CHAPTER VIII.The Murder in the MuseumSir Clinton cut short the shrill ringing of his desk telephone by picking up the receiver.“The Chief Constable speaking,” he informed his inquirer.Michael Clifton’s voice sounded over the wire.“Can you come up to Ravensthorpe at once, Sir Clinton, or send Inspector Armadale? There’s a bad business here. Mr. Foss has been murdered. I’ve taken care that no one has got off the premises; and I’ve seen to it that his body has been left as it was found.”Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.“I’ll drive across as soon as possible. See that things are left undisturbed, please. And collect all the people who can give any evidence, so that we needn’t waste time hunting for them. Good-bye.”He shifted the switch of his telephone and spoke again.“Is Inspector Armadale here just now?” he asked the constable who answered his call. “Tell him I wish to see him in my room immediately.”While waiting for Armadale, Sir Clinton had a few moments in which to consider the information he had just received.“This looks like Part II of the Ravensthorpe affair,” he reflected. “Foss’s only connection with Ravensthorpe was the business of these Medusa Medallions. First one has the theft of the replicas; now comes the murder of this American agent. It’s highly improbable that two things like that could be completely independent.”His cogitation was interrupted by the entry of Armadale, and in a few words Sir Clinton gave him the fresh information which had come to hand.“We’ll go up there at once in my car, Inspector. Get the necessary things together, please. Don’t forget the big camera. We may need it. And the constable who does photography for us had better come along also.”Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt to extract further information from him was a complete failure.“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the land lies up yonder.”When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for them at the door.“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?”Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in, followed by Armadale.A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by the show-cases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down, and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips.“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time.“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it, though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the valet.”Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though nothing mattered but the end in view.Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves.“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?”Joan shook her head.“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend her his moral support.After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story.“Some time after lunch, I was sitting on the terrace with Mr. Foss. I forget what we were talking about—nothing of any importance. Soon after that, Maurice came out of the house and sat down. I was surprised to see him, for he’d arranged to play golf this afternoon. But he’d sprained his right wrist badly after lunch, it seems, and had ’phoned to put off his match. He sat nursing his wrist, and we began to speak of one thing and another. Then, I remember, Mr. Foss somehow turned the talk on to some of the things we have. It was mostly about Japanese things that they spoke; and Mr. Foss seemed chiefly interested in some of the weapons my father had collected. I remember they talked about a Sukesada sword we have and about the Muramasa short sword. Mr. Foss said that he would like to see them some time. He thought that Mr. Kessock would be interested to hear about them.”She broke off and seemed to be trying to remember the transitions of the conversation. Sir Clinton waited patiently; but at last she evidently found herself unable to recall any details of the next stage in the talk.“I can’t remember how it came up. It was just general talk about things in our collection and things Mr. Foss had seen elsewhere, but finally they got on to the Medusa Medallions somehow. Mr. Foss was telling Maurice how tantalizing it was to buy these things and pass them on to collectors when he’d like to keep them for himself if only he could afford it. Then it came out that he always took a rubbing of all the coins and medals he came across. I remember he made some little joke about his ‘poor man’s collection’ or something like that. I forget exactly how it came about, but either he asked Maurice to let him have another look at the Leonardo medallions or Maurice volunteered to let him take rubbings there and then. I can’t recall the exact way in which the suggestion was made. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”She looked up to see if Sir Clinton showed any sign of annoyance at incomplete information; but his face betrayed neither dissatisfaction nor approval. Inspector Armadale, though following the evidence keenly and making frequent notes, seemed to think that very little of her information was to the point.“Then,” Joan went on, “I remember Mr. Foss getting up from his chair and saying: ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the things.’ And he went away and left Maurice and me together. I said: ‘What’s he gone for?’ And Maurice said: ‘Some paper to take rubbings of the medallions and some stuff he uses for that, dubbin or something.’ In a few minutes, Mr. Foss came back again with some sheets of paper and some black stuff in his hand. I was interested in seeing how he did his rubbing or whatever you call it, so I went with them to the museum.”“And then?” Sir Clinton prompted. As they were evidently coming near the moment of the murder in Joan’s narrative, it was clear that he wished to leave her no time to think of the crime itself.“We went into the museum. Since that night of the masked ball, Maurice has removed most of the smaller articles of value from the cases and put them into the safe; so in order to get the medallions he had to open the safe. It’s a combination lock, you know; and as I knew Maurice wouldn’t like us to be at his elbow while he was setting the combination, I took Mr. Foss under my wing and led him over to where the Sukesada sword is hung on the wall. We looked at it for a few moments. I remember taking it out of its sheath to show the blade to Mr. Foss. Then I heard Maurice slamming the door of the safe; and when we went into the bay where it is, Maurice was there with the Leonardo medallions in his hand.”