unfortunate Sir Giles.”

“To avenge himself?  What had Sir Giles done to him, then?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“He was a very loose-living old fellow.  And these visions were a good deal a source of repentance.  He seemed to think that the Angel of Death would strike him for his sins.  Mind you, I’m only telling you the local story.”

“I know.  I hope it has a happy ending.”

“At last, it seemed, the Angel of Death struck.  The old man had been behaving outrageously, even according to the standards of those days.  And he seemed to expect that he would suffer for it.  He said that he had seen the black wings beating their way nearer several times.  And at last one evening he went up into a tower of his castle alone, and did not reappear for some hours.  The household grew anxious, and presently one of his sons went up to look for him.  He found the old man lying in his own blood on the floor of the topmost room, not quite dead, but on the point of expiry.”

“And what were his last words?” asked Mgr. Smith, who seemed to be enjoying the whole story in a chuckling sort of way.

“The son raised his father’s head, and the old man nodded to the window, or port-hole, or whatever they had in castles then.  ‘Death came on wings!’ he whispered, and then expired.”

“And how had he died?”

“That is the interesting part of the story,” said Dr.  Tate.  “It was never known how he died.  There had been a sentry at the foot of the stairs all the time the old man was up in his tower, and a thorough search was made of the whole building without any success.  The room in which he was found was thirty feet from the ground, and no weapon was discovered.  So the people in the house, being as I said, superstitious . . .”

“Oh, they were all superstitious.  You did not tell us that.”

“Well, what can you expect they were in those dark ages?  Anyhow, they believed of course that the vision of the old man had come to pass, and the Angel of Death had struck him at last.”

“I see.  So his murderer was never discovered?”

“No.  What do you think of the story?”

“I think that like many good stories it is a lie.’

“Oh.”

“But you are quite right in thinking that I should be interested in the story.  Is it well known about here?”

“Very.  It would be difficult for anyone to live in the parish long without hearing it.  Why, I believe that our crazy Vicar even used it in one of his sermons the other day.  Sort of warning to people who misbehaved themselves.  But then he’s an unaccountable chap.  Well, I turn in here.  Little girl with whooping cough.  I hope you clear up this rather more urgent mystery of ours.  Terrible business.  I’m not an advocate of capital punishment myself, but I think that the man who killed Mary Thurston ought to be hanged.  Good night to you both.  Good night.”

Dr. Tate turned into a narrow drive and left us to complete our walk alone.  I was thinking quickly.  Something in the story had caught my imagination.  The idea of death coming on wings.  The mystery of Mary Thurston’s death was to me so baffling that nothing seemed too far-fetched.  Suppose—of course I knew it was fantastic—but suppose that someone could fly like that?  Even if it was only from a first-floor window to a point on the ground far enough away from the walls to leave no sign of landing.  Was it, after all, so impossible?  I remembered, as a boy, experimenting in jumps from the roof of a shed with an open umbrella in my hand to break the fall.  The experiments had not been very successful, but still . . .

After all, it was not as though the murderer would have had to fly in at the window.  It was only out of it.  Surely some contrivance, perhaps in the nature of a parachute, would have been possible.  Or wings of some kind.  There were such things as gliders.  Was I really a fool to wonder about such possibilities?

I turned to my companion.  “Don’t you think that perhaps this story of murder might be relevant to our problem?”

“Any story of murder might be relevant to our problem,” he replied, “from the story of Cain and Abel onwards.”

“But isn’t it conceivable that something of the sort might have happened here?”

Mgr. Smith turned to me.  “It is hard enough to find what actually did happen without looking for all the things that might have happened.  A dragon might have flown in at the window and with his tongue which is a sword have done the deed.  A newly-invented balloon might have hung over the house like a cloud and lowered the murderer to the window.  A man might have made a miraculous leap to the window-sill, and afterwards have projected himself into the boughs of a neighbouring elm tree.  Or I might have been hiding all the evening under the bed, and have changed myself into a rat on your approach.  Yet it is not very helpful either for me or for Dr. Tate to invent these sensational hypotheses.”

“You do know then,” I said with some relief, “what really did happen, and who is guilty?”

