‘Forget it!’ said Hemingway. ‘What have I missed? That’s what I want to know.’
The Sergeant scratched his head, ‘I lay awake half last night, trying to spot something,’ he said. ‘But I’m blessed if I could, I don’t see what you can have missed.’
‘Of course you don’t! If you could see it, I’d have seen it for myself, long ago!’ Hemingway said irritably. ‘I’ve got a feeling the whole time that it’s right under my nose, too, which is enough to make a saint swear. The trouble is I’m getting distracted, what with all the engagements being made and broken off, and Mrs Herriard worrying me to find out who burned her ruddy Empress, and I don’t know what beside. What I need is a bit of peace and quiet. Then I might be able to think.’
The Sergeant hid a smile behind his hand. ‘Mrs Herriard been at you again, sir?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Not to mention young Stephen. I did think he’d more sense. Anyone would think I’d nothing better to do than to look for missing property!’
‘Who was this Empress anyway?’ asked the Sergeant.
‘How should I know? Look here, if you’re going to start badgering me about her, I may as well book myself a nice room in a mental home, because I’ll need it. I got hold of you to talk over a murder, not to have a chat about a lot of foreign royalties. What would you say was a predominating factor in this case?’
The Sergeant could not resist this invitation. ‘Something that keeps on cropping up, sir? Well, I don’t quite like to say.’
‘Why the devil not?’ demanded Hemingway. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, sir – the Empress!’ said the Sergeant apologetically.
‘Now, look here, my lad,’ Hemingway began, in an awful tone, ‘if you think this is the time to be cracking silly jokes –’ He broke off suddenly, and his brows snapped together. ‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘By God, you are right!’
‘I didn’t mean it seriously, sir,’ the Sergeant said, surprised. ‘It was just a silly joke, like you said.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t quite such a silly joke,’ Hemingway said. ‘Come to think of it, there is something queer about that book. Why did anyone want to burn it?’
‘You said yourself, sir, you didn’t blame anyone for getting rid of it, the way the old lady would keep on talking about it.’
‘You want to cure yourself of this ridiculous habit you’ve got into of remembering all the things I say which it would do you more good to forget,’ said Hemingway. ‘The only member of this outfit who might have pitched the book into the incinerator because he was tired of hearing about it is young Herriard, and he didn’t do it.’
‘How do you know that, sir?’
‘He said he didn’t – that’s how I know it.’
‘Seems to me you’ve only got his word for it,’ objected the Sergeant.
‘Thanks,’ Hemingway said bitterly. ‘I may not be much good as a detective – in fact, I’m beginning to think I’m lousy – but every now and then I do know when a chap’s lying and when he’s speaking the truth. Stephen didn’t burn that book, and it’s no use trying to get me to believe that it was thrown into the incinerator by mistake, because that’s a tale I never did believe, and never shall. Someone tried to get rid of that book, for some other reason than the one Stephen would have had, if he’d done it.’ His countenance suddenly assumed a rapt expression the Sergeant knew well. He shot out a finger. ‘Now, Joseph doesn’t want the old lady to get hold of another copy, which is why his loving nephew Stephen’s out to help her to do so. My lad, I believe we’re on to something!’
‘You may be, sir, but I’m damned if I am!’ said the Sergeant. ‘I mean, what can a book about some Empress or other have to do with Nathaniel Herriard’s death? It doesn’t make sense!’
‘Look here!’ Hemingway said. ‘Who was this Empress?’
‘That’s what I asked you, sir, and you ticked me off properly for wasting your time.’
‘Elizabeth. That was the name,’ Hemingway said, quite unheeding. ‘She had a son who went and committed suicide at some hunting-lodge, with a girl he wanted to marry, and couldn’t. I know that, because Mrs Herriard told me that bit.’
‘Do you mean that that might have given the murderer some idea how to kill Nathaniel?’ asked the Sergeant.
‘That, or something else in the book. Something the old lady hadn’t got to, is my guess. Wait a bit! Didn’t some foreign royalty get murdered in Switzerland, or some place, once?’
‘When would that be?’ said the Sergeant. ‘They’re always getting themselves bumped off, these foreign royalties,’ he added disparagingly.
‘It was some time in the last century, I think. What I want is an encyclopedia.’
‘Well, there’s sure to be one in the library here, isn’t there?’ suggested the Sergeant.
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ Hemingway said. ‘And I’ve only got to find the volume I want missing to be dead sure I’m on to something!’
There was no one in the library when they entered it a few minutes later, and the Inspector was gratified to discover a handsomely bound encyclopedia on one of the bookshelves which lined the walls of the room. The required volume was not missing, and after flicking over a great many pages devoted to the lives of all the Elizabeths in whom he had no interest, and whose claims to fame he was strongly inclined to resent, the Inspector at length came upon Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, born at Munich, December 24th, 1837; assassinated September 10th, 1898, at Geneva.
‘Assassinated!’ ejaculated the Sergeant, reading the entry over his superior’s shoulder.
‘Don’t breathe down my neck!’ said Hemingway, and carried the volume over to the window.
