The Police at the Caretaker's
Wendover, scanning his friend's face, could see that all the
carelessness had vanished from its expression. With the prospect of
definite work before him, Sir Clinton seemed to have dropped his
holiday mood completely.
“I think the first port of call should be the doctor,” he suggested as
he turned the car into the road leading to Lynden Sands village. “We'd
better start at the beginning, inspector; and the doctor seems likely
to have been the earliest expert on the spot.”
They found Dr. Rafford in his garden, tinkering at a spotless
motor-cycle; and Wendover was somewhat impressed by the obvious
alertness of the young medico. Armadale introduced his companions, and
then went straight to the point.
“I've come over about that case, doctor—the caretaker at Foxhills. Can
you give us something to go on before we start to look into it up
there?”
Dr. Rafford's air of efficiency was not belied when he told his story.
“This morning, at about half-past eight, young Colby came hammering at
my door in a great state. He does some of the milk delivery round
about here; and Peter Hay's house is one at which he leaves milk. It
seems he went up there as usual; but when he got to the gate of the
cottage he saw old Hay's body lying on the path up to the door. I
needn't describe how it was lying; you'll see for yourself. I didn't
disturb it—didn't need to.”
Inspector Armadale's nod conveyed his satisfaction at this news. The
doctor continued:
“Young Colby's only a child; so he got a bit of a fright. His head's
screwed on all right, though; and he came straight off here to get
hold of me. Luckily I hadn't gone out on my rounds as early as that,
and he found me just finishing breakfast. I got my bike out and went
up to Foxhills immediately.
“When I heard young Colby's tale, I naturally concluded that poor old
Hay had had a stroke. I'd been doing my best to treat him for high
blood-pressure, off and on; but I hadn't been able to do much for him;
and once or twice he'd had slight attacks. He was bound to go, some
time or other; and I concluded that he'd had a final attack through
over-exertion or something of the sort.”
He paused in his narrative for a moment and glanced from face to face
in the group.
“You'll see, from this, foul play was the last thing that entered my
mind. I got up to his cottage and found him, just as young Colby had
said, lying face down on the garden path. From the look of him he'd
obviously died of congestion. It seemed all plain sailing. In fact, I
was just going to leave him and hunt up some assistance when my eye
caught something. His arms were stretched out at full length above his
head, as if he'd gone down all of a piece, you know; and his right
sleeve had got rucked up a little, so that it showed a bit of his arm.
And my eye happened to catch a mark on the skin just above the wrist.
It was pretty faint; but there had evidently been some compression
there. It puzzled me—still puzzles me. However, that's your affair. It
struck me that I might as well have a look at the other arm, so I
pushed up the coat-sleeve a little—that's the only thing I did to
alter things in any way around the body—and I found a second mark
there, rather like the first one.”
He paused, as if to give the inspector the chance of putting a
question; but, as none came, he went on with his story.
“The impression I got—of course, I may be wrong—was that marks of that
sort might be important. Certainly, after seeing them, I didn't care
to assert that poor old Hay's death was due entirely to natural
causes. He'd died of congestion, all right. I'm dead sure that a P. M.
will confirm that. But congestion doesn't make marks on a man's
wrists. It seemed to me worth ringing you up. If it's a mare's nest,
then it's a mare's nest, and I'll be sorry to have troubled you. But I
believe in having things done ship-shape; and I'd rather trouble you
than get into hot water myself, if there's anything fishy about the
affair.”
Inspector Armadale seemed rather dubious about how he should take the
matter. To Wendover it almost looked as though he was regretting the
haste with which he had brought Sir Clinton into the business. If the
whole thing turned out to be a mare's nest, quite evidently Armadale
expected to feel the flick of his superior's sarcasm. And obviously a
couple of marks on a dead man's wrists did not necessarily spell foul
play, since the man had clearly died of cerebral congestion, according
to the doctor's own account.
At last the Inspector decided to ask a question or two.
“You don't know of anyone with a grudge against Hay?”
Rafford made no attempt to restrain a smile.
“Hay?” he said. “No one could possibly have a grudge against Peter. He
was one of the decentest old chaps you could find anywhere—always
ready to do a good turn to anyone.”
“And yet you assert that he was murdered?” demanded the inspector.
