Thefirst thing I had to settle was as regards the entrance to White Towers of which Kitty Clevedon had spoken. We had to pick up Billy Clevedon’s tracks after he left Midlington, and if he really had gone to White Towers, it would probably be by that route. At all events there was absolutely no evidence he had been seen at any of the usual entrances. Kitty agreed to guide us, and told us to meet her the following morning at the main gates to White Towers; and she advised us also to put on some old clothes as we should have to creep part of the way on hands and knees.
We were prompt to time and Kitty took us through the park to some very rough ground at the rear of the house, though not far away from it, and there she showed us a narrow cleft in a mass of rock and told us that was the entrance. It was partly choked by a jumble of fallen boulders overgrown with the roughvegetation of the moor, probably rank enough at some periods of the year, but lying now for the most part dry and dead. I looked for any sign of recent entrance, especially for footmarks; but the ground was too hard and revealed nothing, though the rubbish at the entrance seemed to have some appearance of being trampled. I took out my flash lamp and pushed my way into the opening, followed by the others, though it was a very tight fit for Thoyne.
A wall of rock confronted us at about four feet, but Kitty bade us turn to the left and there I saw an opening low down which seemed to lead to a passage that descended somewhere into a mass of pitch darkness. We had to get on hands and knees and crawl along so for quite a long distance through a low, narrow tunnel that appeared to be for the most part natural, though here and there, it had evidently been widened at least, if not entirely pierced by human agency.
Presently, after going steadily downwards for many yards, it went forward on the level, and was there a little higher and wider; but at no point did it enable us to stand erect. It was a case of creeping all the way. I understood now why Kitty had advised the oldest possibleclothing. It meant ruin to the knees of one’s trousers. And then the tunnel ended abruptly against a wall of solid rock; but Kitty cried out that there was an iron ring close to my right hand, and that I must take hold of it and pull hard.
I obeyed; there was a grinding and groaning as of rusty machinery and then the rock in front swung back and we found ourselves in an open chamber with walls and floor of natural rock, but a roof of worked stone formed of square flags, all save one supported by pillars of rusty iron. There were nine stone flags, each six feet by four, and eight pillars, and the dimensions of the cellar or cave were thus eighteen feet by twelve. The height would probably be about eight feet. We could at least stand upright. I took my flash lamp and carefully examined every corner, not, as it turned out, quite unremuneratively. I dropped my hat and then stooped to pick it up again—and with it something I had noticed lying there.
My find was a hairpin still fresh and bright and with no sign of rust about it.
If Kitty Clevedon had passed that way I should have supposed that she had dropped it. Ladies shed things of that sort as they go. But she had assured us that she had not been nearthe spot; in which case a knowledge of the existence of the passage, supposed to be confined to Kitty and her brother, was shared by someone else, and that a woman.
“Which is the way out?” I asked, saying nothing of the hairpin which, at a favourable opportunity, I thrust into my waistcoat pocket.
Kitty pointed to the one unsupported flagstone and told us that it worked on a swivel and could be pushed up if one could reach it, whereupon Thoyne swarmed up the nearest pillar and tried to move the stone but failed, though whether because the axle was rusty or because there was some fastening on the other side we could not say. Thoyne selected another pillar and once more gave the stone a push, but with no more success than before. From his position, clinging monkey-like to the pillar, he could exert very little leverage. He slid down again and suggested that I should mount his shoulders so as to be right under the stone, a manœuvre which was promptly attempted with satisfactory results.
The stone moved, though slowly and stubbornly and with much creaking and, swinging myself up through the opening thus disclosed, I found myself in a cellar full of a miscellaneous collection of rubbish, baskets, boxes, barrels,chairs, broken furniture of all sorts, books and papers and so on. I fixed the stone in position, because left to itself it would simply have swung back again into its place, and then I passed down to the others a short ladder which I found lying against one of the walls of the cellar.
When the others had joined me, Kitty explained that we were under the older portion of White Towers, the East Wing, which was partly in ruins and uninhabited.
I was easily able to explain the tunnel—I had seen something of the sort in other old houses. It was simply a way of escape for those inside if enemies became too pressing. Peakshire had played a strenuous part in the Civil War, most of the big men being on the side of the King and White Towers, the older part of which dated back beyond Elizabeth, had probably been a Royalist stronghold and meeting place. If enemies, in the shape of Cromwell’s men, came along, the Cavaliers would only have to creep through the tunnel in order to escape the Roundheads. Or it may have been constructed in even earlier days for the benefit of Roman Catholic refugees.
That, however, was mere speculation, though not without interest. For many years evidently it had been unused and forgotten until it wasrediscovered by the two children who had kept it a delightful secret to themselves and had, no doubt, brought it into many exciting games. The question for us, however, was—had Clevedon used it recently, and if so, for what purpose? It was certainly interesting and possibly significant that somebody evidently had been that way not so very long before. But Clevedon at all events did not use hairpins.
“There seems to be no evidence that your brother ever came this way,” I said, as we stood looking round us. “True, the vegetation at the entrance to that passage bore some appearance of having been trampled down, though that may have been the weather or—”
“I did that,” Thoyne broke in quickly. “Kitty told me about this before I saw you and I went to look for myself.”
I glanced at him casually. It was quite likely he spoke the truth.
“Did you get as far as this?” I asked.
“Oh, no, I didn’t get beyond the entrance.”
“And you think you trampled that brushwood?”
“I—it is possible I may have done.”
“You did not notice its condition before—?”
“No, I didn’t, I wasn’t looking for that. I see you still distrust me,” he added quickly,“but I am perfectly honest about it. I am sorry I came.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I returned carelessly. “If you hadn’t been there, the signs might have proved that Clevedon hadn’t either, whereas now it is an open question. But the fact that somebody may have been there is of minor importance unless there is accompanying evidence that the somebody was Clevedon himself. Of course, there is the fact that he alone knew of the entrance—he and one other. I suppose you haven’t been here lately?”
I turned suddenly on Kitty Clevedon and rapped out the question with the abruptness of a pistol shot. She started a little, then shook her head.
“Not since I was a child,” she replied.
“Can we get out of this without returning by that passage?” I asked.
“Yes, through that door is a flight of stone steps leading to what used to be the kitchen of the old White Abbey.”
“We’ll go that way,” I decided.
When I had parted from my two companions, with a promise to see them again later in the day, or, possibly on the following morning, I went into the post office and from my waistcoat pocket produced a hairpin.
