Bobby shook a melancholy head.
‘I put my ten bob on Orwell,’ he confessed sadly.
‘That’s life, that is,’ declared Mitchell profoundly. ‘Know a good thing, pass it on to the other fellow, pass it by yourself. Next time you’ll know better – perhaps. Got anything good for to-morrow?’
Bobby remembered suddenly the butler’s double. He offered that.
‘A long shot but it might come off,’ he said.
Mitchell gravely made a note of it.
‘I might risk half-a-crown, and I might not,’ he observed. ‘What’s this about a fellow you saw cutting off through the garden next door?’
Bobby told his tale as briefly as he could; and he noticed that though Mitchell listened intently enough, he made no notes. This meant, Bobby felt sure, that Mitchell had already seen the caretaker of ‘Elmhurst’ and heard his story in full.
‘Bad luck the caretaker smoothed those footprints the chap left under where he climbed the wall,’ Mitchell observed. ‘You didn’t think to stop him?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bobby.
He made no attempt to offer any excuse, for he had an idea that Mitchell knew already everything he could say. And he thought also that Mitchell, talkative himself, was likely to prefer few words in others.
‘You think there was blood on the glass on the top of the wall as if the chap had cut himself while climbing over?’ Mitchell continued.
‘Yes, sir. The left hand probably, judging from the position. Also I take it he must have been a young man and active from the way he got over the wall. And the caretaker says he threw a ripe tomato at him and hit him on the back, so his coat should show a stain.’
‘Till he’s cleaned it,’ commented Mitchell. ‘Still, it’s something. So is the cut hand. Only was he the murderer, or was he only after apples, or was it something else altogether? What about this elderly man you say you saw?’
Bobby recounted how he had noticed him, noticed that he seemed interested in the house, and how his description tallied with that of the elderly man who had spoken to Sergeant Doran but had referred to the tragedy as to a case of suicide.
‘Funny points about this case,’ commented Mitchell.
‘How did he know what had happened, and who is he, anyway? We shall have to try to find him, though, and that’ll be a job unless he’s willing to come forward.’
‘At first,’ Bobby ventured to remark, ‘I thought it might be the man the butler here said Sir Christopher had warned him against. But the description’s quite different.’
Secretly Bobby had hoped this might be fresh news to the great man, but apparently it wasn’t, so that Lewis must have confided his suspicions to others as well as to Bobby.
‘Have to look him up, too,’ was all Mitchell said. ‘There, shouldn’t be any trouble about identifying him, though. Most likely they’ll know at Sir Christopher’s office who it is. The description is all different, of course, but with most people if they describe a lame cow, it’s odd they really mean a blind sheep – unless of course it’s a woman describing another woman’s hat. Hullo, hullo, what’s that bit of cloth on the table there?’
Bobby was quite certain, in spite of these two ‘hullos’, that Mitchell had noticed it the moment he entered the room, for he had seen him look hard at it. Now Bobby told where and how he had found it, and by the light of his electric torch he showed Mitchell the scratches he had found on the window sill.
‘This ought to have been reported before,’ Mitchell said.
‘Might be footprints in the garden.’
Bobby knew the garden had been searched, for from the window he had seen men busy at the task till darkness had made it impossible to continue. But he knew Mitchell knew that better than he did, so he said nothing again, and again he had the idea that Mitchell approved this reticence. More mildly in a way and yet Bobby thought with more real meaning, Mitchell said:
‘You should have left that bit of stuff where it was and let us know at once.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Bobby this time.
‘Remember it another time,’ Mitchell told him, ‘that is if you are one who can learn from your mistakes. It’s rare, most people only think of how to excuse them. How was this fellow you saw in the garden next door dressed?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I didn’t see him.’
‘You didn’t ask the caretaker?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I did,’ said Mitchell. ‘He said he saw him clearly as he was running off, had only a glimpse of his face, thinks he was young and clean-shaven, and is certain he was wearing a grey tweed suit.’