“No, I don't,” the doctor retorted sharply. “All I say is that I don't
feel justified in signing a death certificate. That ends my part.
After that, it's your move.”
Armadale apparently realised that Rafford was not the sort of person
who could be bluffed easily. He tried a fresh line.
“When do you think the death took place?”
The doctor considered for a moment.
“It's no good giving you a definite hour,” he said. “You know as well
as I do how much the symptoms vary from case to case. I think it's
quite on the cards that he died some time about the middle of the
night or a little earlier. But you couldn't get me to swear to that in
the box, I warn you.”
“I've often heard it said,” the inspector commented in a disconsolate
tone, “that you scientific people make the worst witnesses. You never
will say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ plainly like ordinary people. You're always
hedging and qualifying.”
“Had a training in accuracy, I expect,” Rafford replied. “We don't
feel inclined to swear to things until we're convinced about them
ourselves.”
Armadale evidently decided not to pursue the subject further.
“What about the body?” he asked.
“I sent Sapcote up to look after it—the village constable. He's up at
Foxhills now. If it was to be left for your examination somebody had
to be there to see it wasn't disturbed.”
The inspector nodded approvingly.
“Quite right. And I suppose I can get hold of this youngster—Colby's
his name, isn't it?—any time I need him?”
Rafford gave him the boy's address, which he took down in his
note-book.
“Anything else you can think of that might be useful?” he inquired,
putting the book back into his pocket.
The doctor shook his head.
“Nix. I suppose the coroner will want a look in?”
“I expect so,” Armadale replied.
He glanced at Wendover and Sir Clinton to indicate that he now left
the field to them. Wendover took advantage of the tacit permission.
“You didn't see anything that suggested poison, did you?” he asked the
doctor.
Rafford's faint smile put an edge on his reply:
“I believe I said that if it hadn't been for the marks on the wrists,
I'd have certified congestion of the brain. I don't think poison marks
the wrists.”
Wendover, feeling that he had hardly shone by his interposition,
refrained from further questions and glanced at Sir Clinton. The chief
constable appeared to think that further inquiries could be allowed to
stand over for a time.
“I think we'd better be moving on,” he suggested. “Thanks for your
help, Dr. Rafford. Once we've seen the body, perhaps something fresh
may turn up, and we may have to trouble you again. By the way,” he
added, “did you notice if there was a heavy dew last night? I was
playing bridge at the hotel and didn't go out after dinner; but
perhaps you were out and can tell me.”
“The dew did come down fairly heavy,” Rafford said, after a pause for
recollection. “I happened to be out at a case, and I noticed it. Are
you thinking about the possibility of Hay's death being due to
exposure?”
“Not exactly,” Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly ironical smile.
“As you would say, doctor, exposure doesn't mark a man's wrist—at
least not so quick as all that.”
Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and accompanied them to
the garden gate as they went out.
“I hope I haven't started you on a wild-goose chase, inspector,” he
said on parting. “But I suppose that sort of thing's all in your day's
work, anyhow.”
Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun along towards
Foxhills; then at last he uttered his views in a single sentence:
“That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly jaunty.”
And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately silent until they
had reached their destination.
“This is the place, I think,” Sir Clinton said a few minutes later,
pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue at a point where a side-road
led off towards a little cottage among some trees. “I can see the
constable in the garden.”
Getting out of the car, they made their way along the by-lane for a
short distance, and, as they came to the garden gate, Armadale hailed
the constable. Sapcote had been sitting on a wooden chair beside the
body, reading a newspaper to while away the time; but at the sound of
the inspector's voice he rose and came forward along the flagged path.
“Things have been left just as they were, I suppose?” Armadale
demanded.
Sapcote confirmed this and at once fell into the background, evidently
realising that he had nothing to report which would interest the
inspector. He contented himself with following the proceedings of his
superior with the closest interest, possibly with a view to retailing
them later to his friends in the village.
Armadale stepped up the paved path and knelt down beside the body,
which was lying—as the doctor had described it—face downwards with the
arms extended above the head.
“H'm! Looks as if he'd just stumbled and come down on his face,” the
inspector commented. “No signs of any struggle, anyhow.”
He cast a glance at the paved path.
