Sir Clinton's Double
Two days after the interview with Markfield and his colleague at the
Croft-Thornton Institute, Inspector Flamborough came into Sir
Clinton's office, obviously in a state of faint trepidation.
“I've arrested Silverdale this morning, sir,” he announced in a voice
which betrayed that he was not quite sure whether this step would meet
his superior's approval.
The Chief Constable exhibited neither surprise nor disapproval at the
news.
“I shouldn't care to say that you've got a complete case against him,
Inspector. Not yet, at any rate. But he's got himself to thank for his
troubles; and now I expect things will begin to move a bit quicker in
the case. Mr. Justice will be calling up his last reserves.”
Flamborough seemed to feel that his action needed some justification,
though Sir Clinton had asked for none.
“Well, sir, it seems to me we had to forestall a possible bolt on
Silverdale's part. There's quite enough evidence to justify his
detention on suspicion in the meantime.”
“There's just one point I'd like to know about,” Sir Clinton said,
disregarding the Inspector's statement. “You've got four deaths to
choose from. Which of them are you going to select as your main case?
You can hardly put him on trial for all four simultaneously. There's
nothing against it legally, but you'd confuse the jury, I’m afraid.”
“I thought the bungalow business would be best, sir. There's a fair
chance of establishing a motive in it; whereas in the Heatherfield
affair there's only conjecture as to what he was after; and in the
Whalley case we simply haven't got enough evidence apart from the
jacket, unless we can prove that Silverdale was the bungalow murderer.
And if we can prove that, then there's no need to enter into the
Whalley case at all.”
Sir Clinton acquiesced with a nod.
“The bungalow affair is the key to the whole series,” he admitted
without qualification.
There was a knock at the door and a constable entered.
“A young lady wants to see you, sir,” he announced as he crossed the
room and handed a card to the Chief Constable. “She insisted that she
must see you personally. There's a woman with her.”
“Send her up,” Sir Clinton ordered, after a glance at the card.
When the constable had left the room, Sir Clinton flicked the tiny
oblong of pasteboard across his desk to the Inspector who picked it
up.
“Miss Avice Deepcar,” he read. “What the deuce can she be wanting
here?”
“Calm yourself, Inspector. The next instalment will be published in a
moment or two. You'd better wait here while she interviews me.”
When Avice Deepcar entered the office, Flamborough was puzzled by her
manner. She seemed to be agitated, but it was not the sort of
agitation he had expected. When she spoke, it sounded as if she were
both indignant and perturbed.
“You're Sir Clinton Driffield, aren't you?” she demanded, scanning the
Chief Constable closely.
The Chief Constable confessed to his identity.
“Then I'll come straight to the point,” Avice said. “What is the
meaning of your visiting my house last night, terrorising my maid, and
making a search through my private papers? I'm going to see my
solicitor about it—I don't believe it's legal. But in the meantime, I
want to know why you did it.”
Flamborough was completely taken aback by this charge. He stared
open-mouthed at his superior. Sir Clinton occasionally did things
which mystified him; but this seemed something completely out of the
common.
“He must have got a search-warrant without saying anything about it to
me,” the Inspector reflected. “But why on earth didn't he take me with
him, even if he wanted to go through her papers personally?”
Sir Clinton's face had become an inscrutable mask.
“Perhaps you wouldn't mind being a little more explicit, Miss
Deepcar,” he suggested. “I'm not quite sure that I understand your
grievance.”
Avice Deepcar's face showed that she had nothing but contempt for this
apparent quibbling.
“If you think it worth while, I'll give you details,” she said,
disdainfully. “But you're not thinking of denying it, are you? I've
got a witness to prove the facts, you know.”
With a gesture, Sir Clinton invited her to tell her story.
“I've been away from home for a day or two,” Avice began. “This
morning, I came back to Westerhaven by the eleven o’clock train and
drove to my house in a taxi. I left my maid alone in the house while I
was away; and when I got home again, I found her in a great state of
excitement. It seems that last night you came to the door, showed her
your card, and told her that you had come to search the house on some
matter connected with these awful murders. Naturally she was greatly
shocked; but there was nothing for it but to let you in. You went over
the whole place, searched in every corner of the house, opened every
drawer, poked your nose into all my private possessions—in fact, you
behaved as if I were a criminal under suspicion.”
She paused, as though to rein in her temper after this sudden
outpouring. Indignation had brought a slight flush to her cheeks, and
her quickened breathing betrayed the agitation she was trying to keep
under control. Mechanically she changed the position of her feet and
smoothed down her skirt; and Flamborough's sharp eye noted a trembling
in her hand as she did so. Sir Clinton maintained his silence and
gazed at her as though he expected further information.
