“By gad, sir,” Sergeant Grimmett exclaimed. He was crouching close to the safe. “This looks like mud.”
The Superintendent quickly joined him and examined the spot at which he pointed.
“It is,” he agreed. “As if someone had been here to-day with wet mud on .his shoe. Or a drop of water been upset. Let’s have a look through my lens.”
He suited the action to the word.
“It is,” he said. “Someone’s been here with a wet boot. And to-day, too. Funny, though, that there’s no trace nearer the door.”
“Expect they’ve all been as far as the chair,” suggested the Sergeant. “Marvellous that they didn’t do more harm.”
The Superintendent agreed, and the investigation continued, but nothing further of special interest had been found when the surgeon and. ambulance arrived. The Superintendent greeted him briefly at the door and then led him inside. He walked over to the writing-table, and looked at the body.
“Good God, it’s Professor Paley himself.”
“So I gather, doctor. But you knew him ?”
“Not personally. But by name of course and by photograph.”
The Superintendent looked surprised, but evidently thought it best to conceal from the doctor his ignorance on the subject of the Professor.
“Dead, right enough,” the doctor went on. “Presumably this knife is the cause of death, but we’ll make sure in due course. Been driven in with a lot of force, unless it’s unusually sharp—we’ll see that too. Looks like a blow rather from above. Can’t say more while the body’s here.”
“Not even a guess as to when it happened ?”
He shook his head. “I won’t risk it. Not more than four or five hours. That’s safe.”
The Superintendent sighed.
“Then it looks as if we’ll have to wait,” he observed. “The sooner we know your opinion, the better, of course. So as soon as we can get the photographs taken, we’ll shift the body to the ambulance. Photographers there yet ?” he called.
“Yes, sir,” the constable reported.
“Good. Then we’ll leave them to it, doctor. I suppose you—it wouldn’t do to take the knife out ?”
“No harm.”
“Careful of finger-prints, then. Wait a minute ; let me have a look.”
The lens came into use again.
“H’m. Seems a clear set. We’d better photograph the knife as it is, first, I think.”
The Superintendent summoned the photographers and explained to them and to the Sergeant what he wanted. Then he left them and joined the doctor outside.
“Looks bad,” he remarked. “I think I’ll spend the time while we’re waiting in getting the hang of the geography here.” The flagged path, screened from the terrace by the row of trees, finished at the door of the summer-house. The Superintendent stepped on to the grass and went to the edge of the cliff, which was guarded by a stout white railing. Two or three yards farther on, a miniature promontory projected into the sea. From this point it was possible to get a view of a scrap of the interior of the summer-house, though the open windows made it difficult ; and the view did not include the chair in front of the writing-desk.
He moved back along the railing to the point where it joined the wall of the summer-house. From here even less of the interior would be seen, as the angle of vision narrowed. The open window was within reach from where he stood ; he examined it closely, but could see no mark on it. He judged that it would be quite impossible to climb in through the window from this side. As he measured the distance with his eye and considered this point, he looked down at the railing and noticed on its top bar a thin line which looked to him through his lens to be very like dried blood. It was very thin, like a razor cut which has just drawn open. He took out a knife and with infinite care cut a small slice off the rail, for future examination. He saw that the line continued for two or three inches on the outside of the rail, but there was no sign of it inside.
It had no apparent connection with events inside the summer-house. But if the medical report or other evidence showed that it was indeed a case of murder, and if, as seemed likely from what he had heard on his arrival at the house, the problem was going to be to discover how a murderer got in or out of the summer-house, no detail seemed too small. The line of blood (if blood it were) was dry, it was sure ; but on such a day that was not to be wondered at.
He returned to the little promontory and continued along the cliff’s edge till he was brought to a standstill at the point where the line of trees met the edge of the cliff. Here further progress was impossible because the ten-foot wire netting which surrounded the tennis-court, or rather an extension of the netting, also met the cliff’s edge. The railing went no farther : its place was taken by a high wall, covered with creepers, and with a flower-bed at its foot. The wall ran back at right angles, instead of following the cliff’s edge, and met the lower terrace. He leant over the railing ; his impression was that the cliff was too sheer to be climbed, but this could be tested later if it proved to be necessary. He felt that apart from this one possibility it was safe to say that it was impossible to reach the summer-house from this side.
He repeated his method on the other side of the summer-house. There he found several striking differences. In the first place, the cliff was farther from the open window, which was altogether out of reach. Next, there was no point from which a view could be obtained of the interior of the summer-house, because four or five yards from it a thick euonymous hedge ran along the edge of the cliff and made it impossible to see more than the roof. There was no sign that anyone had forced a way through the hedge. It was at this point that Superintendent Guest noticed that the flag was at half-mast : no one had said anything about it to him and he wondered who had been so prompt to lower it.
He followed, the hedge till it ended at the point where the path to the summer-house formed a right angle with the path along the end of the tennis-court, which was the main road, so to speak, to the terrace and the house.
