“When you got in the room—what happened?”
“Well, sir, I opened the door with my left hand, I had my broom and things in my right, so that I didn’t catch sight of the corpse, sir, till I was well inside the room.”
“Then you saw Mr. Prescott? Eh?”
“And that awful knife——” she shuddered as the memory of the scene came home to her again.
“H’m. Was the window open?”
Her black eyes opened wide, intensifying the pallor of her face.
“The window—sir?” she queried. “Let me think.” She pondered for a brief moment. “Yes, sir,” she declared. “I think so.”
“Your pardon, Inspector,” intervened Sir Charles, “perhaps I can help you with regard to that point; the window was open, I distinctly remember noticing it.” He preened himself.
Baddeley regarded him with a mixture of approval and amusement.
“It was open when I arrived, Sir Charles, but I was later on the scene than you gentlemen.
“Now, Marshall,” he continued, “after you saw Mr. Prescott’s body—what did you do? Did you go and touch it at all—take hold of the dagger—inquisitive-like—h’m?”
“Touch it!” she gasped. And then again as though she hadn’t heard him properly—“touch it? Lord love yer”—she relapsed from her acquired manners—“I wouldn’t ’ave gorn near it for a thousand quid. Touch it!”
“Well, what did you do?”
“I screamed. And then got up against the wall to support myself—I come over so queer.”
“And then?”
“Then all the gentlemen rushed down, and the master told me to clear off.”
Baddeley addressed Sir Charles.
“This dagger, Sir Charles, that was used by the murderer ... I understood, when I was upstairs, that it is your property?”
“It has been in my family for two hundred years. Came originally from Venice and lies on the curio table in the drawing-room. It was in the drawing-room last night.”
“So it must have been taken out between last night and the early hours of the morning?”
Sir Charles bowed. “It would seem so—beyond argument.”
“Have you finished with me, sir?” interrupted Marshall. “If you ’ave”—her h’s were very uncertain and fugitive just now—“I should like to go—I’m feeling far from well. This shock ’as been a great blow to me.”
“No—I haven’t quite done with you, yet. You have just told me you sweep and clean the rooms.”
Marshall nodded.
“What time did you do Lady Considine’s bedroom, yesterday?”
Marshall never turned a hair.
“I ’aven’t never been in Lady Considine’s bedroom since I was engaged. Coombes sees to that as the master will tell you if you ask him! I know my place, and what’s better than that—I keep it.”
Baddeley looked her straight in the eyes, but Marshall never batted an eyelid.
“What Marshall says is quite true, Inspector,” interjected Sir Charles Considine. “Her duties do not take her into Lady Considine’s room.”
Baddeley accepted the situation with good grace. He tried another tack.
“There were three chairs overturned in the billiard room when you entered it. Didn’t that strike you as strange?”
“It did—when I caught sight of ’em. But the corpse caught my eye first—you run across a corpse on a billiard-table first thing in the morning—see whether you notice anything else much—a corpse seems to fill the landscape—you might say. You don’t want no ‘close-up’ of it—believe me.”
This was truth and truth with a vengeance, naked and unashamed. There was no mistaking it. Marshall had put the matter in plain unvarnished terms—with all the cheap humor of her class—but her sincerity was undoubted and it struck home. If we had not been concerned in the investigation of a murder, I think most of us would have laughed outright.
Sir Charles Considine shifted in his chair, uneasily and disapprovingly. Anthony alone seemed completely unperturbed.
Baddeley bent across to Roper. I did not catch all he said, but he seemed very importunate with regard to some point or other, and I heard Roper say, “It’s all right.... I got it when you first put me wise.”
“All right then, Marshall,” said the Inspector. “You can go now; if I want you again, I’ll send for you.”
Anthony leaned across the table, his forefinger extended towards the maid.
“One moment, Marshall.”
“Yes, sir,” she said fretfully.
“You’ve answered Inspector Baddeley’s questions so nicely,” he continued, with a smile charming enough to put any member of the gentler sex at her ease—“that I’m going to ask you to answer some of mine.” His smile expanded.
