Anthony smiled and held out his hand. He read the writing with interest and turned the letter over with apparent curiosity.
“Where did you find this, Inspector?”
“Sorry, Mr. Bathurst, but you mustn’t expect me to give away all my secrets. Tricks in every trade, you know.” He laughed lightly. “As you were good enough to remark just now—all in good time. Let’s come to the point, the handwriting—recognize it?”
“I’ve never seen it before, so I can’t. But I think, before the case is over, that I shall probably see it again.”
Baddeley flung him a challenging glance. But Anthony’s eyes met his and never for an instant wavered. Then they both smiled.
“Try Sir Charles Considine,” countered Anthony. “He might know it, though I don’t fancy so.”
Sir Charles straightened himself in his chair. He extended his hand. “Let me look, Baddeley, though why Mr. Bathurst is so confident that—no, no,” shaking his head in dissent, “to the best of my knowledge and belief, this writing is new and therefore strange to me. What’s the date—my eyes aren’t as good as they were?”
“July 22nd,” responded Anthony, with the utmost readiness, from the other side of the table.
I fancied that the Inspector threw him an approving glance, but I remembered his uncanny memory for dates, and their associations. He had seen the letter and had mastered its detail—that was all. Baddeley gave the letter to Roper. “Keep that handy,” he muttered, “we haven’t exhausted all the possibilities.” Then to Sir Charles: “I should like to see Mr. Considine junior next, Mr. Jack Considine, is it?”
Our host bowed—“As you wish.”
“Just tell him, Roper, will you?” from Baddeley quietly.
“And as most of us have had very hasty breakfasts, gentlemen, I’ll get Fitch to bring us a little light refreshment,” chimed in Sir Charles. “We seem destined to be here some little time.” He rang the bell, as Roper entered with Jack Considine. Fitch followed them.
Sir Charles delivered his instructions, which were promptly carried out.
“Mr. Considine,” said the Inspector, “sorry to trouble you—but—can you throw any light on this business?”
He proceeded to question him on similar lines to those he had just employed with us.
Jack told him all he knew, and I was just beginning to think that it was all a business of ploughing the sands when I was startled out of my convictions.
I had vaguely heard the question repeated for the fourth time—“did you hear anything during the night?” and was just as vaguely prepared for the denial when Jack Considine gave an answer that made us all sit up and take notice.
“Well, Inspector,” he said, a little diffidently perhaps, “now I come to think over things very carefully, I have rather a hazy recollection that I heard something that I may describe as unusual.”
“What was it?”
“I am pretty certain that I was half awakened during the night by the sound of a door shutting. It might have been something different, but I don’t think so. No,” he continued reflectively, “the more I try to reproduce in my ears the sound that I heard, the more convinced I am that itwasa door shutting.”
“Ah!” rejoined Baddeley. “Near you? Or distant?”
“That’s awkward to answer. As I stated, my awakening was only partial, it is difficult to measure sound when one is half asleep ... but I should say pretty near.”
“Any idea of the time?”
“None! I didn’t trouble. I wondered at it in a sleepy sort of way ... and went to sleep again.”
Baddeley pondered for a moment.
“I understand, Mr. Bathurst, that you have been sharing Mr. Considine’s bedroom. Did you hear anything of this?”
“No,” came the reply. “I heard nothing—I was tired and slept very soundly, as is usual with me.”
The Inspector nodded.
“We may take it then,” he proceeded, emphasizing his points by a succession of curious little fingertaps on the table, “that Mr. Considine heard this door shutting more because of his half-awake condition than through any particular—er—nearness or proximity to the place where it occurred—eh? You grasp my point?”—turning to Sir Charles.
“You mean,” interposed Anthony, “that had this door shut very near to our bedroom, the chances are that I should have heard it, too?”
“Exactly,” answered Baddeley. “Don’t you agree with me?”
Anthony meditated for a moment. “Perhaps. It’s certainly possible—but on the other hand—perhaps not. I might and I mightn’t.”
