Chapter IX.The Second Cartridge-CaseThe chief constable had a fresh task on his hands as soon as Armadale took his leave. It seemed to him essential to get the body of the dead man identified by someone in addition to the group at Flatt's cottage. Stanley Fleetwood was unable to move, even if he had wished to do so; and Sir Clinton had no particular desire to confront Cressida with her late husband's corpse. Paul Fordingbridge had known Staveley well; and it was to him that the chief constable turned in this difficulty.To his relief, Paul Fordingbridge showed no annoyance at the state of affairs. He consented at once to go with the chief constable to inspect the body and give his evidence as to its identity. Wendover accompanied them in the car; and in Lynden Sands village the formalities were soon over. Fordingbridge had no hesitation in the matter; he recognised Staveley at the first glance.Until they were clear of the village again, Sir Clinton made no attempt to extract any further information; but when the car crossed the neck at Flatt's cottage and was running beside the bay, he slowed down and turned to Fordingbridge.“There's a point you might be able to throw light on, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he said tentatively. “Quite obviously, Staveley was supposed to have been killed in the war. Could you give me any information about his earlier history? You came in contact with him at times, I understand.”Paul Fordingbridge seemed in no way put out by the request.“I can tell you all I know about the fellow easily enough,” he answered readily. “You'll have to go elsewhere for any real information about his past; but, so far as I'm concerned, I met him here. My nephew, Derek, brought him home to spend his leave with us at Foxhills. That was in 1916. In the spring of '17, he was slightly wounded; and we asked him down again to stay with us when he was convalescent. He married my niece in April 1917. The marriage wasn't a success—quite the other thing. The fellow was a scoundrel of the worst brand. In September 1917 we learned privately that he had got into the black books of the military authorities; and my private impression—it's only that, for I really don't know—my private impression was that he ran the risk of a firing-party. What I heard was a rumour that he'd been given a chance to rehabilitate himself in the field. There was a big attack being mounted at the moment, and he was sent in with the rest. That was the last we heard of him. After the attack, he was posted as missing; and a while later still the War Office returned some of his things to my niece. It seems they'd found a body with his identity disc on it. Naturally we were relieved.”He halted for a moment; then, seeming to feel that he had put the matter in an unnecessarily callous way, he added:“He was a thoroughly bad lot, you understand? I caught him once trying to forge my name to a cheque for a good round figure.”Sir Clinton nodded his thanks for the information.“Then I suppose one has to assume that in some way or other he managed to escape, after exchanging identity discs with somebody who was really killed,” he suggested. “It's not difficult to see how that could be done.”Wendover interposed.“More difficult than it looks at first sight, Clinton. How do you imagine that he could conceal himself after the battle? He'd have to give some account of himself then.”“Oh, I expect he went amongst people who didn't know his substitute by sight. That wouldn't be difficult.”“He'd be picked up and sent back to his supposed unit very soon—the dead man's unit, I mean. And then the fat would be in the fire.”“Obviously he wasn't sent back, then, squire, if you prefer it so,” Sir Clinton conceded, turning to Fordingbridge. “What we've heard just now accounts well enough for Staveley being associated with your nephew lately—I mean the man who's living at Flatt's cottage.”“Is there a nephew of mine at Flatt's cottage?” Paul Fordingbridge questioned coldly. “I don't know with certainty that I have a nephew alive at all.”“He calls himself Derek Fordingbridge, if that's any help.”“Oh, you mean that fellow? I've no proof that he's my nephew.”“I should like to hear something more about him, if you don't mind,” Sir Clinton suggested.“I've no objection—not the slightest,” Paul Fordingbridge responded. “My nephew Derek was in the Army from 1914. He was captured on the West Front in the same battle as the one I've been speaking about. We learned later on that he'd been sent to the prisoners' camp at Clausthal. He got away from there almost at once and made a good try to get over the Dutch frontier; but they got hold of him at the last moment. Then he was sent to Fort 9, Ingolstadt. He hadn't been there a week before he got away again. My impression is that most probably he was shot in trying to get across the Swiss frontier, if not earlier; and they failed to identify him. We heard no more about him, anyhow; and when the prisoners were released after the Armistice, he wasn't among them. If this fellow were really my nephew, it's hard to see why he's let so long a time go by without communicating with us. If he really is my nephew, there's a lot of money waiting for him; and he's an enterprising chap, as you can see from his escape attempts. And yet we've had no word from him of any sort since before the attack in which he was captured.”“Lost his memory, perhaps?” Wendover suggested.“It might be possible,” Paul Fordingbridge answered in a frigid tone which damped further speculation on Wendover's part. Turning to Sir Clinton, he added:“Unless there's any further information you want, I think I'll get down here and walk back to the hotel. I'd be glad of a chance to stretch my legs.”As Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him, he stepped out of the car; and they soon left him behind.“Barring the girl,” Wendover confided to Sir Clinton as they drove on, “that Fordingbridge family seem a damned rum crew.”