The Fly in the Amber
At the door of the big block of buildings which formed the
Croft-Thornton Institute, Inspector Flamborough made inquiries from
the porter and obtained a guide through the labyrinth of stairs and
corridors.
“This is Dr. Markfield's laboratory, sir,” their pilot finally
informed them as he knocked on a door. “Two gentlemen to see you,
sir,” he announced, standing aside to allow Sir Clinton and the
Inspector to enter.
As they walked into the laboratory, Trevor Markfield came towards them
from one of the benches at which he had been occupied. His face
betrayed his slight surprise at finding two strangers before him.
“What can I do for you!” he inquired politely, but without any
needless effusiveness.
Flamborough, in response to an almost imperceptible gesture from his
superior, stepped to the front.
“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, the Chief Constable, Dr. Markfield.
I'm Inspector Flamborough. We've called to see if you could give us
some expert assistance in a case.”
Markfield, after a glance at a water-bath on which a flask was being
heated, led the way to a little office which adjoined the laboratory
and closed the door behind the party.
“We shall be more private here,” he said, inviting them with a gesture
to take chairs. “One of my assistants will be back shortly, and I take
it that your business is likely to be confidential.”
The Inspector agreed with a nod.
“It's a poisoning case and we'll need some help in detecting the
poison.”
“That's a bit vague,” Markfield commented with a smile. “There are so
many kinds of poisons, you know. If it's arsenic or anything of that
sort, a first-year student could spot it for you; but if it's one of
the organic lot, it'll be a stiff business most likely.”
“It looks like one of the mydriatic alkaloids,” Sir Clinton put in.
“Atropine, or something akin to it. The eye-pupils of the body were
dilated.”
Markfield considered for a moment.
“I've done some alkaloid work in my time,” he explained, “but I
suppose in a case of this kind you ought to have the best man. Some of
the alkaloids are the very devil to spot when you've only a small
quantity. I'd like the fee for the case, of course,” he added with a
faint smile, “but the truth is that Dr. Silverdale, my chief, is an
alkaloid specialist. He's worked on them for years, and he could give
me points all along the line. I'll take you along to his room now.”
He rose from his chair, but a gesture from Flamborough arrested him.
“I'm afraid that would hardly do, Dr. Markfield. As a matter of fact,
it's Mrs. Silverdale's death that we're inquiring into!”
Markfield could not repress an exclamation at the Inspector's
statement.
“Mrs. Silverdale? You don't mean to say that anything's happened to
her? Good God! I knew the girl quite well. Nobody could have a grudge
against her.”
He glanced from one official to the other, as though doubting his
ears.
“Wait a bit,” he added, after a moment's pause. “Perhaps I've taken
you up wrong. Do you mean Yvonne Silverdale?”
“Yes,” the Inspector confirmed.
Markfield's face showed a struggle between incredulity and belief.
“But that girl hadn't an enemy in the world, man,” he broke out at
last. “The thing's clean impossible.”
“I've just seen her body,” said the Inspector curtly.
The blunt statement seemed to have its effect.
“Well, if that's so, you can count on me for any work you want me to
do. I'm quite willing to take it on.”
“That's very satisfactory, Dr. Markfield,” Sir Clinton interposed.
“Now, perhaps you could give us help in another line as well. You seem
to have been a friend of Mrs. Silverdale's. Could you tell us anything
about her—anything you think might be useful to us?”
A fresh thought seemed to pass through Markfield's mind and a faint
suggestion of distrust appeared on his face.
“Well, I'm ready to answer any questions you care to put,” he said,
though there seemed to be a certain reluctance in his voice.
Sir Clinton's attitude indicated that it was the turn of the
Inspector. Flamborough pulled out his notebook.
“First of all, then, Dr. Markfield, could you tell us when you first
became acquainted with Mrs. Silverdale?”
“Shortly after she and her husband came to Westerhaven. That's about
three years ago, roughly.”
“You knew her fairly well?”
“I used to see her at dances and so forth. Lately, I've seen less of
her. She picked up other friends, naturally; and I don't dance much
nowadays.”
