He fished out a pocket-lens and scrutinised the chip.
“Looks like cheap glass, sir, so far as I can see. One or two bubbles in it; and there’s a faintish tinge in it. What do you make of it?”
“A bit of broken bottle, perhaps?”
“I believe you’re right, sir. It looks like something of the sort.”
“Well, keep it carefully, sergeant. It may turn out to be important. One never can tell. By the way, where’s the other thing—the flat bit with the round edge. Oh, here it is.”
Sir Clinton drew a few coins from his pocket and compared the curves of their edges with the arc of the ground rim of the glass fragment.
“The complete thing’s been a shade larger than a half-crown,” he pointed out, handing the glass and the coin to Ledbury for comparison. “You’d better preserve that carefully also. It might have a bearing on the case, once things are pieced together. Is there anything left on the floor of the car or on the seats? Nothing?”
“Just some bits so small that they’re almost powder, sir.”
“I’d sweep them up before the car’s shifted. One never can tell what may be useful. And now, I think, we might have a look at the contents of Quevedo’s pockets.”
“I’ve got all the stuff parcelled up, sir,” Ledbury explained. “I was able to get at the pockets without disturbing the body.”
He produced a brown-paper parcel from a recess in the car, where he had placed it for safety; and unrolled it on the grass for Sir Clinton’s inspection.
“H’m! Not much here of interest. Cigarette-case, match-box, fountain-pen, and so forth. Just what a normal man carries. What about this letter, sergeant?”
“We didn’t make much out of it, sir. What with the blood that had soaked it, and the fact that it’s in some foreign language, it left both Peel and me standing. Perhaps you’d glance at it, sir, and see if it suggests anything.”
Sir Clinton unfolded the blood-stained paper gingerly and examined it thoughtfully. Ledbury, scanning his face, saw his brows contract sharply for a moment; but immediately afterwards his expression relaxed again.
“I can’t make much of it out,” he admitted frankly. “It’s almost illegible, with all this blood on it. You’ll need to get it cleaned up by an expert before you’ll be able to decipher the whole of it. All I can read are one or two isolated phrases. Here they are: ‘A bouquet . . . aboard Mihanovich . . . four packages, 21, 22, 23, 25 kilos . . . remount service . . . Martigue . . . Le Grec . . . your beefsteak . . . atorrante.’ H’m! The Mihanovich appears to be a boat, sergeant. A kilo is a two-pound weight, roughly. If I’m not mistaken, Martigue is a slang term for a Marseillais. Atorrante means a low-down cuss of some sort—it looks abusive. Not very illuminating, altogether, at first sight, is it?”
Ledbury shook his head rather disconsolately, and held out his hand for the paper. As Sir Clinton returned it, the sergeant glanced over it before putting it away.
“Here’s some initials at the bottom, sir, under this splotch of blood. I believe one might read ’em if one held it up to the sun.” He suited the action to the word. “It looks like a V. and an F., so far as I can make it out, sir. V. F. Aren’t these the initials of Mr. Francia, sir?”
“I believe so,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
“Just so,” Ledbury agreed. “This’ll perhaps be one of his business letters.”
Sir Clinton glanced along the road as the sergeant repacked his parcel.
“Let’s have a last look round,” he suggested, moving off towards the lodge gate.
From that point he followed the tracks of Quevedo’s car a few yards in the direction of Raynham Parva and then halted suddenly.
“Make anything of that?” he demanded, indicating one particular point on the trail.
Ledbury and Peel knelt down and examined the place carefully.
“Looks like the scrape of a wheel starting, sir; but it’s very slight. There’s just the faintest change in the track.”
Peel confirmed the sergeant’s suggestion with a nod, but refrained from any verbal comment.
“That’s what I’d take it to be myself,” Sir Clinton agreed. “Well, that seems to be all I want to see, sergeant. And, now, what about giving you a lift into Raynham Parva, if you’ve any business in that direction—fetching up a cart to remove the body, or what not?”