“Have you any of that sort in stock?” I asked, then, noting her look of surprise, I added, “I hope you won’t give me away if I tell you that I use them to clean my pipe. They are the best things I know for that.”
“Well, I didn’t suppose you wanted them for your hair,” she said pertly. “Yes, we have plenty of that sort in stock. Indeed, I don’t think we have any others.”
“Then I suppose every lady in the Dale uses them,” I remarked jestingly.
“Most of them,” she agreed. “I do—see, here is one”—and she extracted a specimen from her own abundant head-covering. “A few may get some others when they go into Midlington, but most come here for them. Lady Clevedon had three boxes only a week ago.”
“Lady Clevedon,” I echoed, “then they must be an aristocratic brand. Does her ladyship do her own shopping?”
“Oh, they are good enough. No, Lady Clevedon didn’t come for them—Miss Kitty fetched them. She said they were for Lady Clevedon, but she took some for herself too, so I suppose she wears them.”
Evidently the hairpin was not going to be of much use to me, at all events as a means ofidentification. There would be too many of them about the Dale for that.
When I reached Stone Hollow again I found Detective Pepster awaiting me, looking, for him, a little disconsolate.
“Well,” was my greeting, “how has Fate treated you?”
“No luck, none at all,” Pepster said gloomily. “I am just back from Dublin with no news. Clevedon went to Dublin on February 20th, but there all trace of him ended. I could learn nothing.”
“I have been more fortunate than you,” I returned smilingly. “I can carry him a bit farther than that. He was in Midlington on February 22nd and left there on the morning of the 23rd.”
“Do youknowthat?”
“Yes, for certain.”
“Did he go to Cartordale—to White Towers?”
“I can’t say for that.”
“And where is he now?”
“Nobody knows.”
“And his sister—?”
“Is as ignorant as you or I.”
“She is bluffing?”
“No.”
“She really doesn’t know where he is?”
“She really doesn’t.”
“But—anyway we must find him.”
“I am busy at it now.”
“Any traces?”
“None.”
“It is a weird development. Did he do it? Is he keeping out of the way because—?”
“It is impossible to say. We know that he came to Midlington, but that he came to Cartordale or ever had any prussic acid in his possession—”
“Yes, you’re right. We must bring him a little nearer than Midlington. But if he didn’t do it, or, for the matter of that, if he did, he is a fool for keeping out of the way.”
Which at least was a self-evident proposition.
“And now that we have disposed of Billy Clevedon for the time being,” Pepster went on, “tell me what you think of this.”
With great deliberation he took a letter-case from his pocket and from it extracted a sheet of paper which he handed over to me. It was lined paper, torn evidently from a notebook, and on it was printed in capitals:
YOU ARE ON THE WRONGTRAIL ALTOGETHER. IFYOU WANT TO KNOW WHOKILLED CLEVEDON KEEPYOUR EYE ON THOYNE.
YOU ARE ON THE WRONGTRAIL ALTOGETHER. IFYOU WANT TO KNOW WHOKILLED CLEVEDON KEEPYOUR EYE ON THOYNE.
“That is No. 1,” Pepster said. “Here is No. 2.”
He handed me a second document, but this time it was a plain white paper on which the ink had run rather badly, though the letters were quite legible. It was, too, much shorter, simply reading:
THOYNE MURDERED CLEVEDON.
THOYNE MURDERED CLEVEDON.
“Anonymous letters by some crank, who thinks he has made a discovery,” I remarked.
“Yes,” Pepster agreed, “but here is No. 3.”
The third communication was written in red ink on a buff-coloured slip of paper, such as Government offices use, and read:
YOU ARE MISSING YOURLIFE’S CHANCE. ARRESTTHOYNE AND I WILL PRODUCETHE EVIDENCE.TRUST ME.
YOU ARE MISSING YOURLIFE’S CHANCE. ARRESTTHOYNE AND I WILL PRODUCETHE EVIDENCE.TRUST ME.
“Were they addressed to you personally?”
“Yes, and to my private address.”
“Apparently somebody who knows you.”
“Looks like it.”
“Come by post?”
“Yes.”
“Postmark?”
“Two Cartordale, the third Midlington. Now, is the writer merely a crank, or has he something up his sleeve?”
“If you do nothing he’ll probably write again and may be more explicit.”
“Well, of course, Thoyne is very deep in this thing, but there is nothing definite connecting him with the murder—is there?”
But I merely shook my head vaguely at that. In this curious case one never knew what a day might bring forth. The changes and developments were as rapid as a cinema show.
Inpoint of fact the first real clue I secured in this case consisted of that hairpin I found on the floor of the lower cellar, though its bearing on the mystery was not at first apparent. But it introduced me to a new set of circumstances and took me a step or two on the road I wished to travel. Until then I had been wandering round and round in a circle. My first thought was that the hairpin belonged to Kitty Clevedon and that she had deliberately deceived me when she declared that she had not visited the cellar prior to conducting Thoyne and myself thither. My suspicion was that she had been there and that she had found and removed some traces of her brother—that she was, in fact, still playing a game of bluff; though I did not believe that this time Thoyne was in it. She was hoodwinking him as well as myself.
I set a watch on the cellar beneath the ruined wing, making myself a hiding-place by clearing out some of the furniture in one corner andrestacking it so as to leave a narrow passage in which I could conceal myself if I wished. And I set little traps of a very simple description, but sufficient to show me on my next visit that somebody had been there in my absence and had penetrated to the lower chamber by way of the swinging flagstone; but I was more than astonished when during one of my periods, behind my little rampart, I discovered that the visitor was not Kitty Clevedon at all, but—Nora Lepley.
In all my imaginings my thoughts had never once turned to her. She came in without faltering or hesitation, as one who knew her way intimately, and swung open the trap-door, which she propped up by means of a board. Then, taking the short ladder which I have already mentioned, and which I knew by means of my little arrangements had been used during my absence, she let it down, and by it descended to the lower cellar.
As soon as her head had disappeared I crept to the opening on hands and knees and saw her lift out a rough block of stone which concealed a small opening not unlike a natural cupboard. Then she took a small flash-lamp from the pocket of her big apron and sent a beam of light into the hollow place, but situated as I was Icould not see whether she put anything in or took something out. For a minute or two she stood pondering almost as if she were trying to make up her mind on some doubtful point, then with a quick sigh she replaced the lamp in her pocket and restored the stone.