“My maid was very much put about, naturally,” she went on. “She asked
you again and again what was at the back of it all; but you gave her
no explanation whatever. When you'd completed your search of my house,
you sat down with a pile of correspondence you'd collected—you see I
know all about it—and you began to read through my private letters.
Some of them you put aside; others you laid down in a pile on my desk.
When you'd finished reading them all, you took away the ones you'd
selected and left the rest on the desk. Then you left the house,
without offering the slightest explanation of this raid of yours. I
shan't stand that, you know. You've no right to do things of that
sort—throwing suspicion on me in this way, without the faintest ground
for it. Naturally, my maid has been babbling about it and everyone
knows the police have been on the premises. It's put me in a dreadful
position; and you'll have to give me an explanation and an apology.
It's no use trying to deny the facts, you know. I can prove what I've
said. And I want my letters back at once—the ones you stole. . . .
You've no right to them, and I simply won't put up with this kind of
thing.”
She broke off once more, evidently afraid that she was letting her
feelings get the better of her. For a moment or two Sir Clinton made
no reply. He seemed to be considering something carefully before he
spoke.
“I suppose you know, Miss Deepcar,” he said at last, “that Dr.
Silverdale is under arrest.”
The girl's expression changed in an instant. Something like fear
replaced her earlier anger.
“Dr. Silverdale? Arrested?” she demanded, with a tremor in her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“He was arrested yesterday in connection with the affair at the
bungalow.”
Avice Deepcar's eyes showed her amazement at the news.
“The affair at the bungalow?” she repeated. “But he had nothing to do
with that! He couldn't have had.”
All her indignation seemed to have been swept away by this fresh
information. She had the appearance of someone upon whom a wholly
unexpected peril has descended. Sir Clinton seemed satisfied by the
effect of his words; but without giving her time for thought, he
pursued his narrative.
“Several things have turned up which seem to implicate him in that
affair, and when we tried to extract some information from him about
his movements on the night of the bungalow murder, he refused to say
anything. He wouldn't tell us where he had been at that time.”
Avice Deepcar clasped and unclasped her hands mechanically for a
second or two. It was obvious that she was thinking swiftly and coming
to some decision upon which much might turn.
“He won't say where he was?” she demanded in a trembling voice. “Why
not?”
Sir Clinton made a vague gesture with his hand.
“I can hardly tell you his motive. Perhaps he hasn't an alibi. I've
told you what we know.”
He looked keenly at the girl before him, evidently expecting
something; and he was not disappointed.
“I can tell you where he was at that time,” Avice said at last.
“Probably you won't believe me, but this is true, at any rate. He and
I dined together in town that evening and after dinner we went home to
my house. We had a lot to talk over. We reached my house about
half-past eight. And then we began to talk things over. We had such a
lot to discuss that the time passed without our noticing it; and when
at last he got up to go, it was between one and two in the morning. So
you see he couldn't possibly have been at the bungalow.”
Sir Clinton interjected a question:
“Why didn't Dr. Silverdale tell us all this frankly when he was
questioned about his movements during that night?”
Avice Deepcar flushed at the direct attack, but she evidently had made
up her mind to make a clean breast of the whole business.
“I told you that Dr. Silverdale was with me that night from
dinner-time until the early hours of the morning. As it happened, my
maid was away that day and did not return until the next afternoon.
You must have a pretty good idea of what people would have said about
me if they got to know I'd been alone with Dr. Silverdale in my house.
I shouldn't have cared, really; because there was nothing in it. We
were simply talking. But I expect that when you questioned him he
thought of my position. He's a married man—at least he was a married
man then—and some people would have twisted the whole business into
something very unpleasant for me, I'm sure. So I think, knowing him
well, that he very likely didn't want to give me away. He knew he'd
had nothing to do with the murders, and I expect he imagined that the
real murderer would be detected without his having to give any precise
account of his doings on that night. If I'd known that he was running
the risk of arrest, of course, I'd have insisted on his telling what
really happened; but I've been out of town and I'd no idea things had
got to this pitch.”
Flamborough intervened as she paused for a moment.
“Your maid was away that night? Then you've got no one else who could
give evidence that Dr. Silverdale was with you during that crucial
period?”
Avice seemed to see a fresh gulf opening before her.
“No,” she admitted, with a faint tremor in her voice. “We were quite
alone. No one saw us go into the house and no one saw him leave it.”
“H'm!” said Flamborough. “Then it rests on your own evidence entirely?
There's no confirmation of it?”
“What confirmation do you need?” Avice demanded. “Dr. Silverdale will
tell you the same story. Surely that's sufficient?”
Before Flamborough could make any comment on this, Sir Clinton turned
the interview back to its original subject.
