It was on the morning of the second day that Scotland Yard sent for him. Lomas was with Superintendent Bell. The two of them received him with solemnity and curious eyes. Mr. Fortune was not pleased. “Dear me, Lomas, can’t you keep the peace for a week at a time?” he protested. “What is the reason for your existence?”
“I had all that for breakfast,” said Lomas. “Don’t talk like the newspapers. Be original.”
“‘Another Mysterious Murder,’” Reggie murmured, quoting headlines. “‘Scotland Yard Baffled Again,’ ‘Police Mandarins.’ No, you haven’t a ‘good Press,’ Lomas old thing.”
Lomas said something about the Press. “Do you know who that woman chauffeur was, Fortune?”
“That wasn’t in the papers, was it?”
“You haven’t guessed?”
Again Reggie Fortune was aware of the grave curiosity in their eyes. “Another of our mysterious murders,” he said dreamily. “I wonder. Are you working out the series at last? I told you to look for some one who was always present.”
Lomas looked at Superintendent Bell. “Lady Chantry was present at this one, Fortune,” he said. “Lady Chantry took out her car the day before yesterday. Yesterday morning the car was found in a lane above Haslemere. Lady Chantry was inside. She wore chauffeur’s uniform. She was shot through the head.”
“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune.
“I want you to come down and look at the body.”
“Is the body the only evidence?”
“We know where she bought the coat and cap. Her own coat and hat were under the front seat. She told her servants she might not be back at night. No one knows what she went out for or where she went.”
“Yes. Yes. When a person is shot, it’s generally with a gun. Have you found it?”
“She had an automatic pistol in her hand.”
Reggie Fortune rose. “I had better see her,” he said sadly. “A wearing world, Lomas. Come on. My car’s outside.”
Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigour of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle—remark the stained, scorched flesh—must have been held close to her face when the shot was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. “Yes, yes. All very clear, isn’t it? A straight case.” He drew the sheet over the body and paid compliments to the doctor as they went out.
Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. “There’s nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.”
“No sort of doubt?” said Lomas.
“You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You’ll get nothing else.”
And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, thank God!” said Mr. Fortune as the little town ran by.
Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?” he said.
“There are also other little questions,” Reggie murmured. “Why did she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try to murder the child?”
Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you know she did?” he said in a low voice. “You’re making very sure.”
“Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard isn’t brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the murders? Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found that out yet?”
“She was staying near Bigod’s place. She was at the orphanage. She was at the child’s party. And only she was at all three. It staggered me when I got the evidence complete. But what in heaven makes you think she is the murderer?”
Reggie moved uneasily. “There was something malign about her.”
“Malign! But she was always doing philanthropic work.”
“Yes. It may be a saint who does that—or the other thing. Haven’t you ever noticed—some of the people who are always busy about distress—they rather like watching distress?”
“Why, yes. But murder! And what possible motive is there for killing these different people? She might have hated one or another. But not all three.”
“Oh, there is a common factor. Don’t you see? Each one had somebody to feel the death like torture—the girl Bigod was engaged to, the girl who was devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald’s mother. There was always somebody to suffer horribly—and the person to be killed was always somebody who had a young good life to lose. Not at all nice murders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. Say that Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for cruelty—and it ended that night in the motor-car.”
“But why commit suicide? Do you mean she was mad?”
“I wouldn’t say that. That’s for the Day of Judgment. When is cruelty madness? I don’t know. Why did she—give herself away—in the end? Perhaps she found she had gone a little too far. Perhaps she knew you and I had begun to look after her. She never liked me much, I fancy. She was a little—odd—with me.”
“You’re an uncanny fellow, Fortune.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m wholly normal. I’m the natural man,” said Reggie Fortune.
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