The Superintendent coughed.
“So that of course, miss, when you all rushed down to the summer-house at tea-time you already knew that your uncle was dead ?”
She nodded.
“But you hadn’t noticed that the flag was half-mast before ? You can’t say when it was lowered ?”
There was a short silence. The girl was evidently trying to concentrate her thoughts, and finding it difficult in her state of nervous alarm.
“No,” she said at length, and the Superintendent sighed softly. Still, he reminded himself, he had evidence that it was half-mast at a quarter to three, and that made it probable that the murder had been committed by that time.
“How long were you in the summer-house ?” was his next question.
“I—don’t know. Just a minute or two. It was awful.” She buried her face in her hands, as if to blot out the recollection of it.
“My dear child, I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me at least,” Mrs. Arkwright put in. An inarticulate noise was the only answer.
“Come, miss”—Guest spoke sternly, almost fiercely—“you’ve gone so far now that you must tell me all you know. I know it’s trying for you, to remember the scene, but it’s the least you can do. As your aunt says, it’s sufficiently remarkable that you didn’t give the alarm.”
She lowered her hands, revealing an agonised face. A tear trickled down her nose, and she groped under the pillow, evidently in search of a handkerchief. Mrs. Arkwright without a word produced one which the Superintendent thought quite unfeminine in its practical dimensions.
He himself felt that the ice was now broken. He slightly relaxed his attitude ; his position hitherto had been one of strained attention, the reflection of his effort to persuade the girl to tell her story. On the other hand, Mrs. Arkwright seemed a good deal overcome by these revelations.
“The door of the summer-house was open ?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Why did you go to the summer-house ?”
“I—well, I was waiting. I thought I’d go and talk to uncle.”
“But I thought he didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working ?”
“Cynthia was something of a privileged person,” Mrs. Arkwright put in, with the ghost of her usual placid smile.
“Quite so,” said Guest. “The door was open. You looked in. Could you see the Professor ?”
“Oh, yes,” she shuddered.
“You could see that he was dead—or, at all events, that something was wrong ?”
Her look was sufficient reply.
“You went in? Yes. And—forgive me—before you went in, could you see the knife ?”
Mrs. Arkwright quickly caught the girl’s hand again and pressed it.
“Yes,” Cynthia gasped. “I ran in—I think I called to Uncle Harry. But——”
“You touched the knife ?” Guest asked, almost sympathetically.
She shivered violently.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch it. It was—deep in. I—knew somehow, that he was—dead.”
The Superintendent nodded thoughtfully.
“Now about the summer-house,” he resumed. “Did you touch anything ?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Did you notice a bunch of keys ?”
She reflected, then, “Yes. I remember. It was on the floor. I kicked it—by mistake, I mean.”
“Notice anything else ? The safe now ?”
“I—yes, it was open, I think.”
“Was there a bathing-dress ?”
She could not remember; she had not seen one, she thought.
“Probably there was,” Mrs. Arkwright interposed, perhaps to give Cynthia time to pull herself together. “My brother usually kept one down there.”
“Notice anything on the sofa ?” Guest took up his questioning again, with a nod to Mrs. Arkwright. “Newspapers, folded up, weren’t there ?”
“Yes,” she said, “at least, I think so.”
“Anything on the papers ?”
She made a desperate attempt at clear recollection, and passed her hand wearily across her forehead.
“I—can’t remember,” she said. “All I can see is—him, Uncle Harry.”
Another brief silence ensued.
“You say you were just a few minutes in the summer-house. Just after three o’clock, I suppose. As it happens” (he spoke reflectively), “it was just then that the butler went out on to the terrace. When Mr. Quirk first called, that is. He could see no one—you must have been in the summer-house then.”
Neither woman answered : Cynthia Paley was inwardly appalled to think that while she was standing panic-stricken by her uncle’s dead body, his butler was surveying the terrace and garden. A narrow escape—but what did it matter ? It had all come to light just the same.
Mrs. Arkwright drew a deep breath.
“You know, this is terrible, Cynthia. I—well, I can hardly believe it.”
“It might be a good thing—a relief to your aunt, Miss Paley—if you answered this question. Did you stab your uncle ?”
“No.” she said quickly and firmly. “Of course not.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Mrs. Arkwright echoed. “I told you so from the beginning, Superintendent. I’m surer than ever now.”
Guest smiled quietly. “Believe me, Mrs. Arkwright, if I hadn’t been strongly disposed to share your opinion, I shouldn’t have put my questions as I have done.”
“Then you’re satisfied ?” asked the elder lady, and the younger lay very still, watching him with intent eagerness.
The smile did not leave his face, but, instead of answering her question, he put another to her niece.
“As far as we know at present, you were—apart from the murderer—the last person to see your uncle alive, Miss Paley. When you took down the lemonade after lunch, I mean. That was at about half-past two—or a minute or two later. Now tell me, what was the Professor doing when you left him ?”
“Why, writing,” she said readily enough, though her alarm seemed to have returned with fresh force at this new turn in the questioning.
“Yes, but what ? I mean, letters ? or his book ?”