“I should like to be clear about the other matter first, if you
please, Miss Deepcar. With regard to this police raid on your house,
as you called it, can you tell me something more about it? For
instance, you say that I produced my card. Was that card preserved?”
“No,” Avice admitted. “My maid tells me that you only showed it to
her; you didn't actually hand it over to her.”
“Then anybody might have presented it?”
“No,” Avice contradicted him. “My maid recognised you. She'd seen your
photograph in a newspaper once, some months ago, and she knew you from
that.”
“Ah! Indeed! Can you produce this maid? She's not out of town at
present or anything like that?”
“I can produce her in a few moments,” Avice retorted with obvious
assurance. “She's waiting for me somewhere in this building at the
present time.”
Sir Clinton glanced at Flamborough and the Inspector retired from the
room. In a very short time he returned, bringing with him a
middle-aged woman, who glanced inquisitively at Sir Clinton as she
entered.
“Now, Marple,” Avice Deepcar demanded, “do you recognise anyone here?”
Mrs. Marple had no hesitation in the matter.
“That's Sir Clinton Driffield, Miss. I know his face quite well.”
Flamborough's suspicion that his superior had been moving in the
background of the case were completely confirmed by this evidence; but
he was still further surprised to catch a gleam of sardonic amusement
passing across the face of the Chief Constable.
“You recognise me, it seems?” he said, as though half in doubt as to
what line to take. “You won't mind my testing your memory a little?
Well, then, what kind of suit was I wearing when I came to your
house?”
Mrs. Marple considered carefully for a moment or two before replying:
“An ordinary suit, sir; a dark one rather like the one you've got on
just now.”
“You can't recall the colour?”
“It was a dark suit, that's all I can remember. You came in the
evening, sir, and the light isn't good for colours.”
“You didn't notice my tie, or anything like that?”
“No, sir. You'll remember that I was put about at the time. You gave
me a shock, coming down on me like that. It's the first time I ever
had to do with the police, sir; and I was all on my nerves’ edge with
the idea that you'd come after Miss Avice, sir. I couldn't hardly get
to believe it, and I was all in a twitter.”
Sir Clinton nodded sympathetically.
“I'm sorry you were so much disturbed. Now have a good look at me
where the light's bright enough. Do you see anything that strikes you
as different from the appearance I had that night?”
He moved across to the window and stood patiently while Mrs. Marple
scanned him up and down deliberately.
“You haven't got your eyeglass on to-day, sir.”
“Ah! Did you say eyeglass or eyeglasses?”
“Eyeglass, sir. I remember you dropped it out of your eye when you
began to read Miss Avice's letters.”
“Apart from the eyeglass, then, I'm much the same?”
“You've got quit of your cold now, sir. You were quite hoarse that
night you came to the house—as if you'd got a touch of sore throat or
something like that.”
“That's true. I've no cold now. Anything more?”
Mrs. Marple subjected him to another prolonged scrutiny.
“No, sir. You're just like you were that night.”
“And you recognised me from some newspaper portrait, it seems?”
“Yes, sir. I saw your picture in the evening paper once. It was just a
head-and-shoulders one; but I'd have recognised you from it even if
you hadn't shown me your card.”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment.
“Can you remember what was on that card?” he asked.
Mrs. Marple consulted her memory.
“It said: ‘Sir Clinton Driffield (and some letters after the name),
Chief Constable.’ Then in the left-hand corner was the address:
‘Police Headquarters, Westerhaven.’”
Sir Clinton caught Flamborough's eye and they exchanged glances. The
Inspector had little difficulty in seeing that his first impression
had been wrong. It was not the Chief Constable who had ransacked Avice
Deepcar's house.
Sir Clinton took out his card-case and handed a card to Mrs. Marple.
“It wasn't that card I showed you, was it?”
Mrs. Marple scanned the card for a moment.
“Oh, no, sir. This one reads quite different.”
Sir Clinton nodded and took back the card.
“I think that's really all I want to know, Mrs. Marple. Perhaps
Inspector Flamborough may want to ask you a question or two later on.”
Avice Deepcar seemed by no means satisfied at this close to the
interview.
“That's all very fine, Sir Clinton,” she said, “but you seem to think
you've satisfied me. You haven't. You can't invade my house in this
way and then pass the whole thing off as if it were part of your
routine. And you can't carry away a pile of my private letters and
keep them without my consent. I insist on having them back. If you
don't, I'll see my solicitor at once about the matter. And may I
remind you again that you owe me some apology for your proceedings?”
Sir Clinton seemed in no way ruffled.
“Of course I apologise for anything I've done which may have
inconvenienced you, Miss Deepcar. I'm quite sincere in saying that I
very much regret that you should have been worried in this way.