I flitted back swiftly and noiselessly to my own corner whence I watched her return from the lower depths, close down the stone and lay the ladder along the wall, all with sedate, unhurried movements, as one who had no reason to fear interruption. When she was quite safely away, and I followed her to make sure, I went in my turn into the lower cellar to investigate that little cupboard. It was evidently her own private safe, containing all sorts of oddments a young girl might hide away when she found too many prying eyes at home—a bundle of letters, an envelope containing £20 in Treasury notes, some oddments of jewellery and so on.
But what most attracted my attention, because they were in such curious contrast with the rest of the collection, were a drinking-glass and a small phial wrapped in white paper. I picked the latter up and noticed a number of figures lightly pencilled on the wrapper arranged in double column thus:
9.37
3.17
11.21
4.28
12.18
5.19
1.34
6.37
What they could mean I could not imagine, nor did I worry very long about them. I removed the wrapper, to find inside a small phial labelled “Pemberton’s Drops,” which were described as “a safe remedy for headache, sleeplessness, and all nerve troubles.” The dose was forty drops to be taken in water or other liquid. I turned the bottle over and saw a circular, red label, not much larger than a sixpence, on which was printed in small, white letters “Grainger, Midlington”—obviously the chemist from whom Nora Lepley had purchased her sleeping drug. I could well understand that she did not want her friends to know that she took an hypnotic composition of this character.
Almost without knowing what I was doing I removed the cork, and then with a sudden jerk realised what it was I had stumbled upon. I smelt the unmistakable odour of bitter almonds. Whatever the phial had contained when Grainger of Midlington sold it to Nora Lepley, it was nearly full now of a strong solution of hydrocyanic acid. I took up the glass, but itwas perfectly dry and odourless, despite which I had no doubt that it had been the vehicle by which Sir Philip Clevedon had taken the poison.
The real art and science of the detective lies in building up one fact upon another until the edifice begins to assume intelligible shape. I am far from saying that a Sherlock Holmes is impossible. On the contrary, I have met people possessed as he was of a sense of intuition almost as keen and certain as seeing and hearing in ordinary men. But they are few. The average detective, though he may indulge in theories, depends really on facts and is wise not to wander very far from them. And he will find, if he is sufficiently practised and astute, that facts breed facts, and that a clue, even if it does not lead to the required solution, does often produce other clues that continue the chain unbroken. A “clue” that leads nowhere never was anything but a false clue from the beginning. And a detective is largely dependent upon what ordinary folk describe as luck or chance. His skill consists in making use of chance and in missing nothing that luck brings him.
The police have, in addition to the natural astuteness of individuals, the assistance of a singularly complete and effective organisation that enables them to push their inquiries farand wide and, when they have settled on their man, to weave round him a net from which escape is all but impossible. By telegraph and telephone, the police of the whole country can be put on the alert, descriptions can be circulated in a few minutes, information conveyed and facts gathered until the story is complete. The English police work under some difficulty since the methods of questioning and even bullying that are legal in France and are frequently permitted in America are rigidly forbidden here. English law really does try to live up to the theory that a man is innocent until he is proved guilty and that he must not be trapped into any unwary admission. I do not mean to say that the English police invariably abide by the strict letter of the law or always observe it in spirit. There are occasions when it is worth while to take risks. But, generally speaking, the law as it is and as it is administered aids the criminal and hampers the police, despite which, however, the latter are wonderfully successful.
Still, I can hear someone saying, many crimes go unpunished, many criminals remain undiscovered. True, but one has to remember that many criminals are known against whom there is no clear proof. The conviction of a wrong-doer is a matter of evidence not of belief. I amacquainted with two persons, one a man very well known in business circles, the other a lady of great charm and important position, who, I am quite sure, are murderers. The police are equally aware of the fact. But so skilfully have the criminals covered every trace that anything like proof would be wholly impossible.
And, again, it must not be forgotten that the criminal may be a person of first-class education, alert mentally, intrepid, with money, position and influence to aid him, and that he not only prepared the ground before the crime without hindrance or suspicion but was able to use his skill and resource in confusing the pursuit after it. A burglar, jewel thief, or the like, may be a person of the Bill Sikes variety, but he is quite as likely to be a University man with a profession and income and a wide circle of friends.
When brains are pitted against brains it is a straight fight and the best brains win quite irrespective of right or morality. The pursuit’s most valuable and useful asset lies in the fact that most criminals sooner or later make mistakes, and crime as a rule leaves no margin for error. The alert detective misses nothing of that sort and loses no opportunity his opponent may concede to him. But when all is said, facts remain the detective’s chief stock-in-trade,and it is the connected chain of established facts that eventually leads him to the solution required and the person wanted.
So far, for example, in this Clevedon case I had been groping in the dark, hanging grimly on to the few facts I had; and my blunderings and stumblings had led me to that little phial of poison in Nora Lepley’s secret hiding-place. I could not see yet the full bearing of that discovery, but it was a new fact which I had reached simply by following my nose.
Of course, I made a special journey into Midlington to look up Grainger, the chemist, who, I learnt, had been in business in the city about thirty-five years, was widely known, and very highly respected. I made a small purchase, and noticed that there were several bottles of Pemberton’s Drops in the large glass case that was full of various proprietary medicines.
“Is that stuff any use for sleeplessness?” I asked, pointing to one of the bottles.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It seems fairly popular but I have never tried it.”
“Is it dangerous to take?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he replied, “though personally I should say that all hypnotic drugs are better left alone. The preparation is a secret. I do notice that people who take themcome back for them, which seems to suggest that they are effective.”
I went straight to Peakborough and interviewed Mr. Pepster.
“I’ve something I want you to do,” I said to him.
“Good! Is it important?”
“I think so. I fancy things are beginning to move.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he retorted grimly. “As for me, I’m absolutely fed up. The case is getting on my nerves. But what is it?”
“I want to know all there is to be known about Nora Lepley.”
“Yes?”
“And about Grainger, a Midlington chemist.”
“But what connection is there—?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to know. Probably there is none. But I have traced prussic acid to Nora Lepley—”
“Gad!”
“And in a bottle that came from Grainger’s shop.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, it’s a queer development, isn’t it?”
“But—”
“I know absolutely nothing more than I have told you.”
Pepster nodded thoughtfully, then touched a bell.
“What is the next train for Midlington?” he asked of the police clerk who answered his summons.
