Winter nodded.
"I know the sort of man. Dealing in millions today; tomorrow in the dock at the Old Bailey."
"The point is that Fenley has never dealt in millions, and has kept his head high for twenty years. Just twenty years, by the way. Before that he was unknown. He began by the amalgamation of some tea plantations in Assam. Fine word, 'amalgamation.' It means money, all the time. Can't we amalgamate something, or somebody?"
"In Fenley's case it led to assassination."
"Perhaps. I have a feeling in my bones that if I knew who touched the proceeds of thosebonds I might understand why some one shot Fenley this morning."
"I'll soon tell you a trivial thing like that," said Winter, affecting a close interest in the landscape.
"I shouldn't be at all surprised if you did," said Furneaux. "You have the luck of a Carnegie. Look at the way you bungled that affair of Lady Morris's diamonds, until you happened to see her maid meeting Gentleman George at the White City."
Winter smoked complacently.
"Smartest thing I ever did," he chortled. "Fixed on the thief within half an hour, and never lost touch till I knew how she had worked the job."
"The Bow Street method."
"Why didn't you try something of the sort with regard to Fenley's bonds?"
"I couldn't be crude, even with a City financier. I put it gently that the money was in the family; he blinked at me like an owl, said that he would give thought to the suggestion, and shut down the inquiry by telephone before I reached the Yard from his office."
"Oh, he did, did he? It seems to me you've made a pretty good guess in associating the bonds and the murder. You've seen both sons, of course?"
"Yes, often."
"Are there other members of the family?"
"An invalid wife, never away from The Towers; and a young lady, Miss Sylvia Manning—a ward, and worth a pile. By the way, she's twenty. Mortimer Fenley, had he lived, was appointed her guardian and trustee till she reached twenty-one."
"Twenty!" mused Winter.
"Yes, twice ten," snapped Furneaux.
"And Fenley has cut a figure in the City for twenty years."
"I was sure your gray matter would be stimulated by its favorite poison."
"Charles, this should be an easy thing."
"I'm not so sure. Dead men tell no tales, and Fenley himself could probably supply many chapters of an exciting story. They will be missing. Look at the repeated failures of eminent authors to complete 'Edwin Drood.' How would they have fared if asked to produce the beginning?"
"Still, I'm glad you attended to those bonds. Who had charge of the Paris end?"
"Jacques Faure."
"Ah, a good man."
"Pretty fair, for a Frenchman."
Winter laughed.
"You born frog!" he cried.... "Hello, there's a Roxton sign post. Now let's compose our features. We are near The Towers."
The estate figured on the county map, so the chauffeur pulled up at the right gate. Awoman came from the lodge to inquire their business, and admitted the car when told that its occupants had been summoned by Mr. Hilton Fenley.
"By the way," said Furneaux carelessly, "is Mr. Robert at home?"
"No, sir."
"When did he leave?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir."
Mrs. Bates knew quite well, and Furneaux knew that she knew.
"The country domestic is the detective's aversion," he said as the car whirred into the avenue. "The lady of the lodge will be a sufficiently tough proposition if we try to drag information out of her, but the real tug of war will come when we tackle the family butler."
"Her husband is also the head keeper," said Winter.
"Name of Bates," added Furneaux.
"Oh, you've been here before, then?"
"No. While you were taking stock of the kennels generally, I was deciphering a printed label on a box of dog biscuit."
"I hardly feel that I've begun this inquiry yet," said Winter airily.
"You'd better pull yourself together. The dead man's limousine is still waiting at the door, and the local doctor is in attendance."
"Walter J. Stern, M.D."
"Probably. That brass plate on the Georgianhouse in the center of the village positively glistened."
They were received by Hilton Fenley himself, all the available men servants having been transferred to the cohort organized and directed by Police Constable Farrow.
"Good morning, Mr. Furneaux," said Fenley. "I little thought, when last we met, that I should be compelled to seek your help so soon again, and under such dreadful circumstances."
Furneaux, whose face could display at will a Japanese liveliness of expression or become a mask of Indian gravity, surveyed the speaker with inscrutable eyes.