Marshall eyed him doubtfully, but seemed to relax a bit.
He scanned her face deliberately—then I saw him hesitate as though puzzled by something. His eyes searched her, seeking. And his glance grew more penetrative in its quality. Something about her was causing him a difficulty. But he threw it off.
“You had done some work this morning, before you went to the billiard room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind telling me what work?”
“I had swept two rooms, done a bit of general tidying-up and polished the floor of the dining-room.”
“Had you polished the dining-room floor just before you went to the billiard room?”
“Yes, sir—just before!”
“What with?” Anthony’s voice was tense and eager.
“Ronuk floor polish.”
“By Moses!” cried Baddeley, “then it was Ronuk.”
Marshall looked the picture of amazement. She had been led to the brink of a morass and even yet failed to realize her imminent danger.
“You wear gloves for polishing floors?” Anthony’s tone grew sharper.
“I use a cloth ... and wear gloves when I’m using it ...” Marshall replied with a suspicion of sullenness.
“Then why”—cried Anthony,—“when you entered the billiard room and saw Prescott’s body on the billiard-table—why did you rush straight to the window, fling it open—and lean out over the window-sill?”
For the space of a few seconds Marshall stared at him in astonishment. Then she swayed slightly and fell into a dead faint on the library floor.
CHAPTER VIII
MR. BATHURST HAS A MEMORY FOR FACES
Baddeley and Roper sprang to her assistance. The rest of us looked at Anthony with bewilderment.
“An elementary piece of reasoning,” he said, apologetically. “In fact, upon reflection, Inspector Baddeley takes more honors than I.”
Baddeley who was doing his best to bring Marshall round, looked up and waved away the compliment. “I missed my chance,” he said.
“You will remember that when our friend here”—Anthony indicated the Inspector—“arrived on the scene, he saw the open window—and immediately had a look at it. I was watching him, and by one of those rare chances of observation, I noticed that something had attracted his sense of smell—he sniffed. And apparently although he detected something—he wasn’t quite satisfied as to what it really was. I followed him up—I’ve a good nasal organ”—he rubbed it humorously—“and I was able to detect round the windows and also round the window-sill, a faint aroma—pungent—faintly spicy. I suddenly deduced furniture polish—you all know the smell. Marshall uses gloves every morning when she wields the cloth with the polish on; you can well imagine how thoroughly impregnated they are with the odor. When she saw Prescott’s body—I said to myself—she rushed to this window and opened it—she leaned out—she placed her gloved hands on the sill—why? And then, gentlemen, I was lucky. Adhering to the wooden top of the window frame—the part under which she had placed her finger-tips to push up the window, was a tiny pink fleck of Ronuk floor polish. It had come off the glove. Now—why did she open the window?”
“Is it a crime to open a window?” The interruption came from Marshall herself. She walked unsteadily to a chair. “I’ve listened to part of what you’ve said. Are you going to ’ang me for opening a window?”
“You admit you did open it, then?” urged Baddeley. “Why did you lie about it?”
Marshall eyed him fiercely.
“Why did you open it?” he rapped out.
“I forgot about it! What with all your questions and all your cross-questionin’ it just slipped my mind. That was why.”
“You haven’t answered the Inspector’s question,” remarked Anthony. “Why did you open it?”
“For a breath of air. Seeing that corpse and that dagger fair frightened me it did. I was struck all of a ’eap. Thought I was goin’ to faint, I did. My first thought was air—air. So I rushed to the window—then I screamed.”
“I see,” snapped Baddeley, threateningly. “You were playing to orders—open window first, then scream—eh? Who told you to do that?”
“What d’ye mean?” she exclaimed defiantly. “Who told me! Nobody—I’m tellin’ the truth, I am.”
“The truth,” cried Baddeley incredulously. “You aren’t on speaking terms with it. Who told you? Come on out with it. It will go all the worse with you, if you don’t.”
“I can’t tell you no more than what I ’ave,” persisted Marshall. “Seeing that corpse on the table was as big a surprise to me as it was to you. And what’s more, you ’aven’t no right to keep me ’ere.”