“One moment,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You said it was a combination lock on the safe. Do you happen to know the combination?”Joan shook her head.“Maurice is the only one who knows that. He never told it to any of us.”Sir Clinton invited her to continue.“Maurice handed Mr. Foss one of the medallions and Mr. Foss took it over to the big central case—the one with the flat top. Then he began to take a rubbing of the medallion with his paper and black stuff. He didn’t seem quite satisfied with his first attempt, so he had a second try at it. As we were watching him, he seemed to prick up his ears, and then he said: ‘There’s some one calling for you, Miss Chacewater.’ I couldn’t hear anything myself; but he explained that the voice was pretty far off. He had extra good hearing, I remember he said. He seemed very positive about it, so I went off to see what it was all about.”“Was that the last time you saw him?”“Yes,” said Joan, but she had obviously more to tell.“And then?”“As I was going away from the museum door, I met Mr. Foss’s man, Marden. He had a small brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stopped me and asked me if I knew where Mr. Foss was. Something about the parcel, I gathered, though I didn’t stop to listen to him. I told him Mr. Foss was in the museum; and I went on to see if I could find who was calling. I searched about and came across Mr. Clifton; but I didn’t hear any one calling my name. Mr. Foss must have been mistaken.”“And then?”Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in.“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all. The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at the station.”“What had become of Mr. Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question.“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the valet. I don’t know.”Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he silenced him by a glance.“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan. “Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum yourself?”Joan thought for a few seconds.“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr. Clifton, and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard the shout?”“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested.“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time we heard the shout.”“About that,” Michael agreed.Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook.“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter, so far as you know?”Joan paused for a moment or two before replying.“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else that would be of use.”“You’ve no idea where your brother is?”“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her. “You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded, anxiously.“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr. Clifton away for a few minutes, but he’ll be back again almost immediately.”With a reassuring smile, the Chief Constable excused himself and led the way to the door, followed by Michael and the Inspector. As soon as he was out of the room, he turned to Michael.“You’re quite sure that Mr. Chacewater wasn’t in the museum when you reached it?”Michael considered carefully before replying.“I don’t see how he could have been. I glanced into all the bays; and you know there isn’t cover enough for a cat in the place.”“Was the safe door open or shut, did you notice?”Michael again reflected before replying.“Shut, I’m almost certain.”Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two.“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.”Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir Clinton turned and confronted Michael.“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the truth.”Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand.“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you like.”The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the valet.Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.“What’s your name?” he demanded.“Thomas Marden.”“How long have you been in Mr. Foss’s service?”“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.”“How did he come to engage you?”“Advertisement.”“You knew nothing about him before that?”“Nothing.”“Where was he living then?”“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.”“He still has that flat?”“Yes.”“How did he spend his time?”The valet seemed astonished by the question.“I don’t know. None of my business.”Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside.“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out regularly at fixed times.”Marden seemed to see what was wanted.“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went just when it suited him.”“Had he much correspondence?”“Letters? Just about what one might expect.”The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go upon.“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’ ”“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a dozen. Just what one might expect.”“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely private correspondence?”Marden seemed annoyed by the question.“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to pry into my employer’s affairs.”“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?”“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.”“Did you notice the stamps?”“Some were American, of course.”“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of you?”The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone.“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.”Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to his powers.“Had he many visitors?”“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant downstairs for all I know.”“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?”“No.”The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed.“Did he get any telegrams?”“Yes.”“Frequently?”“Fairly often.”“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?”Marden obviously took offence at this.“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I didn’t.”