The Sergeant watched him flick over some more pages, run a finger down a column, and then begin to read intently. The expression on his face changed slowly from one of expectant curiosity to one of almost spellbound surprise. The Sergeant hardly knew how to contain his soul in patience, but he knew better than to intrude upon his chief ‘s absorption, and he waited anxiously for the reading to come to an end.
At last Hemingway looked up from the volume. He drew a long breath. ‘Do you know how this woman was killed?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t,’ said the Sergeant shortly.
‘She was stabbed,’ said Hemingway. ‘An Italian anarchist rushed up to her as she was walking along the quay at Geneva to board one of the lake steamers, and stabbed her in the chest, and made off.’
‘They do that kind of thing abroad,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Look at that King of Yugo-Slavia, for instance, at Marseilles! Bad police-work.’
‘Never mind about that! You listen to me!’ said Hemingway. ‘She was stabbed, I tell you, and the man made off. She staggered, and would have fallen, if the Countess with her hadn’t thrown an arm round her. Have you got that? She’d no idea she had been stabbed. The Countess asked her if she was ill, and it says here that she replied that she didn’t know. The Countess asked her if she would take her arm, and she refused. Now, get this, and get it good! She walked on board that steamer, and it wasn’t until she was on it, and it had begun to move, that she fainted! Then, when they started loosening her clothes, they found that there were traces of blood. She died a few minutes later.’
‘Good lord!’ the Sergeant gasped. ‘You mean that you think – you mean that it’s possible –’
‘I mean that Nathaniel Herriard wasn’t stabbed in his bedroom at all,’ said Hemingway. ‘Do you remember that the medical evidence was that death probably followed within a few minutes? Neither of the doctors ever said that death was instantaneous. It wasn’t. After he’d been stabbed, he walked into his room, and locked the door, and that door was never opened again until Ford and Stephen Herriard forced the lock.’
The Sergeant swallowed twice. ‘And Joseph gave himself an alibi!’
‘Joseph gave himself an alibi for the whole time between the locking of that door and the breaking of it open, having already commit
ted the murder.’
‘But when did he do it?’ demanded the Sergeant. ‘Miss Clare went upstairs with him, don’t forget that! He can’t have done it with her looking on!’
‘Get her!’ said Hemingway, shutting the encyclopedia with a snap. ‘You’ll probably find her in the billiard-room with young Stephen.’
The Sergeant did find her there, and returned to the library presently escorting not only Mathilda, but Stephen too. He indicated to Hemingway, by a deprecating gesture, that he had been unable to leave Stephen behind, and cast a reproachful look upon that wholly impervious young man.
‘Look here, Inspector!’ said Stephen, with an edge to his voice, ‘when you’ve quite finished annoying Miss Clare with futile interrogations, perhaps you’ll let me know!’
‘I will,’ promised Hemingway. ‘There’s nothing for you to get hot under the collar about, sir. Since she’s bound to take you into her confidence anyway, I don’t mind you staying here, as long as you behave yourself, and don’t try to waste my time protecting her from the cruel police.’
‘Damn your impudence!’ Stephen said, grinning reluctantly.
‘You sit down, and keep quiet,’ said Hemingway. ‘Now, miss, I’m sorry to bother you again, but there’s something I want you to answer. You’ve told me what happened after you got upstairs to your room on the evening Mr Herriard was murdered: what I want you to tell me now is what happened before you went into your room. As I remember, you stated to Inspector Colwall that you went upstairs with Joseph Herriard?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she answered. ‘That is to say, he caught me up on the stairs.’
‘Caught you up?’
‘Yes, he went first to put a step-ladder in the billiardroom, out of harm’s way.’
The Inspector’s eyes were very bright. ‘Did he, miss? Was Mr Nathaniel Herriard anywhere about at that moment?’
‘He had just gone up to his room.’
‘Did you see him go?’
‘Yes, certainly I did,’ she said, a little puzzled.
‘Where were you, miss?’
‘In the hall. Actually, standing in the doorway of this very room. I was enjoying a quiet cigarette in here after the somewhat strenuous time we’d been through over Mr Roydon’s play. The rest of the party had gone up to change, I think. Then I heard Nathaniel and Joseph Herriard come out of the drawing-room together.’
‘Go on, if you please, miss. What were they doing?’
‘Quarrelling. Well, no, that’s not quite fair. Mr Herriard was still very angry about the play, and – and one thing and another, and Mr Joseph Herriard was doing his best to smooth him down.’
‘Did he succeed?’
‘No, far from it. I heard Mr Herriard tell him not to come upstairs with him, because he didn’t want him. Then he fell over the step-ladder.’ A tiny chuckle escaped her. She said remorsefully: ‘I’m sorry: I ought not to laugh, but it really was funny.’
‘Where was this step-ladder?’ asked Hemingway.
‘On the first half-landing. Joseph had left it there, and – well, it was just the last straw, as far as Nathaniel was concerned, because he didn’t like having paper-streamers hung up all over the house, and the wretched steps tripped him up. I don’t quite know how: Joseph said he knocked them over on purpose, and I must admit it would have been quite like Nathaniel to have done so.’