"This is Superintendent Winter, Chief of my Department," he said.
"The Assistant Commissioner told me to take charge of the inquiry without delay, sir," explained Winter. He glanced at his watch. "We have not been long on the road. It is only twenty minutes to eleven."
Fenley led them through a spacious hall into a dining-room on the left. On an oak settee at the back of the hall the outline of a white sheet was eloquent of the grim object beneath. In the dining-room were an elderly man and a slim, white-faced girl. Had Trenholme been present he would have noted with interest that her dress was of white muslin dotted with tiny blue spots—notfleurs de lys, but rather resembling them.
"Dr. Stern, and Miss Sylvia Manning," saidFenley to the newcomers. Then he introduced the Scotland Yard men in turn. By this time the young head of the family had schooled himself to a degree of self-control. His sallow skin held a greenish pallor, and as if to satisfy some instinct that demanded movement he took an occasional slow stride across the parquet floor or brushed a hand wearily over his eyes. Otherwise he had mastered his voice, and spoke without the gasping pauses which had made distressful his words to Farrow.
"Ours is a sad errand, Mr. Fenley," began Winter, after a hasty glance at the table, which still bore the disordered array of breakfast. "But, if you feel equal to the task, you might tell us exactly what happened."
Fenley nodded.
"Of course, of course," he said quietly. "That is essential. We three, my father, Miss Manning and myself, breakfasted together. The second gong goes every morning at eight forty-five, and we were fairly punctual today. My father and Sylvia, Miss Manning, came in together—they had been talking in the hall previously. I saw them entering the room as I came downstairs. During the meal we chatted about affairs in the East; that is, my father and I did, and Syl—Miss Manning—gave us some news of a church bazaar in which she is taking part.
"My father rose first and went to his room,to collect papers brought from the City overnight. I met him on the stairs, and he gave me some instructions about a prospectus. (Let me interpolate that I was going to Victoria by a later train, having an appointment at eleven o'clock with Lord Ventnor, chairman of a company we are bringing out.) I stood on the stairs, saying something, while my father crossed the hall and took his hat and gloves from Harris, the footman. As I passed along the gallery to my own room I saw him standing on the landing at the top of the steps.
"He was cutting the end off a cigar, and Harris was just behind him and a little to the left, striking a match. Every fine morning my father lighted a cigar there. In rain or high wind he would light up inside the house. By the way, my mother is an invalid, and dislikes the smell of tobacco, so unless we have guests we don't smoke indoors.
"Well, I had reached my room, a sitting-room adjoining my bedroom, when I heard a gunshot. Apparently it came from the Quarry Wood, and I was surprised, because there is no shooting at this season. A little later—some few seconds—I heard Sylvia scream. I did not rush out instantly to discover the cause. Young ladies sometimes scream at wasps and caterpillars. Then I heard Tomlinson say, 'Fetch Mr. Hilton at once,' and I ran into Harris, who blurted out, 'Mr. Fenley has been shot, sir.'
"After that, I scarcely know what I said or how I acted. I remember running downstairs, and finding my father lying outside the front door, with Sylvia supporting his head and Tomlinson and Brodie trying to lift him. I think—in fact, I am sure now from what Dr. Stern tells me—that my father was dead before I reached him. We all thought at first that he had yielded to some awfully sudden form of paralysis, but some one—Tomlinson, I believe—noticed a hole through the right side of his coat and waistcoat. Then Sylvia—oh, perhaps that is matterless——"
"Every incident, however slight, is of importance in a case of this sort," Winter encouraged him.
"Well, she said—what was it, exactly? Do you remember, Sylvia?"
"Certainly," said the girl, unhesitatingly. "I said that I thought I recognized the sound of Bob's .450. Why shouldn't I say it? Poor Bob didn't shoot his father."
Her voice, though singularly musical, had a tearful ring which became almost hysterical in the vehemence of the question and its disclaimer.
Fenley moved uneasily, and raised his right hand to his eyes, while the left grasped the back of a chair.
