The Study
Once across the threshold of the dead minister’s study, Anthony
experienced a change of feeling, of mental attitude. Until now he had
looked at the whole business in his usual detached and semi-satirical
way; the reasons for his presence at Abbotshall had been two
only—affection for Spencer Hastings and desire to satisfy that
insistent craving for some definite and difficult task to perform. He
had even felt, at intervals throughout the morning, a wish to laugh.
But, now, fairly in the room, this aloofness failed him. It was not
that he felt any sudden surge of personal regret. It was rather that,
for him at least, despite the sunlight which blazed incongruously in
every corner, some cold, dark beastliness brooded everywhere.
The big room was gay with chintz and as yet unfaded flowers of the day
before; the solid furniture was of some beauty—in fact, a charming
room. Yet Anthony shivered even before he had seen the thing lying
grotesque upon the hearth. When he did see it, somehow the sight shook
him out of the nightmare of dark fancy. He stepped forward to look
more closely.
Came the sound of a commotion from the hall. With a muttered excuse,
Boyd went quickly from the room. Anthony knelt to examine the body.
It sprawled upon the hearth-rug, legs towards the window in the
opposite wall. The red-tiled edge of the open grate forced up the
neck. The almost hairless head was dreadfully battered; crossed and
recrossed by five or six gaping gashes, each nearly half an inch wide
and an inch or so deep. Of the scalp little remained but islands and
peninsulas of skin and bone streaked with the dark brown of dried
blood, among it ribands of gray film where the brain had oozed from
the wounds.
The body was untouched, though the clothes were rumpled and twisted.
The right arm was outstretched, the rigid fingers of the hand resting
among the pots of fern which filled the fireplace. The left arm was
doubled under the body.
Anthony, having gazed his fill, rose to his feet. As he did so, Boyd
re-entered. He looked flushed and not a little annoyed.
Anthony turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
“Only a bit more trouble with some of these newspaper fellows, sir.
But thank the Lord, I’ve got rid of ’em now. Told ’em I’d give ’em a
statement to-night. What they’d say if they knew you were here—and
why—God knows. There’ll be a row after the case is over, but there you
are. Miss Hoode’s agreeable to you, and I don’t blame her, but she
won’t hear of any of the others being let in. I don’t blame her for
that either.” He nodded towards the body. “What d’you make of it,
sir?”
“Shocking messy kill,” Anthony said.
“You’re right, sir, But what about—things in general, so to speak?”
Anthony looked round the room. It bore traces of disturbance. Two
light chairs had been over-turned. Books and papers from the desk
strewed the floor. The grandfather clock, which should have stood
sentinel on the left of the door as one entered it, had fallen, though
not completely. It lay face-downwards at an angle of some forty-five
degrees with the floor, the upper half of its casing supported by the
back of a large sofa.
“Struggle?” said Anthony.
“Yes,” said Boyd.
“Queer struggle,” said Anthony. He sauntered off on a tour of the
room.
Boyd watched him curiously as he halted before the sofa, dropped on
one knee, and peered up at the face of the reclining clock.
He looked up at Boyd. “Stopped at ten-forty-five. That make the murder
fit in with the times the people in the house have told you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When are you going to have the room tidied?”
“Any time now. We’ve got the photos.”
“Right.” Anthony got to his feet. “Let us, Boyd, unite our strength
and put grand-dad on his feet.”
Between them they raised the clock. Anthony opened the case and set
the pendulum swinging. A steady tick-tock began at once.
Anthony looked at his watch. “Stopped exactly twelve hours ago, did
grandfather,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to be damaged, though.”
“No, sir. It takes a lot to put those old clocks out of order.”
Anthony went back to the front of the sofa and stood looking down at
the carpet.
“No finger-prints, you said?”
“Except on the wood-rasp, absolutely none but those of the deceased,
sir. I’ve dusted nearly every inch of the room with white or black.
All I got for my pains were four good prints of the deceased’s thumb
and forefinger. They’re easy enough to tell—very queer-shaped fingers
and a long scar on the ball of his right thumb.”
Anthony changed the subject. “What time did you get here, Boyd?”
“About four this morning. We came by car. I made some preliminary
inquiries, questioned some of the people, and went down to the village
at about eight.”
“Who’s that great red hulk of a sergeant?” said Anthony, flitting to
yet another subject. “You ought to watch him, Boyd. When I came along
he was indulging in a little third degree.”
“I heard it, sir. That’s why I came in.”
“Good. Who was the timid little ferret?”