Nothing that I have done has been meant to throw any suspicion on you,
I can assure you. As to the letters, I think your best plan will be to
consult your solicitor as you suggest. Ask him to ring me up at once,
and I'll try to settle the matter as soon as we can. I've no wish to
cause you any trouble—none whatever.”
Avice glanced suspiciously from him to the Inspector. It was evident
that this solution did not satisfy her; but obviously she realised
that nothing would be gained by attempting to argue the point.
“Very well,” she said at last, “I'll go straight to my solicitor now.
You'll hear from him very shortly.”
Sir Clinton held the door open for her and she passed out of the room,
followed by Mrs. Marple. After a few seconds, the Chief Constable
turned to Flamborough.
“What do you make of it all, Inspector?”
“Well, sir, that Mrs. Marple seems to me honest enough, but not very
bright.”
Sir Clinton nodded in assent.
“She recognised her visitor from his resemblance to some blurred
newspaper portrait; and she recognised me from my resemblance to her
visitor. That's your idea?”
“It looks like it. I never saw you wearing a single eyeglass, sir. And
it occurs to me that a single eyeglass helps to change the normal
expression of a face owing to the wrinkling that you make in holding
it in your eye. Also if it's an unfamiliar thing, one would drop it
when one began to read documents, so as not to be hampered by it.”
“True. I suppose that satisfies you—along with the faked visiting-card
which was meant to impress her with the fact that a high official had
descended on her—that I personally wasn't mixed up in the business.
I've the best of reasons for knowing that myself, of course, since I
know I was elsewhere at the time. But what do you make of the raid?”
“Documents were what the man was after, obviously, sir.”
“It seems clear enough that he expected to get hold of something
compromising amongst her correspondence. If you ask me, Inspector, Mr.
Justice doesn't seem to stick at much in his self-appointed task.”
“I was pretty sure it was some of his work, sir. The Deepcar girl and
Silverdale had a common interest in getting Mrs. Silverdale out of the
way; there's no doubt about that. And some people are perfect fools in
what they put down on paper. It's quite on the cards that Mr. Justice
thought he might find something useful amongst Silverdale's letters to
Avice Deepcar.”
“He evidently found something which he thought worth taking away, at
any rate,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I had a notion that once you
arrested Silverdale, things would begin to move faster. If Mr. Justice
has got hold of any evidence, it'll be in our hands before long, I'm
prepared to bet.”
“He's saving us some trouble, if there _is_ anything in writing,” the
Inspector said, with a grin. “We would hardly have raided the Deepcar
house on such a long chance as that; and he's done the job for us.”
“A most useful and altruistic person, evidently,” Sir Clinton
commented ironically. “Now what about the rest of the affair,
Inspector? If you accept Miss Deepcar's evidence, then the bottom's
out of your case against Silverdale. He couldn't be with her and at
the bungalow simultaneously.”
“Why should we accept her evidence at all?” Flamborough demanded
crossly. “She had as much interest in getting Mrs. Silverdale out of
the way as Silverdale himself had. Their interests are absolutely at
one in the affair. It's more than an even chance that she was his
accomplice in the business—standing ready with this tale of hers to
prove an alibi for him. I don't reckon her statement was worth that!”
He snapped his fingers contemptuously.
“There's something else, sir,” he continued. “This Mrs. Marple wasn't
at the house that night. What evidence is there that Silverdale and
the Deepcar girl ever went home at all after they'd dined down town?
There's no corroboration of that story. Why not assume that the
Deepcar girl was an actual accomplice on the spot? She and Silverdale
may have driven out to the bungalow after dinner, and she may have
stood at the window during the whole affair. There's nothing against
that, if you discount her story. My reading of the Deepcar girl is
that she may be surface-shy, so to speak, but she's got good strong
fibre in her character underneath. Look how she faced up to you not
ten minutes ago. Not much shyness about that.”
“I think I'd have been a bit stirred up myself, Inspector, if you came
along in my absence and pawed over all my private possessions. One
isn't necessarily a scoundrel if one turns peevish over a thing of
that sort.”
The Inspector let the point pass.
“Have you any notion who this Mr. Justice can be, sir?”
“I've a pretty fair notion, but it's only a notion. Who stands to
profit by the affair?”
Some recollection seemed to cross the Inspector's mind.
“Spratton, of course, sir. And now I come to think of it, if you
shaved off your moustache, he's very like you in face and build. If
Spratton's going to collect his insurance on young Hassendean, then
murder's got to be proved.”
“Well,” said Sir Clinton lightly. “I trust Mr. Spratton will get what
he deserves in the matter.”