“You haven’t given us that expert opinion yet, sir,” Ledbury reminded him slyly.
“Oh, my opinion? Well, here it is, for what it’s worth. You’re both wrong.”
The sergeant was evidently quite unprepared for this verdict.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir,” he blurted out.
“Simple enough,” Sir Clinton answered. “You said it was an accident pure and simple. It wasn’t. Constable Peel said that Mr. Teddy Barford was a murderer. He isn’t. If the coroner sees things as I do, I think you’ll find the jury persuaded to give the verdict, Murder by some person unknown. And a remarkably clever person, too, I can tell you, sergeant. He’s struck a new line in murders—at this late stage in the game.”
The two officials were completely taken aback by this bold statement.
“There’s just one other thing,” Sir Clinton continued. “Go over that car with a small-toothed comb if necessary; but see that you don’t miss a piece of the rim of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. That would come in very handy, if you can lay your hands on it. But I doubt if it’s there. One can’t expect to have all the possible luck.”
Ledbury recovered quickly enough from this second surprise.
“You read all that from the things you saw, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, you’ve seen everything for yourself. I know no more than you do. I’ll explain it, if you like.”
The sergeant hurriedly put up his hand to check the impending revelation.
“No, sir. Just wait a moment, if you please. If it’s a murder case—you’re not having a joke, I take it?—then it’s the first murder case that’s come my way. I’ve often wondered how I’d shape, if anything of that sort did happen hereabouts. Now, if you were to tell me all about it, there wouldn’t be much for me in it, would there? I mean, I’d like to feel I hadn’t just been led by the nose, you see? If it’s all there, I’d like to have a chance of thinking it out for myself and comparing notes with you later on, if I may. There’d be more of what you might call intellectual satisfaction that way.”
Sir Clinton felt more convinced than before that Ledbury was a man after his own heart. He liked independence of mind when it was coupled with efficiency.
“Quite right, sergeant. I’d feel the same myself.”
Ledbury’s face showed that he took this as a compliment.
“But remember, sergeant,” Sir Clinton added, “one can’t afford to lose time in a murder case. If you find you don’t tumble to it quickly, then ring me up and I’ll give you my notions for what they’re worth. In any case, I’d like to hear your interpretation.”
Ledbury was evidently pleased by this.
“I’d like to talk it over with you, sir. You think there’s no reason why we shouldn’t let Teddy Barford out now? If we’ve really made a mistake in locking him up, then the sooner he’s let out, the less fuss he’s likely to make.”
Sir Clinton gave Ledbury a good mark for that “we,” since the detention of Barford had been contrary to his own wishes. The sergeant might not like Peel, but he had refrained from shuffling the burden of the mistake on to the constable’s shoulders, as he might have done.
“Well, I think that’s all we have to do here,” he said, by way of closing the affair. “If you happen to have a camera handy you might photograph the smash-up before you shift things. It’s as well to have a permanent record. And, now, if you’ll get aboard, I’ll run you into Raynham Parva so that you can get a cart or something to fetch away the body as soon as possible. There’s no need to leave it here any longer.”
Chapter Six
A NEW LINE IN MURDERS
/> A few minutes sufficed to take Ledbury into Raynham Parva and drop him at the entrance to the police station. So long as the sergeant was with him, Sir Clinton showed no sign that he had anything on his mind; but as he drove back through the village again towards Fern Lodge, he was free to concentrate on a problem which the Quevedo affair had suggested to him; and it was evident that he found it but little to his liking.
Ledbury would, of course, release Teddy Barford at the earliest possible moment; and Sir Clinton felt that he could relieve Staffin’s anxiety on this score as soon as an opportunity presented itself. He had seen enough, on the scene of the disaster, to feel sure that Barford could be exculpated. Only the ill-controlled zeal of Constable Peel had thrown suspicion on the man; and, on the facts of the case, no jury would feel justified in bringing in a verdict against him. That side of the affair was as good as closed.