Andnow I come to a very pretty and pleasant little adventure which has its own place in the sequence of events. Only part of it came under my own immediate observation; the rest I had to piece together by adroit questioning and the aid of a little imagination.
It began with Kitty Clevedon, who, as she was crossing the park that partly surrounds Hapforth House, was a little startled to see an aeroplane coming rapidly to earth. It alighted only about sixty yards away, and a young man jumped out and came towards her.
“Hallo! Kitty Clevedon, by all that’s lucky!” he cried. “I thought it was, which was why I gave the order to come down.”
“Jimmy! but you are a stranger,” Kitty returned smilingly, as they shook hands. “Are you still in the Air Service? I thought you had been de—”
“Oh, yes, this is my own. I do it for funnow. Care to step aboard the old bus and see what it is like?”
He helped her in and then gave some signal she did not comprehend, and up they went.
“What are you doing?” Kitty demanded. “You have no right to take—”
“None at all,” he admitted cheerfully. “But it would be a dull world if we only did what we have a right to do, wouldn’t it?”
“You must let me get out, Jimmy,” she said, stamping her foot.
“I’m not stopping you,” he retorted, with a laugh, “but it’s a longish step down to Mother Earth—about 600 feet, I should judge. Would you like to have a look out? You are not frightened, are you? Have you ever been up before?”
“Yes, twice,” she replied. “No, I’m not frightened—of the aeroplane.”
“Well, you’re not frightened of me, anyway,” he said. “I’m fierce, but not frightful.”
He pulled back a leathern flap, disclosing an opening, through which he thrust his head. “You ought to go in for flying, Kitty,” he went on. “It’s the real sport—there’s nothing like it. Motoring is tame—and I tell you what, I’ve a good mind to carry you off to see old Billy and butt in on his honeymoon.”
“Billy!” she cried, turning on him suddenly. “Do you mean my brother?”
“Here, steady on!” he said. “You’ll have the old bus over if you jolt us like that.”
“You must put me down at once,” she went on. “I must see Mr. Holt and Mr. Thoyne. Do you hear? At once.”
Jimmy Trevor saw that she was serious, and immediately gave the order to descend.
“I’m awfully sorry, Kitty,” he said. “I was only—it was only a bit of a joke. I would like to apologise, if you—”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Kitty replied sharply. “Only be quick, and don’t talk until we are out.”
“But you will forgive—”
“Oh, yes, yes; and nowdon’ttalk. Let me think.”
They made a safe landing, and Jimmy helped Kitty to alight.
“Now tell me,” she demanded, turning on him suddenly, “do you know where my brother is?”
“Why, yes,” he replied, evidently a little mystified at her manner.
“And—and did you say—honeymoon? Is he—married?”
“Good Lord! didn’t you know?” he shouted. “Have I put my beastly number nine footinto it again? He didn’t tell me it was a secret. I was his best man, you know, and saw them off to Jersey for their honeymoon. But he said nothing about keeping it secret. Didn’t you know?”
“Will you come with me to see Mr. Holt?” Kitty asked.
“I will go anywhere you say, anywhere at once,” Jimmy replied.
Kitty started off immediately in the direction of the village, Jimmy Trevor keeping pace with long strides, muttering apologies to her and imprecations on himself at intervals. As they passed through the big gates into the main road they met Thoyne, who glanced at her companion a little questioningly. Jimmy Trevor was a very personable youth, and jealousy is easily aroused.
“Oh, Ronald, this is Mr. Trevor,” Kitty said. “He—he knows where—where Billy is.”
“The devil he does!” Thoyne cried. “And where is he?”
“He is”—she began to laugh a little hysterically, then pulled herself up—“on his—his honeymoon.”
“His honeymoon!”
Thoyne stood stock still in the middle of the road and gazed, first at Kitty and then at Jimmy Trevor, who grinned appreciatively.
“It seems to be news,” the latter said dryly. “Didn’t you know? Am I making the first announcement? I seem to have created a sensation by posing as an amateurMorning Post. Why shouldn’t Billy get married if he wants? And she was a deuce of a nice girl, too!”
“But—the murder—!” Thoyne stammered.
“Murder? What murder? We are talking about a marriage, not a murder.”
“The murder of Sir Philip Clevedon,” Thoyne replied rather angrily. “You must have heard of it.”
“Not a word,” Jimmy responded. “I’ve been abroad, and only returned to England two days ago. Sir Philip Clevedon—why, that’s—then Billy is Sir William and doesn’t know it.”
“We must tell Mr. Holt,” Kitty broke in, and Thoyne nodded his agreement.
And thus it was that they came to me with their story. I listened to them in silence and then put a few questions.
“Had Clevedon arranged that you should be his best man?” I asked Trevor.
“Not at all,” he said, “nothing of the sort. I met him quite by accident on Midlington station, and—”
“What date was that?”
“It was February 23rd.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, it was February 23rd right enough, because that was the day I had to be in London. It had been fixed up with the lawyer chaps, Finns and Tregarty, who did all my uncle’s business. I went down from Blankester by a train that stops five minutes at Midlington—beastly hole it is, too! Looking out, I saw Billy on the platform. We were at school together, you know, and then in France—good pals. He pulled me out of a damned mess once—a good story that, which I’ll tell you some day. He’s one of the very best, is Billy. I shouted out to him, ‘Billy, Billy,’ and he came up. ‘Good egg, Jimmy,’ he said, ‘I was getting a bit fed up with my own company.’ There was a vacant corner seat, and he took it and we travelled to London together.”
“What time would that be?” I interrupted.
“Let’s see; it was the 11.23 at Midlington, and 4.7 in London. We put up at the Terminus Hotel, both of us, had dinner there, and went to seeJimson’s Joy Rideat the Lyric. Then we trotted round to one or two places we know of and got back to the Terminus at 1 a.m., and so to bed, as What’s-his-name would say.”
“If we could make absolutely sure of the date—” I began.
“The date is right enough,” Jimmy Trevor replied. “You don’t come into a little wad of fifteen thousand pounds every day, and that date is in red letters in my almanac. But ask the lawyers—they’ll have it down—or try the Terminus Hotel. Our names will be in the register.”
“Well,” I returned, “you went to seeJimson’s Joy Ride, then to bed. Next morning—?”