Our interrogator then came back to Considine.
“Did you hear anything after you heard this door shut, Mr. Considine?”
“No! I simply turned over and went to sleep again.”
“Think very carefully, sir. Pardon my insistence, but very often things come to us out of our sleeping moments if we only concentrate sufficiently.” His eyes fixed Jack, and held him and once again I caught a glance of the man’s efficiency. There was no brilliance there, no subtlety beyond ordinary astuteness, no flashing intuition bringing in its wake an inspired moment, but merely a species of machine-like efficiency. I have repeated the word, I am aware, but I can think of no other, at the moment, that so adequately expresses the quality that I perceived. I contrasted him with Anthony Bathurst. One of the product of “the Force,” hard-bitten in the school of personal industry, bringing a well-ordered brain to bear on the problem that confronted us, the other, public school and ’Varsity all over, with a brilliant intellect nursed by the terminology of these institutions, treating the affair as an adventure after his own heart. What would Baddeley have done, I found myself wondering, with the other’s opportunities? Where would Anthony have cleared a passage, had he been born Baddeley? My musings were short-lived.
“Let me have that letter again, Roper?” demanded the Inspector. And once again was the letter produced and inspected. And once again was the writing unrecognized; it conveyed no more to Considine than it had done to us.
Then Anthony surprised me. “Do you mind if I take another glance at it?” he asked. “Something has just come to my mind.”
Baddeley looked at him shrewdly and curiously for a moment.
“Certainly,” he agreed, and passed the letter over.
But one look proved satisfactory.
“I’m sorry—I’m wrong,” muttered Anthony, “I can’t help you.”
The Inspector smiled at his apparent discomfiture. He seemed agreeably relieved to discover that A. L. Bathurst was human after all; and followed on to the next stage of his investigation.
“I think that will do for the time being then, Mr. Considine,” he said. “And ask if I can see—in order, if you please”—he referred to some notes that he took from the pocket of his lounge jacket, “first Mr. Robertson, then Mr. Daventry, and then Mr. Tennant?”
Robertson entered. He hadn’t bargained for this when he accepted the invitation to Considine Manor.
He could tell the Inspector nothing, except what he knew concerning the cards. He could not identify the writing of the letter.
He had known Prescott at Oxford—just casually—that was all. He had slept soundly, only to be awakened by Marshall’s scream, as we had all been.
Daventry and Tennant, in turn followed him, only to be similarly ignorant and similarly dismissed.
Baddeley sipped a glass of port and munched a biscuit. Sir Charles followed suit approvingly.
“Well, what now, Inspector?” he remarked. “We appear to have reached animpasse. What is your opinion now?”
“Plenty of time yet, sir,” came the reply. “I’ve by no means exhausted my possibilities of information yet.” He referred again to his list, then looked up—“There are three gentlemen to be seen yet, Major Hornby, Captain Arkwright and Lieutenant Barker, then there are three ladies, and finally some of the servants. I’m sorry, Sir Charles,”—he swung round in his chair and confronted him—“but somebody in this house knows something about last night’s job—and I’m stopping on till I lay my hands on him—or her. So ask Lieutenant Barker to step this way.”
I glanced in Anthony’s direction. Evidently the Inspector imagined that Barker knew something, or perhaps as an alternative he fancied that he in his turn knew something about Barker. I scanned Anthony’s face in the idea of ascertaining, if I could, if he attached any degree of importance to the man we were awaiting. Personally, I couldn’t see Barker as a murderer ... he was a chap whom I had always liked, no end of a decent sort ... surely they didn’t regard him in that light ... it seemed to me ridiculous ... preposterous....
“Come in, Barker,” said Sir Charles Considine kindly. He, too, seemed to sense the hostility in the atmosphere and appeared to be desirous of putting the man at his ease, were such a thing possible. “Inspector Baddeley, as you are fully aware, is conducting a little inquiry into the terrible tragedy that has—er—overwhelmed us this morning, and would like to feel that any information you can give him in the matter, you will do so unhesitatingly. Understand, m’boy?”