“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no notice of Marden’s annoyance.“Perhaps once or twice a week.”“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him that the telegrams might thus be explained.“I know nothing about that.”Armadale went off on a fresh tack.“Did he seem to be well off for money?”“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.”“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?”“Yes.”“Were they his own or simply hired?”“I don’t know. Not my business.”“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?”“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.”“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.”“I’m not paid for being curious.”The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two.“Have you any idea of his address in America?”“Not my business.”“Did he write many letters?”“I couldn’t say. None of my business.”“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.”“He didn’t.”“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?”Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied.“All his clothes were split new.”“Anything else?”“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.”“What size was it?”“About that length.”The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one.“H’m! A .38 or a .45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a .22, anyway.”He took up his pencil again.“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.”Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory.“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr. Foss came to me with a parcel in his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished; but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.”“And then?” demanded the Inspector with an unconscious plagiarism of his Chief.“Immediately after lunch, I set out and walked through the grounds towards Hincheldene village. I didn’t hurry. It was a nice afternoon for a walk. By and by I met a keeper, and he told me I couldn’t go any farther in that direction. He’d orders to turn back any one, he said. I talked to him for a minute or two, and explained where I was going; and I pulled the parcel out of my pocket as a guarantee of good faith. He didn’t know me, you see. And when I got the parcel out, I noticed the label quite by chance.”“Ah, you do look at addresses after all!” interjected the Inspector.“Quite by chance,” Marden went on, without taking any notice of the thrust. “And I saw that Mr. Foss had made a mistake.”“How did you know that,” Inspector Armadale demanded, with the air of a cat pouncing on a mouse. “You said you’d taken no interest in his correspondence and yet you knew this parcel was directed to a wrong address. Curious, isn’t it?”Marden did not even permit himself to smile as he discomfited the Inspector.“He’d left out the name of the town. An obvious oversight when he was writing the label.”“Well, go on,” growled the Inspector, evidently displeased at losing his score.“As soon as I saw that, I knew it was no good taking the thing to the post office as it was. So I asked the keeper a question or two about the shortest way to Hincheldene without getting on to the barred ground. Then I turned and came home again, intending to ask Mr. Foss to complete the address on the parcel.”“What time was it when you reached here again?”Marden considered for a while.“I couldn’t say precisely. Sometime round about half-past three or a bit later. I didn’t look at the time.”“What did you do then?”“I hunted about for Mr. Foss, but he didn’t seem to be in the house. At last, when I was just giving it up, I met Miss Chacewater coming away from this room, and she told me that Mr. Foss was inside. She went away, and I came to the door. It was half-open and I could hear voices inside: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater from the sound. I thought they’d soon be coming out and that I’d get Mr. Foss as he passed me; so I waited, instead of interrupting them.”“How long did you wait?”“Only a minute or two, so far as I can remember.”“You could hear them talking?”“I could hear the sound of their voices. I couldn’t hear what they said. There’s an echo or something in this room and all I heard was the tone they were speaking in.”“What sort of tone do you mean?”Marden paused as though searching for an adjective.“It seemed to me an angry tone. They raised their voices.”“As if they were quarrelling?”“Like that. And then I heard Mr. Chacewater say: ‘So that’s what you’re after?’ Then I heard what sounded like a scuffle and a gasp. I was taken aback, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I stood stock still with the parcel in my hand for a moment or two. Then I got my head back and I pushed open the door and rushed into the room.”“Be careful here,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “Don’t try to force your memory. Tell us exactly what comes back into your mind.”Marden nodded.“When I got into the room here,” he went on, “the first thing I saw was Mr. Chacewater. He had his back to me and was just turning the corner here.”Marden walked across and indicated the end of the bay beyond the one which contained the safe, the last recess in the room at the end opposite from the door.“He went round this corner in a hurry. That’s the last I saw of him.”Marden’s face betrayed his amazement even at the recollection.“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did yourself.”“I couldn’t see Mr. Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the corner where I’d seen Mr. Chacewater, I saw Mr. Foss lying on the floor. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it around my hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and I thought of it first of all.”Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof.“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr. Foss. By that time he was either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him, for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it struck me as queer that Mr. Chacewater had disappeared.”“It didn’t occur to you that he might have slipped out of the room while your back was turned—when you were busy over Mr. Foss?” demanded Inspector Armadale in a hostile tone.Marden shook his head.“It didn’t occur to me at all, because I knew it hadn’t happened. No one could have got out of the room without my seeing him.”“Go on with your story, please,” Sir Clinton requested.