I was waiting breathlessly for his answer when he suddenly caught my arm, and we stopped.  There was a slope of the downs above us, and its outline was as smooth and distinct as that of a dome.  There was a clump of trees bent by many years of wind, and maintaining their distracted lives in spite of it.  I can see their shape and the edge of the hill to this day, for there was one detail in that silhouette which made it memorable to me.

It was such a detail as my companion liked, and of the kind to which he was accustomed.  Black against the oyster-blue sky of dusk were two figures, a tall and a shorter one.  It was not only their position against the sky which made them look black, their clothes were black, too, and there was something fluttering about the smaller one.  I started.  What were those limply flapping things at the man’s side, which hung now close against him, now rising flippantly in the breeze?  Could they be . . .

But in a moment I told myself not to be a fool.  There was nothing unnatural about the man’s outline.  Its flapping appearance was produced by a black Inverness cape, and having realized that, I knew that it was the Vicar.

Mgr. Smith blinked in the blank and innocent way which I knew concealed his most intelligent discoveries.  He watched the two coming down the hill towards the Thurstons’ house, holding the crook of his umbrella with both his hands.  And as he did so, all my confidence in the solutions of Lord Simon and M. Picon evaporated.  After all, where had they got me?  This morning, I had, in company with Lord Simon, seen three of the suspects, and he had told me that his theory was complete.  This afternoon, on my walk with M. Picon, I had observed three more, and he, too, had solved the riddle.  And now, in this maddening moment, here was Mgr. Smith, blinking in his unmistakably ominous way at the remaining two.  (For the other figure was recognizable by now as that of Stall.)  So that really, after motoring eighty miles or so, walking eight, and standing in a chilly breeze staring at the outline of the downs, I was no nearer to the truth than I had been last night.

I scarcely needed to repeat my question to Mgr. Smith when he at last walked on.  “You do know then?” I almost whispered.

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

❦

Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-Three

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

   

“So Fellowes was lying?” I suggested, as we walked on, “He hadn’t got an alibi at all?”

“I hope not,” said M. Picon, “for in that case our walk will have been quite wasted.”

I thought it best to say nothing after that, and we continued in silence till M. Picon saw an old man stacking a bonfire in a kitchen garden beside the road.

“Pardon,” he called.  “Could you please direct me to the church?”

The old man stared at him for a moment.  “The church?  It’s the best part of a mile from here,” he said.  “Your shortest way is by the footpath.”

“But the road also goes, n’est-ce pas? ”

“Oh yes, you can go by the road if you want to, but it is the longest way round.”

“I would like to go by the road.”

“All right.  Keep straight on through the village till you come to the petrol station, then turn left.  It’s a quarter of an hour’s walk.  You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” said M. Picon, and strode off again, his short legs moving at considerable speed.

“Turn to the left at the petrol station,” called the old man after us, as though he regretted that our chat had been so short.  “You can’t miss it,” he repeated.

I kept at Picon’s side, but not in the best of humour.  “Why can’t we go by the footpath?” I asked.  “He said it was shorter.”

Picon made absolutely no reply to this, except to turn to me with a brief but disarming smile.  So that I could do nothing but hurry along with him.  We passed right through the village, and I had not even a chance to stop and glance at some of the more interesting old houses.  And we had left the last building behind by some five hundred yards or so, before a sudden turn in the road brought us within sight of the church.  At that we stopped, and Picon stood looking intently towards its tower.  I did not see why he should stare like that, for a glance would have told him that there was no longer a flag flying on it, whether at half-mast or not.

Farther down the road on our left was a cottage, the only building visible between us and the church.  Towards this the extraordinary little man hurried, murmuring “Voilà! ” “Allons! ” “Vite! ” “La, la! ” “Mon ami! ” and others of his favourite expressions.  Reaching the small wicket gate he did not hesitate, but lifted the latch, and walked up a brick path to the front door.  He knocked vigorously.

“Really, Picon,” I said, “what can you want at this house?”

For some time there was no reply to his knocking, but at last a woman’s voice shouted from somewhere in the cottage, “Come round to the back, will you?”

Picon looked at me enquiringly, not knowing some English habits.  “It’s all right,” I said.  “This door probably won’t open at all.  Hasn’t been moved for years.”

