An Unwelcome Clue
Inspector Moresby, it has been said, was a genial man. He had no
hesitation in falling in with Roger’s suggestion that the three of
them should sup together. Even a Scotland Yard detective is human, and
Inspector Moresby very much preferred to spend his moments of leisure
in the congenial company of his fellows than alone.
In the same way he had no hesitation in accepting a little gin before
a meal. In yet once more the same way he had not the slightest
hesitation in drinking some gin and ginger-beer with his supper
because, as anyone knows, gin and ginger-beer with a lump of ice
clinking invitingly against the glass is the greatest of all drinks on
a hot day and has the Olympian nectar beaten to a standstill; thus far
has civilisation progressed. And after a meal when, pleasantly tired
and a pleasant hunger pleasantly allayed, one sprawls in a horsehair
armchair and contemplates a case of stuffed birds, an iced whisky and
soda by one’s side is almost a _sine qua non_. Inspector Moresby _was_
a genial man.
Roger had behaved with exemplary tact. Not a word about their common
mission to Ludmouth had passed his lips. Instead, he had set out to be
as entertaining as he possibly could; and when Roger set out to be
entertaining he could prove a very good companion indeed. He had
recounted numberless anecdotes about the humours of his own early
struggles and experiences, and the inspector had been amused; he had
recounted further anecdotes of the great people he had met and knew,
all of whom he called by their Christian names, and the inspector had
been impressed; he had kept a judicious eye on his victim’s glass—or
rather, succession of glasses, and the inspector had become mellowed.
Roger loved the inspector, and the inspector loved Roger.
Roger chose his moment and struck.
“Look here, Inspector,” he said quite casually, “about this Mrs. Vane
business, by the way. I wish you’d look on me not as a reporter but as
an amateur criminologist, extraordinarily interested in the way the
police go about the solving of a mystery like this and only too ready
to put any small brains I may have at their assistance. I do happen to
be writing this thing up for a newspaper, it’s true; but that’s only
by the way. I’m not a reporter by instinct or profession or anything
else, and I only jumped at the chance of becoming one because it would
give me first-hand information about a very interesting little
mystery. Do you see what I mean?”
The inspector’s eyes twinkled. “I think so, sir. You want me to take
you into my confidence, don’t you?”
“Something like that,” Roger agreed. “And I must tell you that the
balance won’t be entirely on your side. I’ve got something rather
important to offer you—a clue I found this afternoon under your very
nose down among those rocks. I don’t want to hold it up or anything
like that; but candidly, I don’t want to give it away for nothing
either. Can’t we arrange a swap, so to speak?”
The inspector’s eyes twinkled more merrily than ever. “I’ve been
waiting for something like this ever since I came up here, Mr.
Sheringham; though I didn’t expect you to put it quite that way. I
thought you’d just got me here to try to pump me in the ordinary way,
as hundreds of new journalists have tried already before they found
out it wasn’t any use.”
“Oh!” said Roger somewhat crestfallen. “Did you? But about this clue,
I——”
“Lord, the number of clues I’ve had offered me in my time!” observed
the inspector reminiscently. “Thousands of ’em! And not a single one
worth a twopenny rap.”
“Oh!” said Roger again. “Then there’s nothing doing, I take it, in the
confidence line?”
The inspector continued to chuckle for a moment; it pleased him mildly
to score off Roger and he thought the latter deserved it. Even
Anthony, in spite of his disappointment, could hardly repress a smile
at that confident gentleman’s discomfiture.
Then the inspector proceeded to relent. “However, I’m not saying there
isn’t any sense in what you said. There is. I know you’re not an
ordinary journalist. I know what you did at Wychford and I’ve seen by
your articles in the _Courier_ that you really are interested in this
sort of thing for its own sake. So as long as I have your word that
you won’t publish anything that I want held up, perhaps I don’t mind
letting you in on a thing or two that I should keep back from anyone
else, and even talking the case over with you as well. Though mind
you, it’s highly unprofessional conduct, as they say, and I should get
into real hot water at the Yard if they ever came to hear of it.”
“I say, that’s awfully sporting of you, Inspector!” Roger cried with
vast relief. “I quite thought you were going to turn me down. Yes, I
promise you the Yard shan’t hear of it, and of course I won’t publish
anything without your consent. It’s a purely personal interest, you
know.”
“And you too, Mr. Walton? You agree to that?”
“Rather, Inspector! It’s extraordinarily decent of you.”
“Then let’s hear about this clue of yours first of all, Mr.
Sheringham, if you please.”
Roger rose and went to the sideboard, from a drawer of which he
produced the piece of paper, now almost dry. “I found this a couple of
rocks away from where the body was lying. It may have nothing to do
with the affair at all, of course, but there’s always a chance.
There’s been writing on it, but it’s quite obliterated. Can you make
anything of it?”
The inspector took the bit of paper and bent over it; then he held it
up to the light.
“I’ll keep this, if I may,” he said. “As you say, there’s probably
nothing in it, but I’ll send it up to our man at the Yard and I think
he’ll be able to read it all right; at any rate, we can’t afford to
neglect its possibilities.” He laid the paper down on a table nearby
and leaned comfortably back in his chair again. “So now you can fire
away, Mr. Sheringham. I know you’ve got half a hundred questions on
the tip of your tongue.”
“At least that,” Roger laughed, as he resumed his seat. “And I
certainly would like to polish off a few of them in rather a hurry. I
must get through to London on the telephone pretty soon and dictate my
article, and I can take notes for it as we go along.” He rummaged in a
side-pocket and produced a pencil and note-book. “Now first of all,
are you sure in your own mind that it’s a case of murder and not
accident or suicide?”