"Bob is my brother Robert, who is away from home at this moment," he said, and his tone deprecatedthe mere allusion to the rifle owned by the absentee. "I only mentioned Miss Manning's words to show how completely at a loss we all were to account for my father's wound. I helped Tomlinson and Brodie to carry him to the settee in the hall. Then we—Tomlinson, that is—opened his waistcoat and shirt. Tomlinson cut the shirt with a scissors, and we saw the wound. Dr. Stern says there are indications that an expanding bullet was used, so the injuries must have been something appalling.... Sylvia, don't you think——"
"I'll not faint, or make a scene, if that is what you are afraid of, Hilton," said the girl bravely.
"That is all, then, or nearly all," went on Fenley, in the same dreary, monotonous voice. "I telephoned to Dr. Stern, and to Scotland Yard, deeming it better to communicate with you than with the local police. But it seems that Bates, our head keeper hurrying to investigate the cause of the shot, met some artist coming away from the other side of the wood. The Roxton police constable too, met and spoke with the same man, who told both Bates and the policeman that he heard the shot fired. The policeman, Farrow, refused to arrest the artist, and is now searching the wood with a number of our men——"
"Can't they be stopped?" broke in Furneaux, speaking for the first time.
"Yes, of course," and Hilton Fenley became a trifle more animated. "I wanted Farrow to wait till you came, but he insisted—said the murderer might be hiding there."
"When did Farrow arrive?"
"Oh, more than half an hour after my father was shot. I forgot to mention that my mother knows nothing of the tragedy yet. That is why we did not carry my poor father's body upstairs. She might overhear the shuffling of feet, and ask the cause."
"One thing more, Mr. Fenley," said Winter, seeing that the other had made an end. "Have you the remotest reason to believe that any person harbored a grievance against your father such as might lead to the commission of a crime of this nature?"
"I've been torturing my mind with that problem since I realized that my father was dead, and I can say candidly that he had no enemies. Of course, in business, one interferes occasionally with other men's projects, but people in the City do not shoot successful opponents."
"No private feud? No dismissed servant, sent off because of theft or drunkenness?"
"Absolutely none, to my knowledge. The youngest man on the estate has been employed here five or six years."
"It is a very extraordinary crime, Mr. Fenley."
For answer, the other sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"How can we get those clodhoppers out of the wood?" said Furneaux. His thin, high-pitched voice dispelled the tension, and Fenley dropped his hands.
"Bates is certain to make for a rock which commands a view of the house," he said. "Perhaps, if we go to the door, we may see them."
He arose with obvious effort, but walked steadily enough. Winter followed with the doctor, and inquired in an undertone—
"Are you sure about the soft-nosed bullet, doctor?"
"Quite," was the answer. "I was in the Tirah campaign, and saw hundreds of such wounds."
Furneaux, too, had something to say to Miss Manning.
"How were you seated during breakfast?" he asked.
She showed him. It was a large room. Two windows looked down the avenue, and three into the garden, with its background of timber and park. Mr. Mortimer Fenley could have commanded both views; his son sat with his back to the park; the girl had faced it.
"I need hardly put it to you, but you saw no one in or near the trees?" said Furneaux.
"Not a soul. I bathe in a little lake below those cedars every morning, and it is an estateorder that the men do not go in that direction between eight and nine o'clock. Of course, a keeper might have passed at nine thirty, but it is most unlikely."
"Did you bathe this morning?"
"Yes, soon after eight."
"Did you see the artist of whom Mr. Fenley spoke?"
"No. This is the first I have heard of any artist. Bates must have mentioned him while I was with Dr. Stern."
When Farrow arrived at the head of his legion he was just in time to salute his Inspector, who had cycled from Easton after receiving the news left by the chauffeur at the police station. Farrow was bursting with impatience to reveal the discoveries he had made, though resolved to keep locked in his own breast the secret confided by Bates. He was thoroughly nonplussed, therefore, when Winter, after listening in silence to the account of the footprints and scratches on the moss-covered surface of the rock, turned to Hilton Fenley.