Baddeley shrugged his shoulders.
“In a few hours’ time you’ll wish you’d told me the truth, my girl,” he said. “Get along now, and don’t play any tricks.”
Marshall made her exit, sullen and defiant. But she was afraid of something I felt sure.
“May I use your telephone, Sir Charles? Thank you. I’ll get on to the Superintendent to send a couple more men up here. Marshall is worth watching.”
“Very well, Inspector.”
“And I won’t trouble to see Mrs. Arkwright or Miss Considine now—or the other servants. I’ll make a point of seeing them alone, later ... will that suit you, Sir Charles? ... this latest development has made a big difference. Come along, Roper.”
They bustled out. Anthony linked his arm in mine. “We’ll have a little lunch, Bill, first, and then I’m going to smoke a pipe in the garden ... there’s something hammering at my brain that I can’t properly get hold of.... I must be suffering from senile decay or something. A little good food and better drink may stimulate me. It sometimes happens.”
Lunch over, we adjourned to the garden.
“A deck-chair and a pipe, Bill—I find very useful adjuncts to clear thinking.”
“Has that inspiration come to you yet?” I queried.
“No, Bill—but it will, laddie—don’t you fret!”
“What’s Baddeley going to do?” I asked. “Arrest Marshall?”
“What for—murder?”
“Well, she seems to know something about it—you ought to think so, you bowled her over.”
“H’m—do you quite know where we are, Bill? Let me run over things for you. Come and sit at the feet of Gamaliel.
“Well, first of all there’s the question of motive. Find the motive, say the Big Noises and you’ll find the murderer.”
“What about Lady Considine’s jewels? ...” I broke in.
“Yes, they do complicate things a bit, don’t they? Still, they supply a motive! Prescott may have been murdered by the thief ... dead men tell no tales. But there are other people with a motive ... there’s Barker,” he went on thoughtfully, “possibly Hornby ... these are the known motives, what about the unknown—eh?”
“The whole thing seems so damned labyrinthine to me,” I muttered.
Anthony assented. “Clear as Thames mud, isn’t it? But it won’t be a bad idea if we sit down and collect our evidence. What do we know as opposed to what we conjecture?” He emphasized the points with his pipe on his finger-tips.
“(a) That when Marshall saw the body—she rushed to the window and opened it.
“(b) That Jack Considine thinks he heard a door shutting during the night.
“(c) That Dick Arkwright (who is supported in this by his wife or says he is), heard footsteps in the garden.
“(d) That Barker’s I.O.U. is missing. Baddeley says so!
“(e) That the murder was premeditated.”
I started. “How do you know that?” I demanded.
“The lace was removed from Prescott’s shoe, my dear Bill. If the murder were one of sudden passion, you wouldn’t say ‘lend me your shoe while I take out the lace.’”
“Of course,” I conceded. “I should have thought.”
“Let’s get on! Where were we?...
“(f) That Prescott appears to have crossed the rose-bed under the billiard room window some time between seven and his death.
“(g) That somebody else did, too—at some time after seven.
“(h) That the Venetian dagger or the poker found on the billiard room floor shows finger-prints.”
“What?” I yelled. “How the devil do you deduce that? You haven’t examined them! You haven’t looked at either of them enough to know that.”
He grinned. “William, my lad, you won’t always have me to hold your little hand. Didn’t you tumble to Baddeley’s game with the letter?”
“What letter?”
“The letter he asked us to identify. That was for finger-prints, old son ... he’d prepared it in the usual way ... he’s got excellent prints of you and me. And of the others.” He chuckled. “He had at least two letters he was handing round.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He was probably taking three or four people to one letter. Roper was marking them as we fingered them. Roper wrote them while we were in the garden.” He chuckled again. “That was how I spotted it.”
“How?”
“You remember they were torn, don’t you, where the signature should have been ... well, the first two tears I saw, didn’t exactly coincide in shape ... see ... that was what I looked at when Baddeley was asking Jack Considine ... it’s deuced hard, Bill, to tear things exactly similarly. Torn, that is, in the way they were torn. He probably used a third letter later on ... but I wasn’t concerned with that.”