‘Did you actually see this happen, miss?’
‘No; I heard the crash of the steps, and I came out into the hall to see what was going on.’
‘Well, miss? What was going on?’
She regarded him with a crease between her brows. ‘I don’t quite understand, Mr Joseph Herriard was helping his brother up from his knees, and trying to apologise for having left the steps in such a stupid place.’
‘And Mr Herriard?’
‘Well, he was very angry.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes; he told Joseph to take the decorations down, and said he was a clumsy jackass.’
‘Did he appear to you to have been hurt by the fall?’
‘I don’t know. To tell you the truth, he had a way of pretending that he was practically crippled with lumbago whenever anything happened to annoy him, and he certainly did clap his hand to the small of his back, and –’ Her voice faltered all at once, and she gave a little gasp, and clutched at a chairback. ‘Inspector, what are you asking me all these questions for? You surely don’t mean – But such a thing isn’t possible!’
Stephen, whose eyes had been fixed on her face throughout, said harshly: ‘Never mind that! Go on, Mathilda! What happened next?’
She said in a shaken tone: ‘He went upstairs. Rather slowly. He held on to the banister-rail all the way. I thought he was putting over one of his crippled acts. I heard him slam his door when he got upstairs, and I – I laughed. You see, I thought –’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Stephen interrupted. ‘What did Joe do? Did he know you were watching?’
She turned her head. ‘No. Not till I laughed.’
‘And then? What did he say?’
‘I don’t remember. Nothing in particular, I think. He gave a little start, but that was quite natural. Oh yes, and he did say that Nat had knocked the steps over on purpose! Then he carried the steps away to the billiard-room. I collected my handbag from this room, and put out my cigarette, and went up to change. Joseph overtook me at the top of the stairs. But – but it isn’t possible! It couldn’t have happened then!’
Stephen said: ‘Is it possible, Inspector? Was he stabbed then?’
‘You’ve got no right to ask me that, sir, and you know it. What’s more, I’ll have to warn you both –’
‘– to keep our mouths shut! You needn’t trouble!’
‘But the knife!’ Mathilda said. ‘I never saw it! What could he have done with that?’
‘Easy enough to have concealed it from you!’ Stephen said. ‘Up his sleeve, or even flat against the inside of his arm, with the hilt held downwards in the palm of his hand. You’d never see it!’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘Would it have been possible for my uncle to have walked upstairs after having been stabbed?’
‘A doctor could answer that better than I can, sir.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what you suspect. What put you on to it?’
‘When I’ve proved it to my satisfaction, sir, maybe I’ll tell you. Until then, I’m asking you and Miss Clare to behave as though we hadn’t had this highly illuminating interview.’
‘You needn’t worry!’ Stephen said, his eyes glittering. ‘Not for worlds would I do anything to impede the course of justice! Not – for – worlds!’
‘I think,’ said Mathilda, rather shakily, ‘that I’ll retire to my room with a headache. I don’t feel like meeting Joseph, and I certainly couldn’t act a part. I feel slightly sick.’
‘That’s right, miss, you go upstairs,’ said Hemingway. ‘It’s the best thing you could do.’
She moved to the door. Stephen opened it for her, and as she stepped into the hall, she gave an uncontrollable start, for Joseph was there.
‘Ah, there you are, Tilda!’ Joseph said. ‘I was just coming to look for you! Tea-time, my dear! Hallo, Stephen, old boy! Now, what mischief have you two been hatching, I should like to know?’
‘Mathilda’s got a bit of a head; she’s going to lie down,’ Stephen said, closing the door behind him. ‘Did you say tea was ready?’
‘Oh, poor Tilda!’ Joseph exclaimed, concerned. ‘Can I get you anything for it, my dear? Would you like an aspirin? I’m sure Maud has some.’
‘I shall be all right if I lie down,’ Mathilda replied. ‘It’s nothing much: I often get these heads.’
‘Come on, Joe, leave her alone!’ said Stephen, opening the door into the drawing-room. ‘Tea!’
‘With you in one moment, old man!’ Joseph said. ‘I’m just going to wash my hands.’
Mathilda had gone upstairs. Stephen heard her cross the hall above, and go into her roo
m. He watched Joseph follow trippingly in her wake, smiled grimly, and went into the drawing-room.
The Inspector, emerging from the library, found the coast clear, and went at once to the first half-landing. Dropping on his knees there, he closely scrutinised the stair-carpet. It was a thick, grey pile, and here and there a few small stains were visible on it. The Inspector discovered two brown spots on the half-landing, and, having looked at them through his magnifying-glass, produced a safety-razor blade from a small case in his pocket, and carefully cut these away from the carpet. He placed the severed tufts of pile in a container, and rose from his knees. ‘I’m going back to the station,’ he said briefly. ‘You stay here and keep your eye on our clever customer. It’s just on the cards he may have been listening outside the library door. Tail him!’
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