Bobby said nothing, and Mitchell’s eyes were on that fragment of striped worsted cloth as though he would tear its secret from it.
‘Looks as though there were two of them,’ he said. ‘Burglars? But if that was one you saw escaping, what became of the other? How did they get the safe open? Must have had a key and known the combination, unless Sir Christopher left it like that – which isn’t likely. Another point: looks as if a game of billiards had been going on. Now, if Sir Christopher was one of the players, who was the other? One of the burglars? No one seems to have seen anyone. There’s the two young ladies, but there’s evidence one of them was playing the piano the whole time, and the other was lying down. Anyhow, Sir Christopher was a dab at the game, and liked a strong opponent, and Lewis says he has never known either of the young ladies ever touch a cue. Can the old chap you saw, who spoke to Doran, have been in the house playing with Sir Christopher, shot him, and then walked away and spoken to Doran the way he did? You say he was looking at the house with a good deal of interest. If he had just shot someone in it, he might well be.’
‘I had been standing there a good long time, sir,’ Bobby said. ‘I don’t see how he could have got by without my seeing him – my recollection is he walked up from Rushden Road, like any passer-by. There’s one point that struck me as a bit funny, if I may mention it,’ he went on, a little nervously. ‘After I had been in the “Elmhurst” garden I stood close to the entrance gate to this house, and made a note in my pocket-book. I didn’t see Dr Gregory and I’m sure he didn’t pass me. It took me at least five minutes and a half to write what I did. I’ve checked the time by copying it out again. Dr Gregory must have been in the billiard-room during that period, between five and ten minutes that is, with the murdered man on the floor. What was he doing all that time before he came out and called me?’
‘Bear looking into,’ admitted Mitchell. ‘Bear looking into. Anything else you noticed?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ve offered the young ladies to leave a man here all night in case they feel nervous,’ Mitchell said. ‘Quite grateful they were, so that’s all right. I think you had better take the duty. You can phone home that you are detained or your inspector will send a message round for you. They’ll be back here soon to examine this room for finger-prints. Don’t leave it till they come, but then you can go and get something to eat – the butler will give you something. I want you to sleep here. Miss Brenda’s promised to provide some blankets, and you can make up a bed on the couch or somewhere. It’s important to know if anything has been taken from the safe, or if it’s been tampered with in any way, and I don’t want it out of our sight till I’m sure. But we shall have to get that information from Sir Christopher’s City staff, or his lawyers, and that’ll have to wait till the morning.’
‘Miss Jennie has sent for Mr Carsley already,’ Bobby said. ‘The butler came in here and rang him up. He is one of the firm that did Sir Christopher’s legal work for him. I believe he and Miss Jennie wanted to be engaged but Sir Christopher wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Possible motive there,’ observed Mitchell, looking almost excited. ‘Sounds interesting, anyhow. Nothing else to tell me, have you?’
‘Only,’ replied Bobby, remembering something that till now had escaped his mind, ‘that Miss Brenda is engaged to a Mr Lester and thought she saw him near the drawing-room
window about the time the murder was committed. But Lewis hadn’t seen him or anyone else apparently.’
‘Sir Christopher object to him, too?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Might be him the game of billiards was being played with,’ observed Mitchell. ‘Bear looking into. I must go now, but I’m coming back, though I didn’t mean to, and if Mr Carsley arrives while I’m away, don’t say anything at first, but don’t let him go till I’ve got back. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Suppose he won’t stop, what’ll you do?’
‘Arrest him for obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty,’ answered Bobby.
‘Young man,’ said Mitchell, ‘I almost think if you don’t make a fool of yourself, which generally happens, you’ll get on.’
He went away then and Bobby took care to be not far off when presently a ring at the door announced Peter’s arrival. Lewis showed him into the drawing-room where Brenda and Jennie were waiting, and before very long Mitchell was back again.
‘Our bird here?’ he asked Bobby, who had admitted him.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Bobby. ‘He’s in the drawing-room with the two young ladies. He’s wearing a blue serge suit and his left hand is bandaged as if he had cut it recently.’