We went obediently round to the back door, where a thin woman with straggling dark hair and very dirty clothes stood waiting for us.  “Yes.  What is it?” she said, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously.

“I wanted to ask you a question or two,” said Picon, raising his hat with a rather foreign show of gallantry.

“Oh, you did.  Well, I don’t want any brushes—not however good they are.  I’ve got enough to do my housework, thank you.”

Picon turned to me.  “Brushes?” he whispered enquiringly.

“She thinks you’re a commercial traveller,” I said in his ear.

He turned to her smiling.  “Mais non, madame!  I do not wish to sell you anything.  It is not that.  A little question, no more.  Now . . .”

“Well, I never give anything, not to those what collects at the door.  As my ’usband says, you never know what ’appens to the money.  And goodness knows I’ve none to spare.  You might just as well collect for me, I’m sure I need it as much as any.”

“No, no!” cried Picon, “I ask for no money.  It is information I should like, if you please.  Perhaps you could tell me . . .”

“Why, we had the man round with the voters’ list only last week,” the woman said.  “It’s my belief you’re a fraud.”

“Madame, would you please tell me whether you noticed a blue car stop in this road on Friday afternoon?” He brought out his question in one breath, frightened that he would be interrupted again before it was finished. 

The woman seemed to be impressed.  She wiped her hands on her skirt, and took a step nearer to us.  “Friday?  That’s the day Mrs. Thurston was murdered, isn’t it?”

She could not yet believe that such good fortune as this had come to her—to be a person actually questioned in connection with a matter so topical, so stirring and so famous as a local murder.

“Yes,” said Picon patiently.

“Have you got anything to do with it?” asked the woman eagerly.  “Is it something of that that brings you here asking questions off of me?”

“Yes.”

“Well!”  She was spellbound.  It was a great moment for her.  She looked from one to the other of us.  “Fancy that!” she said.

“And now perhaps you could tell me about the motorcar?” insisted Picon gently.

“Motor-car.  Motor-car.” She was driving her brain to its utmost.  Even now this glorious moment of importance might escape her.  But her eyes lit up.  “Yes!” she said shrilly, “there was a motor-car stop outside of ’ere!”  Then her voice dropped.  “But then it’s the one that often does.”

“What is it like?”

“Dark blue.  Driven by a chauffeur.”

“And you say it often stops—here?”

“Well, yes.  Pretty often.  Several of them do, you know.  They leave their cars here while they go for a walk through the woods.  Especially when the primroses is out.  We get quite a lot then.  My ’usband always says he’s going to put a notice ‘NO PARKING’ on our gate, but he never does.  We don’t get so many this time of year, of course.  But this blue one’s been more than once lately.  You see”—she became conspiratorial—“you see, the young fellow what drives it brings ’is young lady, and off they goes for a walk through the woods.  Well, it’s famous, that footpath.”

“And on Friday?” said M. Picon, not so much prompting her as keeping her relevant.

“Oh yes, they was here on Friday, because that’s the afternoon I does my washing, and I remember seeing the car in the road while I was hanging it out.  There was a nice breeze, too, I was thankful for, seeing that I had more than usual . . .”

“And you say they both came?  The chauffeur and his girl?”

“Yes, they was both there because I ’eard ’em quarrelling.”

Picon started.  “You heard them quarrelling?”

“Yes, cat and dog they was when they got out of the car.  Only not like anyone as is married—that’s different.”

“Did you hear what they said?”

“No, I didn’t.  And shouldn’t like to of, neither.  I never believe in listening to what doesn’t concern me.  All I know is they was on about something, and ’ard at it till they went down the footpath.  I don’t know what happened after that, though I can well guess.”

“No doubt,” said M. Picon dryly.  “And when they returned?”

“Oh, it was all over then.  Sunshine after the storm, as you might say.  I saw them coming up the road together, arm-in-arm they was.”

“And you heard nothing, absolutely nothing that passed between them?”

“Not a word.  Well, I’d never listen to other people’s conversation.”

“What did they look like?”

The woman gave an incoherent but sufficient description of Fellowes and Enid, and M. Picon, by asking a few questions, confirmed their identity with the two whom the woman had seen.