“You surprise me, squire. You even capture my interest. Proceed.”“Well, what do you make of it all?”“I'll admit that my vulgar curiosity is piqued by their highly developed faculty of reticence. Miss Fordingbridge seems the only one of them who has a normal human desire to talk about her own affairs.”“Did you see anything else?”“They seem a bit at sixes and sevens. But you've a much acuter mind than I have, so I suppose you spotted that quite a long time ago.”“I had a glimmering of it,” Wendover retorted sarcastically. “Anything more?”“Oh, yes. For one thing, Mr. Paul Fordingbridge seems to have a singularly detached mind. Why, even you, squire, with your icy and well-balanced intellect, seem to be more affected by his niece's troubles than the wicked uncle is. Quite like the Babes in the Wood, isn't it?—with you in the rôle of a robin. All you need are some leaves and a red waistcoat to make the thing go properly.”“It's hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton.”“I'm not laughing,” Sir Clinton said soberly. “Hanging's no joke. Remember theBallad of Sam Hall—“Then the parson he will come. . . .and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by mistake.”Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up before the front of the hotel.“You can get out here, squire. There's no need to go round with me to the garage.”But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the look-out for their arrival.“I've been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir Clinton,” he explained as he came up to the car. “I missed you at lunch-time; and when I tried to get hold of you, I found you'd gone off. I've got something that seems important to show you.”He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny glittering object which he handed over to the chief constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.“I've seen things of this sort before,” Sir Clinton said indifferently as he glanced at it. “I doubt if the loser's likely to offer a reward.”Cargill seemed taken aback.“Can't you see its importance?” he demanded. “I found it down on the beach this morning.”“How was I to know that until you told me?” Sir Clinton asked mildly. “I'm not psychic, as they call it. I just have to be told things plainly. But I shouldn't shout them, Mr. Cargill, if they really are important.”Cargill dropped his voice at the implied rebuke.“You remember I was down bathing this morning before breakfast? And you warned me off the premises—wouldn't let me come nearer than the groyne. I sat down on the groyne and watched you for a while; then you went away. I wasn't in a hurry to bathe just then, so I sat for a bit on the groyne, just thinking things over and trying to put two and two together from what I could see of the footmarks on the sands. I suppose I must have sat there for a quarter of an hour or so. When I got up again, I found I'd been kicking up the sand a bit while I was thinking—shuffling about without noticing what I was doing with my feet. And when I looked down—there was this thing shining on the sand at my toes. It was half hidden; and until I picked it up I didn't spot what it was. By that time your party had cleared out. So I made a careful note of the spot, put the thing in my pocket, and set off to look for you. Unfortunately, you weren't to be found just then; so I've been waiting till I could get hold of you.”He looked at the chief constable eagerly as though expecting some display of emotion as a reward for his trouble; but Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing as he thanked Cargill.“Would you mind getting aboard?” he asked immediately. “I'd like to see just where you found this thing.”Then, as a concession to Cargill's feelings, he added:“You must have pretty sharp eyes. I thought I'd been over that ground fairly carefully myself.”“Probably the thing was buried in the sand,” the Australian pointed out. “I saw it only after I kicked about a while.”Sir Clinton turned the car and took the road leading down to Neptune's Seat.“What do you make of it, Mr. Cargill?” he inquired, after a moment or two.“I haven't thought much about it,” Cargill answered. “It seems straightforward enough. Somebody must have been behind the groyne and fired a shot. It's within easy shooting distance of the rock where the body was found.”Wendover opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, thinking better of it, he refrained.When they reached the shore, the tide was sufficiently far out to allow Cargill to show them the spot at which he had picked up the cartridge-case. Wendover still had a mental map in his head, and he recognised that the shot must have been fired by the man behind the groyne at the time when he was nearest to Neptune's Seat. If Stanley Fleetwood was even a moderate shot with an automatic, he could hardly have missed Staveley's figure at the distance.Sir Clinton seemed to become more keenly interested when they reached the shore. His detached manner thawed markedly, and he thanked Cargill again for having brought the evidence to light.“Oh, it was only an accident,” the Australian protested. “I wasn't looking for anything. It just chanced to catch my eye. Does it throw any light on things?”Sir Clinton obviously resented the question.“Everything helps,” he said sententiously.Cargill saw that he had been indiscreet.“Oh, I'm not trying to stick my oar in,” he hastened to assure the chief constable. “I just asked out of mere curiosity.”He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he changed the subject completely.“By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying somewhere hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came across somebody of that name in the war.”“He's staying at that cottage across the bay,” Wendover explained, pointing out Flatt's cottage as he spoke. “What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance, I mean.”“Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair darkish, if I remember right.”