“There's not much chance of picking up tracks on _that_,” he said
disparagingly.
Wendover and Sir Clinton had come round to the head of the body and
the chief constable bent down to examine the wrists. Armadale also
leaned over; and Wendover had some difficulty in getting a glimpse
over their shoulders. Constable Sapcote hovered uncertainly in the
rear, evidently anxious to see all he could, but afraid to attract the
inspector's attention by pushing forward. Wendover inferred that
Armadale must have a reputation as a disciplinarian.
“There seem to be marks of a sort,” the inspector admitted grudgingly,
after a brief study of the skin. “Whether they mean anything in
particular's another matter. He might have had a fall at the gate and
banged his wrists against a bar; and then he might have got up and
staggered on until he fell here and died.”
Sir Clinton had been studying the marks with more deliberation. He
shook his head at the inspector's suggestion.
“The gate-bars are rounded, if you look at them. Now at one point this
mark—see it?—shows a sharp line on the flesh. It's only at one place,
I admit; the rest of the marking is more like something produced by
general pressure. But still, you can't mistake that bit there.”
Armadale re-examined the mark with more care before replying.
“I see what you mean,” he admitted.
“Then go and try your own arm against the gate-bars and I think you'll
admit it won't work.”
The inspector moved off to the gate, slipped his sleeve up, and
pressed his forearm hard against the most convenient bar. While he was
thus engaged, Wendover stooped down to examine the markings for
himself.
“What made you so ready with gate-bars, Clinton?” he inquired. “I
never noticed what sort of a gate it was when I came in.”
“Obvious enough. Here's a man been falling. Marks on his wrists. We
learned that from the doctor. Naturally when I heard it, I began to
wonder if he hadn't fallen against something; and as soon as we got
out of the car, I kept my eye open for anything that Hay could have
bruised himself on. The gate-bars seemed a likely thing, so I noted
them in passing. One keeps one's eyes open, squire. But as soon as I
saw this”—he indicated the edge on the marking where the indentation
in the flesh was almost straight—“I gave the gate-bars the go-by. They
couldn't have done it.”
He glanced up.
“Satisfied, inspector?”
Armadale removed his arm from the bar, examined the mark left on it by
the pressure, and nodded gloomily.
“This didn't do it. It leaves a mark deep in the middle and fading out
on each side.”
He came back to the body and scanned the mark once more.
“This thing on the wrist hasn't got any middle. It's fairly even,
except for that sharp section.”
A thought seemed to strike him and he pulled a magnifying glass from
his pocket, adjusted the focus, and made a minute inspection of the
dead man's wrist.
“I thought it might have been a rope,” he explained as he put away his
lens with a disappointed air. “But there's no regular pattern there
such as a rope leaves. What do you think of it, Sir Clinton?”
“Got a piece of chalk in your pocket, inspector?” the chief constable
inquired.
Armadale's face showed some astonishment, which he endeavoured to
conceal as well as he could.
“No, Sir Clinton, I haven't.”
“Are you thinking of bringing a photographer up here to take a
souvenir picture?”
The inspector considered for a moment or two.
“No,” he said at last. “I don't see much use in that. The body's lying
quite naturally, isn't it?”
“It looks like it; but one never knows.”
Sir Clinton's fingers went mechanically to his waistcoat pocket.
“No chalk, you said, inspector?”
“No, I haven't any.”
“Ah, and yet some people tell you that playing pool is a waste of
time; and that the habit of chalking your cue and then pocketing the
chalk is reprehensible. We now confound them.”
He produced a cube of billiard-chalk as he spoke and, taking out a
penknife, trimmed the paper away.
“Just chalk around the outline of the body, please, inspector. This
paved path will show the marks excellently. If we need the marks later
on, we can always lay some boards over them to keep the rain off.”
While the inspector, obviously much against the grain, was chalking
his lines, Sir Clinton turned to the constable.
“Perhaps you could give us some help, constable. Did you know Peter
Hay?”
“Knew him well, sir.”
“You can't throw any light on this business?”
“No, sir. It's amazing to me, sir, if there's anything in what the
doctor says.”
“Ah! And what does the doctor say?”
“Swears it's foul play somehow, sir.”