Barker smiled. He had one of those sunny smiles that run, so to speak, in all directions across the smiler’s face. You know what I mean—the eyes light up, and the whole face seems radiantly happy. This was a blue-eyed smile, and I always think that’s the finest variety.
“Delighted, sir,” he answered. “May I sit down?”
He seated himself in the chair that Baddeley proffered him. The latter leaned across the table in his direction.
“I am relying on you, Lieutenant Barker, to be perfectly frank with me,” he said.
“Fire away, Inspector,” smiled the Lieutenant.
“How many tables were playing cards last night?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, Inspector. I believe Sir Charles Considine here was playing ‘Auction’ with some of the others—Sir Charles can confirm this if you ask him, and give you full particulars—I really didn’t pay much attention—but I was playing ‘Solo’ myself with Major Hornby, Robertson and Prescott. You’ve seen Robertson already, hasn’t he told you?” His teeth flashed into another disarming smile.
“And you lost money, didn’t you? Consistently?”
“That seems to me my business, Inspector, but I’ll be perfectly open and frank ... I did.”
“Remember, Lieutenant Barker,” snapped Baddeley, “we are investigating a murder, and a singularly brutal murder at that, not the theft of two pennyworth of tripe.”
“I do, Inspector,” responded Barker with an almost affected languidity, “that was the sole reason I answered you. Rest assured that I certainly shouldn’t have done, otherwise.”
Baddeley glared. Then his experience gained the victory over his temper.
“Do you object to telling me the amount you lost to the dead man?”
Barker hesitated momentarily. Looked up at the ceiling and tapped his foot on the carpet. Then, to all appearances, came to a decision.
“I’ll tell you. I suppose it’s your job to nose into things. I lost over two hundred pounds—two hundred and eight, to be strictly accurate.”
“Did you pay it over there and then?”
Barker flushed under his tan.
“I gave Prescott an I.O.U. for the amount,” he said very quietly.
I felt rather than saw Anthony straighten himself in his chair. And I was relieved to think that Barker, having furnished the information regarding the I.O.U. himself, I should be saved the unpleasant business of telling Anthony as I had intended. Baddeley’s voice cut into my thoughts. It rang with expectancy.
“Now then, Lieutenant, you gave that I.O.U. to Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do with it? Do you know? Can you remember?”
I am certain that Barker hesitated ever so slightly over his reply, and I caught myself wondering if one of those machines they use in France for measuring heart-beats or something—or the time a suspected person takes to answer pregnant questions—would have registered and recorded this almost imperceptible hesitation. The answer came, however, and perhaps not quite what I anticipated.
“Yes! He put it into his pocket wallet.”
“Certain?”
“I watched him—it meant two hundred and eight pounds to me, did that tiny piece of paper.”
“Tiny? How tiny?”
“Half an ordinary-sized envelope. I tore an envelope in half to write it.”
“By Moses! this is important, Lieutenant Barker. Do you realize the importance of it?”
“Possibly I do.”
“I’ve been through Prescott’s papers—I’ve been through that wallet arrangement you spoke about—that I.O.U. has vanished!”
But Barker met his almost accusing eyes—unflinchingly.
“How can you be positive as to that?” he urged. “Prescott may have put it anywhere, since placing it in the wallet—it might conceivably be in a dozen places!”
“There is no trace of that I.O.U. in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom—nor among his belongings. I’ve looked for it. And I can’t find it. I may as well tell you that it had a special interest for me, because I deduced its existence, there’s no harm that I can see in telling you how. I knew Prescott had won money, several witnesses can prove that—and I knew also that it was a good-sized sum. It was distinctly unlikely that cash would pass for a large amount. Therefore I suspected an I.O.U.”
“I might have settled by check for all you know,” muttered Barker.
“Possible, but the chances are—no!” replied Baddeley. “Gentlemen don’t usually carry their check-books in their dress clothes.” This laconically.