"With reference to the rifle which has been mentioned—where is it kept?" he said.
"In my brother's room. He bought it nearly a year ago, when he was planning an expedition to Somaliland."
"May I see it?"
Fenley signed to the butler, who was standing with the others at a little distance.
"You know the .450 Express which is in the gun rack in Mr. Robert's den?" he said. "Bring it to the Superintendent."
Tomlinson, shaken but dignified, and rather purple of face as the result of the tramp through the trees, went indoors. Soon he came back, and the rich tint had faded again from his complexion.
"Sorry, sir," he said huskily, "but the rifle is not there."
"Not there!"
It was Sylvia Manning who spoke; the others received this sinister fact in silence.
"No, miss."
"Are you quite sure?" asked Fenley.
"It is not in the gun rack, sir, nor in any of the corners."
There was a pause. Fenley clearly forced the next words.
"That's all right. Bates may have it in the gun room. We'll ask him. Or Mr. Robert may have taken it to the makers. I remember now he spoke of having the sight fitted with some new appliance."
He called Bates. No, the missing rifle was not in the gun room. Somehow the notion was forming in certain minds that it could not be there. Indeed, the keeper's confusion was so marked that Furneaux's glance dwelt on him for a contemplative second.
Winter drew the local Inspector aside. "This inquiry rests with you in the first instance," he said. "Mr. Furneaux and I are here only to assist. Mr. Fenley telephoned to the Commissioner, mainly because Scotland Yard was called in to investigate a bond robbery which took place in the Fenley Bank some two months ago. Probably you never heard of it. Will you kindly explain our position to your Chief Constable? Of course, we shall work with you and through you, but my colleague has reason to believe that the theft of the bonds may have some bearing on this murder, and, as the securities were disposed of in Paris, it is more than likely that the Yard may be helpful."
"I fully understand, sir," said the Inspector, secretly delighted at the prospect of joining in the hunt with two such renowned detectives. The combined parishes of Easton and Roxton seldom produced a crime of greater magnitude than the theft of a duck. The arrest of a burglar who broke into a villa, found a decanter of whisky, and got so hopelessly drunk that he woke up in a cell at the police station, was anevent of such magnitude that its memory was still lively, though the leading personage was now out on ticket of leave after serving five years in various penal settlements.
"You will prepare and give the formal evidence at the inquest, which will be opened tomorrow," went on Winter. "All that is really necessary is identification and a brief statement by the doctor. Then the coroner will issue the burial certificate, and the inquiry should be adjourned for a fortnight. I would recommend discretion in choosing a jury. Avoid busybodies like the plague. Summons only sensible men, who will do as they are told and ask no questions."
"Exactly," said the Inspector; he found Machiavellian art in these simple instructions. How it broadened the horizon to be brought in touch with London!
Winter turned to look for Furneaux. The little man was standing where Mortimer Fenley had stood in the last moment of his life. His eyes were fixed on the wood. He seemed to be dreaming, but his friend well knew how much clarity and almost supernatural vision was associated with Furneaux's dreams.
"Charles!" said the Superintendent softly.
Furneaux awoke, and ran down the steps. In his straw hat and light Summer suit he looked absurdly boyish, but the Inspector, who had formed an erroneous first impression, was positivelystartled when he met those blazing black eyes.
"Mr. Fenley should warn all his servants to speak fully and candidly," said Winter. "Then we shall question the witnesses separately. What do you think? Shall we start now?"
"First, the boots," cried Furneaux, seemingly voicing a thought. "We want a worn pair of boots belonging to each person in the house and employed on the estate, men and women, no exceptions, including the dead man's. Then we'll visit that wood. After that, the inquiry."
Winter nodded. When Furneaux and he were in pursuit of a criminal they dropped all nice distinctions of rank. If one made a suggestion the other adopted it without comment unless he could urge some convincing argument against it.
"Mr. Fenley should give his orders now," added Furneaux.
Winter explained his wishes to the nominal head of the household, and Fenley's compliance was ready and explicit.