“Indeed? He didn't go so far as that when he spoke to me about it.”
The constable seemed rather confused to find himself taken so
literally.
“Didn't quite mean that, sir. What I meant was I could see from his
manner that something's amiss.”
Sapcote, conscious that he had let his tongue run away with him,
glanced anxiously at Sir Clinton's face. The expression on it
reassured him. Evidently this wasn't the kind of a man who would eat
you if you made a slip. The chief constable rose considerably in his
subordinate's estimation.
“Nice little garden, this,” Sir Clinton remarked, casting his eyes
round the tiny enclosure. “A bit on the shady side, perhaps, with all
these trees about. Did you ever come up here to visit Peter Hay,
constable?”
“Often and often, sir. Many's the time we've sat on that seat over
there when I've been off duty; or else in the house if it got too cold
for my rheumatism.”
“Suffer from rheumatism, constable? That's hard lines. One of my
friends has some stuff he uses for it; he swears by the thing. I'll
write down the name for you and perhaps it'll do you some good.”
Sir Clinton tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, jotted a name on it,
and handed the paper over to the constable, who seemed overwhelmed by
the attention. Decidedly this superior of his was a “real good sort.”
“Peter Hay was getting on in like,” Sir Clinton went on, with a glance
at the silvering hair of the body before him. “I suppose he had his
troubles too. Rheumatism, or something like that?”
“No, sir. Nothing of the kind. Barring these strokes of his, he was
sound as a bell. Used to go about in all weathers and never minded the
rain. Never seemed to feel the cold the way I do. Kept his jacket for
the church, they used to say about here. Often in the evenings we'd be
sitting here and I'd say to him: ‘Here, Peter, shirt-sleeves must keep
you warmer than my coat keeps me, but it's time to be moving inside.’
And then in we'd go and he'd begin fussing about with that squirrel of
his.”
“What sort of a man was he?” Sir Clinton asked. “Stiff with strangers,
or anything like that? Suppose I'd come wandering in here, would he
have been grumpy when he came to turn me out?”
“Grumpy, sir? That's the last thing you'd have called him. Or stiff.
He was always smiling and had a kind word for everyone, sir. One of
the decentest men you could ask for, sir. Very polite to gentlefolk,
always; and a nice kindly manner with everyone.”
“Not the sort of man to have a bad enemy, then?”
“No, indeed, sir.”
Inspector Armadale had finished his work with the chalk and was now
standing by, evidently impatient to get on with the task in hand. His
face betrayed only too plainly that he thought Sir Clinton was wasting
time.
“Finished?” the chief constable inquired.
“Quite,” Armadale replied, in a tone which hinted strongly that there
was much more to be done.
“In that case, we can turn the body over.” Sir Clinton said, stepping
forward as he spoke and beckoning to the constable.
Handling him gently, they turned the dead man on his back; and, before
rising, Sir Clinton ran his hand over the front of the body. As he
stood up, he motioned to Armadale to follow his example.
“His waistcoat and trousers are a bit damp,” the inspector said, after
he had felt them. “Is that what you mean?”
Sir Clinton nodded in confirmation. An expression of comprehension
flitted across the inspector's face.
“So that was why you asked about the dew last night?” he observed. “I
wondered what you were after, sir.”
“Something of the sort was in my mind,” the chief constable admitted.
“Now have a look at the face, inspector. Has there been any bleeding
at the nose? Or do you see anything else of any interest?”
Armadale bent down and inspected the dead man's face closely.
“Nothing out of the common that I can see,” he reported. “Of course,
the face is congested a bit. That might be the stroke, I suppose.”
“Or else the settling of the blood by gravity after death,” Sir
Clinton pointed out. “Well, I hadn't expected to find any
nose-bleeding. If he'd bled at the nose it might have saved him from
apoplexy.”
Armadale looked up inquiringly.
“You think it's merely apoplexy, sir?”
“I'm afraid this is a ‘place’ within the meaning of the Act,
inspector; otherwise I'd be quite ready to bet you a considerable sum
that if Dr. Rafford carries out a post mortem, he'll report that death
was due to congestion of the brain.”
The inspector seemed to read some hidden meaning into Sir Clinton's
words, for he nodded sagely without making any vocal comment.