“This looks like your man, then,” Wendover assured him. “But you'll probably find him a bit altered. He's had some bad wounds.”“Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I'll just go across the bay now and see if he's at home. I'm half-way there already.”Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on finding that it would be taking them out of their way, Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he should stumble into it unawares.“That's an interesting find,” Wendover volunteered as they climbed the beach. “I didn't say anything in front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence.”“You mean that Billingford couldn't tell the inspector whether there was a single shot or a pair?” Sir Clinton inquired.“Yes. That looked funny at first sight; but if the two shots were fired almost simultaneously, then it would have been a bit difficult to say whether there was a double report or not.”“That's so squire. You're getting devilish acute these days, I must admit.”But, from his friend's tone, the compliment did not sound so warm as the words suggested. Wendover imagined that he detected a tinge of irony in Sir Clinton's voice; but it was so faint that he could not feel certain of it.“I'm getting too much into a groove,” the chief constable went on. “This was supposed to be holiday; and yet I'm spending almost every minute of it in rushing about at Armadale's coat-tails. I really must have some relaxation. There's some dancing at the hotel to-night and I think I'll join. I need a change of occupation.”Wendover was not a dancing man, but he liked to watch dancers; so after dinner he found his way to the ballroom of the hotel, ensconced himself comfortably in a corner from which he had a good view of the floor, and prepared to enjoy himself. He had a half-suspicion that Sir Clinton's sudden humour for dancing was not wholly explicable on the ground of a mere relaxation, though the chief constable was undoubtedly a good dancer; and he watched with interest to see what partners his friend would choose.Any expectations he might have had were unfulfilled, however. Sir Clinton seemed to pay no particular attention to any of his partners; and most of them obviously could have no connection with the tragedies. Once, it is true, he sat out with Miss Staunton, whose ankle was apparently not sufficiently strong to allow her to dance; and Wendover noted also that three others on Armadale's list—Miss Fairford, Miss Stanmore, and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—were among his friend's partners.Shortly before midnight, Sir Clinton seemed to tire of his amusement. He took leave of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, with whom he had been dancing, and came across the room to Wendover.“Profited by your study of vamps, I hope, Clinton?”Sir Clinton professed to be puzzled by the inquiry.“Vamps? Oh, you mean Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, I suppose. I'm afraid she found me poor ground for her talents. I made it clear to her at the start that she was far above rubies and chief constables. All I had to offer was the purest friendship. It seems it was a new sensation to her—never met anything of the sort before. She's rather interesting, squire. You might do worse than cultivate her acquaintance—on the same terms as myself. Now, come along. We'll need to change before Armadale turns up, unless you have a fancy to dabble your dress trousers in the brine down there.”They left the room and made their way towards the lift. In the corridor they encountered Cargill, who stopped them.“Thanks for directing me to that cottage,” he said. “It turned out to be the man I knew, right enough. But I'd hardly have recognised him, poor devil. He used to be a fine-looking beggar—and look at him now.”“Enjoy a talk with him?” Sir Clinton asked politely.“Oh, yes. But I was a bit surprised to hear that he's quite a big pot with an estate and all that. I only knew him in the war, of course, and it seems he came into the cash later on. Foxhills is his place, isn't it?”“So I'm told. By the way, did you meet his friend, Mr. Billingford? He's an amusing artist.”Cargill's brow clouded slightly.“You think so?” he said doubtfully.Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.“I'm sorry I've got to hurry off, Mr. Cargill. I'd no notion it was so late.”With a nod, Cargill passed. Sir Clinton and Wendover hurried upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for the sands. They were ready just as the inspector knocked at the chief constable's door; and in a few minutes all three were in Sir Clinton's car on the road to the beach.“Got the flash-lamps, inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded as he pulled up the car at a point considerably beyond Neptune's Seat. “That's all right. We get out here, I think. We ought to be opposite those two cairns we built, if I'm not out in my reckoning.”They moved down the beach and soon came to a long pool of sea-water extending into the darkness on either hand. Sir Clinton surveyed it for a moment.“We'll just have to splash through, I suppose,” he said, and set an example. “It won't take you over your ankles.”A few seconds took them through the shallow pool and brought them to drying sands on the farther side.“This is a low whale-back,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “When the tide's full in, this is covered, like all the rest. Then, as the tide falls, the whale-back acts as a dam and there's a big sea-pool left on the sands between here and the road. That's the pool we've just waded through. Now we'll look for the next item.” Wendover and Armadale followed him across the sands to where a broad stream of water was pouring down towards the sea.“This is the channel between our whale-back and the next one,” Sir Clinton explained as they came up to it. “This water comes from the pool that we waded; and the cairns are on each side of it, lower down.”The night was cloudy, and they had to use their flash-lamps from time to time.