It was, however, not so much a right-angle turning as a cross-roads. For the “main road” went straight on to a platform from which a flight of steps led down to the face of the cliff. Superintendent Guest descended them. They went straight down until they met the promontory on which the summer-house stood. Here they turned at right angles, and descended to a flat platform, presumably a landing or bathing-place. But the Superintendent could not go beyond the angle, since the steps were guarded by a tall iron gate which was locked ; a miniature cheval de frise made it impossible to climb round the gate.
He reascended the staircase and took the fourth “road.” It led through an arched opening in the high wall at the end of the tennis-court, into a paved garden gay with flowers and stone ornaments. In one corner were two or three comfortable garden chairs. The only other entrance to the walled garden was by a flight of steps leading to another archway in the wall parallel with the sea.
Guest mounted the steps and tried the door in the arch. It opened (if stiffly), and he found himself back on the lower terrace. He completed his tour by way of the steps down to the tennis-court and the paved path at the end of the court. He had gained one clear impression—that there were only three “roads” to the summer-house and that the three met at the ‘‘crossroads,” in full view of anyone seated near the steps leading from the lower terrace to the tennis-court.
By this time the photographers had finished their work and were despatched back to Torgate by car. The Superintendent and the Sergeant resumed their security of the summer-house, while the doctor carefully removed the knife.
“I withdraw the heavy blow,” he said. “This seems to have what you might call a needle point, and two cutting edges. A very deadly stiletto. A child could use it.”
The Sergeant took careful charge of it : the doctor was thanked and the body of Professor Paley removed to the ambulance.
The Superintendent drew a breath. “Seems easier to look about now that’s gone,” he said, ha
lf apologetically. “Now let’s see what we’ve got. You might make a sort of inventory—don’t touch anything, though. I want a word with the doctor before he goes.”
It had struck him that if the doctor knew the dead man so well by repute, it might be that other people in Torgate did so too. It was true that it was primarily a “pleasure resort” of a select kind, but it was part of the policy of the Corporation to appeal to the “intellectual inclinations” of visitors—in other words, to try to get some of the would-be intellectuals to visit it and add a special flavour to its respectability.
Publicity might be helpful later on ; to start with, the less said the better. That was the gist of his remarks to the doctor, who expressed his agreement and promised his discretion.
“Well, Sergeant ?” Guest asked when he got back to the summer-house.
The other gave an expressive wave of the hand. “Nothing very suggestive, sir,” he said. “I was doing the sofa first. Just those papers there. And that camera on top of them.”
Three dailies and one weekly paper were laid, neatly folded, on the sofa. A small camera, in a leather case, seemed to have been thrown carelessly across them.
“Wait a minute,” said Guest. “That camera. It may be the dead man’s, or it may not. Anyhow, the case looks as if it would carry finger-prints. We’ll have it—careful now. Good. Now this small table. Hullo !”
His exclamation was provoked by the sight of a key.
“Think it’s the door-key, sir ?”
“Maybe.”
“Shall I try it ?”
“Hold on a second. Look at the table. D’you see ?”
“No. I can’t say I do.”
“Well, it may be nothing at all, but looks to me as if whoever put the key down pushed that book a little aside to do it. See the line of dust ?”
“Yes, sir, but surely——”
“Oh, it may be nothing. But surely there was room enough to put the key down somewhere else on the table ?”
This was undeniably true. And the Superintendent further pointed out that there was not a sign of a finger-mark on the smooth table-top, for all that it seemed not to have been dusted for some time.
He leant forward and looked out of the window nearest the table. A tiny line ran across the sill, very like the one he had noticed on the railing outside ; in this case it continued on the inside almost down to the floor, but not as a single line so much as a series of small scratches. He was considerably puzzled.
“Hope they photographed that bit of wall,” he said to the Sergeant, who frankly could make nothing of it, but assured him that it had not been overlooked.
Next the writing-table : but here there seemed nothing of particular interest. The chief feature was a large blotting-pad ; a pile of manuscript lay beside it ; both of these the Superintendent annexed. Unlike the smaller table, this one seemed to have been thoroughly dusted ; most of its top was covered in a dull leather which showed no finger-marks ; there were no drawers in it. On it was a tray containing a glass and a jug of what looked like lemonade.
“We’ll leave that—no, better not. Ought to be more fingerprints. Now for the safe.”
“No sign that this has been tampered with,” the Sergeant remarked. “But a fair number of finger-prints ; you see, they’ve been brought out for the photographs.”
His chief silently assented, and furtively tried the knob of the door. Both men gave an exclamation of surprise as it swung open. A glance showed that the contents, unless the dead man had been of a singularly untidy disposition, had been thoroughly rifled.
They peered into it.
“Not much use to touch anything here, sir ?” queried the Sergeant.
“We’ll have everything out, I think, and try to learn if anything is missing. What’s that at the back ?”
The Sergeant cautiously took hold of what looked like a small roll of dark blue cloth and drew it out.
“Bathing-dress. Been used to-day by the feel——”
“Look at your hand, man. That’s blood.”