“What next, sir?” he asked. “Shall we take the body into the cottage
and go over it there?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Not yet. There's just one thing I'd like to be sure about; and it may
not be easy to see. There's a better light out here. Turn up the
trousers from the ankle, inspector, and have a good look for
marks—probably on the front of the shins. It's a long shot, but I've a
notion you'll find something there.”
Armadale did as he was bidden.
“You're right, sir. There's a very faint mark—far fainter than the
ones on the wrists—on the front of each shin, just as you said. It's
more like a very faint bruise than a mark made by stumbling against
anything. The skin's not broken. Of course it shows up after death,
otherwise I'd hardly have seen it.”
Sir Clinton nodded without making any comment. He was stooping over
the dead man's face, examining it closely. After a moment or two, he
signed to Wendover to come to his side.
“Smell anything peculiar, squire?”
Wendover sniffed sagaciously once or twice; his face lighted up; and
then a look of perplexity came over his features.
“I know that smell, Clinton. I recognise it well enough; but I can't
put a name to it somehow.”
“Think again,” the chief constable advised. “Go back to your early
days and you'll probably recall it.”
Wendover sniffed several times, but remained baffled. A look of
interest passed over Sapcote's face. He came forward, bent down, and
sniffed in his turn.
“I know what it is, sir. It's pear-drops—these sweets the children
eat. Peter always had a bag of sweets in the place for youngsters that
came to see him.”
“That's it,” Wendover exclaimed with some relief. “I knew I hadn't
smelt that perfume for ages and ages; and yet it used to be familiar
once upon a time.”
Sir Clinton seemed to have passed to an earlier line of thought. He
turned to the constable.
“Peter Hay suffered from apoplexy, the doctor told me. Had he any
other troubles? Bad digestion? Asthma? Anything you can think of?”
Sapcote shook his head decidedly.
“No, sir,” he said without hesitation. “Peter was as sound as a bell,
barring these turns of his. I never heard tell of his having anything
else wrong with him these last ten years.”
The chief constable nodded, as though the information had satisfied
him, but he refrained from comment.
“I think we'd better get him carried into his own bed now,” he
suggested with a glance at the body. “After that, we can look round
the place and see if there's anything worth noting.”
They carried the remains of Peter Hay into the cottage and laid the
body on the bed, which had not been slept in.
“You'd better examine him, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
As the inspector set to work, the chief constable invited his
companions to come into the second room of the cottage; and he left
the bedroom door open, so that the inspector could hear anything of
interest while he made his examination.
To Wendover, the tiny room seemed to offer little of interest. It was
obviously kitchen and living-room in one. An oil cooking-stove; a
grate; a sink; a dresser; two chairs and a table—these made up the
more obvious contents. His eye wandered upwards and was caught by the
movement of a tame squirrel in its cage on one of the walls.
“I heard he kept some pets,” he remarked to the constable who had gone
across to inspect the squirrel with a rather gloomy expression on his
face.
“Yes, sir,” Sapcote answered. “He took a lot of pleasure in the
beasts. Some of them are in cages out behind the cottage.”
He reflected for a moment, then added:
“Somebody'll have to look after the poor beasts, now he's gone. Would
there be any objection to my taking them away, sir? They'll have to be
fed.”
Sir Clinton, to whom the question was obviously addressed, gave
permission at once.
“We mustn't let the beasts starve. You'll have to take the cages too,
of course?”
“Yes, sir. I can put them in my backyard at home.”
The constable paused for a moment, then, a little shamefacedly, he
added:
“Peter was a good friend to me; and I wouldn't like to see his pets
fall into anybody's hands that might be cruel to them or neglect them.
He was real fond of them.”
Wendover's eye fell upon a small white paper bag on one of the dresser
shelves. He stepped across, opened the parcel, sniffed for a moment,
and then handed the thing to Sir Clinton.
“Here's where the perfume comes from, Clinton—a bag of pear-drops,
just as the constable said. He must have been eating some just before
he died.”
The chief constable looked at the crumbled paper.
“Not much chance of getting any fingerprints on _that_, even if we
wanted them. You'd better hand the bag over to the inspector. We may
as well get them analysed. Poison's always a possibility—— Ah,
inspector, you haven't been long over that.”