“There’s nothing more to tell. I kept shouting ‘Murder!’ and I searched the room here while I was doing it. I found nothing.”“Was the safe door closed when you saw it first?” Sir Clinton inquired.“Yes, it was. I thought perhaps Mr. Chacewater might be inside, with the door pulled to; so I tried the handle. It was locked.”Sir Clinton put a further inquiry.“You heard only two voices in the room before you burst in?”A new light seemed to be thrown by this question across Marden’s mind.“I heard only two people speaking: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater; but of course I couldn’t swear that only two people were in the room. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”Inspector Armadale caught the drift of the inquiry.“I suppose if one man can disappear in a mysterious way, there’s nothing against two men vanishing in the same way,” he hazarded. “So all you can really tell us is that Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater were here at any rate, and possibly there were other people as well?”“I couldn’t swear to any one except these two,” Marden was careful to state.“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Have you any idea whether Mr. Foss came into contact with a person or persons outside the house during his stay here? I mean people known to him before he came to Ravensthorpe?”“I couldn’t say.”“None of your business, I suppose?” Inspector Armadale put in, with an obvious sneer.“None of my business, as you say,” Marden returned, equably. “I wasn’t engaged as a detective.”“Well, this question falls into your department,” Sir Clinton intervened, as Armadale showed signs of losing his temper. “What costume was Mr. Foss wearing on the night of the masked ball? You must know that.”Marden replied without hesitation.“He was got up as a cow-puncher. He hired the costume from London when he heard about the fancy dress. It was a pair of cow-boy trousers, big heavy things with fringes on them; a leather belt with a pistol-holster on it; a coloured shirt; a neck-cloth; and a flappy cow-boy hat.”“Rather a clumsy rig-out, then?”Marden seemed to find difficulty in repressing a smile.“It was as much as he could do to walk at all, until he got accustomed to the things. He told me it gave him a good excuse for not dancing. He wasn’t a dancing man, he said.”“He carried a revolver, you say. Did you ever see any sign that he was afraid of anything of this sort happening to him?”“I don’t understand. How could I know what he was afraid of or what he wasn’t? It was none of my business.”Sir Clinton’s smile took the edge off Marden’s reply.“Oh, I think one might make a guess,” he said, “if one kept one’s eyes open. A terrified man would give himself away somehow or other.”“Then either he wasn’t afraid or else I don’t keep my eyes open. I saw nothing of the sort.”Sir Clinton reflected for a moment or two. He glanced at Armadale.“Any more questions you’d like to put? No? Then that will do, Marden. Of course there’ll be an inquest and your evidence will be required at it. You can stay on here until you’re needed. I’ll see Miss Chacewater about it. But for the present you’ve given us all the help you can?”“Unless you’ve any more questions you want to ask,” Marden suggested.Sir Clinton shook his head.“No, I think I’ve got all I need for the present, thanks. I may want you again later on, of course.”Marden waited for nothing further, but left the room pursued by a slightly vindictive glance from Inspector Armadale. When he had disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Michael Clifton.“Hadn’t you better go back to Joan, now? She must be rather nervous after this shock.”Michael came to himself with a slight start when the Chief Constable addressed him. Hitherto his rôle had been purely that of a spectator; and he had been so wrapped up in it that it came as a faint surprise to find himself directly addressed. Throughout the proceedings he had been semi-hypnotized by the deadly matter-of-fact way in which the police were going about their work. When he had first heard of the murder, he had felt as though something unheard-of had invaded Ravensthorpe. Of course murders did take place: one read about them in the newspapers. But the idea that murder could actually be done in his own familiar environment had come to him with more than a slight shock. The normal course of things seemed suddenly diverted.But during the last ten minutes he had been a witness of the beginning of the police investigation; and the invincible impression of ordinariness had begun to replace the earlier nightmare quality in his mind. Here were a couple of men going about the business as though it were of no more tragic character than a search for a lost dog. It was part of their work to hunt out a solution of the affair. They were no more excited over it than a chess-player looking for the key-move in a problem. The cool, dispassionate way in which the Chief Constable had handled the affair seemed to strike a fresh note and to efface the suggestions of the macabre side of things which had been Michael’s first impression of the matter. The Dance of Death retreated gradually into the background in the face of all the minute questionings about letters, and visits, and parcels—these commonplace things of everyday life.“If I can be of no use here,” he said, “I think I’d better go.”He hesitated for a moment as a fresh thought struck him.“By the way, how much of this is confidential?”Sir Clinton looked at him with an expressionless face.“I think I may leave that to your discretion. It’s not for broadcasting, at any rate.”“What about Maurice?” Michael persisted.“I’d leave Maurice out of it as far as possible,” said Sir Clinton, in obvious dismissal. “Now, Inspector, I think we’d better have a look at the late Mr. Foss.”Michael retreated from the room as they turned towards the body on the floor.“Leave Maurice out of it!” he thought, as he walked at a snail’s pace towards the room where he had left Joan. “That’s a nice bit of advice! If you leave Maurice out of it, there seems to be nothing left in it. Now what the devil am I to say to her? If I say nothing, she’ll jump to the worst conclusion; and if I say anything at all, she’ll jump to the same.”
Sir Clinton cut short the shrill ringing of his desk telephone by picking up the receiver.