“She danced a good deal, I understand. Can you tell me any particular
people who associated with her frequently in recent times?”
“I daresay I could give you a list of several. Young Hassendean was
one. She used him as a kind of dancing-partner, from all I heard; but
I go out so little nowadays that I can't speak from much direct
knowledge on the point.”
“What sort of person was Mrs. Silverdale, in your judgment?”
Markfield took a little time to consider this question.
“She was French, you know,” he replied. “I always found her very
bright. Some people called her frivolous. She was out to enjoy
herself, of course. Naturally she was a bit out of place in a
backwater like this. She got some people's backs up, I believe. Women
didn't like her being so smartly-dressed and all that.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that she took drugs?”
Markfield listened to this question with obvious amazement.
“Drugs? No. She'd never touch drugs. Who's been putting that lie
around?”
Flamborough tactfully disregarded this question.
“Then from what you know of her, you would say that suicide would be
improbable in her case?”
“Quite, I should say.”
“She had no worries that you know of, no domestic troubles, for
instance?”
Markfield's eyes narrowed slightly at the question.
“Hardly my business to discuss another man's affairs, is it?” he
demanded, obviously annoyed by the Inspector's query. “I don't think
I'm called upon to repeat the tittle-tattle of the town.”
“You mean you don't know anything personally?”
“I mean I'm not inclined to gossip about the domestic affairs of a
colleague. If you're so keen on them, you can go and ask him direct.”
It was quite evident that Markfield had strong views on the subject of
what he called “tittle-tattle”; and the Inspector realised that
nothing would be gained by pursuing the matter. At the same time, he
was amused to see that Markfield, by his loyalty to his colleague, had
betrayed the very thing which he was trying to conceal. It was obvious
that things had not gone smoothly in the Silverdale household, or
Markfield would have had no reason for burking the question.
“You mentioned young Hassendean's name,” Flamborough continued. “You
know that he's been murdered, of course?”
“I saw it in the paper this morning. He's no great loss,” Markfield
said brutally. “We had him here in the Institute, and a more useless
pup you'd be hard put to it to find.”
“What sort of person was he?” the Inspector inquired.
“One of these bumptious brats who think they ought to have everything
they want, just for the asking. He'd a very bad swelled head.
Herring-gutted, too, I should judge. He used to bore me with a lot of
romantic drivel until I sat on him hard once or twice. I couldn't
stand him.”
It was evident that young Hassendean had rasped Markfield's nerves
badly.
“Had anyone a grudge against him, do you think?”
“I shouldn't be surprised, knowing him as I did. He would have put a
saint's back up with his bounce and impertinence. But if you mean a
grudge big enough to lead to murder, I can't say. I saw as little of
him as possible even in working hours, and I had no interest in his
private affairs.”
It was quite evident that nothing of real value was to be elicited
along this line. The Inspector abandoned the subject of young
Hassendean's personality and turned to a fresh field.
“Young Hassendean smoked cigarettes, didn't he?”
“I've seen him smoking them.”
“Is this his holder, by any chance?”
Flamborough produced the fly-in-amber holder as he spoke and laid it
on the table. As he did so, he glanced at Markfield's face and was
surprised to see the swift change of expression on it. A flash of
amazement followed by something that looked like dismay, crossed his
features; then, almost instantaneously, he composed himself, and only
a faint trace of misgiving showed in his eyes.
“No, that isn't young Hassendean's holder,” he answered.
“You recognise it?”
Markfield bent forward to inspect the article, but it was evident that
he knew it well.
“Do I need to answer these questions of yours?” he demanded,
uncomfortably.
“You'll have that question put to you at the inquest when you're on
your oath,” said the Inspector sharply. “You may as well answer now
and save trouble.”
Markfield stared for a moment longer at the fly in the amber.
“Where did you pick this thing up?” he demanded, without answering the
Inspector's question.
But Flamborough saw that he had got on the track of something definite
at last, and was not inclined to be put off.