“‘I’ve got to go to Jersey!’ Billy said to me, ‘to get married. The young lady is there, waiting for me—suppose you come with me and be best man.’ I had four weeks or so empty and plenty of money, so I said ‘Right ho!’ The lawyers had come down with some coin and didn’t want me for a bit until they’d straightened things some more. And then Billy got a telegram, ‘Lost my luggage; bring some clothes—Elsie.’ So off he went to a large shop and interviewed the manageress. ‘I want some clothes for a young lady,’ he said, ‘all sorts of clothes: nightdresses, stockings, whatever young ladies usually wear; plenty of them, and some frocks—and you see that young lady over there with the red hair?’ The manageresscast her optics round. ‘Yes, I see her,’ she said, ‘but you’d better not let her hear you describe her hair as red.’ Old Billy was a bit put out. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but she is about the build. What’ll fit her will fit the other.’ It was all easily arranged—anything is easy to arrange, you know, when you have the money to pay for it, and Billy seemed to have plenty. He came out of the shop carrying a brand new suit-case containing about eighty pounds’ worth of female garments. When he told me about it I said he was a silly Juggins; that what the telegram had meant was that he was to go to her flat and tell her maid to pack another box; which is what she told him when we got to Jersey. ‘We’ll do both,’ Billy said, and we went to the flat and got another lot of feminine mysteries. So we got to Jersey, and I saw him tied up and then went on to St. Malo. That’s how I never heard anything of Sir Philip Clevedon, and I bet Billy’s heard nothing, either.”
“And who is the—the girl?” Kitty demanded, quite naturally a little angry when she recollected the suspense and misery she had endured through her brother’s unexplained absence.
“She’s Elsie MacFarren,” Jimmy replied.
I knew her quite well. Miss Elsie MacFarren was a youthful American actress who had come across with a boisterous Yankee comedy, entitledChick Tottle’s Turnout. The play itself had been a failure, but Elsie had been a success, and had remained here to earn one of the big salaries the British theatre-loving public willingly pays to those who take its fancy. She was not only pretty, but clever; and invitations to return to America—invitations heavily larded with dollars—were cabled to her at short intervals. But she stayed here proof against all temptations.
“And now,” I added briskly, “the next thing is to wire Sir William Clevedon to return immediately. He must come back. His presence here will dispel a lot of suspicion, and the story of his romance will counteract some ugly rumours. We will meet them in London.”
When I told Pepster the story I thought he would never stop laughing.
“This case,” he said, “is the absolute limit.”
“You’ll come with us to London?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for a fortune.”
We duly met the honeymoon couple at Paddington.
“Where the hell have you been?” Thoyne demanded harshly.
“Where?” Billy echoed. “On my honeymoon. There is Mrs. Billy Clevedon, and—”
“No,” I interrupted suavely; “Lady Clevedon.”
He swung round facing me.
“Who the hell are you, and what the devil do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Sir Philip Clevedon is dead,” I replied quietly.
He stood glaring at me for a moment or two, as if he thought I was mad, then, reading confirmation in the faces around him, he turned to his wife.
“Do you hear that, Elsie?” he shouted. “Sir Philip is dead, and I am Sir William, and you are My Lady, and, yes, by gad! I’ve got pots of money. By Jove! yes. Poor old Philip—he was a bit of a—but there, he’s dead. What a life it is!”
“The fact is,” I went on, cutting short his excitement, “that Sir Philip Clevedon was murdered, and”—I paused a moment or two so that I might get the full effect—“there is a warrant out for your arrest.”
“Murdered!” he echoed. “Arrest!”
“Well,” Pepster interrupted slowly. “I wouldn’t say arrest. The police are interested—you see, your absence seemed to require—”
“And where the devil do you come into the picture?” the new Sir William demanded.
“I—oh, I am the police,” Pepster retorted.
“But, surely,” Kitty said haltingly, “Mr. Trevor has proved—Billy was in London on the night of the 23rd—an alibi—”
“There can be no alibi in a poison case,” I returned gravely. “The crime is committed, not when the victim dies but when the poison is placed—wherever it is placed. For example, if I were to put prussic acid now in some whisky which you were to drink next Sunday, I might go off to Paris, or be on the high seas far off enough, anyway, when you drink the whisky, but I should still be guilty of—”
“Is that the story?” Billy broke in. “Did I put prussic acid in Philip’s whisky? Come, we’ll get back to Cartordale. I am Sir William and White Towers belongs to me. I’m going to take possession. And if anyone thinks I killed Sir Philip, well, let them prove it and be damned to them.”
He broke off with an angry laugh and stood facing us. His lovely little bride thrust her hand through his arm.
“Yes,” she said, in that musical voice of hers that had charmed huge crowds on two continents, “let them prove it and—be damned to them!”
But her laugh was one of real amusement. Lady Clevedon was looking forward to enjoying life and had no objection to a sensation or two. Possibly she had found the honeymoon just a trifle slow. Anyway, she made a charming picture of loyalty and confidence as she stood arm-in-arm with her husband facing those who were practically accusing him of murder.
Sir Williamand Lady Clevedon settled down in Cartordale and very quickly made themselves popular with their neighbours. Billy himself was of a buoyant and friendly disposition, and even if he had been far less genial, Lady Clevedon would have pulled him through. I never met a sunnier person than she was, and if she had designedly set out to dissipate any possible suspicion that may have gathered round her husband, she could not have gone a better way about it.
But if she had any such intent she did not show it. They both acted as if they took it calmly for granted that any idea of Billy’s participation in the tragedy was futile nonsense. Nor did they hesitate to discuss it, and apparently accepted my interposition as a matter of course. No doubt Thoyne and Kitty had explained to them my part in the story. As they became more and more immersed in their plans for refurnishing White Towers and in various socialactivities, the mystery dropped more and more into the background. That was all the better for me. The necessity of consulting other folk and especially of explaining, or of concealing, because it more frequently amounts to that, is always something of a nuisance when one is engaged in delicate investigations.
But I had a little passage with Lady Clevedon the elder that was not entirely without entertainment. I was passing the big gates of Hapforth House just as she emerged. I fancy she had seen me from the windows of the lodge and had come out with the intention of intercepting me. She stood with both hands on her stick surveying me with a dry smile.
“So, Mr. Detective, you haven’t yet discovered who killed Philip Clevedon,” she said.
“I don’t know that I haven’t,” I returned. “But knowledge isn’t proof and there are libel laws to be watched.”
“That is an easy way of getting out of it,” she cried mockingly. “A detective ought—”
“But I am not a detective,” I interrupted.