“Belford—Robert Belford, sir. He’s a sort of assistant to Poole and
was valet to the deceased.”
“How did he answer when you questioned him?”
“Very confused he was. But his story’s all right—very reasonable. I
don’t consider him, so to speak. He hasn’t got the nerve, or the
strength.”
Anthony stroked his chin. “It’s easy enough to see,” he said, “that
you don’t want to be persuaded away from your idea that an outsider
did this job.”
“You’re right, sir,” Boyd smiled. “As far as I’ve progressed yet an
outsider’s my fancy. Most decidedly. Still one never knows where the
next turning’s going to lead to, so to speak. Of course, I’ve got a
lot of inquiries afoot—but so far we’ve less than nothing to go on.”
“Anything stolen?”
“Nothing.”
Anthony was still gazing down at the carpet before the sofa. Again he
dropped on one knee. This time he rubbed at the thick pile with his
fingers. He rose, darting a look round the room.
“What’s up, sir?” Boyd was watching attentively.
“A most convenient struggle that,” murmured Anthony.
“What’s that? What d’you mean, sir?”
“I was remarking, O Boyd, that the struggle had been, for the
murderer, of an almost incredible convenience. Observe that the two
chairs which were overturned are far from heavy; observe also that the
carpet is very far from thin. These light chairs fell, not, mark you,
on the parquet edging of the floor, but conveniently inwards upon this
thickest of thick carpets. Observe also, most _puissant_ inspector,
that the articles dislodged from the writing-table, besides falling on
the carpet, are nothing but light books and papers. Nothing heavy, you
see. Nothing which would make a noise.”
“I follow you, sir,” Boyd cried. “You mean——”
“’Ush, ’ush, I will ’ave ’ush! I would finally direct your attention
to the highly convenient juxtaposition of this sofa here and our
friend the clock. The sofa is a solid, stolid lump of a sofa; it’s
none of your trifling divans. In fact, it would require not merely a
sudden jerk but a steady and lusty pull to move it, wouldn’t it?”
The detective applied his considerable weight to the arm of the sofa.
Nothing happened.
“You see!” continued Anthony with a gesture. “See you also then the
almost magical convenience with which, in the course of the struggle,
this lumping sofa was moved back towards grandfather, who stood nearly
three feet from the sofa’s usual position, which position can be
ascertained by noting these four deep dents made in the carpet by the
castors. Oh, it’s all so convenient. The sofa’s moved back, then
grandfather falls, not with a loud crash to the floor, but quietly,
softly, on to the back of the sofa. Further, those two vases on that
table there beside the clock weren’t upset at all by the upheaval.
Those vases wobble when one walks across the room, Boyd. No, it won’t
do; it won’t do at all.”
“You’re saying there wasn’t any struggle at all; that the scene was
set, so to speak.” Boyd’s tone was eager. His little gray eyes were
alight with interest.
Anthony nodded. “Your inference is right.”
“I had explained things to myself by saying that the carpet was thick
and old Poole rather deaf,” said the detective, “because he did say
that he heard a noise like some one walking about. Of course, he just
thought it was his master. I’ll wager it wasn’t, though. I’m sure
you’re right, sir. I hadn’t noticed the sofa had been shifted. This is
a very queer case, sir, very queer!”
“It is, or anyhow it feels like that. What about the body, Boyd?
Aren’t you going to have it moved?”
“Yes, sir, any time now. It was going to be moved before you came;
then Jardine wanted to take some more photos. After that, you being
here, sir—well, I thought if you _were_ going to have anything to do
with the case you might like to see everything in _status quo_, so to
speak.”
Anthony smiled. “Thanks, Boyd,” he said. “You’re a good chap, you
know. This isn’t the first job we’ve done together by any means; but
all the same, it’s most refreshing to find you devoid of the pro’s
righteous distrust of the amateur.”
Boyd smiled grimly. “Oh, I’ve got that all right, sir. But I don’t
regard you in that light, if I may say so, though we may disagree
before this case is over. And—well, sir, I’ve not forgotten what you
did for me that night down at Sohlke’s place in Limehouse——”
“Drop it, man, drop it,” Anthony groaned.
Boyd laughed. “Very well, sir. Now I’ll go and see about having the
body moved upstairs.”
“And I,” said Anthony, “shall think—here or in the garden. By the way,
when’s the inquest?”
“To-morrow afternoon, here,” said Boyd, and left the room.