“That's our business, sir,” he said brusquely. “You recognise the
thing, obviously. Whose is it? It's no use trying to shield anyone.
The thing's too conspicuous; and if you don't tell us about it,
someone else will. But it doesn't look well to find you trying to
throw dust in our eyes.”
Markfield could not help seeing that the Inspector attached special
importance to the holder; and he evidently recognised that further
shuffling was out of the question.
“I'm not going to identify it for you,” he said. “You've let slip that
it's an important clue; and I don't know it well enough to make
assertions about it. I'll send for a man now who'll be able to swear
definitely, one way or another. That's all I see my way to do for
you.”
He put his hand on a bell-push and they waited in silence until a boy
came in answer to the summons.
“Send Gilling to me at once,” Markfield ordered.
Then, when the boy had withdrawn, he turned to the two officials
again.
“Gilling is our head mechanic. You can question him about it. He's an
intelligent man.”
In a few minutes the mechanic appeared at the door.
“You wanted me, sir?” he asked.
Markfield introduced the Inspector with a gesture, and Flamborough put
his questions.
“You've seen this thing before?”
The mechanic came forward to the table and examined the holder
carefully.
“Yes, sir. I made it myself.”
“You're quite sure of that?”
“No mistake about it. I know my own work.”
“Tell us what you know about it,” the Inspector demanded.
The mechanic thought for a moment or two.
“It was about three months ago, sir. If you want it, I can look up the
exact date in my workshop notebook where I keep a record of each day's
work. I made two of them for Dr. Silverdale at that time.”
Flamborough shot a glance at Markfield's downcast face. It was pretty
obvious now who was being shielded; and the Inspector remembered how
Markfield had fenced in the matter of the domestic troubles of the
Silverdales.
“Tell us exactly what happened then,” Flamborough encouraged the
mechanic.
“Dr. Silverdale came to me one morning with some bits of stuff in his
hand—amber-looking, same as this holder. He told me he'd been
manufacturing some new stuff—a condensate like Bakelite. He wanted me
to see if it could be filed and turned and so on. I remember his
showing me the fly, there. He'd put it into the stuff as a joke—a fly
to prove that the thing was genuine amber, and take people in when he
showed the stuff to them. The condensate stuff was in sticks, two of
them, about six inches long by an inch thick, so he suggested that I'd
better make two cigarette-holders and see if the thing would stand
being worked on a lathe without splitting or cracking. So I made the
two holders for him. I remember the trouble I had to steer clear of
the fly while I was shaping the thing.”
“And what happened to the holders after that?”
“Dr. Silverdale used the one with no fly in it for a bit and kept the
other one for show. Then he lost the plain one—he's always leaving his
holders about the place on the benches—and he took to using the one
with the fly in it. He's been smoking with it for a month or more,
now. I remember just last week asking him whether it was wearing well,
when he came into the workshop with it in his mouth.”
“Have another good look at it,” Flamborough suggested. “I want to be
sure there's no mistake.”
Gilling examined the holder once more.
“That's the one I made, sir. I could swear to it.”
He hesitated a moment as if wishing to ask a question; but
Flamborough, having got his information, dismissed the mechanic
without more ado. When the man had gone, he turned back to Markfield.
“I don't quite like your way of doing things, Dr. Markfield. You might
have given us the information at once without all this shuffling, for
I could see at a glance you had recognised this cigarette-holder. If
you're trying to shield your colleague from a reasonable
investigation, I'll take the liberty of reminding you that one can
become an accessory after the fact as well as before it.”
Markfield's face grew stormy as he listened to the Inspector's
warning.
“I'd have a look at the law on slander, if I were you, Inspector,
before you start flinging accusations about. If you remember the
facts, it'll help. I've only seen this holder at a distance when Dr.
Silverdale was using it. I've never had a good look at it until you
produced it. Naturally, although I had very little doubt about whose
it was, still I wasn't going to assert that it was Silverdale's. But I
got you a man who could identify it properly. What more do you want?”
Flamborough's face showed that he found this defence quite
unsatisfactory. Markfield's obvious fencing with him at the start had
left its impression on his mind.