“No, you are not, that’s true enough,” she agreed grimly, as she turned abruptly and began walking towards Hapforth House.
When I reached Stone Hollow again, I foundwaiting for me a little wizened man with indeterminate features and a general air of dilapidation, though his eyes under shaggy grey brows were bright and piercing.
“Hullo, Stillman!” I cried, “you at last, is it? I have been expecting you for some time, but I suppose it wasn’t an easy job. Have you got it?”
Stillman sat for a few minutes gazing into the fire. I knew his habit well and did not attempt to hurry him. He was a very methodical person, with a way of arranging his thoughts and choosing his words that was sometimes a little irritating to those wanting to hear what he had to say. I, knowing him well, merely waited until he was ready.
“You told me to find out—” he began and then paused, glancing at me as if in inquiry.
“Why Tulmin was blackmailing Sir Philip Clevedon,” I replied promptly. “Tulmin had some hold over Clevedon—what was it?”
“Precisely.”
I had “discovered” Stillman some years before, and had made much use of him. What his past was I did not know, though I suspected that it would not bear a too detailed investigation. He was certainly an expert burglar, as I had more than once put to the test; he couldcopy a signature with the fidelity of the camera; he could empty a man’s pocket with the dexterity of a professional; he knew every possible trick with the cards; he seemed, in short, to be an expert in every form of roguery, and yet, as far as I knew, he had never engaged the attention of the police. If he had been a rogue, he had covered his tracks with singular skill.
But he may only have been, like myself, a student of roguery. I was an expert pickpocket, an accomplished burglar, could open a safe by listening, and would guarantee to copy any man’s signature so as to deceive even himself; and more than once during my investigations I had found my accomplishments extremely useful. I should have made a very dangerous criminal, but I kept within the law, and I was willing to give Stillman also the full benefit of the doubt. As a sleuth, I never met his equal; in the patient, persistent, unwearying, remorseless pursuit of an individual, in turning a person, man or woman, inside out, in penetrating the most sullen reserve and uncovering the secrets of the past he was unapproachable.
I had the first taste of his quality in the Strongeley case. He brought me some information and I happened to remark that I must have Robert Strongeley shadowed.“Try me,” he said, and as I was just then too busily occupied to do it myself, and had nobody else whom I could put on, I agreed. He followed Strongeley half round the world, and wormed out secrets that even Strongeley himself had forgotten.
Since then I had many times employed him, and he always promptly answered my call, possibly because I paid well, but even more, I think, because my cases were nearly always interesting. How he lived or what he did in the unemployed intervals I cannot say and never inquired. A lack of curiosity is often a form of wisdom.
I had placed Tulmin in his hands. “This man,” I said, “has been blackmailing the late Sir Philip Clevedon and I want to know why.”
And there I left it. Stillman, I knew, would sooner or later bring me the information I required.
“I went down to Ilbay,” Stillman said, “but I could not get on board the yacht. But chance helped me there. Mr. Thoyne came off the ship bringing Tulmin with him. The latter went to London and so did I. Whether Thoyne had given Tulmin an address, or whether Tulmin went there on his own, I didn’t know, but I followed him and obtained a room in the samehouse. Later I learnt that the house was one in which Tulmin had lodged when he first came over from America and before he went to Cartordale.”
“America?” I interposed. “Did Thoyne know him in America?”
“That is the story,” Stillman replied, with a quiet grin. “Thoyne—Clevedon—Tulmin—all from America. Tulmin had some money of his own, but Thoyne was making him a fairly generous allowance, is still, for that matter. But to begin at the beginning. When Sir Philip Clevedon—er—died, Mr. Thoyne offered Tulmin a job as steward on his yacht.”
“Did Tulmin say why the offer was made?”
“No—no special reason, anyway. He was out of a job and Thoyne wanted a steward. But it is a little curious that Mr. Thoyne offered him about twice the usual pay if he would go then and there at once.”
I smiled appreciatively. It was, indeed, a little curious,
“Though, if he hadn’t done that,” Stillman went on, “Tulmin probably wouldn’t have gone, because he wasn’t short of money. At all events he went. But hardly had he got to know his way about the yacht when a telegram came. ‘I want you to go to London and wait for methere,’ Mr. Thoyne said to him. And that seems to be the whole story.”
“Did Tulmin see the telegram?”
“No, Mr. Thoyne burnt that when he had read it.”
That, of course, was Kitty Clevedon’s telegram warning Thoyne of my threatened visit.
“It was lucky Tulmin went to London—what should you have done if he hadn’t?” I asked, with some little curiosity.
“Oh, I should have found a way,” Stillman replied. “Perhaps an opportunity of boarding the yacht would have presented itself, or I might have learnt its destination and met it there. I should have found Tulmin some way. But that telegram eased matters considerably. I am much obliged to whoever sent it.”
In all his confidences Thoyne had never told me why he took Tulmin away, nor had he given me any indication that he knew where he was.
“As to Tulmin,” Stillman went on, “I had rather a lot of trouble with him. He wasn’t exactly an easy subject. But I got there in time. He is too fond of his whisky to keep many secrets. And I have spent a lot of money in whisky. At to-day’s prices, you know, whisky does cost money. But I had to drag it out of him almost a word at a time and piece ittogether as best I could. But I think I have it straight now.”
The story was very simple. As Stillman had said, the three men had all hailed from America where Clevedon, known then as Calcott had been an object of much attention from the police. Tulmin himself was a “crook,” though of rather smaller dimensions than the other, and they had occasionally worked together. Then Calcott disappeared and it was given out that he was dead.
It was some time after Calcott’s ending that Tulmin, finding the police in America inconveniently eager to make his acquaintance, crossed over to England, which offered at once a refuge and a fresh field for his operations. It was in London that he met Sir Philip Clevedon as the latter was going from a taxi towards the dignified entrance to his club. They faced each other at the foot of the stone steps.
“Calcott!” Tulmin cried, with a welcoming grin.
“I beg your pardon,” Sir Philip replied, with the icy composure that characterised him.
“I said ‘Calcott,’” Tulmin retorted, in no way perturbed.
“Yes, I heard you, but I don’t know what it means,” Sir Philip made answer.