CHAPTER 7
AN OATH SWORN
‘Bear looking into,’ he said, ‘that will... only if it’s him did it, would he have the face to come back here like that? If he has, then he’s the world’s record holder for cheek and impudence. Gone in to talk to the two girls, has he? Well, we won’t interrupt them just yet, though I would give a year’s pay to hear what he’s saying to them.’
‘I think he and Miss Jennie are alone,’ Bobby said. ‘I saw Miss Brenda come out of the drawing-room and go upstairs soon after he went in.’
‘Tactful young woman,’ observed Mitchell. ‘Makes me want to know still more what the other two are saying. A real sleuth, young man, would be hiding under the drawing-room table, noting down every word. I suppose you never thought of that?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bobby.
‘Pity,’ said Mitchell, ‘not that listeners often hear anything that’s much use – the really successful detective is the man who sits in his office waiting for people to come and tell him things. Hullo, who’s that?’ he added as there came a knock at the door. ‘Some of our people again?’
‘Shall I go?’ Bobby said, and when he opened the door – Lewis, slumbering more or less profoundly on a chair in his pantry, had heard nothing – he saw a tall, thin, pale young man, with a high forehead, deep-set, eager eyes, a mouth of which the long, thin lips were twitching nervously. He had no hat, and his hair, which he wore rather long, hung over his forehead. He had a trick of frequently tossing his head to throw these loose locks back. Bobby noticed specially his hands, which were long and white, rather beautifully shaped and evidently very carefully tended. In his manner was something intense, or rather repressed, as if all the time he were holding his full energies in check, and when he spoke it was with a slight stammer, though whether that was habitual or the result of present excitement, Bobby could not tell.
‘Oh, police,’ he said now, staring at Bobby’s uniform, ‘police – it’s true then?’
Bobby said nothing, but waited. The stranger went on:
‘My name’s Lester – Mark Lester. I’m a friend. We’ve heard Sir Christopher has been shot – is it true? I came at once. Is Miss Laing up still, do you know?’
‘Mr Lester?’ Bobby repeated, remembering the name at once. ‘You had better come in. I think Mr Mitchell would like to see you – Mr Mitchell is in charge of the case at present.’
‘Then it is true?’ Mark exclaimed, following Bobby across the hall to the study. ‘What a dreadful thing – I came as soon as I heard. It’s Miss Laing I came to see.’
‘Mr Mark Lester, is it?’ asked Mitchell from the study where he had been listening to all this. ‘The young gentleman who is engaged to Miss Laing? Come in here for one moment, Mr Lester,’ and beckoning Mark into the study he let loose on him such a flood of talk and of comment on the terrible nature of all such events, and on the invincible determination of the force he had the honour to represent to bring those guilty to justice, that Mark, at first quite dazed, began soon to show impatience and restlessness. But Mitchell’s flood of talk flowed on, and Bobby would have wondered at it, too, had he not by now begun to understand that with Mitchell, not only did his brain work faster and clearer when his tongue was wagging unrestrainedly, but that he used the spate of words always at his command to distract the attention of others, to soothe their suspicions or doubts and to lull them into a sense of security.
‘Just so, just so,’ Mark said, at last managing to get a word in, and at the same time edging towards the door. ‘I thought if I could see Miss Laing if she’s still up...’
But Mitchell had him by the top button of his coat and now launched into a fresh exordium.
‘Exactly,’ said Mark, very firmly indeed, and with a jerk freed himself from Mitchell’s detaining finger and thumb.
But when he turned towards the door, Bobby was there, filling it so that none could pass, and Mitchell said:
‘So you see, Mr Lester, that’s how it stands, and there’s one point I would like you to clear up if you can, and that is, what brought you here at half past six this evening?’
‘But I’ve not been here before to-day at all,’ Mark answered impatiently.