“Good Lord,” I groaned, “and I never knew.”
“I’m now proceeding with the last of things we know,” continued Anthony.
“(i) That Lady Considine has lost her pearls. Anything else? I think not! I think that just about exhausts what we know.”
“Prescott was robbed too,” I ventured.
“Of how much, Bill?—nobody knows.”
I saw his point. Then I broached a matter over which I had felt very curious.
“You told me this morning, after we had been first called to the billiard room that you had three distinct clues—two I think you said, in Group A and one in Group B. What were they?”
“Hasten slowly, William. Hasten slowly. I’ll meet you half-way. The clue in Group B was my little triumph that resulted in the discomfiture of Mademoiselle Marshall.”
“And the other two?” I persisted eagerly.
“The other two, Bill, are now three. But I haven’t developed them properly yet. There’s a missing link, somewhere, and until I get it, I’m floundering a bit. What do you make of Marshall?”
“Well,” I answered doubtfully—“I think she’s afraid of something.”
He knocked the ash out of his pipe.
“I’m curious about Marshall—she knows something she hasn’t divulged—why did she open that window? Tell me that.”
“How about Baddeley’s theory?” I put in.
“What? Acting under instructions? Open the window—then scream?” He shook his head. “Don’t think so—somehow.”
“Do you know, Bill” ... he went on, “Señorita Marshall’s face haunts me rather. I can’t get away from it.”
“Love at first sight,” I chaffed. “All good detectives do it ... think of Irene Adler.”
“No—not that, Bill. Not in that way. It’s a different feeling altogether. I can’t forget it ... because I can’t place it.... I seem to have seen it before somehow. The question is where?”
“The Eton and Harrow match at Lords’,” I suggested sarcastically.
“Don’t be an ass. Lords’! I keep conjuring up a photograph—Lords’! Don’t suppose she’s ever heard of Lords’ ... let alone ever been there. ... Holy Smoke, Bill, I’ve got it!!! And by a miracle of miracles, your mention of Lords’ gave it to me. Great Scott! What a bit of luck.”
Now this was the manner of Mr. Bathurst’s memory.
“Do you ever see The Prattler, Bill?”
“Sometimes! Always when I’m here—Sir Charles Considine has taken it since it started!”
“He has? Better and better, laddie. I’m on the crest of the wave. Listen! This is what I’ve remembered. Do you remember the second Test Match of the Australian tour in 1921? At Lords’.”
“What are you getting at?” I said rather peevishly. “Are you trying to prove that it rained or something—you know it always rains for Test Matches.”
“No—I’m deadly serious. The Australians won easily—but that isn’t the point—the last ball bowled—by Durston it was, flew out of his hand and went somewhere in the region of ‘cover.’ Before the umpire called ‘wide’ Bardsley, who was batting at the time, chased after it, got to it, and promptly ‘despatched it to the boundary’ as the reporters said. I remember the incident perfectly now.” He smiled with satisfaction.
“Well,” I said, “What in the name of thunder has this to do with Marshall?”
“This, Bill.” His voice grew serious.
“The Prattler printed a photograph of the incident....”
“Yes ...” I remarked.
“And next to the photograph—in the adjoining space—they printed a photograph of Fraulein Marshall. Now what do you say? I can see it now.”
“In what relation? ...” I protested.
“Can’t recall, William. All I can see is Bardsley’s uplifted bat and adjoining it the face of Marshall. It’s five years ago, remember. But we’ll soon find out. It’s easy! Or it should be.” He sprang to his feet excitedly. “We will now proceed to investigate. I wonder what Sir Charles does with his old Prattlers?”
“Best way to find out will be to ask him!” I ventured.
“Excellent advice, William, that I am going to take. Allons!” Mary Considine met us as we went up to the house.
She looked deathly pale, I thought, and utterly discomfited by the events of the day. I would much rather have stopped in the garden with Mary than gone chasing old copies of The Prattler with Anthony. She stopped us.