“It’s a clever bluff,” Tulmin responded. “And I’ve heard of doubles, of course. But do you know that Felter is in London”—Felter was head of the Chicago detective bureau, and a man whom the late Calcott had good reason to fear—“on some stunt or other and looking as foxy as ever? It gave me a turn of the shivers when I ran up against him suddenly in Oxford Street. I wonder if you could persuade him to believe in doubles or whether he might not want to see that scar on your left knee. He put it there, you know, didn’t he, and could identify it. Anyway, I am looking for a job as confidential man—valet, secretary—something soft and clean and well-paid. I am tired of being a ‘crook.’”
What Tulmin actually would have done, or even could have done had Clevedon bluffed it out, I don’t know. But apparently the latter funked the risk and the end of it was that Tulmin was installed at White Towers as Sir Philip Clevedon’s confidential valet. That, in brief, was the story Stillman told me, nor was it difficult to supply the missing lines. Clevedon had never expected to succeed to the title since there were several lives in front of him, but they disappeared one by one, and accordingly he shed his Calcott existence like a discarded hat. He was accepted on this side without question ordemur, and indeed, there seems to have been no doubt regarding his identity. The whole story was extremely interesting, but I did not see that so far it helped much in the solution of my own particular mystery. I was a good deal more concerned with Thoyne’s part in the play.
“The hold Tulmin had over Clevedon seems clear enough,” I observed reflectively. “But I don’t quite see how he managed to hook Thoyne on unless Thoyne was also—”
“No, there is nothing against Mr. Thoyne,” Stillman responded promptly and decisively. “He is paying Tulmin to keep out of the way, but I think that is simply so that there may be no scandal—no public identification of Clevedon with Calcott.”
“Then he knew that Clevedon was Calcott?”
“Yes, Tulmin says so.”
“I wonder how he knew.”
“I am not sure about that, but Tulmin was positive that he did know, and that he was keeping Tulmin out of the way so as to keep the name of Clevedon out of the mess. Isn’t Thoyne marrying into the Clevedon family? Anyway,” Stillman added, with a queer chuckle, “Tulmin doesn’t expect him to go on paying for ever. ‘As long as it lasts,’ in his own phrase. The hold isn’t a very strong one; andI don’t think myself Tulmin will turn nasty when the money stops. His own record isn’t so clean that he need court publicity.”
“I am not quite clear about it yet,” I remarked. “You said there was no special reason assigned for Thoyne’s action in making Tulmin his steward at double pay, but now—”
“Oh, yes, I was not quite clear. Mr. Thoyne did not give Tulmin any reason when he offered him the job. It was afterwards that he explained what he had in mind—to make sure that nothing got out regarding Calcott. Indeed, I am not quite sure that he actually explained in so many words. But he knew about Calcott—Tulmin is sure of that—and perhaps Tulmin jumped to the conclusion that that was his motive.”
“Yes, I dare say it would puzzle Tulmin to know why Thoyne should appear so friendly.”
I made up my mind at all events that I would interview Tulmin myself. Not that I had any specific aim in view. But it would at least be useful to learn all I could regarding Clevedon’s past. Stillman’s story had opened new possibilities. If Tulmin could recognise Clevedon as Calcott, others might have done so. It might easily be that one would have to go back into those dead years to solve the mystery of theClevedon tragedy. And among those possibilities was Thoyne. He may have known Clevedon in America and have had good reason, quite apart from their rivalry for Kitty Clevedon’s affections, to desire his death.
At all events I determined that I would have an interview with Ronald Thoyne before many hours were out. I felt that I had a legitimate grievance against him. He had known more about Tulmin and Clevedon than he had ever told me and though he had invited me to investigate the mystery, he had given me only a half-confidence. I could at least teach him a lesson on that, I thought rather grimly, besides which, somewhere at the back of my mind was a queer suspicion that Thoyne had deliberately thrown me off the scent, telling me, with every appearance of frankness, much that did not matter, but remaining stubbornly reticent on several things that did.
IsentStillman back to keep an eye on Tulmin until I could myself interview him and then set myself to arrange a meeting with Thoyne. He was staying at White Towers and I had no difficulty in finding him.
“Hallo!” he cried. “You look very serious, Holt. What is the matter? Have you made a fresh discovery?”
“Yes,” I said, “I have.”
“Well, cheer up. I can’t say you look pleased about it.”
“Thoyne,” I responded, looking him straight in the face. “Did you ever hear the name of Calcott?”
He sent me a quick glance that was partly, I think, surprise but was not entirely devoid of wrath. The name had evidently no very pleasant sound in his ears.
“You see,” I went on, interpreting his half-instinctive movement in my own way, “youhave given me a lot of quite unnecessary trouble. Had you been frank with me—”
“I was frank on everything that mattered,” he said sullenly.
“You thought the fact that Clevedon had been an American crook known as Calcott whom you had met in Chicago—”
“That’s a lie, anyway.”
“You needn’t get excited about it,” I rejoined equably.
“Excited, the devil!” he cried. “I am not excited. I’m as calm as you are.”
“Then perhaps you would like to tell me the whole story.”
“What story?”
“The story of Calcott, the crook, and what you knew about him in Chicago.”
“I did not know him in Chicago.”
He sat himself down and ran his fingers two or three times through his thick hair.
“You are rather a marvel,” he said, with a smile that was just a little rueful. “How you get these things sorted out amazes me. First one and then another, you get them all straightened and leave no loose ends. No, I never knew Calcott, though I’d heard of him. But I had known Tulmin in Chicago. I caught him looting my baggage—it was in the caroutside my house and he was just moving off with a bag. I caught him and thrashed him and let him go. I recognised him when I met him here, and he knew me also. I didn’t interfere. He seemed to be living an honest life as far as I could gather and I didn’t want to rob the poor devil of his chance. It was he who told me about Calcott. You see, after they quarrelled—”
“Quarrelled!” I repeated. “Did—but I must have the whole story now. There is more in this than I thought. If there was a quarrel—”
“Yes, what of it?”
Thoyne spoke a little impatiently as if he were tired of the whole subject and merely wanted to bury it.
“Well, a quarrel—is sometimes a motive for murder—”
“I always thought Tulmin did it,” he responded quietly. “But I’ll tell you all I know and then perhaps you can leave me alone. Damn Clevedon and damn Tulmin. Why should I be worried about their affairs in this fashion? I didn’t ask to be mixed up in it, did I? Of course, I did it to help Kitty, and would do it all again, and more for her. And all through the infernal foolery of this secret marriage. Why couldn’t Clevedon tell his sister he was going to be married? The whole thing’s beena nightmare to me and I’m dead sick of it. I didn’t murder Clevedon and I don’t know who did, unless it was Tulmin. If you would find the assassin and tie him up I might get some peace.”