‘Not for a game of billiards with Sir Christopher?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mark answered. ‘I’ve often had a game with him, of course, but not to-day.’
‘There is evidence you were seen about half past six this evening near the drawing-room window here!’ Mitchell snapped, his thin, loquacious lips set and hard now, his eyes intent and fierce and dominating.
But Mark only shook his head and looked puzzled.
‘I’ve not been near here the whole day till now,’ he asserted.
‘What have you been doing this evening?’ Mitchell demanded.
‘I don’t see why you want to know,’ retorted Mark, a touch of excitement coming into his manner. ‘What are you asking for?’
‘A murder has been committed and I am an officer of police charged with the investigation,’ Mitchell answered. ‘As such, I have a right to expect the help and assistance of every respectable law-abiding citizen.’
‘Oh, well,’ Mark answered, his somewhat dramatic nature evidently impressed by this pronouncement – as Mitchell had meant he should be. ‘I left the City about five as usual – I’m with Baily and Leyland, the discount house. I got home some time before six and till dinner I was busy with a lecture I’m to give in a week or two on Chaucer. We had dinner at eight.’
‘We?’
‘My mother and I – I live with my mother. After dinner I left mother with her wireless and I went back to my work till mother came in to say Mrs Boyd, the vicar’s wife, had rung up to ask if it were true that Sir Christopher Clarke had been found shot. So I came here at once to see what had really happened.’
‘Take you long?’
‘I suppose about forty minutes or so. I had to walk as it’s so late. It only takes about ten minutes by tube.’
‘Ah, yes, I see,’ murmured Mitchell, asking for Mark’s address and making a note of it. ‘What room do you use as a study?’
‘It’s the one that used to be the breakfast-room,’ Mark answered, ‘but I don’t see–’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Mitchell, who did not specially wish that Mark should ‘see’ as he called it. ‘On the ground floor, I suppose?’
‘It’s on the right of the front door as you go in,’ Mark explained.
‘Ah, yes, quite so,’ murmured Mitchell, waving aside a point that was evidently for him quite without interest or importance. ‘Anyone come in to see you while you were working?’
‘I do not care to be interrupted,’ Mark answered with simple dignity, ‘
when I am at work.’
‘Very natural, too,’ agreed Mitchell warmly. ‘No one came in then? But I wonder how it is that when you were working in your study at home, you were seen in the garden here?’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Mark. ‘Who told you such rot?’
Bobby from his place at the door said:
‘Miss Laing is coming downstairs, sir.’
‘Ask her to come in here,’ Mitchell said.
Bobby went across to her accordingly; and she followed him back into the room, a tall, dark, tragic figure, with, for all her superb composure, a strained look about her that showed how much she was feeling the recent tragedy. Bobby even noticed a faint trembling of the muscles of her strong, white hand. But that was all; and as she stood there it was odd how, by the mere force of her personality and her silence, she seemed to dominate them all. The big, experienced Superintendent, with his air of resolve and concentration; tall, thin, intense-looking Mark Lester with his manner of being held back by bonds that might break at any moment; Bobby Owen in all the vigour of his splendid young manhood, alert and strong in mind and body, too; all three of them seemed somehow smaller in her presence. Mitchell said to her:
‘You know Mr Lester?’
She turned her grave and questioning eye from Mitchell to Mark and then back, and she bent slightly her stately head.
‘I understand you are engaged to be married?’
‘That is so,’ she answered quietly, and then, looking at Mark, she added: ‘I knew you would come as soon as you heard.’
The young man flushed and gave her a quick look of gratitude and devotion. It was odd, Bobby thought, that this look appeared slightly to trouble her, as if it had awakened an emotion deeper than she had expected.
‘I think,’ Mitchell continued, ‘you told the butler here that you saw Mr Lester in the garden, near the drawing-room window, about half past six? Is that so?’
‘I saw someone; I only had a glimpse,’ she answered. ‘Was it you, Mark?’
‘No, I went straight home from the City and have been there ever since,’ he answered.
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