“Eh, bien, I thank you, madame.  You have been of the very greatest assistance to me.”

“That’s all right,” said the woman.  “Do you think I shall be wanted at the trial?”

“I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose I shall ’ave my photo took, won’t I?”

“That is for the newspapers to decide.  But at all events you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have materially assisted me in my search for truth.”

This did not seem to please the woman very much, but when M. Picon once more elaborately raised his hat she managed to smile.

“Au revoir, madame,” said M. Picon, and we left her gazing after us. 

“But, Picon,” I began, scarcely able to wait until we were out of earshot of the cottage, “how did you know that you would get your information there, of all places?”

“Mon ami, are you really so short-sighted?  Could you not see that it is the only house near a point from which one would notice that the flag on the tower was at half-mast?”

“Picon!  You’re a genius!” I exclaimed, and did not grumble at the long walk home.

“And now,” said Picon, “for a little I must think, and then, perhaps, all is complete.  Voyons.  Amer Picon will not be so far behind, after all.  There is light now.  Oh yes, my friend, plenty of light.  A little thought, and I see all.  A most ingenious crime.  A most ingenious crime.”

“Well, I wish I could see anything at all.  If this visit of Fellowes and Enid’s means so much, what was Fellowes doing with that other pair this morning?  Perhaps it was a murder by a sort of committee, Picon?” I suggested, conscious that my guesses were getting wilder and wilder, as the evidence grew more confused.  “Perhaps they were all in it?”

M. Picon smiled.  “No.  I do not think they were all in it,” he said.

“Then . . . but hang it all, Picon, I don’t believe you’ve solved it after all.  You may have discovered who had the best motives, but what none of you seem to think about is that room.  It was bolted, I tell you, and I never moved from the door while Williams searched it.  How are you going to explain that?  You may have proved that Fellowes was lying when he said he never took Enid that afternoon, but how will that help you?  You’ve got to explain a miracle.”

“No, mon ami.  The miracle would be if Madame Thurston lived, not that she is dead.  This scheme was irresistible, and it seemed undiscoverable.  But it was worked out without remembering Amer Picon—the great Amer Picon.  For your police—pah!  It would never have been discovered.  But to-night you shall see.  I will tell you all you want to know.  Everything shall be made plain to you.  I promise.”

“If you do that you’re a wonder.  Do you know sometimes lately I have almost begun to agree with Williams, that there was something sinister, something occult?”

“Sinister, yes.  But there was no magic here,” said M. Picon, as we reached the outskirts of our own village.

❦

Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-Two

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

   

After lunch I met M. Picon in the garden of the Thurstons’ house.  He was stooping to pull a weed from an almost flawless border.  Knowing that one of the investigators had solved the whole problem, I felt that I could afford to speak to him quite light-heartedly, and did so.

“Well, Monsieur Picon, have you completed your theory?”

He looked up at me and said, “Ah, mon ami, it is you.  No doubt you know everything, is it not?”

“Well, not exactly,” I admitted.

“Nor, to speak the truth, do I.  Last night we exhausted the enquiries here.  Now we must look somewhere else.”

I was amused, thinking to myself that after all Lord Simon had beaten him to the solution.  But I only said, “Where will you look now?”

“In the heart, my friend.  When the brains shew no more one must look in the heart, and there, voilà! the truth.”

“I should not have suspected you of such sentimentality,” I said.

“That is not sentiment—it is logic.  The heart may guide as truly as the head.  And now, would you like a little promenade?”

“Is it far?”

“A few miles.  Not too far.”

“Where on earth are you going to?” I asked.

“To the village of Morton Scone.”

I laughed outright “Look here, Monsieur Picon,” I said, “1 don’t know what you want to go there for, nor what your theory is, but I can tell you this much.  You don’t need to bother.  I’ve been with Lord Simon this morning, and he’s found out about Sidney Sewell.  It isn’t a person, as we all thought, but a place.  In fact I went there with him this morning.  And while we got there Fellowes and Strickland and Norris had arrived.  So Lord Simon knows everything now.”

“Your reasoning, mon ami, is a little confused.  What information did Lord Simon glean from the arrival of this so indicative trio and the village of Sidney Sewell?”