"These gentlemen from Scotland Yard are acting in behalf of Mrs. Fenley, my brother and myself," he said to the assembled servants. "You must obey them as you would obey me. I place matters unreservedly in their hands."
"And our questions should be answered without reserve," put in Winter.
"Yes, of course. I implied that. At any rate, it is clear now."
"Brodie," said Furneaux, seeming to pounce on the chauffeur, "you were seated at the wheel when the shot was fired?"
"Ye—yes, sir," stuttered Brodie, rather taken aback by the little man's suddenness.
"Were you looking at the wood?"
"In a sort of a way, sir."
"Did you see any one among the trees?"
"No, sir, that I didn't." This more confidently.
"Place your car where it was stationed then. Take your seat, and try to imagine that you are waiting for your master. Start the engine, and behave exactly as though you expected him to enter the car. Don't watch the wood. I mean that you are not to avoid looking at it, but just throw yourself back to the condition of mind you were in at nine twenty-five this morning. Can you manage that?"
"I think so, sir."
"No chatting with others, you know. Fancy you are about to take Mr. Fenley to the station. If you should happen to see me, wave your hand. Then you can get down and stop the engine. You understand you are not to keep a sharp lookout for me?"
"Yes, sir."
The butler thought it would take a quarter of an hour to collect sample pairs of boots fromthe house and outlying cottages. Police Constable Farrow was instructed to bring the butler and the array of boots to the place where the footprints were found, and Bates led the detectives and the Inspector thither at once.
Soon the four men were gazing at the telltale marks, and the Inspector, of course, was ready with a shrewd comment.
"Whoever it was that came this way, he didn't take much trouble to hide his tracks," he said.
The Scotland Yard experts were so obviously impressed that the Inspector tried a higher flight.
"They're a man's boots," he continued. "We needn't have worried Tomlinson to gather the maids' footgear."
Furneaux left two neat imprints in the damp soil.
"Bet you a penny whistle there are at least two women in The Towers who will make bigger blobs than these," he said.
A penny whistle, as a wager, is what Police Constable Farrow would term "unusual."
"Quite so," said the Inspector thoughtfully.
Winter caught Furneaux's eye, and frowned. There was nothing to be gained by taking a rise out of the local constabulary. Still, he gave one sharp glance at both sets of footprints. Then he looked at Furneaux again, this time with a smile.
The party passed on to the rock on the higher ground. Bates pointed out the old scratches, and those made by Farrow and himself.
"Me first!" cried Furneaux, darting nimbly to the summit. He was not there a second before he signaled to some one invisible from beneath. Winter joined him, and the east front of the house burst into view. Brodie was in the act of descending from the car. The doctor had gone. A small group of men were gazing at the wood, but Hilton Fenley and Sylvia Manning were not to be seen.
Neither man uttered a word. They looked at the rock under their feet, at the surrounding trees, oak and ash, elm and larch, all of mature growth, and towering thirty to forty feet above their heads, while the rock itself rose some twelve feet from the general level of the sloping ground.
Bates was watching them.
"The fact is, gentlemen, that if an oak an' a couple o' spruce first hadn't been cut down you wouldn't see the house even from where you are," he said. "Mr. Fenley had an idee of buildin' a shelter on this rock, but he let it alone 'coss o' the birds. Ladies would be comin' here, an' a-disturbin' of 'em."
The detectives came down. Furneaux, meaning to put the Inspector in the right frame of mind, said confidentially—
"Brodie saw me instantly."
"Did he, now? It follows that he would have seen any one who fired at Mr. Fenley from that spot."
"It almost follows. We must guard against assuming a chance as a certainty."
"Oh, yes."
"And we must also try to avoid fitting facts into preconceived notions. Now, while the butler is gathering old boots, let us spend a few profitable minutes in this locality."
After that, any trace of soreness in the inspectorial breast was completely obliterated.
Both Winter and Furneaux produced strong magnifying-glasses, and scrutinized the scratches and impressions on the bare rock and moss. Bates, skilled in wood lore, was quick to note what they had discerned at a glance.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen both, but may I put in a word?" he muttered awkwardly.
