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DEATH  OF  MR.  GANTLEY

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This is the Story

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MR. GANTLEY, owner of the Downhamshire Courier, is found dead in his car one Monday morning not far from his native town of Carnford. He had been shot through the head. Lady Gantley, Gantley’s sister-in-law, had died suddenly from a heart attack on the Saturday evening, and from her will it appeared that in the event of her death preceding that of Gantley her fortune shall go to her niece and nephew, Charles and Myrtle Harrington. If Gantley died first then her fortune should go to her companion, Sylvia Chadwick, and her brother Percy. Both Inspector Driffield, who is a local man, and Inspector Arnold of Scotland Yard are baffled by the crime. A lucky meeting with Desmond Merrion brings that skilled investigator into the case, to which he eventually succeeds in supplying a brilliant and surprising solution.

 

 

By the Same Author

FATE AT THE FAIR	MURDER AT THE MOORINGS
THE SECRET OF HIGH ELDERSHAM
THE THREE CRIMES	THE MENACE ON THE DOWNS
THE HARDWAY DIAMONDS MYSTERY

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DEATH

OF MR. GANTLEY

 

 

MILES  BURTON

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published  for

THE  CRIME  CLUB  LTD.

by

W.  COLLINS  SONS  &  CO  LTD

LONDON

Copyright

Printed in Great Britain

Downhamshire obviously takes its name from Downham Minster, the sleepy old cathedral town which lies huddled in its narrow valley among the hills that surround it. Downham Minster has a history, actual and legendary, extending back into the dim past before the Romans came to Britain. But, with the growth of the age of industry, the importance of the old city has gradually diminished. Though still officially the county town, Downham Minster is now, to most people, little more than a venerable name.

The once inconsiderable village of Carronford, a couple of centuries ago a group of farm-houses scattered on the banks of the little river Carron, has taken its place. Carronford, or as it is now spelt, Carnford, is now a thriving town, the centre of several small but prosperous industries. It lies on the main railway and road between London and Trentmouth, the great port of the West, just over the border of the next county, fifteen miles from Carnford. And as for the river Carron, the visitor to the town might seek it in vain. It runs ignominiously through an iron pipe, hidden somewhere beneath the busy streets.

It emerges, however, in a deep ditch between factory walls, well on the outskirts of the town. Thence it flows in a narrow wooded valley for some ten miles or more, gaining volume in its course. Suddenly the valley opens up, and the river meets a straggling arm which the sea has pushed forward into the land. At high water the lake thus formed is in places three miles wide, but at low water the floor of the valley is covered with an expanse of mud, intersected by shallow winding channels. The lake narrows again towards its seaward end, forming a small and inconvenient harbour.

On the eastern side of this harbour lies the fishing village of Carronport, and, on the high land above it, a heterogeneous assemblage of bricks and mortar, grandiloquently known as Merton-on-Sea. For the convenience of the many residents of Carnford who have summer bungalows at Merton-on-Sea, an excellent road has been built between the two places. This runs on the eastward side of the river, but some distance from it, and at a much higher level. From this road only occasional glimpses can be obtained of Carronport Water, as the tidal lake is known locally.

On the opposite side of the harbour to Carronport stand a few cottages, forming the hamlet of Winterley. There are two ways of reaching Winterley. A ferry runs across the harbour from Carronport, at such times as old Ginger Dowell, the ferryman, can be coaxed from the recesses of the Lobster Smack. But Ginger’s boat will only carry foot passengers, and not more than half a dozen of them without the water lapping over the gunwale, if there is anything of a ripple.

The only means of access to Winterley for wheeled traffic is by the road which runs along the right or western side of the river. But the traverse of this road is not to be undertaken lightly. It is precipitously steep, winding, narrow, and with an execrable surface. For twelve miles out of Winterley it runs through bare and deserted moorland, with nothing more than a farm house or two at rare intervals. Sometimes, when it takes a sudden dive down to sea-level in order to cross one of the serpentine creeks of Carronport Water, it is flooded at spring tides to a depth of a foot or more.

At last, when it seems that the interminable moorland must stretch on to infinity, the road descends a boulder strewn slope into the village of Norton Ferris. After this, it improves slightly. It becomes less steep, and has a noticeably better surface. But still, for the rest of its course into Carnford, it is little better than a lane. And finally, as though ashamed of itself, it creeps furtively into the town through a maze of narrow alleys.

As might be expected, this road is very little used. On the very rare occasions when any one from the outside world has business in Winterley, they take the bus which runs along the high road to Carronport, and then entrust themselves to the mercy of Ginger Dowell. In fact, such traffic as leaves Carnford by this road rarely goes beyond Norton Ferris, eight miles out. Sometimes, on a fine Sunday evening, as many as a dozen strangers, mostly hailing from Carnford, may be found in the taproom of the village inn.

This inn, the Otterworth Arms, is well worth a visit. It is an old timbered house, standing back from the road, and shielded from it by a magnificent pair of chestnut trees. The interior is practically unspoilt, with wide fireplaces and settles black with age and smoke. The proprietor, Jack Tregarris, is a silent and reserved man, rather difficult for strangers to get on with. But Mrs. Tregarris will be sure to bustle about and make you as comfortable as the very limited resources of the place will allow.

On the evening of Sunday, September 24th, there were not more than half a dozen customers in the bar of the Otterworth Arms. A steady drizzle had fallen all day, quite sufficient to discourage visitors from Carnford. The men occupying the settles were all inhabitants of Norton Ferris, and seemed well-known to Jack Tregarris. Downhamshire folk are not talkative, as a rule, and a heavy silence permeated the room, broken occasionally by some terse observation, to which Jack might or might not reply in a monosyllable.

“Dark to-night, for the time of year,” remarked one of the men deliberately, as though he had devoted much thought to the matter before speaking.

Jack removed his pipe from his mouth, and turned his head slowly towards the window. “Aye,” he replied, and, replacing his pipe, puffed at it solemnly.

“ ’Twas new moon last night,” said another, after a long pause. “You can’t expect nothing else.”

This seemed to settle the matter to everybody’s satisfaction, and the conversation languished. A few minutes later, however, a bright and quivering light appeared among the branches of the chestnuts outside the window.

“ ’Tis a car,” remarked one of the men. “Ain’t her headlights powerful bright, just! Likely some one from Carnford.”

“She’s coming the other way,” replied Jack, who had taken up his stand by the window.

“Oh, then ’tis Mr. Gantley from Carnford,” said one. “Coming from Benger’s Creek. I seed him go by on Friday evening.”

There was a sudden movement at the further end of the room. A man who had been sitting there silently, absorbed in contemplation of the mug of beer before him, seemed suddenly to wake as though from a reverie. In the dim-light shed, by the lamp hanging from a beam in the centre of the room, he might have been seen to be dressed in a rather shabby suit and heavy nailed boots. But his face was that of an educated man, and in his deeply shaded eyes there was a look of sullen ferocity, reminding one of a caged beast.

The car entered the village, and the swish of its tyres on the wet road could be plainly heard. The sound advanced towards the Otterworth Arms, now brightly illuminated in the glare of the headlights. Then these were switched off, and the sound died away. Jack, peering through the window, could see the dim outline of a big closed car drawn up outside the door of the inn. “He’s pulled up,” he remarked laconically.

“Maybe he’ll be coming in,” observed one of the men, without much display of interest.

He had scarcely spoken, when the door of the taproom opened, and a man of middle stature walked in. He wore a muffler and a raincoat, buttoned up to his throat, and his cap was drawn down well over his forehead. But enough of his face was revealed to display a short, closely-trimmed beard, which he stroked gently with one hand as he spoke. His eyes were concealed by a pair of heavy tortoise-shell spectacles.

“Good evening, all,” he said. “Vile weather, isn’t it? Can any of you tell me if I can get any petrol in the village? My tank is running a bit short.”

The man in the corner, who had his eyes fixed upon the newcomer, leant forward at the sound of his voice, but quickly drew back behind the shelter of his settle. Jack Tregarris considered his visitor’s words for a few seconds. Then, “How much do you want?” he asked brusquely.

“Oh, only enough to take me back to Carnford,” was the reply. “I live there, my name’s Gantley.”

The landlord nodded, and considered this information. “I can let you have a can,” he said. “I’ll bring it out to you.”

He left the room, followed by the stranger. The man in the corner pushed his mug aside, and slipped quietly out by a door which led to the back entrance of the inn. His departure was unnoticed.

“Mr. Gantley might have stood us a round while he was about it,” remarked one of the men, after a long pause. “Reckon he wouldn’t miss the price of it.”

“Aye, that’s so,” replied another. “Wish I had as many pence in my pocket as he has pounds.”

Silence fell upon the room. After a longish interval, perhaps ten minutes, the engine of the car started, the headlights were switched on again, and the car moved away in the direction of Carnford. Jack Tregarris returned. “Still raining,” he remarked. Then, with mild surprise. “Why, where’s Fred Trimble, then?”

All eyes were turned to the corner, now vacant. “Must have gone home,” observed some one weightily.

Jack glanced at the clock above the mantlepiece, the hands of which pointed to twenty minutes to nine. “Not like him to go home so early,” he said. And, since nobody had apparently any further comment to offer, this closed the incident, as far as the company at the Otterworth Arms were concerned.

But Fred Trimble had not gone home. When he left the taproom he made his way out of the back door of the inn, and, skirting the adjoining cottage, came out upon the road again, a few hundred yards towards Carnford. His thoughts were too confused for any fixed plan. This unexpected meeting with Mr. Gantley, combined with the effects of the two or three pints which he had consumed, had urged him to sudden but as yet undefined action. He was not drunk; on the contrary, his perceptions were particularly clear.

He ran along the road, away from the village, at a steady jog trot until he reached a spot, about half a mile from the Otterworth Arms, where the road ran between tall hedges, with a deep and wide ditch on either side. Here he leapt the ditch on the right hand side, and forced his way through a gap in the hedge. He found himself in a stony field, and, bending down, felt about until his hand came in contact with a stone about the size of a cricket ball. As he did so, the headlights of an advancing car lighted up the hedge before him.

With a muttered laugh Fred crept up to the gap, being careful to keep out of sight. Poising the stone in his hand, he peered down the road, blinded by the glare which advanced swiftly towards him. Then, when the car was not more than ten yards from him, he hurled the stone in the direction in which he judged the wind-screen to be.

His aim must have been accurate. There was a splintering of glass, and a sudden sharp oath. The car swerved violently to the left, and, in spite of the swift application of the brakes, the near front wheel ran off the road into the ditch, and the car lurched over to one side.

Fred Trimble waited to see no more. He took to his heels, and ran swiftly and silently inside the hedge towards the village. As soon as he thought it safe, he broke through on to the road, and continued his course until he reached the inn. Here he paused until he had regained his breath, and then unconcernedly pushed open the door and entered the taproom.

Jack Tregarris looked up as he came in. “Hullo, Fred, where you been?” he asked casually.

“Just out to have a look at the weather,” replied Fred. “ ’Tis a nasty night, and no mistake. Draw us a pint, will you, Jack?”

He settled himself down once more in his corner, and took a long pull at his beer. He felt extremely pleased with himself, and the beer tasted better than he had ever known it. That stone had been a brilliant idea on his part! He had at last paid Mr. Gantley back the grudge he owed him. There he was, miles from home, with certainly a broken wind-screen and probably other damage to his car.

Fred Trimble positively gloated as he pictured to himself the plight of Mr. Gantley. He could never get the car back on to the road by himself, that was certain. He would have to walk back to the village for assistance. And even then, with a gang of men, perhaps even horses and a couple of planks, if he were lucky enough to get hold of them, it would be a long job. It was an added source of satisfaction that the drizzle had turned to a steady downpour. And as for the stone, why, nobody could prove that he threw it, could they?

He half hoped that Mr. Gantley would come back to the inn and seek help there. Fred chuckled to himself at the figure he would cut; wet, furious at the accident which had happened to him. It would be worth a week’s wages to see and hear him from the comfortable seclusion of his corner. He finished his pint and ordered another.

Yet, though he sat on until ten o’clock, at which hour Jack Tregarris closed the bar, he was doomed to disappointment. Mr. Gantley did not return, nor did anybody come in with news of the car being in the ditch. Fred Trimble, who by this time had drunk about as much beer as he could hold, staggered out into the open air and lurched home to his lodgings. The family had gone to bed, and he climbed heavily up to his room, chuckling as he went.

But he could not rest. The thought of Mr. Gantley’s predicament was too delicious to be put aside. And mixed with it was an irresistible longing to know what had become of him. He lay fully clothed upon his bed, tossing and turning, and picturing all manner of impossibilities. Perhaps even Mr. Gantley, despairing of obtaining help locally, had set out on the weary eight mile tramp to Carnford!

At last, as the church clock struck midnight, he could bear the uncertainty no longer. With the elaborate cunning of the semi-drunken man he crept silently downstairs, carrying his boots in his hand. Not until he was outside the door of the cottage did he put them on. Then, with infinite precaution, he made his way through the village. There was no sign of activity, not a light was to be seen.

He followed the road towards Carnford, treading very carefully, and keeping a sharp look-out. Every moment he expected to see a gleam of light, either those of the car, or from the lanterns of men working at it. But the road ahead was plunged in darkness, so opaque that more than once he almost stumbled into the ditch. And, as it happened, he almost walked into the car before he was aware that he had reached it.

He recoiled hastily, and crouched into the ditch. The car was in exactly the same position in which he had last seen it, that was clear enough. But its lights were extinguished, and it was evidently deserted. He was right then, after all. Mr. Gantley had decided to walk into Carnford, and send out a breakdown lorry in the morning.

It was not for some seconds that Fred Trimble realised the opportunity that fate and his own action had thrown in his way. Here was Mr. Gantley’s most luxurious car, abandoned by the roadside! It was a practical certainty that there would be something inside which, if abstracted, could be turned into money. A fur rug, perhaps, or something like that.

Fred Trimble emerged from his ditch, and crept towards the car with outstretched hands. He felt the smooth panelling of the bodywork, and sought the handle of the door. As his fingers touched it, a sudden flash lighted up the interior of the car, and a sharp report, deafening in the silence of the night, rang out in his very ears.

He uttered one wild yell, imagining that he heard the bullet whizz past his head. Then he floundered through the ditch and the hedge beyond, expecting every moment a second shot. It was not until he had covered a couple of fields in his flight that he felt himself safe from imminent death.

As it happened, nobody passed along that part of the road where the car was ditched until half-past seven on the following morning. The weather had cleared up by then, and there was every promise of a fine day. So at least thought P.C. Pentrellis, as he mounted his bicycle and rode off to keep an appointment with the Superintendent at Carnford.

He sighted the car in the distance, and immediately increased his speed. Having reached it, he jumped off his bicycle. There was no sign of life, the occupants of the car seemed to have deserted it. Then he looked in through the window. Stretched along the front seat was the figure of a man, at the sight of whose curiously relaxed position Pentrellis felt a sudden thrill. He wrenched open the door, and put his hand on the man’s face. It seemed as cold as ice, and Pentrellis needed no further examination to assure himself that the man was dead.

It was the first time that he had had to deal with such a situation, but Pentrellis rose to the occasion. He shut the door carefully, then leapt on his bicycle and pedalled rapidly back to Norton Ferris. There was no telephone in the village, but he roused the postmistress and sent a telegram to the police station at Carnford. He said merely that a man had been killed by the roadside, and he threatened the postmistress with all the majesty of the law if she divulged the contents of the telegram. He had no desire for a crowd to collect before his superiors arrived on the scene.

This done, he cycled back to the car, and began to examine it, note-book in hand. He took the number, and, as he did so, he remembered having seen the car drive through Norton Ferris, more than once. He had, however, no idea to whom it belonged. Then he looked at the tyre-marks, still clearly visible on the yet muddy road. They formed a steady and unwavering track along the centre of the road until within ten yards of where the car now stood. Then they wavered wildly, and finally swerved sharply to the near-side ditch.

Pentrellis’ first idea was that the driver of the car had suddenly caught sight of something or somebody in the road ahead of him, and had swerved to avoid whatever it was. He set to work to examine the road in front of the car, taking care to keep on the grass himself. But he failed to find tracks of any description. There were no wheel-marks, no footprints of man or beast. Then, retracing his steps, he found the prints of a pair of heavy nailed boots, one of which encroached upon, and partly obliterated, the tyre-marks of the car, while these were still pursuing a straight course.

This was distinctly puzzling. Since there were no footmarks in front of the car, but only behind it, they could not be those of a man for whom the driver had swerved. He started to follow the footsteps back, but the muddy patch in the road only extended for fifty yards or so. Beyond that, it had been swept clean by the rain of the previous night. But, where the muddy patch began, so did the footmarks, leading from the direction of the village. They pursued an unsteady course, sometimes being lost on the grass edging, until they reached the car. And there they stopped. It was not until Pentrellis had ascertained this that the full significance of the footprints occurred to him. Since in one place they covered the wheel tracks, somebody must have come upon the scene after the car had run into the ditch. Where had he come from, and where had he gone to?

Pentrellis scribbled a few words in his note-book, and proceeded to examine the car itself. The near front wheel was deeply imbedded in the ditch, though the remaining wheels were still on the road. The front axle and steering-rod were badly bent, and the weight of the car, leaning over as it was, was resting upon them. The wind-screen was shattered. Pentrellis wondered whether this could have happened as the result of the shock of the car falling into the ditch. Beyond that, no great damage seemed to have been done.

He had not long completed his examination when a car approached from the direction of Carnford. Pentrellis went forward to meet it, and recognised its occupants as Inspector Driffield, of the Downhamshire Constabulary, and the police surgeon, Doctor Froude.

The car stopped, and Inspector Driffield put out his head. “Hullo, Pentrellis!” he said cheerfully. “What’s all this about?”

Pentrellis pointed to the ditched car. “There’s a dead man in that car, sir,” he replied.

“Is there?” said the inspector. “All right, we’ll have a look. When did the accident happen?”

“I don’t know, sir. I found the car just before I telegraphed to you. If you don’t mind, sir, I think we’d better walk on the grass by the side of the road.”

Inspector Driffield glanced sharply at the constable. He was not accustomed to such precautions on the part of a young policeman. He nodded approvingly, and made a mental note to the effect that Pentrellis’ assistance might be of use.

The three approached the car, and the inspector opened the door and looked in. As he did so, he whistled softly. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Gantley! How the deuce did this happen, I wonder? Better have a look round here, doctor, and see what you can tell us. Now then, Pentrellis, let’s hear your story.”

Pentrellis told him how he had come upon the car, and described the steps he had taken subsequently. He showed the inspector the footmarks, and, rather diffidently, explained the conclusions he had come to.

“Good work, Pentrellis!” exclaimed Inspector Driffield. “I fancy that it’ll be your job to find out who this man was, and what has become of him. If he saw the car in the ditch, why didn’t he do something about it? That’s what I want to know. Now, let’s see what the doctor can tell us about the cause of death. It looks a bit queer to me. Mr. Gantley can’t have died from the shock of driving into the ditch.”

As they returned to the car, Doctor Froude looked up, a grim look upon his face. “There’s a job for you here, inspector,” he said shortly.

“Why, what’s up, Doctor?” asked the inspector shortly.

“Just this. Gantley’s either shot himself, or been shot through the head,” replied Doctor Froude. “Look here!”

He lifted the dead man’s cap. Just above the right temple was a small red hole, round which was a quantity of dried blood, some of which had dropped on to his clothing and the upholstery of the car.

“Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Inspector Driffield. “Can you give us any idea when it happened, Doctor?”

“I’m not going to commit myself until I have made a thorough examination of the body,” replied Doctor Froude. “But I should say that the man has been dead not less than ten hours. It’s a quarter to nine now. You can take it that he wasn’t alive much after midnight, anyhow.”

Inspector Driffield turned to Pentrellis. “Was it raining here at midnight?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, and for some little time afterwards. It was raining pretty hard all the evening.”

“Right. Now, doctor, I expect you want to get back home. Will you take the car we came out in? And, if you don’t mind, you might call at the police station and ask them to send out an ambulance for the body and a breakdown lorry for the car. I’ll have the body taken to the mortuary, since I suppose you’ll want to have another look at it?”

Doctor Froude agreed to this course, and went back to Carnford. Then Inspector Driffield turned to the constable. “Now then, Pentrellis, let’s have a look round inside this car,” he said.

His first procedure was to study the position of the body. The dead man had apparently been seated at the wheel when he was killed, but his body had fallen over to the left, and lay sideways on the seat beside the driver’s. The upholstery of this seat was spattered with blood, some of which had reached the mat on the floor. Very gingerly Inspector Driffield examined the wound.

“Strictly speaking, this isn’t my job,” he said confidentially. “Take it from me, Pentrellis, don’t you ever offer an opinion upon a wound. You’ll only get rapped over the knuckles if you do. It’s only because I have some experience of wounds, having served in the war, that I’m trespassing on the doctor’s preserves. What I want to find out is whether the bullet came out again the other side. No, it didn’t, there’s a hole where it went in, right enough, but that’s all. The next thing is, did he shoot himself or did some one else shoot him? What do you say, Pentrellis?”

“If he shot himself, sir, the weapon ought to be still in the car somewhere. All the windows were shut, so it couldn’t very well have fallen out.”

“Well, it isn’t here, or if it is I can’t see it. The inference being that some one else shot him. Unless your friend with the nailed boots picked up the weapon and took it away with him. Hullo, what’s this?”

The inspector, who had been searching the floor beneath the front seats, held out a large stone. “What do you suppose that’s doing here?” he asked. “Where do you suppose it came from, Pentrellis?”

The constable stared thoughtfully at the stone. “I should say it came from somewhere about here, sir,” he replied at last. “It’s a bit of granite, and there’s plenty of that round about here.”

“Of course there is, but I don’t think you can count on that. The local granite is quarried and sent all over the country for road-metal. This piece might have come from anywhere.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think this can be a piece of road-metal. Granite used for road-metal is always broken up, and the pieces have fairly sharp edges. This piece is nearly smooth and rounded, sir.”

“One to you, Pentrellis, I hadn’t thought of that. You think that this is a piece of naturally worn granite, such as one can pick up anywhere about here? I believe you’re right. By Jove, I wonder if that accounts for the broken wind-screen? The floor here is covered with bits of glass. Yes, and there are a few small splinters lying on the body itself. That suggests that some one chucked the stone through the screen after the driver was shot. Your friend with the nailed boots, perhaps. But why, in heaven’s name, why?”

“Perhaps we’ll find out when we lay our hands on him, sir,” suggested Pentrellis respectfully.

“First catch your hare,” replied the Inspector. “We’ll have plenty of questions to ask that bloke when we catch him, if ever we do. Well, I think I’ve seen all I want to here. Let’s have a look in the back.”

He opened the rear door and looked in. Upon the back seats was piled a heap of rugs. There was nothing on the floor but what the Inspector took at first to be a long piece of string. As soon as he had put his head inside, he sniffed suspiciously. “I fancy I smell cordite smoke, or something very like it,” he remarked. “See if you can smell anything, Pentrellis.”

The constable took his place. There certainly was a faint acrid smell, such as is produced when a smokeless cartridge is fired. “It does smell as though the shot had been fired in here, sir,” said Pentrellis.

“It does, rather. As soon as I get the car back to Carnford, I’ll go over it inch by inch and see if I can find the wad. That may tell us where the shot was fired from.”

As he spoke, he bent down to pick up the piece of string. But, to his astonishment, it crumbled into powder at his touch. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “This isn’t string, it’s the ash of a piece of string. Burnt clean from end to end, too. If you look closely, you can see where it has very slightly singed the mat in places. What do you make of that, Pentrellis?”

The constable shook his head. “I can’t make anything of it, sir,” he replied candidly.

“Neither can I, but, fortunately, it’s of no importance. Now, look here, Pentrellis. What we’ve got to get at is how Mr. Gantley was shot. You saw that the bullet entered his right temple, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. But, if you’ll excuse my asking, sir, who is Mr. Gantley?”

“Who was he when he was alive, you mean? He was the owner of the Downhamshire Courier. He was, I believe, a widower without children, and he lived at Westerly Cottage, which isn’t the sort of place that you and I should call a cottage, on the outskirts of Carnford. He was a prominent citizen, and his death will cause a devil of a stir, I can tell you.”

Pentrellis digested this information for a moment or two. The dead man suddenly acquired a definite personality in his eyes. He knew the Downhamshire Courier well enough, in fact it was delivered to his home every Friday. It was a very enterprising weekly paper, with a steadily growing circulation.

“It’s no good you asking me if anybody had a motive for killing Mr. Gantley, for I don’t know,” continued the Inspector. “Let’s have a look at the facts, and see if we can make anything of them. We can’t say definitely yet when he was shot, but you heard what Doctor Froude told us. We’ll assume for the moment that it was round about midnight.

“Now, you found all the windows of the car shut. That’s what you would expect in a car being driven on a rainy night. It seems to me that there are three possibilities we’ve got to keep in mind. He may have been shot by some one from inside the car, by some one from outside the car, or he may have shot himself. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Pentrellis.

“Right. Consider the first possibility. We both fancy that we can smell cordite smoke inside the car. Yes, but look here. Mr. Gantley was apparently sitting in the driving seat, which is, of course, on the right-hand side, and he was shot in the right temple. Therefore he can’t have been shot by somebody sitting beside him. Nor do I see how he can have been shot by anybody in the back of the car, for the right side of his head would have been close up to the window.”

“If both right-hand windows had been open, sir, a passenger might have leant out of the back window and shot him through the front one,” suggested Pentrellis hopefully. “He could have shut the windows afterwards.”

The Inspector shook his head. “Ingenious, but it won’t do,” he said. “In that case the weapon must have been held close to Mr. Gantley’s head, and there would have been traces of powder-blackening round the wound. Well, there aren’t, because that’s one of the things I looked for particularly just now.

“Now, what about the shot having been fired by somebody outside the car? That brings us to the question of whether the car was at rest or moving when the shot was fired. It’s possible to imagine somebody standing by the roadside, clearly visible to Mr. Gantley in the glare of his headlights, and signalling to the car to stop. Mr. Gantley pulls up, lowers the right-hand window to ask what’s up, and is promptly shot. How does that strike you, Pentrellis?”

“It sounds quite possible, sir,” replied Pentrellis cautiously.

“It is quite possible. But what happened next? That’s the snag. The obvious thing is that the murderer pushed the car into the ditch, shut the window, and cleared off. But that’s just what he didn’t do. This car wasn’t merely pushed into the ditch, it was driven there at some fair speed. Look at the way the front axle’s crumpled up. The wheel has been driven right back by the impact. And there’s another thing. The gear lever is still in top gear. Everything points to Mr. Gantley having been shot when the car was in motion, and the car having subsequently run into the ditch of itself.”

“Somebody might have hidden by the roadside and fired at Mr. Gantley as he passed, sir,” suggested Pentrellis.

“Then the murderer must be a remarkably fine shot,” replied the Inspector acidly. “Would you undertake to hit a man fair in the temple as he passed you in a car, even in broad daylight? I wouldn’t. And remember, when this must have happened it was pitch dark. There’s another thing. Anybody standing by the roadside would be blinded by the headlights until the car was actually abreast of him. Why, the devil himself couldn’t have done it!”

“You think that Mr. Gantley shot himself, then, sir?” inquired Pentrellis.

“I should be inclined to think so, but for two or three small details. In the first place, there’s no powder-blackening round the wound, as I said just now. I don’t see how he could have held the weapon far enough away to account for that. Then, where is the weapon? And, lastly, there’s another thing that seems to me a bit queer. All the lights on the car have been switched off. Who did that? Mr. Gantley, before he shot himself, or some one else? It seems to me that if Mr. Gantley did actually shoot himself, somebody came on the scene before you did, and it’s this somebody we’ve got to find.”

“It does seem a bit of a puzzle, sir,” remarked Pentrellis.

“You’re right there,” replied the Inspector. “It’s such a puzzle that if we don’t hit on the answer within the next few hours, I’m going to ask the Chief to get some one down from the Yard to lend us a hand.”

When the ambulance arrived on the scene, and Mr. Gantley’s body had been placed in it for conveyance to the Carnford mortuary, Inspector Driffield went back with it to the town. Having reported the death at the police station, he made his way to the offices of the Downhamshire Courier, an imposing building in one of the principal streets of Carnford, and inquired for Mr. Gantley’s secretary.

This individual turned out to be an elderly man, with a particularly nervous and irritable manner. He greeted the Inspector with a curt nod. “And what can I do for you?” he asked. “You can’t see Mr. Gantley, if that’s what you want. He has been away for the week-end, and hasn’t come back to Carnford yet.”

The secretary, whose name was Markham, appeared to think that this closed the interview. But Inspector Driffield deliberately sat down on the only available chair in the room. “You’ll excuse me if I contradict you, Mr. Markham,” he said suavely. “Mr. Gantley has returned to Carnford. It’s only a few minutes ago that I deposited his body in the mortuary. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

Mr. Markham leapt to his feet in his amazement. “His body!” he exclaimed. “You mean that Mr. Gantley is dead? Nonsense, he can’t be! He was perfectly well when he left here on Friday afternoon!”

“I daresay he was,” replied the Inspector calmly. “That doesn’t alter the fact that his dead body was found in his car about half a mile this side of Norton Ferris at half-past seven this morning.”

“But this is terrible!” exclaimed Mr. Markham. “You cannot realise the full significance of what you tell me, Inspector. Why was I not informed of this at once? There are several people who must be told of Mr. Gantley’s death without any delay——”

“You have been told as soon as possible, Mr. Markham,” interrupted Inspector Driffield soothingly. “Nobody knows of it yet except the authorities and yourself. I must ask you, in my official capacity, to answer to the best of your ability certain questions which I am bound to ask you.”

Mr. Markham began to pace the room nervously, twisting his fingers together as he did so. “I will answer any questions that I can, as long as you don’t ask me to betray Mr. Gantley’s confidence in any way,” he replied. “But I must ask you to remember that time is of the utmost importance in this emergency.”

“Thank you, Mr. Markham. I shan’t detain you long. Now, to begin with, do you know anything about Mr. Gantley’s family? Had he any relations living?”

Mr. Markham paused in his perambulations, and stared at the Inspector. “Dear me, that is most remarkable!” he said. “I was endeavouring to get in touch with Mr. Gantley at his house just before you came in. I found a telegram for him when I reached the office this morning. You will understand that it is part of my duty to open Mr. Gantley’s correspondence, except such of it as is marked ‘Personal.’ I opened this telegram, and at once telephoned to Mr. Gantley’s house in order to read it to him.”

Inspector Driffield nodded impatiently. “Well, what was in the telegram, anyhow?” he asked.

“I see no reason why you should not read it for yourself,” replied the secretary, picking up the form and handing it to the Inspector.

The telegram was brief. It had been handed in at Richmond, Surrey, at 10.3 a.m. on the previous day, Sunday, September 24th. “Aunt Henrietta died unexpectedly eight o’clock last night Chadwick.”

“H’m. Death seems to have been pretty busy in the Gantley family over the week-end,” remarked the Inspector. “Do you happen to know who Aunt Henrietta was?”

“Of course. She was Lady Gantley, the widow of Mr. Gantley’s elder brother, Sir Hubert Gantley. She lived at Richmond, and has been in failing health for some time. Indeed, I happen to know that Mr. Gantley did not expect her to outlive the year. But I am certain that he did not think that her death was so imminent, or he would certainly have gone to Richmond to see her, as he has frequently done before.”

“Well, Lady Gantley, since she is dead, is no longer his next of kin, which is what I want to get at. Has he any other relations alive to your knowledge, Mr. Markham?”

“I only know of two, a nephew and a niece, the children of his wife’s sister. Mr. Gantley married a Miss Seward, who died some years ago. They had no children, but Mrs. Gantley’s sister, who married Mr. Harrington, had a son and a daughter, of whom Mr. Gantley was very fond.”

“I see. Do you know the address of either of these?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I daresay I could find it by looking through Mr. Gantley’s papers. They live in London somewhere, I know. But I expect that Mr. Polteith could tell you at once.”

“Mr. Polteith, of Williamson and Polteith in the High Street?”

“Yes, he is Mr. Gantley’s solicitor, and he can probably tell you more about his family than I can.”

“Thank you, Mr. Markham, I’ll go and see him. Now, it’s a fact that Mr. Gantley owned the Downhamshire Courier, isn’t it?”

“Practically, yes, though technically no. You see, when Mr. Gantley bought the paper, many years ago, when he first came to Carnford, he formed a private company, Carnford Newspapers Limited, of which I am the secretary. Mr. Willis, who is the editor, myself, and one or two others have a few shares in the company, but nine-tenths of the capital was owned by Mr. Gantley.”

“I see. Now, you said just now that Mr. Gantley was perfectly well on Friday evening. Is that when you last saw him?”

“Yes, he left the office at half-past four that afternoon. He told me that as he had had a very strenuous week, he was going to spend a quiet week-end on his house-boat at Benger’s Creek. He often spends a week-end there in summer.”

“Benger’s Creek? Where’s that?”

“On Carronport Water. You get to it from the road to Winterley, I believe.”

“Ah, that’s the road that passes through Norton Ferris, isn’t it? That accounts for where the car was found. He was on his way back to Carnford, no doubt. By the way, you say he mentioned a strenuous week. Had anything happened that might prey upon his mind?”

“Oh dear, no, far from it. But during the week certain negotiations had taken a favourable course, owing mainly to Mr. Gantley’s own exertions. It was a pet scheme of his, and he had worked very hard at it. I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you what it was, as it is bound to leak out, whatever may happen now. Our company has been in treaty for the purchase of the West Country Clarion, which, as I expect you know, is a rival paper published at Downham Minster. But now that Mr. Gantley is dead, I don’t know what will happen.”

Inspector Driffield thanked Mr. Markham for the information which he had given him, and left the office. His next call was upon Mr. Polteith, with whom, since he was the leading solicitor in the town, he was well acquainted.

Mr. Polteith admitted him at once. He was a man of middle age, with a keen, shrewd, humorous face and a pleasant manner. “Well, Inspector, what brings you here?” he asked. “Sit down, and let’s hear the worst.”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Polteith,” replied Inspector Driffield. “I’ve come to tell you that Mr. Gantley was found dead in his car early this morning.”

“Found dead in his car!” repeated Mr. Polteith incredulously. Then, with a sudden change of manner he continued. “I am, as perhaps you are aware, his legal adviser. Since that is the case, I think I am entitled to ask for details.”

The Inspector, who knew that he could trust Mr. Polteith implicitly, made no difficulties. He told him the facts as he knew them, the solicitor listening with keen sympathy.

“Poor old Arthur!” he exclaimed, when Inspector Driffield had finished. “His death is a real blow to me. We have been friends ever since he first came to live here. But that’s not the point at the moment. It sounds the most extraordinary business altogether. How do you suppose it happened, Inspector?”

“I can’t say, yet,” replied Inspector Driffield frankly. “Mr. Gantley may have shot himself, but naturally I’ve got to keep in mind the possibility that he was murdered.”

“Naturally. But I can’t imagine anybody wanting to shoot Arthur Gantley. It sounds incredible.”

“Can you suggest any reason for Mr. Gantley taking his own life?” countered the Inspector.

“No, I can’t. I can state with practical certainty that he had no troubles, or he would have confided them to me. If he wasn’t exactly bubbling over with the joy of living, he was one of the most quietly contented people I have ever met.”

“Can you give me some sort of idea of what Mr. Gantley was like in private life, Mr. Polteith? I knew him slightly, as, I suppose, everybody else in Carnford did. But I have no idea what sort of man he really was.”

“It’s not very easy to convey an accurate impression of anybody,” replied the solicitor. “I’ll do my best, though. In his business relations he was always scrupulously honest. He hated any idea of trick or subterfuge, and he expected the same standard of honesty in everybody he had to do with. Perhaps this gave him a reputation for being hard and unsympathetic, but he wasn’t that in the least. When you got to know him, you found that he was thoroughly good-hearted.”

“I suppose he made a certain number of enemies, as everybody in his position must?”

“I do not know that he had any personal enemies. There may be several people who had a grudge against him because they didn’t see eye to eye with him, and, of course, the policy adopted by the paper didn’t suit everybody. But I think most people, if they didn’t agree with him, or didn’t even like him, at least admired him.”

“I see. What about his private life, his friends and so forth?”

“That’s soon told. I think I can claim to be the only person in Carnford whom he looked on as a friend. He had any number of acquaintances, of course, and he wasn’t actually unsociable. He’d go up to the club occasionally, for instance, and play a rubber of bridge with anybody who happened to be there. But, since his wife died, he led a very retired life. He spent most of the time when he wasn’t at the office at Westerly Cottage or on his house-boat at Benger’s Creek. He was a bit of a student, and had collected a pretty extensive library.”

The Inspector nodded. “I think I’ve got a fair idea of the sort of man he was,” he said. “Can you tell me anything of his history, Mr. Polteith?”

“He was the son of John Gantley, who was a manufacturer in a pretty big way in the Midlands somewhere. His elder brother Hubert carried on the business after his father’s death. He did very well; turned the concern into a limited company, and got knighted. Arthur’s ambition was to own a newspaper, and that’s how he drifted to these parts. He heard the Courier was for sale, and bought it. I don’t mind telling you that he has done pretty well out of it. In fact, there’s plenty of money in the family. His sister-in-law, Lady Gantley, Hubert’s widow, is a rich woman.”

“Or rather, was. I went to see Mr. Gantley’s secretary before I came here, and he showed me a telegram which had come for Mr. Gantley, informing him that Lady Gantley was dead.”

“Dead, is she?” exclaimed Mr. Polteith, in a sudden access of excitement. “When did she die?”

“On Saturday night, so the telegram said. I gathered that her death was rather sudden.”

“Saturday night? Oh, that’s all right, then. Thank goodness she didn’t live till this morning.”

Inspector Driffield looked thoroughly puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you in the least, Mr. Polteith,” he said.

“No, of course you don’t. Perhaps I’d better explain, since it has a direct bearing upon Arthur Gantley’s affairs. When Sir Hubert died, he left everything he possessed to Lady Gantley, free of any restriction whatever. Lady Gantley then made a will, leaving everything to Arthur Gantley and his heirs, except an income of five hundred a year each to the son and daughter of her dearest friend, a Mrs. Chadwick.”

“Chadwick? That was the name of the sender of the telegram.”

“Exactly. That was Miss Sylvia Chadwick, I expect. Lady Gantley took her to live with her when her mother died. The brother is an officer in the merchant service, I believe. But that’s not all. When Arthur Gantley’s wife died, leaving him without children, Lady Gantley made a fresh will. You see, she knew pretty well that Arthur would leave his money to his nephew and niece, the two young Harringtons. They’re a queer couple in some ways, but Arthur liked them. I’ve seen them several times, they have often been down to stay at Westerly Cottage. But Lady Gantley couldn’t stand them. They belong to the artistic set, you see, and she had no use for anything like that. It was her opinion that they ought to set to work to earn a living for themselves instead of playing about. She was quite right about Arthur’s intentions. His will, which is here in my possession, leaves his whole estate, bar a few legacies, equally between the Harringtons.

“Now, as I say, Lady Gantley made a fresh will. Under the terms of this second will, the income for life to the Chadwicks remained. But the remainder was only to go to Arthur Gantley if he were still alive at the time of her death. If not, the whole of her estate went to the Chadwicks, in equal shares. Of course, I’m only telling you what Arthur Gantley told me. I’m not Lady Gantley’s solicitor, in fact I’ve never so much as set eyes on her. But I fancy that Arthur knew what he was talking about. Now you see the reason of my interest in the time of her death.”

“Yes, I think I do. Let me see if I’ve got it right. Since Lady Gantley died before her brother-in-law, the money goes to the Harringtons. If she had died this morning, it would have gone to the Chadwicks. That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I can’t help being glad that Lady Gantley died when she did. I don’t know anything about the Chadwicks, beyond the fact that they were not in any way related to Lady Gantley, though they called her Aunt Henrietta. For all I know, they may have exerted undue influence upon her. But I do know the Harringtons, and, after all, they are connected with the family. It seems much fairer that the money should go to them, and I know that Arthur took the same view.”

“It’s queer that Mr. Gantley and his sister-in-law should have died within so short a time of one another,” remarked Inspector Driffield after a pause. “However, that’s by the way. The immediate problem is this. If Mr. Gantley didn’t shoot himself, and I have my reasons for believing that he didn’t, who did shoot him? I don’t think that it can have been a chance encounter. His secretary tells me that he spent the week-end on his house-boat.”

“He dropped in to see me on Friday morning, and told me that that was his intention.”

“You don’t happen to know whether he went down alone, or whether he took somebody with him?”

The solicitor shook his head. “I don’t know for certain,” he replied. “But I think that it is extremely probable that he went down alone. He was in the habit of doing so. I have been down with him once or twice, but I don’t think that any one else ever has. He liked to be perfectly free to do as he pleased when he was down there.”

“Is there a caretaker on the boat?”

“Oh, dear me, no. Arthur Gantley always looked after everything himself. He used to take provisions down with him, and cook his own meals. He thoroughly enjoyed doing that for a change.”

“What did he do with himself when he was on board?”

“If it was decent weather, he spent a good deal of his time in a deck-chair, reading. Then he had a sailing dinghy, which he used to sail about Carronport Water when there was a decent breeze. Sometimes he’d go out and catch a few fish, or lie in wait with a gun for duck, if there were any about. He was quite capable of amusing himself, I can assure you.”

“Well, it seems to me that my first job is to find the last person to see him alive. So far, I only know that he left his office about half-past four on Friday.”

“He’s bound to have gone home to Westerly Cottage before he started for Benger’s Creek. Watts or his wife will know when he left there. They are the couple that looked after him, very decent folk, who’ve been in his service for years. His death will be a blow to them, I know, although there’s a decent little legacy for them in his will.”

“I think I’ll go and have a chat to them. I’m bound to follow up Mr. Gantley’s movements as closely as I can.”

“If you’ve no objection, I’ll come with you. I am Arthur’s executor, and, naturally, I shall have to look into his affairs. I shan’t be in your way. Just wait a minute while I send a wire to the Harrington’s.”

Mr. Polteith scribbled the telegram, and gave it to a clerk to dispatch. Within a few minutes he and the Inspector were on their way to Westerly Cottage.