“I don’t know that, of course.  But he told me he knew the murderer.”

“And do you think that I, Amer Picon, do not know also the murderer?  And what is that, to know the murderer?”

“I thought that is what we were all trying to do,” I returned innocently.

“Then you are mistaken.  What we have to do is not to know ourselves, but to prove to others.  If we cannot, what have we accomplished?  The good Bœuf would arrest his man, and the murderer would go free.”

“But surely Lord Simon must realize that.  After all, he’s had nearly as much experience as you have.”

“Maybe.  But everyone his method of proof.  And a part of mine is a promenade to Morton Scone.  Do you accompany me?”

“I shall be delighted.  Only if after this Monsignor Smith wants me to go with him to Jericho, I shan’t be surprised.”

“You might do worse,” said M. Picon seriously.  “He would know much of the ancient city.  But come along.  We have not too much time.”

I was surprised at the brisk pace that he set.  His legs were short, but his remarkable agility made it hard” for me to keep up with him.  However, I had set myself to see as much of the methods of all three of these great men as I could, and was willing enough to make the effort.  Now that they were nearing the end of the chase, every move they made should be interesting.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to help you much, Monsieur Picon,” I said after a long silence.

“Au contraire, my friend, your evidence has been of the greatest service to me.  You remembered something of the utmost importance, which you might well have forgotten.”

“What was that?”

“You do not know?  But naturally, your own part in this affair.”

“My part?” I almost shouted. 

“But yes.  You, too, had a hand in it.  Oh, but quite unconscious, I assure you.  Still, a part.”

“Good Lord.  What on earth was that?”

“Did you not rise and open the door?”

“Which door?  When?”

“But naturally.  The door of the lounge.  Just before the screams were heard.”

“Well, yes.  I did.  But I fail to see what that could have to do with it.  Unless . . .”  A new and horrible idea flashed into my brain.  “Unless there was some devilish mechanism in that room which I set in motion.”

“Fortunately,” said M.  Picon, “the machine is not yet invented which will cut a lady’s throat while she lies waiting for it, and throw the knife from the window, then disappear from the face of the earth.”

“I suppose not,” I admitted.

We marched on in the sunlight, which had begun to pale a little.  I was glad of the fresh air and exercise, and glad, too, of some activity which filled in the afternoon, for my impatience to know the murderer’s identity would otherwise have become feverish.  To think that at last, after all this guesswork, I was to know the truth.  I resolved to think no more about the murder, for otherwise I should start once again to suspect each in turn of the people at the Thurstons’.

We must have been within half a mile of Morton Scone when M. Picon suddenly took my arm, arid said, “Vite!  This way!”

I was so much taken by surprise that for a moment I hesitated.  He pulled me quite fiercely, however, to the side of the road, and almost bundled me through a hole in the hedge.  He had scarcely time to follow, when a car approached.  I had been aware of it a moment before, when it had been in the distance and beyond a dip which had taken it out of sight, but I had paid no attention to it.  The little detective, however, seemed to be in a state of tremendous excitement.

“Observe!” he snapped, as he stared at the roadway we had left.

It was once again Dr. Thurston’s dark-blue car, and since it was not travelling fast I had ample time to recognize its occupants.  Fellowes was driving, and beside him sat the girl Enid, while in the rear seat, smoking a cigar, was Miles.

“You see?” said M. Picon, as soon as the car had gone past.  “What I have said!  Look in the heart, my friend.  When the mind no longer tells tales, look in the heart!”

“But Monsieur Picon,” I exclaimed, “this is too much!  This morning I went to Sidney Sewell, and saw Fellowes with two of the suspects; this afternoon I come to Morton Scone, and here he is with another two!”

M. Picon laughed.  “And perhaps, when you go to Jericho with the excellent Monsignor Smith you will find him there with some more!”

“But what does it mean?” I asked.

“Patience, my friend.”

“But how did you know, while it was still a long way off, that that was the Thurstons’ car?”

“I did not.  But I thought it might be.  I was expecting it.”

“You were?  What made you expect it?”

“Oh, but you must understand I was not expecting it with any great confidence.  But I knew it had gone this way, and I thought that possibly, possibly, mind you, it would return.”