Anthony ruminated. This study of Hoode’s, he reflected, was curious,
being in itself the end of the long wing of the house and having,
therefore, window or windows in all three sides. As Boyd had said,
only one of these windows was open, the farthest from the door of the
three which looked out upon the terraced gardens and the river at
their foot. All the others—two in the same wall, one in the end wall,
and two overlooking the drive—were shut and latched on the inside. The
open one was open top and bottom.
Anthony looked at it, then back at the writing-table. He seemed
dissatisfied, for he next walked to the window, surveyed the room from
there, and then crossed to the swivel-chair at the writing-table and
sat down. From here he again peered at the open window, which was then
in front of him and slightly to his left.
He was still in the chair when Boyd came back, bringing with him a
policeman in plain clothes and a man in the leather uniform of a
chauffeur. Anthony did not move; did not answer when Boyd spoke to
him.
The body covered and lifted, the grim little party, Boyd leading, made
for the door. As they steered carefully through it, the grandfather
clock began to strike the hour. Its deep ring had, it seemed to
Anthony, a note ominous and mournful.
The door clicked to behind the men and the shrouded thing they
carried. The clock struck again.
“Good for you, grandfather,” muttered Anthony, without turning in his
chair to look. “I wish to High Heaven you could talk for a moment or
two.”
“Bong!” went the clock again.
Anthony pulled out his watch. The hands stood at eleven o’clock. “All
right, grand-dad,” he said. “You needn’t say any more. I know the
time. I wish you could tell me what happened last night instead of
being so damned musical.”
The clock went on striking. Anthony wandered to the door, paused, and
went back to the writing-table. As he sat down again the clock chimed
its final stroke.
He felt a vague discomfort, shook it off and continued his scrutiny of
the table. It was of some age, and beautiful in spite of its solidity.
The red leather covering of its top had upon it many a stain of wear
and inks. Yet one of these stains seemed to Anthony to differ from the
general air of the others. He rubbed it with his fingers. It was
raised and faintly sticky. It was at the back of the flat part of the
table-top. Immediately behind it rose two tiers of drawers and
pigeon-holes. Also, its length was bisected by a crack in the wood.
He rubbed at the stain again; then cursed aloud. That vague sense of
something wrong in the room, something which did not fit the essential
sanity of life, had returned to his head and spoilt these new
thoughts.
The door opened and shut. “What’s the matter, sir? Puzzled?” Boyd came
and stood behind him.
“Yes, dammit!” Anthony swung round impatiently. “This room’s getting
on my nerves. Either there’s something _wrong_ in it or I’ve got
complex fan-tods. Never mind that, though. Boyd, I think I’m going to
give you still more proof that there was no struggle. Come here.”
Boyd came eagerly. Anthony twisted round to face the table again.
“Attend! The body was found over there by the fireplace. If one
accepts as true the indications that a struggle took place, the
natural inference is that Hoode was overpowered and struck down where
he was found. But we have found certain signs that lead us to believe
that the struggle was, in fact, no struggle at all, and here, I think,
is another which will also show that Hoode’s body was dragged over to
the hearth after he had been killed.”
Boyd grew excited. “How d’you mean, sir?”
“This is what I mean.” Anthony pointed to the stain he had been
examining. “Look at this mark here, where my finger is. Doesn’t it
look different to the others?”
“Can’t say that it does to me, sir. I had a look over that table
myself and saw nothing out of the ordinary run.”
“Well, I beg to differ. It not only looks different, it feels
different. I notice these things. I’m _so_ psychic, you know!”
Boyd grinned at the chaff, watching with keen interest as Anthony
opened a penknife and inserted the blade in the lock of the table’s
middle drawer.
“I think,” said Anthony, “that this is one of those old jump locks.
Aha! it is.” He pulled open the drawer. “Now, _was_ that stain
different? Voilà! It was.”
Boyd peered over Anthony’s shoulder. The drawer was a long one,
reaching the whole width of the table. In it were notebooks, pencils,
half-used scribbling pads, and, at the back, a pile of notepaper and
envelopes.
On the white surface of the topmost envelope of the pile was a dark,
brownish-red patch of the size, perhaps, of a half-crown. Boyd
examined it eagerly.
“You’re right, sir!” he cried. “It’s blood right enough. I see what
you were going to say. This is hardly dry. It must have dripped
through that crack where the stain you pointed out was. And the
position of that stain is just where the deceased’s head would have
fallen if he had been sitting in this chair here and had been hit from
behind.”
