Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux was examining Sir Clinton with obvious admiration, not wholly unmixed with a certain uneasiness.
“You seem to be very adroit, Sir Clinton,” she observed. “But what is this about the length of my pace?”
“The inspector is accustomed to our English girls, madame, who have a free-swinging walk and therefore a fairly long step. From the length of the steps on the sand he inferred that they had been made by someone who was not very tall—rather under the average height. He forgot that some of you Parisians have a different gait—more restrained, more finished, shall we say?”
“Ah, now I see!” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux exclaimed, not at all unsusceptible to the turn of Sir Clinton’s phrase. “You mean the difference between the cab-horse and the stepper?”
“Exactly,” Sir Clinton agreed with an impassive face.
Armadale was still puzzling over the two footprints. Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, evidently wearying of standing with one foot off the ground, recovered her shoe from him and slipped it on again. Sir Clinton took pity on his subordinate.
“Here’s the explanation, inspector. When you walk in sand, you put down your heel first. But as the sand’s soft, your heel goes forward and downward as you plant your foot. Then, as your body moves on, your foot begins to turn in the sand; and when you’ve come to the end of your step, your toe also is driven downwards; but instead of going forward, like your heel, it slips backward. The result is that in the impression the heel is too far forward, whilst the toe is in the rear of the true position—and that means an impression shorter than the normal. On the sand, your foot really pivots on the sole under the instep, instead of on heel and toe, as it does on hard ground. If you look at these impressions, you’ll find quite a heap of sand under the point where the instep was; whilst the heel and toe are deeply marked owing to each of them pivoting on the centre of the shoe. See it?”
The inspector knelt down, and Wendover followed his example. They had no difficulty in seeing Sir Clinton’s point.
“Of course,” the chief constable went on, “in the case of a woman’s shoe, the thing is even more exaggerated owing to the height of the heel and the sharpness of the toe. Haven’t you noticed, in tracks on the sand, how neat any woman’s prints always look? You never seem to find the impression of a clumsy foot, simply because the impression is so much smaller than the real foot. Clear enough, isn’t it?”
“You are most ingenious, Sir Clinton,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux commented. “I am very glad indeed that I have not you against me.”
Sir Clinton turned the point.
“The inspector will bring you a copy of the evidence you have so kindly given us, madame, and you will do us the favour to sign it. It is a mere formality, that; but we may need you as a witness in the case, you understand?”
Rather ungraciously, Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed. It was evident that she had hoped to escape giving evidence in court.
“I do not desire to offer testimony against the young Madame Fleetwood if it could be averted,” she said frankly. “She was good to me once or twice; very gentle, very kind—not like the others in the hotel.”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were out of his hands; but he made no reply.
“You will, of course, say nothing about this to anyone, madame,” Sir Clinton warned her, as they walked across the sands to the car.
At the hotel, Sir Clinton was met by a message from Cargill asking him to go up to his room. Wendover accompanied him, and when they had inquired about his wound and been reassured by a good report from the doctor which Cargill was able to repeat, the Australian plunged into the matter which he wished to lay before the chief constable.
“It’s that thing I told you about before,” he explained. “This is how it happened. I was so sore last night that I forgot all about it.”
He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled envelope.
“I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was writing something at one of the tables. She made a muddle of her addressing of the thing, and flung a spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket beside her. Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her letter, and went out.
“I happened to have some jottings to make; and, as her waste-paper basket was just at my elbow, I leaned over and fished out the old envelope, to save myself the bother of getting out of my chair for a piece of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make, put the envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It wasn’t for a while after that—yesterday—that I needed the jottings I’d made. I fished the envelope out, and was reading my notes, when suddenly my eye was caught by the spoiled address on the envelope.”
He handed the paper across to Sir Clinton, who read:
Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,
Flatt’s Cotage,
Lynden Sands.
“You see, she’d spelt ‘cottage’ with one ‘t,’ ” Cargill pointed out unnecessarily. “That’s what made her throw away the envelope, I expect.”
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully.
“That’s extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep this? Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for reference later on?”
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by Wendover.
“Why didn’t you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that envelope has now is that it further confirms Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux’s evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of importance.”
“I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill’s industry. If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to give us any more assistance; and one never knows what may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He thought he was doing splendidly.”