“But it was you who took Tulmin away and hid him,” I replied.
“Yes, I know it was—what of it?”
“But if you thought he was the murderer—?”
“Of course I thought he was the murderer. You don’t think I should have involved an innocent man, do you? Yes, I persuaded Tulmin to go away in order to keep suspicion off Billy Clevedon. Kitty was terrified and I was a bit anxious myself.”
“And as to this quarrel?” I interposed.
“I don’t know the rights of that, except that Tulmin had wanted more money than Clevedon was willing to pay. Kitty had told me, you know, that Clevedon had wanted her to marry him and that she intended to consent. We were not formally engaged then, though it was all but fixed up between us. But the word lay with her, of course, and I was trying to be as philosophical as I could over my dismissal when one night Tulmin came to me with a queer, mixed yarn, of which at first I could makenothing. ‘What have you come to me for?’ I said. ‘I’ve come to sell you a secret,’ he replied. My first idea was to give the swine a good sound kicking and pack him off. ‘I could tell you something about Sir Philip that’ll make Miss Kitty impossible,’ he added, and at that I waited.
“I dare say you’ll blame me, but I don’t pretend to be any better than anybody else, and besides, he’d stolen her from me. So I listened. He told me he knew something against Clevedon, who had been paying him to keep silence. Now he wanted to go back to America—Tulmin did, I mean—and had asked Clevedon for a lump sum, and Clevedon had threatened to shoot him. That is the best thing I ever heard about Clevedon. Tulmin is a little rat, for whom shooting is a lot too good. But Clevedon had stolen my woman and I didn’t mean to lose any chance that came. I said he could have the money if I found the secret worth it. He wanted it in advance, but I told him he’d have it my way or no way. And then he told me what Clevedon had been across the water.
“At first I took him to mean that Clevedon was an impostor and had no right to the title and estates, but it seems I was wrong there. I went off to Clevedon next day and we had aright royal rumpus about it—that was the interview described at the inquest. I didn’t mention Tulmin’s name—the little rat had made that a condition. ‘You can’t deny it,’ I said to Clevedon. ‘I come from Chicago, you know. I recognised you months ago.’ He seemed impressed and it was rather a good lie. ‘But I didn’t interfere,’ I went on, ‘until you tried to steal my woman, and we Americans are always ready to fight for our women.’ That housekeeper woman didn’t hear all that, apparently. Then Clevedon denied the whole story and we began to get angry.”
“I see,” I interposed, “and when you said you’d find a way of making him give Miss Clevedon up, you meant—”
“I meant I would get the Chicago police on his trail.”
“Did you know that Clevedon gave Tulmin a cheque for £500 the day before the murder?”
“No, did he? Well, evidently Tulmin didn’t think it enough.”
“What day was it Tulmin came to see you?”
“It was that same morning, February 23rd.”
“Clevedon gave Tulmin £500, which was less than Tulmin wanted, so Tulmin double-crossed Clevedon and came to you.”
“That seems like it.”
“It opens all sorts of fresh avenues,” I remarked.
“Don’t say that,” Thoyne murmured, with a groan. “I was hoping it would end the case. I never want to be mixed up in another murder mystery. It is the very deuce.”
“Suppose Clevedon, having quarrelled with Tulmin, and knowing you also had penetrated his secret—”
“Do you mean it was suicide?” Thoyne cried, his whole face lighting up. “If you could prove that I would—I would give you a cheque for ten thousand pounds. It would settle such a lot, wouldn’t it? Suicide, yes, I think after all it must be suicide.”
He gazed eagerly at my unresponsive face, then shrugged his shoulders a little angrily.
“Yes,” I replied slowly, “but then, what of the hatpin?”
His face fell at that.
“Clevedon certainly didn’t stab himself with a hatpin,” I added. “But you may as well finish the story,” I went on, “and tell me why you spirited Tulmin away.”
“Oh, that’s quite simple,” he replied. “Kitty was worried about her brother, whose absence puzzled her, as it did the rest of us. So I offered Tulmin a job, and he jumped at it.”
“Did you tell him—”
“Of course not, I’m not a fool.”
“And was that why you offered to buy my house?”
He laughed at the recollection of that particular interview.
“I dare say you thought me an awful idiot,” he said.
“And now you’ve told me everything.”
“Yes,” he responded, “everything.”
The truth or otherwise of which will appear in due course.
On my way out old Lady Clevedon met me, grimmer and more caustic than ever.
“Any discoveries, Mr. Detective?” she cried. “But I suppose I need not ask. Have you seen theMidlington Courierto-day? It has an interesting article on the Clevedon Case—I forget how many weeks gone and nothing done. It wants to know if the police—”
“But I have nothing to do with the police,” I interrupted smilingly.
Pepster, whom I found awaiting me at Stone Hollow, began on the newspaper article as soon as we met.
“What do you think of that?” he cried, waving the cutting as if it had been a flag. “Have you read it? ‘Unfortunately, we cannotcongratulate the police, who seem to have been waiting, like the famous Micawber, for something to turn up.’ What do you think of it?”
“Oh, newspaper writers are very fond of dragging Mr. Micawber in,” I replied. “He is overworked.”
“Damn Micawber!”
“Yes,” I rejoined, with a quiet laugh. “I should feel like that if I belonged to the police.”
“Well, you’re in the case, anyway,” Pepster said tartly. “And that reminds me. I have some news for you. At least, I think I have. But with you one never knows. Quite likely you have it all entered up already. Did you ever hear of Mary Grainger?”
“No, who is she?”
“Thank God, I’ve got a novelty at last. She’s daughter to Grainger, the Midlington chemist. Did you know he had a daughter?”
“No, does she live at home?”
“She doesn’tliveanywhere, she’s dead.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know that?”
I shook my head to express a negative.
“Then it really is one to me,” he said, with an air of great satisfaction.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is one to you if it means anything. I take it there is more behind. Thedecease of a young lady I never met is hardly a matter for excitement in itself.”
“Yes, there is more behind,” he said slowly, nodding his head. “There is, for instance, Nora Lepley behind. She and Mary Grainger both attended the High School in Midlington and have been for years inseparable friends. Nora frequently spent weeks at a time with the Graingers at Midlington and apparently had the run of the shop. She goes frequently to see the old man even now. She was there one day last week. Now suppose—well, Nora Lepley could have got the prussic acid that way.”