“What I wanted to note is the exact time when the stream just touches the cairns on each side. Just now, as you can see, the cairns are in the water; but the level of the stream's sinking as the head of water falls in the pool behind. Watch till the stream runs between the two piles of stone and then note the time.”Slowly the flow diminished as the water emptied itself from the pool behind; and at last they saw the rivulet confined to a channel between the two cairns.“I make it five past twelve,” Sir Clinton said, lifting his eyes from his watch. “Now I'm going over to Neptune's Seat. You stay here, inspector; and when you see my flash-lamp, run your hardest to the rock and join me.”He disappeared in the darkness, leaving the others rather puzzled as to the meaning of these manœuvres. At last Wendover thought he saw the point.“I see what he's getting at.”But just as he was about to explain the matter to the inspector, they saw the flash of Sir Clinton's lamp and Armadale set off at a lumbering trot across the sands with Wendover hurrying after him.“It's simple enough,” Sir Clinton explained when all three had gathered at Neptune's Seat. “You remember that Billingford's track was broken where the cairns are—no footprints visible for several yards. That was the place where he crossed the runnel last night. All we need to do is to note when the runnel is the same breadth at that point to-night—which we've just done—and then make a correction of about forty minutes for the tide being later this evening. It's not exact, of course; but it's near enough, perhaps.”“I thought you were after something of the sort,” Wendover interjected. “Once I got as far as the runnel I tumbled to the idea.”“Well, let's take the results,” Sir Clinton went on. “The runnel was in the right state to-night at five past twelve. Make the forty-one minute deduction—since the tide's forty-one minutes later to-night than it was last night—and you get 11.25p.m.as the time when Billingford crossed that rivulet last night. Now the inspector took over seven minutes to run from the cairns to Neptune's Seat, for I timed him. Therefore, even if Billingford had run the whole distance, he couldn't have reached Neptune's Seat before 11.32 at the earliest. As a matter of fact, his track showed that he walked most of the way, which makes the possible time of his arrival a bit later than 11.32p.m.”“So he couldn't have fired a shot at 11.19 when Staveley's watch stopped?” Wendover inferred.“Obviously he couldn't. There's more in it than that; though I needn't worry you with that at present, perhaps. But this bit of evidence eliminates another possibility I'd had my eye on. Billingford might have walked into the runnel and then waded down the rivulet into the sea, leaving no traces. Then he might have come along the beach, wading in the waves, and shot Staveley from the water. After that, if he'd returned the way he came, he could have emerged from the runnel at the same point, only on this bank of the channel, and left his single track up to Neptune's Seat, just as we found it. But that won't fit in with the shot fired at 11.19 p.m., obviously. If he'd done this, then his last footmark on the far side would have been made when the runnel was full, and his first footmark on this side would have been made later, when the runnel had shrunk a bit; and the two wouldn't have fitted the banks neatly as we found to-night that they did.”“I see all that, clear enough, sir,” said Armadale briskly. “That means the circle's narrowed a bit further. If Billingford didn't fire that shot, then you're left with only three other people on the list: the two Fleetwoods and the woman with the 3½ shoe. If she can be eliminated like Billingford, then the case against the Fleetwoods is conclusive.”“Don't be in too much of a hurry, inspector. How are you getting along with the shoe question?” Sir Clinton inquired a trifle maliciously.“To tell you the truth,” the inspector replied guardedly, “I haven't been able to get at the root of it yet, sir. Only two of the village girls take that size of shoe. One of them's only a kiddie; the other's away on a visit just now. It doesn't look like either of them.”“And the Hay case?” the chief constable demanded.The inspector made an inarticulate sound which suggested that he had nothing fresh to recount on this subject.“And the P. M. on Staveley's body?” pursued Sir Clinton.Here the inspector had something to report, though not much.“Dr. Rafford's gone into it, sir. The contused wound on the back of the head's nothing to speak of. The base of the skull's intact. That blow had nothing to do with his death. At the most, it might have stunned him for a minute or two. According to the doctor, Staveley was killed by the shot; and he thinks that the shot wasn't fired at absolutely close quarters. That fits in with the fact that I could find no singeing of the cloth of his rain-coat or his jacket round about the bullet-hole. Dr. Rafford found the bullet, all correct. Death must have been practically instantaneous, according to the doctor's view. These are the main results. He's written a detailed report for reference, of course.”Sir Clinton made no direct comment.“I think that'll do for to-night, inspector. Come up to the car and I'll run you into the village. By the way, I want some of your constables to-morrow morning for a bit of work; and you'd better hire some labourers as well—say a dozen men altogether. Tell them to dig up the sand between Neptune's Seat and the sea to the depth of about a foot, and shift it up into a pile above high-tide mark.”“And how far are they to carry their diggings?” Wendover inquired.“I really doubt if they'll be able to dig much below low-tide mark. What do you think?”“And what do you expect to find there?” Wendover persisted.“Oh, a shell or two, most likely,” Sir Clinton retorted caustically. “Would you like to bet on it, squire?”Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing would be gained by further persistence.