“Exactly,” said Anthony. “And after the first of those pats on the
head Hoode must’ve been unconscious—if not dead. Ergo, if he received
the first blow sitting here, as this proves he did, there was no
struggle. One doesn’t sit down at one’s desk to resist a man one
thinks is going to kill one, does one? What probably happened is that
the murderer—who was never suspected to be such by Hoode—got behind
him as he sat here, struck one or all of the blows, and then dragged
the body over to the hearth to lend a touch of naturalness to the
scene of strife he was going to prepare. He must be a clever devil,
Boyd. There’s never a stain on the carpet between here and the
fireplace. There wouldn’t have been on the table either, only he
didn’t happen to spot it.”
The detective nodded. “I agree with you entirely, sir.”
But Anthony did not hear him. That _wrong_ something was troubling him
again. He clutched his head, trying vainly to fix the cause of this
feeling.
Boyd tried again. “Well, we know a little more now, sir, anyhow. Quite
a case for premeditation, so to speak—thanks to you.”
Anthony brought himself back to earth. “Yes, yes,” he said. “But
hearken again, Boyd. I have yet more to say. Don’t wince, I have
really. Here it is. Assuming the reliability, as a witness, of Poole,
the old retainer, we know the murderer didn’t come into this room
through the door. Nor could he, as you’ve explained, have used the
chimney. Remains the one window that was open. Observe, O Boyd, that
that window is in full view of a man seated at this table. Now one
cannot come through a window into a room at a distance of about two
yards from a man seated therein at a table without attracting the
attention of that man unless that man is asleep.”
“I shouldn’t think Hoode was asleep, sir.”
“Exactly. It is known that Hoode was a hard worker. Further, if I’m
not mistaken, he’s been more than usually busy just recently—over the
new Angora Agreement. I think we can take it for granted he wasn’t
asleep when the murderer came in through that window. That leads us to
something of real importance, namely, that Hoode was not surprised by
the entry of the murderer.”
Boyd scratched his head. “’Fraid I don’t quite get you, as the Yanks
say, sir.”
Anthony looked at him with benevolence. “To make myself clearer, I’ll
put it like this: he either (i) expected the murderer—though not, of
course, as such—and expected him to enter that way; or (ii) did not
expect him to enter that way, but on looking up in surprise saw some
one who, though he had entered in that unfamiliar way, was yet so
familiar in himself as not to cause Hoode to remain long, if at all,
out of his seat. Personally, I think he didn’t leave his chair at all.
Is not all this well spoken, Boyd?”
“True enough, sir. I think you’re quite right again. I’ve been a
fool.” Boyd was dejected. “Of the two views you propounded, so to
speak, I think the first’s the right one. The murderer was an
outsider, but one the deceased was expecting—and by that entrance.”
“And I,” said Anthony, “incline strongly toward my second theory of
the unconventional entry of the familiar.”
Boyd shook his head. “You’d hardly credit it, sir,” he said solemnly,
“but some of these big men get up to very funny games. I’ve had over
twenty years in the C.I.D., and I know.”
“The mistake you’re making in this case, Boyd,” Anthony said, “is
thinking of it as like all your others. From what little I’ve seen so
far of this affair it’s much more like a novel than real life, which
is mostly dull and hardly ever true. As I asked you before, d’you ever
read real detective stories? Gaboriau, for instance?”
“Lord, no, sir!” smiled the real detective.
“You should.”
“Pardon me, sir, but you’re a knock-out at this game yourself and it
makes me wonder, so to speak, how you can hold with all that ’tec-tale
truck.”
“A knock-out? Me?” Anthony laughed. “And I feel as futile as if I were
Sherlock Holmes trying to solve a case of Lecoq’s.” He put a hand to
his head. “There’s something about this room that’s haunting me! What
is the damned thing? Boyd, there’s something _wrong_ about the blasted
place, I tell you!”
Boyd looked bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Then, to
humour this eccentric, he added: “Ah! if only this furniture could
tell us what it saw last night.”
“I said that to the clock,” said Anthony morosely, Then suddenly: “The
clock, the clock! Grandpa _did_ tell me something! I knew I’d seen or
heard something that was utterly wrong, insane. The clock! Good God
Almighty! What a fool not to think of it before!”
Boyd became alarmed. His tone was soothing. “What about the clock,
sir?”
“It struck. D’you remember it beginning when you were taking the body
away?”
“Yes.” Boyd was all mystification.
“What time was that?”
“Why, eleven, of course, sir.”
“Yes, it was, my uncanny Scot. But grandfather said twelve. I was
thinking about something else. I must have counted the strokes
unconsciously.”