"As many as you like," Winter assured him.
"Well, these here marks was made by Farrow an' meself, say about ten forty, or a trifle over an hour after the murder; an' I have no sort o' doubt as these other marks are a day or two days older."
"You might even put it at three days," agreed Winter.
"Then it follows——" began the Inspector, but checked himself. He was becoming slightly mixed as to the exact sequence of events.
"Come, now, Bates," said Furneaux, "you can tell us the day Mr. Robert Fenley left home recently? There is no harm in mentioning his name. It can't help being in our thoughts, since it was discovered that his gun was missing."
"He went off on a motor bicycle last Saturday mornin', sir."
"Can you fix the hour?"
"About half past ten."
"You have not seen him since?"
"No, sir."
"You would be likely to know if he had returned?"
"Certain, sir, unless he kem by the Roxton gate."
"Oh, is there another entrance?"
"Yes, but it can't be used, 'cept by people on foot. The big gates are always locked, and the road has been grassed over, an' not so many folk know of a right of way. Of course, Mr. Robert knows."
Bates was disturbed. He expected to be cross-examined farther, but, to his manifest relief, the ordeal was postponed. Winter and Furneaux commenced a careful scrutiny of the ground behind the rock. They struck off on different paths, but came together at a little distance.
"The trees," murmured Winter.
"Yes, when we are alone."
"Have you noticed——"
"These curious pads. They mean a lot. It's not so easy, James."
"I'm growing interested, I admit."
They rejoined the others.
"Did you tell me that only you and Police Constable Farrow visited this part of the wood?" said Furneaux to Bates.
"I don't remember tellin' you, sir, but that's the fact," said the keeper.
"Well, warn all the estate hands to keep away from this section during the next few days. You will give orders to Farrow to that effect, Inspector?"
"Yes. If they go trampling all over, you won't know where you are when it comes to a close search," was the cheerful answer. "Now, about that gun—it must be hidden somewhere in the undergrowth. The man who fired it would never dare to carry it along an open road on a fine morning like this, when everybody is astir."
"You're undoubtedly right," said Winter. "But here come assorted boots. They may help us a bit."
Tomlinson was a man of method. He and Farrow had brought two wicker baskets, such as are used in laundry work. He was rather breathless.
"House—and estate," he wheezed, pointing to each basket in turn.
"Go ahead, Furneaux," said Winter. "Because I ought to stoop, I don't."
The little man choked back some gibe; the presence of strangers enforced respect to his chief. He took a thin folding rule of aluminum from a waistcoat pocket, and applied it to the most clearly defined of the three footprints. Then beginning at the "house" basket, he ran over the contents rapidly. One pair of boots he set aside. After testing the "estate" basket without success, he seized one of the selected pair, and pressed it into the earth close to an original print. He looked up at Tomlinson, who was in a violent perspiration.
"Whose boot is this?" he asked.
"God help us, sir, it's Mr. Robert's!" said Tomlinson in an agonized tone.
The Inspector, Farrow and Bates were visibly thrilled; but Furneaux only sank back on his heels, and peered at the boot.
"I don't understand why any one should feel upset because these footprints (which, by the way, were not made by this pair of boots) happen to resemble marks which may have been made by Mr. Robert Fenley," he said, apparently talking to himself. "These marks are three or four days old. Mr. Robert Fenley went away on Saturday. Today is Wednesday. He may have been here on Saturday morning. What does it matter if he was? The man whomurdered his father must have been here two hours ago."
Sensation! Tomlinson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already a wet rag; Farrow, not daring to interfere, nibbled his chin strap; Bates scowled with relief. But the Inspector, after a husky cough, spoke.
"Would you mind telling me, Mr. Furneaux, why you are so sure?" he said.
"Now, Professor Bates, you tell him," cackled Furneaux.
The keeper dropped on his knees by the side of the detective, and gazed critically at the marks.