The chief constable had a fresh task on his hands as soon as Armadale took his leave. It seemed to him essential to get the body of the dead man identified by someone in addition to the group at Flatt's cottage. Stanley Fleetwood was unable to move, even if he had wished to do so; and Sir Clinton had no particular desire to confront Cressida with her late husband's corpse. Paul Fordingbridge had known Staveley well; and it was to him that the chief constable turned in this difficulty.
To his relief, Paul Fordingbridge showed no annoyance at the state of affairs. He consented at once to go with the chief constable to inspect the body and give his evidence as to its identity. Wendover accompanied them in the car; and in Lynden Sands village the formalities were soon over. Fordingbridge had no hesitation in the matter; he recognised Staveley at the first glance.
Until they were clear of the village again, Sir Clinton made no attempt to extract any further information; but when the car crossed the neck at Flatt's cottage and was running beside the bay, he slowed down and turned to Fordingbridge.
“There's a point you might be able to throw light on, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he said tentatively. “Quite obviously, Staveley was supposed to have been killed in the war. Could you give me any information about his earlier history? You came in contact with him at times, I understand.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed in no way put out by the request.
“I can tell you all I know about the fellow easily enough,” he answered readily. “You'll have to go elsewhere for any real information about his past; but, so far as I'm concerned, I met him here. My nephew, Derek, brought him home to spend his leave with us at Foxhills. That was in 1916. In the spring of '17, he was slightly wounded; and we asked him down again to stay with us when he was convalescent. He married my niece in April 1917. The marriage wasn't a success—quite the other thing. The fellow was a scoundrel of the worst brand. In September 1917 we learned privately that he had got into the black books of the military authorities; and my private impression—it's only that, for I really don't know—my private impression was that he ran the risk of a firing-party. What I heard was a rumour that he'd been given a chance to rehabilitate himself in the field. There was a big attack being mounted at the moment, and he was sent in with the rest. That was the last we heard of him. After the attack, he was posted as missing; and a while later still the War Office returned some of his things to my niece. It seems they'd found a body with his identity disc on it. Naturally we were relieved.”
He halted for a moment; then, seeming to feel that he had put the matter in an unnecessarily callous way, he added:
“He was a thoroughly bad lot, you understand? I caught him once trying to forge my name to a cheque for a good round figure.”
Sir Clinton nodded his thanks for the information.
“Then I suppose one has to assume that in some way or other he managed to escape, after exchanging identity discs with somebody who was really killed,” he suggested. “It's not difficult to see how that could be done.”
Wendover interposed.
“More difficult than it looks at first sight, Clinton. How do you imagine that he could conceal himself after the battle? He'd have to give some account of himself then.”
“Oh, I expect he went amongst people who didn't know his substitute by sight. That wouldn't be difficult.”
“He'd be picked up and sent back to his supposed unit very soon—the dead man's unit, I mean. And then the fat would be in the fire.”
“Obviously he wasn't sent back, then, squire, if you prefer it so,” Sir Clinton conceded, turning to Fordingbridge. “What we've heard just now accounts well enough for Staveley being associated with your nephew lately—I mean the man who's living at Flatt's cottage.”
“Is there a nephew of mine at Flatt's cottage?” Paul Fordingbridge questioned coldly. “I don't know with certainty that I have a nephew alive at all.”
“He calls himself Derek Fordingbridge, if that's any help.”
“Oh, you mean that fellow? I've no proof that he's my nephew.”
“I should like to hear something more about him, if you don't mind,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“I've no objection—not the slightest,” Paul Fordingbridge responded. “My nephew Derek was in the Army from 1914. He was captured on the West Front in the same battle as the one I've been speaking about. We learned later on that he'd been sent to the prisoners' camp at Clausthal. He got away from there almost at once and made a good try to get over the Dutch frontier; but they got hold of him at the last moment. Then he was sent to Fort 9, Ingolstadt. He hadn't been there a week before he got away again. My impression is that most probably he was shot in trying to get across the Swiss frontier, if not earlier; and they failed to identify him. We heard no more about him, anyhow; and when the prisoners were released after the Armistice, he wasn't among them. If this fellow were really my nephew, it's hard to see why he's let so long a time go by without communicating with us. If he really is my nephew, there's a lot of money waiting for him; and he's an enterprising chap, as you can see from his escape attempts. And yet we've had no word from him of any sort since before the attack in which he was captured.”
“Lost his memory, perhaps?” Wendover suggested.
“It might be possible,” Paul Fordingbridge answered in a frigid tone which damped further speculation on Wendover's part. Turning to Sir Clinton, he added:
“Unless there's any further information you want, I think I'll get down here and walk back to the hotel. I'd be glad of a chance to stretch my legs.”
As Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him, he stepped out of the car; and they soon left him behind.
“Barring the girl,” Wendover confided to Sir Clinton as they drove on, “that Fordingbridge family seem a damned rum crew.”
“You surprise me, squire. You even capture my interest. Proceed.”