“Prescott had no money anywhere, had he, Inspector?” asked Sir Charles.
“Not a coin, sir—he was robbed as well as murdered. But this is a significant fact, he was only robbed of cash. Not of anything else.”
“May I ask Lieutenant Barker a question?” from Anthony.
Barker raised his eyebrows.
“When you gave Prescott your I.O.U. was it at the card-table or after you rose?”
“At the card-table—directly we had finished playing.” The answer came promptly and abruptly.
“So that,” and here Anthony spoke with extreme deliberation, “at least two people saw it passed over? Eh?”
“Hornby and Robertson undoubtedly,” continued Barker. “There may have been others near.”
“Can you recall anybody?”
Barker reflected. “Captain Arkwright and his wife were standing close by—Mrs. Arkwright had just come from the piano—and I rather think her sister was with them—I can’t remember anybody else.”
I interposed.
“I saw you give the I.O.U. to Prescott—I was standing by the French doors.”
Baddeley flashed an angry look at me.
“You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Cunningham,” he remonstrated.
I “finessed.” “I told you Prescott won money,” I argued. “I couldn’t think of everything on the spur of the moment.”
Anthony intervened.
“That’s all right, Bill. The Inspector understands that.”
Baddeley, however, had not finished with Lieutenant Barker.
“When you had handed your I.O.U. over, what did you do?”
Again I imagined that I detected a certain hesitation in his answer.
“I chatted for a few minutes with Prescott over the amazing luck he had ... then I went upstairs to bed.”
“Prescott go with you?”
“N-no! He gave me the impression he had something he wished to do.”
“That’s so,” I interjected again, “I spoke to him as I went up, and I gathered something similar.”
“Then you went straight to bed?”
“Yes!”
“Didn’t speak to anybody after you got upstairs to your bedroom?”
“No—yes, I did,” correcting himself. “I sang out ‘good-night’ to Hornby, Robertson and Cunningham here. If you call that speaking to people.”
“The three of them? Where were they?”
“Not exactlytothem, Inspector, but as I passed their bedroom doors. I walked down the corridor and called out ‘good-night’ to them as I went. See?”
“Why to those three?”
“Because I knew they were there. They were the only three whom I had seen go up. Bathurst and Jack Considine were in the garden.”
Baddeley nodded in acquiescence, and accepted the explanation.
“Did the three people answer you?” suddenly queried Anthony.
“Lord, what a memory I’m expected to have,” groaned Barker. “Let me think.” He passed his fingers through his hair. “I can only recall that Major Hornby answered, with any certainty. But that may perhaps be because I know his voice best. I can’t answer for the others.”
“What do you say, Bill?” continued Anthony.
For the life of me I wondered what he could see in a point of detail like this. I hesitated.
“Did you hear him, Bill? Did you answer him? Is his memory correct? These little things count so much in a case of this kind. What do you say?”
I thought very carefully. Had I any accurate remembrance of what Barker said he had done? Yes! I had!
“Yes,” I replied. “I heard Lieutenant Barker go by along the corridor, and I answered him. Perhaps he failed to hear me.”
“Good,” muttered Anthony. “You were occupying the last bedroom along the corridor, weren’t you, Barker, and you, Bill, the last but one?”
We nodded in agreement.
Then Baddeley cut in. “Hand the Lieutenant that letter we found in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom, Roper,” he ordered.
Lieutenant Barker took it.
“Know that handwriting?”
“Never seen it! Absolutely certain on the point.” He handed it back.
Baddeley appeared almost to have expected this answer. Perhaps he was getting used to it by now. He drummed on the table with his finger-tips.
“Anything more, Inspector?” asked Barker.
“For the time being, no thank you,” was the answer, when Anthony, who had been leaning across the table chatting to Sir Charles, broke in.
“I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, Barker, but I’d be eternally obliged ... was last night the first night that Prescott had won much?”
Barker shifted uneasily. “From me.... Yes!”
“That isn’t quite what I asked you,” continued Anthony relentlessly.