“Well, when you do this analysis for us, remember that you'll have to
testify about it in the witness-box,” he said, bluntly. “We can't have
any qualifications and fine distinctions then, you know.”
“I'll be quite prepared to stand over any results I get,” Markfield
asserted with equal bluntness. “But I don't guarantee to find a poison
if it isn't there, of course.”
“There _is_ something there, according to the doctor,” Flamborough
declared. “Now I think I'd like to see Dr. Silverdale, if you can tell
us where to find him.”
Markfield's temper was evidently still ruffled, and he was obviously
glad to be rid of the Inspector. He conducted them along a passage,
pointed out a door, and then took leave of them in the curtest
fashion.
They entered the room which had been shown to them; and while
Flamborough was explaining who they were, Sir Clinton had leisure to
examine Silverdale. He saw an alert, athletic man with a friendly
manner, who looked rather younger than his thirty-five years. Whatever
Silverdale's domestic troubles might have been, he showed few outward
signs of them. When they disturbed him, he had been sitting before a
delicate balance; and as he rose, he slid the glass front down in
order to protect the instrument. Apart from his surroundings, it would
have been difficult to determine his profession; for he had an
open-air skin which certainly did not suggest the laboratory. He
carried himself well, and only a yellow stain of picric acid on the
right-hand side of his old tweed laboratory jacket detracted from his
spruceness and betrayed the chemist.
“I've been expecting you, Inspector Flamborough,” he said, as soon as
he realised who his visitors were. “This has been a dreadful business
last night. It was a bolt from the blue to me when I got home this
morning.”
He paused, and looked inquiringly at the Inspector.
“Have you any notion why that unfortunate maid of mine was murdered?
It's a complete mystery to me. A dreadful business.”
Flamborough exchanged a glance with the Chief Constable. As Silverdale
had ignored his wife's death, it seemed to the Inspector that the news
of it might be broken to him later, when the other case had been dealt
with. Silverdale, of course, could hardly have picked up any hint
about the affairs at the bungalow, since a knowledge of them was still
confined to the police and Dr. Ringwood.
“We're rather at a loss at present,” Flamborough admitted frankly. “As
things stand, it looks rather like a case of a detected burglar who
killed the woman when she disturbed him at his work. Had you any stock
of valuables on your premises which might have attracted gentry of
that sort?”
Silverdale shook his head.
“My wife had a certain amount of jewellery, but I don't think any
burglar would have found it worth while to go the length of murder for
the sake of it.”
“Where did Mrs. Silverdale keep her jewellery?”
“I rather think it's kept in one of the drawers of an old
chest-of-drawers in her room—the drawer that the man broke into. But
she may have other things elsewhere. We had different rooms, you know;
and I never troubled to find out where she put things in her own
room.”
“I suppose you couldn't give us a list of your wife's jewellery?”
“No, I really don't know what she has. I could tell you one or two
things, of course; but I couldn't guarantee to remember them all.”
Flamborough switched off to a fresh line.
“This maid of yours was reliable? I mean, she couldn't have been a
confederate of the burglar by any chance?”
Silverdale shook his head.
“Quite out of the question, I should say. That maid had been with us
ever since we were married; and before that she'd been in service with
an aunt of mine who died. She'd always had a good character, and she
was old enough not to do anything silly.”
“An old family retainer? I see, sir. And you never had any friction
with her, I suppose?”
“Certainly not.”
Flamborough returned to his earlier line of inquiry.
“You can't think of anything else a burglar might have had his eye on
in your house, sir? Apart from the jewellery, I mean.”
Silverdale seemed taken aback by the question.
“I don't quite understand, I'm afraid. What could a burglar want
except jewellery or plate? And he might take all the plate I keep away
with him and not be much the richer.”
Flamborough seemed unable to think of any fresh question to put on
that particular subject. His face took on a new expression.