“Well, what do you make of it all?”
“I'll admit that my vulgar curiosity is piqued by their highly developed faculty of reticence. Miss Fordingbridge seems the only one of them who has a normal human desire to talk about her own affairs.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“They seem a bit at sixes and sevens. But you've a much acuter mind than I have, so I suppose you spotted that quite a long time ago.”
“I had a glimmering of it,” Wendover retorted sarcastically. “Anything more?”
“Oh, yes. For one thing, Mr. Paul Fordingbridge seems to have a singularly detached mind. Why, even you, squire, with your icy and well-balanced intellect, seem to be more affected by his niece's troubles than the wicked uncle is. Quite like the Babes in the Wood, isn't it?—with you in the rôle of a robin. All you need are some leaves and a red waistcoat to make the thing go properly.”
“It's hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton.”
“I'm not laughing,” Sir Clinton said soberly. “Hanging's no joke. Remember theBallad of Sam Hall—
“Then the parson he will come. . . .
“Then the parson he will come. . . .
and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by mistake.”
Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up before the front of the hotel.
“You can get out here, squire. There's no need to go round with me to the garage.”
But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the look-out for their arrival.
“I've been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir Clinton,” he explained as he came up to the car. “I missed you at lunch-time; and when I tried to get hold of you, I found you'd gone off. I've got something that seems important to show you.”
He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny glittering object which he handed over to the chief constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.
“I've seen things of this sort before,” Sir Clinton said indifferently as he glanced at it. “I doubt if the loser's likely to offer a reward.”
Cargill seemed taken aback.
“Can't you see its importance?” he demanded. “I found it down on the beach this morning.”
“How was I to know that until you told me?” Sir Clinton asked mildly. “I'm not psychic, as they call it. I just have to be told things plainly. But I shouldn't shout them, Mr. Cargill, if they really are important.”
Cargill dropped his voice at the implied rebuke.
“You remember I was down bathing this morning before breakfast? And you warned me off the premises—wouldn't let me come nearer than the groyne. I sat down on the groyne and watched you for a while; then you went away. I wasn't in a hurry to bathe just then, so I sat for a bit on the groyne, just thinking things over and trying to put two and two together from what I could see of the footmarks on the sands. I suppose I must have sat there for a quarter of an hour or so. When I got up again, I found I'd been kicking up the sand a bit while I was thinking—shuffling about without noticing what I was doing with my feet. And when I looked down—there was this thing shining on the sand at my toes. It was half hidden; and until I picked it up I didn't spot what it was. By that time your party had cleared out. So I made a careful note of the spot, put the thing in my pocket, and set off to look for you. Unfortunately, you weren't to be found just then; so I've been waiting till I could get hold of you.”
He looked at the chief constable eagerly as though expecting some display of emotion as a reward for his trouble; but Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing as he thanked Cargill.
“Would you mind getting aboard?” he asked immediately. “I'd like to see just where you found this thing.”
Then, as a concession to Cargill's feelings, he added:
“You must have pretty sharp eyes. I thought I'd been over that ground fairly carefully myself.”
“Probably the thing was buried in the sand,” the Australian pointed out. “I saw it only after I kicked about a while.”
Sir Clinton turned the car and took the road leading down to Neptune's Seat.
“What do you make of it, Mr. Cargill?” he inquired, after a moment or two.
“I haven't thought much about it,” Cargill answered. “It seems straightforward enough. Somebody must have been behind the groyne and fired a shot. It's within easy shooting distance of the rock where the body was found.”
Wendover opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, thinking better of it, he refrained.
When they reached the shore, the tide was sufficiently far out to allow Cargill to show them the spot at which he had picked up the cartridge-case. Wendover still had a mental map in his head, and he recognised that the shot must have been fired by the man behind the groyne at the time when he was nearest to Neptune's Seat. If Stanley Fleetwood was even a moderate shot with an automatic, he could hardly have missed Staveley's figure at the distance.
Sir Clinton seemed to become more keenly interested when they reached the shore. His detached manner thawed markedly, and he thanked Cargill again for having brought the evidence to light.
“Oh, it was only an accident,” the Australian protested. “I wasn't looking for anything. It just chanced to catch my eye. Does it throw any light on things?”
Sir Clinton obviously resented the question.
“Everything helps,” he said sententiously.
Cargill saw that he had been indiscreet.
“Oh, I'm not trying to stick my oar in,” he hastened to assure the chief constable. “I just asked out of mere curiosity.”
He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he changed the subject completely.
“By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying somewhere hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came across somebody of that name in the war.”
“He's staying at that cottage across the bay,” Wendover explained, pointing out Flatt's cottage as he spoke. “What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance, I mean.”
“Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair darkish, if I remember right.”
“This looks like your man, then,” Wendover assured him. “But you'll probably find him a bit altered. He's had some bad wounds.”
“Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I'll just go across the bay now and see if he's at home. I'm half-way there already.”
Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on finding that it would be taking them out of their way, Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he should stumble into it unawares.
“That's an interesting find,” Wendover volunteered as they climbed the beach. “I didn't say anything in front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence.”
“You mean that Billingford couldn't tell the inspector whether there was a single shot or a pair?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Yes. That looked funny at first sight; but if the two shots were fired almost simultaneously, then it would have been a bit difficult to say whether there was a double report or not.”
“That's so squire. You're getting devilish acute these days, I must admit.”
But, from his friend's tone, the compliment did not sound so warm as the words suggested. Wendover imagined that he detected a tinge of irony in Sir Clinton's voice; but it was so faint that he could not feel certain of it.
“I'm getting too much into a groove,” the chief constable went on. “This was supposed to be holiday; and yet I'm spending almost every minute of it in rushing about at Armadale's coat-tails. I really must have some relaxation. There's some dancing at the hotel to-night and I think I'll join. I need a change of occupation.”
Wendover was not a dancing man, but he liked to watch dancers; so after dinner he found his way to the ballroom of the hotel, ensconced himself comfortably in a corner from which he had a good view of the floor, and prepared to enjoy himself. He had a half-suspicion that Sir Clinton's sudden humour for dancing was not wholly explicable on the ground of a mere relaxation, though the chief constable was undoubtedly a good dancer; and he watched with interest to see what partners his friend would choose.
Any expectations he might have had were unfulfilled, however. Sir Clinton seemed to pay no particular attention to any of his partners; and most of them obviously could have no connection with the tragedies. Once, it is true, he sat out with Miss Staunton, whose ankle was apparently not sufficiently strong to allow her to dance; and Wendover noted also that three others on Armadale's list—Miss Fairford, Miss Stanmore, and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—were among his friend's partners.
Shortly before midnight, Sir Clinton seemed to tire of his amusement. He took leave of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, with whom he had been dancing, and came across the room to Wendover.
“Profited by your study of vamps, I hope, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton professed to be puzzled by the inquiry.
“Vamps? Oh, you mean Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, I suppose. I'm afraid she found me poor ground for her talents. I made it clear to her at the start that she was far above rubies and chief constables. All I had to offer was the purest friendship. It seems it was a new sensation to her—never met anything of the sort before. She's rather interesting, squire. You might do worse than cultivate her acquaintance—on the same terms as myself. Now, come along. We'll need to change before Armadale turns up, unless you have a fancy to dabble your dress trousers in the brine down there.”
They left the room and made their way towards the lift. In the corridor they encountered Cargill, who stopped them.
“Thanks for directing me to that cottage,” he said. “It turned out to be the man I knew, right enough. But I'd hardly have recognised him, poor devil. He used to be a fine-looking beggar—and look at him now.”
“Enjoy a talk with him?” Sir Clinton asked politely.
“Oh, yes. But I was a bit surprised to hear that he's quite a big pot with an estate and all that. I only knew him in the war, of course, and it seems he came into the cash later on. Foxhills is his place, isn't it?”
“So I'm told. By the way, did you meet his friend, Mr. Billingford? He's an amusing artist.”
Cargill's brow clouded slightly.
“You think so?” he said doubtfully.
Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I'm sorry I've got to hurry off, Mr. Cargill. I'd no notion it was so late.”
With a nod, Cargill passed. Sir Clinton and Wendover hurried upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for the sands. They were ready just as the inspector knocked at the chief constable's door; and in a few minutes all three were in Sir Clinton's car on the road to the beach.
“Got the flash-lamps, inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded as he pulled up the car at a point considerably beyond Neptune's Seat. “That's all right. We get out here, I think. We ought to be opposite those two cairns we built, if I'm not out in my reckoning.”
They moved down the beach and soon came to a long pool of sea-water extending into the darkness on either hand. Sir Clinton surveyed it for a moment.
“We'll just have to splash through, I suppose,” he said, and set an example. “It won't take you over your ankles.”
A few seconds took them through the shallow pool and brought them to drying sands on the farther side.
“This is a low whale-back,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “When the tide's full in, this is covered, like all the rest. Then, as the tide falls, the whale-back acts as a dam and there's a big sea-pool left on the sands between here and the road. That's the pool we've just waded through. Now we'll look for the next item.” Wendover and Armadale followed him across the sands to where a broad stream of water was pouring down towards the sea.
“This is the channel between our whale-back and the next one,” Sir Clinton explained as they came up to it. “This water comes from the pool that we waded; and the cairns are on each side of it, lower down.”
The night was cloudy, and they had to use their flash-lamps from time to time.
“What I wanted to note is the exact time when the stream just touches the cairns on each side. Just now, as you can see, the cairns are in the water; but the level of the stream's sinking as the head of water falls in the pool behind. Watch till the stream runs between the two piles of stone and then note the time.”