“You knew that they were going to Morton Scone, then?”

“I had an idea, no more.  A small idea.  But the ideas of Amer Picon at times come true, you see.”

“Well, that one certainly did, though I’m hanged if I know what to make of it.”

“And I wonder what the good Bœuf would make of it.  His partner in the brave game of darts, is it not?”

I smiled at that.

“Yes, I wonder.  Who do you think he suspects, Monsieur Picon?  He seems pretty sure of himself, whoever it is.”

“Probably the so skilled and expert cook, I should think,” said M.  Picon.  “But then your English police are not of the most intelligent when it is a matter of crime.”

“Not in this case,” I admitted.

Suddenly I stopped short.  “Monsieur Picon!” I exclaimed.

“What have you, mon ami?”

I burst out laughing.  “What a couple of fools we are!” I said.

“For that, in your so English proverb, you must speak for yourself,” he returned huffily.

“No.  But don’t you see?  We’ve walked about a quarter of a mile since we saw that car.  And all for nothing.  You have seen what you set out to see.  We could have turned back at once.”

“And who knows what I set out to see?”

“Well, it was obviously the car, coming back from Morton Scone, with Fellowes and the rest of them in it.”

“That was almost an accident.”

“Then you still must go on to the village?”

“Naturally.”

“But whatever for?”

“You have surely forgotten one all-important detail.  The flag on the tower of Morton Scone church was at half-mast, is it not so?”

“Yes.  But . . .”

“Allons.”

I obeyed.  But inwardly I revolted.  I began to think that M. Picon was deliberately mystifying me, or that, having absent-mindedly continued walking to Morton Scone as I suggested, he now pretended that it was necessary, in order to save his face.  But as we were approaching the village I had another idea.

“I know!” I said, “you think it was a double murder.  The doctor in this village died the same day.  You connect the two?”

“The doctor was very old, and had a weak heart.  He knew himself that he might die at any tune.  His death was perfectly natural.”

“Then what has Morton Scone got to do with it?”

We had reached a point on a gentle hill-side from which most of the village was clearly visible.  It was a pleasant Sussex village, whose predominant colour was that quiet red to which bricks and tiles are toned in the process of time.  There were houses with plaster fronts and houses with timbered fronts, and an inn sign hung across the footpath.

“Perhaps nothing at all.  Perhaps a great deal,” said M. Picon very thoughtfully.

He did not move for at least a whole minute, and then only to turn and look up at me with a frankly puzzled face.

“Tell me, Monsieur Townsend,” he said, “do you notice anything strange about this place?”

Strange?  It seemed to be the embodiment of all things homely and familiar, all things I loved most dearly.  One might have chosen it to settle in, after a vagrant life.  ‘Laughter and inn fires’, I thought of, and kindly little sweet-shops kept by the sort of elderly stout women who may be called a ‘body’.  Even as we looked a farm-cart started on its way through the street, and the man who walked at its horse’s head shouted a cheerful greeting to someone in a window.  Here was friendliness and a quiet sequence of days for a number of calm and normal people, here were gardens, no doubt, and a little school muddling its children through their reading, writing and arithmetic.  Here were honest folk and very English houses.  Certainly nothing that I could call ‘strange’.

“It may seem strange to you, Monsieur Picon,” I said, “but to an Englishman I assure you this village . . .”

He interrupted me most rudely, and said, “No, no.  I do not mean that.  It is strange for lack of something.  For see, school, inn, police station, and post office no doubt, but where do you see, my good friend, the church?”

And I found myself gaping back at the village, realizing the implications of its absence.

❦

Case for Three Detectives, Chapter Twenty-One

Case for Three Detectives

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

   

He drove violently fast, of course.  It was not to be supposed of him that in speed, of all things, he should shew an uncharacteristic moderation.  So I leaned back in the seat of the Rolls, and comforted myself with the somewhat selfish reflection that most other cars were, smaller, lighter, and more easily crumpled than this one.

“Strange name for a village—Sidney Sewell,” I observed.