"At this time o' year, gentlemen, things do grow wonderful," he said slowly. "In this sort o' ground, where there's wet an' shade, there's a kind o' constant movement. This here new print is clean, an' the broken grass an' crushed leaves haven't had time to straighten themselves, as one might say. But, in this other lot, the shoots are commencin' to perk up, an' insec's have stirred the mold. It's just the difference atween a new run for rabbits and an old 'un."
"Thank you, Bates," broke in Winter sharply. "Now, we must not waste any more time in demonstrations. Mr. Furneaux explained this thing purposely, to show the folly of jumping at conclusions. Innocent men have been hanged before today on just such evidenceas this. We should deem ourselves lucky that these footprints were found so soon after the crime was committed. Tomorrow, or next day, there might have been a doubt in our minds. Luckily there is none. The man who shot Mr. Fenley this morning—" he paused; Furneaux alone appreciated his difficulty—"could not possibly have left those marks today."
It was a lame ending, but it sufficed. Four of his hearers took him to mean that the unknown, whose feet had left their impress in the soil could not have been the murderer; but Furneaux growled in French—
"You tripped badly that time, my friend. You need another cigar!"
Seemingly, he was soliloquizing, and none understood except the one person for whose benefit the sarcasm was intended.
Winter felt the spur, but because he was a really great detective it only stimulated him. Nothing more was said until the little procession reached the avenue. During their brief disappearance in the leafy depths two cars and three motor cycles had arrived at The Towers. A glance sufficed. The newspapers had heard of the murder; this was the advance guard of an army of reporters and photographers. Winter buttonholed the Inspector.
"I'll tell you the most valuable service you can render at this moment," he said. "Arrangethat a constable shall mount guard at the rock till nightfall. Then place two on duty. With four men you can provide the necessary reliefs, but I want that place watched continuously, and intruders warned off till further notice. This man who happens to be here might go on duty immediately. Then you can make your plans at leisure."
Thus, by the quaint contriving of chance, Police Constable Farrow, whose stalwart form and stubborn zeal had blocked the path to the Quarry Wood since a few minutes after ten o'clock, was deputed to continue that particular duty till a comrade took his place.
His face fell when he heard that he was condemned to solitude, shut out from all the excitement of the hour, debarred even, as he imagined, from standing on the rock and watching the comings and goings at the mansion. But Winter was a kindly if far-seeing student of human nature.
"It will be a bit slow for you," he said, when the Inspector had given Farrow his orders. "But you can amuse yourself by an occasional peep at the landscape, and there is no reason why you shouldn't smoke."
Farrow saluted.
"Do you mean, sir, that I can show myself?"
"Why not? The mere fact that your presence is known will warn off priers. Remember—no one, absolutely no one except the police,is to be allowed to pass the quarry, or approach from any side within hailing distance."
"Not even from the house, sir?"
"Exactly. Mr. Fenley and Miss Manning may be told, if necessary, why you are there, and I am sure they will respect my wishes."
Farrow turned back. It was not so bad, then. These Scotland Yard fellows had chosen him for an important post, and that hint about a pipe was distinctly human. Odd thing, too, that Mr. Robert Fenley was not expected to put in an appearance, or the Superintendent would have mentioned him with the others.
On reaching the house there were evidences of disturbance. Hilton Fenley stood in the doorway, and was haranguing the newspaper men in a voice harsh with anger. This intrusion was unwarranted, illegal, impudent. He would have them expelled by force. When he caught sight of the Inspector he demanded fiercely that names and addresses should be taken, so that his solicitors might issue summonses for trespass.
All this, of course, made excellent copy, and Winter put an end to the scene by drawing the reporters aside and giving them a fairly complete account of the murder. Incidentally, he sent off the Inspector post haste on his bicycle to station a constable at each gate, and stop the coming invasion. The house telephone, too, closed the main gate effectually, so when theearliest scouts had rushed away to connect with Fleet Street order was restored.