When Sir Clinton drove up the approach from the gate of Fern Lodge, he noticed that Francia had returned to the lawn and that two girls were there also, along with Elsie. As he passed them on his way to the garage, his niece made a gesture inviting him to join them; and as soon as he had put his car under cover, he strolled across the grass towards the group.
Francia had a newspaper in his hand, from which he appeared to have been reading aloud to the girls; and Sir Clinton saw that he had a pair of large, tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles on his nose, which markedly altered his appearance. Catching sight of Sir Clinton, he put down the newspaper and folded up his glasses, storing them away in his pocket. As her uncle came up, Elsie introduced him to the two strangers.
“My uncle. This is Miss Anstruther, uncle . . . and Miss Noreen Anstruther.”
Sir Clinton’s glance passed from the grey eyes of the elder girl to the brown ones of her sister; and the impression he got was one which pleased him. Frankness and naturalness were two qualities which he rated highly; and both girls seemed to have them in full measure.
“A nice, straight pair,” was his mental verdict. “Not much cash to spend on their clothes, evidently; but they’ve got good taste and they’ve done the best with what they have. No cheap shoes and stockings to ruin the effect.”
He looked round, and was about to seat himself when his niece cautioned him.
“Mind that chair, uncle. It’s the rickety one, so don’t drop into it with a thud.”
Sir Clinton inspected the camp-chair dubiously, tested it, and then seated himself gingerly.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” he suggested to Francia, with a glance at the dropped newspaper.
Francia waved the matter aside.
“It is only a copy of El Diario which I got by the post this morning,” he explained. “I was translating some of the news for the ladies. As they are going out to my country, I thought it might amuse them to hear something of what is going on there at present.”
He dismissed the matter with a shrug of his shoulders which accentuated that foreign appearance to which Mrs. Thornaby took exception.
“Going out to the Argentine, are you?” Sii Clinton asked lazily, turning to the two girls. “May I smoke? . . . Thanks. . . . Funny thing, everybody I meet nowadays seems to be going out to the Argentine.”
He lighted a cigarette, after offering his case.
“My niece nearly persuaded me to go myself,” he added.
“My uncle’s promised to come out later on,” Elsie told the two girls. “Miss Anstruther and her sister are going to stay with us at first, uncle. Vincent thought it would be more comfortable for them. They’re going out to take an engagement that Vincent’s arranged for them.”
“I’m a fiddler,” Linda Anstruther explained, “and my sister plays the piano. Mr. Francia very kindly secured some engagements for us over there. It’s so hard to get anything in this country, nowadays, when one isn’t first-class.”
“You don’t sound like a misunderstood genius,” Sir Clinton interjected with a smile. “I’ve met very few musical people who would admit frankly that they weren’t worth a place at the top if they had their rights.”
“Miss Anstruther’s very good indeed, uncle. Wait till you hear her play,” Elsie put in. “He’s not really a Philistine,” she added, turning to the girls, “but he’s got a cold, hard mind, and all that sort of thing, you know. See-things-as-they-are-and-draw-the-proper-inferences.”
“Just so, as my friend Sergeant Ledbury would say. Get hold of the right end of the stick, no matter who’s at the other end. It’s his look-out.”
“He can’t keep away from it,” Elsie complained in mock vexation. “I haven’t seen him for months and months, you know; and wie’d just settled down to have a talk this morning when this sergeant-person put his nose in at the gate. Off you went, uncle, without a second thought for your affectionate niece. No, you needn’t apologise, really. No afterthoughts, by request. You can tell us about it, if you like, though.”
Sir Clinton threw a glance at Francia, but the Argentiner chanced to be looking in another direction. Evidently he had not thought it necessary to tell Elsie any details of the sergeant’s visit.
“There was nothing much in it,” Sir Clinton explained. “A motor-smash, and the sergeant wanted some help over a minor point.”
With the tail of his eye he saw Francia glance sharply across, as though he had been taken by surprise.