“By Moses,” cried the Inspector, “this case fairly beats the band for a lot of tight-lips.”
Barker looked from one to the other. Then he suddenly seemed to realize the value to himself of the information that was his to give.
“The night before last,” he answered a trifle obstinately, perhaps sullenly is the happier word, “he won a considerable amount from a brother officer of mine.”
“Major Hornby?”
Lieutenant Barker bowed.
Anthony turned to the Inspector. “Inspector,” he said, “gentlemen are traditionally ‘tight-lipped’ when it comes to what they regard as ‘telling tales.’ I think you have misjudged Lieutenant Barker.”
Barker blushed, he was the type of Englishman that finds praise embarrassing. But Baddeley did not take his semi-rebuke passively.
“Gentlemen do lots of funny things,” he declared. “Even to fracturing the Sixth Commandment.”
“Now, I’ve a second question ...” proceeded Anthony.
“You stated a few moments ago that your I.O.U. to Prescott was half an ordinary-sized envelope. You said you tore an envelope in half to write it. I am not quite clear as to your exact meaning. Do you mean that your I.O.U. was half an envelope or half thebackorfrontof an envelope? You get my meaning? There’s a difference if you think it over carefully.”
“I see what you mean, Bathurst. I slit an envelope down the side with my finger, separated the back from the front, then tore the back in two and used a half.”
“I follow you! So that your I.O.U. would have measured say two inches by three?”
“Just about.”
“Thank you! That’s all I wanted to know.”
Barker bowed to Sir Charles and retired.
“You seem to be able to extract all the information you require, Mr. Bathurst,” said Baddeley. “Much more successful than I am.”
Anthony grinned. “Put it down to my irresistible charm of manner.”
His tone altered. “Who’s next? Major Hornby?”
The Inspector nodded in agreement. Sir Charles Considine rose. “I’ll convey your message.” He passed through the door.
“We are now going to have a few words with Lieutenant Barker’s ‘brother officer,’” declared Baddeley, “and military blood is thicker than ...”
Sir Charles entered with the Major on his heels.
Baddeley commenced with a direct action. In this instance the attack came early.
“Of course, Major,” he said, “doubtless you are quite cognizant of the fact that you are not bound to answer any of my questions ... all the same, I hope that you will ... your rank and position have taught you that Duty is very often unpleasant ... but nevertheless remains Duty ... it is my Duty as an Inspector of Police to prosecute these inquiries ... however much against the grain....”
Major Hornby’s face remained set ... immovable.
“Your apologies are unnecessary, Inspector,” he said.
“Apologies? You misunderstand me ...” Baddeley was floundering now, a trifle out of his depth ... these people were different from those of his usual encounters ... he went straight to his objective ... safer, no doubt.
“We have been informed, Major,” he remarked, “that on the evening before last, you lost a large sum of money to Mr. Prescott.”
“Quite true.”
“How much?”
“The amount doesn’t concern you, Mr. Inspector, that I can see.”
The muscles of Baddeley’s face tightened. But despite the rebuff he stuck manfully to his guns.
“Did you pay him or ...”
“Don’t be insultin’ ...” Baddeley winced as though he had been stung.
“You refuse to answer my question?” he retorted.
“On the contrary—I have answered it. I told you not to be insultin’!”
The atmosphere had become electrical. Two or three times Sir Charles had half-risen from his seat in a deploring kind of manner—a venerable peacemaker. Anthony watched with keenest interest while Roper remained inscrutable, the perfect subordinate.
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Major Hornby,” insisted the Inspector, “and perhaps it may not be extended to the consideration of this letter”; he held his hand out to Roper, who passed the letter across to his chief once again.
“Do you know that handwriting?” he asked in a curt voice.
Major Hornby flung the letter on the library table contemptuously. “I do not! It’s not addressed to me, and therefore has nothing whatever to do with me. Also, I’ll wish you a very good-morning.” He left us!
“Tut, tut,” commented Sir Charles. “This is very unfortunate!”