Westerly Cottage was a fair-sized house, standing in a beautiful garden on the outskirts of the town. The door was opened by a man between fifty and sixty, dressed in a black suit, who greeted the visitors with a deferential smile. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Polteith. “But Mr. Gantley hasn’t come back yet.”

“I know, Watts,” replied Mr. Polteith gravely. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you. Come over here, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Inspector Driffield watched the man intently as the news was broken to him. It was evident that his master’s death came as a terrible shock. He broke down completely for a few moments, but quickly pulled himself together, and resumed the pose of the good servant.

“You’ll probably like to break the news to Mrs. Watts,” continued Mr. Polteith considerately. “When you have done so, come back here. I think Inspector Driffield wants to ask you a few questions. I am going into Mr. Gantley’s study, to have a look over his papers.”

Watts disappeared, and came back a few minutes later, looking very distressed. “Sit down, Watts,” said the Inspector. “You look a bit shaky, and I don’t wonder at it. Now, I want you to help me all you can. We don’t know yet how Mr. Gantley was killed, and we’ve got to find out. Did you see him on Friday afternoon?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Watts. “Mr. Gantley came back from the office about a quarter to five. I had tea all ready for him, and I had put the usual box of provisions that Mr. Gantley takes with him, with a bottle of whisky and half a dozen siphons, in the car. He left here as the clock was striking six, sir, and told me that he would be back some time on Sunday night. We were not to wait up for him if he was late, Mr. Gantley said, but I was to leave out something cold for him.”

“You were astonished when you got up this morning and found that Mr. Gantley hadn’t come back, I suppose?”

“I was, sir. I thought it wasn’t like Mr. Gantley not to come back when he said he would. But I knew that if he had decided to stay longer there was no way of letting me know.”

Inspector Driffield nodded. “I understand, Watts,” he said. “Now, I’m going to ask you to come with me and look at the body and the car as well. Perhaps you may notice something that will be useful. Go and get your hat, and then I’ll be ready for you.”

Watts went away, and the Inspector walked into the study, where he found Mr. Polteith sitting at a desk with one or two open letters before him. “Found anything that’ll help us?” asked the Inspector.

“No, I haven’t,” replied the solicitor. “There are two or three private letters here, which arrived at the office on Saturday morning, and were sent on here so that Gantley should see them as soon as he got back. There’s one from Miss Chadwick, which shows that Lady Gantley’s death must have been pretty sudden. Here, have a look at it for yourself.”

Inspector Driffield took the letter. It was dated, “Tulip Lodge, Richmond, Thursday,” and had been posted at 10 p.m. on the 21st. It was written in a firm womanly hand, and ran as follows:

“Lady Gantley’s death does seem to have been pretty sudden,” remarked the Inspector, as he handed back the letter. “That was written on Thursday, and she died two days later. It looks rather as though she had had a sudden shock, of which the doctor warned Miss Chadwick. I’m going to take Watts off for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?”

Mr. Polteith raised no objection, and Watts and the Inspector set out. Their first visit was to the mortuary, where Inspector Driffield reverently lifted the sheet which covered Mr. Gantley’s face. He lay there peacefully enough, a placid and dignified figure with his strong features and close-cropped beard. As Watts gazed at him, the tears came into his eyes. “Yes, that’s the master, sure enough,” he said.

The clothes worn by the dead man had been laid out upon a table nearby, and to these the Inspector next directed Watts’ attention. “You recognise these, of course?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I recognise them,” replied Watts. “But they aren’t the ones which Mr. Gantley was wearing when he went away. This is an old suit that he kept down on the house-boat. I expect that he brought his other suit back in the car, sir.”

“Let’s go and look,” said the Inspector. They went into the yard of the police station, to which the car had by this time been towed. By the Inspector’s instructions, nothing about it had been touched since the removal of the body. Watts identified it at once as the car in which Mr. Gantley had left Westerly Cottage on Friday.

“Was there anybody with him when he went away?” asked Inspector Driffield.

“No, sir. Mr. Gantley was going away alone. He told me only to pack enough provisions for one. But, excuse me, sir, I don’t see Mr. Gantley’s other suit. Perhaps it has been removed?”

“Nothing has been touched since the car was found,” replied the Inspector. “Is there anything else missing?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be sure that there is anything actually missing, sir. But Mr. Gantley always brought back the box in which the provisions were packed; it is one he had specially made. And he always brought back the empty siphons, too, sir. And they don’t seem to be in the car.”

“They aren’t, and they weren’t there when it was found. I think that’s all for the present, Watts. I’ll come and see you if there’s anything else I want to know.”

The Inspector entered the police station, where he was told that the Chief Constable, who had been informed of Mr. Gantley’s death and had come over from Downham Minster, was waiting to see him. The interview took place without delay, and Inspector Driffield gave his superior an account of the affair.

“Well, Driffield, it’s a bad business, whichever way you look at it,” was the Chief Constable’s comment. “What’s your own opinion about it?”

“I think there’s very little doubt that Mr. Gantley was deliberately murdered, sir,” replied the Inspector.

“It certainly looks like it, from what you tell me. What are we going to do about it?”

“I was going to ask you, sir, whether you would consider calling in the Criminal Investigation Department,” replied Inspector Driffield gravely.

The Chief Constable frowned. “Scotland Yard?” he replied doubtfully. “Don’t you feel capable of dealing with the matter yourself?”

“If this were entirely a local affair, I should feel perfectly capable, sir. But, from what I have heard this morning, I am not sure that it is. I think it very probable that inquiries will have to be made outside the county, and Scotland Yard are better able to do that than we are.”

“Well, you are the best judge, I suppose. Very well, I’ll send a message to the Yard at once, and get them to send a man down immediately. Meanwhile, I should like you to carry on, of course.”

“I propose to go straight to Norton Ferris at once, sir. Pentrellis is already making inquiries there.”

As Inspector Driffield left the Chief Constable’s presence, he was conscious of a slight feeling of resentment. He had, in his heart, considered the suggestion of calling in the C.I.D. as something of a noble gesture on his own part. It meant, after all, that if the murderer was successfully traced, the credit would be the Yard’s, not his own. But the Chief had not in the least appreciated his altruism. He had seemed to think that the Inspector was trying to wriggle out of a job which was properly his own, to shift the responsibility on to other shoulders. Inspector Driffield wondered whether he had made a mistake in mentioning Scotland Yard at all.

He was not in a particularly cheerful frame of mind when he reached Norton Ferris, having driven there in the police car. Pentrellis was waiting for him, having already made the inquiries which the Inspector had suggested.

“The first place I went to after you left me, sir, was the Otterworth Arms,” he reported. “I was pretty sure that if any one in the village had seen Mr. Gantley’s car pass through, either the landlord or his wife would have heard of it. And, as it happened, the car actually stopped at the inn, and Mr. Gantley bought a can of petrol there.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Inspector. “That’ll save us a lot of trouble, for I suppose somebody actually saw Mr. Gantley?”

“Several people saw him, sir. He came into the taproom, about half-past eight, when there were half a dozen chaps there. He asked if he could get any petrol in the village, and Jack Tregarris, the landlord, offered to let him have a can. Tregarris poured the can into the car himself, sir, with Mr. Gantley standing by. Mr. Gantley paid him, and drove on.”

“Was there any one else in the car when Tregarris saw it?”

“I asked him that particularly, sir. He said that it was a very dark night, and that he couldn’t see much of the inside of the car. But he is pretty certain that there was nobody else in it. There was nobody sitting in front, and all he could see in the back was a bundle of rugs.”

“That’s just as you found it this morning, Pentrellis. The car went on towards Carnford, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. When Mr. Gantley was in the Otterworth Arms, he said he was going back there. He only wanted enough petrol to carry him that far.”

“Was Mr. Gantley in the habit of stopping at the Otterworth Arms on his way through Norton Ferris?”

“Tregarris told me that he had never known him come in before. But he recognised him at once, as did the other men in the bar. Most people who have lived any time about here seem to have known Mr. Gantley by sight, sir.”

“Yes, those round glasses and short beard were pretty familiar round about Carnford. I’m surprised that you didn’t recognise the body as soon as you saw it. How long have you been stationed here, Pentrellis?”

“Only six months, sir. I was transferred from Downham Minster, and I haven’t been to Carnford half a dozen times.”

“That accounts for it. Did this man Tregarris have any conversation with Mr. Gantley?”

“No, sir. Tregarris says that Mr. Gantley didn’t say a word to him while he was pouring in the petrol. He just asked how much it was, and paid him. And Tregarris isn’t the sort of man to start a conversation for himself, sir. He did tell me, though, that he thought Mr. Gantley didn’t seem quite himself, sir.”

“Did he know that Mr. Gantley had been killed when he made that remark?”

“Well, sir, I found when I got back to the village that everybody knew pretty well what had happened. I’m afraid my message to you had got about, sir, and folks had put two and two together.”

Inspector Driffield smiled. “That’s nothing to what you’ll have to put up with when the reporters get wind of the business,” he said. “They’ll descend on you like a flock of locusts. But I shouldn’t attach too much importance to what anybody tells you about Mr. Gantley’s appearance. It’s wonderful how the least imaginative people always think of things after the event. But there’s one rather curious thing, Pentrellis. You say that Mr. Gantley called at the Otterworth Arms about half-past eight. Dr. Froude says, though we mustn’t tie him down too closely until he’s carried out his post-mortem, that he was killed about midnight. The car was found only half a mile outside the village. What in the world had Mr. Gantley been doing in the meanwhile?”

The constable shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, sir, and I can’t make it out,” he replied. “I questioned Tregarris closely about the time, and he says he remembers looking at the clock just after Mr. Gantley had gone, and noticing that it was twenty minutes to nine.”

“Well, that’s a point that wants clearing up,” remarked the Inspector. “If I were you, I’d inquire very carefully all through the village for anybody who might have seen the car after it left the Otterworth Arms. There’s your friend with the nailed boots, for instance. You haven’t got any clue to who he was, I suppose?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” replied Pentrellis doubtfully. “Just before you came back, Mr. Porch stopped me. He’s a farmer up on the top of the hill, and he was just coming down to the village. I’m pretty sure that he couldn’t have heard about Mr. Gantley, sir. He said he was looking for me, as he wanted to complain that a bicycle of his had been stolen. I asked him for particulars, and he told me that the bicycle was always kept in a cart-shed some little distance from the house. It is just an open shed, with no door, but the bicycle was quite safe, because nobody but his own men went near the place. Mr. Porch says that he has kept the bicycle there for years, and nobody has ever touched it. But this morning, when he wanted it to ride down to the village on, it was gone.”

“A bicycle missing, eh?” said Inspector Driffield. “How far is the cart-shed from the spot where you found the car?”

“Between half and three quarters of a mile, sir. I asked Mr. Porch when he last saw the bicycle, and he told me that he put it in the shed himself at six o’clock yesterday evening. Then I asked him if he had any suspicions as to who might have taken it, and he said that he wouldn’t like to accuse anybody. But the only people outside his own family who knew where the bicycle was kept were the three men who worked for him, and one of these, by name Fred Trimble, has not turned up this morning.”

“Do you know anything about this Fred Trimble?” asked the Inspector.

“He wasn’t born and bred in the village, like most of the folk, sir. He only came here about the same time as I did. From what I’ve heard, I think he used to have a job in Carnford, and lost it somehow. He used to do odd jobs when he first came here, but he’s been working regularly for Mr. Porch for the last three or four months. He always seems to me to have had a better education than most of the villagers, but he’s a quiet, reserved sort of chap, and never talks much, even when he’s in drink.”

“Bit of a dark horse, eh? Have you found out anything about his movements recently?”

“Yes, sir, I have. He went into the Otterworth Arms soon after opening time, seven o’clock, yesterday evening. He sat there by himself in a corner, without saying much to anybody, till Mr. Gantley came in. While the landlord was outside, putting the petrol in the car, he slipped out, but came back again in a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, and sat on till closing time, ten o’clock. Tregarris admits that he’d had as much as was good for him then, but he went out quietly enough.”

“And was that the last that was seen of him?”

“I don’t know that anybody actually saw him after that, sir. But the family he lodges with heard him come in about quarter past ten. They never heard him go out again, but he wasn’t in his room at seven o’clock this morning, and he hasn’t been back since.”

“It certainly looks as though he had stolen the bicycle some time during the night and cleared out. You had better get descriptions of the man and the bicycle, and I’ll have them circulated.”

“I have got them here ready for you, sir,” replied Pentrellis, taking a paper from his pocket. “I thought you might want them.”

“Good man!” said the Inspector approvingly. “You’ve done very well, so far. Do you think the man with the nailed boots was this fellow Trimble?”

“Well, sir, I had another look at those footmarks after you left this morning, and it struck me that the outline of the nails was pretty sharp, as if the nails were new. So I went to see Lawson, the cobbler, and he told me that he put a new set of nails into a pair of boots for Trimble only last week.”

“By Jove, Pentrellis, I believe you’re going to solve this mystery off your own bat!” exclaimed Inspector Driffield. “I’ll get back to Carnford and get this description circulated at once. You stay here and keep your eyes and ears open till you hear from me again. You’ll be wanted at the inquest, of course. I’ll send the car out to fetch you.”

The Inspector returned to Carnford, still more doubtful of his wisdom in suggesting the calling in of the Yard than he had been when he set out. It looked, after all, as though the crime had been purely a local one, that the mystery would be solved by the discovery of the missing Trimble. He decided to tell the Chief Constable that, on second thoughts, he felt fully competent to deal with the matter himself.

But, by the time he reached Carnford it was too late. The Chief Constable had gone, leaving a message for Inspector Driffield that he had communicated with Scotland Yard, and had received a reply that Detective-Inspector Arnold would arrive at Carnford by the train which got in at 9.30 that evening. Inspector Driffield was to meet him, and put the case before him without delay.

So it happened that the two Inspectors, Driffield of the Downhamshire Constabulary, and Arnold of the Criminal Investigation Department, found themselves seated in the former’s room shortly before ten o’clock on Monday night.

“Have a cigarette,” said Driffield, handing his case to the other. “Now look here, before we start, let’s get down to brass tacks. I know that you fellows from the Yard are always afraid that you won’t get adequate support from the local people. Well, you needn’t have any fears of that kind in this case, for I persuaded my chief to send for you, at the risk of being thought a bit of an ass for my pains.”

Arnold laughed. “I know that there’s always supposed to be a lot of jealousy between the county police and the Yard, but I’ve never experienced it,” he replied. “We’re not out to pinch the credit from you chaps, we only want to help. After all, we’re not heaven-sent geniuses. We get more experience in criminal detection than you do, that’s all.”

“And you cover a wider field. Now then, if you’re ready, I’ll put you wise to this affair.”

Arnold listened closely, occasionally putting in a question or two, while Driffield recounted the finding of Mr. Gantley’s body and the information he had since gained. “It seems a queer business, in many ways,” he said, when he had heard the whole story. “What’s your own opinion about it?”

“My opinion is that it is a case of deliberate and, I think, carefully planned murder,” replied Inspector Driffield. “Of course, we can’t definitely rule out suicide, but there are two factors against it. Apart from the fact that we haven’t discovered so far that Gantley had any motive for killing himself, there are the facts that we haven’t found the weapon, and that there is no trace of powder-blackening round the wound.”

Arnold shook his head. “It doesn’t sound to me a bit like suicide,” he agreed. “In fact, I think we can assume that the man was murdered. If so, is this man Trimble the murderer? From what you tell me, it looks as though he was waiting at the Otterworth Arms for Mr. Gantley to turn up?”

“How could he know that Gantley would stop there? He had never done so before. By the way, there’s rather a curious point about his visit, which I’ll tell you about in a minute. The queer thing, though, is that there is reason to believe that Trimble had a grudge against Gantley. Pentrellis told me that Trimble came to Norton Ferris from here, and I had an idea. I went to Gantley’s secretary, and asked him if he had ever heard the name of Trimble. He had, and remembered the man well. It appears that he was employed in some capacity at the offices of the Downhamshire Courier. Gantley found him out in some petty dishonesty, sent for him, and sacked him on the spot. Trimble was very abusive and threatening, and had to be removed by force.”

“Motive for murder?” said Arnold inquiringly. “I don’t know. It would certainly be a damaging statement to put before a jury. Trimble broods over his grievance and at last decides to murder his enemy. It seems that Mr. Gantley was in the habit of driving through Norton Ferris, and Trimble could easily have learnt that. But what was the curious point about Mr. Gantley’s visit to the Otterworth Arms?”

“I’ll explain. It occurred to me that it might be useful to know something about his movements during the week-end. He was supposed to have driven straight down to this house-boat of his on the Friday, to have stayed there over Saturday, and to have been on his way home on Sunday. I wondered if this had actually been the case, so I carried out a little investigation on my own.

“Gantley’s car is a thirty-five horse power Perfection, with a heavy saloon body. I made inquiries at one or two local garages, and ascertained that such a car should do about eighteen miles to the gallon on average give and take roads. Now, the road through Norton Ferris is one of the worst in the country, with very heavy gradients. I don’t think we should be far wrong if we assumed that the car would not do more than fifteen miles to the gallon over it.

“I then went to see Watts. He told me that the petrol tank of the car held ten gallons. He also told me that on Friday afternoon he drove the car round to the garage and had the tank filled up. This statement is confirmed by the garage man. It seems to be pretty well established that Mr. Gantley left for Benger’s Creek with ten gallons in his tank.

“Now the distance from Carnford to Benger’s Creek is seventeen miles. It is nine from Benger’s Creek back to Norton Ferris. Total, twenty-six miles, or at the most two gallons. Gantley should have had eight gallons left when he called at the Otterworth Arms, with which to cover the eight miles home. What the dickens did he want to take in another two gallons for?”

“That’s an ingenious bit of reasoning. It looks as though Mr. Gantley had covered a good many miles during the week-end.”

“Where did he go, then? There is only the one road, which ends at Winterley. There are a few tracks over the moors, but nothing that you could possibly take a car over. Besides, here’s the point. The next thing I did was to examine the petrol tank on the car. It’s so full that you could hardly get another pint into it. You can see for yourself to-morrow, if you like.”

“So that there must already have been eight gallons in it when the can was poured in at the Otterworth Arms,” said Arnold slowly. “Mr. Gantley must have known that, of course.”

“Of course. Had he some other reason for stopping at the Otterworth Arms, and merely asked for the can of petrol as an excuse? Had he by any chance promised this man Trimble an interview? It sounds unlikely, I’ll admit.”

“Is there any evidence that Mr. Gantley had communicated with Trimble recently?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of the queer things about the case, like the broken wind-screen and the stone I found in the car. Who broke the screen, and why? I’ll swear it was broken after Mr. Gantley was shot, for there were splinters of glass lying on the body.”

“We shall have a good many questions to ask Trimble when we catch him, I can see that,” said Arnold. “But, if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t give me the impression that you’re convinced that he is the murderer.”

“I’m not, and that’s a fact,” replied Driffield. “Mind you, I’ve never seen the man, and I know no more about him than I’ve already told you. But I don’t believe in revenge as a motive for deliberate murder. In very nearly every case of murder that I’ve heard of, the criminal stands to gain something definite by the death of his victim. Of course, I’m not saying that Trimble isn’t capable of knocking his enemy on the head if he saw a chance of doing so without being found out. But, unless he’s clean off his head, I can’t imagine any man, inspired with a desire for revenge alone, deliberately way-laying his man and shooting him, with the practical certainty that the crime would be brought home to him sooner or later.”

Arnold smiled. “The mind of the murderer is apt to be a bit obscure,” he said. “I’ve known a case in which murder from motives of revenge led to the most amazing discoveries. Have you any alternative criminal in mind?”

“I’ve got a hazy idea of an alternative motive, but I confess that I can’t quite see how it works out. I told you about the death of Lady Gantley, and the provisions of her will. Now, her death benefits this nephew and niece of Gantley’s, the two Harringtons. But it wouldn’t benefit them while their uncle was alive. Nor would Lady Gantley’s death have benefited them if their uncle had been murdered a day or two before he was.”

Arnold considered this in silence for some moments. “We’re talking entirely theoretically, of course,” he said at last. “Lady Gantley died, I think you said, at eight o’clock on Saturday evening. It certainly seems queer that her brother-in-law should have been murdered so soon afterwards.”

“I should very much like to know the circumstances of Lady Gantley’s death,” replied Driffield significantly. “Was it due to some sudden shock, and, if so, what was the nature of that shock? And I should also like to know when the Harringtons learnt of her death.”

“Mr. Gantley was, presumably, on his house-boat at Benger’s Creek when her death occurred,” observed Arnold thoughtfully.

“Yes, and was due to return alone by a particularly lonely road on the following day. If anybody had known fairly promptly of Lady Gantley’s death, there was time for them to waylay Gantley outside Norton Ferris on Sunday evening. It’s about two hundred and fifty miles from here to Richmond, I suppose.”

“That would involve the knowledge that Mr. Gantley had gone to Benger’s Creek on Friday afternoon.”

“I don’t think there’s any difficulty about that. His intention of doing so was known at least as early as Friday morning. Everybody who knew him was aware that he frequently spent his week-ends there. I don’t say that there’s enough yet to form any definite theory, but I don’t think it would be altogether waste of time to make a few inquiries about these Harringtons. I managed to get their address without asking Mr. Polteith for it. I didn’t want him to think that I was in anyway interested in them.”

“How did you manage that?” asked Arnold.

“Simply enough. You remember my telling you that Mr. Polteith sent them a wire just before he and I went to Westerly Cottage? Well, I went round to the post office just now and asked to see the telegrams which had been sent off during the past few days, as I had information that wires were being sent from here in connection with the Irish sweepstake. Even a dud law can be useful sometimes.”

Inspector Driffield glanced at the clock as he spoke. “I’m expecting Doctor Froude,” he continued. “He was to carry out the post-mortem this evening, and he promised me that he would look in here and tell me the results, however late it might be. Ah, here he is, I think.”

There was a tap on the door, and Dr. Froude was announced, Driffield introduced him to Arnold, at whom the doctor glanced keenly. “So Scotland Yard’s taking a hand, is it?” he said. “Not so simple as it looks, eh? Well, that’s none of my business. I expect you gentlemen would like to hear the evidence I shall give before the coroner hears it. When is the inquest to be, by the way, Inspector?”

“I’ve seen the coroner, and fixed it for half-past eleven to-morrow morning. He’s decided to call a jury.”

“Damn him! Juries love wasting time, and I’m a busy man. However, I suppose the coroner thought it best not to sit alone, seeing the sensation Gantley’s death has caused. But to get down to business. I have carried out a thorough examination, and am prepared to certify that death was caused by a bullet, which, entering close to the right temple, lodged in the brain. The body is otherwise healthy, and there is no trace of any other cause of death. Here is the bullet, if you care to see it.”

Doctor Froude took a small box from his pocket, and out of it produced a small bullet, which he laid on the table. Arnold bent over it and examined it carefully. “I’m not an expert,” he said. “But I fancy that was fired from an automatic, probably of American make.”

He glanced at Driffield as he spoke. The same thought passed through both men’s minds. An American automatic was hardly a likely weapon for Trimble to possess.

“There are one or two things I noticed when I examined the wound more closely,” continued Doctor Froude. “In the first place, though circular, it is considerably greater in diameter than the bullet itself. This shows, I think, that the bullet was nearing the end of its flight, and was wobbling slightly. This, I think, may be taken as evidence that the shot was fired from some little distance—it is impossible to say how far until the nature of the weapon is known. This is borne out by the fact that the bullet had not sufficient velocity to penetrate the head, and also by the fact that there is no trace of scorching or blackening round the wound, as would have been the case had the weapon been fired close to the dead man’s head.”

“That sounds as if we could rule out suicide, Doctor?” suggested Driffield.

“I think we can,” replied Doctor Froude, “I cannot imagine any way in which the bullet could have been fired by Mr. Gantley himself.”

“If the bullet was fired from some little distance, the car must have been at rest at the time,” said Driffield reflectively. “It’s incredible that anybody should have scored a bull’s-eye on a moving target on a pitch black night. It looks to me as if Mr. Gantley drove into the ditch, for some obscure reason, then switched on the light inside the car and opened the right-hand front window, thus offering the murderer his opportunity. It’s pretty clear, from the blood on the upholstery and the floor, that he was still sitting in the car when he was shot.”

“I think it is,” agreed Doctor Froude. “There’s another point which will probably interest you. As a result of a more careful examination in the mortuary than I was able to make on the spot, I am inclined to put the time of death rather earlier than I was at first.”

“Don’t put it too early, Doctor,” said Driffield. “Mr. Gantley was seen alive by half a dozen people at about half-past eight on Sunday evening.”

“Half past eight? That would be about twelve hours before I first saw the body. Yes, that might agree with the indications. I’ll try to explain, though I’m afraid that I shall have to be a bit technical. In the first place, when I examined the body just now, the appearance of the organs, and so forth, was such that death must have occurred at least twenty-four hours previously, which would bring us to about nine o’clock on Sunday evening. And in the second, the post-mortem stains show that the body was not moved from the position it took up when death occurred.”

“You mean, that when Mr. Gantley was shot, he fell over on his left side, and remained so till we found him?”

“Exactly. You see, when death occurs, circulation ceases, and the blood gravitates to the under side of the body in the position in which it is lying, causing a discolouration of the skin, known as post-mortem stain. If the body lies on its back, for instance, these stains will be found in the small of the back, and on the back of the legs and arms. In this case, the stains are clearly visible and well-defined on the left-side of the body. But the legs, you will remember, were still dangling from the seat, and the stains there are round about the feet and ankles.

“There is a further point. These stains form only while the blood is still liquid, and before it has coagulated, which it does sooner or later, within the dead body. The authorities refuse to lay down how long after death this coagulation occurs, as the time depends upon a very large number of factors. But we may take twelve hours or so as an average. If, during this period, the position of the body is changed, if it is turned, say, from lying on its back to lying on its face, the original stains which would form on the back would disappear, and fresh ones would appear on the front. But, if the body were turned over after the blood had coagulated, the original stains would remain and no fresh ones would appear.”

“I’ve heard something of this before, Doctor, but I’ve never had it explained to me so clearly,” remarked Arnold.

“I’ve just been reading up the subject,” replied Doctor Froude, with a smile. “You can find it for yourself in any text-book of forensic medicine. Now, Mr. Gantley’s body was removed from the car about nine o’clock this morning, and laid on its back in the ambulance. From here it was transferred to the mortuary, where it lay, still on its back, until I began my examination about eight o’clock this evening. At that time, although the position of the body had been changed, the original stains remained, and only scarcely perceptible stains had appeared on the back. This shows that when the body was moved, coagulation was nearly complete. I think, therefore, that it is safe to say that death occurred about twelve hours before the body was moved. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get off home, as I’ve had a pretty long day of it. I’ll drop in to-morrow before the inquest, in case you’ve any questions to ask.”

When the doctor had gone, Driffield turned to Arnold. “That seems satisfactory enough,” he said. “I gather from the doctor’s scientific lecture that Gantley must have been shot in his car, not at midnight, but very soon after he left the Otterworth Arms. Now Trimble was at large for twenty minutes or so about then.”

“Yes, he was,” replied Arnold. “But, if he shot Mr. Gantley then, I can’t understand his going back to the pub until ten, then going back to his lodgings, before he made a bolt for it. Besides, I thought you weren’t very struck on the idea of murder for revenge?”

“I’m not. But what if the Harringtons put Trimble up to do their job for them?”

On the following morning, as Inspector Driffield entered the police station, the sergeant on duty stopped him. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “There’s a man here I think you’d like to see. He’s got a bicycle with him, which he says he’s found, and though it doesn’t answer to the description you circulated yesterday, I thought you’d like to see it, sir, and hear the man’s story for yourself.”

“I should,” replied the Inspector eagerly. “Who is the man, do you know him?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know him well enough. He’s a decent old chap, by the name of Jefferies, and lives in one of the cottages in Mill Lane, close by where the old mill used to stand, down by the river. He’s got a pension of some kind, and spends most of his time pottering about in his bit of garden. He’s waiting out in the yard, sir, with the bicycle.”

Inspector Driffield went out into the yard, to find a rather tottery old man sitting on a bench, against which leant the bicycle. The old man rose as he approached, and touched his hat respectfully.

“Well, Jefferies, I hear you’ve found a bicycle,” said the Inspector, eyeing the machine as he spoke. He could tell at a glance that it was not the one of which Mr. Porch had reported the loss. That, according to the description Pentrellis had given him, had been old and shabby, with part of the back mudguard missing, and of no very reputable make. This one was an almost new Hawkins, and was in perfect order, except that it showed some signs of recent rust.

“Yes, sir,” replied Jefferies. “I found him down by the old mill, and, seeing that I’m an old soldier, and knows what duty is, I brought him along up here, and the sergeant says you’d like me to see you about him.”

“You acted like an old soldier should, Jefferies,” said the Inspector. “When did you find the machine?”

“Aye, it’s many years service I’ve seen,” the old man rambled. “Served in Afghanistan I did, aye and South Africa too. Things was different them days to what they are now, sir. I could tell you things you wouldn’t hardly believe, sir. Never a bad mark I had against me all them years, sir. I can show you my papers, sir——”

He began fumbling in his pocket, but the Inspector cut him short. “I’ll have a look at them some other time, Jefferies,” he said. “You were going to tell me where you found the bicycle?”

“Oh, he? Why, as I was telling the sergeant, sir, I found him this morning. ’Twas like this, you see, sir. My garden runs down to the old mill. Leastways, there’s only ruins left where the mill used to be. I mind when I was a lad and it was working, and old Mr. Bailey the miller, that’s been dead these fifty years, used to come out all white with flour, like, and cuss us youngsters for throwing stones at the ducks on the mill pond. But that’s all gone now, sir, and my cottage stands where the mill pond used to be. I mind just afore they filled it in——”

“That was some years ago, I expect, Jefferies. But let’s get on to this morning. You went into the ruins?”

“That’s just what I’m a telling you of, sir. There’s some old rubbish there, sir, old mortar and that, and whiles I takes a bucket and picks up some of it to mix with the soil for my lilies. ’Tain’t mine by rights, sir, I know that. But nobody’s never said nothing, and there don’t seem any harm in my taking it.”

“I’m sure there isn’t. You went to get some rubbish, and found the bicycle. Is that it?”

“That’s it, sir. You see ’twas like this. There’s a dark hole among they ruins. ’Tis where the old mill wheel used to turn. The walls have crumbled away, like, and there’s plenty of good rubbish at the bottom of it. There’s a narrow passage leading to it, and I goes down this with my bucket. And before I knows what’s up, I’d bumped into this here bicycle. That’s a rum thing, I thinks. Who could have put him there like that? The chap what done it weren’t up to no good, that’s certain, or what would he have left him there like that for? So I thinks to myself the best thing I can do is to take him to the police. Likely as not he’s been stolen.”

“You did quite right, Jefferies. We’ll soon find out who it belongs to, and I expect there’ll be a reward going. When did you last go down that passage?”

“Last Thursday morning, sir, and he weren’t there then, or I’d have been bound to see him, wouldn’t I?”

Inspector Driffield got rid of Jefferies, and gave orders that the bicycle was to be held until some one claimed it. The incident faded from his mind in the bustle of preparing for the inquest. The court was packed long before it opened, but the proceedings were not very sensational. Doctor Froude repeated the evidence which he had already rehearsed to the two inspectors. Mr. Polteith identified the body, Constable Pentrellis described his finding of the car, Jack Tregarris spoke of Mr. Gantley’s call at the Otterworth Arms. Inspector Driffield said as little as possible. He confined himself to describing the blood stains in the interior of the car, and made no mention of the foot marks or of Trimble. Time enough for that when the case came before the magistrates, he thought.

The coroner summed up, and the jury whispered among themselves. They did not even withdraw, and it was plain from their expressions that they had no doubts whatever as to the cause of Mr. Gantley’s death. They returned a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown, which was as everybody present in court had anticipated.

“Well, that’s that,” said Driffield as he and Arnold entered the police station. “Now we can get ahead. Yes, what is it, sergeant?”

“A message came for you while you were in court, sir,” replied the sergeant on duty. “A man answering to the description you circulated has been apprehended in Trentmouth, sir. He admits that his name is Frederick Trimble. The Trentmouth police are bringing him here under escort.”

Driffield looked at Arnold with an air of satisfaction. “The bird hasn’t been long falling into the snare of the fowler, has he?” he said. “What are we going to do with him? Apply for a warrant for his arrest?”

“I shouldn’t, there’s no point in putting him on the defensive unnecessarily,” replied Arnold.

“Let’s hear what he’s got to say for himself first. You can always charge him with the theft of the bicycle, you know.”

Driffield agreed to this, and the two Inspectors went out to lunch together. By tacit consent, the murder of Mr. Gantley was not mentioned. Neither of them was anxious to commit himself to any theory until Trimble’s story had been heard. And shortly after they returned to the police station, Trimble arrived, escorted by two policemen.

“Keep this man out here for the present, sergeant,” said Inspector Driffield. “I told Pentrellis to stay here till he arrived. Get hold of him and let him identify the prisoner. I want a word with the escort, first.”

The Inspector went into his room, where Arnold was already seated, and the escort followed him. “Where did you find this fellow?” he asked.

“We didn’t actually find him ourselves, sir,” replied one of the men. “He was handed over to us yesterday by the dock police, and as soon as we received your description we communicated with you, sir. He was given in charge of the dock police by the mate of one of the vessels lying at the quay, who found him hiding in the hold Monday morning.”

“Did he give any account of himself?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes, sir. He said he was fed up with his job in England, and wanted to get out to Canada. That’s where the ship was bound for. He said he tramped over the moors during the night, climbed over the dock wall just before dawn, saw the ship, with some bales marked for Canada beside it, and climbed on board when the watchman wasn’t looking. Our sergeant told him that he had reason to believe that his name was Trimble, and that he came from Norton Ferris. After a bit he admitted it, and then he was told that he was wanted on a charge of stealing a bicycle. He declared he was innocent, sir, and nothing would shake him.”

“Innocent or guilty, I want a little chat with him,” said the Inspector grimly. “All right, I’m much obliged to you. If you’ll report to the sergeant, he’ll see that you have all you want.”

The escort retired, and at the Inspector’s summons Trimble was brought in by Pentrellis. His adventures had not improved his appearance. He was unshaven and incredibly dirty, and his hands and clothes were torn, presumably as the result of climbing the wall. But it was upon his boots that Driffield directed his first glance. Even beneath the mud that covered them it could be seen that they had been newly nailed.

“Is this the man, Pentrellis?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, this is Fred Trimble,” replied the constable.

The Inspector gazed for several seconds at the prisoner, who kept his eyes stubbornly fixed upon the floor. “Well, Trimble, you’ve been getting into hot water, I hear. What made you steal Mr. Porch’s bicycle, eh?”

“I don’t know anything about his bicycle,” replied Trimble sullenly. “I might have taken it if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t. I just cleared out because I was tired of working like a slave and getting next to nothing for it.”

“Oh, that’s why you left Norton Ferris, is it? Well, if you won’t tell us anything about the bicycle, perhaps you’ll tell us what you were doing walking round Mr. Gantley’s car on Sunday night, after it had run into the ditch?”

Trimble raised his head for an instant, and shot an anxious glance at the Inspector. But he still maintained his sullen attitude. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Oh, come now, that won’t do Trimble,” remonstrated the Inspector silkily. “You were in the Otterworth Arms when Mr. Gantley came in that evening. And you know Mr. Gantley by sight, don’t you? You ought to, since you were employed by him until he sacked you for dishonesty.”

“I hadn’t done anything that dozens of others don’t do every day, without anything said to them,” replied Trimble.

“Perhaps not. Anyhow, you recognised Mr. Gantley when he came in, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I recognised him all right.”

“I thought you did. Now, where did you go when you slipped out while Tregarris was fetching the petrol?”

Again Trimble looked up furtively, but the Inspector’s expression told him nothing. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with you,” he replied.

“Don’t you?” said the Inspector. And then his manner suddenly changed. “I have to tell you, Trimble, that we know that Mr. Gantley was murdered in his car by the roadside shortly after he left the Otterworth Arms. Unless you can give a satisfactory account of your movements on Sunday night, you will be charged with his murder. And any statement you make may be used in evidence against you.”

Trimble staggered and would have fallen but for Pentrellis’ steadying hand. “Murdered!” he exclaimed. “My God! How—what killed him?”

Driffield glanced at Arnold, who had been watching the prisoner intently. The latter nodded, and Driffield spoke. “He was killed by a pistol shot,” he said.

Trimble uttered a short hysterical laugh, obviously an expression of the most profound relief. “A pistol shot!” he exclaimed. “I thought you meant at first——” He stopped suddenly, as though afraid he had already said too much.

But Arnold, who had not hitherto spoken, finished the sentence for him. “You thought that he might have been killed by a blow from a stone, or something like that,” he said quietly. “You see, Trimble, you’d much better tell us all you know about it. It’s the only way out of the hole you’ve got yourself into.”

Trimble looked at the speaker with the remnants of a hostile obstinacy. But it was evident that his resistance was weakening.

“Come on, now, I’ll help you out,” continued Arnold. “We’ve got as far as this. You were sitting in the Otterworth Arms when Mr. Gantley came in, and recognised him. Were you expecting him?”

“No, that I wasn’t,” replied Trimble. “I wasn’t even thinking about him till I heard one of the chaps say that his car was coming down the hill. And then I never guessed he’d stop and come into the pub. How should I?”

“How, indeed? But why did you leave the Otterworth Arms when the car was still standing outside?”

“Just to take a walk in the rain? Or was it because you had a grudge against Mr. Gantley and wanted to get your own back?”

“He sacked me for nothing, and I didn’t see why he should get away with it,” muttered Trimble. And then suddenly he seemed to discard his obstinacy as a man throws off his coat. “I’d best make a clean breast of it, or you’ll do your best to put the rope round my neck for killing him. I didn’t mean him no harm, no real harm, that is. But I got mad at seeing him again sudden, like that, when I’d had a pint or two.”

He was addressing himself exclusively to Arnold, who nodded understandingly.

“I just ran out into the fields alongside the road I knew he’d be coming along,” continued Trimble. “I didn’t exactly know what I was going to do till I felt the stones under my feet. Then I just stopped and picked one up, and as the car came along I chucked it at it.”

“Could Mr. Gantley have seen you throw the stone?”

“No, I took good care of that. I was behind the hedge, where the lights of the car couldn’t reach me.”

“What happened next?”

“I heard the screen go, and I heard Mr. Gantley cuss, which I’d never heard before. And then the car took a cant into the ditch, and I cleared out back to the Otterworth Arms.”

“Where you stayed until ten o’clock, and then went back to your lodgings. What made you turn out again and go back to the car? The marks of your boots were found all round it, you know.”

A cunning expression came into Trimble’s eyes. “Well, you see, after I’d got back home I sobered down a bit, and it came to me that it would be a dirty trick to leave Mr. Gantley stranded by himself like that all night. So I went out again, and walked down the road to where I’d last seen the car, meaning to offer to lend a hand.”

“Your penitence doesn’t altogether impress me, Trimble. What time was it when you went out again?”

“It was striking twelve o’clock as I left my lodgings.”

“Did you see anybody as you walked towards the spot where the car was?”

Trimble shook his head. “There wasn’t a soul about anywhere, not so far as I could see,” he replied.

“Were the lights of the car on as you approached it?”

“No, there wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere. It was that dark that I walked right into the car before I knew I had reached it.”

“And when you found the car, what did you do?”

“I felt for the door handle, thinking that Mr. Gantley might have gone to sleep inside till morning. And then, just as I touched the handle, somebody fired at me from inside the car, and I cleared out quick.”

“Somebody fired at you from inside the car!” exclaimed Arnold incredulously. “Oh, come now, Trimble, you can’t expect us to believe that kind of yarn. Tell the truth, now. What happened exactly?”

“Somebody fired at me from inside the car,” replied Trimble doggedly. “I know a shot when I hear it. I tell you I saw the flash and heard the report. Mr. Gantley must have seen me throw the stone, though how I don’t know, and when he saw me coming a second time he just loosed off at me. Lucky thing he didn’t hit me, too.”

Arnold, a frown upon his face, considered this extraordinary statement for a few moments. “You’re certain that the shot was fired from inside the car?” he asked suddenly.

“Well, that’s what it looked to me like,” replied Trimble. “I didn’t wait to find it out. I cleared out over the fields in case there was another shot coming.”

“It strikes me that you had a bit of a guilty conscience, Trimble. What did you do when you thought you were far enough out of range?”

“I kept on till I was well on up the moor, and then I sat down to think things out a bit. I’d been seen, sure enough, I knew that, else why had I been shot at? And I wondered what I’d best do. If I went back to Norton Ferris, I knew what I had to expect. Mr. Gantley wouldn’t have rested till he had had me put in gaol for chucking the stone and smashing the wind-screen. So I thought I’d best clear out altogether, and after I’d had a bit of rest, I kept on over the moor till I got to Trentmouth.”

“Taking Mr. Porch’s bicycle on the way, I suppose. What have you done with that, by the way?”

“I never went near the bicycle. I was too anxious to get away to think of it.”

Arnold turned to Pentrellis. “If Trimble had gone straight over the moor towards Trentmouth, would he have passed the shed in which the bicycle was kept?” he asked.

“Well, he might have, sir,” replied Pentrellis. “It depends which way he took. If he’d gone in a straight line he would have passed pretty close to it.”

Arnold glanced inquiringly at Driffield, who shook his head and addressed the policeman. “All right, Pentrellis, take him outside,” he said.

Pentrellis marched the prisoner off, and Driffield shut the door behind them. “Well, I’m damned!” he exclaimed violently when he had done so.

“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Arnold.

“I don’t know what to make of it. Either the man’s telling a tissue of lies, or he was actually on the spot when Gantley was shot. What are we going to do with him?”

“Nothing drastic for the present, if you take my advice. This is what I suggest. Let’s get your car and drive over to Norton Ferris, taking Trimble with us. We can then test his story on the spot. Besides, I haven’t seen for myself the place where the car was found yet.”

Driffield readily agreed to this. Within a few minutes they set out, Driffield driving with Arnold beside him, and Trimble, in charge of Pentrellis, in the back.

About half a mile before they came to Norton Ferris they reached the spot where Mr. Gantley’s car had run into the ditch, still easily recognisable by the mark where the wheel had struck it. Driffield stopped the car, and the party alighted.

“Now, then, Trimble, let’s see if we can check up your story,” said Inspector Driffield. “Where were you hiding when you threw that stone?”

Trimble pointed to a gap in the hedge on the left-hand side of the road looking towards Norton Ferris. “That’s the place,” he said.

The two Inspectors climbed through the gap, and examined the surface of the field beyond. The ground had dried considerably since Sunday night, leaving patches of dark earth between the roots with which the field was planted. On these, close to the hedge and running parallel with it, were occasional prints of a nailed boot, some coming from the village and some returning towards it. Only the marks of the soles were visible. There were no heel-prints. And in one or two cases the tracks returning towards the village obliterated those coming from it.

“Clear as a book, isn’t it?” remarked Driffield. “Somebody ran up inside this hedge, and then ran back again the same way. It looks as if the first part of Trimble’s story were true. Half a minute.”

He went back to where Trimble and Pentrellis were waiting by the car. “Take off your boots, Trimble,” he ordered.

Trimble obeyed readily enough, and Driffield returned to the field, the boots in his hand. He and Arnold had no difficulty in ascertaining that they fitted the imprints exactly.

“I fancy that’s enough to convict Trimble of stone-throwing,” said Driffield. “Now, let’s see if we can get a step further. Unfortunately, now that the road has dried up, the footprints Pentrellis and I saw yesterday morning are no longer visible. They wouldn’t have been, anyhow, for by the look of it the whole population of Norton Ferris has been here before us. Well, it can’t be helped. We may be able to pick them up somewhere else.”

They returned to the car. “Now then, Trimble, you told us that after you heard that shot fired, you made a bolt for it. Which way did you go?”

“Over the ditch, through the hedge, and across the fields,” replied Trimble, pointing to the right-hand side of the road looking towards the village.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll follow your example. There’s a gate about fifty yards on,” said Driffield.

He and Arnold walked along the road to the gate, and climbed over it. A field lay on the other side, also planted with roots. A narrow path ran from the gate diagonally across the field to a stile in the farther hedge.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Arnold. “Somebody’s been along this patch recently, and it wasn’t Trimble. Look here!”

He bent down, and pointed to a series of regular footprints, starting at the gate and extending along the path. The imprints were certainly not those of Trimble’s boots. They had been made by a smaller and much more finely shaped shoe, with smooth soles and heels. Whoever had caused them had walked rapidly, taking fairly long strides.

“By Jove, those tracks must have been made when the ground was pretty soft!” exclaimed Driffield. “They’re half an inch deep in places. Now, though it drizzled all Sunday afternoon, it wasn’t enough to make the soil really wet. It wasn’t until the evening that it started to rain heavily. It stopped again early on Monday morning, and the ground was getting quite dry by the time I left here then. Therefore, whoever it was, passed along here some time during the night of Sunday—Monday.”

“Quite a lot of people seem to have had a hand in this job,” grumbled Arnold. “We’d better see where those footsteps lead to, I suppose.”

They followed the path until they reached the stile, the footsteps being plainly visible all the way. But after this the trail was lost. The next field was grass, with a herd of cattle grazing in it, and they could find no further trace of the footmarks.

“Now I wonder who the dickens that was,” said Driffield as they made their way back to the road. “Not a farm labourer, nor yet a farmer or any one connected with the land, by the look of the imprint of his shoes. And where can he have been bound for? Perhaps Pentrellis can tell us that.”

As soon as they got back to the gate, Driffield called out to the constable. “Where does this path lead to, Pentrellis?”

“It leads up to the back of the village, sir,” was the reply. “There aren’t many that use it, for there’s a plank crossing a stream some little distance on, and the plank’s rotten. But if you turn off just before that, sir, you come to the bridle path to Mr. Porch’s farm.”

“The dickens you do!” muttered Driffield. “But we’ll have to leave that for the moment. Let’s see if we can find friend Trimble’s spoor.”

He and Arnold walked down inside the hedge until they were abreast of the place where Mr. Gantley’s car had run into the ditch. Here there were clear traces in the hedge of some one having forced their way through it. And beyond this, in the field itself, were several well-preserved imprints which Trimble’s boots fitted perfectly.

These they followed across the field. The line of them diverged from the path, and it was clear that Trimble had taken a line away from the village rather than towards it. But these tracks, too, were lost in a grass field beyond.

“I’m beginning to believe that Trimble’s yarn was true, at least in part,” remarked Driffield. “But I can’t altogether swallow that story of his being fired at. He didn’t mention it till he’d been told that Gantley had been shot, you know.”

“No, but then, on the other hand, if nothing had happened to frighten him, why did he take to his heels and run like the devil over this field?” replied Arnold. “You can see how fast he was going by the shape of the imprints and the distance between them.”

“He may have peeped inside the car and found Mr. Gantley’s body. That would be enough to put the wind up him, with that stone-throwing business on his conscience. He’s quite capable of making up the yarn about the shot afterwards. The question that’s worrying me just now is what we’re going to do with him.”

“If I were you, I’d let him go with a caution,” replied Arnold. “You can tell Pentrellis, who seems a pretty smart fellow, to keep an eye on him. If he knows anything about the crime, he’ll very likely do something that will give him away when he finds himself at liberty.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Driffield. They walked back to where Pentrellis and Trimble were awaiting them, and Driffield addressed the latter sternly. “You can think yourself jolly lucky, my man, that you’re not in the cells,” he said. “That’s what you deserve, but, as it is, we’ve decided to let you go for the present. You can go back to your job, if Mr. Porch will have you. But you’ve got to understand this. If you get up to your tricks again, or make any attempt to bolt, you’ll find yourself in gaol as sure as fate. Got me?”

Trimble nodded sullenly. “What about my boots?” he asked.

Driffield flung them on the ground at his feet. “You can have your blessed boots,” he said. “Hurry up and put them on. No, don’t stop to lace them up. Clear out, now, quick, and make yourself scarce before I change my mind.”

Trimble shambled off towards the village, and Driffield turned to the constable. “Keep a close eye on that fellow, Pentrellis,” he said. “Try and keep in touch with what he does, who he talks to, and that sort of thing. You might tell Mr. Porch that we don’t think that he’s the chap who took his bicycle. Now I daresay you’ll be glad to get back home.”

“Half a minute, Pentrellis,” said Arnold, as the constable saluted and turned to go. “You’ve done jolly well so far, and I’m sure that Inspector Driffield won’t mind if I ask you to do one more thing before you go home. I want you to stay here and see that nobody tramples over the fields on either side of the road. It won’t be for long, only while Inspector Driffield and I drive into Carnford and back again.”

Pentrellis was obviously charmed by the Scotland Yard man’s manner. “Very good, sir,” he replied, readily enough.

The two Inspectors entered the car and started to drive back to Carnford. “What’s the idea?” asked Driffield.

“I’ll tell you later,” replied Arnold. “Something’s occurred to me, but it may be all rubbish. I wish you’d drive to the mortuary, will you? I want to have a look at the things that Mr. Gantley was wearing.”

Arrived at the mortuary, Arnold examined carefully the dead man’s clothes, which had been neatly folded and laid out in a row. Finally he picked up the pair of brown shoes which lay beside them. “I think I’ll borrow these for a bit,” he said to the mortuary keeper.

He and Driffield drove back to where Pentrellis was standing guard. A group of reporters had by this time arrived, and recognising Inspector Driffield, they fell upon him like a swarm of flies. “Keep them in talk for a few minutes,” whispered Arnold, as he slipped out of the car.

He went to the gate, climbed over it, and took the shoes from where he had hidden them under his coat. When out of sight of the road, he fitted them to the imprints on the path running across the field. They corresponded exactly. With a puzzled expression he returned to the car, and as soon as Driffield could extricate himself from his questioners, they drove back towards Carnford.

“Well?” inquired Inspector Driffield. “Solved the mystery?”

“Say rather that I’ve deepened it a bit,” replied Arnold. “Would you be surprised if I told you that Mr. Gantley’s shoes fitted the imprints on that path?”

“Mr. Gantley’s!” exclaimed Driffield. “But, dash it all, man, if he walked along that path, how did he get back to the car? There were no returning tracks, or, if there were, I didn’t see them.”

“Nor did I, though I looked for them very carefully. It was only a chance that made me try Mr. Gantley’s shoes, but somehow I couldn’t quite cotton to the idea that there was a third person mucking about that night, or, at all events, leaving such a beautiful set of tracks behind him. Let’s get back to your office and see if we can thrash this business out quietly between us.”

When they reached Carnford, Inspector Driffield, in furtherance of his colleague’s suggestion, took him into his room, and gave orders that they were not to be disturbed. “Now then,” he said. “Let’s hear how all this appears to you, for I’m bound to confess that I can’t see daylight through it.”

“Nor do I, yet,” replied Arnold thoughtfully. “Before we speculate as to the identity of the murderer, we’ve got to reconstruct the events of Sunday night. Now, I’m inclined to think that Trimble’s story is true, at least as far as it concerns his actions up to midnight. What we’ve just seen seems to confirm it. Do you agree?”

Driffield nodded, and Arnold continued. “In that case, the cause of Mr. Gantley driving into the ditch was the stone thrown by Trimble. The sudden shock caused by a stone coming hurtling through the screen would account for the accident, easily enough. It doesn’t follow that the stone struck him.

“Now, what happened next? That’s what we’ve got to get at. What would be the most natural thing for Mr. Gantley to do, on finding that his car was hopelessly ditched? First of all, I think, he would get out and survey the situation, then, on finding that he could do nothing by himself, he would set off to get help.”

“Yes, that sounds probable,” observed Driffield. “What you’re getting at, I suppose, is that Gantley, when he had got out of the car, walked back towards the village, presumably on the grass beside the road, for I saw no footmarks of his on Monday morning, till he came to the gate, and then struck off along the path.”

“That’s about it. It’s difficult to understand, though, why he didn’t keep on along the road till he got to the village. I’m not going to suggest that he was on his way to Mr. Porch’s farm to borrow his bicycle, that seems a bit far-fetched. But, for all that, if he came back to the car on a bicycle, it would explain the absence of any returning footmarks.”

“But why should he come back without securing help? And what’s become of the bicycle?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But he did come back, dead or alive, since his body was found in the car. And there must be some explanation of that track along the path, and of the bicycle having disappeared from Mr. Porch’s cart-shed. Of course, it doesn’t follow that the two things are connected.”

“But, anyhow, where does the murder come in?”

“On the supposition I’ve just put forward, Mr. Gantley may have met the murderer in the course of this excursion of his. The man, whoever he was, offered his help in getting the car out of the ditch, and returned with Mr. Gantley. Having reached the car, he shot him and placed the body in the driving seat.”

“But, dash it all, man, people don’t wander about the countryside with loaded automatics in their pockets!”

“The fact remains that Mr. Gantley was shot, and that somebody must have done it. Have you any alternative explanation?”

“I haven’t,” replied Inspector Driffield frankly. “But I can’t bring myself to believe that the murder was the result of a chance encounter. Where would the motive be, in that case? The dead man’s pockets don’t appear to have been rifled, or anything like that. As I said before, I feel pretty certain that the whole thing was carefully worked out beforehand.”

“Then, if the crime was premeditated, a very interesting point crops up. Was Trimble an accomplice? Was it part of the scheme that he should lie in wait for Mr. Gantley and throw a stone through the wind-screen? You see what I mean. If Trimble had no connection with the murderer, if his action was due, as he says, to the impulse of the moment, it introduced an entirely unanticipated factor into the murderer’s scheme.”

“Yes, but this factor might have necessitated merely a slight alteration of his plan. We can suppose, for instance, that the murderer, knowing that Mr. Gantley was to return from Benger’s Creek on Sunday evening, was waiting for him at some point on the road nearer to Carnford. His intention was to stop the car and shoot Mr. Gantley. He would see the glare of his headlights in the distance, and prepare for action. But, as he waited, and the car did not reach him, he would begin to get anxious. He would know that the car could not have turned off the road, for there are no turnings. Sooner or later he would walk back towards Norton Ferris, until he came upon the car in the ditch.

“Now, accepting your theory of Mr. Gantley’s excursion after the accident, the murderer would have found him absent when he reached the car. In that case, we may suppose that he waited where he was until Mr. Gantley returned, and then shot him from some little distance.”

“On a particularly dark night?” observed Arnold.

“Probably the lights of the car were still on then. The moment Mr. Gantley stepped into their beam he would form an excellent target. Besides, how did Mr. Gantley manage to pick his way straight along that narrow path? The only possible explanation is that he carried an electric torch. This may have given enough light for the murderer to shoot him by. The murderer probably carried the torch away with him subsequently, which accounts for our not finding it.”

“Upon my word, that’s not a bad reconstruction!” exclaimed Arnold. “But it’s queer that the murderer left no tracks. What do you suppose became of him when he’d done the job?”

“He probably had a car waiting somewhere, and I expect he was back in London early on Monday morning.”

Arnold smiled. “I can guess who you’re thinking of,” he said. “But, before we go into that, there’s one more point about your theory. It doesn’t account for the shot which Trimble says was fired at him. I don’t think Trimble made up that yarn, on the whole. It sounds too fantastic for sheer invention, and I don’t see what he could possibly have expected to gain by inventing it.”

“I think it can be accounted for this way. The murderer was still in the car, perhaps rummaging about looking for something, when he heard Trimble coming. He would naturally be afraid that he would look into the car and see him. So he fired the shot over his head to scare him away, which he certainly succeeded in doing. And, by the way, there’s this in support of Trimble’s statement that he was fired at from inside the car. Both Pentrellis and I fancied we could smell the fumes of smokeless powder inside the car when we first examined it.”

“It looks very much as though you were on the right track,” said Arnold slowly. “In fact, you seem to be worrying out the business very competently for yourself. I’m beginning to wonder why you were in such a hurry to call in the Yard.”

“Mainly because I’ve been convinced, all along, that the course of the investigation will lead to London,” replied Driffield meaningly. “If we’re agreed that the crime was premeditated, we’ve got to look for a motive. Gantley’s murder, occurring so soon after Lady Gantley’s death, seems to me to suggest that these Harringtons had a hand in it. In the same way, if he had been murdered before Lady Gantley died, I should suspect the Chadwicks. And, by the way, isn’t it about time that we introduced ourselves to the Harringtons? Mr. Polteith wired to them yesterday, and they ought to be here by now. I expected to see them at the inquest this morning. Shall we go over to Westerly Cottage and try our luck?”

Having reached Westerly Cottage, the two Inspectors were informed by Watts that Mr. Polteith was within. They were shown into the room which had been Mr. Gantley’s study, where they found the solicitor busily looking through a pile of papers stacked on the desk before him.

Driffield, having introduced him to Arnold, began the conversation. “I see you have already begun your duties as executor, Mr. Polteith,” he said. “Have Mr. Gantley’s heirs appeared on the scene yet?”

“The Harringtons?” replied the solicitor. “No, I haven’t heard a word from them. I can’t understand it. I sent them a wire yesterday, you know that, since you saw me write it yourself, and, since I had no reply, I wired again this morning.”

Driffield would have made some remark, had not Arnold forestalled him. “Mr. Driffield has been telling me of the curious coincidence that Mr. Gantley’s murder occurred so shortly after his sister-in-law’s death. He would have inherited her property, had he lived, I understand?”

The solicitor smiled. “In the eyes of the law, he did inherit it, and it became his to dispose of as he pleased. I have just opened a letter addressed to Mr. Gantley from Lady Gantley’s solicitors, informing him of her death, and stating that, in accordance with the terms of her will, he becomes the residuary legatee. That is to say that he inherits all her estate, with the exception of certain legacies, the principal one being an annuity in favour of the Chadwicks. So you see, Driffield, that the information I gave you yesterday was quite correct.”

“What steps will you take in the matter, Mr. Polteith?” asked Arnold.

“My duties as Mr. Gantley’s executor are plain. I shall obtain a copy of Mr. Gantley’s death certificate, showing the time and place of death, and this I shall send to Lady Gantley’s solicitors, together with a copy of Mr. Gantley’s will, showing that I am his executor. This will enable them to assign Lady Gantley’s estate to me, as Mr. Gantley’s representative. At the same time I shall apply for probate of Mr. Gantley’s will. When that is granted, the residue of Mr. Gantley’s original estate, together with the money left him by his sister-in-law, less death duties, of course, will pass to the Harringtons.”

“The sum involved is a fairly large one, I gather?” asked Arnold.

“I anticipate that it will run into well over a quarter of a million,” replied the solicitor.

“Well, that’s very nice for the Harringtons, but it is hardly our business,” said Arnold pleasantly. “I am very glad to have the opportunity of asking you for information upon a point which has occurred to me. At the time of his death, Mr. Gantley was, I understand, engaged upon some very important negotiations. Can you give me any details?”

Mr. Polteith glanced sharply at the Inspector. “Who told you that?” he asked.

“Mr. Markham, Mr. Gantley’s secretary, told me yesterday,” interposed Driffield. “I mentioned it, of course, to Mr. Arnold.”

Mr. Polteith frowned. “That was very injudicious of Markham,” he said. “I suppose he thought that with Mr. Gantley’s death the matter must necessarily fall through, but that is far from being the case. You refer to the proposed purchase of the West Country Clarion, I suppose? Well, since you gentlemen appear to know of it already, no great harm can be done if I tell you the facts in confidence. What is it exactly that you wish to know?”

“We should like to know as much as you can tell us, Mr. Polteith,” replied Arnold. “It has occurred to me that possibly something in these negotiations may suggest a clue to the motive for Mr. Gantley’s murder.”

The solicitor opened his eyes wide at this. “Eh?” he exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll give you an outline of what has happened, so far as I know it. Mr. Gantley consulted me upon the matter several times.

“In the first place, you must understand that Mr. Gantley was acting in a purely private capacity. He thought it best not to put the matter before the remaining directors of Carnford Newspapers Limited until the negotiations were complete and merely required their sanction. His idea was that secrecy, so necessary in such a matter, could best be secured in this way.

“The West Country Clarion is a very old-established paper, and Mr. Gantley found it a serious obstacle in his campaign for extending the circulation of the Courier. People in this part of the country are very conservative, and it is difficult to persuade them to exchange the newspaper to which they have always been accustomed for another. Mr. Gantley, therefore, conceived the idea of purchasing the Clarion, and amalgamating it with the Courier.

“But the matter had to be approached very delicately. The ownership of the Clarion is not like that of the Courier. As you probably know, in the latter case Mr. Gantley owned nine-tenths of the shares, and could, therefore, do practically as he pleased. But the Clarion is the property of a public company, small, certainly, but with a large number of shareholders, mostly inhabitants of Downham Minster, each with a small holding in the company. Many of these people held their shares, not as an investment, but because they wished to support a newspaper which was conducted in their own interests. There is considerable rivalry between Downham Minster and Carnford. For instance, a project has been mooted for transferring the administration of the county from there to here. Naturally, the Downham Minster people have bitterly opposed this, since it would mean a definite financial loss to them. The Clarion has been the organ of this opposition, while the Courier, being published here, has consistently supported the scheme.

“The chairman and principal shareholder is one Sir Arthur Urmery, and it is with him that Mr. Gantley discussed the business. Sir Arthur, as I happen to know, is in pretty low water, and he was quite ready to take advantage of the very favourable offer which Mr. Gantley made for the Clarion. But he was very doubtful whether he could secure a sufficient majority of the shareholders to agree to the scheme. He was well aware that a certain number of them would be bitterly opposed to it, especially if it became known that the Clarion would cease to exist as a separate paper. However, he saw Mr. Gantley last Thursday, and told him then to put the proposition before a meeting of the shareholders of the Clarion company, as he was at last assured of carrying the point. This meeting was to be held some time this week, but whether it will take place now, of course, I do not know.”

“Mr. Gantley’s shares in the Carnford Newspaper Company now become the property of the Harringtons, I suppose?” asked Arnold.

“They do. And, since they will thus become the virtual owners of the company, it is upon them that the future of these negotiations depends. It is very annoying that I am unable to get in touch with them. This is only one of the urgent matters that require decision. And, of course, there is the matter of the funeral to be settled.”

After some further conversation, during which nothing of importance transpired, the two Inspectors took their leave of Mr. Polteith. But, as Watts was showing them out of the house, Arnold stopped and spoke to him.

“Can you tell me if Mr. Gantley bought his shoes ready made, or whether he had them made for him?” he asked.

“He had them made for him by a shoemaker here in Carnford, sir,” replied Watts. “He was very particular about his shoes, sir, and always had them made exactly the same.”

“You saw the pair he was wearing when he was killed at the mortuary, I expect. Do you know when they were made?”

“About three or four months ago, sir. He had two pairs, exactly the same, made at the same time, as he liked to wear them alternately.”

“Did he? And where is the second pair? Here, in this house, I suppose.”

“No, sir. Mr. Gantley took both pairs with him when he went down to the house-boat on Friday. I am surprised that he didn’t bring the other pair back with him, sir.”

“I expect he forgot them,” said Arnold casually. “Thanks, Watts, I’m much obliged to you.”

“I say, that was an illuminating point about those shoes,” exclaimed Driffield, when they were out of earshot. “It looks as though it mucked up that reconstruction of mine a bit.”

“You mean the existence of another pair of shoes, exactly similar to the ones that Mr. Gantley was wearing?”

“Yes. Suppose that Mr. Gantley hadn’t forgotten the shoes, but had brought them back in the car with him. In that case, they would have been there when he was killed. What if the murderer put them on, and made that track along the path for the very purpose of putting us off the scent?”

“That occurred to me when I was talking to Watts. Perhaps that track affords a clue as to the direction in which the murderer escaped. He may even have gone to Mr. Porch’s shed and taken the bicycle. You know the lie of the land better than I do. Where could he have ridden to, if he had got hold of it?”

Driffield considered for a moment. “Well, if he’d stuck to the road, he could only have come to Carnford in a northerly direction, or Winterley in a southern direction. If he went to Winterley, his only way out of the place would be to cross in the ferry to Carronport. But there’s no particular reason why he should have stuck to the road. There are plenty of tracks across the moor over which a bicycle could be ridden, at least in places. He couldn’t have gone eastward, unless he swam the river. But he might have followed Trimble’s example, and struck westwards towards Trentmouth.”

“It might be worth while to make inquiries,” said Arnold. “Unfortunately, we haven’t the slightest idea what the man looked like. Still, it’s worth trying. Somebody might have noticed a stranger with a bicycle.”

“I’ll get on to that at once,” replied Driffield. “But I fancy that there is another direction in which inquiries should be made as well. What do you make of this curious reluctance to show themselves on the part of the Harringtons? It strikes me as being a bit suspicious, to say the least of it.”

“It does seem a bit queer,” replied Arnold thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to agree with you that those people want a bit of looking up. You’ve got their address, you say?”

Driffield produced his note-book, and dictated an address in St. John’s Wood, which Arnold took down. “And I think you told me that Lady Gantley’s address was Tulip Lodge, Richmond? Very well, now, what do you say to the idea of me getting on to that trail, while you keep an eye on things this end?”

“It’s been my idea all along. How do you propose to set about it?”

“The first thing I shall do is to find out something about these Harringtons. Where they were on Sunday, for instance. Then, I’m a bit inquisitive about Lady Gantley’s death. It may have been due to perfectly natural causes, but I should like to know for certain. Anyhow, I shall drop in at Tulip Lodge, before I come back here.”

“Right. Meanwhile, I’ll go down to the house-boat and see if I can find that second pair of shoes. And there are one or two other things that want looking into.”

“Yes, and don’t forget that newspaper deal while you are about it. It’s just possible that it had some connection with Gantley’s murder, though I don’t quite see how, at present. Now, if I look sharp, I can just catch the last train up to London.”

After his colleague’s departure, Driffield occupied the rest of the evening in attending to his neglected routine work. Early on the following morning he took out the car, and drove once more along the now familiar road. He called at Norton Ferris, and had a few words with Pentrellis, who had nothing fresh to report. Then he climbed the steep hill leading out of the village on to the high moorland which separated it from the sea.

Inspector Driffield knew the road by reputation, but he had never realised till now how utterly deserted it was. During the rest of his progress towards Winterley he met not a soul, and perceived no more than a couple of grey stone farm-houses, set on the bleak expanse of the moor. Now and then, as the road climbed the hills, he caught a glimpse of Carronport Water, placid and land-locked. Sometimes, at the foot of a steep decline, he would find himself skirting a narrow arm thrust out from the water. But upon neither land or water was there any vestige of human presence.

His map showed him that, a couple of miles or so before the road reached Winterley, a track, turning off on the left, led to Benger’s Creek. But, although he was watching keenly for it, he nearly missed it. A track it might have been once, but now it was hardly distinguishable from the surface of the surrounding moor. It was not until he had descended from the car and examined it that he found traces of the passage of a pneumatic tyre.

“Well, if Gantley’s car could get along here, I suppose mine can,” he muttered. “Here goes for a try, anyhow.”

In lowest gear, with his brakes held ready, he bumped and jolted along the scarcely perceptible track. It descended, winding and precipitous, for half a mile, until it entered a grove of low and stunted trees. And, as he gained the farther extremity of the grove, Inspector Driffield knew that he had reached his destination.

Before him lay the head of a creek, wider and apparently deeper than any he had yet come across. It was about half tide, and, though the edges of the creek were fringed with mud, a stretch of water, about fifty yards wide, occupied the centre. The creek obviously ran into Carronport Water, but the place where it did so was hidden by a low rocky point. A glance round showed him that the creek could be approached by land only by the way he had followed, except by any one prepared to scramble over the rocks which surrounded it.

About fifty yards from the edge of the creek, at the spot where the track terminated, just beyond the grove of stunted trees, stood a wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof, which appeared to be in good repair. A path led from this to the edge of the creek itself, where with her bows resting in the mud, lay the hull of what had once been a forty-ton cutter yacht. Her mast had been removed, and a roomy deck-house had taken its place. Moored under the stern of the yacht, and, therefore, afloat, was a smart looking fourteen-foot sailing dinghy.

The Inspector took all this in at a glance. “That’s Gantley’s house-boat, right enough,” he said aloud. The place was so utterly still and solitary that he found pleasure in the sound of his own voice. “And the shed is where he kept his car when he was down here, I suppose. Let’s go and have a look round.”

He got out of the car, and walked up to the shed. It had, as he expected, double doors at one end. These were locked, but the Inspector had brought with him the keys found in Mr. Gantley’s pocket, and he soon found one to fit the lock. The shed was empty but traces of oil and grease on the floor showed that a car had recently been stored there. On a shelf at one side of the shed lay a torn fragment of newspaper. Inspector Driffield glanced at it idly. It had been torn from the advertisement pages of the Observer, and bore the date of Sunday, September 24th.

The Inspector glanced at it curiously. Even in this utterly remote spot it appeared Mr. Gantley had not been utterly cut off from the world. By some means he had obtained a newspaper on Sunday. How? It was hardly credible that it could have been delivered to him. He must have fetched it for himself, and the nearest place where a newspaper could be obtained was Carronport. There were two ways of reaching Carronport. One was by land, to return up the track to the road, continue along this to Winterley, and then cross the ferry. The second and simpler way was to take the dinghy, sail out of the mouth of the creek into Carronport Water, and thence down this sheet of water to Carronport. Inspector Driffield made a mental note of this, then left the shed, locking it behind him.

His next move was to investigate the house-boat itself. A path led from the shed to the shore, where a short bridge, made of a couple of planks with a handrail covered the gap to the bows of the boat. The Inspector crossed this, to find himself on the deck of an old but well-preserved vessel, the bell of which, still in position, bore the name Dreamflower. The forecastle hatch had been screwed up, and the only means of getting below was through the deck-house. The door of this was locked, but a second trial with Mr. Gantley’s bunch of keys soon got it open.

The deck-house, which had glass windows all round it, was comfortably fitted with settees and cushions. A bookshelf at one end contained a few miscellaneous books. From the deck-house a flight of steps led downwards into the saloon, with a sideboard, table and folding chairs. This was evidently used as a dining-room. Leading from the saloon were two state-rooms, well equipped, and forward of these again was the pantry and forecastle, the latter empty but for an oil cooking-stove.

“Well, Gantley certainly made himself comfortable!” said the Inspector. “I wouldn’t mind staying on board here myself. But not alone, the isolation of the place would get on my nerves. As bad as solitary confinement, I should imagine. But still, Gantley must have liked it, I suppose, or he wouldn’t have come down here so often. Well, while I’m here, I may as well have a look round, I suppose.”

He proceeded to search the ship, on the look-out for anything that might throw light on Mr. Gantley’s actions during the week-end. In a larder in the pantry he found a few tins of provisions, and half a loaf of bread. The lockers in the saloon contained three full and three empty siphons, and a bottle which still contained a little whisky. These, no doubt, had been the ones placed in the car by Watts on Friday morning, but it was curious that Mr. Gantley had not, following his usual custom, brought the empties back with him. This reminded the Inspector of the box, mentioned by Watts, in which the provisions had been packed. He looked for it, and eventually found it stowed away in the forecastle.

But the most important matter was the second pair of shoes. These, according to Watts, should still be on the house-boat. Both state-rooms contained cupboards, and these the Inspector proceeded to search, and was rewarded by the discovery of a mixed collection of garments, a suit of oilskins, a pair of sea-boots, one or two old pairs of grey flannel trousers. But of a pair of shoes similar to those which Mr. Gantley had been wearing there was no trace.

Inspector Driffield frowned. “That’s queer!” he said. “He must have started back in the car with them. And the same, I suppose, applies to the suit he was wearing when he left Carnford, for it certainly isn’t here.”

Inspector Driffield, after a final cursory look round the house-boat, went on shore, locking the deck-house behind him. He stood there for a moment undecided what he should do next.

Duty undoubtedly called him back to Carnford, there to investigate the murder of Mr. Gantley. However pleasant it might be to explore Benger’s Creek and its neighbourhood, no essential purpose could be served by so doing. The place and approximate time of the murder were known, and the circumstances were such that Mr. Gantley’s actions during the week-end could have had little bearing upon them.

But inclination urged powerfully the contrary view. It was a lovely morning, with a cool freshness in the air such as is occasionally found in late September. Having got so far as this, the Inspector mused, he might just as well go on to Winterley, and perhaps even to Carronport. One never could tell, he might by chance pick up a piece of information by so doing. Getting hold of a clue was a matter of luck, as often as not.

Placating his conscience with such reflections, he tackled the track, wondering whether the car would negotiate the steep slope with its loose surface. It did so, but not without much effort and skidding of wheels. And when he reached the road, he turned to the left, until, once more descending the hill, he reached the open sea, and saw the hamlet of Winterley before him.

It was a poor enough place, as he saw at a glance. There was no pretence of a village, no church or even inn. Only a few fishermen’s cottages, scattered over the pebbly beach at the foot of the cliff. But across the mouth of Carronport Water, here not half a mile wide, was Carronport itself, clustered round its tiny harbour, and above it the modern residential quarter of villas and bungalows, known as Merton-on-Sea.

The road hardly ended, it faded away into the beach. Inspector Driffield drove as far as he could, then left the car and walked to the edge of the water, attracted by a notice-board. This he approached, trying to decipher the lettering, which was almost obliterated with age. It was not until he stood close to it that he managed to make it out. “Ferry for foot-passengers only. Fare for each person, single twopence, return threepence. Children in arms, free.”

That was all very well. But of the ferry itself there was no sign. There was certainly a boat lying by a hard on the other side of the water, but no trace of its occupant. Behind the hard was a row of low weather-boarded houses, in front of the largest of which the Inspector could make out something that looked like an inn sign.

He stood looking over the water for some time wondering if the ferry ran to any regular schedule. But nothing whatever happened, and the Inspector had made up his mind that he could not afford to waste any more time, when he heard a heavy step approaching him over the shingle. He turned sharply, to see a fisherman in heavy sea-boots advancing towards him.

The newcomer regarded him stolidly. “Want to get across, master?” he asked at last, without any particular interest.

“Yes, I thought of going over,” replied the Inspector casually. “What time does the ferry run?”

“It don’t run to no time, only when there’s folks as want to cross,” replied the other. Without any warning he opened his mouth wide, and emitted a bellow which reverberated among the cliffs behind him and startled into flight the gulls reposing on the calm sea. “Ferry Ahoy-y-y!”

It seemed to the Inspector’s startled ears as though the whole population of Carronport must flock to shore to discover the cause of this unearthly turmoil. But for several seconds nobody took any notice. Then a figure emerged from what the Inspector took to be an inn, held something at arm’s length over his head, and disappeared once more within the doorway.

“That’s old Ginger,” remarked the fisherman in a satisfied tone. “I reckoned he’d be in the Lobster Smack at this time o’ day. He held his mug over his head like that to show he’d come over when he’d finished his pint. You won’t have long to wait, master, he’s a quick drinker, is old Ginger.”

The man strolled away along the beach, and the Inspector resigned himself to waiting for Ginger’s reappearance. He emerged again after some ten minutes or so, followed by two or three men, also attired in jerseys and sea-boots. The party made their leisurely way down the hard to the boat, which Ginger cast off. Then, Ginger at the oars, the others standing in the stern, they began their voyage.

The complete absence of any bustle about the ferry impressed Inspector Driffield favourably. Its only purpose seemed to be to convey the few fishermen living on the Winterley side over to the Lobster Smack. No doubt Ginger’s companions in the boat had gone over with him on his last journey for a drink, and now, having satisfied their thirst, were returning. This meant, that however unobservant the ferryman might be, he would be sure to notice any stranger who might cross the ferry.

Propelled by easy strokes, the boat crossed the water, until its bow grated on the shingle. The fishermen stepped out, and with a nod to the ferryman, trudged away. Inspector Driffield took their place, and sat down in the stern-sheets. Silently, and with merely a glance in the direction of his passenger, the ferryman shoved off, and began his return journey.

Inspector Driffield studied him with interest. He was an elderly man with a wizened face and a beard which had once been red, but was now rapidly turning grey. Like most of the natives of Downhamshire, he seemed to be endowed with an almost stubborn taciturnity.

Nevertheless, the Inspector determined to engage him in conversation. “You don’t get many strangers crossing the ferry, I expect,” he remarked pleasantly.

Ginger projected a stream of tobacco-juice over the side of the boat. He seemed to be considering whether this remark required an answer. At last he decided that it did. “No,” he replied, in a single curt and unpromising monosyllable.

Inspector Driffield was a shrewd judge of human nature. He knew that it was quite useless to try to elicit information from people of Ginger’s type without revealing his identity as a police officer, and this he was loth to do. The crossing was therefore accomplished in silence, and the Inspector stepped ashore at Carronport, having tendered Ginger threepence for his return fare.

He knew Carronport well enough, though he had never before approached it by this means. He wandered for a few minutes through the narrow streets of the old fishing village, then made his way back to the Lobster Smack, hoping that he might find there some one of a more conversational habit than Ginger. In this he was lucky. The saloon bar of the inn was empty, and the landlord, clearly not a Downhamshire man, seemed quite content to lean upon the counter and talk to his solitary customer.

Inspector Driffield allowed him to lead the conversation, knowing that it was bound to drift round to the one topic which everybody in the county was discussing. And very shortly it did. “Terrible thing about the murder of that Mr. Gantley,” remarked the landlord. “But there, on a lonely road like that you never can tell what will happen. Killed on the way home from his house-boat at Benger’s Creek, the papers say, as I expect you’ve seen. And here he was, in this very town, no longer ago than Sunday morning, as I saw with my own eyes.”

“Indeed?” replied the Inspector, with a great display of interest. “So you knew the murdered man by sight?”

“I did so,” said the landlord, with conscious pride. “Leastways, I didn’t know who he was till I read about it in the papers. But often enough I’d seen a gentleman sailing a dinghy round about the week-ends, and I knew he didn’t live in Carronport. One of the chaps that does a bit of fishing up the Water told me he was the gentleman that had a house-boat at Benger’s Creek. So when I saw Mr. Gantley’s name in the papers, I knew that must be him.”

This logic appeared to impress the Inspector. “I see,” he said. “What was Mr. Gantley like to look at?”

“Middle sized, with a bit of a beard and glasses,” replied the landlord. “He was dressed in a blue suit, when I last saw him, and he seemed to walk with a bit of a stoop, though he didn’t look like an elderly man. As I was saying, this was on Sunday. I was upstairs washing myself before I opened the bar at twelve o’clock. Must have been half-past eleven, or thereabouts. I saw him coming down the Water in his dinghy. Nice sailing breeze there was that day, too. He knew how to handle a boat, did Mr. Gantley. Ran her up into the wind and beached her as neatly as you please, close by the ferry-boat hard.”

“Did he come in here?” Inspector Driffield asked carelessly.

The landlord shook his head. “No, he walked off up the town,” he replied. “A few minutes later I saw him come back with a paper under his arm. There are always two or three boys about selling papers of a Sunday morning. Then he went aboard his dinghy, shoved off, and the last I saw of him he was reaching back up the Water.”

“You’d often seen him before, you say?” inquired the Inspector.

“Yes, he was very fond of sailing his dinghy on the Water when there was a nice breeze. But I don’t know that I ever saw him land before. Mostly he sailed up and down, just for sailing’s sake, as you might say. Once or twice I’ve seen another gentleman with him, but not often. He seemed to prefer his own company. I doubt there’s anybody in Carronport that has ever spoken to him. He kept himself to himself, leastways when he was on his house-boat. He wasn’t, as you might say, good for trade.”

The Inspector smiled. “I don’t expect you get many strangers here at the best of times,” he remarked, glancing round the empty bar.

“Oh, ’tisn’t so bad as this every day,” replied the landlord. “Take last Saturday, for instance. There was a day excursion to Carronport by one of the pleasure steamers from Trentmouth. Pretty nigh a thousand of them there must have been, fair overran the place. Most of them went up the hill and spent the day at Merton, but a tidy few spent their time round the harbour here, just hanging about. They didn’t know what to do with themselves. Some of them even went over to Winterley; I reckon Ginger Dowell must have taken over a dozen boatloads of them. But what they found to do when they got there beats me.”

“Do these excursions from Trentmouth run every Saturday?” asked the Inspector.

“Lord bless you, no. Three or four times in the season, perhaps. Saturday’s will be the last till next June, and I can’t say that I’m sorry for it. People like that don’t spend any money in the place. Though I mustn’t grumble, I suppose. I was at it for three hours in the middle of the day drawing beer as fast as I could get the mugs filled. And a day like that goes a long way towards making up for quiet times.”

“So that these trippers are of more use to you than people like Mr. Gantley,” said Inspector Driffield with a laugh. “It’s an extraordinary thing that he should be murdered on the road like that. How do folks about here think it happened?”

The landlord shrugged his shoulders. “Lonely road, dark evening,” he replied. “Somebody saw a car come along, and thought that the bloke inside might have valuables about him. We’ve read of that kind of thing before.”

“Yes, but tramps don’t as a rule carry firearms,” objected the Inspector.

The landlord leaned still further over the counter. “That’s so,” he replied confidentially. “But there’s some queer folk hanging round Trentmouth, same as there are round all big ports. Dagoes, Dutchmen, Chinamen, Lascars, and what not. And ’tisn’t far from Trentmouth over the moors to where Mr. Gantley was murdered. It’s only a matter of a few miles, as you might say.”

He nodded significantly at the Inspector. “Who’s to tell who might have been hanging about the roadside that night? That’s what I want to know. I’ve seen some of they foreign chaps round about the docks at Trentmouth, and there’s no crime in the calendar I wouldn’t put past some of them.”

At this point Inspector Driffield, looking out of the window, caught sight of Ginger Dowell going down to his boat in company with two large ladies with shopping baskets. He hastily finished his beer and joined the party. Rather to his disappointment, the fishermen’s wives proved almost as uncommunicative as their husbands. Their conversation during the journey back to Winterley was confined to monosyllables. The Inspector landed, regained his car, and started back in the direction of Carnford, feeling that his morning had not been particularly productive.

However, as he drove, he went over the scraps of information which he had picked up, and arranged them in order. It amounted to this. Mr. Gantley had, on the Sunday morning, sailed from Benger’s Creek to Carronport, where he bought a paper, of which the scrap found by the Inspector in the shed presumably formed a part. At that time he had been dressed in a blue suit, apparently the one he had been wearing when he left Carnford. Since neither this suit nor the second pair of shoes were on board the house-boat, it was to be supposed that when Mr. Gantley started for home on Sunday evening he had taken them with him. What, then, had become of them?

This led once more to the question of the identity of the murderer. Inspector Driffield smiled as he recalled the theory of the landlord of the Lobster Smack. The circumstances of the case did not fit in with the idea of a wandering criminal, even if he happened to be a desperado of oriental origin. Such a man would surely have ransacked the car and his victim’s pockets. The murderer was clearly some one who knew of Mr. Gantley’s intention to drive from Benger’s Creek to Carnford on Sunday evening. Inspector Driffield wondered whether it would be possible to discover who possessed such knowledge.

On his return to Carnford he went to the offices of the Courier, and asked to see Mr. Markham. That gentleman received him with an air of impatience. “Well, Inspector, have you any clue to the murderer of Mr. Gantley?” he asked.

“I have no doubt that we shall lay our hands upon him shortly,” replied Inspector Driffield in a reassuring tone. “There’s one matter I want to discuss with you, and that is who knew that Mr. Gantley meant to spend last week-end on his house-boat. Was his intention generally known in advance?”

“That’s not an easy question to answer,” replied Mr. Markham. “Mr. Gantley never talked much about his own affairs. I don’t mean that he made any secret of them, but he just didn’t discuss them. I knew that he was going, and I heard him tell the editor, one day last week.”

“Did you pass on the information, Mr. Markham?” asked the Inspector.

Markham shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “I had no particular occasion to; there was nothing extraordinary about it. If anybody had asked me, I should have told them.”

“Did anybody ask you?” persisted the Inspector.

“No, I don’t remember that they did. Somebody rang up on Thursday, and asked if they could see Mr. Gantley on Saturday morning, that’s all.”

Inspector Driffield pricked up his ears at this. “And what did you tell them?” he asked quickly. “I’d like to hear the details of that incident, if you don’t mind, Mr. Markham.”

“It wasn’t of the slightest importance,” replied Markham stiffly. “What happened was this. The telephone rang some time on Thursday evening, and I answered it. Our private exchange operator told me that there was a trunk call from London for Mr. Gantley’s secretary. I told her to put the call through to me, and I heard a man’s voice at the other end. The line wasn’t very clear, and I couldn’t catch his name, but he said it didn’t matter. He said that he would be at Downham Minster during the next few days, and all he wanted to know was whether there was any chance of seeing Mr. Gantley on Saturday morning.”

“You didn’t recognise the voice, I suppose?” asked the Inspector, as calmly as he could.

“No, I didn’t. I tell you the line was not very clear. I told him that Mr. Gantley would be away from the office during the week-end, but that if he cared to make an appointment for Monday morning he could. He replied that the matter was of no great importance, but that if he was still at Downham Market on Monday, he would look in here at twelve o’clock, on the chance of catching Mr. Gantley. That was the whole of our conversation.”

“And did any one call at twelve o’clock on Monday?”

Markham shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “As soon as you had gone after telling me the news I had a notice posted in the entrance hall saying that no one could be admitted to Mr. Gantley’s office. You can quite understand that I didn’t want to be pestered with inquisitive visitors.”

Inspector Driffield left the Courier building, and went straight to the telephone exchange, where he made an official request that the source of the trunk call from London to Mr. Gantley’s office might be traced.

Inspector Arnold reached London late on Tuesday evening. He had brought with him the bullet found by Doctor Froude in the course of his post-mortem, and this he handed over to the experts at Scotland Yard for report. It was not until the following morning that he began his investigations into the movements of the elusive Harringtons.

The address which Inspector Driffield had given him was 17D Torrington Road, St. John’s Wood, and to this he made his way early on Wednesday morning. Number 17 proved to be a fair-sized semi-detached house, which had evidently been converted into four flats, since by the front door were four bell-pushes, marked A, B, C, and D, respectively. Inspector Arnold looked round the building, and satisfied himself that there was no other means of egress. Then he rang the bell marked D.

As he did so, an insignificant looking individual, in a nondescript suit and a bowler hat, crossed the road and took up a position within a yard or two of him, having apparently found something to interest him on the pavement in front of number 17. A couple of minutes passed, and then the Inspector rang again, keeping his finger firmly pressed on the push for several seconds.

Still nothing happened, until the nondescript-looking individual spoke suddenly. “Don’t seem to be anybody at home,” he remarked, with a suggestion of malice in his tone.

Arnold rounded upon him. “What are you hanging about here for?” he asked. “Have you got any business at this house?”

“Yes, I’ve business enough,” replied the man. “But I don’t see that it’s any affair of yours.”

“Don’t you?” said Arnold softly. “Well, let me tell you that I’m a police officer. Here’s my card, if you want to see it. Now then, perhaps you’ll tell me what your business is.”

The man glanced at the card and grinned. “It’s all right, Inspector,” he replied. “I expect my business is the same as yours. I want to see Mr. Charles Harrington, and I’ve been waiting on him off and on since last Friday.” He approached the Inspector and whispered hoarsely in his ear. “I’ve got a judgment summons for him in my pocket, matter of a hundred quid.”

A judgment summons! So the Harringtons were being pressed for money, were they? How convenient for them that Mr. Gantley had died, making them his heirs! This passed through Arnold’s mind as the man spoke. He nodded and asked authoritatively. “When did you make the first attempt to serve the summons?”

“The case was heard last Thursday, and judgment was given against the defendant, who did not appear,” replied the man. “The summons was given me that evening, and I came round on Friday morning, but there was nobody at home. I’ve been here every day since, but I haven’t been able to get in.”

“How do you know that there was nobody at home? They may just have refused to answer the bell.”

The man shook his head. “I didn’t stop at the bell,” he replied. “The front door of the house is on the latch, and there’s nothing to prevent anybody walking in. Each flat has its own separate door inside. D is the top one, and I went upstairs and hammered on the door. After a bit the bloke that lives in C, just below, comes out and tells me it’s no good me kicking up all that row because there was nobody at home. He told me he’d seen Mr. and Miss Harrington drive away in a car on Thursday afternoon, and that they hadn’t come back since. Done a bunk, I reckon that’s what it is.”

Inspector Arnold had his own ideas on this point. He opened the front door, walked in, and ascended a carpetless wooden staircase until he reached what had once been the attics of the house. Here before him was a door, upon which was pinned a square of cardboard. The card bore, in fantastic lettering the names “Charles Harrington” and “Myrtle Harrington,” bordered by a vivid and eccentric design.

Not without difficulty the Inspector made out the lettering, and then, reassured, he examined the door with a practised eye.

It had been fitted with a Yale lock, certainly, but there were means by which even Yale locks could be opened. He was wondering whether it would be worth while trying his skill, when he heard the sound of heavy steps and loud breathing on the stairs. In another few moments a large woman with an incredible bonnet appeared upon the landing, closely followed by the process-server, wearing an expression of low cunning.

The Inspector had no need to question the identity of the newcomer. She had “charwoman” written all over her massive face, and it was plain that she had come to clean up the Harringtons’ flat. Nor, for that matter, did she give him the chance to ask questions. Panting heavily as she was from the exertion of climbing the stairs, she still found breath for speech. “And who might you be, young man?” she asked severely.

“I am a detective from Scotland Yard,” replied Arnold dramatically, on the odd chance that he might surprise her into some damaging admission. But in this he was disappointed. The charwoman showed no signs of perturbation. “Oh, you’re a tec, are you,” she said with marked lack of respect, as though she classed detectives and criminals in the same category. “Well, I’ll tell you who I am. My name’s Butters, and my husband’s a night watchman, and I oblige folks what wants help with their house-work. Is that enough for you?”

“Quite, thank you, Mrs. Butters,” replied the Inspector affably. “As I daresay you’ve guessed, I want to see Mr. or Miss Harrington. I’ve got a very important message for them.”

“Message, eh?” said Mrs. Butters, shooting a keen glance at him. “You’re not the only man with a message.” She tossed her head disdainfully in the direction of the waiting process-server. “There’s another chap with a message for them, which maybe they won’t be too pleased to get.”

“My message isn’t of that kind,” replied the Inspector. “It’s about an uncle of theirs. I’m very anxious to get in touch with them.”

“What, the one that’s got all the money?” asked Mrs. Butters with interest. “Him they’re always talking about, Pantry, or some such name as that? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

Arnold thought rapidly for a moment. Mr. Gantley’s death was no secret; the affair had been in all the papers, and Mrs. Butters was bound to hear of it sooner or later. “Their uncle, Mr. Gantley, died a couple of days ago,” he replied.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Butters in an awed tone. “There now! They was always saying that when Uncle Arthur died—that’s what they called him—they’d have plenty of money. Over and over again, when I’ve had to wait a bit for my money, Miss Myrtle has said to me, ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Butters, we’ll make up to you for all this when Uncle Arthur dies.’ And to think that the old gentleman has gone at last!”

The Inspector glanced towards the process-server, who was listening with rapt attention to this conversation. “I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you, Mrs. Butters,” he said. “Perhaps if you’ve got the key, we could go inside.”

Mrs. Butters produced a bunch of keys from somewhere within her voluminous skirts, and, after trying one or two, found one to fit the lock. She opened the door and the party entered, the process-server brandishing his summons defiantly. The door opened directly into a large room, scantily furnished as a study. From this led three other doors, opening respectively into two tiny bedrooms and a cupboard in which was a gas stove.

The process-server looked round this disparagingly. It was quite clear that in his opinion the whole contents of the place would not go far towards the value of the debt it was his business to collect. He sat down upon the only available seat, a divan covered with cushions of the most vivid and startling colours, while the Inspector drew Mrs. Butters towards the fireplace at the end of the room, upon the mantelpiece of which was an unopened orange envelope.

“Now, Mrs. Butters, I want you to help me,” he said confidentially. “I am particularly anxious to get hold of Mr. or Miss Harrington, to inform them of their uncle’s death. They don’t seem to have heard of it yet. Do you know where they are?”

“No, that I don’t,” replied Mrs. Butters. “I expected them home afore now, or I wouldn’t have taken the trouble to come this morning. It was last Thursday when I was clearing up that Miss Myrtle said to me, ‘Mrs. Butters,’ she says, ‘we’re going away this afternoon with some friends for the week-end, and we may not be back on Monday when you come, so you’d better take my key.’ You see, I only comes in for a couple of hours or so twice a week, Monday and Thursday. I shouldn’t be here now, only my daughter’s coming over from Putney to spend the day with me to-morrow, and I thought I’d come here to-day instead.”

“I see. Miss Harrington didn’t tell you by any chance where they were going, did she?”

“No, that she didn’t. I thought they might be going to see this Uncle Arthur of theirs. I’ve known them do that before now, just to keep in with the old chap, I expect. They’ll waste his money fast enough now he’s gone, I’ll warrant.”

“They didn’t go to stay with Mr. Gantley,” said the Inspector, glancing at the orange envelope. “I see there’s a telegram for them. You took that in for them, I suppose?”

“That’s right. The boy knocked on the door just as I was leaving on Monday, and I put it up there. They can’t have been back since then, or they’d have opened it. It’s about their uncle’s death, I expect.”

“I expect so. I know that his lawyer wired them as soon as he heard, and got no reply. You can’t suggest anywhere they are likely to have gone to, can you, Mrs. Butters?”

“No, that I can’t. They’ve got plenty of friends of a sort, young folk like themselves, that come round here sometimes and leave the place in a state you’d hardly believe. It’s taken me all the morning before now to clear up the litter they’ve left behind them. Whether it’s one of that lot they’re with, I can’t say.”

The Inspector frowned. It was quite evident that, however helpful Mrs. Butters might wish to be, she knew nothing of the movements or present whereabouts of the Harringtons. He wondered how he was to get on their trail, and, particularly, how he should discover where either or both of them had spent the preceding Sunday.

Meanwhile he took the opportunity of having a good look round the studio, the walls of which were hung with mis-shapen figure-studies looking to Arnold like a child’s first attempt at delineation. In one corner was a somewhat decrepit gate-legged table, upon which a number of objects were piled promiscuously. Peeping from under a broken plaster cast the Inspector spotted a couple of envelopes. Mrs. Butters was now in animated conversation with the process-server, and Arnold, watching his opportunity, abstracted the envelopes and slipped them into his pocket.

The argument between Mrs. Butters and the process-server was becoming heated, the latter declaring that, since he had gained access to the premises, he was going to remain there, a proposition with which Mrs. Butters violently disagreed. The Inspector, leaving them to settle their differences as best they might, slipped out of the house, and seeing a public house a few doors away, went in, ordered a drink, and sat down in a secluded corner of the saloon bar, where he proceeded to examine his booty.

Both envelopes had been opened, and their contents carefully replaced. The first of these was a notice, printed in red, to the effect that unless the account owing was paid within seven days, the gas supply would be cut off. The second was written in a flowing female hand, on a piece of cheap notepaper with no address or date.

The envelope showed that this missive had been posted in London, S.W.10, on the previous Wednesday afternoon.

“Chelsea!” muttered Inspector Arnold disgustedly. “Just where one would expect people like that to live. Why can’t they be more explicit? How the devil am I to know who Madge and Bill are, or what their address is? There’s nothing for it but to have the place watched, I suppose.”

He returned to Scotland Yard, where he gave instructions for a man to watch the house in Torrington Road and to interrogate any one who might call at flat D. Then since nothing further could be done in that direction for the present, he decided to go to Richmond, and learn what he could of the circumstances of Lady Gantley’s death.

He had no difficulty in finding Tulip Lodge, which was an imposing house standing in its own grounds and overlooking the river. But as soon as he reached it, he realised that his visit was ill-timed. Half a dozen carriages, drawn by black horses, were entering the gate, clearly returning from the funeral of Lady Gantley.

Arnold set himself to wait, with what patience he might. After a while, people began to leave the house by twos and threes, and he took up a position from which he could observe them. It occurred to him that the Harringtons, since they had an indirect interest in her will, might have attended Lady Gantley’s funeral.

But all those who came out were elderly people, and at last when he judged that the last of them had left, he approached the house and rang the bell.

It was answered by an elderly maid-servant, who utterly refused to allow him to see Miss Chadwick until he had produced his card. Then, with a very bad grace, she showed him into the drawing-room. In a few minutes the door opened, and a tall girl, dressed in black, which set off her blue eyes and clear complexion, entered the room.

Arnold came forward at once. “I hardly dare ask you to forgive me for intruding at a time like this, Miss Chadwick,” he said. “My excuse must be that I have an urgent duty to perform, and that you may possibly be able to help me.”

Sylvia Chadwick smiled, and Arnold had a sudden conviction that her smile was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. “Of course I forgive you, Inspector,” she replied. “Do sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

Arnold took the chair she indicated, opposite to the one in which she seated herself. “What I want to ask you is this, Miss Chadwick,” he said. “Have you seen anything recently of either Mr. or Miss Harrington?”

Her brows went up in surprise. “The Harringtons?” she replied. “You mean Mr. Arthur Gantley’s nephew and niece? No, I haven’t seen anything of them for a couple of years, at least. I can’t even tell you where they live. But surely——”

She checked herself, and looked at Arnold with a puzzled expression. The Inspector, guessing what was passing in her mind, came to her rescue. “You know that Mr. Arthur Gantley is dead?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Davies—he is Aunt Henrietta’s solicitor, you know—was here just now, and told me about it. What a terrible thing! He was explaining Aunt Henrietta’s will to me. He said it was a most extraordinary thing that Mr. Gantley should have been killed just then. If it had happened before Aunt Henrietta died, all her property would have come to my brother Percy and me. As it was, except for our legacies, it would go to Mr. Gantley’s executors.”

“So I understand,” said Arnold. “You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Chadwick.”

“Thank you, but I don’t require it,” she replied sharply. “I am quite content with things as they are, and I am sure that Percy would say the same. Neither of us would care to become rich as the result of a tragedy.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Chadwick,” said Arnold humbly. Then deftly changing the subject. “Did you know that the Harringtons were Mr. Gantley’s heirs?”

“I can’t say that I did,” she replied. “But after all, since he had no children, I suppose it is only natural.”

“Well, I’m trying to get in touch with them, and I thought that possibly you might be able to help me. It seems that they have not yet heard of their uncle’s death.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,” she said. “I’ve only met them once, and that was about two years ago. They came here for a couple of nights when Mr. Arthur Gantley was staying here. I think he suggested to Aunt Henrietta that she might invite them. But it wasn’t altogether a success. They weren’t the sort of people that Aunt Henrietta cared for, and she took a violent dislike to them. She never asked them again.”

“I see. What impression did they make on you? I never met them, you know.”

Sylvia smiled. “Oh, I got on well enough with them,” she replied. “In fact, I found them rather amusing, though they aren’t the sort of people I should make bosom friends of. They were too utterly languid and self-satisfied. Aunt Henrietta asked Myrtle Harrington how her brother earned his living, and she replied that people of their temperament couldn’t be expected to give up their Art for any mercenary work. That finished them, so far as Aunt Henrietta, who was intensely practical, was concerned. They went off next day, and I’ve never seen either of them since.”

“How did Mr. Arthur Gantley take the failure of his experiment?” asked Arnold with a smile.

“It was very difficult to know what he really thought about anything,” she replied. “I think he must have been disappointed, for he seemed quite fond of his nephew and niece, so far as one could tell. I knew him quite well, of course, he often spent a week-end here. He always gave me the impression that he didn’t care much for anything or anybody outside his own business. But he used to make a point of talking to me about Charles Harrington, and telling me that he would make a name for himself one day.”

Arnold frowned. Going by what he had seen in the Harringtons’ studio, he found it difficult to believe that Charles Harrington’s art would ever become popular. Mr. Gantley’s motive appeared to him transparent enough. A marriage with Sylvia Chadwick would be an excellent form of insurance for his nephew, in case he himself should die before Lady Gantley. It was in pursuance of this train of thought that he put his next question. “Did your brother ever meet Myrtle Harrington, Miss Chadwick?”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Not to my knowledge,” she replied. “He certainly wasn’t here when they came to stay, I don’t think he was in England, as far as I remember. And I don’t think she was the sort of girl who would have appealed to him. What makes you ask that?”

“I was wondering whether your brother could help me find either of them,” Arnold replied hastily.

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t be any use,” she said. “He was here last week, and if by any chance he had met the Harringtons, I’m sure he would have told me. He always comes to see Aunt Henrietta whenever he is in England. Neither of us imagined for a moment last Thursday that it would be the last time he would see her.”

“Then Lady Gantley’s death was very sudden?” suggested Arnold.

“Yes, in a sense it was, though we all knew that she could not live many months longer. We did our best to save her from any possible shock, and but for an accident, which nobody could have foreseen, she would have been alive now.”

Inspector Arnold felt a thrill of anticipation. The subject which he had come to Tulip Lodge to investigate, yet which he had been so loth to broach, had been reached at last. However, he allowed no symptoms of his feelings to escape him. “How did the accident happen, Miss Chadwick?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“It was the most extraordinary thing,” she replied. “It just shows that, however careful one is, one can’t guard against everything. You see, Inspector, Aunt Henrietta suffered from heart trouble, and had done for years. We all knew, Aunt Henrietta included, that it must end fatally sooner or later, but that, if she was properly looked after, her life might be prolonged for some time. The doctor was quite satisfied with her condition, and told Percy and me so, as recently as last Thursday.”

“Your brother was staying here then?” remarked Arnold inquiringly.

“Not staying here,” she replied. “He had only come down for the day, as he always did when he could. Aunt Henrietta was very fond of him, he used to cheer her up a lot. I always used to fancy that she was better when he had been to see her. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come often.”

“I gather from what you said just now that your brother does not live permanently in England?” said Arnold.

“Oh, no. You see, he is chief officer on board the Mendip Hills, one of the ships of the Hills Line. I’ve been on board her once or twice when she has been lying in Albert Dock, and a very comfortable ship she is, though she is only a cargo boat. Percy has been with the Hills Line ever since he was an apprentice.”

“I see. And I suppose the Mendip Hills was in the Albert Dock on Thursday last?”

“Yes, she came in on Wednesday from the North Atlantic ports, and Percy came over here as soon as he could get away. As it happened, Aunt Henrietta’s doctor came in that afternoon and made a thorough examination. He came down here, and told Percy and me that he was quite satisfied with her condition. In fact, he complimented me on the way in which she was being looked after. But he warned us both that we mustn’t expect too much. Under favourable circumstances she might last six months or more, but he told us that we must be careful not to let her get excited or alarmed in any way. Any shock, however slight, might easily prove immediately fatal.

“Percy left after dinner to go back to his ship. After he had gone, I wrote to Mr. Gantley, telling him what the doctor had said. He had asked me to keep him informed of Aunt Henrietta’s condition, the last time he was here. I used to write to him on the average once a week, and I really believe he was grateful.”

“I’m sure he must have been. You were not in the habit of writing to the Harringtons, I suppose?”

“No. I didn’t even know their address, as I think I told you. Besides, it seemed to me that if they were interested in Aunt Henrietta’s health, they would find out through their uncle.”

“Yes, of course they could. It was after you had written, I suppose, that Lady Gantley took a turn for the worse?”

“Oh, no. In fact, when I saw her on Friday morning she was better than she had been for some time. I didn’t stop with her at night, you see. Ever since the beginning of this year she had had a nurse who sat up with her. The nurse reported that she had slept very well, and she seemed to me rather more cheerful than usual. I expect it was because Percy had been here, and she had had some one fresh to talk to.”

“Lady Gantley did not see many visitors, I suppose?”

“Very few indeed. Only a few old friends, and members of the family. She always looked upon Percy and me as members of the family, though really we weren’t related to her at all. For several months she had not left her room, as the doctor wanted her to avoid all exertion. She used to get up and sit in a chair in the daytime.

“Everything went well during Friday and Saturday. She had no visitors, and she seemed quite happy to sit still and let me read to her. She was in very good spirits on Saturday afternoon, and spent some time making out a list of books that she wanted.

“Soon after seven the night nurse came in to help me to put her to bed. She had been out, and said it was a very wild evening, blowing and raining hard. I knew it was, because I had had to shut the window, as the rain was blowing in.”

“Yes, I remember that evening,” said Arnold. “It was certainly very stormy in London.”

“We felt it here particularly. I was feeling rather anxious about Percy, I always do when I hear the wind blowing, though I know it’s silly. I wasn’t sure whether the Mendip Hills was still in dock or had gone to sea again. However, we got Aunt Henrietta to bed, and I was just going down to see about her supper when a most extraordinary thing happened.”

She paused, and a look of horror came into her eyes at the memory of it. “It all happened so quickly that I didn’t realise for the moment what it was,” she continued. “I must explain that Aunt Henrietta always had a fire in her room, except on the hottest days. She felt the cold, and she always said that a fire looked cheerful. All at once I heard a crash somewhere above our heads, there was a rumbling in the chimney, and something fell into the fire with a tremendous clatter, scattering the burning coals all over the room.

“Nurse seized a shovel, and began to collect the burning coals before they set fire to the carpet, while I ran to Aunt Henrietta’s bed. I saw at once that something dreadful had happened. She was purple in the face, and gasping for breath. I called to nurse and ran out of the room to send some one to fetch the doctor, who lives quite close. When I got back to the room nurse was holding a capsule to her face, but I could see by her expression that there was nothing to be done.

“The doctor came in a few minutes, but Aunt Henrietta died a few seconds after he entered the room. Naturally, he wanted to know the cause of this sudden collapse, and we went to see what had happened. We found that a chimney-pot had blown off, and that part of it had fallen down the chimney into the room.”

Sylvia’s agitation as she told the story was so apparent that Arnold hastened to comfort her. “What a terrible experience for you, Miss Chadwick,” he said. “But it was an accident that nobody could possibly have foreseen.”

“That’s just what the doctor said. I’m afraid I was almost hysterical, but he was very kind to me, and told me that I mustn’t worry about it, since no one was to blame for such a thing happening. He insisted on giving me a sleeping draught and sending me to bed. I don’t remember anything more about that till next morning.”

“It was the best thing he could have done,” said Arnold sympathetically. “You might have had a nervous breakdown.”

“I felt very like it next day. I’m not at all sure that wasn’t the worst part of it. I was devoted to Aunt Henrietta, and I felt heart-broken at her death. However much one may get used to the idea of a thing like that, it doesn’t help much when it actually happens. I had taught myself for a long time to expect Aunt Henrietta’s death, but it was a terrible blow to me, all the same.

“But that wasn’t all. I had to get in touch with everybody, and let them know what had happened. I longed for Percy to come and help me, for I just didn’t feel capable of doing it myself. But I didn’t know where he was. He had told me on Thursday that the Mendip Hills had some cargo to discharge in the Albert Dock, and that when she had done that she was going on to Trentmouth and then to Glasgow. He didn’t know then when she would leave London, but he thought it would be some time on Friday.

“I didn’t know how to get in touch with him. You see, there is no telephone here, Aunt Henrietta would never have one. It was Sunday, and I knew that the post office was only open for sending telegrams for an hour or so in the morning. However, the doctor came in, and he helped me. We sent three telegrams to Percy, one to Albert Dock, one to Trentmouth, and one to Glasgow. I also wired to Mr. Arthur Gantley. We sent these to the post office, but the message came back that the ones to Trentmouth, Glasgow and Carnford were not likely to be delivered before Monday morning.

“I felt I must have some one to share the responsibility, so I sent Aunt Henrietta’s maid to fetch Mr. Davies, who lives at Barnes, not very far away. But he was away somewhere playing golf, and they couldn’t get hold of him. I didn’t seem able to get hold of anybody, and I spent a dreadful day until, late in the evening, Mr. Davies came. Then it was better. He told me that he was Aunt Henrietta’s executor, and took the responsibility off my shoulders.”

“You must have been very much relieved, Miss Chadwick. But didn’t you think it odd that you heard nothing from Mr. Gantley in reply to your telegram?”

“I did, and so did Mr. Davies. But he told me on Tuesday morning that he had discovered the reason why nothing had been heard from him. He didn’t tell me then what the reason was, I suppose he thought that I had had enough shocks for the present. It wasn’t until just now that he broke it to me that he had been killed in a motor accident on Sunday night. He had seen it in the papers, he said. I always used to read the papers to Aunt Henrietta, but I haven’t had the heart to look at them since she died.”

It was not until that moment that Arnold realised that she did not yet know that Mr. Gantley had been murdered. Probably the solicitor had been wise to conceal the fact from her. “You have heard from your brother, of course?” he asked.

“Yes, I had a wire from him from Glasgow yesterday, saying how sorry he was. Then I got a hurried letter also from Glasgow this morning. He said that he couldn’t leave the ship, as they were due to sail to-morrow, but that if he could possibly get leave for an hour or two, he would. I wasn’t to expect him, as he didn’t think that the captain would let him leave the ship again.”

“That is very disappointing for you, Miss Chadwick. By the way, would it be impertinent of me to ask what your future plans are?”

“Not in the least. Mr. Davies has asked me to stay here until this house is disposed of, and I shall do so. Then, since I can’t bear the idea of doing nothing, I shall look out for an interesting job, not so much for the pay attached to it, since I shall have a small income of my own, but to give me something to do.”

Arnold left Tulip Lodge, and paused at the summit of Richmond Hill, not so much to admire the view, as to digest what he had just heard. He had no doubts whatever that the account which Miss Chadwick had given him of Lady Gantley’s death was correct. Apart from the impossibility he found in believing her capable of deceit, her story could easily be verified by reference to the nurse and doctor.

He remembered the evening of the previous Saturday well enough, since he had been out in it. One of those sudden squalls, so common round London, had sprung up, and for a couple of hours or so, from about half-past six, the wind had blown furiously, bringing sheets of rain with it. A chimney-pot might easily have become dislodged in such weather. It was the kind of accident that the insurance companies described as “Act of God.” But, in this case, was it purely “Act of God,” or had some human agency intervened?

Arnold had had plenty of time to study Tulip Lodge while he had been waiting for the funeral party to disperse. He found it difficult to believe that anybody could have climbed on to the roof unobserved and loosened a chimney-pot. But, on the other hand, it might be possible for somebody to have reached the roof from inside the house and done so.

This led to the question of who, among those who had access to the house, would have had any motive for hastening the death of Lady Gantley. Certainly not Miss Chadwick or her brother. Even supposing that either or both of them were anxious to secure their inheritance, their position was this. They knew that Lady Gantley had not many months to live in any case, and that it was a practical certainty that her brother-in-law would outlive her. They could, therefore, look forward to no more than a comparatively small legacy at her death, and, by accelerating that death, they would destroy what small chance there was of her outliving Mr. Gantley. And as for the murder of Mr. Gantley, they could reap no possible benefit from that, since it had taken place after the death of Lady Gantley.

This exonerated the Chadwicks. But what about the Harringtons? From all that Arnold had learnt, they were in pretty desperate straits for money. The death of Mr. Gantley alone would put them in possession of his money. But, if they could contrive that Lady Gantley should die first, they would inherit, not only their uncle’s fortune, but her far greater one as well.

Was it possible that the Harringtons had contrived both deaths, in the order favourable to themselves? It was possible to imagine that Charles had attended to the executive side of the business, while Myrtle had acted as the intelligence branch. In all probability they knew the state of Lady Gantley’s health, through their uncle. They would also know of the latter’s habit of spending his week-ends at Benger’s Creek, and it was not improbable that they knew that he intended to go there on the 22nd. Incidentally, it was highly improbable that either of the Chadwicks could have known of this intention.

Had Charles Harrington the opportunity of loosening the chimney-pot so that it would become dislodged in the first storm? That was a point which could not be decided without careful investigation. If he had, it was to be assumed that he or his sister maintained a careful watch upon Tulip Lodge. As soon as he learnt that the death of Lady Gantley had taken place, he would go at once to Carnford and lie in wait for his uncle. Yes, a double crime on these lines seemed perfectly feasible. The difficulty would be to bring it home to the Harringtons. Still, there was this about it. They were bound to turn up sooner or later to claim their inheritance.

Arnold, feeling that he had learnt all that he was likely to for the present in Richmond, returned to Scotland Yard. Here he learnt that the process-server was still in possession of number 17D, but that nobody else had approached the flat. The expert’s report upon the bullet had also come in. It had been fired from an automatic pistol of modern manufacture, known as the Maine. Pistols of this make were common enough in America, and probably a good few had been sold in England by various gunsmiths. In the opinion of the expert, the pistol from which this bullet had been fired was comparatively new. It would probably be impossible to identify the particular weapon from the markings of the rifling on the bullet.

As Arnold put this report in his pocket, he reflected that it was not particularly helpful. Any one might have come by such a pistol. It didn’t follow, from the fact that it was comparatively new, that it had been purchased at a gunsmith’s. It might have been acquired from somebody who wanted to get rid of it in order to save himself the trouble of taking out a firearms licence. And, no doubt, the murderer had disposed of the weapon as soon as possible after the crime had been committed.

Arnold considered this matter for a few moments, and then picked up his telephone and inquired whether a certain Detective-sergeant were in the building. Upon being informed that he was, he asked that he might be sent to him. Among the members of the C.I.D. there are men who have experience of various trades, and their specialised knowledge is often of the utmost service in the course of the various investigations which the Yard is called upon to undertake.

The sergeant duly appeared, and Arnold bade him sit down. “Look here, Keane, you’re a bit of a builder, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I ought to be, sir,” replied Keane. “I worked at the job for ten years.”

“Good. Now, would it be possible for a man to loosen a chimney-pot so that the next gale would bring it down?”

“It rather depends on the type of pot, sir. But I should say, speaking generally, that it was quite possible.”

“Very well, now listen.” Arnold repeated Sylvia Chadwick’s account of the accident at Tulip Lodge. “I want you to go down there and investigate,” he continued. “Not as an official of the Yard, of course. I don’t want to arouse anybody’s suspicions. You can tell what yarn you like, that you’re the representative of the insurance company, or something. Have a look at that chimney and see if you can find any traces of it having been tampered with. And, while you are there, find out if it would be possible for anybody to climb on to the roof from outside the house without being seen. From my own observation, it doesn’t look as if it would be. Better get on to the job to-morrow morning.”

When Keane had gone, Arnold wrote out a message for the Glasgow police. He did this very reluctantly, for it seemed to show mistrust of Sylvia Chadwick. If ever he had met a straight, true girl in his life, she was the one. However, he was in duty bound to check her statements as far as he could. His message concerned the Mendip Hills, now believed to be lying at Glasgow. Would the police ascertain the names of the master and officers, and their movements, as well as those of the ship, since she had arrived in British waters about a week previously?

He had hardly completed this, when a messenger appeared, with a slip of paper in his hand. “This has just come through for you on the telephone, sir,” he said.

Arnold took the message. “From Driffield, Carnford, to Inspector Arnold, Scotland Yard. Your friends have arrived here. There is also a further development. Should be glad if you could return at your convenience.”

The discretion of the wording made Arnold smile. “Your friends” could be none other than the Harringtons. But what the further development might be it was impossible to guess.

Arnold glanced at the clock. “That means the night train,” he said with a grimace. “All right, ring up Inspector Driffield and tell him that I’ll be with him in the early hours of to-morrow morning.”

The night train to Carnford left Paddington at 10.45, and Arnold was at the station in good time. As he walked down the platform, he caught sight of the figure of a man standing with his back to him, the outlines of which seemed vaguely familiar. He walked on, then turned, so as to see the figure face to face. And then he recognised Desmond Merrion.

Merrion was not looking his way, and Arnold passed on hastily. Much as he would have liked a conversation with Mr. Merrion, he felt shy of intruding himself upon his notice. He might not care to be reminded of events which must necessarily bring back painful memories, and, besides, their acquaintance had been of the briefest. It was only after his colleague, Inspector Young, had so unaccountably retired from the force, and the threads of the curious affair known as The Three Crimes had passed into Arnold’s hands that he had made Mr. Merrion’s acquaintance. It would be presumptuous on his part to recall himself to Mr. Merrion’s memory.

Nevertheless, he could not tear himself away from the spot. More than once he turned on his heel and walked past the spot where Merrion was standing. And then at last Merrion looked up, and their eyes met.

If Arnold had had any doubts that Merrion would recognise him, they were set at rest immediately. He came forward with outstretched hand, and a smile of welcome on his face. “Inspector Arnold, by all that’s fortunate!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here, if it isn’t an indiscreet question?”

“I’m very glad to meet you again, Mr. Merrion,” replied Arnold. “I’m on my way down to Carnford.”

Merrion glanced at him sharply. “Carnford, eh?” he said. “Then I daresay I can guess what your business is. I follow the crime reports in the newspapers pretty carefully, you know. Anyhow, you’re going down by the 10.45, I suppose? So am I, I’m going to Trentmouth to look at a yacht that’s for sale there. I’ve got a first-class carriage to myself, as I believe in travelling in comfort, and I shall be delighted if you’ll share it with me.”

Arnold accepted the offer gratefully. But it was not until the train had started that either broached the subject which was uppermost in their minds. It was Merrion who spoke first, apparently casually. “Have you heard anything of our friend Young?” he asked.

“Not a word,” replied Arnold. “I have been longing to ask you the same question, Mr. Merrion.”

“Suppose we drop the Mr.,” said Merrion with a smile. “It sounds ridiculously formal on the part of one who made my acquaintance in the circumstances in which you did. I have only had one letter from Young since he left England, and that was from Warsaw, several months ago. He told me that he was following tracks which seemed in the end to lead nowhere, but he still seemed convinced that, sooner or later, he would succeed in his quest.”

“I wish we had him back at the Yard,” replied Arnold. “Many a time I’ve wished that I could have a chat with him. For instance, in this case of the murder of Mr. Gantley, which, as you have guessed, I’m busy with now.”

Merrion nodded. “Young had a trick of getting to the bottom of things,” he replied. “I don’t want to inquire into official secrets, but are there any points in this Gantley case that haven’t come out in the papers?”

“I shouldn’t stand on official secrecy with you,” said Arnold. “I know well enough that most of Young’s successes were due to the help you gave him. I’d like nothing better than to tell you the whole story, and hear your opinion of it.”

“Then our desires are the same, for I have an insatiable curiosity in these matters,” replied Merrion. “I was afraid I was going to have a dull journey, but now, thanks to you, it promises to be deeply interesting.”

He listened with concentrated attention to Arnold’s account of how affairs stood, smoking one cigarette after another. And when the Inspector had come to an end, he sat for some moments without speaking, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It certainly looks very black against these Harrington people,” he said at last. “That is, from the point of view of motive, of course. This seems to be one of those cases where motive is the key to the problem. To my mind, it looks like this. If the event that hastened Lady Gantley’s death was caused intentionally, then the murder of Mr. Gantley was the logical sequel, and both were the work of the same hands, probably those of the Harringtons. Isn’t that so?”

“That’s pretty much my own reasoning,” replied Arnold.

“On the other hand, there’s another way of looking at it,” Merrion continued. “The collapse of the chimney may have been accidental. Now, Lady Gantley being dead, the only people who had any interest in the death of her brother-in-law were the Harringtons. But there’s just this. If Lady Gantley’s death were as unexpected to them as to everybody else, how did they learn of it in time to kill their uncle within so short a period? From what you tell me, there was no direct communication between them and Tulip Lodge?”

“That’s a point that hadn’t struck me,” confessed Arnold.

“It’s worth considering, though. You imagine that Mr. Gantley’s murder was premeditated, I suppose?”

“Both Driffield and I feel pretty sure of it.”

“Very well, then. Did the Harringtons make their preparations to kill their uncle on Sunday night on the off-chance that Lady Gantley would die on Saturday? Did they foresee the accident? Of course not. On the other hand, if Lady Gantley had survived her brother-in-law, the Harringtons would have cooked their own goose so far as Lady Gantley’s money was concerned, for it would have gone to the Chadwicks. What do you make of that?”

“Why, that the Harringtons must have arranged the accident at Tulip Lodge.”

“Yes, if it was the Harringtons who killed their uncle, which, I confess, seems to me to be the most likely solution. But what if the motive for his murder was entirely unconnected with these two wills? I gather, from what you tell me, that you haven’t altogether abandoned the possibility that some action, or contemplated action, on Mr. Gantley’s part supplied the motive for his murder?”

“No, I haven’t, I’m keeping that as a second string. It seems to me that the first thing to do is to establish the guilt or innocence of the Harringtons. I’m hurrying down to Carnford now to have a word with them.”

“There I think you’re quite right. But there’s one thing that puzzles me, and has done ever since I read the case in the papers. Mr. Gantley was spending the week-end alone on his house-boat at Benger’s Creek. Now, I know the coast pretty well, and I explored Carronport Water once, not many years ago. I remember Benger’s Creek, and I remember seeing a house-boat drawn up there. It struck me at the time that it was one of the most secluded spots I had ever come across. You haven’t been there, I gather?”

“No, I left that part of the investigation to Driffield. I expect he has had a look round there by now.”

“I wonder if he found anything. This is what is in my mind. If I had wanted to murder Mr. Gantley, I should have looked upon this solitary expedition of his to Benger’s Creek as a heaven-sent opportunity. I can think of a dozen ways by which I could have waylaid him there, killed him, and even disposed of his body, without any one being a penny the wiser. The same idea must have occurred to his murderer. Why, then, in the name of all that’s rational, should he throw away this opportunity and adopt the much more risky method of murdering him on the road home? The chances of his being detected were enormously increased.”

“It does sound a bit queer when you put it that way,” remarked Arnold thoughtfully.

“It is queer, but there is one possible explanation. Suppose the murderer was anxious not to kill his victim until he had news that Lady Gantley was safely dead! Suppose that he had been watching Mr. Gantley for some hours, or even days, if you like, waiting until Lady Gantley’s death before he struck? In that case he would have watched him while he was at Benger’s Creek, and, if he were Charles Harrington, may even have interviewed him. He could easily have invented some story to account for his having come all that way to see his uncle.”

“By Jove, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Arnold. “He may have been with him all the time.”

“Possibly. But it is more likely that he left Benger’s Creek before his uncle, and then laid in wait for him, having heard the news of Lady Gantley’s death. There’s that very curious point about Mr. Gantley having called at the inn at Norton Ferris for petrol on his way home, when, according to all calculations, he ought to have had ample to take him on to Carnford. Had he made another journey that you know nothing of, and was afraid that he was running low? Is it possible that he drove Harrington from Benger’s Creek on Sunday afternoon, say, to some point where he could pick up a train, and then returned to the house-boat? I’m only offering this as a suggestion. The point I want to make is that if I were trying to pick up the trail of the murderer, I should examine the house-boat, and the neighbourhood of Benger’s Creek, pretty closely.”

“I expect Driffield has already done so, but, if he hasn’t, I’ll go over the place myself. I’m really awfully grateful to you for these suggestions, Merrion. My only trouble is that I’m not up in house-boats and things pertaining to the sea, and I might miss something that would be perfectly apparent to your eyes.”

Merrion smiled at the covert suggestion. “Well, I shall be staying at Trentmouth for a couple of days,” he said. “I’ve wired for a room at the Royal Hotel, and that address will find me till Saturday, at least. If I can be of the slightest use to you, you’ve only got to let me know, and I shall be at your disposal.”

Arnold thanked him warmly, and they returned to a discussion of the case in all its bearings. It seemed to both an incredibly short time before the train pulled up at Carnford, and Arnold got out, leaving Merrion to continue his journey to Trentmouth.

In spite of the unearthly hour, Driffield was on the platform to meet him. “It’s awfully good of you to come back so promptly,” he said. “Do you want to sleep, or shall we go round to the office, and I’ll tell you the news?”

“I’ll hear the news first, and sleep for an hour or two in a chair afterwards,” replied Arnold. “I found out a few things while I was in London, which I should like to tell you about.”

Driffield had the car at the station, and they drove to the office, where he immediately plunged into his story. “The Harringtons turned up yesterday afternoon,” he said. “They are both of them at Westerly Cottage. I haven’t seen them myself, but, as you know, my men have been on the look-out for them, and their arrival was reported to me just before I sent that message to you. There’s no doubt that they are the Harringtons, one of my men had a chat with Watts. I thought we would call on them together later on this morning.”

“Have they seen Mr. Polteith?” asked Arnold.

“He was with them all the evening,” replied Driffield. “He’ll have told them everything, so far as he knows the facts.”

“Um. That’s rather a pity,” said Arnold doubtfully. “However, it can’t be helped. We’ll see what we can make of them later. What’s this fresh development you mentioned in your message?”

“I’ve had an anonymous letter about the case. No, don’t laugh. I know that the police receive anonymous letters by the score every time a case like this gets into the papers. But this is rather a curious letter. I’d like you to examine it for yourself.”

He opened a drawer, and produced an envelope, which he handed to Arnold. “As you see, it was posted at midnight on Tuesday, somewhere in London, N.W.1. I got it by the afternoon post yesterday.”

The envelope was of the ordinary square shape, and had no watermark or other means of identification. The address upon it, “The Chief Inspector, Police Station, Carnford,” was written in block letters, very shaky in outline, in soft pencil. Arnold opened the envelope, and withdrew a sheet of paper. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “That’s a queer method of correspondence!”

The sheet itself was a piece of ordinary common writing-paper. But upon it had been stuck, apparently with ordinary gum, a series of words in printed type, arranged in irregular lines. These formed a message, which ran as follows.

“Are you convinced when and Where victim was killed try looking At boat and along side writer dare not appear fear vengeance.”

“Well, what do you make of that?” asked Driffield, as Arnold stared at this curious missive without speaking.

“The words have been cut out of a newspaper, I think with a pair of nail-scissors,” replied Arnold slowly. “The paper the words are printed on is newsprint, and, if you look closely, you can see the marks of the scissors. Judging by the paper and the type, I should say the newspaper was the Daily Mail, but I can’t be sure of that. If you notice, the writer has looked for the words he wanted all over the paper. As you notice, there are several different kinds of type. For instance, I should say that ‘convinced’ came from a leader. ‘Looking’ seems to be part of an advertisement. The rest of the words seem to come from news items of varying importance. And ‘Where’ and ‘At’ must have begun sentences, since they have initial capitals.”

“Yes, that’s all plain enough,” said Driffield, with some impatience. “But what do you make of the message itself?”

“I’m blest if I know,” replied Arnold, and relapsed into silence. The truth was that the message intrigued him more than he cared to admit. In the ordinary way he would not have worried much over an anonymous letter addressed to the police. Such letters were common enough, and it was very rarely that they led to any useful discovery. But his mind was still occupied with the conversation he had had with Merrion in the train. Merrion had recommended a careful search of the house-boat and its vicinity, and it was certainly a remarkable coincidence that the anonymous writer should do the same.

“There’s nothing in the message itself,” remarked Driffield after a pause. “I was down at Benger’s Creek yesterday, and found nothing out of the way. It’s the identity of the writer that interests me. Who is he, and what does he know?”

Arnold disregarded this last question.

“I’d like to hear about your visit to Benger’s Creek,” he said.

Driffield told him the result of his investigations at Benger’s Creek and Carronport in detail. “I didn’t learn much, as you see,” he continued. “But if the writer of this letter is trying to suggest that Gantley was murdered on the house-boat, he’s on the wrong track altogether. Gantley was seen to land at Carronport and buy a paper on Sunday morning, and we know that he called at the Otterworth Arms in the evening. Besides, there’s that shot that Trimble heard. It may or may not have been fired at him, but there can’t be any doubt that it was the murderer who fired it. And what the dickens was he doing there, if he had already done his job at Benger’s Creek? No, that letter’s a hoax. What I want to know is this. Who was the writer, and what was his object in sending it?”

Again Arnold made no reply. He was struggling with a thought which, however hard he strove to banish it, kept recurring to his mind. It was quite true, as Driffield had said, that it was established as clearly as anything could be that Mr. Gantley had been shot by the roadside some time after nine o’clock on Sunday evening. But it was by no means so clearly established that he had been murdered. In spite of the verdict at the inquest, it was still just possible that he had committed suicide, by some means not yet explained.

“I’m not so sure that this letter is a hoax,” he said at last. “I’ve got it in my mind that the writer knows something. Look here, we’ve been assuming all along that Mr. Gantley was alone all the time he was at Benger’s Creek. How do we know that? You say the place is about as remote as it could possibly be. But I suppose it isn’t impossible that somebody called on him there?”

“I suppose it isn’t. But who would have done so, and why? And who, beyond his immediate circle of acquaintances, knew that he was there? By Jove, that reminds me. Somebody who rang up his office from London on Thursday knew that he would be away for the week-end, and, if that person knew his habits, it would be an easy guess that he was going to Benger’s Creek.”

He repeated his conversation with Markham on the previous afternoon. “I made inquiries at the telephone exchange,” he continued. “The people there made a report to me yesterday evening. The only call from London to the Courier office that day was made at 5.50 p.m. from the West Central Post Office in Holborn.”

“Was it?” replied Arnold with interest. “That’s a pretty valuable clue, I fancy. It suggests itself to me that the call was made by Charles Harrington. The inquiry, as you can tell from its wording, was made in order to find out Mr. Gantley’s movements during the week-end. Unfortunately, owing to that idiot Markham’s fool notice, we can’t tell whether the inquiry was genuine, whether any one turned up or not at the office on Monday, I mean. And it was a necessary part of Harrington’s scheme that he should know his uncle’s movements exactly.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. And, what’s more, I think that Harrington would not have attempted to murder his uncle if he had learnt that he meant to stay in Carnford. It would have been too risky. It seems to me that we shall have a lot of questions to put to that young man when we see him.”

“I think we shall. Now, if you’ve no objection, Driffield, I’m going to have an hour or two’s sleep in this arm-chair of yours. I want all my wits about me when I pay that call.”

Arnold, who had trained himself to sleep when and where he could, dozed off almost as soon as he had finished speaking. He woke at eight o’clock, when Driffield took him home to breakfast. That meal disposed of, the two inspectors made their way to Westerly Cottage.

Watts opened the door to them, and Driffield greeted him cheerfully. “Good-morning, Watts. I hear that Mr. and Miss Harrington arrived here yesterday afternoon, and we thought we would come round and have a chat with them.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied Watts. “But neither Mr. nor Miss Harrington are up yet. Mrs. Watts has just taken a cup of tea up to their rooms, and they said that they would be ready for breakfast in about an hour’s time. If you could call again, sir——”

Driffield’s face hardened. “I’m afraid our business won’t wait, Watts,” he said. “You needn’t disturb Miss Harrington’s beauty sleep, but I’d be glad if you would give Mr. Harrington my compliments, and tell him that I should like to see him at once.”

Watts showed them into the room which had been Mr. Gantley’s study, and departed on his errand. Several minutes passed, and then the door opened, and a young man of about twenty-five appeared, clad in a dressing-gown which obviously did not belong to him, and which Arnold suspected to have been the property of Mr. Gantley.

The young man looked at the two inspectors rather vacantly, and yawned. Driffield stepped forward to meet him. “Are you Mr. Charles Harrington?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” replied the other impudently. “And you’re the local policeman, I understand. Suppose we sit down and make ourselves comfortable, what?”

He took the best chair, which happened to have its back to the window, apparently careless of where the Inspectors seated themselves. Arnold busied himself in studying his appearance. He was tall and dark, clean-shaven but for incipient and effeminate-looking whiskers reaching below his ears. The Inspector could trace no resemblance between uncle and nephew, but he fancied, despite the languor of the latter’s manner, that he detected a hint of determination, perhaps even cruelty, in his eyes.

Charles Harrington sprawled in his chair, apparently not in the least anxious to begin a conversation. It was Driffield who spoke first, with more than a hint of asperity in his tone. “You are aware that your uncle, Mr. Gantley, was murdered last Sunday, I suppose?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” replied Harrington calmly. “Have you fellows found out yet who did it?”

“When did you first learn of the crime?” inquired Driffield, ignoring his last question.

“When did I hear of it? Why, some time yesterday morning. I’m not much hand at reading the papers, but Myrtle is. She’s my sister, you know. She sometimes gets her stuff accepted by some of them, and she’s always on the look-out for it. She came into my room in a great state of excitement. ‘Hullo, see this?’ she said. ‘Uncle Arthur’s been killed!’ I sat up quick at that, I can tell you. Of course, I was sorry for the old boy and all that, but I don’t mind telling you that it was devilish convenient, in a way. ‘Well, if that’s so,’ I said, ‘we’d better make tracks for Carnford at once and stake our claim.’ So along we came, and here we are.”

“You were aware, then, that Mr. Gantley had made you and your sister his heirs?” asked Driffield.

“Rather! What do you think? And old Polparrot, or whatever his name is, tells us that our luck’s in, for uncle’s sainted sister-in-law died the day before, and we come in for all the doings there too.”

The young fellow’s flippancy got on Driffield’s nerves to such an extent that he could scarcely keep his temper. “You seem to be aware of the facts,” he said grimly. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you some questions concerning your own affairs.”

“Ask away,” replied Harrington coolly. “But what if I don’t choose to answer?”

“You would be quite within your rights,” said Driffield, with dangerous calmness. “But I warn you that you may place yourself in a very uncomfortable position by doing so. I must ask you to understand that I am charged with the duty of investigating your uncle’s murder.”

“You don’t seem to have been very successful so far,” Harrington retorted. “All right, fire away.”

With a great effort Driffield restrained his indignation. “When did you last see your uncle alive?” he asked.

“That’s an easy one. Not for a couple of months or so. Myrtle and I were down here at the beginning of July.”

“Were you aware that your uncle kept a house-boat at Benger’s Creek?”

“Oh, lord, yes. He was always gassing about it. But I noticed that he didn’t ask us to go down and stay there.”

“Did your uncle inform you that he intended going to Benger’s Creek last week-end?”

“Not that I know of. He used to write to Myrtle about once a fortnight, and he may have mentioned it. I don’t know.”

“Now, Mr. Harrington, I want you to think very carefully before you answer this question. Where were you between half-past eleven and twelve on Thursday last?”

Harrington laughed shortly. “How the deuce should I know?” he replied. “I don’t keep a diary of my movements hour by hour. At home, I expect. I often feel like trying a bit of work first thing in the morning.”

Then for the first time Arnold interposed. “I daresay that I can assist your memory, Mr. Harrington,” he said politely. “Thursday was the day on which your sister told Mrs. Butters that you would both be going away for the week-end.”

Harrington turned his eyes upon Arnold with a look of insolent inquiry. “How the dickens do you know that?” he asked. “Has old Bread-and-Butter been spilling the beans? And who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Arnold, and my address is Scotland Yard,” replied the Inspector pleasantly. “I can give you another piece of information, Mr. Harrington. At this moment there is a bailiff in possession of your flat in Torrington Road, St. John’s Wood, in execution of a judgment summons for a hundred pounds odd.”

Harrington opened his eyes a trifle. “So that damned swine Rogers was as good as his word, was he? I remember he served me with a writ, but I shoved it in the fire, and forgot all about it. Oh well, he’s welcome to distrain on anything he can find. If he can get a hundred quid for those pictures of mine it’s more than I could.”

“Well, let’s get back to Thursday,” said Driffield impatiently. “Now that your memory has been jogged, Mr. Harrington, perhaps you can answer my question?”

“Let me see. I got up early that morning, about half-past ten, I think it must have been, and went round to see a pal of mine that lives in Bloomsbury. The fact is, I don’t mind telling you, that both Myrtle and I were broke. We usually are at the end of the quarter. Since you seem to know so much, you probably know that our late lamented uncle paid us an allowance quarterly. That reminds me. To-morrow’s quarter-day, isn’t it?”

“I should be glad if you would keep to the point, Mr. Harrington,” replied Driffield severely.

“All right, don’t get ratty. I’m coming to it. As I was telling you, I went round to see my friend in Bloomsbury. She’s a good sort, and now and then she doesn’t mind advancing a fiver when I’m particularly stony. But she wasn’t in, or at all events her maid said she wasn’t. So I went to a little place I know of, and had a couple of drinks. I thought perhaps I might touch somebody I knew there, but, as it happened, nobody that I could ask dropped in. My luck was dead out that morning.”

“I must ask you to tell me the name and address of your friend, and the time you called upon her, Mr. Harrington.”

“That’s pretty fair cheek on your part, isn’t it? Still, I daresay she won’t mind. She’s a very attractive little widow, and she’s particularly fond of fine upstanding chaps like you. Give her my love if you see her, but don’t let on that I’ve become a rich man, will you? Her name is Olive Sanderson, and she lives at 101 Oakhampton Square. And as for the time I called there, it must have been about half-past eleven or so, for I was at Matto’s by soon after twelve. The chap behind the bar there, who answers to the name of Curly, knows me well enough.”

Driffield glanced at Arnold, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Thus reassured, Driffield continued his examination. “What did you do after you left Matto’s, Mr. Harrington?” he asked.

“Why, I remembered that the Delareys had asked us to go on the razzle-dazzle with them, and I beat it home, just in time to find them with a car waiting for me. I put it to them that I couldn’t possibly go with them, as I hadn’t a bean to bless myself with till quarter-day came round. I offered to sell them two or three pictures cheap for cash, but they didn’t seem to want them, somehow. Bill was awfully decent, though, forked out a couple of fivers and said I could pay him this week. Then off we went to Brighton, where they took rooms for the whole party at the Palatial.”

“I see. Now, what were you doing on Saturday, Mr. Harrington?”

“Look here, I don’t see what all this has got to do with Uncle Arthur’s murder,” grumbled Harrington. “Still, asking questions is what you policemen are paid for, I suppose. On Saturday we all drove over to Eastbourne. No, wait a bit. That was Friday. On Saturday the Delareys took Myrtle off somewhere for the day, I forget where. I wouldn’t go, as I wasn’t feeling any too good. Fact is, we’d had a devil of a time of it the night before, and I fancy I must have got pretty tight. All I wanted on Saturday morning was some aspirins and a lemon.”

“How did you spend the day?” persisted Driffield.

“Oh, just mooching around. I felt better towards the afternoon, and picked up with a jolly fine girl, I remember. Took her out and stood her a spot of dinner somewhere, I forget where. The rest of them didn’t get back till midnight, and they were all a bit oiled.”

“Can you tell me the name of any one who saw you during the day?”

“No, I can’t. I didn’t ask the girl her name. She wouldn’t have told me the right one if I had.”

“You say that the rest of the party returned at midnight. What happened after that?”

“Bill was set upon going for a night drive. He said he was tired of towns, and wanted to see the country by moonlight. He was full of bubbly wine and enthusiasm. Myrtle was all for the idea, and suggested that we should clear out of Brighton and find somewhere else. Then Madge said that she’d heard of a jolly little place in Downhamshire called Carronport, but that she had never been there. So Bill swore that she should see it before many hours were out, and insisted that we should pack up there and then and drive to Carronport. I wasn’t particularly keen on the idea, it struck me that it was getting a bit close to Uncle Arthur and I wasn’t over anxious for him to see us in that company. He imagined that Myrtle and I were two of the world’s workers, you know. But it isn’t a bit of good arguing with Bill when he’s in that mood, so off we went.”

Driffield and Arnold exchanged glances. “You’re quite sure that the suggestion of driving to Carronport didn’t come from you, Mr. Harrington?” suggested the latter.

“Haven’t I just told you that I was against it?” replied Harrington. “What the hell should I suggest it for?”

“You set off soon after midnight, and drove to Carronport,” said Driffield. “What time did you get there?”

“About eight o’clock on Sunday morning, a most unearthly hour. I slept all the way down, and don’t remember much about it. None of us had ever been there before, but we found a place at Merton-on-Sea which called itself the Seaview Hotel, and took rooms there. The rest of them were dead to the wide, and went to bed, but I felt quite fresh and cheerful. I went out to have a look round the place, and a pretty miserable hole it is.”

“Did you spend the whole day in Merton-on-Sea, Mr. Harrington?” asked Driffield.

“Not I. I should have got the horrors if I had. There didn’t seem an earthly thing to do, but after a bit I had an idea. I went back to this Seaview place and got hold of a bottle of whisky. Then I found an old chap on the beach at Carronport who hired out boats. I used to fancy myself as an oarsman once, and I thought a spot of exercise wouldn’t do me any harm. So I took one of his boats, and rowed up that sheet of water inside the harbour, Carronport Water, I believe they call it.”

“Did you meet anybody while you were out in the boat?” asked Driffield.

“Not a soul, the place seemed utterly deserted. The only thing I saw was a chap sailing a dinghy in the distance. We didn’t take any notice of one another, though. I rowed on for a bit, till I thought it was time for lunch, then I pulled into a quiet spot on shore, and had my lunch.”

“Had you brought lunch with you, then?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’d taken a bottle of whisky with me? When I’d finished lunch, I felt sleepy all of a sudden, so I just lay down and went to sleep. It was pretty late when I woke up, getting on for sunset, I reckoned, and drizzling damnably. I finished the bottle of whisky, there wasn’t much left in it, and then I thought about getting back to Carronport. But it was a filthy evening, and I didn’t like the idea of tackling the job until I’d had something to buck me up. I thought there was bound to be a pub somewhere about, so I left the boat and started inland.”

“Which side of Carronport Water did you land?”

“Blest if I know. The side on the left looking up from Carronport, I think. Anyway, I might have landed on the moon for any good it did me. There wasn’t a sign of anybody about, not even a cottage, so far as I could see. Besides, I had a rotten head, and my legs didn’t seem to work properly. It must have been that filthy whisky I got from the Seaview. It was getting dark, too, and after a bit it struck me that I’d properly lost myself. So I sat down under a tree to think things over, and I fancy I must have dozed off for a while. Anyway, I got up again after a bit, feeling like nothing on earth, and thinking I’d better get back to the boat. But it wasn’t as easy as all that. I must have wandered up and down the shore for a couple of hours before I found her.”

“What did you do next, Mr. Harrington?”

“Rowed down the Water till I got back to Carronport, and a devil of a job I had of it. I thought I should never get there. And when I did, the old chap on the beach had gone home, so I tied up the boat and staggered home to the Seaview. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I got there, and I had to ring up the night porter. He turned out to be a good fellow, brought me a drink and took me up to the room I was sharing with Bill. It seems the rest of the party had been amusing themselves that evening without worrying about what had happened to me. However, I went to bed, and didn’t wake up till some time on Monday morning.”

“And where have you been since then?”

“Merton-on-Sea,” replied Harrington, with an expression of disgust. “You see, it was like this. After we’d had a bit of lunch on Monday, Bill and Madge said it was time to get back to London, since they’d pretty well run through the money they’d brought with them. Of course, they wanted us to go with them, but there was a bit of a difficulty about that. You see, I’d spent every penny of the tenner I’d had from Bill, and Myrtle wasn’t any better off. We couldn’t pay our share of the bill at the Seaview, and we couldn’t borrow it from Bill or Madge, because we knew they hadn’t got it. Besides, we weren’t over anxious to get home without a bean. Old Bread-and-Butter’s wages were a bit behind, and she was getting ratty, and there were one or two others who were dunning us. I didn’t think of Rogers and his infernal summons, or that would have been another argument.

“Anyhow, Myrtle and I had a council of war. My idea was to take a bus over here to Carnford, and try and touch Uncle Arthur for an advance. But Myrtle wouldn’t hear of it. She said that would mean too much explanation, and that the old boy might tumble to what we’d been up to. She’d got a much better plan, she said. We’d just stay quietly where we were. We could live for nothing, since the hotel people wouldn’t hand us out a bill for a few days. Meanwhile we could write to old Bread-and-Butter, and tell her to forward letters. Uncle Arthur’s cheque would turn up for certain on Friday, she would send it on, and everything would be all right. We could pay our bill at the Seaview, and then go home by train.

“I agreed to this, and we stuck it at the Seaview. It wasn’t too bad at first, but after the second day I was getting fed up to the back teeth. I didn’t care to go out, for I was afraid of meeting the old chap I’d hired the boat from, and I couldn’t pay him. However, I managed to persuade the barman to let me have drinks and put them on the bill, so I contrived to occupy my time somehow. And then, as I said, Myrtle picked up a paper yesterday afternoon and saw the account of the inquest. I tell you, we didn’t waste much time after that. Myrtle had just enough to pay our fares, so we took the first bus, and rolled up here as the sorrowing relatives. Old Polparrot was ready enough to kill the fatted calf, I can tell you; we dug ourselves in and made ourselves comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harrington,” said Driffield impassively. “I expect you will be staying here for some time?”

“I reckon we shall stay till old Polparrot hands over the dibs,” replied Harrington. “This house is ours now, you know. Rogers can sell up the flat and all that’s in it, for all I care.”

“Now, there’s one more thing, Mr. Harrington. I must ask you to give me the address of your friends the Delareys.”

But Harrington shook his head emphatically. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “I don’t mind talking about my own affairs, since I’m a rich man now and all that’s over and done with. But I’m not going to have you police blokes poking your noses into Bill and Madge’s affairs.”

Before Driffield could speak, Arnold shot a warning glance at him. “Oh, well, we won’t press you, Mr. Harrington,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not a matter of any great importance.”

Harrington dragged himself languidly from his chair. “It wouldn’t make any difference if you did,” he said. “Now, if you’ve finished your catechism, I’ll have breakfast and get dressed. I’ve got to be chief mourner at Uncle Arthur’s funeral to-day, and I’ve a lot of things to see to before then. Good-morning.”

He opened the door and walked out of the room. Driffield would have followed him, but Arnold laid a hand on his arm. “That’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ve got all we want for the present. Let’s get out of this.”

They left Westerly Cottage, and, at Arnold’s suggestion, went back to the police station.

Inspector Driffield maintained a stony silence until they were safely within the four walls of his office. Then his restrained indignation broke out all the more violently for his long restraint.

“Did you ever hear such an insolent young puppy!” he exclaimed. “Just you wait till I’ve got him by the heels! He’ll change his tune pretty quick when he hears the key turn in the lock of his cell, I’ll warrant. What the dickens induced you to let him down so lightly at the end?”

“About those precious friends of his, the Delareys?” replied Arnold. “Why, because we can find out about them whenever we want to. I wasn’t anxious to make any more show of pressure than we need. It strikes me that we’ve got a pretty difficult game to play with that young man.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You haven’t any doubts now that he killed his uncle, I suppose? If his story is true, and I’m not going to accept it without checking it very carefully, he’s fixed up alibis for the whole week-end, except for Saturday, and for Sunday afternoon and evening. And that’s where he’s going to come unstuck.”

“I noticed that,” replied Arnold thoughtfully. “That’s just what makes me say we’ve got a very difficult game to play. Either Harrington is the fool he makes himself out to be, or he’s taking a very clever line. I haven’t any doubts that his story’s true. I fancy every word of it had been prepared beforehand. If we question the various people he mentioned, they’ll confirm his statements all right, you may be sure of that. Our difficulty lies with the people he didn’t mention.”

A puzzled expression came over Driffield’s face. “I don’t quite follow,” he said. “Who didn’t he mention?”

“The people he met during the periods for which he offered no alibi. He leaves us the problem of discovering where he was on Saturday and Sunday, and a pretty difficult one it is. How do we know he stayed in Brighton on Saturday? He might just as easily have gone back to London. And what about that boating trip of his on Sunday? How do we know that he didn’t row to Benger’s Creek and call on his uncle?”

“I’ve got a theory about that,” replied Driffield. “There’s nothing to prevent him from having contrived Lady Gantley’s death on Saturday. He could have been watching Tulip Lodge till the accident happened. He may even have pushed the chimney-pot over himself, for all we know at present. He would have had any amount of time to get back to Brighton from Richmond before his friends got back.”

“Yes, but what about the sudden resolve to drive down to Carronport that night?” suggested Arnold.

“Sudden resolve be blowed. Either he suggested it himself, or the whole thing was arranged beforehand. I’d like a few minutes conversation with that precious friend of his. If he’s anything like Harrington I’d lay a biggish bet that they’d fixed the thing up between themselves, on a profit-sharing basis. Harrington arrives at Carronport, knowing that his uncle was at Benger’s Creek, having telephoned to his office on Thursday. The rest of the party make themselves scarce, and leave him to his own devices.”

Arnold nodded, rather absently. He was mentally comparing Harrington’s story with the suggestions which Merrion had made to him in the train. “You suggested just now that he might have rowed to Benger’s Creek,” he remarked. “If he murdered his uncle, why didn’t he do so there? Why wait until he was on his way home?”

“I’m coming to that,” replied Driffield. “I can’t at present answer the question why he didn’t kill him there. Perhaps because it was broad daylight, and he thought it safer to work in the dark. What I think must have happened is this. He went to see his uncle, in order to satisfy himself that he really was at Benger’s Creek. In the course of conversation, he learnt that he was driving home that evening. Harrington probably said that he had to get back to Carnford to catch the night train to London, and Gantley, no doubt, offered to drive him back. But Harrington replied that he wanted exercise after his strenuous labours in London, and said that he would start to walk towards Carnford during the afternoon.”

“I don’t quite see the grounds on which you base all that,” objected Arnold.

“Wait a bit, and you’ll see what I’m driving at. The arrangement Harrington made with his uncle was this. He would walk along the road, and if his uncle did not overtake him before he got to Norton Ferris, he would wait for him there, at the Otterworth Arms. That would account for Gantley calling there that evening.”

“That’s not at all a bad notion. But it doesn’t account for Mr. Gantley asking for a can of petrol.”

“Ah, but you don’t understand the reaction of a man like Gantley to that deplorable institution, the village pub. To a man of his position and rectitude the pub is a haunt of vice and immorality. Having reached the Otterworth Arms and found that his nephew was not there, he would be a bit flabbergasted. He wouldn’t quite know what to do. He wouldn’t like to ask if his nephew was there anywhere, and yet he’d have to offer some pretext for coming in. It would never strike him to order a drink, so the idea of asking for petrol occurred to him, though he didn’t want it, as the state of his tank shows. Besides, he would think that if his car stood outside the place while the tank was being filled, Harrington would be bound to see it if he was anywhere about.”

“Upon my word, that accounts for Mr. Gantley’s visit to the pub and his purchase of the petrol, which I confess has puzzled me all along!” exclaimed Arnold admiringly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’ve hit on the truth there. But why did Harrington appoint the rendezvous, if he had no intention of keeping it?”

“Don’t you see? Because he wanted Gantley to be seen by the people at the pub. It’s becoming clearer to me every moment. Harrington was afraid that somebody might have seen him row to Benger’s Creek. If Gantley had not been seen at the Otterworth Arms, there would have been nothing to prove that he had not been murdered there, and if Harrington had been seen, suspicion would have fallen on him at once. He would have been accused of putting the body in the car and driving it to where it was found. He couldn’t have foreseen that our friend Trimble would butt into his plans.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Arnold. “This jigsaw puzzle of ours is beginning to fit together, I believe. What actually happened, I suppose, is that Harrington walked straight through Norton Ferris and lay in wait farther on. Trimble’s escapade didn’t interfere with his plans much. He probably found the car in the ditch, and his uncle standing by it, and shot him then. But what about the shot that Trimble heard round about midnight? Whether it was aimed at Trimble or not, Harrington must have fired it. And if he did, how the dickens did he get back to Carronport by two o’clock?”

“You forget Farmer Porch’s bicycle. If he borrowed that, he could just have done it, by riding like the devil back to Benger’s Creek, and then rowing to Carronport. I admit that he doesn’t look capable of any such violent exertion, but I believe that’s all put on.”

Arnold lighted a cigarette, and puffed at it for some moments in silence. “I travelled down from London last night with a man called Merrion,” he said, abruptly. “He was in the Intelligence Branch of the Admiralty during the war, and he’s one of the shrewdest people I’ve met. He was a great friend of a colleague of mine at the Yard, whose name was Young, and it was owing to Merrion’s help that Young brought off one or two rather clever arrests.”

“That must have been jolly for you,” remarked Driffield sarcastically. “But I don’t quite follow. You’re not suggesting that this Merrion had any hand in Gantley’s murder, are you?”

“Scarcely. But I thought I’d take a leaf out of Young’s book, and talk over this case with Merrion. You needn’t be alarmed, Merrion’s as close as an oyster. He made one suggestion, which struck me at the time, and that was that the most likely place to find a clue was Benger’s Creek. The first thing you showed me when I got here was that anonymous letter, which contains exactly the same advice. Now you yourself are suggesting that Harrington visited his uncle there. It’s a bit queer, you’ll agree.”

“Well, yes, if you put it like that. But, as I told you, I had a good look round the place yesterday, and found nothing.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you didn’t know everything then that we know now. And there’s one small point. You found that Mr. Gantley had left the provision box and the empty siphons behind him, whereas Watts told us that he always brought them back with him. It’s a trifle, I’ll admit, but I’d like to know the reason.”

“I think I can guess that,” replied Driffield triumphantly. “He had arranged to pick Harrington up on the road home, and he was afraid that there wouldn’t be room for him in the car if he cluttered it up with all that litter.”

“That’s possible, certainly. But, in any case, I take it, you’ll go over to Carronport to check up Harrington’s story at the Seaview Hotel? Why not take Benger’s Creek on the way, and we’ll have another look over the house-boat?”

“I haven’t the slightest objection,” replied Driffield readily. “And I’ll stand you any drink you like to name if you find any more than I did.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that I should. But we’re neither of us experts in boats and things like that. What if we take this chap Merrion with us? He spends most of his time mucking about on the water, and he’s got eyes like a hawk. I know where to get hold of him.”

“I’ve no objection, since you guarantee that he won’t talk,” replied Driffield.

“All right, then I’ll put a call through to him at once.” He rang up the Royal Hotel at Trentmouth, and was successful in locating Merrion, to whom he explained that he proposed to visit Benger’s Creek. “I wish you could make it convenient to come with me,” he said.

“I’ll come like a shot,” was the reply. “Let’s see, now. I’ve got a local tide table in my pocket. Hold on a minute. Yes, here we are. It’s high water here at 9.17 a.m. to-day. That’s 10.17 summer time. For Carronport add half an hour, it says. That’ll be 10.47. So it ought to be low water at Carronport, which is near enough for Benger’s Creek, about a quarter to five this afternoon. That’ll suit us splendidly. There’s a train from here at 3.5, I know, gets to Carnford at 3.32. If I come by that will you meet me?”

“Certainly, if that’ll suit you,” replied Arnold, bewildered by these rapid calculations. He rang off, and turned to Driffield. “Merrion will get to the station at 3.32,” he said. “We’d better meet him and drive straight to Benger’s Creek, hadn’t we?”

“All right, that’ll fit in very well,” replied Driffield. “Hullo, there’s that damned telephone again!”

He picked up the receiver, and listened for a moment. “It’s from Trentmouth,” he said. “I expect it’s your pal Merrion. He’s probably remembered an appointment which will prevent him coming. Hullo! Yes, Inspector Driffield speaking. The Superintendent, Trentmouth, wants to speak to me? Right, I’ll hold on.”

There was a pause, and then Driffield spoke again. “Yes, sir, Inspector Driffield this end. It has, sir? I’m very glad to hear that. Not a bad place to hide it. I’d be much obliged if you would, sir. I’ll send a man to meet it at the station. Thank you, sir. Good-morning.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to Arnold. “The Trentmouth people have found a bicycle answering to the description I circulated,” he said. “It was found this morning in an empty truck on the railway sidings. The truck had been there since last Saturday and was wanted for loading this morning. When the railwaymen took off the tarpaulin, they found the bicycle under it.”

“Whereabouts is the siding?” asked Arnold.

“Ah, that’s just it!” replied Driffield triumphantly. “Look here at this map. Here’s Trentmouth, and here’s Norton Ferris. Any one striking over the moors from Norton Ferris towards Trentmouth would hit the railway line before they reached the town. And the siding is there right in the path of any one coming from Norton Ferris.”

“Hm. That’s a bit significant,” remarked Arnold. “What do you make of it?”

“It seems to me as clear as daylight. Trimble in spite of what he says pinched the machine and rode to Trentmouth on it. Then, not knowing how to dispose of it, he put it in the truck. That is if it really is Porch’s bicycle. The Trentmouth people are going to send it over. I suggest we leave it at Norton Ferris this afternoon on our way to Benger’s Creek, for Pentrellis to identify.”

“If Trimble lied about the bicycle, I wonder what else he lied about?” remarked Arnold thoughtfully. “And there’s this about it. If he rode it to Trentmouth on Sunday night, your theory as to how Harrington covered the distance between Norton Ferris and Carronport goes west, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” replied Driffield ruefully. “It’s that shot that Trimble says he heard that’s the snag. And yet somehow I can’t believe he invented the story, for I don’t see what he had to gain by it. You see, if Harrington shot his uncle soon after the car ran into the ditch, say any time up to ten o’clock, and then cleared out, he’d have had plenty of time to get back to Carronport by two, even without a bicycle.”

“There’s a lot more in this business than meets the eye,” remarked Arnold sagely. “I don’t believe that we’ve got to the bottom of what happened after Mr. Gantley called at the Otterworth Arms. I think you’re right, up to the point where Harrington killed his uncle. But I don’t think we’ve solved the mystery of the shot heard by Trimble, if, indeed he did hear it.”

“Well, we’ve got to reconstruct the murder and all the incidents connected with it,” said Driffield. “And, what’s more, we’ve got to be able to prove our reconstruction before we lay hands on Master Harrington. It’s all very well saying that there can be no reasonable doubt that he did it. But we’re still a long way from being able to convince a jury.”

With this Arnold fully agreed. He knew how often it happened that the police were fully convinced of a person’s guilt, but lacked the necessary evidence which would convict him. Sometimes, by patient work, more often than not aided by luck, the missing link in the chain could be discovered. And then, often when the crime had been forgotten, the criminal could be brought to book.

The funeral of Mr. Gantley was attended by practically the whole population of Carnford. The ceremony was over by the time that Merrion arrived at the station, where he was met by the two inspectors. Arnold introduced him to Driffield, and the car was driven back to the police station, for the bicycle, which had already arrived from Trentmouth, to be strapped on behind. The three then started on their expedition.

The first stop was at Pentrellis’ cottage at Norton Ferris, where the bicycle was unloaded. Driffield instructed the constable to take it to Mr. Porch for his identification. The car then drove on, Driffield at the wheel.

When they reached the turning that led to Benger’s Creek, Driffield pulled up. “It strikes me that we needn’t all go down to the house-boat,” he said. “I’ve seen it already. How would it be if you two got out here and walked down? Here are the keys. Meanwhile, I’ll go on to Winterley, and cross in the ferry to Carronport, where I’ll make inquiries at the Seaview Hotel. I’ll meet you here again on my way back?”

Arnold agreed to this course, and he and Merrion walked down the track towards Benger’s Creek. On the way down, Arnold gave Merrion the chief points of Harrington’s account of himself, and told him of the anonymous letter received by Driffield. Merrion listened carefully, and nodded. “So some one else seems to share my belief that this is the proper place to look for clues,” he said. “Ah, here we are, it seems.”

They had reached the point where the track emerged from the coppice. Arnold’s first action was to unlock the shed, where they found everything as Driffield had described it. Between them they examined the interior of the shed closely, without discovering anything further of interest. They came out, locking the door behind them. Arnold set off along the path towards the house-boat, but Merrion, instead of following him, walked slowly round the shed, his eyes fixed upon the ground. He had not gone more than a couple of paces when he stopped suddenly. “Come here a minute, Arnold,” he called.

Arnold turned back and came up beside him. “What’s up?” he asked.

Merrion pointed to the ground at his feet. “Look at that,” he said.

Arnold followed the direction of his finger. On the loose earth by the wall of the shed was the imprint of a bicycle tyre, in which the two wheels crossed and recrossed. “See that?” said Merrion. “Those tracks come as far as here, then stop and go back again. That means, I suppose, that a bicycle was leant against the side of the shed and wheeled away again. I don’t remember that your friend Inspector Driffield said anything about that, did he?”

“No, he certainly didn’t,” replied Arnold. “Upon my word, Merrion, you have the most aggravating trick of seeing things that other people don’t. But in this case I think I can go one further. These tracks were made by the bicycle we dropped at Norton Ferris just now, I’d almost swear to it. I examined it pretty carefully before we started, and noticed that it was fitted with Palmer tyres, both pretty badly worn. And that’s just what these tracks are, you can tell by the pattern.”

“Well, that’s worth knowing,” replied Merrion. “But you mustn’t forget that there are probably a good many bicycles about with worn Palmer tyres. It’s suggestive, but it isn’t conclusive. Now, let’s have a look at this ship.”

They crossed the bridge leading to the bow of the house-boat, and Merrion walked thoughtfully along the deck towards the stern. “What was it that anonymous letter said?” he murmured. “ ‘Try looking at boat and along side,’ wasn’t it? Well, we’ll see what can be done. I wasn’t far out in my tidal calculations. It’s twenty to five now, and it seems to be just about dead low water.”

He leant on the rail and peered over the side of the boat, nearly the whole of which was resting on the mud. Only a few feet of the stern was surrounded by water. “This mud looks pretty hard,” continued Merrion. “Not like that beastly stuff at Carey’s Point. I fancy one could walk on it without going in much further than one’s ankles. Anyway, I’m going to try.”

He sat down and deliberately took off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his trousers. Then he lowered himself over the side of the boat till his feet touched the mud. “Not too bad,” he said. “Now for a bit of paddling.”

Arnold watched him as he plodded his way round the ship, splashing through the shallow water at her stern. Suddenly he bent down and fumbled in the mud at his feet. A second later he straightened himself, holding something in his hand.

“Treasure trove!” he exclaimed complacently.

Merrion waded back to the side of the house-boat, and, with the assistance of Arnold, clambered aboard. He took the object which he had picked up out of the pocket into which he had thrust it, and held it out for Arnold’s inspection. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

“Well, I’m damned!” replied the Inspector deliberately. “Now, how in the name of all that’s wonderful did that get there?”

The object which Merrion held out was an automatic pistol. Arnold took it from him, and wiped it with his handkerchief. On the barrel was engraved, “Maine Patent. Made in the U.S.A.” A further examination revealed that the bore was fouled, and that one cartridge had been discharged from the clip.

Merrion watched Arnold with some amusement as he handled the weapon. “Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet,” replied Arnold cautiously. “I suppose it’s the pistol with which Mr. Gantley was shot. But how did it get here, that’s what I want to know? Wait a bit, I think I see. Harrington had to come back here, in order to pick up his boat and row back to Carronport. He must have chucked it away then.”

Merrion shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not so sure,” he said. “For one thing, I don’t believe the pistol has been in the water as long as that. When I caught sight of it, it was lying on the surface of the mud, scarcely embedded at all. Now certainly the mud about here is pretty firm, you may have noticed that I didn’t sink in more than a couple of inches or so. But a metal object like this would be covered in the course of a few tides by the natural drift of the mud. It’s Thursday afternoon now, and there have been nine tides since Sunday night. I don’t ask you to take my word for it, you can easily find out how long a metal object of this thickness would take to cover, by experiment.”

“But, dash it all, if Harrington didn’t chuck it there, who did? How long do you suppose it has been there?”

“That’s a double question. Who threw it there, I don’t know. If you can establish that this is the actual pistol with which Mr. Gantley was killed, I think you may safely assume that his murderer threw it there. As to when he did so, I think I can be a little more definite. It was covered with a thin film of mud, not enough to obscure its outline. I recognised it as a pistol the moment I caught sight of it. I should say that it had been there for two or three tides, certainly not more. In other words, it probably wasn’t there before yesterday.”

“Could any one standing in the stern of the boat have seen it?” asked Arnold.

“That you can decide for yourself. Come here, and look over the stern into the water. You see that stone, covered with about six inches of water? That’s approximately where the pistol lay. Now, the sun is behind a cloud, and the tide is at its lowest. If the sun were shining on the water, or the tide were very much higher, you wouldn’t see the stone at all. I know what is in your mind, and the answer is that the fact that Inspector Driffield did not see the pistol when he came here yesterday is no proof that it was not there.”

“But why on earth should anybody throw the pistol into the water here two or three days after the murder?”

Merrion smiled. “In order to cast doubts upon the conclusion reached by the cunning sleuth,” he replied. “Take this discovery in conjunction with that really remarkable letter. If you wanted to dispose of an incriminating pistol, and had access to a place like this, what would you do? Fling it out as far into the centre of the creek as you could, wouldn’t you? Yet I found it not more than two or three yards from the ship’s side, as though it had merely been dropped overboard.

“The fact is that the pistol was meant to be found, and the letter was an indication where to look for it. I suppose the idea was to lay a fresh scent, leading away from the roadside by Norton Ferris. Perhaps the murderer did not know that Mr. Gantley had been identified at the Otterworth Arms, and wanted to suggest that he had been killed here. The inference is that the murderer has an alibi for the time that Mr. Gantley was on the house-boat, but none for the time that he was on the road home.”

“That doesn’t fit Harrington. He doesn’t seem able to produce an alibi for any part of the afternoon or evening.”

“So far, you have only got Harrington’s word for what he did that day. Besides, he may have had an accomplice, whose movements you know nothing about. But, I tell you what it is, Arnold, the more I see of this place, the more I wonder that the murderer didn’t do the job here. You could fire a dozen shots, and nobody would hear you. Besides, look at the chances there are for catching your victim unawares!”

Merrion was obviously talking to himself rather than to his companion. He looked about him, and then continued. “How would Mr. Gantley occupy his time when he wasn’t sailing about in that dinghy of his? Sitting in a chair, reading. He’d be in the deck-house if it was cold or wet, but out on deck, surely, if it was fine. I’m willing to bet there’s a deck-chair put away somewhere. We’ll have a look in a moment.

“Now, owing to this great deck-house and to the fore hatch, there’s only one place where a deck-chair could be put, and that’s right aft here, with the back of the chair against the end of the deck-house. Sitting like that Mr. Gantley would be facing across the creek, with the mouth of the creek on his left and the track coming down through the coppice on his right. How would one approach him if one didn’t want to be seen? Not from the seaward side in a boat, for he’d be bound to see you as you rowed up the creek.”

Arnold had been listening without much interest. But at this last remark he looked up suddenly. “That may explain why Harrington didn’t catch him unawares when he came here on Sunday,” he said.

“What sort of weather did you have here on Sunday?” asked Merrion.

“Not very good. It was quite chilly, with a fine drizzle most of the afternoon.”

“Then an additional reason would be that Mr. Gantley would be sitting, not on deck, but in the deck-house. That line of reasoning doesn’t take us very far. I believe you think I’m talking nonsense, Arnold. From the practical point of view I probably am, but I’m only an amateur, and these by-paths always interested me. But we’re wasting time. Suppose you unlock the deck-house, and we’ll have a look inside.”

Arnold opened the door, and they went in. Merrion immediately proceeded to examine the interior with the greatest interest. “Mr. Gantley certainly knew how to make himself comfortable,” he remarked. “This craft of his is jolly well fitted up, I wouldn’t mind spending a week-end on her myself.”

“I daresay Harrington would invite you, if you think you’d enjoy his company,” said Arnold, caustically. “The vessel belongs to him now, I suppose.”

“Not until probate of the will has been granted,” replied Merrion quietly. “Now, I wonder where Mr. Gantley stowed his deck-chair? Ah, I think I can guess.”

There was a wide settee running along one side of the deck-house, with a locker under it. Merrion opened this and glanced inside. “Ah, I thought so!” he exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction. “Hullo, that’s queer!”

“What’s queer?” inquired Arnold, looking over his shoulder. “Found something fresh?”

“I’ve found the deck-chair, or rather, part of it,” replied Merrion. “Look here!” He drew out of the locker the wooden framework of an ordinary deck-chair. But the canvas which had once formed the seat was missing.

“That’s not much good to sit in,” said Arnold, with a smile at Merrion’s discomfiture. “You’ve drawn a blank this time, haven’t you? There must be another chair somewhere, if your picture of Mr. Gantley sitting in the sun is right.”

“We’ll have a look,” replied Merrion. “I want to see over the ship, in any case.”

They went over the house-boat from chain-locker to counter, without finding anything more than Driffield had seen on the previous day. At the conclusion of their search they returned to the deck-house, where Merrion gazed reflectively at the framework of the chair.

“Now, I wonder who took the canvas out of that chair, and why?” he mused. “The chair is no possible use without it.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “Probably it was getting rotten, and Mr. Gantley took it out, meaning to bring down a fresh strip when next he came,” he suggested.

“Perhaps. But I gather that Mr. Gantley was a man of tidy habits. I noticed that there were a few tools in a locker in the forecastle, and among them a pair of pincers. If he had meant to renew the canvas, he would have drawn the tacks which held the old piece, and put them aside for use with the new one. But the tacks are still in the wooden frame, the canvas has been torn forcibly away from them. And I fancy that was done fairly recently, for the shreds of canvas that remain round the tacks look quite clean and new.”

“Aren’t you allowing your imagination to run away with you a bit?” asked Arnold gently. “It seems to me quite reasonable to suppose that Mr. Gantley found the canvas becoming unsafe, tore it off, and threw it overboard. I suppose it would float long enough for the tide to carry it out of the creek. He could just as easily have drawn the tacks when he brought the new piece down. In any case, it doesn’t throw any light on the matter we are investigating.”

Merrion laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time that a passion for detail has led me from the straight path,” he said. “Well, I think we’ve seen pretty well everything that there is to be seen here. What about going ashore? Inspector Driffield ought to be on his way back by now.”

Arnold agreed, and they began to walk up the track towards the road. It was, as Driffield had previously discovered, very rough and stony, and in many places it ran over the bare rock itself. But, here and there, a patch of earth had collected, washed down from above by rain. As they ascended, Merrion glanced at these patches, upon most of which the wheel-marks made by Driffield’s car the previous day were clearly visible.

“Trying to verify Driffield’s statement that he visited the boat yesterday?” asked Arnold.

“No, I’m prepared to accept his statement,” replied Merrion. “What I’m looking for is the track of that bicycle. I’m not very hopeful of finding it, though. Nobody could possibly ride a bicycle up this hill, and a bicycle being wheeled would not leave much of a track on ground like this. The only chance is that whoever he was risked his neck by riding down.”

But they had nearly reached the summit before Merrion found what he was looking for. The slope was more gentle here, and the ground not quite so hard. All at once Merrion stopped and pointed to the ground. “There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

The track was faint but unmistakable. It was that of a Palmer Tyre, and similar to the marks found by the shed. Merrion followed it inch by inch, often losing it but never failing to pick it up again. It meandered over the track, as though the rider had sought the smoothest part of the surface. And at last it ran to the side, when it was clearly visible crossing the wheel-marks of Driffield’s car.

“That’s the piece of evidence I wanted,” said Merrion, in a tone of satisfaction. “See? Our cyclist friend came here after Inspector Driffield’s visit. I had a suspicion that that was so, but this proves it pretty definitely. Now you see the game, don’t you? He came here for the express purpose of putting that pistol where I found it, and where any one must have found it who followed the advice given in the anonymous letter.”

“In order to try to make it appear that Mr. Gantley was murdered on the house-boat?” suggested Arnold.

“Yes, and, ultimately with the idea of building up a case for the defence. Defending counsel could make a very big point out of the fact that while the prosecution maintained that Mr. Gantley was murdered on the roadside near Norton Ferris, the ostensible weapon that killed him was found at Benger’s Creek. And, after all, as we seem to be agreed, Benger’s Creek is where the murder ought, by all the laws of common sense, to have taken place.”

“I’m glad you say the ostensible weapon, for I’ve been wondering whether this is the pistol with which Mr. Gantley was killed or not. If it was, it seems to me that two shots ought to have been fired from it, and not one. There was the shot that killed Mr. Gantley, and the one that Trimble heard. I can’t believe that they were the same, for, if so, what on earth was Mr. Gantley doing between the time his car was ditched and midnight?”

“My dear Arnold, that pistol is valueless as evidence, anyway. As your expert says in the report you showed me, Maine pistols are common enough. He may be able to identify it as the one from which the bullet was fired, but I very much doubt it. The most he could say, I fancy, would be that the bullet might have been fired from it. On the other hand, there’s nothing in the point that two shots ought to have been fired. It would have been the easiest thing in the world, after the first shot had been fired, to remove the clip and replace it by a new one. Then, after the second shot had been fired, there would still be only one cartridge missing.”

“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Arnold. “We shall have to tackle this bicycle business from another point of view. Assuming that the cyclist was the man who deposited the pistol, and, I suppose, wrote the anonymous letter, he must have been either the criminal himself or an accomplice. That’s logical enough, isn’t it?”

Merrion nodded, and Arnold continued. “The letter was posted in London on Tuesday evening, and the bicycle was found in the truck at Trentworth on Thursday morning. That narrows down the cyclist’s movements a bit!”

“Only as regards the bicycle,” said Merrion. “Even if he composed the letter himself he could easily have got some one to post it in London for him. He needn’t have been there himself in order to do it. It seems to me most probable that the cyclist was the murderer, and that he never left the neighbourhood at all after the crime.

“I’m assuming that the bicycle is actually the one stolen from Mr. Porch. We shall know that definitely when we see the policeman at Norton Ferris on our way back. Now, that bicycle disappeared during Sunday night. Where was it between then and yesterday afternoon? I think that the murderer took it on Sunday night, and hid it somewhere on the moors, in case he should want it subsequently as a means of escape. You must remember that his plans were upset that evening.”

“By Trimble’s little exploit, you mean?” said Arnold.

“Yes, I think that upset his apple-cart a bit. He can’t possibly have foreseen it, of course. I believe he intended, all along, to lie in wait for Mr. Gantley by the roadside. But I don’t believe he meant to shoot him there. I think it’s quite likely that he had some yarn ready to induce him to drive back to Benger’s Creek, where he meant to murder him. It would have been very easy to make it appear like suicide there. But, since Trimble’s little exhibition of ill-temper resulted in the ditching of the car, the murderer was reduced to the much less artistic method of shooting his victim where he was and leaving his body by the roadside.”

“But why all that elaboration? Why couldn’t he have shot Mr. Gantley before he left Benger’s Creek?”

“Because of the time at which the murder had to take place. If Harrington was the murderer, he had to ensure that there were no doubts of his uncle having been alive after the death of Lady Gantley. He was out after both fortunes, I take it, and not his uncle’s alone. If Mr. Gantley had merely been found dead on board the house-boat, it would have been open to the Chadwicks to claim that he died before Lady Gantley, and the point would have been extremely difficult to decide. I’m supposing that he didn’t know that his uncle had been seen to buy a paper in Carronport on Sunday morning, and that he arranged that he should call at the Otterworth Arms on his way through Norton Ferris.”

“It’s Driffield’s opinion that it was Harrington who suggested that his uncle should call at the inn. And I rather like your theory that the murder was to have taken place at Benger’s Creek.”

“I’m glad you do, for I’m attracted to it myself. Now, what were Harrington’s actions after the murder? I think he pinched Porch’s bicycle, rode it back to Benger’s Creek, where his boat was waiting for him, and hid it somewhere in that coppice close by. But he can’t have been altogether satisfied with the way in which he had been compelled to carry out the crime, and he probably got the wind up, as so many criminals do after the event. Hence this rather childish attempt to lay a false trail. It would probably be worth while finding out what he was up to last night.”

“Yes, if we could prove that he was monkeying about with the bicycle and pistol yesterday it would be strong presumptive evidence that he was the criminal. It’s just one of those infernal cases where there isn’t a shadow of doubt where the guilt lies, and yet it seems impossible to collect the necessary evidence to secure a conviction.”

Merrion nodded his agreement. They had reached the point where the track joined the road by now, but Driffield was nowhere in sight. It was a quiet evening, with a threat of coming storm in the air. Heavy masses of cloud rose from the western horizon high up into the zenith, hiding the sun and casting a grey shadow over the wild moorland.

Merrion shuddered involuntarily. “Ugh!” he exclaimed. “I don’t think I’m an unduly nervous person, but I don’t think I should like to spend my time alone on that house-boat. There can be few more remote spots in the whole of England. I can’t think how Gantley stuck it, he must have been a queer sort of chap in many ways. I suppose it’s absolutely certain that he didn’t commit suicide?”

“There was no powder-blackening round the wound, and the state of it showed that the shot was fired from some little distance,” replied Arnold.

“I’ve heard of people jamming a pistol into a cleft of a tree, or something like that, tying a long piece of the string to the trigger, standing several yards off, and pulling the string,” said Merrion.

“String, did you say?” replied Arnold quickly. “There was a bit of string, or the remains of a bit, in the car. But no, that won’t do. How was it Driffield or Pentrellis didn’t find the pistol? And, if Mr. Gantley committed suicide, why all this elaborate attempt to show that he died on the house-boat?”

“I don’t know,” said Merrion. “It was only an idea of mine. It struck me that I should feel inclined to commit suicide if I spent much time alone in these parts. Hullo, here’s the car coming!”

Inspector Driffield, after he had dropped Arnold and Merrion, drove on to Winterley, and left the car at the same spot as the day before. He then walked down to the beach, and looked across towards Carronport. Here he discerned Ginger Dowell, leaning against a post by the side of his boat, pipe in mouth.

“It isn’t six o’clock yet, and the pubs aren’t open, otherwise he’d be in the Lobster Smack,” muttered Driffield. “Let me see if I can shift him. Ferry ahoy-y-y!”

Several seconds elapsed before the significance of the hail seemed to dawn on the ferryman’s mind. At the end of that time he took his pipe from his mouth and waved it majestically in the air. Then, as though by considerable effort, he detached himself from the post, stepped into the boat, and began to row across.

As soon as the boat reached him, Driffield stepped into it, and Ginger pushed off again without a word. It ran through the Inspector’s mind that if Ginger were ever called upon to give evidence, he would be a most unpromising subject for cross-examination. He plied his oars steadily, more like a machine than a man, and, on arrival at Carronport, acknowledged the fare which Driffield handed him with no more than a non-committal grunt.

Driffield’s first action was to walk boldly up to the Lobster Smack, and knock on the side-door. One or two water-side loungers watched him with an apathetic interest. There was the best part of an hour yet before opening time. He was greeted by a voice from inside, which he recognised as the landlord’s. “Oh, run along, Ginger, and come back at six.”

The Inspector smiled. “I am an Inspector of police, and I have business with the landlord of this house,” he said importantly.

There was an instant silence, broken only by confused whispering. Then the landlord appeared, with a somewhat scared face, the expression of which turned to astonishment as he recognised his visitor. “Why, weren’t you here yesterday?” he began.

“Yes, I was,” replied Driffield. “Here’s my card. I want a word with you.”

The landlord glanced at the card, and became apologetic at once. “Come in, sir,” he said, rather awkwardly. “It’s a bit untidy, I’m afraid. I’ve just had a few of my friends in to tea, but they’ve gone now.”

Driffield, who was conscious of a sound of heavy breathing in the next room, the door of which was not quite shut, smiled grimly. He glanced round the kitchen in which he found himself, and saw the damning evidence, which had been hastily thrust upon a side table. “You make your tea in bottles and drink it out of glasses in this part of the world, don’t you?” he asked. “Now, look here, I’m going round the corner for five minutes, then I’m coming back.”

Without waiting for the landlord’s reply, he walked out of the house and strolled down the water front. When he returned in five minutes, the clandestine guests had departed and the bottles and glasses had vanished.

“That’s better,” he said. “Let that be a warning to you, my friend. I’m not going to say anything this time, because I don’t want you to think I came round here spying yesterday. Now I want to find out something, and I think you may be able to put me on the right track. I want to find the boatman who hired a boat to a young gentleman some time last Sunday, I have reason to believe that the boat was not returned till late that night. Have you heard anything about it?”

“I have that, sir,” replied the landlord. “It was Tom Grundy, and he’s been talking ever since about what he’d do to the chap when he caught him. It seems he wasn’t paid enough, sir.”

“Where does this Grundy live? I’d like a word with him.”

“He lives up Water Street, sir, but I doubt you’d find him at home just now. I think I could find him for you, if you like, sir. I don’t expect he’s very far away.”

Driffield guessed from the landlord’s manner that Grundy had been one of the company which he had so rudely disturbed. “I don’t expect he is,” he replied. “Yes, I’d be very glad if you could find him and bring him here.”

The landlord went out, and in a surprisingly short time returned with a boatman of patriarchal appearance, with grizzled beard and whiskers. “Are you Tom Grundy?” asked the Inspector.

“That’s me, sir,” replied the man, making an awkward gesture with his hand towards his forelock. “If you might be wanting a boat at any time, sir, I could find one to suit you. You’ll always find me or my son down on the beach, sir.”

“I’ll remember that, Grundy,” replied Driffield pleasantly. “Now I want to hear about that business of yours last Sunday. You let out a boat to a young gentleman that morning, I understand? Would you know him again if you saw him?”

“Aye, that I would sir. Lanky sort of chap, the kind that looks as if they’d been born tired. And that saucy with it you wouldn’t hardly credit it. Called me Father Noah, he did, sir.”

Driffield suppressed a smile at the old man’s indignation. He had certainly described Charles Harrington closely enough. “What time was it when he hired the boat?” he asked.

“Must have been soon after eleven, sir, for the church bell had just stopped ringing, and ’twas getting on for low water. He comes along up to me. ‘Hullo, Father Noah, got a boat for hire?’ he says. All the boats was in that morning, sir, there was a bit of a nip in the air, and it wasn’t the sort of day most folks like to go on the water. So I told him I had and asked him how long he wanted it for, and that it would be a shilling an hour, sir. He gave me five bob, and got into the boat. The first thing he did was to put a bottle of whisky in the stern-sheets, sir.”

The Inspector nodded, and Grundy continued. “I warned him he’d best keep inside the Water, sir, as the last of the ebb might sweep him through the harbour before he knew where he was. ‘That’s all right, father,’ he says, and I shoved off and he took up the oars. I will say he knew how to manage a boat, which is more than some of them do. I stood there on the beach for a bit, and the last I saw of him he was rowing steady up the Water. Then, a bit later, Mr. Gantley came down, sailing that dinghy of his.”

“Did you see Mr. Gantley land?” asked Driffield casually.

“Yes, I saw him take his sail in and come ashore down by the ferry. I remember thinking he must have found it cold on the water, for he had a big woollen scarf wound right round his neck. He walked on up into the town, but he didn’t see me, or he would have said a word like he always did. But he always was a bit short-sighted.”

“You knew Mr. Gantley to speak to, then?”

“Lord bless you, yes, sir. He often passed the time of day with me when he landed here from Benger’s Creek. I’ve kept an eye on his dinghy for him, before now, when there was a lot of folk about. I thought he looked a bit strange, sir, like as if he’d got something on his mind. He’d got that scarf right up round his face like, and he stooped more than usual. It put me in mind as though he’d got the toothache, sir, and I thought maybe he’d come ashore to see about having something done for it. And then, a bit later, I saw him come back with a paper in his hand, and he pushed off, and sailed back up the Water, sir.”

“It was Tom Grundy that told me about what I was saying to you yesterday, sir,” put in the landlord.

“I see,” said Driffield. “But about this young man who hired the boat. You never saw him again, Grundy?”

“No, that I haven’t, though I’ve kept a sharp eye open for him, sir. I hung about all the afternoon, and evening, but there wasn’t no sign of him. I didn’t think nothing could have happened to him, for, as I say, he could manage a boat, and it’s all smooth inside the Water. It wasn’t until Monday morning that I came down and found the boat. I expected all day that he’d come down and pay me what he owed me. Fourteen hours at a shilling is fourteen bob. He’d given me five, and that left nine to come.”

“How do you make out the fourteen hours? You don’t know what time he came back.”

“I knew within half an hour or so, sir. When I come down on Monday morning, the boat was floating some fathoms out from the beach, and it was high water. I saw he’d tied her up to a groin that’s only uncovered at dead low water. That shows he must have come back between one and two in the morning, sir.”

“All right, Grundy, I’m much obliged to you,” said the Inspector. “Here’s the price of a drink, in case you feel like one when six o’clock comes round. And you needn’t worry about that nine shillings. I think I know where your young man is, and I’ll see that you get the money.”

He left the Lobster Smack, and walked rapidly towards the newer suburb of Merton-on-Sea, which stood on high ground nearly a mile from the harbour. The Seaview Hotel stood almost on the edge of the cliff, a new red-brick building of pretentious appearance. He applied at the office, showed his card, and asked if he might see the manager.

After a short delay, he was shown into a comfortable sitting-room, where he was greeted by a large and stately lady of uncertain years. “Good-morning, Inspector,” she said, rather frigidly. “I am Mrs. Robson, the manageress of this hotel. Will you sit down and tell me your business?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Robson,” replied Driffield briskly. “What a beautiful outlook you have here over the sea! I hope I am not wasting your time, I know how busy you must be. I want to ask you if you can help me in certain investigations which I am making.”

She thawed at once under the influence of his geniality. Perhaps, also, she was relieved to find that his visit was not concerned with any irregularity in the conduct of the hotel. “I shall be only too pleased if I can be of any use,” she replied.

“Thank you, Mrs. Robson. Now, the first thing I want to ask you is whether you have had a brother and sister of the name of Harrington staying with you this week.”

“Harrington?” she replied. “No, I don’t think so. If you will excuse me for a minute, I will send for the Visitors’ Book.” She rang the bell, and a waiter appeared, to whom she gave the necessary message. He returned in a moment or two, bearing a large volume, which she opened and ran her finger down the columns. “No,” she said, “we have had nobody of that name.”

“Perhaps I have got the name wrong,” suggested Driffield. “But I believe that a party of four, two ladies and two gentlemen, arrived here in a car last Sunday morning?”

A look of annoyance came over her face. “Oh, you mean Mr. and Mrs. Delarey and Mr. and Miss Tompkins?” she replied. “They were the only people who arrived on Sunday morning.”

“Oh, Tompkins was the name, was it? I fancied it was Harrington. Would you be so good as to let me see the entry in the Visitors’ Book?”

He rose and stood beside her. “Certainly,” she replied, pointing with her finger. “Here are both entries together.”

Driffield took out a note-book and copied them rapidly. They were “Mr. and Mrs. William Delarey, 11 Mundry Street, Chelsea,” and “Mr. and Miss Tompkins, 365 Park Lane, London.”

Mrs. Robson glanced at the Inspector doubtfully, as though wondering whether he was deserving of her confidence. She appeared to decide in his favour, for she coughed apologetically, and then spoke. “I am rather anxious about Mr. and Miss Tompkins,” she said.

“Anxious, Mrs. Robson, how’s that?” asked Driffield.

“Well, you see, the whole party arrived here without much luggage, and said they wouldn’t be staying very long. Mr. and Mrs. Delarey went away on Monday, and paid their bill. But Mr. Tompkins told me that they had been so comfortable here, that he and his sister had decided to stay for a few more days. I was very glad, though they certainly kept very queer hours. And then yesterday they went out for a walk, or so they said, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“Have you any idea what time they went out?” asked Driffield.

“No. I last saw them at lunch time. Of course, I shouldn’t suspect anybody who lived at an address like that, but they behaved in rather a curious way. Mr. Tompkins was out the whole of Sunday, and didn’t come back till two in the morning, the night porter tells me. And after that he didn’t go out at all till yesterday. In fact, between ourselves, Inspector, he spent most of his time in the bar, and had his drinks put on the bill.”

“Perhaps it’s inquisitive of me, but I should like to know what their bill amounts to, Mrs. Robson.”

“I can tell you exactly, Inspector, in strict confidence, of course. The cashier drew my attention to it just before you came. It is eighteen pounds, seventeen and fivepence up to date.”

“By Jove, they must have done themselves pretty well!” exclaimed Driffield. “Now, Mrs. Robson, I don’t think you need have any doubt that the bill will be paid. I happen to know that Mr.—er, Tompkins has come into some money recently. But I don’t think I should keep their rooms for them any longer. They aren’t likely to come back to Carronport for the present.”

Mrs. Robson’s face fell at this. “Have they gone back to London?” she asked. “Perhaps I had better post the bill to their address in Park Lane.”

“I shouldn’t do that, if I were you,” replied Driffield, hiding a smile. “It mightn’t find them. You must excuse me if I am not more explicit, Mrs. Robson. I can only say that I know where they are, and that I will take steps to see that the money is sent to you.”

A startled look came into the manageress’ eyes at these mysterious words. “You haven’t—I mean they aren’t—they haven’t got themselves into any trouble with the police?” she asked.

“Oh, dear no,” he replied reassuringly, adding to himself “Not yet.” He took leave of Mrs. Robson, declining her hospitable offer of refreshment. He hurried back to the ferry, where he had some difficulty in extracting Ginger Dowell from the Lobster Smack, it being by now well after six o’clock. He crossed, regained his car, and drove to the turning to Benger’s Creek, where he found Arnold and Merrion waiting for him.

In a few hurried sentences the three exchanged their experiences. Driffield looked a bit crestfallen when he heard of the discovery of the pistol, but Arnold hastened to reassure him. “You couldn’t have found it yesterday, because it wasn’t there. It’s rather a queer story altogether, I’ll tell you all about it as we go home, and you can give us your opinion. There’s not much doubt that Mr. Tompkins of Park Lane had a hand in it. What the dickens induced that young cub to give a false name and address like that? Bit fishy, isn’t it?”

“Decidedly fishy,” replied Driffield, as the other two got into the car. “I expect he was afraid that somebody who knew Mr. Gantley might be staying at the Seaview, and that they might recognise the name as that of his nephew. Besides, if he meant to bilk Mrs. Robson, it was quite a brilliant idea to give a Park Lane address. She’s still impressed by it, I could see that. Now let’s hear this yarn of yours.”

They were still discussing the theory of the cyclist and the pistol when they reached Norton Ferris, and Driffield drew up at Pentrellis’ cottage. The constable had his report ready for them. Mr. Porch had identified the bicycle as his, beyond any shadow of doubt.

“So that’s that,” said Driffield. “What have you done with the machine, Pentrellis?”

“After I had shown it to Mr. Porch, sir, I brought it back again and locked it up in my shed,” replied the constable. “I told Mr. Porch that it would be required as evidence against the thief. I thought perhaps you might want it again, sir.”

“Good man, Pentrellis! You’ve got a head screwed on to those beefy shoulders of yours, I can see that!”

The three of them inspected the bicycle once more, and both Arnold and Merrion agreed that the worn Palmer tyres with which it was fitted corresponded with the tracks they had found. Then they entered the car once more, and drove back to Carnford police station.

“I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you for the trouble you’ve taken, Mr. Merrion,” said Driffield whole-heartedly, as they got out of the car. “I can only say that if you’ve any suggestions to offer, we shall be only too grateful to hear them. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t suppose we should have found that pistol.”

“Oh, I expect you would,” replied Merrion lightly. “I’ve no suggestions at present. I’ve told Arnold my opinions for what they are worth. But there’s one thing I should like to ask. Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Gantley’s car? I’m not asking out of idle curiosity.”

“I’m sure you’re not, Mr. Merrion,” said Driffield readily. “Certainly you can see the car. It’s still here in the police garage, where it was put on Monday morning. It hasn’t been touched since.”

He sent a constable for the key of the garage, and the three of them entered. Driffield pointed out the damaged axle, and explained the position in which Mr. Gantley’s body had been found. Merrion listened attentively. “By the way, didn’t you find a piece of burnt string in the car?” he asked. “Arnold told me something about it.”

Driffield opened the rear door of the car. “Yes, the ash is still there,” he replied. “You can see it on the floor.”

Merrion bent down and examined the line of grey ash very closely. The string had obviously been burnt as it lay on the floor, for the carpet showed a black charred line, exactly corresponding with the ash of the string.

“Hm?” said Merrion thoughtfully. “That bit of string intrigues me rather. What was it doing there, and how did it come to be burnt like that? Well, it’s time I was getting back to Trentmouth, I suppose. You’ll find me at the Royal Hotel for the next day or two if you want me.”

The two Inspectors spent the rest of the evening discussing the latest developments of the case, without reaching any very definite conclusions. At last Arnold leant back in his chair and summed up the situation.

“There’s no doubt that Harrington’s our man,” he said. “The circumstantial evidence against him is conclusive, and, besides, he and his sister are the only people who could gain anything by Mr. Gantley’s death, or, at all events, anything that could be regarded as a motive for murder.

“Also, it’s pretty clear that he, or somebody on his behalf, made an attempt to confuse the issue by planting that pistol—which, by the way, I’ve sent up to our expert for report—yesterday afternoon, and sending that letter. But it seems to me that there are still two difficulties to be cleared up. The first is, how did Harrington get back to Carronport after the murder?

“It’s that infernal shot that Trimble says he heard that sticks in my gizzard. Somebody must have fired that shot, and, if it wasn’t Mr. Gantley, it must have been his murderer, unless you like to invent some incredible third person hanging round the car. Yet that shot was fired after midnight, and Harrington was back at the Seaview Hotel by two.

“The theory is that Harrington went up to Porch’s farm, pinched the bicycle, rode back to Benger’s Creek on it, hid it in the coppice, got into his boat, rowed back to Carronport beach, and then walked the best part of a mile to the Seaview. It’s a hell of a lot to get through in something under two hours. According to the map, it’s a good nine miles from where Mr. Gantley was shot to Benger’s Creek, and we know what sort of a road it is. From Benger’s Creek to Carronport beach by water is another five at least. I don’t see how he could have covered the distance in the time.”

“He might have pinched the bicycle before Trimble arrived on the scene the second time,” suggested Driffield.

“He didn’t make that track along the path across the field, if that’s what you’re thinking of,” retorted Arnold. “Didn’t you notice his feet this morning? He takes a size of ten, I’ll be bound, and Mr. Gantley’s shoes are about size eight. He couldn’t possibly have got them on.”

“Who did make the track, then?” asked Driffield.

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “Mr. Gantley himself, I suppose, looking for help to get his car out of the ditch. Which comes to the same thing in the end, for it proves that he wasn’t murdered till well after nine o’clock. And there’s another thing. How did Harrington know where Mr. Porch’s bicycle was kept? He can’t have wasted much time looking for it.

“That’s our first difficulty. The second concerns yesterday’s stunt. Did Harrington carry that out himself, or did somebody else oblige him? We suppose that on Sunday night he hid the bicycle in the coppice at Benger’s Creek, and he probably hid the pistol with it. He’d be glad to get rid of it.

“Now, what do we know about Harrington’s movements yesterday? He disappeared from the Seaview after lunch, say any time after two. There’s a bus from Carronport at half past, which gets here about half-past three. Watts told you he turned up at Westerly Cottage just before four. He then telephoned to Mr. Polteith, who was with him from half-past four to seven. Harrington then had dinner, and was in the house when Watts went to bed about ten.

“It looks to me as if, assuming that he planted the pistol himself, he must have done it after that. Remember that he can’t have done it before you were there, for the track of the bicycle crosses the wheel-marks of your car. He had to get to Benger’s Creek—how, I wonder? Fifteen miles is a devil of a long walk. Then, when he’d thrown the pistol into the water, he had to ride to Trentmouth, twelve miles or more across the moors, put the bicycle in the railway truck, and then get home somehow. He wouldn’t have risked being seen in a train, even if there was one at that time of night. It strikes me that Master Harrington must be a lot fonder of exercise than you’d think from his appearance.”

“You never can tell with that sort of chap,” replied Driffield yawning. “For goodness’ sake let’s go to bed and sleep on it. My brain won’t stand any more of these puzzles to-night.”

Friday morning’s post brought a bulky packet from Scotland Yard for Inspector Arnold. He opened it in Driffield’s presence, and the two of them perused its contents together.

The first document was a report from Sergeant Keane. “I proceeded to Tulip Lodge, Richmond, as per instructions,” it began, in formal official style, but very soon degenerated into the colloquial. “I had no difficulty in getting in. I explained that I was the representative of the Borough Surveyor, and that since I had heard of the accident it was my duty to examine the damaged chimney. The young lady in charge of the house, Miss Chadwick, raised no objection, and told a servant to show me the way on to the roof.

“I found that the roof is very easily accessible. A door leading out of one of the attics opens out between the gables, and from here any reasonably active man could easily climb up to the chimney. This door has no lock, but is fastened by an ordinary bolt on the inside. On inspection, it appeared to me that the door had recently been opened. I remarked on this to the servant who was with me, and she said that the jobbing gardener, who comes in three times a week, had been up on the roof to clear leaves from the spouting. She remembered that this was one day last week, either Monday or Wednesday, on which days the gardener works. She was sure it was not Friday, his third day.

“I then proceeded to examine the chimney. The galvanised iron pot had been dislodged, and was still lying in the space between the ridges of the roof. In falling, it had brought some of the brickwork with it. Ten or a dozen bricks in all had come away, and, on examining them, I found that the mortar between them had crumbled away pretty badly. An adjoining chimney, which was still standing, was in a very bad state from the same cause, in fact the whole stack urgently required pointing. Pointing is replacing the mortar in existing brick or stone work, and is periodically necessary.

“I cannot say with certainty whether the damaged chimney had been tampered with or not. It would have been a very easy matter to loosen the bricks completely, so that they held together by their own weight, still supporting the pot. If that had been done, a very moderate wind would have been sufficient to carry away the pot and the loose bricks with it. But, even if this had not been done, a severe squall, such as is reported on the evening of the 23rd, would have been sufficient, in my opinion, to have done the damage, seeing the bad condition of the stack. What I mean is best explained by saying that if a similar pot were to be fixed to the adjoining chimney, without any repairs being made to the brickwork, a squall of equal severity would probably bring it down, and the bricks with it.

“While on the roof I noticed that some slates were being replaced in the house next door. After I had finished my inspection, I went into the garden of Tulip Lodge, and found that it was separated from the garden of the next house by a wooden fence about six feet high. I got into conversation with the gardener next door, who told me that workmen had been busy with the slates for ten days or more. They were using a ladder high enough to reach to the eaves of Tulip Lodge. The gardener told me that during the night this ladder was laid against the wooden fence.

“I hardly think it would be possible for any man single-handed to lift the ladder over the fence and raise it in position against the roof of Tulip Lodge. On the other hand, this could be done without much fear of observation, since, on the side of Tulip Lodge looking towards the fence, there are no rooms occupied during the night. I failed, however, to find any traces of the ladder having been erected against the wall. Without such a ladder it would be impossible to reach the roof of Tulip Lodge from outside.”

Here the report ended. Driffield handed it back to Arnold. “That’s a very clear and straightforward statement,” he said. “But, unfortunately, it doesn’t carry us much further. It leaves us still uncertain whether the fall of the chimney-pot was due to accident or design.”

“It does help us out a bit, just the same,” replied Arnold. “Keane thinks that nobody could have reached the roof from outside without the ladder, and that no one could have used the ladder single-handed. Therefore, if any one tampered with the chimney, he must have done so from inside the house, unless he had an accomplice. Now, Harrington had not access to the house. He hasn’t been there for a couple of years.”

“But he might have had an accomplice,” insisted Driffield. “I’ve still got my doubts about that pal of his, Delarey. It seems to me that Delarey might have helped him with the ladder, for one thing. Again, Delarey, so far as we know, was in London when that anonymous letter was posted. Why shouldn’t he have sent it? And you remember what we were talking about last night, the objection to Harrington having planted the pistol. Why shouldn’t Delarey have done that for him on Wednesday afternoon?”

“I wrote a note to the Yard yesterday evening, asking them to check up Delarey’s movements,” said Arnold. “Meanwhile, let’s eliminate everybody else concerned. The only people who had anything to gain by Lady Gantley’s death, and had access to Tulip Lodge, were Miss Chadwick and her brother. On her death they both came into five hundred a year.

“Now, I don’t suppose that anybody would accuse Miss Chadwick of monkeying about with the chimney-pot. I am perfectly sure that she is genuinely distressed at Lady Gantley’s death. Besides, five hundred a year wouldn’t give her the home she had at Tulip Lodge. There remains her brother. He was at Tulip Lodge for a few hours on the Thursday before Lady Gantley’s death. Could he have got on to the roof in broad daylight without any one in the house knowing anything about it? I very much doubt it. Did he bribe the gardener to tamper with the chimney when he was cleaning out the spouting? That’s too much like a fairy tale. Besides, the gardener had done his job by Thursday, and Percy Chadwick hadn’t been to the house for several weeks before that.

“There’s another thing. Even if you assume that Percy Chadwick had a hand in hastening Lady Gantley’s death, the murder of Mr. Gantley, which, after all, is what we’re investigating, is still unexplained. Chadwick couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it, because it couldn’t be of the slightest benefit to him. The only way in which Mr. Gantley’s death could have been of any use to him would have been if it had happened before Lady Gantley’s. As it was, Lady Gantley being already dead, Mr. Gantley’s death was of enormous benefit to Harrington.”

“Oh, yes, Harrington murdered Gantley right enough,” replied Driffield. “And I shouldn’t wonder if he had something to do with that chimney-pot as well. What’s that other report you’ve got?”

“It’s a communication from the Glasgow police,” said Arnold. “After I had that conversation with Miss Chadwick, I took steps to check her statements as far as I could, just as a matter of routine. I asked the Glasgow people to make inquiries about her brother’s ship, the Mendip Hills, and this is the result. It confirms what Miss Chadwick told me, that her brother was in London on the Thursday. Here, have a look at it.”

He passed the document, and Driffield began to read it. It was from Inspector McPherson, of the Glasgow City Police, and stated that the Inspector, in accordance with a request from Scotland Yard, had made inquiries about the steamship Mendip Hills, then lying in Glasgow. Thinking it best not to make official inquiries of the captain, he had interviewed the boatswain, by name Andrews, a most respectable man, who had been with the ship since she had been launched, and knew all her officers well.

The Mendip Hills was a vessel of 3948 registered tonnage, built on the Clyde some five years before, and owned by the Hills Line, Ltd. Her captain was Angus McGovern; Chief Officer, Percy Chadwick. There followed a list of the remaining deck and engineer officers.

On her last voyage, the Mendip Hills docked in the Albert Dock, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, September 20th. She remained there discharging cargo till Friday the 22nd. The captain and some of the officers remained on board all the time, but others, including the chief officer, left the ship for the day on Thursday. Andrews particularly remembered the chief officer telling him that he was going to see his sister, for the remark amused him, it being popularly supposed on board that Mr. Chadwick, one of the few southerners in the ship, had a girl in London.

The ship left the Albert Dock on Friday morning, and reached a berth at Trentmouth on the morning of Saturday 23rd. Most of the officers and crew went ashore here at various times, Andrews himself among the number. Andrews did not remember seeing Mr. Chadwick between noon on Saturday and 11 p.m. on Sunday, when he came on board with the second officer. Andrews believed that only the captain, the third officer, and two of the engineers slept aboard on Saturday night. This was quite probable, as Trentmouth was always very popular with the ship’s company.

The departure from Trentmouth had been fixed for early on Monday morning, but there was some delay, owing to all the cargo not being stowed. Just before the hatches were put on, there was some trouble with a stowaway, found in the hold by the chief officer and handed over to the dock police.

As Driffield reached this passage he uttered a sudden exclamation. He passed the document over to Arnold. “Did you see that?” he asked.

“What is it?” replied Arnold. “I can’t say that I read it very carefully. It struck me as being a bit long-winded.”

“Why, that bit about the stowaway! It must have been friend Trimble. Upon my word, it’s queer that we should get a link-up with him from Glasgow. But I thought that they told us that he was found on board a ship bound for Canada.”

“That’s where the Mendip Hills was bound for, as you’ll see if you look at the end of the report,” replied Arnold. “She only called at Glasgow to complete her loading.”

Driffield continued his perusal. The report went on to say that the ship left Trentmouth about ten o’clock on Monday morning, and docked at Glasgow on the following day. Here nearly all the officers expected to go ashore, since they were, with the exception of the chief officer, all Glasgow men. But the pilot brought off a telegram for the chief officer, which appeared to upset him very considerably. Andrews heard Mr. Chadwick tell the captain that a near relation of his had died very suddenly. He asked if he could have a day’s leave to attend the funeral, but the captain demurred, as it was his turn to stay on board. Finally it was arranged that he should be allowed twenty-four hours leave from noon on Wednesday, as a special concession.

The report explained that Inspector McPherson had had this conversation with Andrews on Wednesday afternoon. At that time Mr. Chadwick had left the ship, and had caught a train to London. The Mendip Hills was due to leave Glasgow for Canadian ports on Thursday afternoon, her first port of call being Halifax, N.S.

This concluded the report proper, but to it was affixed a telegram, handed in at Glasgow at 5 p.m. on Thursday, addressed to Scotland Yard and signed “McPherson.” The telegram ran, “Chief Officer returned, Mendip Hills left 4 p.m. to-day.”

“Conscientious sort of chap, that Scotch Inspector,” remarked Arnold, as Driffield handed him back the document. “I didn’t ask for all that detail. All I wanted was confirmation of what Miss Chadwick told me, and I’ve got it. She told me on Wednesday afternoon that she half expected her brother. He must have got there soon after I left.”

“What I can’t get over is that Trimble selected the Mendip Hills on which to hide, and that Chadwick should have been the man to find him. You must admit that it’s a bit of a coincidence.”

“Well, what if it is? You’re not suggesting that there was anything between the two of them, are you? Besides, we don’t know that Trimble was the stowaway of the Mendip Hills. It may not have been him at all.”

“I’ll soon find out, anyway.” He picked up the telephone and put a call through to the Trentmouth police station. “They’ll know the name of the ship, sure enough. No, I don’t suppose there was anything between Trimble and Chadwick. Chadwick wouldn’t have slung him out, if there had been. But you notice of course from that report that Chadwick was at Trentmouth on Saturday and Sunday, and wasn’t apparently seen on board for thirty-six hours?”

“Well, what of that? You’re not suggesting that he murdered Gantley, are you? Apart from the fact that there was no earthly point in his doing so, he couldn’t possibly have managed it. So far as we know, he had never even met him, and he couldn’t possibly have known his habits. How could he tell that he would be driving back from Benger’s Creek on Sunday evening? How would he know his car when he saw it? How about the shot that Trimble heard? Chadwick had been on board his ship more than an hour when that was fired. No, that cat won’t jump, I’m afraid.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that Chadwick was the actual murderer,” replied Driffield hastily. “What was in my mind was this. The more we learn, the more likely it seems that Harrington had an accomplice. I was wondering whether the whole business couldn’t have been a conspiracy between the Harringtons and the Chadwicks!”

Arnold shook his head. “Conspiracies to murder aren’t very common, in any case, and, in this instance the interests of the Harringtons and the Chadwicks were diametrically opposed. They both gain by the deaths of Mr. Gantley and his sister-in-law, I admit, but that’s all you can say. To make these deaths really worth while, it was essential to the Chadwicks that Mr. Gantley should die first, and to the Harringtons that Lady Gantley should. And you’ll notice that some care seems to have been taken that Lady Gantley should be the first to go.”

At that moment the telephone bell rang, and Driffield picked up the receiver. “Inspector Driffield of Carnford speaking,” he said. “Is that Trentmouth police? You remember the case of the man Trimble, who was handed over to you after being found on board a ship last Monday? Can you tell me the name of the ship?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Driffield spoke again. “Thanks very much. Yes, that’s all I want to know.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Arnold. “It was the Mendip Hills,” he said.

Arnold laughed. “Well, if you can form any helpful theory out of that fact, it’s more than I can,” he said. “You’ll have to look a bit further than that for your accomplice, I’m afraid. What about Trimble himself?”

Driffield was about to reply, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” said Driffield.

The door opened, and the sergeant on duty appeared. “I thought you might like to see this, sir,” he said, handing the Inspector a newspaper. “It’s just come in.”

Driffield took the paper from him. It was that day’s copy of the West Country Clarion. “Let’s see what the Downham Minster people have to say about the Gantley business,” he said.

Inspector Driffield opened the paper, and his eye was immediately caught by a notice in large type in the middle of the centre page. It was headed, “To our readers,” and after glancing at the first few lines, he laid it on the table, and beckoned to Arnold. “Here, come and look at this,” he said.

Arnold came across, and together they read the notice. It stated that many of the readers of the West Country Clarion must recently have heard rumours that a change of proprietorship of the paper was in contemplation. Such had, indeed, been the case, but the scheme had been opposed by those shareholders of the company who feared that such a change would lead to a reversal of the policy which the West Country Clarion had for many years so strenuously advocated.

Owing to unforeseen circumstances, this scheme had now fallen through, and an alternative had been arranged to take its place. A syndicate composed of prominent citizens of Downham Minster had been formed to take over this old-established newspaper, and readers of the Clarion could rest assured that the paper would continue to further their interests, and their interests alone. It would be the object of the syndicate to do everything in its power to uphold the ancient traditions of the Clarion, and to forward in every possible way the interests of the historical borough of Downham Minster, which still, in spite of efforts to displace it, retained its proud position as the capital of the great county of Downhamshire.

There was a good deal more to the same effect, expressed in the flowery language beloved of the smaller provincial newspapers. But these two paragraphs were enough. Driffield looked at his colleague and grinned. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” he said. “Gantley’s death must have come as a god-send to these Downham Minster diehards. I wonder how much they actually knew of his negotiations with Sir Arthur Urmery?”

But Arnold frowned. “It seems to me that there’s more in this than meets the eye,” he said. “It looks as though Mr. Polteith only told us half the story the other day. He didn’t say anything about a competing syndicate. It strikes me that we’ve let Harrington take up rather too much of our minds, and have neglected these other issues a bit.”

“Well, that’s easily put right,” said Driffield. “As a matter of fact, I meant to go over to Downham Minster yesterday, but Harrington turning up when he did put the matter out of my mind. Look here, it doesn’t seem that we shall get much further by sitting here and twiddling our thumbs. What do you say to taking the car and driving over to Downham Minster now? We can have a chat to the Inspector there, Sampson. He’s a very good chap, and he’ll put us in the way of hearing all that’s going on.”

Arnold agreed to this readily enough, and they set out for Downham Minster. Arrived there, they went to the police station, where Driffield asked for his friend. They were immediately shown into a room where a fat, jovial-looking man was sitting at a desk smoking a pipe.

He looked up as they came in, “Hullo, Driffield!” he boomed. “Very glad to see you. You’ve been busy these last few days, I expect. And, of course, your friend’s welcome too.”

“Let me introduce Inspector Arnold of the Yard,” replied Driffield. “This is Inspector Sampson, Arnold.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Sampson, holding out an enormous hand. “It’s not difficult to guess what your business is in this part of the country. Bit of a hard nut to crack over at Carnford, haven’t you?”

“It’s the usual thing,” replied Driffield. “We know pretty well who did it, but we haven’t enough evidence yet. Now look here, old man, we want you to help us for a minute. What’s behind all this?”

He pulled the West Country Clarion out of his pocket, and handed it to Sampson, who smiled. “That notice ‘To our readers’ you mean?” he said. “I read it just now. I can’t tell you all that’s behind it, but I can tell you this. The syndicate which has bought the paper includes the Mayor, the Dean, and the local brewer. If you know anything about our municipal politics, you’ll understand what that means.”

“I don’t,” replied Driffield. “And I’m quite sure that Arnold doesn’t.”

“You wouldn’t, coming from Carnford,” said Sampson sarcastically. “In your eyes we’re probably only an unimportant village. Mr. Arnold is, I expect, not so narrow-minded. What I mean is this. The three people I’ve mentioned, and the rest of those who compose the syndicate, have never agreed about anything before, and probably never will again. If the composition of the syndicate were generally known here, it would be regarded as a miracle!”

“I’ll believe that. But why this touching unanimity now? What’s suddenly bitten them?”

“The disaster, as they believe it to be, which threatened the town. I don’t suppose you realise the state of popular feeling here. Carnford is a sort of modern Babylon, where nobody cares a damn about his neighbour or the town he lives in. But here they are still a mediæval community, intensely jealous of their town and all connected with it. Why, do you know, the other Sunday the Dean preached a sermon in the cathedral on the text “Fat bulls of Bashan close me in on every side.” He gave a complete history of the town, saying what an important place it was in the old days, the sanctuary of the Faith, and all that sort of thing, and pointed out that the worldly powers were encroaching upon it every day. He ended up by saying that there was one thing which could never be taken away, and that was their beloved cathedral. I thought for the moment that the whole congregation was going to jump to their feet like one man and cheer him.”

“Meaning, I suppose, that this proposal to remove the municipal offices and all the rest of it to Carnford would mean a considerable loss to the local shopkeepers,” commented Driffield brutally.

“Well, that’s at the bottom of it, I daresay,” admitted Sampson. “But this proposal is only the last straw. You know yourself that in recent years the trade and importance of this place has been drifting steadily to Carnford. What you probably don’t know is how strongly the people here resent it. Some of them would be quite ready to march in a body to Carnford and burn the place down, with everybody in it.

“But to return to the Clarion. A rumour has got about here lately—I don’t know whether there’s any truth in it—that the Clarion was on the point of being bought up and would in future be run in the Carnford interest. There must have been something in it, for last Saturday morning the Mayor invited a few prominent people in the town to meet him. This meeting was kept very quiet, and nobody outside knows anything about it. Only myself, that is. I make it my business to know what’s going on in the town.”

“There was something in the rumour,” said Driffield. “I’ll tell you in confidence that Mr. Gantley had made an offer for the purchase of the Clarion, and that on Saturday the negotiations were practically completed.”

Sampson whistled. “Oh, so that was it, was it? Lucky it wasn’t known here, or some of our local worthies would have set fire to the offices of the Downhamshire Courier, I’ll bet a fiver. Well, somebody at this meeting must have got wind of the fact that the Clarion was for sale, for a syndicate was formed, with the Mayor at the head of it, and he was deputed to go and see Sir Arthur Urmery, who was the chairman of the Clarion company. He was empowered to outbid the opposition, whatever it might cost. There’s still plenty of money left in this obsolete village of ours, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Did the Mayor come to terms with Sir Arthur?” asked Driffield.

“He saw him that afternoon, and I gather that they haggled about terms for hours. At last Sir Arthur said that he would be very glad to recommend his shareholders to accept the syndicate’s offer, but that there was an obstacle which must first be removed. The Mayor pressed him for a definite answer, but he had to be content with that. On Monday, however, Sir Arthur came to see him, and told him that the way was now clear.

“A meeting of the shareholders of the Clarion company had already been fixed for Wednesday, and Sir Arthur put the syndicate’s offer before them. It was accepted unanimously, and the business was finished.”

“It’s not difficult to guess what the obstacle was,” remarked Driffield grimly. “I say, Sampson, what sort of a chap is Sir Arthur?”

“Well, he’s a respectable enough member of society now. He lives at Priory Park, the family place, just outside the town. But he ran through most of the money his father left him when he was a young man, and I fancy that he finds it a bit difficult to make both ends meet. But this business will put him on his feet all right.”

“What do you mean exactly?” asked Driffield. “His shares in the Clarion weren’t worth a lot, were they?”

“No, not more than a few hundreds, I should say. But it was announced here yesterday that the Corporation had decided to purchase, at a very comfortable figure, a slice of the Priory Park estate for conversion into a public park.”

“Bribery, by gad!” exclaimed Driffield. “Upon my word, Sampson, I don’t think that your public morals are much better than ours in Carnford, after all. That was the inducement the Mayor offered him on Saturday, I’ll be bound.”

“I daresay it was,” replied Sampson. “And, from what I know of the man, he wouldn’t make much difficulty about accepting it. He must have been jolly glad when he heard of Gantley’s death. It left him free to carry on.”

“Your Mayor must be a pretty shrewd man,” said Driffield thoughtfully. “That was the only way to ensure his getting what he wanted. As I see it, Sir Arthur’s position was this. He could only put an offer before his shareholders, he couldn’t ensure that they would accept it. If Gantley had heard of the syndicate’s offer, he would probably have outbid it. Shareholders aren’t as a rule completely disinterested, even in Downham Minster, I suppose, and they’d have been pretty certain to accept the best offer. And if that had been Gantley’s, there wouldn’t have been any rush on the part of the Corporation to buy his land for a public park. There’s one thing pretty certain. Gantley wasn’t the man to offer a personal bribe, however much he may have wanted to buy the Clarion.”

“Then, in that case, it was very lucky for Sir Arthur that Gantley died when he did,” remarked Sampson.

“So lucky that I’m beginning to wonder. I say, old chap, can we have a chat with him?”

“Of course you can. You’ll find him at Priory Park, and it oughtn’t to be beyond your ingenuity to find an excuse for introducing yourself.”

Driffield and Arnold took their leave of Sampson, and entered the car. “What do you make of this?” asked Driffield, as they drove through the town towards Priory Park.

“Meaning had Sir Arthur a motive for murdering Mr. Gantley?” replied Arnold. “Yes, as the facts appear at present, I suppose he had. But had he the opportunity? That’s the point. We shall have to try to find out what he was up to during the week-end.”

They passed through the gates of Priory Park, and traversed a long and neglected drive till they reached the house. This was a beautiful old building, but it had fallen sadly into disrepair, and the many shuttered windows showed that the greater part of it was unoccupied. The door was opened by an old man, dressed in a suit of black clothes, who mumbled something incomprehensible in reply to their inquiry for Sir Arthur. However, he led them into a small room, half library and half office, and in a few moments Sir Arthur appeared.

He was a man of about Mr. Gantley’s age, but with a red face and a bloated appearance. Arnold fancied that there was a shifty expression in his eyes, and he had a nervous habit of brushing imaginary flies from his nearly bald head. Not at all a prepossessing person, with a hoarse voice and a breath which carried a faint aroma of alcohol.

“Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” he croaked, when Driffield had introduced Arnold and himself.

“We are very sorry to trouble you, Sir Arthur,” replied Driffield. “We are investigating the circumstances of the death of Mr. Gantley, who, we are told, was a friend of yours.”

“Yes, yes, terrible thing, terrible!” replied Sir Arthur. “It makes one wonder what you fellows in the police are about that such things are possible. Yes, of course, Gantley and I were old friends. I’ve known him ever since he first came to Carnford. We didn’t always see eye to eye in some things, but that’s no matter. By the way, would you fellows like a drink?”

Both inspectors declined the invitation, and Sir Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Have it your own way, of course,” he said, going to a table upon which was set a decanter and some glasses. “You won’t mind if I have one, will you? My doctor, very good chap, tells me to take a drop of whisky before lunch. Good for the appetite, he says.”

He poured out a stiff dose and drank half of it at a gulp. “You want to talk to me about Gantley?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Driffield. “You were one of the last of his friends who saw him alive, I believe. We should very much like to hear what impression he made upon you then.”

Sir Arthur started, and glanced at the speaker suspiciously. “Who told you that I saw him?” he asked.

“We are informed by Mr. Polteith, Mr. Gantley’s solicitor——” began Driffield, but Arnold interrupted him. “We are aware of the negotiations which took place between you and Mr. Gantley,” he said, courteously. “You will understand, of course, that we regard this knowledge as strictly confidential. We know also of the proposal made to you by a local syndicate. We have, of course, no interest in your affairs, but we should be grateful if you would tell us what steps you took to approach Mr. Gantley after your interview with the Mayor last Saturday.”

It was a bow at a venture, for Arnold had no idea that Sir Arthur had held any communication with Mr. Gantley since the Thursday before the latter’s death. But something furtive in the man’s expression when Driffield had spoken of his being one of the last of Mr. Gantley’s friends to see him alive had given him his cue.

Sir Arthur picked up his glass, tossed down its contents, and suddenly became confidential. “Since you gentlemen know so much already, there can’t be much harm in telling you the rest,” he said. “But, of course, what I’m going to say is between friends. I shouldn’t like everybody to know the course of the negotiations which led to the sale of the Clarion.

“Well, after our worthy Mayor left me on Saturday, I was in a bit of a fix. You see he, as representing his syndicate, had put a proposition before me which, in justice to them, I felt bound to urge my shareholders to accept. But, on the other hand, my previous negotiations with Gantley had reached a stage from which it was difficult for me to retract. Certain correspondence had passed between us—in short, it was necessary that I should see Gantley before I was free to act.”

“Had you in mind the possibility that Mr. Gantley might improve upon the offer he had already made?” asked Arnold.

“Well, er—yes, perhaps. But that was not my principal object in wishing to see him. You see, in the interests of secrecy, so necessary where a deal like this is concerned, I had pledged myself rather further than was perhaps warranted by my position of Chairman of the Company. It would have given my enemies an opportunity of attacking me, should this become known. My desire was to put the matter before my old friend Gantley, and to talk it over with him as man to man. I thought that by so doing I could explain my own point of view.”

Arnold smiled, unperceived by Sir Arthur. It was quite clear to him from the latter’s words and manner that Mr. Gantley had had it in his power to make things very unpleasant for him. “You thought it best to see Mr. Gantley as soon as possible,” he suggested.

“Yes, I did. I thought of driving over to Carnford to see him at once, but I remembered that he had told me, when I last spoke to him, that he intended to spend the week-end on his house-boat at Benger’s Creek. It occurred to me that this would be the very place in which to have a quiet chat with him, for I knew that he was in the habit of going down alone.”

Driffield pricked up his ears at this, seeing at last what his colleague had been driving at. But Arnold merely nodded. “Did you go down at once, Sir Arthur?” he asked.

“No, it was too late that evening. I started from here at about eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, drove through Carnford, and took that execrable road towards Winterley. My chauffeur, who was driving, had doubts how far we should get. But we kept on until we reached a place where there was a turning which looked as if it led to Benger’s Creek. This turning looked so rough and precipitous that I told the chauffeur to stay where he was with the car, while I walked down.”

“Yes, I know that track,” said Arnold pleasantly. “Disgraceful, isn’t it? But you got down safely, I suppose?”

“After a most unpleasant walk, I did. I saw the house-boat as soon as I got to the bottom, but I couldn’t see anybody about. The place was all locked up, and I imagined that something must have prevented Gantley coming down. But when I looked through the windows of the deck-house, I saw things lying about on the table, and I thought he couldn’t be far off. I shouted, but there was no answer. So I sat down on the rail, thinking I’d wait for a bit and see if he turned up.”

“What time was this?” asked Arnold.

“It must have been about one o’clock by then. I’d counted upon Gantley for a bit of lunch, and I was getting devilish hungry. I’d sat where I was for about a quarter of an hour, when a little boat came sailing into the Creek, with Gantley alone in it, steering. I stood up and waved to him, and then a most remarkable thing happened, most remarkable indeed.”

“What was that?” asked Arnold politely.

“Why, as soon as he saw me, instead of coming on, Gantley turned the boat round and began to sail out of the Creek again. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He must have recognised me for I could see him quite plainly, though he was some distance away. At least I saw his beard and his glasses, though he had a muffler round his neck and a yachting cap pulled down over his forehead. I called out to him at once. ‘Hullo, Gantley,’ I shouted. ‘I want to see you urgently’ or something like that. He didn’t so much as look over his shoulder, but shouted back something I couldn’t catch. His voice sounded strange and hoarse, as though he’d got a bad cold or something. All I could make out was something about ‘office’ and ‘Monday.’ And the next thing was he’d gone out of sight again behind the bend.”

“That was very extraordinary behaviour on Mr. Gantley’s part, Sir Arthur,” said Arnold gravely. “What did you do then?”

“There seemed to be only one thing left to do, and I did it. I left the house-boat, walked back to where I had left the car, and drove back home. I couldn’t understand it, as I thought I knew Gantley pretty well. But it’s pretty clear to me now that Gantley, for all his stiff and sedate manner, must have had his little secrets at Benger’s Creek that he didn’t want other people to know about.”

Sir Arthur got up, walked to the table, and poured himself out another glass. “Sure I can’t persuade you to join me? No? Well, you know your own business best, I suppose. Poor old Gantley, I’d never have thought it of him. He was one of those fellows who always looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. It’s wonderful how easily one can be deceived.”

“I don’t quite follow, Sir Arthur,” said Arnold. “What is this secret you refer to?”

Sir Arthur winked meaningly. “My dear sir, I put it to you as a man of the world,” he replied. “Does any man, even a chap like Gantley, deliberately go and spend a week-end by himself at a place like Benger’s Creek? You’ve been there yourself, I gather. Would you care to? I bet you wouldn’t.”

“Have you any reason to believe that he had somebody with him?” asked Arnold.

“No reason beyond common sense. But it’s as plain as a pike-staff to me that he had a girl down there with him. I can guess well enough what happened. She saw me coming, and bolted below, locking the door of the deck-house behind her. Then, when Gantley came sailing along and saw me there, he was a bit flummoxed. If he came on board, he’d be bound to ask me to stay, and I couldn’t have helped seeing the girl. He might have known I wouldn’t have given him away, but I suppose he didn’t care to risk it. So the only thing he could do was to clear out quick, knowing that then I should have to clear out too. Pretty artful of him, I call it. I suppose he came back again when he reckoned the coast was clear.”

Arnold frowned. This possibility had not occurred to him before. “You saw or heard nothing while you were waiting on the house-boat to confirm the presence of this girl, I suppose?” he asked. “I’m wondering, if she was actually there, what became of her.”

“You mean that there was no trace of her in the car when poor Gantley was murdered that evening? Well, you wouldn’t expect there to be, would you? Gantley wouldn’t risk driving her back to Carnford. He probably took her into Winterley, where she crossed the ferry to Carronport. I don’t know, I shouldn’t think you’d have much difficulty in tracing her if you want to.”

Arnold ignored this last remark. “What did you do after you got home, Sir Arthur?” he asked. “Did you make any further attempt to see Mr. Gantley that day?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m not the sort of chap to butt in where I’m not wanted. Besides, I’d heard Gantley shout out something about his office and Monday, so I supposed that he meant he’d see me there next day. On Monday morning I drove over to Carnford, intending to call at his office, but the first thing I heard was that he was dead.”

“Which left you free to accept the offer of the syndicate. By the way, Sir Arthur, how did you spend the rest of Sunday? Were you in communication with any members of the syndicate?”

“No, I wasn’t. Let me see now, what did I do? The first thing I did was to have a very late lunch, it was nearly three before I got home. Then I had a doze, I always do in the afternoon, I find it clears the brain wonderfully. I had supper about seven, and after that I went to the club, where I spent the rest of the evening. But I didn’t say a word to anybody about Gantley and his goings on.”

The two inspectors took their leave of Sir Arthur, and returned to the police station, where Sampson was waiting for them. “How did your visit come off?” he asked cheerfully.

“Oh, well enough,” replied Driffield. “I can’t say that I’m much impressed with the fellow, though. I wonder if you could verify one of his statements for me? He told us that he was at the club on Sunday evening. He didn’t say what club, and I didn’t ask him. Could you find out, and also how long he was there?”

“That’s an easy one,” replied Sampson. “He’s always at the County Club, and a very posh place it is. You’ve nothing like it in Carnford. It’s nearly next door, and if you’ll wait a minute I’ll soon find out.”

As soon as Sampson left the room, Driffield got up and began to pace the floor impatiently. “I can’t make it out!” he exclaimed. “The man’s an obvious liar, you can tell that by his manner. But how far is he lying in this case? Did he actually go to Benger’s Creek on Sunday? The story that Gantley refused to see him is rubbish. And as for his preposterous suggestion that he had a girl on board, it’s just sheer bunkum, as any one who knew Gantley will tell you.”

“We can easily find out if he went to Benger’s Creek by sounding the chauffeur,” replied Arnold. “I think he did, and that there is more truth in his story than you imagine. If he invented the story of Mr. Gantley sailing into the Creek in his dinghy, it’s rather a queer coincidence. One o’clock would be just about the time that he would be getting back from Carronport with his paper.”

“Then can you suggest any valid reason why Gantley should have turned back and refused to see him?”

“No, I can’t, unless it was that he didn’t want his quiet retreat profaned by the presence of a man like that. I took a very definite aversion to him myself. On the other hand, if the two met and had a conversation, why did Urmery lie about it?”

“If they had a conversation, it isn’t difficult to guess the course it took. Urmery admitted just now that he was to some extent in Gantley’s power. If Gantley chose to cut up rough about the syndicate’s offer, he could have exposed Urmery’s previous negotiations with him, which, as he says himself, would have made things unpleasant for him. I suspect, myself, that he had framed these negotiations so as to get something pretty substantial for himself, since Gantley wouldn’t have stooped to bribing him directly.

“What Urmery wanted was to push the syndicate’s offer through, in order to secure the sale of his property to the Corporation, which the Mayor had undoubtedly promised him as the price of his assistance. At the same time, he had to persuade Gantley to hold his tongue. Now Gantley wasn’t the sort of man to take a thing like that lying down. He probably told Urmery that he would hold him to his bargain, or, alternatively, that he would publish the whole story in the Downhamshire Courier. One can imagine that the conversation wasn’t exactly amicable.”

“Yet Mr. Gantley’s silence could most effectively be assured by his death,” remarked Arnold significantly. “You don’t think——”

He was interrupted by the return of Inspector Sampson. “It’s all right,” he said, “I’ve seen the porter who was on duty at the club on Sunday evening. Urmery came in about eight o’clock, and didn’t go out again till the place closed at midnight. He left then, not, I gather, any too conspicuously sober.”

“Thanks very much,” replied Driffield. “There’s just one more thing, old man. Urmery told us that he went to Benger’s Creek on Sunday morning, his chauffeur driving. Do you think you could check that statement for us?”

“Sure, I’ll get in touch with the chauffeur, and ring you up some time to-day. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all, thanks very much. It’s time we left this hotbed of intrigue, and got back to the purer air of Carnford.” And with this parting shot they left Sampson’s office, and started back home.

“You were going to ask, when Sampson came in, whether I thought that Urmery could have murdered Gantley,” said Driffield, as he steered the car out of the narrow streets of Downham Minster. “The answer is that he could have, for he had the opportunity and the motive. But obviously he didn’t kill him at Benger’s Creek, for Gantley was seen alive subsequently. I certainly thought that he might have waylaid him on the way home, but at that time he seems to have been drinking himself into a state of blissfulness at this club of his. No, I’m afraid we must wipe Sir Arthur off the slate, which is a pity. A hanging wouldn’t do him any harm.”

“I don’t know,” replied Arnold thoughtfully. “Confound it! It’s absurd, I know, but I can’t get my mind away from Benger’s Creek. It’s such a topping place for a murder, far better than the road this side of Norton Ferris.”

“I daresay it is,” said Driffield. “But, all the same, the murder wasn’t committed there. Dead men don’t drive cars and call at pubs, you know.”

Arnold had nothing to say to this, and occupied with their own thoughts, both relapsed into a silence which was maintained till they reached the police station at Carnford. Here they were met by the sergeant on duty. “I’ve got a telegram for you here, sir,” he said to Driffield. “It came half an hour ago. And Mr. Merrion is asking to see you. I told him that you wouldn’t be very long, and he’s waiting in your room, sir.”

“Good!” exclaimed Driffield. They passed into the Inspector’s office, where Merrion was awaiting them. “I hope I’m not butting in,” said the latter, apologetically. “Chuck me out if I am. But I had an idea in the night, and I thought it might be worth while coming over and telling you about it.”

“That’s very good of you, Mr. Merrion,” replied Driffield. “We’re very grateful for your assistance, and it strikes me that we’re badly in want of bright ideas. But perhaps you’ll excuse me a minute while I see what’s in this wire——”

He tore open the envelope and read the telegram. It was a wireless message from a ship at sea, picked up by a land station and forwarded to Carnford. “R.M.S. Majestic, 9.11 a.m. Sept 29th. Police, Carnford. Was Gantley recognised after Friday evening?” There was no signature.

Driffield flung the telegram on the table with a gesture of annoyance. “Confound these amateurs!” he exclaimed. “Why the devil can’t they mind their own business? Read that! Did you ever see anything so damn silly?”

Arnold and Merrion read the telegram, and the former laughed. “It’s no good getting riled over a thing like that,” he said. “We get hundreds of them at the Yard. The world is full of busy-bodies who think they know our job better than we do ourselves. I can imagine a passenger, enthroned in the luxury of the Majestic, and having nothing better to do than to exercise his mind with the mystery of what he thinks is an unsolved crime. Can’t you, Merrion?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I can,” replied Merrion doubtfully. “But, on the other hand, I can imagine some one desperately anxious to throw the police off the scent for his own purposes. Some friend of Harrington’s perhaps.”

Driffield looked up quickly. “So the idea of an accomplice has occurred to you too, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

“Well, yes, it has,” Merrion admitted. “He’s been hovering like a ghost at the back of my mind all along. It has struck me that if you could lay hands on him, you wouldn’t have much difficulty in completing your case against Harrington. Now, if I’m right, and an attempt is being made to draw a red herring across the trail, that accomplice is at the present moment on board the Majestic, engaged in making what you call a get-away.”

“Then we’ve got him!” exclaimed Driffield. “All we’ve got to do is to find out who sent that message, and that ought to be easy enough. I wonder which way she’s bound?”

“The Majestic? I happen to know that she left Southampton for New York this week. Wednesday is the White Star sailing day. She’s well out in the Atlantic by now.”

Driffield sat down at his desk, took out a telegraph form, and wrote a few words upon it. “How will this do?” he asked. “ ‘Captain, R.M.S. Majestic, from Police, Carnford. Grateful if you would ascertain who sent message from your ship 9.11 this morning addressed Police Carnford and inform us.’ That ought to do the trick, I think.”

Arnold and Merrion having approved the telegram, Driffield rang the bell and gave it to a messenger to despatch. “Now then, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “I’d very much like to hear that idea of yours.”

But Arnold interposed. “In fairness to Mr. Merrion, I think we ought to put him in possession of the facts we’ve learnt since we last saw him,” he said. “I’ve got the reports from Inspector McPherson and Keane, and you might show him the West Country Clarion and tell him about our interview with Sir Arthur Urmery this morning.”

Driffield made no objection to this. He described the interview, and Merrion settled himself in a chair to peruse the documents. He was engaged in doing so, when the telephone bell rang. Driffield picked up the receiver and listened. “It’s from the Yard, they want to speak to you,” he said, handing the instrument to Arnold.

One of Arnold’s colleagues was on the line. “I’ve got some information for you,” he said, “First of all, about that pistol. The expert has seen it, and this is what he says. It’s a Maine pistol, of this year’s model, and apparently very little used. There is no recognisable peculiarity about the rifling, the marks of which correspond with those on the bullet you gave him. But, he says, that’s nothing to go by. There’s nothing to show that this was the actual pistol from which the bullet was fired. It could have been fired from any similar pistol, if it were comparatively new and had no peculiarity about the rifling.”

“That’s not particularly helpful, though it’s pretty much what I expected. Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ve been on the track of those Delarey people you asked about. That address, 12 Mundry Street, Chelsea, is right, by the way. They hired a car, on the ‘drive yourself’ principle, on Thursday, the 21st, and returned it on the following Monday afternoon. They were away from London during that time. I saw Delarey himself, and he told me that he had been with his wife and a couple of friends to Brighton, Eastbourne, and Carronport. That right?”

“It sounds all right so far. You say you saw Delarey? He’s in London, then?”

“Yes, he and his wife have been since they came back on Monday. They’ve got a flat at that address, with a maid living in. So far as I can make out, they live on an allowance from his people. I had a chat with the maid, and she told me that most of their friends belong to the artistic set. She obviously didn’t think much of them. But it’s quite clear from what she told me that neither Mr. or Mrs. Delarey have left London since Monday afternoon.”

“That’s what I wanted to know. By the way, when did you see Delarey?”

“Yesterday evening. He and his wife were just going out to dinner. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not just now, thanks. Much obliged.” Arnold replaced the receiver, and repeated the conversation to the other two. “That’s a bit of a blow,” he said. “It wipes out Delarey as Harrington’s accomplice, I’m afraid.”

“Not altogether, surely,” replied Driffield. “If he’s been in London all the time since Monday he can’t be the chap who sent this wire from the Majestic, nor can he have planted the pistol on Wednesday afternoon or evening. But he could have sent the anonymous letter, and he could have helped in the loosening of the chimney-pot at Tulip Lodge.”

“Yes, but in that case you want another accomplice for the first two jobs,” said Arnold. “Two criminals are bad enough, but three’s more than my imagination will stand for. What do you say, Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion was about to reply, when the telephone bell rang again. “Damn that instrument!” exclaimed Driffield. “What the dickens is it this time, I wonder. Yes, Inspector Driffield speaking. Hullo, is that you, Sampson? Yes. Yes. He’s done what? Oh, hell! All right, thanks very much.”

Driffield put down the instrument and turned to the others. “There’s always some confounded obstacle cropping up in this case,” he said. “That was Sampson. He says he can’t verify Urmery’s story of his visit to Benger’s Creek, as his chauffeur went to London last Tuesday for a week’s holiday.”

“Went to London, did he?” replied Arnold. “Here, hold on a minute. Let me see that precious anonymous letter again. What were the last words? ‘Writer dare not appear, fear vengeance,’ weren’t they?”

Driffield took the letter out of his desk and handed it to his colleague, who studied it carefully, as if trying to read its secret from its appearance. “Look here!” he said at last. “You don’t think that chauffeur chap sent this, do you? If Urmery’s yarn is true, he was left behind with the car while Urmery himself walked down to the house-boat. He may very well have followed him at a distance, out of curiosity to see what he was up to. Now, suppose something did happen between Urmery and Mr. Gantley. The chauffeur may have seen it, and have taken this method of letting us know. He might be afraid of coming out into the open, for fear of what Urmery might do to him. That would explain the reference to a fear of vengeance, which has always puzzled me.”

“But nothing serious can have happened,” objected Driffield. “You’ve got Benger’s Creek on the brain, I’m afraid. I can only repeat that dead men don’t drive cars and call at pubs. Isn’t that so, Mr. Merrion?”

“So far as my experience goes, it is,” replied Merrion. “But, while you’ve got that letter out, have another look at it. There’s another phrase which strikes me as significant. ‘Try looking at boat and along side.’ It’s the ‘along side’ that rather gets me. The writer couldn’t find the word ‘alongside’ in the paper. Why not? Because, strictly speaking, it’s a nautical term. Yet he goes to the trouble of cutting out two words, ‘along’ and ‘side,’ instead of using ‘beside,’ which he could easily have found. That shows, I think, that the term ‘alongside’ was familiar to him, while ‘beside’ wasn’t. I think it’s safe to guess that he was a man used to the sea, rather than an ordinary chauffeur. I don’t know whether that helps you at all.”

“That’s ingenious, Mr. Merrion,” said Driffield admiringly. “The point hadn’t struck me before, but you’re quite right. It gives us a clue to the man who sent the letter. Harrington himself was used to the sea, you know. That old ruffian he hired the boat from said that he knew how to manage it.”

Merrion nodded absently. “You’re assuming that the letter is part of a scheme to lay a false trail,” he said. “But what if it is genuine, in the sense that it was sent by somebody who actually knows something? Dead men don’t under normal circumstances drive cars and call at pubs. But it seems to me that we haven’t considered the telegram from the Majestic properly yet.”

This cryptic speech appeared to puzzle Inspector Driffield. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Merrion,” he said.

“Don’t you?” replied Merrion, glancing at the clock. “Well, perhaps you’ll both follow me out to lunch. I’m damnably hungry. When my system has been properly fortified by food, I’ll try to explain.”

Merrion insisted upon the two inspectors lunching with him at the best restaurant in the town. During the meal, the subject of Mr. Gantley’s murder was, by general consent, tabooed. But, when they all three returned to Driffield’s office afterwards, Merrion plunged into his explanation without delay.

“I feel much stronger for that lunch,” he said, as he lighted his cigarette. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes, that telegram from the Majestic, of course. If I remember, when it came we were so concerned about the identity of the sender that we did not consider its wording very carefully. May I have another look at it?”

Driffield produced it and passed it over. “Thanks,” said Merrion. “I’ll read it out. ‘Was Gantley actually recognised after Friday evening?’ That’s simple enough, terse and to the point. Well, was he?”

“Why, of course he was, Mr. Merrion!” exclaimed Driffield. “At Carronport and at Norton Ferris. And, if Sir Arthur Urmery was telling the truth this morning, he recognised him as well.”

“Let’s get the recognitions down in chronological order,” replied Merrion. “Who was the last person to see him on Friday in Carnford?”

“Watts, who saw him start off in his car, so far as we know,” said Driffield. “About six on Friday evening.”

“Right!” said Merrion, taking up a pencil and a piece of paper. “Here’s our first entry. ‘Watts, 6 p.m. 22nd.’ Any record of anybody having seen him on Saturday?”

“Not that we’ve come across so far,” replied Driffield cautiously. “The next we hear of him is when he sailed down to Carronport to get his paper on Sunday.”

“I wonder if he took any steps to get a paper on Saturday, and, if not, why not?” muttered Merrion. “What was the name of the chap who saw him on Sunday? Grundy, wasn’t it? Very well, here’s our next entry, ‘Grundy, noon, 24th.’ ”

“If we’re going to accept Sir Arthur’s statement, he comes next,” observed Arnold.

“We may as well accept it till it’s disproved. ‘Urmery, 1 p.m. 24th.’ Of course, these times are only approximate. I think we’ll put a query after that entry for the present. Next?”

“His call at the Otterworth Arms at about half-past on Sunday evening, where he was seen by half a dozen people,” replied Driffield. “Tregarris, the landlord, saw most of him.”

“Right. ‘Tregarris, Trimble, and others, 8.30 p.m. 24th.’ That completes the list, I think, for Trimble, according to his own account, didn’t actually see him after that. So far as we know, Mr. Gantley was not seen alive again. The next person who saw him was that very intelligent constable at Norton Ferris, and then he was dead.”

Merrion frowned as he studied the paper in front of him. “I don’t like that gap between Friday evening and midday Sunday,” he said. “It’s queer that Mr. Gantley doesn’t seem to have been seen at all on Saturday. What was he doing with himself, I wonder. What sort of a day was it down here? We know there was a storm in the London district during the evening.”

Driffield thought for a moment. “Why, it was a lovely day, sunny, with a nice breeze and not too hot. We had no storms or anything like that. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that it began to rain.”

“It sounds a perfect day for dinghy sailing, which was apparently one of Mr. Gantley’s favourite amusements,” said Merrion. “How was the tide at Benger’s Creek? Let’s see, it was low water there about a quarter to five yesterday, so it would have been low water about noon on Saturday. You may have noticed, Arnold, that the dinghy isn’t afloat at low water. But she’d have been afloat by two at the latest on Saturday, and Gantley would have had plenty of water for sailing all the afternoon. Queer that somebody didn’t see him. And, by Jove, Urmery’s story is probably true after all!”

Driffield, who was not yet used to Merrion’s habit of flying off at a tangent, looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What makes you say that, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

“Why, the jolly old tide!” exclaimed Merrion. “Look here, if it was low water at noon on Saturday, it would be low water about a quarter to one on Sunday, wouldn’t it? Don’t you see? When Urmery was on board the house-boat at one o’clock, there wasn’t enough water for the dinghy to come alongside. He, being a landsman, probably wouldn’t notice that, but Gantley would know it well enough. He probably came in as close as he dared without running ashore, and sang out to Urmery that he couldn’t come in then, but he’d see him in his office next day.”

Arnold smiled. “I told you we should need a nautical expert in this business, Driffield,” he said.

“That’s pretty much what happened,” continued Merrion. “We can dismiss Urmery’s mythical girl and get on with the job. Let’s return to Gantley. He probably spent the afternoon dinghy sailing, and the morning sitting on deck in his deck-chair. The confounded thing must have had its canvas on it then. By the way, what was the weather like on Sunday morning before it started raining, Inspector?”

“Overcast, with a nasty cold nip in the air,” replied Driffield. “Grundy gave the same account of it yesterday.”

“So that Mr. Gantley wore his muffler. Both Urmery and Grundy mentioned that. It’s another point in favour of Urmery’s veracity, by the way. I wonder what became of that muffler. Was Mr. Gantley wearing it when his body was found?”

Driffield shook his head. “It went the same way as his second pair of shoes and his other suit, I expect,” he replied.

“I’d like to know something more about that muffler,” said Merrion. “Was Mr. Gantley in the habit of wearing it, for instance? Do you happen to know, Inspector?”

“No, I don’t, but I’ll very soon find out. I want to go round to Westerly Cottage some time this afternoon. I’ve got a man watching the place, of course, but I like to see for myself now and then. The muffler will give me an excuse for going to the house and seeing Watts. He’ll know all about it. I shan’t mention it to Harrington, if I see him, of course.”

“Splendid!” said Merrion. “Do you know we have had so many interesting things to talk about, I haven’t mentioned the idea which was my excuse for intruding. I don’t know whether there’s anything in it, of course, but it may be worth while following it up. It concerns that piece of burnt string found in Mr. Gantley’s car.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” replied Driffield. “The presence of the string itself is easy enough to explain. We know that Gantley must have brought back with him a suit of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a muffler, since these are not to be found on the house-boat. He probably made these into a bundle, and tied it up with the string. The murderer made off with the clothes, and left the string behind him. But how the dickens it came to be burnt, I can’t make out.”

“Nor can I,” said Merrion. “Have you any objection to my having another look at it?”

“Not the slightest,” replied Driffield. They went out to Mr. Gantley’s car, where Merrion took a tape measure from his pocket and measured the black charred line upon the carpet. It was about four and a half feet long. The ash itself had by this time become scattered, but Merrion brushed up as much of it as he could and put it in an envelope.

Driffield watched him with some amusement. “What’s the idea, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” replied Merrion evasively. “Is there a decent analyst in this town?”

“An analyst!” exclaimed Driffield. “Yes, there’s a very capable chap, whom we’ve employed once or twice before. I can easily put you on to him.”

“Better see him yourself. You might take him this envelope on your way to Westerly Cottage. I don’t want an exact and detailed analysis, at all events for the present. Tell him that this is supposed to be the ash from a piece of burnt string. Ask him to confirm that, and also to express an opinion whether the constituents of the ash are what he would expect, or whether there is an undue proportion of some other substance, probably an alkali, present. Can you do that for me?”

“Certainly, Mr. Merrion, though I confess I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at.”

“I’m trying to remove one of your principal difficulties. Ask him to let you have his report as soon as he possibly can. And there’s another favour I want to ask you. Will you lend Arnold and me your car for two or three hours? I’m a pretty capable driver.”

To this Driffield agreed without any difficulty. They returned to the office, where Merrion announced to Arnold that while Driffield was making his inquiries at Westerly Cottage, he was going to take him for a drive. Arnold, who knew that Merrion would never have proposed such a thing without good reason, asked no questions, and within a few minutes they were seated in the car under Merrion’s guidance. “Where are we bound for?” ventured Arnold, when they had left the police station behind.

“Norton Ferris,” replied Merrion curtly. “There are one or two people there I’d like to have a chat to.”

They reached the village, and Merrion drew up at the policeman’s cottage. Pentrellis came out, and, recognising them, saluted smartly. Arnold acknowledged the salute, and glanced inquiringly at his companion.

“Good-afternoon, Pentrellis,” said Merrion. “You know Inspector Arnold, and I’m a friend of his. Can you tell us what’s become of Trimble?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve had my eye on him, according to instructions,” replied the constable. “Mr. Porch took him back, and he’s working for him now. He’s been on his best behaviour, sir, hasn’t spent too much of his time at the Otterworth Arms, and hasn’t been outside the village since he was brought back. In my opinion, sir, he’s had a thorough good fright.”

“That won’t do him any harm,” observed Merrion. “Do you think we could manage to have a word with him?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I know where he’s working, close by the cart-shed where Mr. Porch used to keep his bicycle. I’ll slip up and fetch him, if you like, sir.”

“Don’t trouble to do that, Pentrellis. We’ll go and find him for ourselves, if you’ll tell us the way.”

Pentrellis pointed out the best way of reaching the cart-shed, and they went off, leaving the car in his charge. “We’ve got to pass the Otterworth Arms, it seems,” remarked Merrion. “I think we’ll go in and have a word with the landlord. The place won’t be open, but your authority ought to be enough to open the door for us.”

The door was certainly shut, but after persistent knocking they succeeded in rousing Mr. Tregarris from his afternoon slumber. He was not best pleased to see them, but the production of Arnold’s card secured their admittance. They walked into the bar, and Merrion winked at the landlord. “We may take it that the official presence of Scotland Yard overrides the law,” he said. “We’ll have a couple of pints of beer, Mr. Tregarris, and I hope you’ll join us.”

Tregarris glanced at Arnold, who nodded. The beer was drawn, and the three sat down at one of the scrubbed tables. “Your health, gentlemen,” said Tregarris gravely, raising his mug.

“Here’s all good wishes,” replied Merrion, doing the same. “By Jove, that’s good beer. You know how to keep it, I can see that. By the way, there’s a question I wanted to ask you. How well did you know Mr. Gantley? Did you ever speak to him before he called here last Sunday?”

Tregarris considered this question for a moment or two. “Can’t say as I did,” he replied at last.

“You recognised him as soon as he came in, I suppose?”

“Why, yes, I knew it must be Mr. Gantley. I’d seen him go past in his car on Friday, and there hadn’t been any other cars going Winterley way since. It isn’t often that anybody takes a car along that road, bar him.”

“You’re sure no other car passed that way on Sunday?” asked Merrion quickly.

Mr. Tregarris searched his memory. “Well, now you come to mention it, there was,” he replied. “A car went past here soon after opening time, say twelve to half-past, driven by a chauffeur, with a toff in the back. But it came back again an hour or two after.”

“How did you know that the car which you used to see go through here was Mr. Gantley’s?” asked Merrion.

“Why, I asked, one day when I was in Carnford. They told me that Mr. Gantley, him that owned the Courier, had a house-boat away to Benger’s Creek, which he went down to at week-ends. And as this car only went through at the week-ends, I knew it was Mr. Gantley’s. See?”

“You saw Mr. Gantley go past pretty often, I expect. How would you describe him?”

“He was a middle-aged chap, not what you’d call tall, and not too small either. Seemed to stoop a bit, and had a short beard. But it was his glasses you couldn’t mistake. Big round ones, they was, as big as I ever saw.”

“So you recognised him when he came in by his beard and his glasses. What was he wearing then?”

“He had on a pair of rubber-soled shoes, but I couldn’t see much else for the big raincoat he was wearing. But I remember he had a muffler and a flat cap, something like a sailor.”

“There were some customers in the bar at the time, I believe. Did any of them know Mr. Gantley personally?”

“I don’t reckon they did. Most of them had seen him drive through, and they knew who he was, because I’d told them. But nobody in the village can have known him better than that, for he’d never stopped here before, that I know of.”

“Just one more question, Mr. Tregarris. When you went out to the car to pour in the petrol, are you sure there was nobody in it except Mr. Gantley?”

“There was nobody in it, not even Mr. Gantley, for he was standing beside me all the time. There was a bundle of rugs or something in the back, that’s all.”

Merrion and Arnold finished their beer and left the inn. “Now we’ll go and have a chat with Trimble,” said the former. “It won’t do us any harm to walk off that beer, and it’ll be a good opportunity for seeing the lie of the land.”

He took a map out of his pocket, opened it, and studied it as he walked. It was barely a mile to the cart-shed, and as soon as they reached it they saw a man carting manure on to a field near by. Arnold nodded towards him. “That’s Trimble,” he said.

They walked up to him, and Trimble flushed as he recognised the Inspector. But he said nothing, and waited for them to address him.

“Good-afternoon, Trimble,” said Merrion pleasantly. “We shan’t interrupt your work for long, but we’d like you to answer a few questions. When did you last see Mr. Gantley before he came into the Otterworth Arms last Sunday evening?”

Trimble’s face darkened. “Matter of six months or more,” he replied sullenly.

“That was when he called you into his office and dismissed you, wasn’t it? How often had you seen him before that?”

“Half a dozen times or so, when I was working at the Courier place. He’d walk round the works sometimes.”

“You recognised him as soon as he came into the Otterworth Arms?”

“Aye, that I did. I’d have known them glasses and beard of his anywhere. It didn’t need for him to say who he was.”

“Now, I want you to think carefully, Trimble. You didn’t notice anything different about him from when you saw him last?”

“Can’t say as I did. I’d never seen him in a muffler and cap before. But I remember I did think, when he spoke, that there was something queer about his voice. He spoke clear and sharp, as a rule, leastways he did when he spoke to me, that time. But the other evening he was husky like, same as if he’d got a cold or something.”

Merrion nodded, and turned away. Then, as though suddenly recollecting himself, he swung on his heel. “You haven’t thought better of that yarn of yours about the shot you said you’d heard fired from the car after midnight, have you?” he asked sharply.

“Thought better of it!” exclaimed Trimble indignantly. “Why, it’s God’s truth, so sure as I’m standing here. What would I have bolted across them fields for, else?”

Merrion smiled. “All right, Trimble, that’s all I wanted to know,” he said. He and Arnold left Trimble to get on with his work, and walked back to where they had left the car. On the way, Merrion insisted upon pointing out the peculiarities of the local topography. Even after they had entered the car, and were driving back to Carnford, he refused to discuss the object of the inquiries he had made.

Driffield had returned when they reached the police station. “Had a nice drive, Mr. Merrion?” he asked, with a touch of irony. “I’ve seen the analyst, and he’s promised to let me have a report some time this evening. And I had a talk with Watts. It’s rather a queer thing about that muffler. Watts declares that Gantley only possessed one muffler, and very rarely wore that. It was still in his room, for he fetched it down and showed it to me. I asked him if it wasn’t possible that Gantley had bought one at some time, and taken it down to the house-boat. He said it was extremely unlikely, for he, Watts, I mean, always packed his things when he went away, and he’d never seen one.”

“The mystery deepens,” said Merrion, with a smile. “And what about our friends the Harringtons?”

“They seem to have dug themselves in at Westerly Cottage, where they are living like fighting cocks. Gantley was always supposed to have a very good cellar, and I gather from Watts’ hints that they are busy raiding it. All the same, they must be getting a bit bored, I should think. Carnford isn’t exactly what they are used to. They were driven to going to the pictures last night. By the way, the man I’ve got watching the place says that they’ve never been lost sight of since I first had the place watched on Wednesday evening.”

“Then neither of them can possibly have planted that pistol at Benger’s Creek?” remarked Arnold.

“It’s quite impossible. They must have had an accomplice, and we’ve got to get on his trail. Come in!”

As Driffield had been speaking, there had been a knock on the door. At the Inspector’s summons the sergeant on duty came in and handed him a telegram. “This has just arrived, sir,” he said.

“Thanks,” replied Driffield. When the sergeant had left the room, he opened the telegram and read it. “Hell!” he exclaimed. “Look at that! What the deuce does it mean?”

Arnold took the proffered paper and read its contents aloud. “ ‘From Captain R.M.S. Majestic to Police, Carnford. Unable to trace any message sent you from this ship since she left port Wednesday!’ Well, I’m damned! What do you make of that, Merrion?”

Merrion smiled, a trifle grimly. “Do you know, I rather expected it,” he said quietly. “I rather fancy it will prove to be the last link in the chain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to call on Doctor Froude. I’ll look in again after dinner this evening.”

And, before either of the inspectors could say a word to stop him, he had slipped out of the room.

It was after nine o’clock when Merrion re-entered Inspector Driffield’s office. “I’ve been on the move ever since I left you,” he said, as he flung himself into a chair. “Anything fresh happened since I saw you last?”

“The report has just come in from the analyst,” replied Driffield. “You’d better look at it, Mr. Merrion, for it doesn’t convey anything to Arnold or me.”

Merrion took the report which the Inspector handed to him, and read it carefully. It consisted of a few lines only, to the effect that a sample of ash furnished by Inspector Driffield had been examined. The ash itself was undoubtedly that of some fibre, such as hemp, but it contained a very large proportion of potassium salts, which, if the substance from which the ash was derived was string, as alleged, was abnormal.

“Good enough,” exclaimed Merrion. “Now, if you two have the patience to listen, I think I can produce a theory which will adequately explain everything connected with the murder of Mr. Gantley.”

Driffield smiled. “There’s not a lot to be explained, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “But if you can show us how to get sufficient proof to justify our arresting Harrington, I shall be grateful.”

“I won’t promise to do that,” replied Merrion. “But I will promise to put a few new suggestions before you. Now, the position, as it appears at present is this, putting it in its simplest form. Mr. Gantley’s body was found in his car by the roadside early on Monday morning. There was no doubt as to the cause of death, since a bullet was found in his brain, and nothing else which could have caused death was found at the post-mortem. He had been dead for a considerable time, and what Doctor Froude calls the post-mortem stains showed that the body had remained in the position in which it was found since death had taken place.

“Further, Mr. Gantley had called at the Otterworth Arms at about half-past eight on Sunday evening, and had been seen by Trimble driving his car a few minutes later. Trimble admits having chucked a stone through the wind-screen, which caused the car to swerve into the ditch. The obvious deduction from these apparent facts is that Mr. Gantley was shot, while sitting in his car, at some time not long after Trimble threw the stone.”

“Surely we’re all agreed about that already, Mr. Merrion,” remarked Driffield, with a touch of impatience.

“I know you are, and that’s the trouble. Now, I’m rash enough to disagree, not with your deductions so much as with the accuracy of your facts. I maintain that so far from Mr. Gantley having been recognised shortly before his death, you have no evidence of anybody seeing him alive subsequent to Friday evening.”

Both Arnold and Driffield looked at Merrion as though they suspected him of having indulged too freely during his absence. But he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m not drunk, and I’m no less sane than I usually am. Here’s that list of so-called recognitions I made out this afternoon. Let’s run over it again, in the light of the inquiries which Arnold and I made a few hours ago. Start with the first entry. Mr. Gantley was seen by Watts at six o’clock on Friday evening, when he started for Benger’s Creek. I’m not going to dispute that. Watts saw Mr. Gantley every day of his life, and had done so for years. There’s no possibility of his having made a mistake.

“Then comes that long gap until Sir Arthur Urmery saw him on Sunday. By the way, we obtained a further confirmation of Urmery’s statements from the landlord of the Otterworth Arms. He saw a car go past, with a chauffeur driving, between twelve and half-past, and return a couple of hours or so later. Now, the point is, did Urmery see Mr. Gantley, or did he not?

“He says he did, but, assuming that he is speaking the truth, what did he see? A man resembling Mr. Gantley, sailing a boat, and, therefore, not in full view, at a distance, I reckon, of not less than a hundred yards. That’s about the distance you can see down the creek from the deck of the house-boat, where Urmery was standing. The minute this man saw Urmery, he put about, and did not turn his head round. Urmery could then see nothing but his back. He also noticed a strangeness about the man’s voice, he couldn’t make out clearly what he shouted to him. Yet, because he expected to find Mr. Gantley there, and this man resembled him, he flew to the conclusion that it was Gantley, as, I must admit, anybody else would have done.”

“But if he wasn’t Gantley, who the deuce was he?” exclaimed Driffield. “He can’t have been Harrington who, I assure you, isn’t the least like his uncle. Besides, this man was sailing Mr. Gantley’s dinghy.”

“I know. Perhaps we’ll be able to guess who he was later. I’ve taken the recognitions out of order, because I wanted to dispose of Urmery first. We’re not altogether sure that his story’s true, for one thing. For another, he knew Mr. Gantley fairly well. They’d been in negotiation for some time, and must have met pretty frequently. Now we come to an entirely different class of witness.

“The first of these is the boatman, Grundy. Now if we say that Grundy saw Mr. Gantley half a dozen times a year, we shan’t be far off the mark. Grundy sees a boat approach the shore, and recognises it as Mr. Gantley’s dinghy. A man steps out of it, wearing a beard and glasses, and with a slight stoop. Of course Grundy assumes him to be Mr. Gantley, who else should he be? He mentions that the man’s face was muffled up, as though he had toothache, which implies that he did not see much of it. He is mildly surprised that Mr. Gantley does not recognise him and give him a word.

“Now we come to the really crucial point, Mr. Gantley’s visit to the Otterworth Arms. The reason for that visit has never been adequately explained. He cannot really have been in need of petrol, for his tank was nearly full when the car was found. Your very ingenious suggestion, Inspector Driffield, that it was the result of a previous arrangement with Harrington, is, if you don’t mind my saying so, a piece of pure conjecture.

“But, you’ll say, whatever the cause of the visit, Mr. Gantley was recognised by half a dozen people as soon as he entered the bar. Let’s try and imagine that we’re among the company. We’re sitting in a smoky room, lighted by nothing but a single oil lamp. A car is seen approaching, and, since it is coming from the direction of Benger’s Creek, we know it must be Mr. Gantley’s. The car stops outside the door, and a man walks in, resembling in three most prominent characteristics, the beard, the exceptionally large glasses, and the stoop, the man we have often seen driving that very car through the village. It is quite unnecessary for the man to announce ‘my name is Gantley.’ We all know that already.

“There is one man sitting there who knows Mr. Gantley better than any of us. Trimble has worked for him, and is therefore assumed to be perfectly familiar with his appearance. Yet, was he? Arnold is my witness of what he told us. He saw him once face to face, on the lamentable occasion when he got the sack. Apart from that, he had only seen him casually as he passed through the works. Trimble recognises the familiar characteristics, hears the man say he is Mr. Gantley, and is satisfied. But, even so, he notices that the voice is curiously unfamiliar.

“Now I maintain that not one of these recognitions is worth a tinker’s dam. Any man remotely resembling Mr. Gantley, and with the same shaped beard, who could get possession of his glasses and assume his stoop, could pass himself off as Mr. Gantley under the circumstances. That’s the important point. I don’t believe in an elaborate disguise. But I do believe, that, given the superficial resemblance and the beard, it would be possible for a man to pass himself off as Mr. Gantley among those who only knew him slightly, or, at a distance, among those who knew him comparatively well.

“Remember, I say under the circumstances. In each of our cases of recognition, the witness expected to see Mr. Gantley. It wasn’t a case of picking him out from a dozen others. Urmery expected to find him alone at Benger’s Creek, Grundy saw the dinghy, which he recognised at a distance, the company at the Otterworth Arms knew the car before the driver came in. It’s easy enough to say now that they would have noticed minor points of difference between Mr. Gantley and any one impersonating him. Very possibly they would, if they’d looked for them. But they didn’t. Why should they? They had no earthly reason to suppose that the man was not, in fact, Mr. Gantley.”

Merrion paused, and Arnold ventured a word. “But where is all this leading to?” he asked.

“It’s leading to the removal of one of the obstacles to the theory of Mr. Gantley having been murdered at Benger’s Creek. Inspector Driffield has produced the unanswerable argument that dead men don’t drive cars or call at pubs. No, but live men do, and I maintain that on this occasion a live man did, but that that man was not Mr. Gantley.

“No, I don’t want to discuss the question of who it could have been just yet. Let me go a bit further. I’ve been to see Doctor Froude, and have thrashed out the vexed matter of the medical evidence with him. You’ll have to go over it with him if you want the details; he’d show you the text-books on forensic medicine, Dixon Mann and so forth.

“Speaking broadly it amounts to this. The temperature of the body is the chief guide to the time that has elapsed since death, but the observations made are liable to very wide interpretation. Many different factors affect them, and any opinion based upon them must be made in the light of common sense. Doctor Froude’s first verdict, you may remember, was that Mr. Gantley, when he saw his body at a quarter to nine on Monday morning, had been dead not less than ten hours.

“The body was taken to the mortuary, where Doctor Froude discovered the post-mortem stains he spoke to you about. The intensity of these stains rather surprised him, as did the extent to which certain other bodily changes had taken place. He told me just now that he would have considerably increased his original estimate of ten hours, but for the fact that it had by then been apparently established that Mr. Gantley had been alive at nine o’clock on Sunday evening. He knew that the rate of change in different bodies altered enormously, and he supposed that this was a case of unusual, though by no means unprecedented, rapidity.

“Then I put it to him this way. Could the appearance which he observed be compatible with Mr. Gantley’s death having taken place, not ten, but thirty or forty hours before he saw the body? After mature consideration, he said that they could, given certain conditions. These conditions were that the body should be kept as cold as possible for the first part of that period, in order to retard the changes. Very shortly after death it must have been placed in the posture in which it was found, and kept in that posture, in order to account for the stains being found where they were. Finally, the body must have been warmed, in order to simulate the vestiges of animal warmth which Doctor Froude had observed on Monday morning.

“So you see, the second objection to Mr. Gantley having been killed at Benger’s Creek is now removed. My own belief is that he was murdered, not only before Urmery’s visit to the house-boat, but as early as Saturday evening. And this, I think, is of the highest significance.”

“Well, what you’ve told us is amazing,” remarked Driffield doubtfully, as Merrion paused. “If there’s anything in it, it seems to me that we shall have to start the investigation all over again, without much to go on. There’s just this. You suggest that Mr. Gantley may have been killed on Saturday or Sunday, and Harrington can’t produce witnesses to his actions on either of these days.”

“Saturday. I’m pretty sure. You’ll see why I say so later. But I don’t think you need be pessimistic, Inspector. I think we’ve got enough facts at our disposal to reconstruct how the crime might, at all events, have been committed.

“To start with, I’m going to imagine a criminal called A. I picture him as a man who bore a superficial resemblance to Mr. Gantley, in height, figure and so forth. He had probably grown a similar beard, in order to heighten the resemblance. He had prepared the crime beforehand, and he knew that Mr. Gantley would be at Benger’s Creek last week-end.

“Now, how did A set about the job? His first problem was to reach Benger’s Creek unobserved, and to leave no trail, which could subsequently be picked up, behind him. I think he solved this by taking a bus to Carronport on Saturday afternoon and crossing in the ferry to Winterley. You told us, Inspector Driffield, that on that afternoon the village was full of excursionists, many of whom crossed in the ferry. A would run very little risk of identification among these. Once at Winterley, he could make his way to Benger’s Creek with practically no risk of being seen.

“Arrived at Benger’s Creek, he would hide himself in the coppice and await his opportunity. Sooner or later he found it, when Mr. Gantley was sitting on the deck of the house-boat in his chair. You will remember, Arnold, that we decided that the right side of his head would then be exposed to the coppice. A, who must have been a pretty sure shot, fired, and the bullet struck Mr. Gantley in the right temple. The distance from the coppice to the house-boat would account for the nature of the wound, as it has been described.

“A had then to dispose of the body. His scheme for doing so was already prepared, and I think we must admit that it was a most ingenious one. He meant to stage an entirely false appearance of the crime, and, but for Trimble, I fancy he would have succeeded.

“His first move was to go on board the house-boat. Mr. Gantley had changed from the suit in which he drove down, to the one he kept on board the boat. A was wearing, or had in his possession, the muffler. A put on the suit in which Mr. Gantley had driven down, and his spare pair of shoes, in order to heighten his resemblance to the dead man as much as possible. He also removed Mr. Gantley’s glasses and put them in his pocket, for subsequent use.

“He found, on examining the body, that Mr. Gantley’s coat was covered with blood. That was all right. But some of the blood had trickled on to the canvas of the deck-chair, and that was all wrong. So he tore the canvas out of the chair, and put it with his own clothes, for subsequent disposal. I expect he made a bundle of them, put a stone in the middle, and sank the lot in Carronport Water later.

“Having searched Mr. Gantley’s pockets, he found the key of the shed. He opened this, and carried the body to the car, where he placed it in the driving seat, arranging it in the position in which it was found. All he had to do then was to clear up any mess there might be on deck, and to settle down to enjoy Mr. Gantley’s provisions and whisky, feeling quite secure against interruption that night.

“Next morning, he got to work again. Part of his plan was to make it appear that Mr. Gantley was killed on Sunday night, not Saturday evening, the reason for this being probably that he meant to establish a perfect alibi for himself on Sunday night. So he took the dinghy, and wearing the famous spectacles and hiding most of his face except his beard with the muffler, sailed down to Carronport and bought a paper, knowing that it was pretty certain that somebody would recognise him as Mr. Gantley. Naturally he didn’t speak to Grundy, since he had probably never set eyes on him before.

“His first snag was when he returned to the house-boat, and saw Urmery on board as he rounded the point. A hadn’t the slightest idea who Urmery was; he might have been Mr. Gantley’s most intimate friend, for all he knew. He dare not risk coming any closer, for fear of his disguise being penetrated. All he could do was to clear out as quick as he could, and shout out something about seeing him next day. And there we come to another point. It was not difficult for A to get himself up to look like Mr. Gantley. But it would be practically impossible for him to make his voice sound the same as his. Hence, I think, the adaption of a husky tone, as though he had a cold.

“I bet the next half-hour or so was a pretty anxious time for A. He probably landed somewhere out of sight, and scouted back to find out what this most unwelcome intruder would do. He must have been immensely relieved when he found that he had left the boat and gone away.

“As soon as there was water enough, he brought the dinghy alongside. Now, the body had been kept cool long enough. You said there was a nip in the air that Sunday morning, Inspector. The next thing was to warm it up again. He fetched it from the car and brought it into the forecastle. Then he lighted all the burners of that oil cooker, and shut the hatch and the forecastle door. In a few hours the place must have been like an oven.

“Then came the last act. As soon as it was nearly dark, he carried the body back to the car, laid it on the floor in the back, and covered it over with the rugs. But, on leaving the ship, he made one small mistake, for which he can hardly be blamed. He did not know that Mr. Gantley was in the habit of carrying back his empties, and he omitted to put them in the car.

“He locked up the boat and the shed, put the keys back in Mr. Gantley’s pocket, and started to drive the car back towards Carnford. But, to make things absolutely certain, he wanted one more recognition. The Otterworth Arms was his opportunity. He knew enough of Mr. Gantley’s character to feel sure that he was not likely to be too well known in any pub. He also knew that it would excite some surprise if Mr. Gantley were to call at a pub for the sole purpose of buying himself a drink. Hence he made a want of petrol the excuse for his call. It didn’t matter to him whether he got any or not, since he already had enough in his tank. The establishment of the fact that Mr. Gantley was then alive was all that he wanted, and he made quite certain of his recognition by announcing that he was Mr. Gantley.

“When he left the Otterworth Arms, it must have seemed to A that the end was now in sight. But he reckoned without Trimble. How could he possibly guess that this wretched individual would descend from the blue and put a spoke in his wheel? What beats me is this. He must have made some arrangements for a get-away, which Trimble’s action must have completely upset. How did A originally propose to dispose of the body, and then establish his alibi? We haven’t discovered that. But I’m not sure that I can’t guess.”

Merrion paused, and lighted another cigarette. But the two inspectors were too keenly interested in this audacious reconstruction to interrupt his train of thought. After a minute or two Merrion resumed.

“I’m pretty sure A didn’t mean to leave the car and the body by the roadside at such a remote spot as Norton Ferris, for this reason. He had to get to some place where he would be recognised—as himself, not as Mr. Gantley—in order to establish his alibi, with as little waste of time as possible. Now, this is purely guess-work, but it’s what I should have done in his place. I should have driven the car right into Carnford, into the drive leading to Westerly Cottage, in fact, and left it there. From Carnford I could have caught a train to my destination. But I shouldn’t have risked that. I should have provided myself with some alternative means of locomotion, but of A’s having done so there is apparently no trace.”

Driffield leapt to his feet with a sudden exclamation. “Good lord, the bicycle!” he exclaimed. “It’s in a shed outside now, waiting for somebody to claim it.”

“What bicycle?” inquired Arnold. “I don’t remember you telling me about that.”

“No, I didn’t, because, like a fool, I didn’t see any connection between it and Gantley’s murder. It was a bicycle found by an old chap called Jefferies hidden in a ruined mill.”

He recounted the interview he had with Jefferies on the previous Tuesday morning. “The inquest immediately afterwards put the incident entirely out of my head,” he concluded lamely.

Merrion smiled. “It’s all Lombard Street to a china orange that A planted that bicycle there on Saturday,” he said. “You’ve got a very valuable clue there, Inspector. But let’s return to what actually happened. Trimble chucks his stone, and A, startled out of his wits, drives the car so well and truly into the ditch that there isn’t the slightest hope of his being able to get it out again without a team of horses.

“That was a nasty one for A. He had to act and act quickly. The first thing he did, I expect, was to make sure that whoever had thrown the stone had bolted. Then he took the body from the back of the car and arranged it artistically, even going so far as to pick up the broken glass and scatter it over the body. There’s one thing about A, he has a passion for realism. He remembered, when he first put the body in the car on Saturday, to smear some blood on the cushions.

“Now at last we come to your pet puzzle, the shot heard by Trimble after midnight. I admit that had me beat, too, but the possible solution occurred to me last night, and I’ve tested it pretty thoroughly. It was that piece of burnt string which gave me the clue.

“A was very keen on laying clues for the police, and this was one of them. He intended a shot to be heard at a time when he could prove that he was safely tucked up in bed somewhere. His original plan, I expect, was this. He meant a bang to be heard in the middle of the night. Bangs are not infrequent in a town like Carnford, and nobody would be likely to get up and see what it was about. But, when Mr. Gantley’s body was found in the morning, somebody would be sure to remember the noise they heard, and it would be attributed to the shot that killed him. As it was, he thought he might just as well have his bang all the same, on the off-chance that some one might hear it even in the remote spot where the car was ditched.

“How did he manage it? Why, simply enough. If you take a piece of string, soak it in a strong solution of saltpetre, and then dry it, it makes a perfect slow match. Look here, I’ll show you.”

Merrion took what appeared to be an ordinary piece of string from his pocket, and laid it on the floor. “I’m going to damage your carpet a bit, I’m afraid, Inspector,” he said. “But no doubt the ratepayers will make it good to you. Now, watch.”

He put a lighted match to the end of the string, which began to smoulder, throwing out tiny sparks and leaving a charred line on the carpet as it did so. “That’s how that ash and the burnt mark on the carpet came to be found in the car,” he continued. “I prepared this string this morning and tested it. It burns about eighteen inches an hour, so that if A’s piece burnt at the same rate, we can assume he lighted it about nine o’clock. Now, we’ll carry our experiment a step further.”

Again he dived into his pocket, and this time produced a damp handkerchief. He unfolded this carefully, and from its centre produced a pill-box. From this he took a tiny screw of tissue paper, which he laid cautiously on the floor. He then cut off about half an inch of the string, inserted one end into the screw of paper, and lighted the other.

The string smouldered away for about a minute and a half, until a spark caught the paper. Instantly there was a sharp report which shook the windows, and the room was filled with the odour of burnt explosive.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Driffield. “What was that?”

“Fulminate of silver,” replied Merrion with a chuckle. “Noisy stuff, isn’t it? And it’s so beautifully simple to prepare. I made this in my bedroom at the hotel this morning, with nothing more formidable than a tumbler, a bit of blotting paper, a sixpence and two little bottles of stuff I got from the chemist. You see now how the trick was done, don’t you?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear, Mr. Merrion,” replied Driffield. “You wanted the ash analysed to see if the string had been soaked in saltpetre, I suppose?”

“Exactly, and the unusual amount of potash confirmed what I suspected. Saltpetre is nitrate of potash, you know. I think I’ve demonstrated pretty conclusively that when Trimble heard what he, naturally, thought was a shot, there was no living person but himself near the car. A had decamped, I should judge, about nine o’clock.”

“You can’t deduce where he went to, I suppose?” asked Arnold, quite seriously.

“I think I can,” replied Merrion. “The finding of Mr. Porch’s bicycle in the empty truck suggests to me that his immediate destination was Trentmouth. He had originally intended riding there on the bicycle which you told us about just now. But you must remember that he was stranded six or seven miles from that. There were two things he could do. He could walk to Carnford, pick up the bicycle, and ride to Trentmouth, or he could strike straight over the moors from where he was and cover the distance on foot.

“He decided on the latter course. Now, while studying the map this afternoon, I came to the conclusion that to any one with a sense of direction, the shortest route from the place where the car was ditched to Trentmouth was to start across that path over the fields, then up past Mr. Porch’s cart-shed, and so on to the moors. If you look at the map, I think you’ll agree with me. A took this route, reached the cart-shed, and peeped in. I’m assuming, of course, that he had with him an electric torch and was still wearing Mr. Gantley’s shoes.

“Inside the shed he found the very thing he was most in need of, a bicycle. It was a stroke of luck which almost made up for the annoyance which Trimble’s meddling had caused him. He commandeered the bicycle, and, as soon as he hit upon one of those moorland tracks, got on it and pedalled as hard as he could towards Trentmouth. When he came to the railway sidings, he put the bicycle into the first empty truck he saw, pulled the tarpaulin over it, and walked the rest of the way into the town.”

Merrion threw himself back in his chair with an air of finality, as though his explanation were completed.

“That’s one of the most ingenious reconstructions I ever heard!” exclaimed Arnold admiringly. “Your theory of the criminal’s actions accounts for all the facts we’ve learnt. But there’s a lot still to be explained. First and foremost, of course, the identity of this mysterious man you call A. He can’t surely have been Harrington, who doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to his uncle, even if he once grew a beard which he has subsequently shaved off. And who planted the pistol last Wednesday, or wrote the anonymous letter? Why on earth couldn’t A leave well alone, since he had committed his crime and got away with it?”

Merrion smiled. “No, Harrington wasn’t A,” he replied slowly. “I’m almost sorry he wasn’t, for he sounds a most objectionable young man. My only consolation is that he’ll get a rude awakening from the fool’s paradise that he’s living in at the moment. For, you see, according to my theory, Mr. Gantley was murdered about six o’clock on Saturday afternoon.”

It was some seconds before the full significance of this remark dawned upon Arnold. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “And Lady Gantley didn’t die till eight! Then Mr. Gantley died first, and her money goes to the Chadwicks.”

“As it was intended to,” replied Merrion significantly. “Now perhaps you understand the desperate attempts made by A after the crime to lead you to the time and place of Mr. Gantley’s murder without incriminating himself. His ingenuity had defeated its own ends, and robbed him of the benefits which he hoped to reap from his crime.”

A look almost of horror came into Arnold’s eyes. He leaned forward towards Merrion. “Who killed Mr. Gantley?” he asked in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“Percy Chadwick,” replied Merrion quietly. “It’s as clear as daylight, once you come to work it out.”

Arnold lay back in his chair, convinced against his will. “Poor girl, poor girl!” he muttered. But Driffield, whose imagination did not move as quickly as his colleague’s, spoke almost impatiently. “It may be as clear as daylight to you, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “But I’m only a policeman, and I must have proof.”

“I don’t fancy that you’ll have much difficulty about that,” replied Merrion. “Perhaps it will help you if I tell you how the whole affair strikes me. The whole trouble is due to that will of Lady Gantley’s. You can imagine how young Chadwick felt about it. He had the chance of succeeding to half her fortune, if only Mr. Gantley died first. If he didn’t, the money went to a worthless nephew and niece, and he and his sister were fobbed off with a beggarly five hundred a year. And he knew that Lady Gantley had a weak heart, and that in the normal course of events there was not the slightest chance of her outliving her brother-in-law.

“I think he must have brooded over this in those long middle watches on board the Mendip Hills, when a man has nothing to keep him company but his own thoughts. And slowly the idea must have come to him that if only he could get Gantley out of the way, the injustice of his position would be removed. You may think I’m indulging my fancy in too high a flight, but I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if, whenever the Mendip Hills put into Trentmouth, he took the opportunity of coming over to Carnford, studying him from a distance, watching his habits, learning all he could about him. I won’t say that he formed any definite plan, but vaguely, almost sub-consciously, he regarded Gantley as his ultimate victim.

“Then, when he came to Tulip Lodge last week, and heard the doctor’s verdict, his mind was suddenly made up. Lady Gantley would probably live for some months yet, but there was always the danger that some shock might suddenly carry her off. If he was to secure the money for himself and his sister, he must act at once, before he started on his next voyage. He dare delay no longer. On his way back to the Albert Docks he called in at the West Central Post Office and put a call through to Mr. Gantley’s office. On hearing that he would be away for the week-end, he guessed, from his previous observation of his habits, that he would be going to Benger’s Creek.

“The details of the scheme were probably worked out while the Mendip Hills was on her passage between London and Trentmouth. As soon as Chadwick was free on Saturday, he began to put it into operation.

“The first step was to provide himself with a bicycle and to hide it in the ruined mill. Inquiries in local bicycle shops will probably throw light on this. His journey to Carronport, and his subsequent movements, I have already conjectured. Now we come to events subsequent to the murder.

“The Mendip Hills left Trentmouth on Monday morning. The apparently curious fact that Trimble chose her to stow himself away upon is probably without significance. Trimble merely saw a vessel about to get under way, and learnt perhaps that she was bound for Canada. She seemed to him to serve his purpose, and he may very likely not even have known her name. And, for some reason, Chadwick did not get the telegram addressed to him there by his sister. Probably the post office believed that the vessel had sailed by the time the telegram came through. She would have done, had it not been for the delay.

“Chadwick must have been congratulating himself on the success of his undertaking until the pilot came aboard in the Clyde and gave him the telegram addressed to Glasgow. But very few people can ever have experienced the horror he must have known when he read it. Lady Gantley had died at eight o’clock on Sunday evening, an event utterly outside his calculations. He had certainly killed Mr. Gantley before that, but he had taken infinite pains and risk to make it appear that he had not been killed till Sunday night. He could not possibly prove the true time of Mr. Gantley’s death without accusing himself of being the murderer.

“Was ever man placed in such a horrible dilemma? His crime was useless to him; the only people who could benefit from it to any extent were the Harringtons. We can, perhaps, imagine his feelings, all the more intolerable because he could not share them with anybody else.

“There was only one chance left for him, and that was a pretty slender one. It was to try to put the police in the way of discovering the chronology of the crime, while at the same time giving them no clue to the identity of the criminal. He applied for leave once more, and, apparently with some difficulty obtained it. He took the afternoon train from Glasgow to London, but he did not go down to Richmond to see his sister. He had other more urgent business.

“I fancy he cut those words out of the paper and stuck them on to the letter in the train. The unsteadiness of the block letters forming the address suggests something of the kind. The letter was probably posted on his arrival at Euston, which would account for the postmark, N.W.1.

“I have been studying the time-tables, and I find that Chadwick must have travelled from Paddington to Trentmouth by the very same train that you and I travelled by, Arnold. I noticed that a good many passengers got out at Trentmouth, and he must have been among them. What did he do next? He had the pistol in his pocket, and he had to get to and from Benger’s Creek in the shortest possible time. I think his first move was to go to the railway siding. There was just a chance that the truck in which he had thrown Mr. Porch’s bicycle had not yet been moved. Luck was with him there. He found the bicycle where he had left it, and set off on it for Benger’s Creek as fast as he could.”

“Why didn’t he get out here, and look for the bicycle he had hidden in the old mill?” asked Arnold.

“I thought of that, and I think I see the reason,” replied Merrion. “He must have been pretty rattled by this time, you know. He may have thought that the bicycle had been found, as, indeed, it had been. If it had, his guilty conscience would have suggested to him that the police would have connected it with the crime, and that a watch would be kept on the mill for anybody who might come to look for the bicycle. The same thing applies to Mr. Porch’s bicycle, I know. But Chadwick had to take a risk, anyhow. He would almost certainly have preferred the risk of being seen in Trentmouth to Carnford.

“There is, I have discovered, a train from Trentmouth to the north of England at seven in the morning, with a connection reaching Glasgow soon after two in the afternoon. This, no doubt, is how Chadwick regained his ship. She left that afternoon, with Chadwick still tortured by his almost insoluble problem.”

“But what about the wireless telegram from the Majestic?” asked Driffield.

“I’m coming to that. Now, after I left you this afternoon, I went to Trentmouth, where I called on the local agent of the Hills Line. I told him that I was a member of a firm of solicitors, and that I was making inquiries for Chadwick, since a relative of his had died and left him some money. The agent told me I was a bit late, since the Mendip Hills had left Trentmouth on Monday morning, and was by now on her way to Canada.

“However, he was quite ready to talk, and I led the conversation in the direction of Chadwick. The agent told me he knew him well. He was a man of middle height, fair and slight, and the agent had noticed that within the last few months he had grown a short, closely-trimmed beard. He had last seen him early on Monday morning on board the Mendip Hills. He had then noticed that he had patches of sticking plaster on his face, but hadn’t had the chance of asking what had happened to him.”

Driffield smiled grimly. “I’ll ask him, when I lay hands on him,” he said. “The broken glass from the wind-screen, I suppose?”

“I imagine so. Perhaps that’s where the blood he smeared so artistically on the cushions of the car came from. Since the agent seemed to be in a talkative mood, I asked him all sorts of questions about the Mendip Hills. I learnt that, like all cargo steamers of her size, she carries wireless. But she only carries one operator, who is on duty at night. During the day time one of the officers, or a man qualified as a wireless watcher, keeps an eye on the apparatus and calls the operator if he is wanted. It was the chief officer’s duty to see that this was done.

“Now, I think, we can explain that mysterious wireless telegram. At nine o’clock this morning, the Mendip Hills would be somewhere in the North Atlantic, and the wireless operator would be off duty. Chadwick, still obsessed by his idea of revealing the true time of Mr. Gantley’s death, entered the wireless room, saying that he would take on there for a bit. He would naturally be an expert in the Morse code, and he had probably familiarised himself with the working of the apparatus, long before.

“As soon as he had the place to himself, he sent that telegram, calling the land station with the distinguishing call of the Majestic, instead of that of the Mendip Hills. It was quite simple, and the only risk he ran was of the Majestic’s operator picking up the message and taking a part in the game. But probably the transmitter of the Mendip Hills is not very powerful, and the Majestic, running on a very different course, would be out of range. The shore station, naturally, relayed the message as coming from the Majestic. And that, I think, pretty well concludes my case.”

There was a long silence after Merrion had finished speaking, both Arnold and Driffield being occupied with their own thoughts. And then the former spoke. “What first made you suspect Percy Chadwick?” he asked.

Merrion smiled. “Nothing very logical, I’m afraid,” he replied. “I’ll try to explain how I arrived at it. When you first told me about the case in the train the other night, I couldn’t understand why the crime had been committed by the roadside, when it could so much more easily have been committed at Benger’s Creek. And then, when I saw Benger’s Creek and the house-boat for myself, it seemed all the less explicable. Of course, as things appeared, it was ridiculous to suppose that Mr. Gantley had been killed while he was at Benger’s Creek. For one thing, he had been seen since, and, for another, there was that shot which Trimble heard, and which must have been fired by somebody.

“I’ve told you how the piece of burnt string suggested to me how the so-called shot might be accounted for. The slow-match dodge with string and saltpetre is a dodge which I learned while I was at school. The preparation of fulminate of silver from an ordinary silver coin is so ridiculously easy that anybody with the most elementary scientific knowledge could tumble to it.

“The difficulty about the shot having been removed, there remained that very awkward point of Mr. Gantley’s supposed call at the Otterworth Arms. Then came that telegram, ostensibly from the Majestic. ‘Was Gantley actually recognised after Friday evening?’ Yes, of course. He had been seen by several people. But actually recognised? That’s what made me think a bit. How closely had any of these people observed him, or, alternatively, how well had they known him? Were any of them in a position to prove, beyond any possibility of doubt, that the man they had seen was actually Mr. Gantley?

“It struck me as suggestive that, although the company in the Otterworth Arms were quite satisfied that the caller had been Mr. Gantley, Pentrellis, who had been stationed at Norton Ferris for some time, did not recognise the body when he found it. Mr. Gantley couldn’t have been a familiar figure in the village, I decided. So I thought I’d go and have a chat with Tregarris and Trimble, and hear what they had to say.

“You know the result, Arnold, for you were with me. It was pretty clear that their recognitions were worthless, as indeed were those of Sir Arthur Urmery and Grundy. It was not, in fact, established that Mr. Gantley had been seen alive since he left Carnford on Friday evening. He might have been murdered at any time during his visit to Benger’s Creek.

“This, to my mind, gave an entirely new aspect to the crime. You, quite logically, argued that since Mr. Gantley’s death had occurred after that of his sister-in-law, suspicion was directed towards Harrington. Chadwick had no possible motive for murdering him, once Lady Gantley was dead. But supposing it had been the other way about; that the murderer of Mr. Gantley had intended that his crime should take place before the death of Lady Gantley?

“I was, from the first, inclined to believe that the accident which led to Lady Gantley’s death was in the nature of an ‘Act of God.’ Sergeant Keane’s report confirmed me in this belief. It seemed to me that to tamper with the chimney-pot would have been a most hazardous undertaking. Not only was there the risk of the action being observed, but no man could possibly have forecasted when the gale which would dislodge the chimney-pot would occur. Besides, how could it have been ensured that some of the bricks would fall down the chimney, or that the resulting shock to Lady Gantley would have been fatal?

“Mind, I don’t blame you for not adopting this view. The incident, coinciding as it did so closely with Mr. Gantley’s death, was certainly suspicious, and it was your duty to bear in mind the possibility that it had been caused intentionally. Also, if you don’t mind my saying so, you wanted to think that Lady Gantley’s death had been brought about by human agency. It fitted in so nicely with your theory of Harrington’s guilt.

“Incidentally, this theory had in my eyes one grave drawback. It involved the assumption that Harrington had an accomplice. And it seemed to me that a man setting out to commit a murder of this kind would keep his intentions and his actions very much to himself.

“No, on the whole I preferred to think that Lady Gantley’s death had been due to pure accident, that it was as unexpected by Mr. Gantley’s murderer as by everybody else. If that were so, Mr. Gantley had been murdered, in the assumption that Lady Gantley’s death would follow in due course within a few months. That she would not live beyond this period was the opinion of her doctor. Where, then, given this sequence of deaths, did the benefit lie?

“This question was not difficult to answer. The motive for Mr. Gantley’s murder was thus supplied, and that admirable report from Inspector McPherson disclosed the opportunity. On reading it over, I saw that there was no difficulty in making Chadwick’s movements coincide with those of the murderer; as I had supposed them.”

“Still, you know, Mr. Merrion, we haven’t got any definite proof that Percy Chadwick is the murderer,” objected Driffield. “And what about Harrington? Where does he come in?”

“Much as I regret it, I’m afraid that Harrington doesn’t come into the picture at all,” replied Merrion “I can only hope that a jury will decide that Mr. Gantley predeceased his sister-in-law. And as for having any definite proof against Chadwick, that’s for you to decide. I suppose that the only definite proof of murder would be for the crime to have been witnessed by some trustworthy person, and murderers are, as a rule, too careful for that. Anyhow, I’ve talked enough for one evening, and I’m going home to bed.”

The two inspectors set to work to prove the truth of Merrion’s theory without delay. A number of fishermen were set to work with trawls in Carronport Water, by the entrance to Benger’s Creek, and they eventually brought up a bundle consisting of a suit of clothes and the canvas seating of a deck-chair. The clothes were identified as having belonged to Chadwick, and even the prolonged immersion had not removed the bloodstains on the canvas. Meanwhile, inquiries were set on foot as to the bicycle, and it was traced to a second-hand dealer in Trentmouth, who identified it as one which he had sold to a man whom he took to be a ship’s officer, on Saturday 23rd, about noon. His description of this man agreed with the description of Chadwick furnished by the agent of the Hills Line. The dealer was prepared to swear that the man had no visible injuries to his face at the time he bought the bicycle.

The conductor of the bus which had left Carnford for Carronport at half-past three on the 23rd distinctly remembered a passenger who answered to the description of Chadwick. He had noticed him because he was not unlike Mr. Gantley, whom he knew well by sight. He knew Mr. Gantley had a nephew, and he had wondered whether this passenger could be him.

The wife of one of the fishermen living at Winterley had seen many strangers on the afternoon of the 23rd. She was not prepared to describe any of them. But she remembered seeing one of them walk off inland at a rapid pace, as though he had some business on foot. Knowing that these strangers came off the excursion steamer, which was shortly due to leave, she had wondered whether this man would get back in time to catch it. From that moment she had forgotten all about the incident.

A ticket collector at Trentmouth remembered a passenger answering to the description getting off the train from London which arrived in the early hours of Thursday morning. He had seen the same man return to the station later. He appeared to be in a great hurry. He inquired about trains to Glasgow, bought a ticket for that place, and was just in time to catch the 7 a.m. train.

This was sufficient, in the eyes of both Arnold and Driffield, to justify steps being taken for Chadwick’s arrest. The authorities at Halifax were communicated with, and on the arrival of the Mendip Hills at that port, Chadwick was taken into custody. He was sent back to Carnford, and there charged with the murder of Mr. Gantley.

When Driffield saw him he looked utterly broken and discouraged. He had shaved off his beard, shortly after the Mendip Hills had left Glasgow, but, even so, there was a certain elusive likeness between him and Mr. Gantley. He made no attempt to deny the charge, but accepted it with the air of a man who has played a game and lost.

“Yes, I shot him all right,” he said, almost offhandedly, when he was formally charged. “Luck was against me all the time, first of all Aunt Henrietta dying suddenly, months before I had expected it, and then that confounded stone that broke the wind-screen and made me drive into the ditch. You’d never have got me, but for that last bit. But there’s one thing I want you to get into your head straight away. It was barely six o’clock on Saturday afternoon when I killed him. You’ve got me, and that’s that. The least you can do is to see that Sylvia gets her rights, after I’m gone.”

He insisted upon making a detailed confession, the incidents of which corresponded almost exactly with what Merrion had deduced. “It was all absurdly simple,” he said. “I only had one bad moment, and that was when I came back in the dinghy from Carronport, and saw somebody I didn’t know from Adam standing on the deck of the house-boat. I couldn’t be sure whether I had locked the shed or not, and inside it was the car with Gantley’s body in the driving seat. I tell you, I felt pretty bad till I’d made sure that whoever it was had cleared out. But that was nothing to what I felt when the pilot gave me that wire from Sylvia, and I knew that I could never prove that Gantley died before Aunt Henrietta, without giving myself away.”

The trial and inevitable sentence followed in due course. Inspector Arnold, who felt an interest in the case which he did not attempt to disguise, visited the condemned man in Downham Minster gaol. The Inspector never disclosed all that passed between them at that interview, but before he left he had given Chadwick a solemn promise that he would do everything he could in the interests of his sister.

In spite of the fact that Chadwick had sworn on oath that he had killed Mr. Gantley not later than six o’clock on the Saturday, and that, therefore, he had died two hours before his sister-in-law, M. Polteith, as Mr. Gantley’s executor, maintained his claims to Lady Gantley’s estate. He argued that there was no evidence to support this statement, and that all the probabilities went to show that Lady Gantley had died first. Sylvia Chadwick, in spite of all that Arnold could urge, utterly refused to allow any steps to contest this claim being made on her behalf. “You must see that I couldn’t touch the money,” she said quietly. “I don’t care who gets it, as long as you never speak about it to me again.”

Many months later Arnold sought her out again. She had changed her name, and was working in a school for blind children. She greeted him with a brave smile. “Yes, I am—not happy, but content,” she said. “It soothes me to feel that, though nobody here can see me, I am still of use. I feel that I have hidden myself from the world, without the selfishness that that would involve.”

“But you are throwing your life away!” he exclaimed, with a note of bitterness in his voice which he could not conceal.

“I think not,” she replied gently. “I have found my vocation, and I shall follow it to the end.”

He came a step closer. “Would nothing make you alter your decision?” he asked, scarcely above a whisper.

She took his hand in hers, and pressed it tenderly, as though in farewell. Then she raised her face to his, and he read in her eyes the ineradicable record of her suffering. “Nothing, my friend,” she replied.

And Arnold left her, knowing that the dream he had cherished could never be fulfilled.

LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Death of Mr. Gantley by Miles Burton (pseudonym of Cecil John Charles Street )]