Very carefully they spread out the bathing-dress—a man’s, a thin faded bathing-dress, with a queer irregular dark stain across it, and creased in all directions from the way in which it had been screwed up.
The Superintendent made no comment, but returned to the safe.
“Tell Bryant to bring a case down from the car,” he said ; “we’ll pack all this into it.”
When the Sergeant returned, his chief held up another surprising exhibit. “Bunch of keys, including the key of the safe,” he observed. “What’s it doing inside ? Never mind now : get the papers out and packed in the case. I’ll go up to the house and see the people who are staying there. Oh, yes, there’s that key on the other table.”
He rose to his feet, turning as he did so. “Hallo, what’s that on the sofa ? You didn’t mention——”
“Oh, just a fishing-line, sir, on a thin wooden winder. It was stuck down in the crack beside the arm. Nothing out of the usual.”
“You never know, Sergeant; put it with the rest.”
He went over to the small table and carefully picked up the key which lay on it.
“Doubt if I’ll be able to try this,” he observed, “after the way the door’s been broken in. However—by Jove, I may be able to. The socket’s been torn clean away from the jamb of the door.”
He inserted the key In the lock and turned it.
“Works all right,” he said. “If it’s the only key, then the door must have been locked from the inside. In which case it looks like suicide after all.”
He left the Sergeant to pack the various objects and get them into the car.
“But make sure that either you or Bryant is here all the time to keep anyone else from monkeying about inside,” was his final injunction.
CHAPTER III
CONCERNS A CRITIC
Superintendent Guest walked back to the upper terrace, and was on his way round to the front door when a man stepped out from the portico at the end of the house and addressed him : “This is the shortest way in—if you want to talk to us now.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the Superintendent, “That’s just what I do want.”
“Well, come in, then,” said the other.
Guest complied, though he looked interrogatively at the man.
“My name is Trent—Herbert Trent,” he answered the look. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like a word or two you” with first.” “Wait a minute, sir, I don’t know my way about the house and—
“Why not talk here ? This is a sort of extra sitting-room, mostly used in the hot weather. Mrs. Arkwright’s upstairs, and Miss Paley’s with her. And Shipman is in the drawing-room.”
“And you, sir ? You’ll excuse me, but these names don’t mean much to me. Professor Paley, of course, I know by name——”
“That’s why—or partly why—I wanted to see you first. You see, Professor Paley, and Mrs. Arkwright, his sister, are—well, we were children together.”
“I see, sir. I think your suggestion is a good one. Now first of all, will you tell me exactly who or what everyone is.”
“The Professor—it’s ghastly to talk of Harry like that, but I want to do whatever’s possible to clear up this hideous business. D’you think he could have killed himself ? It looked to me——”
“Now, sir, let’s stick to the point. I know it’s very hard for all of you, suddenly coming up against this. Will you just do as I suggest—tell me about everyone in the house. It belonged to the Professor, I take it ?”
“Yes. He has also a house in London, you know. His headquarters. Of course he travelled a lot. Comfortably off.”
“He was a—writer ?”
Despite his distress, Trent could not restrain a fleeting smile.
“He was a famous international figure. First and foremost, a student of—or rather an expert on—Eastern and Central Europe. An historian, if you like. But more than that—a political enthusiast, a maker of nations.”
The Superintendent looked puzzled.
“I mean it literally—he played a big part in the creation of the Succession States to the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. And, though I suppose you might say it was the war that gave him his big chance, yet he’d one abiding passion—hatred of war.”
To puzzlement was added a slightly shocked look.
“Or perhaps not so much war,” Trent continued, not noticing the other’s· expression, “as injustice. That’s it, I think. A hatred of political and social injustice and a passion for truth. The new diplomacy.”
He paused.
“That’s very interesting, sir,” Guest observed, “but I don’t know that it’s relevant to this case. Can you tell me more about the man himself ?”
“More ? Why, that was the man.”
“Yes, sir, but personally ? I mean, had he many friends or—?”
“Dozens and dozens of acquaintances. Respect and admiration from—thousands, I suppose. But not many friends. A difficult man to meet on terms of intimacy. Perhaps too acute a judge of black and white, right and wrong.”
The Superintendent thought to himself that this Mr. Trent seemed to have little idea of clear expression. Still, he did give a vague impression of the late Professor. But he’d like something more practical than this analysis of character and friendship.
“Was he engaged in any special work ? I mean, he was a Professor, wasn’t he ?”
“Oh, that. No, not on any work connected with his Chair of International Politics. That is—was more or less honorary, you know. But on special work, yes. He was, I believe, engaged in writing an account of the origins of the war. An historical account, you understand.”
“I see. Then we can hardly connect his—death with that.”
“No. At least—was it suicide ? I mean, if he was—murdered, I suppose there might be a connection. He had collected some remarkable material, I believe.”
“Indeed, sir. Well, we’ll go into that in detail later. We’ll have to try to learn if any of his papers bear upon it and so forth. And now, sir—about yourself ?”
Trent smiled again.
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