“The Chief Constable speaking,” he informed his inquirer.
Michael Clifton’s voice sounded over the wire.
“Can you come up to Ravensthorpe at once, Sir Clinton, or send Inspector Armadale? There’s a bad business here. Mr. Foss has been murdered. I’ve taken care that no one has got off the premises; and I’ve seen to it that his body has been left as it was found.”
Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I’ll drive across as soon as possible. See that things are left undisturbed, please. And collect all the people who can give any evidence, so that we needn’t waste time hunting for them. Good-bye.”
He shifted the switch of his telephone and spoke again.
“Is Inspector Armadale here just now?” he asked the constable who answered his call. “Tell him I wish to see him in my room immediately.”
While waiting for Armadale, Sir Clinton had a few moments in which to consider the information he had just received.
“This looks like Part II of the Ravensthorpe affair,” he reflected. “Foss’s only connection with Ravensthorpe was the business of these Medusa Medallions. First one has the theft of the replicas; now comes the murder of this American agent. It’s highly improbable that two things like that could be completely independent.”
His cogitation was interrupted by the entry of Armadale, and in a few words Sir Clinton gave him the fresh information which had come to hand.
“We’ll go up there at once in my car, Inspector. Get the necessary things together, please. Don’t forget the big camera. We may need it. And the constable who does photography for us had better come along also.”
Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt to extract further information from him was a complete failure.
“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the land lies up yonder.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for them at the door.
“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?”
Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in, followed by Armadale.
A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by the show-cases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down, and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips.
“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time.
“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it, though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the valet.”
Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though nothing mattered but the end in view.
Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves.
“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?”
Joan shook her head.
“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.
Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend her his moral support.
After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story.
“Some time after lunch, I was sitting on the terrace with Mr. Foss. I forget what we were talking about—nothing of any importance. Soon after that, Maurice came out of the house and sat down. I was surprised to see him, for he’d arranged to play golf this afternoon. But he’d sprained his right wrist badly after lunch, it seems, and had ’phoned to put off his match. He sat nursing his wrist, and we began to speak of one thing and another. Then, I remember, Mr. Foss somehow turned the talk on to some of the things we have. It was mostly about Japanese things that they spoke; and Mr. Foss seemed chiefly interested in some of the weapons my father had collected. I remember they talked about a Sukesada sword we have and about the Muramasa short sword. Mr. Foss said that he would like to see them some time. He thought that Mr. Kessock would be interested to hear about them.”
She broke off and seemed to be trying to remember the transitions of the conversation. Sir Clinton waited patiently; but at last she evidently found herself unable to recall any details of the next stage in the talk.
“I can’t remember how it came up. It was just general talk about things in our collection and things Mr. Foss had seen elsewhere, but finally they got on to the Medusa Medallions somehow. Mr. Foss was telling Maurice how tantalizing it was to buy these things and pass them on to collectors when he’d like to keep them for himself if only he could afford it. Then it came out that he always took a rubbing of all the coins and medals he came across. I remember he made some little joke about his ‘poor man’s collection’ or something like that. I forget exactly how it came about, but either he asked Maurice to let him have another look at the Leonardo medallions or Maurice volunteered to let him take rubbings there and then. I can’t recall the exact way in which the suggestion was made. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”
She looked up to see if Sir Clinton showed any sign of annoyance at incomplete information; but his face betrayed neither dissatisfaction nor approval. Inspector Armadale, though following the evidence keenly and making frequent notes, seemed to think that very little of her information was to the point.
“Then,” Joan went on, “I remember Mr. Foss getting up from his chair and saying: ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the things.’ And he went away and left Maurice and me together. I said: ‘What’s he gone for?’ And Maurice said: ‘Some paper to take rubbings of the medallions and some stuff he uses for that, dubbin or something.’ In a few minutes, Mr. Foss came back again with some sheets of paper and some black stuff in his hand. I was interested in seeing how he did his rubbing or whatever you call it, so I went with them to the museum.”
“And then?” Sir Clinton prompted. As they were evidently coming near the moment of the murder in Joan’s narrative, it was clear that he wished to leave her no time to think of the crime itself.
“We went into the museum. Since that night of the masked ball, Maurice has removed most of the smaller articles of value from the cases and put them into the safe; so in order to get the medallions he had to open the safe. It’s a combination lock, you know; and as I knew Maurice wouldn’t like us to be at his elbow while he was setting the combination, I took Mr. Foss under my wing and led him over to where the Sukesada sword is hung on the wall. We looked at it for a few moments. I remember taking it out of its sheath to show the blade to Mr. Foss. Then I heard Maurice slamming the door of the safe; and when we went into the bay where it is, Maurice was there with the Leonardo medallions in his hand.”