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge coming along the corridor towards the stairs.
“Here’s someone who can perhaps give us more valuable information,” Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.
“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see that there was no one within earshot, “there’s just one point I’d like you to clear up for me, if you don’t mind.”
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face.
“Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying anything in his tone.
“It’s nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns it at present?”
“If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on that point, you understand.”
“Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew’s death were proved, who are the next heirs? That’s what I’d like you to tell me, if you don’t mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset House, but if you’ll save me the trouble it will be a help.”
“Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“And if anything happened to her?”
“It falls to me in that case.”
“And if you weren’t there to take it by then?”
“My sister would get it.”
“There’s no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance, couldn’t step in front of you owing to his having married your niece?”
“No,” Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. “The will took account of seven lives, and I suppose that was sufficient in the ordinary way. My sister, if she gets it, can leave it to anyone she chooses.”
Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a slight pause that he took up
a fresh line of questions.
“Can you tell me anything about the present management of the thing? You have a power of attorney, I believe; but I suppose you leave matters very much in the hands of lawyers?”
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I’m afraid I’m no great believer in lawyers. One’s better to look after things oneself. I’m not a busy man, and it’s an occupation for me. Everything goes through my hands.”
“Must be rather a business,” Sir Clinton criticised. “But I suppose you do as I would myself—get a firm of auditors to keep your books for you.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the suggestion.
“No. Do you suppose I can’t draw up a balance-sheet once a year? I’m not quite incompetent.”
It was evident that Sir Clinton’s suggestion had touched him in his vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief constable hastened to smooth matters over.
“I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for figures myself, and I shouldn’t care to have that kind of work thrust on my hands.”
“Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
“I think that’s everything. Oh, there’s one other matter which you may know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to turn up?”
“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand that they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe they’ll make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for to-morrow.”
Sir Clinton’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further delay; but he made no audible comment. Paul Fordingbridge, with a stiff bow, left them and went on his way downstairs. Sir Clinton gazed after him.
“I’d hate to carry an automatic in my jacket pocket continuously,” he remarked softly. “Look how his pocket’s pulled all out of shape by the thing. Very untidy.”
With a gesture he stopped the comment that rose to Wendover’s lips, and then followed Fordingbridge downstairs. Wendover led the way out into the garden, where he selected a quiet spot.
“There’s one thing that struck me about Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux’s evidence,” he said, as they sat down, “and that is: It may be all lies together.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette before answering.
“You think so? It’s not impossible, of course.”
“Well, look at it squarely,” Wendover pursued. “We know nothing about the woman. For all we can tell, she may be an accomplished liar. By her own showing, she had some good reason for wanting Staveley out of the way.”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to make a guess at it,” Sir Clinton interjected. “I didn’t want to go beyond our brief this morning, or I’d have asked her about that. But I was very anxious not to rouse her suspicions, and the matter really didn’t bear directly on the case, so I let it pass.”
“Well, let’s assume that her yarn is mostly lies, and see where that takes us,” Wendover went on. “We know she was at the cottage all right; we’ve got the footprint to establish that. We know she was on the rock, too, for her footprints were on the sands, and she doesn’t contest the fact of her presence either. These are the two undeniable facts.”
“Euclidian, squire. But it leaves the story a bit bare, doesn’t it? Go on; clothe the dry bones with flesh, if you can.”
Wendover refused to be nettled. He was struggling, not too hopefully, to shift the responsibility of the murder from the shoulders of Cressida to those of another person; and he was willing to catch at almost any straw.
“How would this fit, then?” he demanded. “Suppose that Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux herself was the murderess. She makes her appointment with Staveley at the cottage as she told us; and she goes there, just as she said she did. She meets Staveley, and he refuses to see her. Now assume that he blurts out the tale of his appointment at 11 p.m. at Neptune’s Seat with Mrs. Fleetwood, and makes no appointment at all with Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux for that evening. That part of her tale would be a lie, of course.”
Sir Clinton flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the seat beside him, and seemed engrossed in brushing it away.