Inspector Armadale emerged from the bedroom and stolidly made his
report.
“Nothing that I can see on the body, sir, except the marks we noted
already. No wounds of any sort, no bruises—nothing suspicious
whatever. It almost looks like a mare's nest, except for these four
marks.”
Sir Clinton nodded as though he had received confirmation of some very
doubtful hypothesis. He moved across the room and seemed to become
engrossed in a study of the squirrel's antics. In a few moments he
turned to the constable.
“You knew Peter Hay well, constable. I want some notions about his
habits and so forth. What did he do with himself all day?”
The constable scratched his ear, as though to stimulate his memory by
the action.
“To tell you the truth, sir, he didn't do much. He was only caretaker
here, you understand? When the weather was fine, he'd go up to
Foxhills and open some of the windows in the morning, to air the
rooms. Then he'd take a look round the grounds, likely, just to see
that all was as it should be. He might have to go down to the village
for tea, or butter, or something like that. Then he'd come home and
take his dinner. In the afternoon he'd have a bit of a sleep for a
while—he was getting on in years—and then perhaps he'd dig a while in
his garden here; look after his flowers; then he'd have his tea. Some
time or other, he'd go up and look round Foxhills again and shut any
windows he'd opened. And then he'd come back here; water his garden,
most likely, if it needed it. And perhaps some of us would drop in for
a chat with him. Or else he might take a walk down to see me or
somebody else in the village. Or sometimes he'd read.”
Sir Clinton threw a glance round the barely furnished room.
“He had books, then? I don't see any.”
“He read his Bible, sir. I never saw him read anything else.”
“There's a Bible in the bedroom, Sir Clinton,” Armadale confirmed.
“An uneventful life, apparently,” the chief constable commented, not
unkindly. “Now I want to hear something about what sort of man he was.
Polite in his manners, you said?”
“Very polite,” Sapcote insisted. “I remembered hearing some visitor
once saying that Peter was a natural gentleman, sir.”
“They do exist, here and there, even nowadays,” Sir Clinton admitted.
“Now let's come down to dots, constable. I want to get a picture of
him in my mind and you seem to have known him well enough to help.
Let's see, now. Suppose I'd met him somewhere and offered to come and
see him—or that he'd asked me here. What would happen? I suppose I'd
knock at the door and he'd come and let me in. Which chair would he
give me?”
“Whichever you liked best, sir. They're much the same. If there'd been
any difference he'd have given you the best one.”
“Quite so. I'm beginning to see him better. Now go on, constable. He'd
have been easy and natural, too, if I can gauge him. He'd just have
met me in his shirt-sleeves as he used to meet you? No fuss?”
“He'd have made no fuss, sir. But he'd have put on his jacket for you,
you being a strange gentleman coming to his house on a special visit;
and perhaps he'd have offered you a cup of tea if the time was right
for it.”
“And if it was later in the evening? Some whiskey, if he had any?”
“No, sir. Peter was a strong teetotaller.”
Sir Clinton glanced over the dresser on which all the dishes were
neatly stacked.
“He was a tidy man, I see?”
“Very, sir. Always had everything ship-shape. He never could bear to
have things lying about. Sometimes he used to anger me because he'd
wash up his tea-things when I wanted to talk to him. Of course, if it
had been you, I expect he'd wait till you'd gone. It wouldn't have
been polite to wash up with a stranger there.”
“You're helping me a great deal, constable,” said Sir Clinton
encouragingly. “Now, another thing. I suppose he must have saved some
money. He seems to have lived very simply—no expenses to speak of?”
“That's right, sir. He put all he could spare into the savings-bank at
the post office. All he kept in the house was what he needed to buy
things in the village.”
“So I expected. You see how well you've pictured him, constable. Now
where did he keep his money—his loose cash?”
“In that drawer in the dresser,” the constable said, pointing to one
of the larger drawers which had a lock on it. “He carried the key
about with him.”
“See if you can get the key, inspector, please. You'll find it in his
pocket, I expect.”
Armadale produced the key almost at once, and Sir Clinton opened the
drawer. As he did so, the constable uttered a cry of astonishment.
Wendover, leaning forward, saw that the drawer held more than a little
money—some silver articles were in it as well.