“One moment,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You said it was a combination lock on the safe. Do you happen to know the combination?”
Joan shook her head.
“Maurice is the only one who knows that. He never told it to any of us.”
Sir Clinton invited her to continue.
“Maurice handed Mr. Foss one of the medallions and Mr. Foss took it over to the big central case—the one with the flat top. Then he began to take a rubbing of the medallion with his paper and black stuff. He didn’t seem quite satisfied with his first attempt, so he had a second try at it. As we were watching him, he seemed to prick up his ears, and then he said: ‘There’s some one calling for you, Miss Chacewater.’ I couldn’t hear anything myself; but he explained that the voice was pretty far off. He had extra good hearing, I remember he said. He seemed very positive about it, so I went off to see what it was all about.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes,” said Joan, but she had obviously more to tell.
“And then?”
“As I was going away from the museum door, I met Mr. Foss’s man, Marden. He had a small brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stopped me and asked me if I knew where Mr. Foss was. Something about the parcel, I gathered, though I didn’t stop to listen to him. I told him Mr. Foss was in the museum; and I went on to see if I could find who was calling. I searched about and came across Mr. Clifton; but I didn’t hear any one calling my name. Mr. Foss must have been mistaken.”
“And then?”
Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in.
“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all. The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at the station.”
“What had become of Mr. Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question.
“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the valet. I don’t know.”
Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he silenced him by a glance.
“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan. “Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum yourself?”
Joan thought for a few seconds.
“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr. Clifton, and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard the shout?”
“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested.
“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time we heard the shout.”
“About that,” Michael agreed.
Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook.
“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter, so far as you know?”
Joan paused for a moment or two before replying.
“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else that would be of use.”
“You’ve no idea where your brother is?”
“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her. “You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded, anxiously.
“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr. Clifton away for a few minutes, but he’ll be back again almost immediately.”
With a reassuring smile, the Chief Constable excused himself and led the way to the door, followed by Michael and the Inspector. As soon as he was out of the room, he turned to Michael.
“You’re quite sure that Mr. Chacewater wasn’t in the museum when you reached it?”
Michael considered carefully before replying.
“I don’t see how he could have been. I glanced into all the bays; and you know there isn’t cover enough for a cat in the place.”
“Was the safe door open or shut, did you notice?”
Michael again reflected before replying.
“Shut, I’m almost certain.”
Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two.
“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.”
Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir Clinton turned and confronted Michael.
“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the truth.”
Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand.
“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you like.”
The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the valet.
Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Thomas Marden.”
“How long have you been in Mr. Foss’s service?”
“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.”
“How did he come to engage you?”
“Advertisement.”
“You knew nothing about him before that?”
“Nothing.”
“Where was he living then?”
“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.”
“He still has that flat?”
“Yes.”
“How did he spend his time?”
The valet seemed astonished by the question.
“I don’t know. None of my business.”
Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside.
“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out regularly at fixed times.”
Marden seemed to see what was wanted.
“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went just when it suited him.”
“Had he much correspondence?”
“Letters? Just about what one might expect.”
The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go upon.
“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’ ”
“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a dozen. Just what one might expect.”
“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely private correspondence?”
Marden seemed annoyed by the question.
“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to pry into my employer’s affairs.”
“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?”
“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.”
“Did you notice the stamps?”
“Some were American, of course.”
“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of you?”
The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone.
“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.”
Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to his powers.
“Had he many visitors?”
“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant downstairs for all I know.”
“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?”
“No.”
The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed.
“Did he get any telegrams?”
“Yes.”
“Frequently?”
“Fairly often.”
“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?”
Marden obviously took offence at this.
“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I didn’t.”
“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no notice of Marden’s annoyance.
“Perhaps once or twice a week.”
“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him that the telegrams might thus be explained.
“I know nothing about that.”
Armadale went off on a fresh tack.
“Did he seem to be well off for money?”
“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Were they his own or simply hired?”
“I don’t know. Not my business.”
“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?”
“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.”
“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.”
“I’m not paid for being curious.”
The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two.
“Have you any idea of his address in America?”
“Not my business.”
“Did he write many letters?”
“I couldn’t say. None of my business.”
“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.”
“He didn’t.”
“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?”
Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied.
“All his clothes were split new.”
“Anything else?”
“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.”
“What size was it?”
“About that length.”
The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one.
“H’m! A .38 or a .45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a .22, anyway.”