“She goes to the shore near 11 p.m.,” Wendover continued, “not to meet Staveley, as she told us, but to eavesdrop on the two of them, as she confessed she did in her tale. She waits until Mrs. Fleetwood goes away; and then she sees her chance. She goes down to the rock herself then and she shoots Staveley with her own hand for her own purposes. She leaves the body on the rock and returns, as her footmarks show, to the road, and so to the hotel. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing whatever, squire, except that it omits the most damning facts on which the inspector’s depending. It leaves out, for instance, the pistol that he found in Mrs. Fleetwood’s golf-blazer.”
Wendover’s face showed that his mind was hard at work.
“One can’t deny that, I suppose,” he admitted. “But she might quite well have let off her pistol to frighten Staveley. That would account for——”
He broke off, thought hard for a moment or two, then his face cleared.
“There were two cartridge-cases: one at the rock and one at the groyne. If Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux killed Staveley, then the cartridge-case on the rock belongs to her pistol; and any other shot was fired by the Fleetwoods—at the groyne. That means that Stanley Fleetwood, behind the groyne, fired a shot to scare Staveley. Then, when the Fleetwoods had gone, Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux went down and shot him on the rock. That accounts for everything, doesn’t it?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Just think what happens when you fire an automatic. The ejector mechanism jerks the empty case out to your right, well clear of your shoulder, and lands it a yard or two behind you. It’s a pretty big impulse that the cartridge-case gets. Usually the thing hops along the ground, if I remember rightly. You can take it from me that a shot fired from where Fleetwood crouched wouldn’t land the cartridge-case at the point where Cargill showed us he’d picked it up.”
Wendover reflected for a while.
“Well, who did it, then?” he demanded. “If the shot had been fired on the rock, the cartridge-case couldn’t have skipped that distance, including a jump over the groyne. And there were no other footmarks on that far side of the groyne except Fleetwood’s.”
Again he paused, thinking hard.
“You said there was a flaw in the inspector’s case. Is this it, by any chance?”
Looking up, he saw the figure of Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux crossing the lawn not far from them.
“That’s very opportune,” he said, glancing after her. “Any objection to my asking your witness a couple of questions, Clinton?”
“None whatever.”
“Then come along.”
Wendover managed matters so that it appeared as though they had encountered Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux by a mere accident; and it was only after they had talked for a few minutes on indifferent matters that he thought it safe to ask his questions.
“You must have got drenched before you reached the hotel on Friday night, madame, surely? I hope there have been no ill-effects?”
“Yes, indeed!” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux answered readily. “It was a real rain of storm—how do you say that in English?”
“Thunderstorm; heavy shower,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“Yes? Une pluie battante. I was all wetted.”
“When did the rain start, do you remember?” Wendover asked indifferently.
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux showed no hesitation whatever.
“It was after the automobile had started to return to the hotel—a few minutes only after that.”
“You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,” Wendover commiserated her. “That reminds me, had Staveley his coat on—his overcoat, I mean—or was he carrying it over his arm when you met
him at the rock?”
Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing to consider.
“He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain.”
Wendover, having nothing else to ask, steered the talk into other channels; and in a short time they left Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own affairs. When they were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at Wendover.
“Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the classics? You’re getting on, whichever it was. Armadale will be vexed. But kindly keep this to yourself. The last thing I want is to have any information spread round.”
Chapter Twelve
The Fordingbridge Mystery
“Tuesday, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton said, as he came in to breakfast and found Wendover already at the table. “The day when the Fleetwoods propose to put their cards on the table at last. Have you got up your part as devil’s advocate, squire?”
Wendover seemed in high spirits.
“Armadale’s going to make a fool of himself,” he said, hardly taking the trouble to conceal his pleasure in the thought. “As you told him, he’s left a hole as big as a house in that precious case of his.”
“So you’ve seen it at last, have you? Now, look here, squire. Armadale’s not a bad fellow. He’s only doing what he conceives to be his duty, remember; and he’s been wonderfully good at it, too, if you’d only give him decent credit for what he’s done. Just remember how smart he was on that first morning, when he routed out any amount of evidence in almost less than no time. I’m not going to have him sacrificed on the Fleetwood altar, understand. There’s to be no springing of surprises on him while he’s examining these people, and making him look a fool in their presence. You can tell him your idea beforehand if you like.”
“Why should I tell him beforehand? It’s no affair of mine to keep him from making an ass of himself if he chooses to do so.”
Sir Clinton knitted his brows. Evidently he was put out by Wendover’s persistence.
Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 17