“Well, between ourselves, sir, I am. As sure, that is, as anyone can
be in my line without absolutely convincing proof. But don’t say that
in your article. I shouldn’t get further than ‘suspicious
circumstances’ in that yet awhile.”
Roger nodded. “Yes, I quite see that. By the way, that scream rather
clinches it, doesn’t it? I mean, if one allows that the distance of
the body from the edge of the cliffs rules out any question of
accident, the scream, equally seems to rule out suicide. A suicide
wouldn’t scream.”
“That was my line of thought exactly,” the inspector agreed.
“And you’ve also established the fact that she wasn’t alone. Have you
got any ideas who the second woman was?”
“I’ve got my suspicions,” said the inspector guardedly. “I was up at
the house for a goodish bit this morning,” he went on, delicately
shifting the ground of discussion. “Have you been along there?”
“No, not to the house, though I heard you had.”
“You ought to go; I think you’d find it interesting. The household, I
mean.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t felt quite hardened enough to my new
profession yet. I don’t think I could butt in on Dr. Vane and ask him
for an interview just at present. Can’t you tell me about them and
save me the trouble?”
“Well, I daresay I could. There’s not really much to tell you. But the
doctor’s a queer stick. Big man, he is, with a great black beard, and
spends most of his time in a laboratory he’s had fitted up at the back
of the house. Research work of some kind. Bit brusque in his manner,
if you understand me, and doesn’t seem any too cut up by his wife’s
death—or doesn’t show it if he is, perhaps I ought to say.”
“Oh, he doesn’t, doesn’t he?”
“But I gather that the two of them didn’t hit it off any too well
together. That seemed the idea among the servants, anyhow. I had all
of them up and questioned them this morning, of course. Then there’s
his secretary, a dry stick of a woman with pince-nez and short hair,
who might be any age between thirty and fifty, and a cousin of Mrs.
Vane’s who’s been living there for the last few months called Miss
Cross. That’s the girl who’s come into all the money, as I expect
you’ve heard.”
“And the girl who was the last person apparently except one to see
Mrs. Vane alive,” Roger nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen her, had a chat with
her in fact.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And what did you think of her, Mr.
Sheringham?”
“I don’t know,” Roger hedged. “What did you?”
The inspector considered. “I thought she was quite a nice young lady,”
he said carefully, “though perhaps a bit deeper than one might
think—or than she’d like you to think, maybe. Did you get any
information from her?”
“Look here, Inspector,” Anthony burst out suddenly, “just tell me
this, will you? Do you really honestly think that——”
“Shut up, Anthony, and don’t be tactless!” Roger interposed hastily.
“Did I get any information out of her, Inspector? Nothing more than
you got yourself, I fancy. She told me that you’d been putting her
through it.”
“She’s a very important person in the case,” said the inspector with
an apologetic air. “Last one to see Mrs. Vane alive, as you said just
now.”
“I didn’t say that exactly,” Roger remarked drily; “but let it pass.
And you got no further impression from her than that she was a nice
young lady and might be a bit deep?”
“Well I didn’t say that, sir,” ruminated the inspector. “No, I
wouldn’t say that at all. I got the impression that she wasn’t
over-fond of that cousin of hers, for one thing.”
“Wasn’t fond of her cousin?” Roger cried in surprise. “But Mrs. Vane
had been extraordinarily kind to her. Taken her to live with them,
paid her a generous salary probably for doing nothing, made a will in
her favour! Why, she owed Mrs. Vane a tremendous lot!”
“Are we always over-fond of people we owe a tremendous lot to?” asked
the inspector pointedly.
“I’m sure,” Anthony began stiffly, “that Miss Cross——”
“Shut _up_, Anthony!—But why are you so sure about this, Inspector?
You must have something more to go on than just an impression.”
“I have, sir. What I learned from the servants. Mrs. Vane and Miss
Cross used to quarrel quite a lot, I understand. It seems to have been
a matter of common talk among the servants.”
“Of course, if you take any notice of the gossip of servants,” said
Anthony with fine scorn, “I daresay you’d——”
“Anthony, _will_ you shut up or have I got to send you to bed? For
goodness’ sake, help yourself to another drink and keep quiet.”
“You’ve seen Miss Cross too, Mr. Walton, I take it?” observed the
inspector mildly.
“Yes, I have,” Anthony said shortly.
“A very pretty young lady,” commented the inspector with vague
application.
“Oh, by the way!” Roger exclaimed suddenly. “I was very nearly
forgetting the most important question of all.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Sheringham?”
“Why, to ask you what you’ve got up your sleeve in the way of clues.
You admitted this afternoon there were some things you wouldn’t tell
me.”
“One,” acknowledged the inspector with a smile. “That’s all. A
coat-button.” He felt in his pocket and produced a light-blue bone
button with a white pattern, about an inch and a half in diameter,
which he held out on the flat of his palm. “This was found clenched in
the dead woman’s hand.”
Roger whistled softly. “I say, that is a clue and no mistake! The
first really definite one there’s been, except those footprints. May I
have a look at it?” He took the button from the other’s outstretched
hand and examined it intently. “It wasn’t one of her own, by any
chance?”
“No, sir; it wasn’t.”
“Have you found out whose it is?” Roger asked, looking up quickly.
“I have,” replied the inspector contentedly.
Anthony’s heart almost stopped beating. “Whose?” he asked in a
strained voice.
“It’s a button off a sports-coat belonging to Miss Cross.”
For a moment there was a tense silence. Then Roger asked the question
that was burning a hole in his brain.
“Was Miss Cross wearing the coat when she went out for her walk with
Mrs. Vane?”
“She was, sir,” replied the inspector with a more serious air than he
had yet displayed. “And when she got back to the house that button was
missing from it.”