He took up his pencil again.
“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.”
Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory.
“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr. Foss came to me with a parcel in his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished; but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.”
“And then?” demanded the Inspector with an unconscious plagiarism of his Chief.
“Immediately after lunch, I set out and walked through the grounds towards Hincheldene village. I didn’t hurry. It was a nice afternoon for a walk. By and by I met a keeper, and he told me I couldn’t go any farther in that direction. He’d orders to turn back any one, he said. I talked to him for a minute or two, and explained where I was going; and I pulled the parcel out of my pocket as a guarantee of good faith. He didn’t know me, you see. And when I got the parcel out, I noticed the label quite by chance.”
“Ah, you do look at addresses after all!” interjected the Inspector.
“Quite by chance,” Marden went on, without taking any notice of the thrust. “And I saw that Mr. Foss had made a mistake.”
“How did you know that,” Inspector Armadale demanded, with the air of a cat pouncing on a mouse. “You said you’d taken no interest in his correspondence and yet you knew this parcel was directed to a wrong address. Curious, isn’t it?”
Marden did not even permit himself to smile as he discomfited the Inspector.
“He’d left out the name of the town. An obvious oversight when he was writing the label.”
“Well, go on,” growled the Inspector, evidently displeased at losing his score.
“As soon as I saw that, I knew it was no good taking the thing to the post office as it was. So I asked the keeper a question or two about the shortest way to Hincheldene without getting on to the barred ground. Then I turned and came home again, intending to ask Mr. Foss to complete the address on the parcel.”
“What time was it when you reached here again?”
Marden considered for a while.
“I couldn’t say precisely. Sometime round about half-past three or a bit later. I didn’t look at the time.”
“What did you do then?”
“I hunted about for Mr. Foss, but he didn’t seem to be in the house. At last, when I was just giving it up, I met Miss Chacewater coming away from this room, and she told me that Mr. Foss was inside. She went away, and I came to the door. It was half-open and I could hear voices inside: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater from the sound. I thought they’d soon be coming out and that I’d get Mr. Foss as he passed me; so I waited, instead of interrupting them.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Only a minute or two, so far as I can remember.”
“You could hear them talking?”
“I could hear the sound of their voices. I couldn’t hear what they said. There’s an echo or something in this room and all I heard was the tone they were speaking in.”
“What sort of tone do you mean?”
Marden paused as though searching for an adjective.
“It seemed to me an angry tone. They raised their voices.”
“As if they were quarrelling?”
“Like that. And then I heard Mr. Chacewater say: ‘So that’s what you’re after?’ Then I heard what sounded like a scuffle and a gasp. I was taken aback, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I stood stock still with the parcel in my hand for a moment or two. Then I got my head back and I pushed open the door and rushed into the room.”
“Be careful here,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “Don’t try to force your memory. Tell us exactly what comes back into your mind.”
Marden nodded.
“When I got into the room here,” he went on, “the first thing I saw was Mr. Chacewater. He had his back to me and was just turning the corner here.”
Marden walked across and indicated the end of the bay beyond the one which contained the safe, the last recess in the room at the end opposite from the door.
“He went round this corner in a hurry. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Marden’s face betrayed his amazement even at the recollection.
“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did yourself.”
“I couldn’t see Mr. Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the corner where I’d seen Mr. Chacewater, I saw Mr. Foss lying on the floor. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it around my hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and I thought of it first of all.”
Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof.
“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr. Foss. By that time he was either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him, for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it struck me as queer that Mr. Chacewater had disappeared.”
“It didn’t occur to you that he might have slipped out of the room while your back was turned—when you were busy over Mr. Foss?” demanded Inspector Armadale in a hostile tone.
Marden shook his head.
“It didn’t occur to me at all, because I knew it hadn’t happened. No one could have got out of the room without my seeing him.”
“Go on with your story, please,” Sir Clinton requested.
“There’s nothing more to tell. I kept shouting ‘Murder!’ and I searched the room here while I was doing it. I found nothing.”
“Was the safe door closed when you saw it first?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Yes, it was. I thought perhaps Mr. Chacewater might be inside, with the door pulled to; so I tried the handle. It was locked.”
Sir Clinton put a further inquiry.
“You heard only two voices in the room before you burst in?”
A new light seemed to be thrown by this question across Marden’s mind.
“I heard only two people speaking: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater; but of course I couldn’t swear that only two people were in the room. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
Inspector Armadale caught the drift of the inquiry.