“But—but—are you _sure_ it struck twelve when”—Boyd glanced up at the
old clock—“when it said eleven?”
Anthony crossed the room, opened the glass casing of the clock-face,
and moved the hands on fifteen minutes. They stood then at twelve.
“Bong!” went the clock.
They waited. It did not strike again.
Anthony was triumphant. “There you are, Boyd! Grandpa looks twelve and
says one. There’s another strand of that rope you’re making for the
murderer. Miss Hoode came in here at eleven-ten, to find the murder
done and the murderer gone. You’re time’s almost fixed for you. He
wasn’t here at eleven-ten, but he was here after eleven, because, to
put the striking of that clock out as it is, the murderer must have
put back the hands after the hour—eleven, that is—had struck. If he’d
done it before the striking had begun, grand-dad wouldn’t be telling
lies the way he is.”
Boyd’s expression was a mixture of elation and doubt. “I suppose
that’s right, sir,” he said. “About the striking, I mean. Yes, of
course it is; just for the moment I was a bit confused, so to speak.
Couldn’t work out which way the mistake would come.”
“It seems to me,” said Anthony, “that the whole reason he faked this
elaborate struggle scene was in order that the clock could be stopped
under what would seem natural circumstances. But why, having stopped
the clock, did he alter it? Two reasons occur to me. One is that he
merely wished to make it seem that the murder was done at any other
time except when it really was. That’s rather weak, and I prefer my
second idea. That is, that the time to which he moved the hands has a
significance and wasn’t merely a chance shot. In other words, he set
the thing at ten-forty-five because he had a nice clean alibi for that
time. Judging by the rest of his work he’s a man of brains; and that
would’ve been a pretty little safeguard—if only he hadn’t made that
mistake about the striking.”
“They all make bloomers—one time or another, sir. That’s how we catch
’em in the main.”
“I know.” Anthony’s tone was less sure than a moment before. “All the
same it’s a damn’ silly mistake. Doesn’t seem to fit in somehow. I’d
expected better things from him.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir. He’d probably got the wind up, as they say, by
the time he’d got so near finishing.”
Anthony shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. By the way, Boyd, tell
me this. How did Miss Hoode come to be downstairs at ten past eleven?
I thought she was supposed to have gone to bye-bye after that game of
cards.”
“As far as I know—I haven’t been able to see her yet, sir—she came
down to use the telephone—not this one but the one in the hall—about
some minor affair she’d forgotten during the day. After she’d finished
phoning she must’ve wanted to speak to her brother. Probably about the
same matter. That’s all, sir.”
“It’s so weak,” said Anthony, “that it might possibly be true.” Then,
after a pause: “I think I’ve had about enough of this tomb. What you
going to do next, Boyd? I’m for the garden.” He walked to the door.
“You took the weaker end of my reasoning if you still believe in the
mysterious outsider.”
Boyd followed across the hall, through the verandah and down the steps
which led from the flagged walk behind the house to the lawns below.
Anthony sat himself down upon a wooden seat set in the shade of a
great tree. He showed little inclination for argument.
But Boyd was stubborn. “You know, sir,” he said, “you’re wrong in what
you say about the ‘insider.’ You’d agree with me if you’d been here
long enough to sift what evidence there is and been able the way I
have to see _and_ talk to all the people instead of hearing about them
sketchy and second-hand as it were.”
Anthony looked at him. “There’s certainly something in that, Boyd. But
it’ll take a lot to shift me. Mind you, my predilection for the
‘insider’ isn’t a conviction. But it’s my fancy—and strong.”
Boyd fumbled in his breast-pocket. “Then you just take a good look at
this, sir.” He held out some folded sheets of foolscap. “I made that
out before you got here this morning. It’ll tell you better what I
mean than I can talking. And I only sketched the thing to you before.”
Anthony unfolded the sheet, and read:—
Summary of Information Elicited
1. Miss Laura Hoode.—Played cards until 10 o’clock with the deceased,
Sir A. D.-C., and Mrs. Mainwaring. Then went to bed. Was seen in
bed at approximately 10.30 by Annie Holt, parlour-maid, who was
called into room to take some order as she passed on her way to the
servants’ quarters. Miss Hoode remembered, at about 11.05, urgent
telephone call to be made. Got up, went downstairs to phone, then
thought she would consult deceased first. Entered study, at 11.10,
and discovered body. [_Note._—By no means a complete alibi; but it
seems quite out of the question that this lady is in any way
concerned. She is distraught at brother’s death and was known to be
a devoted sister. They were, as always, the best of friends during
day.]