Slowly the flow diminished as the water emptied itself from the pool behind; and at last they saw the rivulet confined to a channel between the two cairns.
“I make it five past twelve,” Sir Clinton said, lifting his eyes from his watch. “Now I'm going over to Neptune's Seat. You stay here, inspector; and when you see my flash-lamp, run your hardest to the rock and join me.”
He disappeared in the darkness, leaving the others rather puzzled as to the meaning of these manœuvres. At last Wendover thought he saw the point.
“I see what he's getting at.”
But just as he was about to explain the matter to the inspector, they saw the flash of Sir Clinton's lamp and Armadale set off at a lumbering trot across the sands with Wendover hurrying after him.
“It's simple enough,” Sir Clinton explained when all three had gathered at Neptune's Seat. “You remember that Billingford's track was broken where the cairns are—no footprints visible for several yards. That was the place where he crossed the runnel last night. All we need to do is to note when the runnel is the same breadth at that point to-night—which we've just done—and then make a correction of about forty minutes for the tide being later this evening. It's not exact, of course; but it's near enough, perhaps.”
“I thought you were after something of the sort,” Wendover interjected. “Once I got as far as the runnel I tumbled to the idea.”
“Well, let's take the results,” Sir Clinton went on. “The runnel was in the right state to-night at five past twelve. Make the forty-one minute deduction—since the tide's forty-one minutes later to-night than it was last night—and you get 11.25p.m.as the time when Billingford crossed that rivulet last night. Now the inspector took over seven minutes to run from the cairns to Neptune's Seat, for I timed him. Therefore, even if Billingford had run the whole distance, he couldn't have reached Neptune's Seat before 11.32 at the earliest. As a matter of fact, his track showed that he walked most of the way, which makes the possible time of his arrival a bit later than 11.32p.m.”
“So he couldn't have fired a shot at 11.19 when Staveley's watch stopped?” Wendover inferred.
“Obviously he couldn't. There's more in it than that; though I needn't worry you with that at present, perhaps. But this bit of evidence eliminates another possibility I'd had my eye on. Billingford might have walked into the runnel and then waded down the rivulet into the sea, leaving no traces. Then he might have come along the beach, wading in the waves, and shot Staveley from the water. After that, if he'd returned the way he came, he could have emerged from the runnel at the same point, only on this bank of the channel, and left his single track up to Neptune's Seat, just as we found it. But that won't fit in with the shot fired at 11.19 p.m., obviously. If he'd done this, then his last footmark on the far side would have been made when the runnel was full, and his first footmark on this side would have been made later, when the runnel had shrunk a bit; and the two wouldn't have fitted the banks neatly as we found to-night that they did.”
“I see all that, clear enough, sir,” said Armadale briskly. “That means the circle's narrowed a bit further. If Billingford didn't fire that shot, then you're left with only three other people on the list: the two Fleetwoods and the woman with the 3½ shoe. If she can be eliminated like Billingford, then the case against the Fleetwoods is conclusive.”
“Don't be in too much of a hurry, inspector. How are you getting along with the shoe question?” Sir Clinton inquired a trifle maliciously.
“To tell you the truth,” the inspector replied guardedly, “I haven't been able to get at the root of it yet, sir. Only two of the village girls take that size of shoe. One of them's only a kiddie; the other's away on a visit just now. It doesn't look like either of them.”
“And the Hay case?” the chief constable demanded.
The inspector made an inarticulate sound which suggested that he had nothing fresh to recount on this subject.
“And the P. M. on Staveley's body?” pursued Sir Clinton.
Here the inspector had something to report, though not much.
“Dr. Rafford's gone into it, sir. The contused wound on the back of the head's nothing to speak of. The base of the skull's intact. That blow had nothing to do with his death. At the most, it might have stunned him for a minute or two. According to the doctor, Staveley was killed by the shot; and he thinks that the shot wasn't fired at absolutely close quarters. That fits in with the fact that I could find no singeing of the cloth of his rain-coat or his jacket round about the bullet-hole. Dr. Rafford found the bullet, all correct. Death must have been practically instantaneous, according to the doctor's view. These are the main results. He's written a detailed report for reference, of course.”
Sir Clinton made no direct comment.
“I think that'll do for to-night, inspector. Come up to the car and I'll run you into the village. By the way, I want some of your constables to-morrow morning for a bit of work; and you'd better hire some labourers as well—say a dozen men altogether. Tell them to dig up the sand between Neptune's Seat and the sea to the depth of about a foot, and shift it up into a pile above high-tide mark.”
“And how far are they to carry their diggings?” Wendover inquired.
“I really doubt if they'll be able to dig much below low-tide mark. What do you think?”
“And what do you expect to find there?” Wendover persisted.
“Oh, a shell or two, most likely,” Sir Clinton retorted caustically. “Would you like to bet on it, squire?”
Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing would be gained by further persistence.