As he spoke there was a soft tap at the door. Mrs. Arkwright went quickly to it.
“Oh,” she said, and, turning to the Superintendent, “it’s for you.”
It was the plain-clothes man, who handed Guest through the half-open door a folded slip of paper. He dismissed him with a nod, closed the door, and went back to his bedside chair. He unfolded the paper and glanced at it : his expression was inscrutable. He thrust it into his pocket, turned again to Cynthia Paley, and repeated his question.
“His book, I think,” she told him. “He’d got all his papers ready. I’m sure it wasn’t a letter. He’d written one already, though. It was on thè desk, on the right-hand corner.”
The Superintendent sat up with a jerk, and questioned her closely. But beyond the clear recollection of an addressed envelope, she could say nothing. She had an idea that it was addressed to a business firm and not to an individual, but more than that she could not say. Though disappointed, Guest was interested in, and not a little pleased by, this trifling recollection. It might be a valuable card to play later on.
“And there was a camera in the summer-house then ?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” she said. “I remember now. It was on the top of the safe.”
“Sure it wasn’t in the same place the next time you went in ?”
Again she struggled to remember the details of the scene. But she shook her head despondently.
“Never mind, miss,” he reassured her. “Very likely it’s of no importance. And now there’s just one last thing : did you know that your uncle, when he was murdered, was under the influence of a sleeping-draught ?”
“Oh, no. Yes, that is. I mean, I’ve been told now.”
“You’ve no idea how he came to take the sleeping-draught ?”
“N-no.”
He paused, and carefully allowed a faint smile to shape itself on his lips. He extracted the slip of paper from his pocket and read it through. The two women watched him in silence ; in Cynthia’s case the silence was full of terror.
“You wouldn’t care to tell me what was in a small packet which you received by post the very morning of the murder ?” he suggested suavely. “What kind of chemical supply, I mean, of course ?”
“Oh, that. Oh, yes.” Her eyes crept round the room, as if in search of inspiration. “It was—some cold cream.”
“That on the dressing-table ?” he asked.
“Y-yes.”
He walked across the room and picked up first one pot and then another, until she identified the one which had come in the packet.
“H’m. Use this a lot ?” he asked sceptically.
“Yes. A good deal.” She was trapped into a mistaken indignation.
‘‘ So I should judge. If you’ve used all this in two days—and been in bed most of the time.” he commented.
Mrs. Arkwright was evidently bewildered by the dialogue, but at the same time a good deal shocked by her niece’s conduct and tone.
“From a chemist ?” Guest enquired suddenly.
“Yes. At least——”
“Quite so. Funny not to put his label on the package”
“Then how did you know it was——”
“A chemical property ? I didn’t.” He smiled very grimly now. He judged that her defences were thoroughly shattered, and fired what he thought might be a decisive shot.
“Do you know Dr. Cummings well ?”
Her agitation faded into blank amazement.
“Who ?” she asked in a tone of complete ignorance such as Guest believed could not be assumed. He repeated the name, though he felt rather crestfallen.
“Never heard of him.” Cynthia Paley for the first and last time during the interview recovered her normal poise and manner.
CHAPTER XVIII
UPSETS AN UNOFFICIAL UNCLE
She appealed to her aunt.
“Ever heard of Dr.—what is it ? Cummings, Aunt Mary ?”
“No, my dear, never.”
The Superintendent was annoyed to feel that in some way he had lost his ascendency by this one question, the only one which Miss Paley had been able to answer with genuine confidence. He rose and walked to the door, and with his hand on the knob turned to give a last admonition.
“I’m glad, miss, that you’ve seen fit to tell me a good deal more than you did before. But please don’t think I’m fully satisfied. I want you to think the whole business over carefully, and see whether there aren’t still one or two little things you can tell me. For instance, that cold cream of yours. Believe me, it is better for the police to be told than to be left to find out things for themselves.”
And with that he made a dignified, if not to say dramatic, exit, leaving Mrs. Arkwright as bewildered as ever as to what Cynthia’s part in the affair could be. But Cynthia was in no mood to indulge in further revelations, or even confidences.
Guest stood a minute or two on the landing, deep in thought, and then descended to the hall, where the plain-clothes man awaited him.
“Got the prints ?” the Superintendent asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he said, with something approaching a wink, “and sent ’em down express to the station. They’re going to ring up.”
“Right. Then stand by the telephone and let me know the answer as soon as it comes. I’ll be in that room there,” and he pointed to the so-called summer-room.
He entered the room and found it deserted. He rang the bell, and when Richards appeared asked whether he knew where Mr. Trent was. The butler replied that he believed he was on the lower terrace ; he was despatched with a message to the effect that the Superintendent would be glad of a talk with him.
Mr. Trent entered by the garden door. His appearance was very much as when Guest first met him—tousled grey hair, rather shabby bow-tie, ancient grey coat with bulging pockets, old grey flannel trousers, and brown and white rubber-soled shoes. Once more he carried a couple of books under his arm.
“Morning, Superintendent. I hear you want to see me. Any news ?”