“Bill—Mr. Bathurst! I have just been interviewed by Inspector Baddeley, and been asked if I can recognize some handwriting.” She flung us a glance under her long lashes. “Tell me,” she questioned us, “does he suspect anybody in the house of having done this awful thing? It’s unthinkable.”
“Don’t you worry, Mary,” I replied. “It’s only the usual official formality carried out by the Police.”
She turned to Anthony.
“Who could have killed him, Mr. Bathurst? I can’t realize it—yesterday alive and in such ... good spirits ... and now to-day....” She broke off and shook her head helplessly.
“You’re upset,” said Anthony, sympathetically. “Very naturally. It has been a shock to you. How is Lady Considine?”
“Wonderful, considering. I think the murder has to some extent mitigated the loss of her pearls ... can you understand?” She looked up at him and then half smiled towards me. Her pallor only seemed to accentuate her loveliness. I have never seen eyes like Mary’s—and I found myself dreaming dreams.
“Jack has sent word to poor Mrs. Prescott—I don’t know what I shall say to her.” The violet eyes fringed with tears. “It would have been difficult,” she went on, “with someone you knew ... it will be infinitely more difficult with a stranger.”
Anthony conveyed more sympathy with a slight gesture.
“I am sure it will be in able hands. Can you help me now? I want to turn up an old copy of The Prattler. Bill tells me your father has taken it for years. Do you keep them?”
“How long ago is the copy you want?”
“Just over five years,” he replied.
“Then we can’t help you. We never keep more than those of the current year. Is it important?”
“It is, rather,” responded Anthony. “Do you know what becomes of them?”
“I am not quite sure, Mr. Bathurst, but I believe Father sends them to the Cottage Hospital. Come in and see Father—he’ll tell you at once.”
Sir Charles and Lady Considine were in the library.
“Father,” said Mary, “Mr. Bathurst and Bill want you. They want to know where the old copies of The Prattler go?”
Sir Charles looked wonderment.
“It’s rather an unusual request, I know, sir,” said Anthony; “but believe me, I have excellent reasons for worrying you over it.”
“The Prattler? They’re sent to the Allingham Cottage Hospital at the end of every year,” he said.
“H’m—hard luck,” muttered Anthony. “The Allingham Cottage Hospital! Far from here?”
“No,” declared Sir Charles. “About five miles, walking across the Downs. Eight and a half by road.”
“A walk across the Downs would be the very thing for Bill ... he shall have it. He shall accompany me.”
“Which I hope will prove to be the end of a perfect day,” I grumbled.
“You look pretty tired, Bill, now I can gaze upon you properly,” he said, as we struck off across the Downs. “But I shan’t be able to rest till I’ve satisfied myself. Till then my eager excitement will keep me going.”
“I am tired,” I rejoined. “And I’ve a very shrewd idea that we are on a fool’s errand. I don’t suppose for one moment they keep copies of periodicals for five years.”
“Very likely you’re right, Bill. It’s a long shot, but it may strike home—there’s nothing lost if we don’t—we can easily turn up the files at the British Museum—but that will take time—whereas this is opportune.”
After about one hour and a quarter’s walking, we saw our objective. Anthony gave his card to the porter and after a brief period of waiting we were ushered into the presence of the Matron.
The atmosphere of Considine Manor worked wonders. I have always noticed that the Matron dearly loves a lord.
She could not say if she could help Mr. ... she referred to his card... Mr. Bathurst ... many periodicals and magazines were presented to the Hospital ... but she didn’t know quite what became of them. She would ring for the steward. Anthony thanked her. Yes, the steward could help us. Most of the books of that kind when finished with, were sold to a man named Clarke, who kept a shop in Brighton.
“What kind of a shop?” asked Anthony.
“A kind of second-hand bookseller’s, where old magazines and periodicals of all kinds were put in boxes in front of the shop and sold for twopence or threepence.”
“Hopeless, Bill. Perfectly hopeless!” He turned to express his thanks.