“Not really,” replied Lord Simon; “it only seems so because when you first heard it you assumed that it was the name of a man.  Almost any place with a double name would seem like that.  Horton Kirby, for instance, or Dunton Green.  Chalfont St. Giles might easily have been the villain of a Victorian novel, and I see no reason why Compton Abdale (a village in Gloucestershire) should be thought to be the name of a place more than Compton Mackenzie.  It just depends on how you hear of them first.”

“But what made you think of Sidney Sewell as a village?”

“I didn’t.  I just tried it in all the reference books I could lay hands on.  There chanced to be an out-of-date telephone directory which I got from the post office, and a Times Atlas which I found at the hotel.”

We purred quietly over a narrow bridge at fifty miles an hour, and ten minutes later I was relieved to catch a glimpse as we shot by, of the name Sidney Sewell on a signpost.  It was something to have got as near as that without actual disaster.

The village itself was a pleasant and rather dignified one.  The central street was divided from the houses on each side of it by wide grass strips, which gave the whole place an air of spaciousness.  We were travelling through it at a still fairly considerable speed when Lord Simon applied his brakes with skilled force, and brought us to a standstill.

“Good Lord—look at that!” he said.

Now all I could see was the quiet village street before us, with very little traffic and scarcely a human being in sight.  There was a butcher’s shop over to our right, from the door of which the proprietor was watching us rather indifferently.  On our left was an inn called the Black Falcon, and a blue saloon motor-car stood outside.  Next to the inn, and nearer to us, was a garage.  But nowhere in the placid and normal scene could I see anything which might have caused Lord Simon’s exclamation.  Unwilling, however, to admit that I was less perceptive than he was, I waited for him to reveal more.

“That car,” he said at last.  “Surely you know it?  Thurston’s.”

I looked again at the blue saloon.  It was a standard model of Austin make.  I did not see how I could be expected to recognize it, and said so.

Lord Simon sounded quite irritable.  “Have you ever heard of index numbers?” he asked.  “That’s Thurston’s all right.”

I realized what I was expected to say in order to restore Lord Simon’s good humour, and the tone in which I should say it.  “Then what on earth is it doing here?” I asked.

“Fairly obvious, don’t you feel?” said Lord Simon, smiling amiably again.

It was, of course, far from obvious to me, but it was pleasant to have our respective roles happily restored, and I nodded.

Lord Simon, with a bold sweep of his large car, drove straight into the garage, and told a mechanic there that he wished to leave it under cover for half an hour or so.  He saw that it was place in the far recesses of the corrugated iron building, out of sight of the road, and we walked out of the place.

He led the way, however, not past the windows of the inn, but into the yard at the back, and went up to a small back door.  He knocked rather gently, and presently an untidy woman opened it.

“Yes?” she said unencouragingly.

“Oh, would you mind tellin’ us where the gentlemen from that car may be?  I mean the car standing in front of your house.”

The woman eyed him curiously.  “What business would it be of yours?”

“Nothing really.  Just my silly curiosity,” smiled Lord Simon, and handed her a ten-shilling note.

“They’re in the private bar,” she replied sulkily.

“How many of them?”

“Three.”

“Three?  That’s odd.  Is there another bar?”

“There’s the public.”

“Can it be seen from theirs?”

“No.  It can’t.  There’s glass partitions round the counter, to prevent prying and spying.”

“But the same bar serves them both?”

“Yes.  Anything else you want to know?  Haven’t you got nothing better to do than ask questions?”

“Yes.  Something far better.  We’ll have a drink.  And we’ll have it in the public bar.  And we won’t talk there, if you don’t mind.  And you won’t mention that we’re here.  That’s for two whiskies.  My friend likes, whisky—drinks it with lobster.  Keep the change.  Now which is the way?”

Through an untidy kitchen in which washing was hung to dry the woman led us to a door, and left us alone with a large cat.  We sat down in silence and waited.

The voices which came through from the other bar were not loud, and the words they spoke were indistinguishable.  But the speakers could be identified.  Fellowes—I distinctly heard him say, “Cheerio, sir!”—Strickland, who called for “Three more!” in his rather thick, deep voice, and, to my surprise, Alec Norris, whose shrill laugh would have been recognizable anywhere.

The atmosphere—was musty, the advertisements on the wall out of date and dismal, and the words of those in the other bar inaudible.  I was beginning to get thoroughly impatient, when I heard some movement, and Strickland’s voice raised.