“I'm afraid we've got worse news for you, sir,” he began, and in a few
sentences he put Silverdale in possession of the barest outline of the
bungalow tragedy. Sir Clinton, watching the manner in which the
bereaved husband received the news, had to confess to himself that he
could make nothing of what he saw. Silverdale's manner and words were
just what might have been expected in the circumstances.
Flamborough allowed a decent interval to elapse before he came
directly to business once more.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale, I'm sorry I've got to ask some awkward
questions; but I'm sure you'll give us your best help in clearing up
this affair. I hate to worry you—I'm sure you understand that—but it's
essential that we should get certain information at the earliest
possible moment. That's my excuse.”
Before Silverdale could reply, the door of the laboratory opened, and
a slim, graceful girl came into the room. At the sight of the two
strangers, she halted shyly. Sir Clinton caught a gleam in
Silverdale's expression as he turned towards the girl: a touch of
something difficult to define.
“Just a moment, Miss Deepcar, please. I'm engaged just now.”
“I only came to tell you that I'd taken that mixed melting-point. It's
hyoscine picrate, as you thought it was.”
“Thanks,” Silverdale returned. “I'll come round to your room in a few
minutes. Please wait for me.”
Something in the brief exchange of information seemed to have
attracted Sir Clinton's attention. He glanced at the girl as she
turned to leave the room; then he appeared to re-concentrate his mind
upon Flamborough's questions.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale,” Flamborough went on, “this is a very nasty
business, and I don't mind admitting that we're in the dark just now.
Can you think of anything which might connect the deaths of the maid
and Mrs. Silverdale?”
Silverdale stared at the floor for a time, as though turning
possibilities over in his mind.
“I can't imagine how there could be any connection whatever,” he said
at last.
Flamborough decided to approach the most awkward part of his subject.
It was impossible to tell from his manner what was coming next, but it
was clear that he had something important to ask.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale, I want to be as tactful as I can; but if I go
over the score, I hope you'll take the will for the deed.”
“Oh, you can be as blunt as you like,” Silverdale retorted, with the
first signs of impatience which he had shown. “Ask what you choose.”
“Thanks,” the Inspector answered with apparent relief. “Then I'll come
straight to the point. What precisely were the relations existing
between Mrs. Silverdale and young Hassendean?”
Silverdale's face paled slightly and his lips tightened as this blunt
response to his offer fell on his ears. He seemed to consider his
reply carefully.
“I suppose you mean: ‘Was she unfaithful to me with young Hassendean?’
Then my answer would be: ‘So far as my information goes, no.’ She
flirted with the young cub certainly; and they behaved, to my mind,
very injudiciously; but to the best of my knowledge it went no further
than that. I'd have brought them up with a round turn if they'd given
me cause.”
“That's your candid opinion?” the Inspector demanded. “You're keeping
back nothing?”
“Why, man, I'd have given . . .” Silverdale broke out. Then he stopped
short in mid-sentence. “It's my candid opinion, as you put it,” he
ended tamely.
Flamborough, it seemed, had extracted the information he wanted. He
left the subject and took up a fresh one.
“Do you recall anything important which happened in the year 1925?”
“Yes, I left London and took up my post here.”
“You were married in 1923, weren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Had your wife any relations in this country? She was French, wasn't
she?”
“She had a brother, Octave Renard, who was in business in London.
Still is, as a matter of fact. An old aunt is the only other relation
I know of.”
“Before you left London, had you any difficulties with Mrs.
Silverdale—I mean anything like young Hassendean?”
“Nothing that came to my notice,” Silverdale answered, after
consulting his memory.
“Can you recall any friend of yours or of hers who had the initial B?
Either in the Christian name or the surname, I mean. It might be
either a man or a woman.”
This question evidently surprised Silverdale.
“The initial B?” he repeated. “No. I can't recall anyone to fit that.”
He seemed to be running over a list of people in his mind, but at the
end of half-a-minute he shook his head decidedly.
“No. I can't think of anyone with that initial.”
Flamborough's face betrayed his dissatisfaction. He had evidently
built some hopes on getting the information.