The Matron expressed her sorrow that his quest was fruitless.
Then the steward of the Allingham Cottage Hospital had a brain-wave.
“It’s just come to me, sir,” he exclaimed, “that Dr. Mackenzie—that’s the doctor in the village—used to take The Prattler to put on the table of his waiting-room. He’s a lot of office patients, you see, sir, and isn’t over particular about the date of the news he puts in front of them. So he may have some old ones.”
“It’s a chance, certainly,” exclaimed Anthony, “but a slender one.
“Thank you, Matron. Now for Dr. Mackenzie. There are points in favor of his parsimony.”
The steward directed us, and ten minutes’ quick walk brought us to the house. The doctor was in. He listened to us ... would be pleased to help us. As far as he knew all the Spears were somewhere in the Office Patients’ waiting-room ... yes, and The Prattlers. Would we care to look? There would be a couple of dozen or so on the table—the rest would be in a pile on a book wagon there....
“June, Bill ...” muttered Anthony. “About the third week in June.”
It was not on the table. I wasn’t sorry ... too greasy and too well-thumbed to be exactly pleasant. We divided the piles from the wagon. About twenty each. An exclamation from Anthony!
“Here it is, Bill. This would be the one. Come and look.”
He turned the pages rapidly ... then....
“There!” triumphantly, “look at that.”
I looked.
There was the Test Match photograph he had described to me, and next to it, just as he had said, was the face of Marshall, and underneath it I was amazed to read—“Constance Webb, wife of ‘Spider’ Webb, the famous jewel thief of three countries, leaving the Central Criminal Court, at the conclusion of her husband’s trial. He was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude.”
CHAPTER IX
MR. BATHURST CALLS UPON THE POSTMISTRESS
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “That settles it. A topping shot of yours, Anthony!”
“Not so bad,” he admitted. “But not exactly a shot—I remembered the face and the associations. Spare my blushes.”
“Ole Baddeley will listen with both ears when you show him this,” I continued. “In a way I’m glad it’s turned out like this ... it was a pretty ghastly thought to imagine that anybody in the house could have been the guilty party. But this settles it.”
“Settles what, Bill?”
“Why—the affair—Prescott of course! Why do you ask?”
Anthony shook his head. “On the contrary, Bill, this settles two little matters but not, distinctly not, the affair of Prescott as you call it. I don’t like to think about that too much. There, Bill, as the immortal Sherlock would say, ‘we are in very deep waters.’”
Dr. Mackenzie joined us. Had we had any success ... yes? ... he was gratified....
“May I take this copy of The Prattler with me, Doctor?” said Anthony. “I shall be happy to recompense you for its loss.”
“Certainly not! I couldn’t hear of it,” said the doctor. He would have liked us to have stayed for dinner, but he was very much afraid that his cuisine might not be adequate!
“Many thanks, Doctor,”—Anthony with one of his rare smiles—“we understand perfectly. Besides, we are anxious to get back. Good-afternoon.”
I harked back directly we were outside the house.
“I should be eternally obliged if you would explain things a bit, old man,” I declared, a trifle resentfully. “Surely this clears things up considerably.”
“This clears the robbery problem—Lady Considine’s robbery—and it effectively explains that very vexed question that bothered a number of us—why Marshall opened the window. Beyond that——”
“Tell me,” I begged.
“Well, it’s pretty evident that Marshall took the case containing the pearl necklace from Lady Considine’s bedroom, and it’s also fairly conclusive that she conveyed that same case to her husband—‘Spider’ Webb—via the window of the billiard room. The second set of footprints we shall very soon discover to be that august gentleman’s. And I think they were the footsteps that Dick and Helen Arkwright heard. But I don’t think ...” he paused and reflected.
“You don’t think what?”
“I don’t think it was the billiard room door that Jack Considine fancies he heard shutting.” He slashed with his stick at the grass as we walked.
“Was it Prescott’s door?” I broke in eagerly. “Did Prescott hear anything and come down to meet his death?”
My theory excited me.