Sir Clinton warned them back with a gesture.
“Don't touch. We may have to look for fingerprints here. These things
seem to have a crest on them,” he continued, after scrutinising them.
“That's the Foxhills' mark, sir,” the constable hastened to explain.
“But it beats me what Peter Hay was doing with these things. That one
there”—he pointed it out—“comes from the Foxhills' drawing-room. I
remember seeing it, one time Peter and I went round the house when he
was shutting the windows for the night. It's valuable, isn't it, sir?
Peter told me these things were worth something—quite apart from the
silver in them—and I suppose he'd learned that from somebody or
other—one of the family, most like.”
Sir Clinton left the silver articles alone and picked up the money
which lay in one corner of the drawer.
“One pound seven and four pence ha'penny. Would that be more or less
what you'd expect to see here, constable?”
“Somewhere round about that, sir, seeing it's this time in the week.”
Sir Clinton idly picked up the savings-bank book, looked at the total
of the balance, and put the book down again. Evidently it suggested
nothing in particular.
“I think you'd better take charge of these ornaments, inspector, and
see if you can make anything out of them in the way of fingerprints.
Handle them carefully. Wait a moment! I want to have a look at them.”
The inspector moved forward.
“I may be short of chalk, sir, but I've a pair of rubber gloves in my
pocket,” he announced with an air of suppressed triumph. “I'll lift
the things out on to the table for you, and you can look at them
there.”
Slipping on his gloves, he picked up the articles gingerly and carried
them across to the table. Sir Clinton followed and, bending over them,
subjected them to a very careful scrutiny.
“See anything there?” he demanded, giving way at last to the
inspector.
After Armadale had examined the silver surfaces from every direction,
Wendover had his turn. When he raised himself again, he shook his
head. Sir Clinton glanced at the inspector, who also made a negative
gesture.
“Then we all see the same,” Sir Clinton said finally. “One might
assume from that, without overstraining probability, one thing at
least.”
“And that is?” demanded Wendover, forestalling the inspector.
“That there's nothing there to see,” Sir Clinton observed mildly. “I
thought you'd have noticed that for yourself, squire.”
Behind Wendover's back the inspector enjoyed his discomfiture,
thanking providence the while that he had not had time to put the
question himself. The chief constable turned to Sapcote.
“I suppose Peter Hay kept the keys of Foxhills—those that he needed,
at any rate—somewhere handy?”
“He kept them in his pocket, always, sir; a small bunch of Yale keys
on a ring, I remember.”
“You might get them, inspector, I think we'd better go up there next
and see if we can find anything worth noting. But, of course, we can't
go rushing in there without permission.”
He turned back to Sapcote:
“Go off now, constable, as soon as we've locked up this place, and get
hold of some of the Foxhills people who are staying at the hotel. Ask
them to come up here. Tell them we want to go over Foxhills on account
of something that's been taken from the house. Explain about things,
but don't make a long yarn of it, remember. Then leave a message for
Dr. Rafford to say that we'll probably need a P. M. When you come up
here again, you'd better bring a cart to take away these beasts in
their cages.”
He gave Sapcote some further instructions about the disposal of Peter
Hay's body, then he turned to the inspector.
“I suppose, later on, you'd better take Peter Hay's fingerprints. It's
only a precaution, for I don't think we'll need them; but we may as
well have them on record. There's nothing more for us to do here at
present so far as I can see.”
He led the way out of the cottage. The constable locked the door,
pocketed the key, produced a bicycle from behind the house, and cycled
off in haste down the avenue.
Sir Clinton led his companions round to the back of the cottage; but
an inspection of the dead man's menagerie yielded nothing which
interested any of them, so far as the matter in hand was concerned.
“Let's sit down on the seat here,” the chief constable suggested, as
they returned to the front garden. “We'll have to wait for these
people from the hotel; and it won't do any harm to put together the
facts we've got, before we pick up anything further.”
“You're sure it isn't a mare's nest then?” Armadale inquired
cautiously.
“I'm surprised that Dr. Rafford didn't go a bit further with his
ideas,” Sir Clinton returned indifferently. “In any case, there's the
matter of that Foxhills' silver to be cleared up now.”