“Now, another point, Dr. Silverdale. Have you any reason to suppose
that Mrs. Silverdale was addicted to drugs?”
This time, Silverdale's surprise at the question was quite unfeigned:
“Drugs? Of course not! Unless you count cocktails as drugs. What on
earth put that into your mind?”
The Inspector rather shamefacedly abandoned this line of inquiry, and
turned to something else.
“I'd like to hear anything you can tell me about young Hassendean,
sir. He worked here in the Institute, didn't he?”
“That depends a good deal on what precise meaning you attach to the
word ‘work,’ Inspector. He certainly loafed about the premises, but he
did as little as he could.”
“Well,” said Flamborough, impatiently, “can you tell me anything else
about him? Everyone I've interviewed yet has told me he was idle. I'd
rather have something more to the point.”
Silverdale thought for a moment or two.
“He was a nuisance from the start. When he came here first—some three
years ago—he spent his time hanging round one of the girl-assistants:
Miss Hailsham. He interfered with her work, and I had to speak to him
about it several times. Then she got engaged to him. Some time after,
my wife took him up, and he broke off his engagement to Miss
Hailsham—possibly to please my wife. I remember it made things rather
unpleasant here when the engagement was broken, because Miss Hailsham
took it rather badly. She'd every reason to do so, though she wasn't
losing much, it seemed to me.”
Inspector Flamborough pricked up his ears at this information.
“Is this Miss Hailsham still an assistant here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Silverdale explained. “She's one of my private assistants. I
have several girls who do routine work; but Miss Hailsham and Miss
Deepcar—the girl who came in here a moment ago—are a shade better than
the usual run.”
“Could you make an excuse to let me have a look at Miss Hailsham?”
Flamborough inquired.
“She's not here to-day,” Silverdale answered. “Off with a sore throat,
or something of that sort. But if you'll come back another time, I can
take you to her room if you wish. You can pose as a visitor whom I'm
showing round, if you don't want to appear officially.”
“Very good, sir. I'll drop in some other day. Now, another point, if
you don't mind. Mrs. Silverdale wore a signet ring. Can you tell me
anything about it? Did she get it from you or did she buy it herself?”
“I didn't make her a present of it,” Silverdale answered promptly. “I
believe she got it made by some jeweller or other. I remember a few
years ago she took it into her head to seal all her letters—some
passing fad in the crowd she used to associate with, I suppose. But
once she started doing it, she kept it up. I think she must have got
the signet ring made for that purpose.”
Inspector Flamborough nodded thoughtfully as though he attached some
importance to this information. Then, in a casual tone he inquired:
“You weren't at home last night, of course? Where were you?”
“I was——”
Suddenly a thought seemed to cross Silverdale's mind and he halted
abruptly in his sentence. Then he amended his statement most
obviously.
“I spent the night working here.”
Inspector Flamborough noted the words in his pocket-book with marked
deliberation. Then he looked round the room and seemed dissatisfied
with something. As though to give himself time to think before asking
another question, he moved over to the window and gazed down
thoughtfully into the main thoroughfare below. Whatever his
reflections may have been, the result of them was singularly feeble.
He turned back to Silverdale and put a final question:
“I suppose you can't think of any other point that might help us to
throw light on this business, sir?”
Silverdale shook his head decidedly.
“I'm quite in the dark about it all.”
The Inspector looked him up and down deliberately for a moment.
“Well, in that case, sir, I don't think we need take up any more of
your time. I'll remove the police from your house. It's been
disinfected already by the sanitary people, so you can go back there
any time you choose, now. Thanks for the help you've given us.”
Flamborough did not speak to Sir Clinton until they had put the length
of a corridor between themselves and Silverdale's laboratory.
“I think I'll drop in and see Dr. Markfield again, sir,” he explained.
“I'm not at all satisfied about some things.”
“Do so, Inspector. I quite agree with you!”
“I'll make an excuse about the arrangements for this analysis. Not
that I'll lay much stress on Markfield's results when we get them,
sir. He's made a bad impression on me over that evidence he gave us
before. People shouldn't equivocate in a murder case merely to shield
their friends. We've troubles enough without that sort of thing.”