“Wait here, then, Fellowes,” he said, and his voice came from this side of the room.  “We shan’t be more than a quarter of an hour.”

There was a slight tinkle in the shutting of the door, indicating that it was glass, as ours was, then a ring of feet on an iron mat at the door.  Looking out of the window of our bar we could see Strickland and Norris setting off together along the road by which we had entered the village.

Lord Simon did not hesitate.  He walked straight through into the private bar and confronted Fellowes.  But the chauffeur, beyond putting down his drink and facing us, remained undisturbed.

“Interestin’ meetin’,” began Lord Simon, “I wonder what you’d happen to be doin’ here?”

“Obeying orders,” Fellowes returned.

“Indeed?  Whose orders?”

“Dr. Thurston’s.  He told me to take these two gentlemen wherever they wished to go.”

“Did you ask him, then?”

“Yes.  Of course I did.  When they said they wanted a run in the car somewhere, it wasn’t for me to take them without permission.  So I asked Dr. Thurston.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me not to bother him.  Take them anywhere.”

“So you decided to come to Sidney Sewell.”

Fellowes was silent for a moment, then said, “No.  I didn’t choose it.  They said where they wanted to go.”

“Mm.  So you’ve no idea why this place was chosen?”

“No.”

“You had no object in coming here yourself?”

“No.”

“Rather good at monosyllables, aren’t you, Fellowes?’

“Don’t know what you mean.”

We returned to the public bar.  Lord Simon seemed rather quiet, even perplexed at that moment.  But very shortly we saw Strickland and Norris returning.  Fellowes must have told them at once of our presence, for Strickland burst into the room, and Norris followed him.

“What the devil do you mean by trailing us about like this?” Strickland asked furiously.

“Cool down, my lad,” drawled Lord Simon.  “Can’t a fellow have a run in a car without all this excitement?”

“Don’t talk rot, Plimsoll,” shouted Strickland.  “You followed us here!  You must have.  As for you, Townsend, sneaking round with these dam’ detectives—I’m disgusted.  Are you trying to prove that I did this murder?”

There was a high-pitched question from behind him.  “Perhaps you suspect me?” asked Alec Norris.

Lord Simon smiled to them with aloof boredom.  “My dear old boys, don’t work yourselves up.  You’ll know soon enough whom I suspect.  Nice place, Sidney Sewell.  Ever been here before, Strickland?”

“Oh, I’m sick of answering your silly questions, Plimsoll.  Come on, Fellowes, we’ll get home.”

And the three of them marched out.  From the window we watched Fellowes get into the driving-seat, and Strickland and Norris sit behind.

“Well, well, well,” said Lord Simon.

The interview had made me uncomfortable.  If Strickland turned out not to be the murderer it would be awkward when we met again, for I certainly seemed guilty of spying.  Detection was, after all, Plimsoll’s job, but for me, it would seem, there could be little excuse.

“And now,” said Lord Simon, as we walked out into the pale autumn sunset, “I have one more call to make.  I wonder where we are likely to find the post office?”

I proved myself helpful by stopping a passer-by and enquiring.  It was a hundred yards down the street I was told, and we set out briskly together.

“I wonder whether you’d mind awfully just waitin’ outside for me a moment?” asked Lord Simon, when we had reached the little general store which combined its business with that of the G.P.O.  “Sorry to be ill-mannered and all that, don’t you know.”

“Oh, not a bit,” I said, presuming that he wished to make a private telephone call.

But it was not long before he returned, smiling broadly.  I began to think that all this investigation was giving me detective habits, for I had already deduced that he must have been on the ’phone to the Thurstons’, since he had not had time for a long-distance call, when he said suddenly:

“Well, that settles that.”

“What?” I asked obligingly.

“The identity of the stepson.”

“You know who it is?”

“Yes.  I know who it is.”

“Then your case is complete?”

“Remarkably complete.”

“And you’re not going to tell me?”

“Terribly sorry, old boy.  Against all professional etiquette.  You shall hear this evening, I promise you.  Interestin’ case, though.  Very interestin’ case.” And he continued to smile contentedly as he drove us back at a slightly less breakneck speed.

❦