“Yes and no. That is to say, there’s nothing I can tell you at this stage. But I think we’re making progress.”
“Splendid, splendid !” Mr. Trent replied. He sat down in a chair by the window, and pulled an ancient and foul-looking briar pipe from his pocket, and then a bulging tobacco-pouch. He filled and lit his pipe.
“Well ?” he enquired. “What can I do for you ?”
“There’s been a lot of ‘ not doing for me ’ in this case,” said Guest. “I mean to say, several people haven’t told me all they know. We shall find out little by little, but it makes things slow, and of course it will also make things very awkward for the people who don’t tell us.”
Mr. Trent cocked one shaggy eyebrow.
“Meaning me ?” he asked politely.
“If the cap fits,” Guest retorted.
Mr. Trent groaned.
“Loathsome proverb,” he observed. “And it’s no use applying it to me. You send for me and indulge in a pretty little sermon. You surely know that it’s a convention that a preacher’s words are always supposed to apply to his audience—or I should say congregation.”
“Well, sir, I do mean you.”
“At any rate you’re frank now.”
“Won’t you be the same ?”
“My dear man, nothing would please me more. I don’t know what you’re getting at. I gather that what you mean is that you haven’t found out as much as you’d like to, and you want a few amateurs to step in and help you.”
He leant back in the chair and gave a truculent twist to his bow-tie, which in no way improved its appearance. Guest, who had been standing with his back to the window, pulled a small chair over to the side of Trent’s and sat down.
“I’m afraid you haven’t got the idea at all, Mr. Trent,” he remarked, “but all the same, if you feel like giving a little amateur help, I’d be the last person to decline the offer.”
He thought that he detected a gleam of satisfaction in Mr. Trent’s eye.
“The despised writer, eh ?” he said. “What a pity I’ve never tried my hand at writing thrillers. Not literature, of course, but perhaps it would have been useful training. However, that’s by the way. I confess I don’t see how I’m to help until I know what your difficulties are. I don’t want to rack my brains to solve a problem which you’ve solved already.”
“Quite so, Mr. Trent. Well, here’s one teaser. At what time was the Professor killed ?”
“You mean to say you don’t know that? You told me the other day that I was the last person to see him alive, and you know pretty well when that was.”
“Oh, I know that after you and he parted company after lunch his niece took down some lemonade to him. But after that—there’s a blank, so to speak.”
“Well, you can hardly expect me to deduce much from that, can you ? Haven’t you anything else to show——”
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders, hoping that thereby he would be guilty of a white lie. By the critic’s scornful laugh, he gathered that he was.
“It’s not so easy to fix the exact time.” Guest spoke almost apologetically. “That’s often the way. For instance, you’d find it a bit difficult, sir, to prove how you spent that afternoon.”
“I ? Why, I’ve told you I was in the walled garden—and asleep most of the lime.”
“Quite so, sir. And of course you know more or less when you woke up. But it would be a difficult job for anyone else to discover for himself what the exact time was. Now wouldn’t it ? It’s a question of gradually narrowing down the margin of error, if I may so express it.”
Mr. Trent sucked ineffectively at his pipe, pulled out his matches again, and relit it.
“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “it occurs to me that just possibly
you’ve overlooked one potential clue. Of course there may be nothing in it.”
“What’s that, sir ?” Guest asked humbly.
“D’you remember that I told you that the Professor said something to me about taking the last two—or perhaps it was three—photographs on his film. Isn’t there a chance that he did take those photographs, and that one or other of them would in some way fix the time when he did it ?”
Guest wondered how long it would be before that telephone message came to hand from the police station. The conversation had taken just the turn he hoped for ; Mr. Trent had been induced to introduce the topic of photography.
“I see,” he said aloud, thoughtfully. “You think that it would be a good thing to develop that film ?”
“Yes, I do,” the other said decisively. “If I may venture a criticism—and you’ll forgive me, I hope, for after all that’s part of my ordinary job—I’m rather surprised that the police haven’t done that already.”
He looked, fiercely at his pipe, which still failed to give satisfaction. He got up and knocked it out into a brass ash-tray on a table in the middle of the room, then resumed his previous position. From his capacious and hard-worked pockets he produced another and younger pipe, and filled and lit it. Guest waited patiently until these operations were satisfactorily completed. He was very glad to gain time.
“You’re hard on us, Mr. Trent,” he said.
Mr. Trent snorted.
“However, it happens that we did develop the film,” he continued quietly.
“You did !”
There was no mistaking Mr. Trent’s keen interest.
“Certainly. I’m sorry I didn’t bring the prints up with me.”
“Why ? I don’t suppose they’d tell me more than they do you.”
“No, sir. But they’d interest you. Three are of Miss Paley bathing ; one of Mr. Shipman playing tennis ; the last is a blank ; the fifth is—you.”
“Me !” said Mr. Trent. Guest doubted whether the surprise was altogether genuine . . . where the devil was that message ? He ought to have waited for it before he embarked upon this interview.
“Yes, sir, you. Of course, there’s no way of making sure it wasn’t taken a day or two sooner——”
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