“It was our car that has been damaged,” Francia explained smoothly to Elsie. “I lent it to a—to an acquaintance; and he has unfortunately come to grief with it. I am afraid it will not be fit to use for some time?”
His interrogation was evidently addressed to Sir Clinton.
“No, not for a while, I’m afraid. You can use mine any time you want to, Elsie,” Sir Clinton suggested.
If Francia wished to spare the girls the news of Quevedo’s death, there seemed no reason for bringing it out. They were sure to hear of it sooner or later; but there was no need to speak of it just then.
“Oh, yours will do quite as well,” Elsie assured her uncle. “It’s lucky you’re here just now.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton retorted ironically. “As the owner of a spare car, I’m a positive asset.”
Before his niece could reply, Johnnie appeared at the front door and, espying his uncle, ran to them across the lawn.
“I say, uncle! I’ve got the box all unpacked. Some of the things are just what I wanted. And thanks ever so much for them. But, I say, uncle, one of the motors has got a plug for the electric power, and the plug won’t fit our plug-holes. Mother said I wasn’t to go fiddling about with it myself. I was to bring it to you and see if you would do something with it. Will you come now? I want to see the motor working.”
Sir Clinton rose with a gesture of apology to his companions.
“We’ll have a dash at it, Johnnie. I daresay there will be a spare plug somewhere about the house which will work all right. Come along.”
Johnnie, delighted at his success in cutting out his prize under the very guns of the enemy, carried off Sir Clinton in triumph to the house.
“I’ve got all my stuff in the smoke-room, uncle,” he explained. “Nobody uses the place much, you see; and it’s got a big table in it that’s just right for setting things up. I can build up what I want, there, without people coming fussing round and telling me to clear my things away. Here’s the place.”
He ushered Sir Clinton into a big, light, airy room furnished with comfortably cushioned cane chairs, which lent a summery aspect to the place. Opposite the door, a broad window overlooked the lawns before the house; to the right, the wall was broken by a French window giving access to a verandah, and by a second window. Between the windows stood Johnnie’s table, littered with Meccano parts and tools.
Sir Clinton crossed the room and, glancing from the window on the verandah side, found that it overlooked a little lake with wooded sides.
“That’s the lake I told you about, uncle,” Johnnie informed him, rather unnecessarily. “Down on the left there, you can just see
the roof of the boat-house. There’s a roller-slip for putting the boats into the water, and a lot of pulleys and tackle for hauling them up again. It’s as easy as anything. I can bring my boat up myself.”
Sir Clinton seemed interested in the view for a moment. Then he glanced absently at a row of books which stood rather untidily on the sill of the window, and mechanically he shifted one or two of them so as to bring them into order. Johnnie failed to notice his uncle’s preoccupation.
“Here’s that motor, uncle. Look, it’s got a plug on the wire like these ones they put on electric irons. It won’t fit our wall-plugs.”
Sir Clinton’s introspection came to an end abruptly. He glanced at the plug which Johnnie held up.
“There’s bound to be a spare plug lying about the house somewhere. Let’s see . . .”
He moved across the room to the bell and rang.
“If we can’t find one on the premises, I daresay we can pick one up in the village,” he suggested. “If not we’ll take out the car later on and hunt one up somewhere.”
Staffin appeared in answer to the bell’s summons, and Sir Clinton turned to her with a glance which warned her that he wished to speak to her alone.
“I need a spare plug for the power-circuit. Where do they keep them?” he asked.
Staffin evidently understood what he wanted.
“I think there are some in a drawer in the pantry next the wine-cellar, sir. Or else they’re kept in a box of odds and ends up in one of the attics. I’m not sure.”
“Cut along, Johnnie, and see if you can fish one out,” Sir Clinton ordered.
When his nephew had disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Staffin.
“I don’t think you need worry about Mr. Teddy Barford,” he said kindly. “Probably by this time he’s back home again.”
Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 7