“Well, handle him tactfully, Inspector, or he may turn stubborn. If he
takes refuge in ‘I don't remember,’ or anything of that sort, you'll
not get much out of him.” Sir Clinton observed.
“I shan't frighten him,” Flamborough assured him, as they approached
Markfield's room.
As they entered, Markfield looked up in surprise at seeing them once
more.
“It's just occurred to me that I forgot to make arrangements about
handing that stuff over to you for analysis,” Flamborough said, as he
went forward. “It'll be in sealed jars, of course; and I'd prefer to
hand it over to you personally. I suppose I could always get hold of
you either here or at your house?”
“You'd better come here. My housekeeper's away just now nursing some
relation who's down with 'flu, and my house is empty except when I
happen to be at home myself. You'll find me here between nine in the
morning and six at night—except for lunch-time, of course. I generally
clear out of here at six and dine down town.”
“I suppose you have a long enough day of it,” the Inspector said in a
casual tone. “You don't come back here and work in the evening?”
“Sometimes, if there's something interesting that brings me back. But
I haven't done that for weeks past.”
“This place is shut up at night, isn't it? I mean, you don't keep a
porter or a watchman on the premises?”
“No. But each of the seniors has a private key, of course. I can get
in any time I wish. It's the same at the Research Station.”
The Inspector seemed to be struck by an idea.
“Any valuable stuff on the premises, by any chance?”
“Nothing a thief could make much out of. There's a thousand or fifteen
hundred pounds worth of platinum, dishes, electrodes, and so forth, in
the safe. I believe the man on the beat is supposed to give special
attention to the place and notify anything suspicious immediately; but
I've never known anything of the sort to happen.”
“Rather a difficult position for our men if the staff can come and go
freely at night,” the Inspector pointed out. “If a constable sees a
light in the window, what's he to make of it? Does Dr. Silverdale work
late often?”
“I really couldn't tell you.”
“You don't see much of him privately, sir?”
“Very little,” Markfield answered. “Only when I run across him by
accident down town, like last night.”
“You met him, did you?”
“Hardly even that. I happened to drop into the Grosvenor for dinner
after I left here. I can't get meals at home just now unless I cook
'em myself. As I was finishing my coffee, Silverdale came into the
dining-room with Miss Deepcar and took a table in the window recess. I
didn't disturb them, and I don't think they noticed me.”
“Then they were just beginning dinner when you left the place? What
time was that, can you tell me?”
Markfield looked suspiciously at the Inspector.
“You're trying to get me to say something that you want to use
against—well, someone else, shall we say? I don't care about it,
frankly. But since you could get the information from the waiter who
served them, there's no harm done. I went to the Grosvenor at 6.35 or
thereabouts. I was going down to the Research Station afterwards to
pick up some notes, so I dined early that night. Silverdale and Miss
Deepcar came in just as I was finishing dinner—that would be about a
quarter past seven or thereby. I expect they were going on to some
show afterwards.”
“Was she in evening dress?”
“Ask me another. I never can tell whether a girl's in evening dress or
not, nowadays, with these new fashions.”
Inspector Flamborough closed his notebook and took his leave, followed
by Sir Clinton. When they reached the street again and had got into
the waiting car, the Chief Constable turned to his subordinate.
“You collected a lot of interesting information that time.”
“I noticed you left it all to me, sir; but I think I got one or two
things worth having. It's a bit disconnected; and it'll take some
thinking before it's straightened out.”
“What's your main inference, as things stand?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Well, sir, it's a bit early yet. But I've been wondering about one
thing, certainly.”
“And that is?”
“And that is whether Peeping Tom's name wasn't Thomasina,” Flamborough
announced gravely.
“There are two sexes, of course,” Sir Clinton admitted with equal
gravity. “And inquisitiveness is supposed to be more strongly
developed in the female than in the male. The next thing will be to
consider whether Mr. Justice shouldn't be rechristened Justitia. One
ought to take all possibilities into account.”