_N.B.—It appears impossible for a woman to have committed this
crime, since the necessary power to inflict blows such as caused
death of deceased would be that of an unusually strong man._
2. Mrs. R. Mainwaring.—Retired at same time as Miss Hoode. Was seen in
bed by her maid, Elsie Duboise, at 10.35. Was waked out of heavy
sleep by parlour-maid, Annie Holt, after discovery of body of
deceased.
3. Elsie Duboise.—This girl sleeps in room communicating with Mrs.
Mainwaring’s. The night was hot and the door between the two rooms
was left open. Mrs. Mainwaring heard the girl get into bed at about
10.40. The parlour-maid had to shake her repeatedly before she
woke.
4. Sir A. Digby-Coates.—Went upstairs, after cards, to own
sitting-room (first-floor, adjoining bedroom) to work at official
papers. Pinned note on door asking not to be disturbed, but had to
leave door open owing to heat. Was seen, from passage, between time
he entered room until time murder was discovered, at intervals
averaging a very few minutes by Martha Forrest (cook), Annie Holt
(parlour-maid), R. Belford (man-servant), Elsie Duboise, Mabel
Smith (housemaid), and Elsie Syme (housemaid). The time during
which the murder must have been committed is covered.
5. Mr. A. B. T. Deacon (Private Secretary to deceased).—Went to room
(adjoining that of Sir A. D.-C.) to read at approximately 10.10.
Was seen entering by Mabel Smith, who was working in linen-room
immediately opposite. She had had afternoon off and was
consequently very busy. Stayed there till immediately (say two
minutes) before murder was discovered. She can swear Mr. Deacon
never left room the whole time, having had to leave door of
linen-room open owing to heat.
6. Women Servants.—These are Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, Martha Forrest,
Annie Holt, Lily Ingram. All except the first two account for each
other over the vital times, having been in the servants’ quarters
(in which the rooms are inter-communicating ) from 10.15 or so
onwards. Elsie Syme, who was downstairs in the servants’ hall until
the murder was discovered, and Mabel Smith, may be disregarded.
They have no one to substantiate their statements, but there is no
doubt at all that they are ordinary, foolish, honest working-girls.
(See also note after details re Miss Hoode.)
7. Alfred Poole (Butler)—Has not a shred of alibi. Was seated, as
usual, in his den opposite study all the evening. After 10 spoke to
no one; was seen by nobody. May, however, be disregarded as in any
way connected with murder. Will be very useful witness. May (in my
opinion) be trusted implicitly. Not very intelligent. Very old,
infirm, but sufficiently capable to answer questions truthfully and
clearly. [Has, for one point, nothing like half strength murderer
must have used.] Was devoted to deceased, whose family he has
served for forty-one years.
8. Robert Belford (man-servant).—Has certain support for his own
account of his actions; but not enough probably for fuller test.
Nothing against him, and last man in world for crime of this type.
Might possibly poison, but has neither courage nor strength enough
to have murdered deceased. Seems nervous. _May_ know more than he
admits, but unlikely.
9. Other Men-servants.—Harry Wright, chauffeur, and Thomas Diggle,
gardener. Both not concerned. Diggle is in hospital. Wright, who
lives in the lodge by the big gates, was off last night and with
reputable friends in Marling village. He did not return until some
time after murder had been discovered. The three lads who work
under Diggle live in their homes in the village. All were at home
from eight o’clock onwards last night.
Anthony, having reached the end, read through the document again, more
slowly this time. Boyd watched him eagerly. At last the papers were
handed back to their owner.
“Well, sir,” he said. “See what I mean?”
“I do, Boyd, I do. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I agree, you
know.”
Boyd’s face fell. “Ah, sir, I know what it is. You’re wondering at an
old hand like me trying to prove to you that nobody in the house
could’ve done it, when all the time most of ’em haven’t got what you
might call sound alibis at all. But look here, sir——”
Anthony got to his feet. “Boyd, you wrong me! I like your guesses even
better than your proofs. Guesses are nearly always as good as
arithmetic—especially guesses by one of your experience. I didn’t say
I didn’t agree with you, did I?”
“You didn’t _say_ so, sir, so to speak!”
“Nor I didn’t mean it either.” Anthony laughed. “My mind’s open, Boyd,
open. Anyhow, many thanks for letting me see that. I know a lot more
detail than I did. I suppose that’s a basis for a preliminary report,
what?”
Boyd nodded, and fell into step as Anthony turned in the direction of
the house.