Anthony smiled. Then burst into laughter.
“Sorry I don’t possess your irresistible charm of manner, Mr. Bathurst, nor yet your keen sense of humor,” put in Baddeley. “If all people were like that specimen that has just departed, Justice wouldn’t often be appeased and many murderers would survive to exult over their crimes. I’m not sure, however, that he hasn’t proved of some assistance. In murder, motive must always be pursued first. To whose benefit was the death of this man Prescott? A burglar? Or somebody inside the house? Which? When I can answer correctly to those two questions, I shall be nearer a solution. For both have possibilities.” He paused. Then turned to Sir Charles again.
“I hope Captain Arkwright will prove more reasonable.”
Sir Charles replied.
“My son-in-law will help you all he can ... for my sake.”
Now Dick Arkwright was a white man. One of the best, all the way through, and I felt assured that whatever his father-in-law’s wishes were he would fall into line. His marriage with Helen Considine had been a love-match and it was patent to all observers that it had brought no regrets with it. His consideration for his wife carried with it consideration for the members of her family, particularly for the head thereof.
“Captain Arkwright,” said Baddeley, “I have very little to ask you, and as a consequence, I will not detain you for more than a few moments. That is of course assuming that you have nothing to tell us?” He paused.
“I am sorry to think that I am unable to help you, Inspector, by supplying any facts of importance, beyond those with which you are already acquainted,” Arkwright said.
“I appreciate that. Thank you. First, take a look at that letter. Know the handwriting? No? Thanks! Secondly, your bedroom, Captain Arkwright, is the nearest to the door of the billiard room—it is on the same floor—with Sir Charles’—did you hear any noise in the night, any sounds of the struggle that appears to have taken place there?”
“No, Inspector! I can’t honestly say that I did. But I have a very hazy recollection that I heard footsteps in the garden not so very long after I had gone to bed. I can’t be sure even of that—and yet the sound of footsteps seems to belong to my last night’s sleep! Have you ever experienced anything of the kind, gentlemen?” he appealed to all of us,—“and I have a reason for telling you. As a matter of fact,” he continued, “the reminiscence was so vague, so entirely nebulous, that I had decided to say nothing about it. But something has happened to make me change my mind.”
“What is that?” demanded Baddeley.
“Mrs. Arkwright heard them too,” he replied quietly. “But she can’t place the time.”
Baddeley nodded his head in apparent confirmation. “I’m not surprised.” There was a respectful tap on the door.
“Come in,” called Sir Charles. Fitch, the butler, entered. He went to our host. “Wants me at once, Fitch?” muttered Sir Charles.
“If you please, Sir Charles.”
“Excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen. Lady Considine wants me immediately.” Fitch held the door open. We waited. But not for long. Sir Charles was quickly back, agitated, breathless, but alert.
“Inspector Baddeley,” he said, “I have news for you at last. Lady Considine has been robbed of her pearls—the Considine pearls.”
“I ought to tell you gentlemen, or at least those of you to whom the Considine pearls are unknown, that they have been in my family for several generations and are of great value. My wife wears them in the form of a necklace that she had made some seventeen years ago. And it has been her fancy, call it whim if you please to, to wear this necklace quite often. The last occasion she wore it was the evening before last—it was my birthday and it delighted her to celebrate the affair. She informs me that she replaced the necklace in her jewel-case when she retired that evening. I ought to mention that it goes into a case of its own which, in turn, is placed in a larger case. Unfortunately, she did not take the trouble to get this second case at the time—she was very tired. Yesterday morning she asked Coombes, her maid, to do so for her. About half an hour ago, it occurred to her that Prescott’s death may have resulted from a clash with burglars. She went to her large jewel-case, and was amazed to discover that the case containing the pearl necklace was not there. Neither was it to be found—anywhere. She is terribly upset to think that her partial neglect may have cost this poor young man his life.”
Baddeley waved his hand deprecatingly.