“I suppose if one man can disappear in a mysterious way, there’s nothing against two men vanishing in the same way,” he hazarded. “So all you can really tell us is that Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater were here at any rate, and possibly there were other people as well?”
“I couldn’t swear to any one except these two,” Marden was careful to state.
“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Have you any idea whether Mr. Foss came into contact with a person or persons outside the house during his stay here? I mean people known to him before he came to Ravensthorpe?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“None of your business, I suppose?” Inspector Armadale put in, with an obvious sneer.
“None of my business, as you say,” Marden returned, equably. “I wasn’t engaged as a detective.”
“Well, this question falls into your department,” Sir Clinton intervened, as Armadale showed signs of losing his temper. “What costume was Mr. Foss wearing on the night of the masked ball? You must know that.”
Marden replied without hesitation.
“He was got up as a cow-puncher. He hired the costume from London when he heard about the fancy dress. It was a pair of cow-boy trousers, big heavy things with fringes on them; a leather belt with a pistol-holster on it; a coloured shirt; a neck-cloth; and a flappy cow-boy hat.”
“Rather a clumsy rig-out, then?”
Marden seemed to find difficulty in repressing a smile.
“It was as much as he could do to walk at all, until he got accustomed to the things. He told me it gave him a good excuse for not dancing. He wasn’t a dancing man, he said.”
“He carried a revolver, you say. Did you ever see any sign that he was afraid of anything of this sort happening to him?”
“I don’t understand. How could I know what he was afraid of or what he wasn’t? It was none of my business.”
Sir Clinton’s smile took the edge off Marden’s reply.
“Oh, I think one might make a guess,” he said, “if one kept one’s eyes open. A terrified man would give himself away somehow or other.”
“Then either he wasn’t afraid or else I don’t keep my eyes open. I saw nothing of the sort.”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment or two. He glanced at Armadale.
“Any more questions you’d like to put? No? Then that will do, Marden. Of course there’ll be an inquest and your evidence will be required at it. You can stay on here until you’re needed. I’ll see Miss Chacewater about it. But for the present you’ve given us all the help you can?”
“Unless you’ve any more questions you want to ask,” Marden suggested.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“No, I think I’ve got all I need for the present, thanks. I may want you again later on, of course.”
Marden waited for nothing further, but left the room pursued by a slightly vindictive glance from Inspector Armadale. When he had disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Michael Clifton.
“Hadn’t you better go back to Joan, now? She must be rather nervous after this shock.”
Michael came to himself with a slight start when the Chief Constable addressed him. Hitherto his rôle had been purely that of a spectator; and he had been so wrapped up in it that it came as a faint surprise to find himself directly addressed. Throughout the proceedings he had been semi-hypnotized by the deadly matter-of-fact way in which the police were going about their work. When he had first heard of the murder, he had felt as though something unheard-of had invaded Ravensthorpe. Of course murders did take place: one read about them in the newspapers. But the idea that murder could actually be done in his own familiar environment had come to him with more than a slight shock. The normal course of things seemed suddenly diverted.
But during the last ten minutes he had been a witness of the beginning of the police investigation; and the invincible impression of ordinariness had begun to replace the earlier nightmare quality in his mind. Here were a couple of men going about the business as though it were of no more tragic character than a search for a lost dog. It was part of their work to hunt out a solution of the affair. They were no more excited over it than a chess-player looking for the key-move in a problem. The cool, dispassionate way in which the Chief Constable had handled the affair seemed to strike a fresh note and to efface the suggestions of the macabre side of things which had been Michael’s first impression of the matter. The Dance of Death retreated gradually into the background in the face of all the minute questionings about letters, and visits, and parcels—these commonplace things of everyday life.
“If I can be of no use here,” he said, “I think I’d better go.”
He hesitated for a moment as a fresh thought struck him.
“By the way, how much of this is confidential?”
Sir Clinton looked at him with an expressionless face.
“I think I may leave that to your discretion. It’s not for broadcasting, at any rate.”
“What about Maurice?” Michael persisted.
“I’d leave Maurice out of it as far as possible,” said Sir Clinton, in obvious dismissal. “Now, Inspector, I think we’d better have a look at the late Mr. Foss.”
Michael retreated from the room as they turned towards the body on the floor.
“Leave Maurice out of it!” he thought, as he walked at a snail’s pace towards the room where he had left Joan. “That’s a nice bit of advice! If you leave Maurice out of it, there seems to be nothing left in it. Now what the devil am I to say to her? If I say nothing, she’ll jump to the worst conclusion; and if I say anything at all, she’ll jump to the same.”