“No, Bill, I don’t think so. All my intuition and instinct, if you care to call it that, lead me away from that idea.”
“What about Marshall—or Mrs. Spider as she is—and the window? You haven’t explained that yet,” I insisted, “properly!”
“Prescott’s body on the billiard-table was an overwhelming surprise to Marshall when she opened the door this morning. She had dropped the ‘sparklers,’ as Comrade Spider probably calls them, out of the window and closed it again. Then gone quietly back to bed in the servants’ part of the house. Now for her surprise! When she enters the room a few hours later she comes face to face with a greater and more sinister crime. She at once, in her mind, connects the two things! Had ‘Spider’ come back for anything, encountered Prescott and killed him? Had they fought? Was ‘Spider’ hurt? She had last seen him just outside the window. Was he there still, wounded perhaps? She rushes to the window and flings it open. Voilà, Bill!”
I nodded in approval. Yet——
“Where does Prescott come in then?” I queried. “Did he meet Webb outside?”
Anthony stopped and looked at me.
“That’s an idea. I never considered that. Outside! That’s certainly a possibility.”
“One more point,” I said, secretly pleased to have set him thinking, “and that may be two ... apparently nothing else has been stolen besides Lady Considine’s necklace ... that is to say nothing in the jewel line.... How comes the Venetian dagger to be in the billiard room?” Anthony looked grave.
“That’s a poser,” he commented. “But it must not be forgotten that we are dealing with two adventures ... ‘The Adventure of Lady Considine’s Necklace’ and ‘The Adventure of the Death in the Billiard Room’ ... there may be no connection whatever between the two ... and yet, as you have suggested, Bill, there may.”
“The Venetian dagger was always kept in the drawing-room,” I maintained. “Therefore, the person that took it, went to the drawing-room to get it.”
“True ... but when? That’s the point. Also, Bill, why was the dagger used when Prescott was already dead—strangled?”
“Perhaps the murderer didn’t know he was dead. Now I’m coming to that second point at which I hinted just now ... something I fail to understand at all. How do you account for the absence of blood stains? As far as I could see, Prescott lay on the billiard-table on his shoulder, there was no blood on the table, though, and his clothing seemed to show very little trace.... I should have imagined, though I don’t pretend to know, that a blow struck with the force that that had been would have caused a rush of blood from the wound.”
Anthony nodded. “Good for you—the same feature struck me—but Dr. Elliot had an explanation. He says that a blow struck at the top of the spinal cord as this blow was, produced, in a living body, almost an instantaneous paralysis, and that he would expect, as a medical man, a very small quantity of blood to be shed. This was a dead body when the blow was struck, remember! But why the dagger was ever used ... well, I’m in considerable doubt.”
“And I,” I rejoined. “And I can’t see much hope of our doubts being dispelled.”
Anthony looked at his wrist watch.
“We’ve got time to go home through the village,” he said. “I want to make a call.”
“Are you going to tell Baddeley of this Marshall business at once?” I asked. “He can’t very well arrest her because she’s the wife of a man who was sentenced for jewel robbery five years ago.”
“It would be taking a chance, wouldn’t it?” he grinned.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t cleared by now,” I said, reflectively. “You shook her up a bit this morning.”
“All the better if she has ... but she hasn’t, you’ll find.”
“Why?”
“If she’s cleared, Baddeley’s men will have shadowed her ... and she’ll lead them straight to the ‘Spider’” ... he thought for a moment. “Still, I’ve an idea that she’ll let me know where he is when we’ve talked to her for a little while.”
By this time we had reached the village and coming down the hill from the track that leads from the Downs, we entered the main street.
“I am of the opinion, Bill,” said Anthony, “that a few discreet inquiries here may prove of interest and advantage. I suggest that we call and see Mrs. Hogarth at the Post Office. Does she know you, Bill?”
“She remembers me as a guest at the Manor for some years, at any rate,” I responded.
“That’s the stuff to give ’em,”—Anthony waxed merry—“I want her to talk and tell us things—if she knows you it will help tremendously.”