Winter was puzzled by Fenley's display of passion. It was only to be expected that the newspapers would break out in a rash of black headlines over the murder of a prominent London financier. By hook or by crook, journalism would triumph. He had often been amazed at the extent and accuracy of news items concerning the most secret inquiries. Of course the reporters sometimes missed the heart of an intricate case. In this instance, they had never heard of the bond robbery, though the numbers of the stolen securities had been advertised widely. Moreover, he was free to admit that if every fact known to the police were published broadcast, no one would be a penny the worse; for thus far the crime was singularly lacking in motive.
Meanwhile Furneaux had fastened on to Brodie again.
"You saw me at once?" he began.
"I couldn't miss you, sir," said the chauffeur, a solid, stolid mechanic, who understood his engine and a road map thoroughly, and left the rest to Providence. "I wasn't payin' particular attention, yet I twigged you the minute you popped up."
"So it is reasonable to suppose that if any one had appeared in that same place this morning and taken steady aim at Mr.Fenley, you would have twigged him, too."
"It strikes me that way, sir."
"Did you see nothing—not even a puff of smoke? You must certainly have looked at the wood when you heard the shot."
"I did, sir. Not a leaf moved. Just a couple of pheasants flew out, and the rooks around the house kicked up such a row that I didn't know the Guv'nor was down till Harris shouted."
"Where did the pheasants fly from?"
"They kem out a bit below the rock; but they were risin' birds, an' may have started from the ground higher up."
"No birds were startled before the shot was fired?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. But June pheasants are very tame, and they lie marvelous close. A pheasant would just as soon run as fly."
The detectives began a detailed inquiry almost at once. It covered the ground already traversed, and the only new incident happened when Hilton Fenley, at the moment repeating his evidence, was called to the telephone.
"If either of you cares to smoke there are cigars and Virginia cigarettes on the sideboard," he said. "Or, if you prefer Turkish, here are some," and he laid a gold case on the table. Furneaux grabbed it when the door had closed.
"All neurotics use Turkish cigarettes," he said solemnly. "Ah, I guessed it! A strong, vile, scented brand!"
"Sometimes, my dear Charles, you talk rubbish," sighed Winter.
"Maybe. I never think or smoke it. 'Language was given us to conceal our thoughts,' said Talleyrand. I have always admired Talleyrand, 'that rather middling bishop but very eminent knave,' as de Quincey called him. 'Cré nom!I wonder what de Quincey meant by 'middling.' A man who could keep in the front rank under the Bourbons, during the Revolution, with Napoleon, and back again under the Bourbons, and yet die in bed, must have been superhuman. St. Peter, in his stead, would have lost his napper at least four times."
Winter stirred uneasily, and gazed out across the Italian garden and park, for the detectives were again installed in the dining-room.
"What about that artist, Trenholme?" he said after a pause.
"We'll look him up. Before leaving this house I want to peep into various rooms. And there's Tomlinson. Tomlinson is a rich mine. Do leave him to me. I'll dig into him deep, and extract ore of high percentage—see if I don't."
"Do you know, Charles, I've a notion that we shall get closer to bed-rock in London than here."
Furneaux pretended to look for an invisible halo surrounding his chief's close-cropped bullet head.
"Sometimes," he said reverently, "you frighten me when you bring off a brilliant remark like that. I seem to see lightning zigzagging round Jove's dome."
Fenley returned.
"It was a call from the bank," he announced. "They have just seen the newspapers. I told them I would run up to town this afternoon."
"Then you did not telephone Bishopsgate Street earlier?" inquired Winter, permitting himself to be surprised.
"No. I had other things to bother me."
"Now, Mr. Fenley, can you tell me where your brother is?"
"I can not."
He placed a rather unnecessary emphasis on the negative. The question seemed to disturb him. Evidently, if he could consult his own wishes, he would prefer not to discuss his brother.
"I take it he has not been home since leaving here on Saturday?" persisted Winter.
"That is so."
"Had he quarreled with your father?"
"There was a dispute. Really, Mr. Winter, I must decline to go into family affairs."
"But the probability is that the more weknow the less our knowledge will affect your brother."
The door opened again. Mr. Winter was wanted on the telephone. Then there happened one of those strange coincidences which Furneaux's caustic wit had christened "Winter's Yorkers," being a quaint play on the lines: