Sir Clinton examined the print for a moment or two, then put it down.
“What about the box and the wrist-watch?” he asked.
Inspector Armadale’s face showed that here he was puzzled.
“There’s nothing on either of them—not a recent mark of any description. And yet the man who packed them up must have fingered both things.”
“With gloves on, evidently.”
“But why gloves?” the Inspector demanded.
“Why gloves?” Sir Clinton echoed, rather sarcastically. “To avoid leaving finger-prints, of course. That’s obvious.”
“But why avoid leaving finger-prints on a thing that you’re sending to a jeweller for repair?”
“Think it over, Inspector. I won’t insult you by telling you my solution. Let’s take another point. Have you the watch itself here?”
The Inspector produced it and handed it over. Sir Clinton took out a pocket-knife and opened the back of the case.
“No use,” he announced, after examining the back cover carefully. “It’s never been repaired. There are no reference marks scratched on the inside of the back as there usually are when a watch has gone back to the watch-makers. If there had been, we might have found out something about Foss in that way, by getting hold of the watch-makers. By the way, have you timed this thing as I asked you to do?”
“It’s running on time,” Armadale answered. “It hasn’t varied a rap in the last twelve hours.”
“A practically new watch; running to time; never needed repair so far; dispatched by post with no finger-marks of the dispatcher: surely you can see what that means?”
Inspector Armadale shook his head.
“It might be a secret message,” he hazarded, though without much confidence. “I mean a prearranged code.”
“So it might,” Sir Clinton agreed. “The only thing against that in my mind is that I’m perfectly sure that it wasn’t.”
Armadale looked sulky.
“I’m hardly clever enough to follow you, sir, I’m afraid.”
Sir Clinton’s expression grew momentarily stern; but the shade passed from his face almost instantly.
“This is one of these cases, Inspector, where I think that two heads are better than one. Now if I tell you what’s in my mind, it might tempt you to look at things exactly as I do; and then we’d have lost the advantage of having two brains at work on the business independently. We’re more likely to be usefully employed if we pool the facts and keep our interpretations separate from each other.”
The tone of the Chief Constable’s voice went a good way towards soothing the Inspector’s ruffled feelings, the more so since he saw the weight of Sir Clinton’s reasoning.
“I’m sorry, sir. I quite see your point now.”
Sir Clinton had the knack of leaving no ill-feelings in his subordinates. By an almost imperceptible change of manner, he dismissed the whole matter and restored cordiality again.
“Let’s get back to the pure facts, Inspector. Each of us must look at them in his own way; but we can at least examine some of them without biasing each other. Did you get any more information out of that chauffeur?”
Inspector Armadale seemed glad enough to forget the slight friction between himself and his Chief, as the tone of his voice showed when he replied.
“I could get nothing out of him at all, sir. He seems a stupid sort of fellow. But it was quite clear that somehow or other he’d picked up the idea that Foss meant to leave Ravensthorpe for good yesterday afternoon. He stuck to that definitely; and the packing up of his traps shows that he believed it.”
“We can take it, then, that Foss gave reason for the man thinking that he was going away. Put your own interpretation on that, Inspector; but you needn’t tell me what you make of it.”
The Inspector’s smile showed that ill-feeling had gone.
“Very well, Sir Clinton. And I’ll admit that I had my suspicions of the valet. He seems to have a clear bill now in the matter of the finger-prints on the weapon. Perhaps I was a bit rough on the man; but he annoyed me—a cheeky fellow.”
“Oh, don’t let’s use hard words about him,” Sir Clinton suggested chaffingly. “Let’s call him cool, simply.”
“Well, his finger-prints weren’t on the handle of the sword, anyhow,” the Inspector admitted.
“I hardly expected them to be,” was all the comment Sir Clinton saw fit to make. “Now what about friend Foss? By the way, I don’t mind saying that I still think these two affairs at Ravensthorpe are interconnected. And one thing’s clear at any rate: Foss wasn’t the man in white. You remember he was wearing a cow-boy costume according to the valet’s evidence; and we found that costume in his wardrobe, which confirms Marden.”
The Inspector seemed to be taking a leaf out of Sir Clinton’s book. He refrained from either acquiescing in or contradicting the Chief Constable’s statement that the two cases were linked.
“Foss had more ready money in his pocket than most people carry; he was in a position to clear out of Ravensthorpe at any moment without needing to go back to his flat or even to a bank. I think these facts are plain enough,” he pointed out. “And they fit in with the chauffeur’s evidence, such as it is.”
“And he had no latch-key of his flat with him,” Sir Clinton supplemented. “Of course it was a service flat and he may have left the key behind him instead of carrying it with him. One could find that out if it were worth while.”
“There’s a good deal that needs explaining about Foss,” the Inspector observed. “I’ve got his photograph here, taken from the body yesterday.”
He produced it as he spoke.
“Send a copy to Scotland Yard, Inspector, please, and ask if they have any information about him. Considering everything, it’s quite likely we might learn something. You might send his finger-prints also, to see if they have them indexed there.”
“I’ll send Marden’s too, when I’m at it,” the Inspector volunteered, “and the chauffeur’s. We might as well be complete when we’re at it.”
Sir Clinton indicated his agreement without saying anything. He changed the subject when he next spoke.
“We’ve agreed to pool the facts, Inspector, and I’ve got a contribution—two contributions in fact—towards the common stock. Here’s the first.”
He laid a telegraph form on the desk before Armadale, and the Inspector read the wording:
Have no agent named Foss am not negotiating for Leonardo medallions. Kessock.
“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!” ejaculated the Inspector. “It was obvious that there was something fishy; but I hadn’t imagined it was as fishy as all that. Kessock knows nothing about him, then?”
“My cable was fairly explicit. It’s clear that friend Foss had no authority from Kessock.”
“But what about all that correspondence between Maurice Chacewater and Kessock that we saw?”
“Forgeries, so far as the Kessock letters were concerned, obviously. One of Kessock’s household must have been in league with Foss and intercepted Maurice Chacewater’s letters. Then replies were forged and dispatched. I’ve cabled Kessock about it this morning, so as to get the news in at once. The confederate may hear of Foss’s murder through the newspapers in four or five days when our papers get across there. He might bolt when he got the news. I’ve given Kessock a chance to forestall that if he wants to.”
“That puts a new light on things, certainly,” Armadale said when he had considered the new facts. “Foss was a wrong ’un masquerading here for some purpose or other—the medallions, probably. That fits in with all the unmarked linen and the rest of it. But why was he murdered?”
Sir Clinton disregarded the question.
“I’ve got another fact to contribute,” he went on. “You remember that Marconi Otophone in Foss’s room? I’ve made some inquiries about it. It’s a thing they make for the use of deaf people—a modern substitute for the ear-trumpet.”
The Inspector made a gesture of
bewilderment.
“But Foss wasn’t deaf! He admitted to you that he had good enough hearing, when he was telling you about overhearing Foxton Polegate in the winter-garden.”
“That’s quite true,” Sir Clinton rejoined. “But he evidently needed an Otophone for all that.”
The Inspector pondered for a few moments before speaking.
“It beats me,” he said at last.
Sir Clinton dismissed the subject without further discussion.
“Now what about Maurice Chacewater?” he inquired. “There’s no great difficulty in suggesting how he disappeared from the museum. It’s common talk hereabout that Ravensthorpe has secret passages; and one of them may end up in the wall of the museum.”
It was the turn of Armadale to contribute a fresh fact.
“He didn’t appear at any local station yesterday or this morning; and he didn’t use a motor of any sort that I’ve been able to trace. I’ve had men on that job and it’s been thoroughly done.”
“Congratulations, Inspector.”
“If he hasn’t got away, then he must be somewhere in the neighbourhood still.”
“I should say that was indisputable, if not certain,” commented Sir Clinton, with a return of his faintly chaffing manner. “A man can only be in one place at once, if you follow me. And if he’s not there, then he must be here.”
“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere around. It’s what anyone might do if they found themselves up to the hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter, and got into a panic over it.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence.
“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to take charge of things up there.”
“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Sir Clinton put the subject aside.
“Now, Inspector, let me remind you of what’s wanted:
What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where, How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share?
You put it down as murder?”
“Or manslaughter,” corrected Armadale. “And we know When, How, and Where, at any rate.”
“Do we?” Sir Clinton rejoined. “Speak for yourself. I’m not so sure about When and Where yet, and How is still a dark mystery so far as I’m concerned. I mean,” he added, “so far as legal proof goes.”
The Inspector was about to say something further when a knock at the door was heard and a constable appeared in answer to Sir Clinton’s summons.
“The Ravensthorpe head keeper wants to see you, Sir Clinton, if you can spare him a moment. He says it’s important.”
The Chief Constable ordered the keeper to be admitted.
“Well, Mold, what’s your trouble?” he inquired, when the man appeared.
“It’s this way, Sir Clinton,” Mold began. “Seein’ the queer sort o’ things we’ve seen lately, it seemed to me that maybe another queer thing that’s happened might be important. So I thought it over, and I made bold to come and tell you about it.”
He seemed to lose confidence a little at this point; but Sir Clinton encouraged him by a show of interest.
“Last night,” he went on, “I was goin’ through the wood at the back o’ the house—about eleven o’clock it was, as near as I can make it. At the back o’ the house there’s a strip of woodland, then a little bit of a clearin’, and then the rest of the wood. I’d come out o’ the bigger bit o’ the wood and got most o’ the way across the clearin’ when it happened. I can tell you just where it was, for I was passin’ the old ruin there—the Knight’s Tower they call it.”
He paused for a moment or two, evidently finding continuous narrative rather a strain.
“The moon was well up by that time. It’s just past the full these days; and the place was as clear as day. Everythin’ was quiet, except an old owl that lives in a hollow tree up by there. I could hear the swish of my feet in the grass and mighty little else; for the grass was dewy and made a lot o’ noise with my stepping through it. Well, as I was goin’ along, all of a sudden I heard a shot. It sounded close by me; an’ I turned at once. There’s a poachin’ chap that’s given me a lot o’ trouble, an’ I didn’t put it past him to think he might be tryin’ to give me a scare. But when I turned round there was nothin’ to be seen. There was nothin’ there at all; an’ yet that shot had come from quite close by.”
“Did it sound like the report of a shot-gun?” Sir Clinton asked.
Mold seemed to be in a difficulty.
“Shot-gun sounds I know fairly well. ’T weren’t from a shot-gun. More like a pistol-shot it sounded, when I’d had time to think over it. An’ yet it weren’t altogether like a pistol-shot, neither. That’s a sharp sound. This was more booming-like, if you understand me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it yet, Mold,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I know how difficult it is to describe sounds, though. Have another try. Did it remind you of anything?”
A light seemed to flicker for a moment in Mold’s memory.
“I know!” he exclaimed. “It was like this. I’ve got it! Did you ever stand at the door of our Morris-tube range in the village while there was firin’ goin’ on inside? Well, this was somethin’ like that, only more so. I mean as if they’d fired somethin’ a bit heavier than a miniature rifle. That’s it! That’s just how it sounded.”
He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt simile.
“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story about lately . . .”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us what you did at that moment.”
“Well, sir, I searched about. The moon was clear of clouds and the place was just an open glade. The shot had come from quite near by, as I said. But when I hunted I could find nothing. There wasn’t a track in the dew on the grass. My own tracks showed up in the moonlight as clear as clear. There wasn’t anyone hiding in the old ruin; I went through and around it twice. There wasn’t a sound; for the shot had frightened the owl. I found nothing. And yet I’d take my oath that shot was fired not more than ten or a dozen yards away from me.”
“Did you hear any whistle of shot or a bullet?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m! That’s the whole story? Now, tell us about this Black Man you mentioned.”
Mold seemed rather ashamed.
“Oh, that’s just child’s chatter, Sir Clinton. I oughtn’t to have mentioned it.”
“I’m quite willing to listen to ‘child’s chatter,’ Mold, if it happens to be unusual.”
Mold evidently decided to take the plunge, though obviously he regretted having mentioned the matter at all.
“This Jennie Hitchin’s a child that lives with her grandmother on the estate. The girl’s there at night in case anything goes wrong with the old woman. Old Mrs. Hitchin was taken ill one night lately, about the middle of the night. Pretty bad she seemed; and Jennie had to dress and go off for the doctor in a hurry. That took her through the woods—it’s a short cut that way and the moonlight was bright. An’ as she was goin’ along . . .”
“What night was this,” Sir Clinton interrupted.
The keeper thought for a moment or two.
“Now I come to think of it,” he said, “’t was the night of that robbery up at Ravensthorpe. So it was. An’ as Jennie was goin’ along through the woods she saw—so she says—a Black Man slippin’ about from
tree to tree.”
“A man in dark clothes?”
“No, sir. If I understood rightly, ’t was a black man. I mean a naked man with a black skin, black all over.”
“Did he molest the child?”
“No, sir. He seemed to be tryin’ to keep out of her road if anythin’. But o’ course it gave her a start. She took and ran—and small blame to her, I think. She’s only eleven or so, an’ it gave her a dreadful fright. An’ of course next day this tale was all over the country-side. I wonder you didn’t hear it yourself, sir.”
“It’s news to me, Mold, I’m afraid. Even the police can’t know everything, you see. Now before you go I want something more from you. That night when you were on guard in the museum, you remember. Do you recall seeing anyone there at any time during the evening dressed in cow-boy clothes? You know, the kind of thing in the Wild West films.”
Mold pondered for a time, evidently racking his memory.
“No, sir. I remember nobody like that. I think I’d have recalled it if I had. I’m rather keen on films about cow-boys myself, and if I’d seen a cow-boy I’d have had a good look at him, just out o’ curiosity.”
Sir Clinton had apparently got all he needed from Mold just then; and he sent him away quite reassured that his visit had not been wasted.
“What do you make of all that, Inspector?” he inquired with a faintly quizzical expression on his face, as soon as the door had closed behind the keeper.
Armadale shook his head. Then, seeing a chance of scoring, he smiled openly.
“I was to keep my ideas to myself, you remember, Sir Clinton.”
The Chief Constable gave him smile for smile.
“That arrangement must be especially useful when you’ve no ideas at all, Inspector.”
Armadale took the thrust with good humour.
“Give me time to think, Sir Clinton. You know I’ve only a slow mind, and perhaps this isn’t one of my bright days.”
Before Sir Clinton could retort the desk telephone rang and the Chief Constable lifted the receiver.
“Yes, I am . . . Thanks very much. I’ll take down the address if you’ll read it to me.”
Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 15