“There is no need for Lady Considine to worry over that, Sir Charles. None of us ever know the result of some of our most innocent actions. But this requires careful consideration. Coombes—this maid of Lady Considine’s—is she to be trusted?”
“As far as I can say,” replied Sir Charles. “She has been with us seven or eight years. She is desperately worried, Lady Considine says, and has no definite remembrance as to whether she replaced the necklace or not. Will you see her?”
“I will see both Lady Considine and her maid in a few moments. But I should like to feel certain whether I am investigating one case or two.”
“Things certainly are moving, Inspector,” said Anthony. “But perhaps this latest piece of news will help us a lot.”
Lady Considine was heart-broken at her loss. But she did her best to forget her personal loss in the greater sorrow that had befallen others. She was a pretty woman, and I knew that she had been considered a beauty in her day.
“When I went to bed the night before last,” she said, “I took the necklace off and put it into its own case, but I did not put this case into the larger one. I was sleepy and it meant getting up and crossing the room. My maid was brushing my hair. I said, ‘Coombes—put the case with the necklace away, in the morning—never mind now. Hurry up with my hair and I’ll get to bed.’”
Sir Charles interrupted here.
“I understood you asked her the following morning.”
“No, I asked her that night. To put the case away in the morning.”
“Did she reply?” commented Baddeley.
“She promised that she would.”
“Did you remind her again the following morning?” he continued.
“Yes—first thing.”
“And then what transpired?”
“Nothing. I thought no more about it. Not seeing the case lying on my dressing-table, I naturally imagined that Coombes had carried out my instructions.”
Baddeley nodded in acquiescence. “Quite so. And then?”
“Well, I was thinking over this dreadful business of last night and worrying ... and wondering ... when suddenly the idea of theft and burglary flew to my brain ... and as I have just explained to Sir Charles ... I went straight to the large jewel-case, unlocked it ... more as a means of making sure than because I really thought I had lost anything ... you know the rest. The case containing the necklace was not there.”
“Now, Lady Considine,” said the Inspector, “try and think ... when is your last remembrance of seeing the missing case?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“You are sure ... quite sure?”
“I am.” Then turning to her husband, “I want Inspector Baddeley to see Coombes—poor girl—she’s in a terrible way. I think she can already visualize herself being hanged at least. But as honest as the day, Inspector, so don’t frighten her.”
“I’ll try not to, I’m sure,” grunted Baddeley. “Roper!”
The silent Roper came to life again.
“Get full particulars of this missing necklace from Sir Charles and take the usual steps. If you send for Coombes,” to Lady Considine, “I’ll see her now.”
“Enter Coombes L.U.E.,” smiled Anthony. “As innocent as the ‘rathe’ primrose by the river’s brim.”
“Don’t count chickens before the hatching stage is completed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ve known crooks that looked like choristers, and bishops that looked like burglars.”
“That comes of judging people by their looks, Inspector,” chaffed back Anthony, “instead of by their actions.”
Coombes entered. Scared to death! She was a tall girl, with wispy red hair and a big face. The sense of bigness was given by the face, by a long line of strong jaw. It was what I should have called a “horse’s face.” Pythagoras would have declared that she had transmigrated from a horse. She opened the proceedings by bursting into loud sobbing.
“It’s all my fault, Mr. Policeman,” she managed to get out between her sobs. “I’ll tell the truth. I promised mother when I came into service I’d tell the truthalways, so I’ll tell it now, even though I shall cop out for it—but it’s all my fault and God’s own mercy that we haven’tallbeen murdered.” She paused for breath.
“Come, come, my girl, what is all your fault?” demanded Baddeley.
“Why, sir ... this.... I d-d-don’t believe I put the n-n-necklace case away at all!”
“You mean you left it lying where Lady Considine had left it?”
“Y-y-yes! I meant to put it away first thing that morning when my Lady told me to—but something put it out of my mind and made me forget it ... and I never saw it again to make me remember it. At least I don’t think I did.”
“You can’t be sure of that, you know ...” remarked the Inspector. “Because you didn’t see it, doesn’t prove it wasn’t there.” He turned to Sir Charles. “Any strange characters been knocking about lately, that you’ve noticed?”
“None that I’ve seen.”
“H’m! Probably an inside job. With your permission I’ll step up to the bedroom in question, a little later on, Sir Charles! Perhaps you gentlemen would care to accompany me? I’ll adjourn down here, temporarily. All right, Coombes—you come along with us.”
We made our way upstairs—Anthony wrapped in thought.
Lady Considine’s bedroom was, as has already been explained, on the same floor as the billiard room. It will be remembered that the door of the latter faced anybody ascending the stairs. Lady Considine’s room lay on the left of the landing some twenty yards away. Between her room and the billiard room was the bedroom occupied by Dick and Helen Arkwright.
Baddeley entered, the rest of us following him.
“Is this the dressing-table where the case was?” Lady Considine replied in the affirmative.
“It’s near the window. Quite an easy entrance from outside.” He walked to the window and measured with his eyes the distance to the ground. “Is the window left open during the day?”
“Quite possibly, Inspector. As you see, it’s of the casement type.”
He examined it. “No signs of its having been forced,” he pronounced.
“I presume the door is open during the day?”
“It’s closed, of course, but not locked, if that’s what you mean.”
“I see! Most people in the house would have a fairly reasonable opportunity of access to the room—eh?”
“I suppose they would,” admitted Sir Charles, reluctantly. “This may sound as though we are confoundedly careless, Inspector, but we’ve always considered ourselves remote from crime. That’s the only explanation I can give.”
“Surely you don’t suspect anyone here ...” broke in Dick Arkwright. “I’m beginning to think those footsteps I was yammering about were made by real feet. And I feel very relieved to think that I told you.”
“I’m not forgetting ’em, Captain Arkwright. Not for a moment,” conceded Baddeley. “I’ve formed some very definite conclusions. Come down again to the library, Sir Charles, and you two gentlemen, also,” he addressed Anthony Bathurst and me—“you may as well see the thing through with me.” We retraced our steps downstairs to the library.
“Your servants, Sir Charles—tell me about them—I’m curious.”
“There’s Fitch, the butler, been with me over twenty years, Mrs. Dawson, the cook over fifteen years. The four maids are Coombes, the one you saw—she looks after Lady Considine and my daughter, Mary, if she happens to require her—Marshall, Hudson and Dennis. I suppose you would call them housemaids. They see to the rooms and wait at table if we want them. Coombes has been with us over seven years, Marshall and Hudson are comparative newcomers to my establishment. Been with me about three years and eighteen months respectively. Dennis we have only had nine weeks. I’ve no complaints against any one of them.”
For a brief space Baddeley conferred with Roper.
I observed that Anthony watched this consultation with some interest.
“Very well, then, Roper—I quite agree,” I heard the Inspector say—and then, “ask her to come in.” He turned in the direction of Sir Charles. “This maid, Marshall, that discovered Mr. Prescott’s body this morning—you say she has been with you for about three years?”
“About that time, Inspector.”
“Well, I’m going to have a few words with her. I’m not——”
The door opened to admit Marshall.
She was a dark, rather pretty girl, of medium height—I should have said of Welsh type. When she entered, I was struck by the extreme pallor of her face. The shock of the finding of Prescott’s body had evidently affected her considerably. Had I not known that, I should have thought that she was a victim of fear.
“Your name is Marshall?” opened Baddeley.
“Amy Marshall.”
“You’ve been here some time?”
“Three years in October.”
“Your daily duties, I presume, took you into the billiard room this morning?”
Marshall shot a scared glance at him through half closed eyes.
“I sweep and clean several rooms before breakfast—the billiard room every morning, as it has usually been in use the night before.”
“Was the billiard room the first room you did this morning?”
“No, sir! I had swept and polished two floors before I went into the billiard room.”
“Was the door open when you came to it?”
“No, sir, it was shut.”