The Post Office was a “general” shop that sold everything from pins to Postal Orders.
“See that?” murmured Anthony, as we entered, heralded by the loud clanging of the shop bell on the door. He pointed to the telephone call-box. “I hoped that the ’phone would be in here.”
Mrs. Hogarth bustled out.
He nudged me in the ribs. “Introduce yourself—tell her who you are.”
“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hogarth,” I cried with an air. “How’s the rheumatism?”
“Why, it’s Mr. Cunningham from the Manor. Good-afternoon, sir. The rheumatics? ... oh, not so bad, sir, considering my age and all that ... this is a terrible thing I hear, sir, what’s happened up at the Manor!”
“Yes, Mrs. Hogarth,” I replied. “It is! This is Mr. Bathurst, a very intimate friend of Sir Charles and her Ladyship——”
Mrs. Hogarth curtsied to the best of her ability—“Pleased to meet you, sir——”
“And they would be glad,” I continued, “if you would give him any information for which he may ask you.”
“Only too pleased, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Thank you,” said Anthony, “I shan’t worry you unduly. This ’phone call-box” ... he motioned towards it ... “is this the nearest one to Considine Manor?”
“Oh yes, sir. By far. The next one is almost to Allingham ... a matter of close on six miles.”
“Now quite in confidence, Mrs. Hogarth, in the very strictest confidence, Sir Charles Considine has asked me to conduct a little inquiry on his behalf. And he suggests that first of all I should come and see you.”
Mrs. Hogarth’s excitement increased. “You may rely on me, sir....”
“I’m sure I can,” exclaimed Anthony. “Now my real question is this ... do you know one of the maids at present employed at Considine Manor, of the name of Marshall?”
“Why, yes, sir, and it’s a funny thing her name should have left your lips so soon after you asking me about that there telephone it is.”
“Oh? Why is that, Mrs. Hogarth?” smiled Anthony. “Has she been using it lately?”
“As sure as I stand here, sir, she was the very last person to do so.”
“This is very interesting, Mrs. Hogarth ... very interesting, and I must congratulate you on your excellent memory. You are quite certain of your statement?”
“Positive, sir! You see, it’s like this. We’re a small village here, as you might say, comparatively speaking that is, and most of the telephone custom we get is from the betting people—there are the Lewes and Brighton bookies you see—so I get to know the regular customers and just about when to expect them—which is from about half-past twelve till about four o’clock—and not so very many after dinner at that—see? Well, yesterday morning, about a quarter past eleven, the bell rings and I bustles out ... only to find it’s a ’phone call. I could see a female in the box which was a bit unusual at that time o’ day, as I’ve said ... so I waited for her to come out ... as you might say ... when she did, who should I set my eyes on but Marshall, the maid from the Manor?”
“Of course you couldn’t hear anything of the message?” inquired Anthony.
Mrs. Hogarth shook her head. “No, sir, I couldn’t ... and I ain’t the sort to listen hard!”
Anthony accepted her denial with a disarming smile.
“Of course not, Mrs. Hogarth, Mr. Cunningham and I are fully alive to that. Did she appear agitated at all?”
Mrs. Hogarth pursed her lips and pondered for a moment.
“No, sir, I wouldn’t say that. Yet she had a look on her that’s hard to describe.” She pondered still more.
“Yes,” said Anthony, encouragingly, “perhaps I can help you ... eh? She looked pleased with herself, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Hogarth knocked the counter with the palm of her hand.
“That’s it, sir, that’s it ... her face was hot, as you might say, flushed you might call it, with pleasure. That was a extryordinary good guess, sir.” Mrs. Hogarth was in the seventh heaven of delight—she had assisted this friend of Sir Charles Considine, she felt sure. She would now fire her last shot, her crowning triumph.
“There’s one other little thing, sir, now I come to think of it,” she murmured with more than a suggestion of an apology in her tone, “I wasn’t listening to the conversation in any way, sir, I know my place here better than to do that, but I’ve just an idea that I did just manage to hear the last sentence the hussy spoke.” She breathed heavily as she looked at us.