The Murder in the Museum
Sir Clinton cut short the shrill ringing of his desk telephone by
picking up the receiver.
“The Chief Constable speaking,” he informed his inquirer.
Michael Clifton’s voice sounded over the wire.
“Can you come up to Ravensthorpe at once, Sir Clinton, or send
Inspector Armadale? There’s a bad business here. Mr. Foss has been
murdered. I’ve taken care that no one has got off the premises; and
I’ve seen to it that his body has been left as it was found.”
Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I’ll drive across as soon as possible. See that things are left
undisturbed, please. And collect all the people who can give any
evidence, so that we needn’t waste time hunting for them. Good-bye.”
He shifted the switch of his telephone and spoke again.
“Is Inspector Armadale here just now?” he asked the constable who
answered his call. “Tell him I wish to see him in my room
immediately.”
While waiting for Armadale, Sir Clinton had a few moments in which to
consider the information he had just received.
“This looks like Part II of the Ravensthorpe affair,” he reflected.
“Foss’s only connection with Ravensthorpe was the business of these
Medusa Medallions. First one has the theft of the replicas; now comes
the murder of this American agent. It’s highly improbable that two
things like that could be completely independent.”
His cogitation was interrupted by the entry of Armadale, and in a few
words Sir Clinton gave him the fresh information which had come to
hand.
“We’ll go up there at once in my car, Inspector. Get the necessary
things together, please. Don’t forget the big camera. We may need it.
And the constable who does photography for us had better come along
also.”
Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on
the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt
to extract further information from him was a complete failure.
“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed
out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the
land lies up yonder.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for
them at the door.
“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about
things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s
one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other
witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the
body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?”
Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to
the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the
room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in,
followed by Armadale.
A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by
the show-cases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down,
and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips.
“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time.
“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If
he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short
time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the
constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it,
though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d
better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the
valet.”
Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could
not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief
Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was
acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly
whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by
the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official
work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though
nothing mattered but the end in view.
Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where
Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary
talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which
suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael
realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than
was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder
was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a
thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost
indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves.
“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?”
Joan shook her head.
“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.
Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair
himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in
this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend
her his moral support.
After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story.
“Some time after lunch, I was sitting on the terrace with Mr. Foss. I
forget what we were talking about—nothing of any importance. Soon
after that, Maurice came out of the house and sat down. I was
surprised to see him, for he’d arranged to play golf this afternoon.
But he’d sprained his right wrist badly after lunch, it seems, and had
’phoned to put off his match. He sat nursing his wrist, and we began
to speak of one thing and another. Then, I remember, Mr. Foss somehow
turned the talk on to some of the things we have. It was mostly about
Japanese things that they spoke; and Mr. Foss seemed chiefly
interested in some of the weapons my father had collected. I remember
they talked about a Sukesada sword we have and about the Muramasa
short sword. Mr. Foss said that he would like to see them some time.
He thought that Mr. Kessock would be interested to hear about them.”
She broke off and seemed to be trying to remember the transitions of
the conversation. Sir Clinton waited patiently; but at last she
evidently found herself unable to recall any details of the next stage
in the talk.
“I can’t remember how it came up. It was just general talk about
things in our collection and things Mr. Foss had seen elsewhere, but
finally they got on to the Medusa Medallions somehow. Mr. Foss was
telling Maurice how tantalizing it was to buy these things and pass
them on to collectors when he’d like to keep them for himself if only
he could afford it. Then it came out that he always took a rubbing of
all the coins and medals he came across. I remember he made some
little joke about his ‘poor man’s collection’ or something like that.
I forget exactly how it came about, but either he asked Maurice to let
him have another look at the Leonardo medallions or Maurice
volunteered to let him take rubbings there and then. I can’t recall
the exact way in which the suggestion was made. I wasn’t paying much
attention at the time.”
She looked up to see if Sir Clinton showed any sign of annoyance at
incomplete information; but his face betrayed neither dissatisfaction
nor approval. Inspector Armadale, though following the evidence keenly
and making frequent notes, seemed to think that very little of her
information was to the point.
“Then,” Joan went on, “I remember Mr. Foss getting up from his chair
and saying: ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the things.’ And he
went away and left Maurice and me together. I said: ‘What’s he gone
for?’ And Maurice said: ‘Some paper to take rubbings of the medallions
and some stuff he uses for that, dubbin or something.’ In a few
minutes, Mr. Foss came back again with some sheets of paper and some
black stuff in his hand. I was interested in seeing how he did his
rubbing or whatever you call it, so I went with them to the museum.”
“And then?” Sir Clinton prompted. As they were evidently coming near
the moment of the murder in Joan’s narrative, it was clear that he
wished to leave her no time to think of the crime itself.
“We went into the museum. Since that night of the masked ball, Maurice
has removed most of the smaller articles of value from the cases and
put them into the safe; so in order to get the medallions he had to
open the safe. It’s a combination lock, you know; and as I knew
Maurice wouldn’t like us to be at his elbow while he was setting the
combination, I took Mr. Foss under my wing and led him over to where
the Sukesada sword is hung on the wall. We looked at it for a few
moments. I remember taking it out of its sheath to show the blade to
Mr. Foss. Then I heard Maurice slamming the door of the safe; and when
we went into the bay where it is, Maurice was there with the Leonardo
medallions in his hand.”
“One moment,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You said it was a combination
lock on the safe. Do you happen to know the combination?”
Joan shook her head.
“Maurice is the only one who knows that. He never told it to any of
us.”
Sir Clinton invited her to continue.
“Maurice handed Mr. Foss one of the medallions and Mr. Foss took it
over to the big central case—the one with the flat top. Then he began
to take a rubbing of the medallion with his paper and black stuff. He
didn’t seem quite satisfied with his first attempt, so he had a second
try at it. As we were watching him, he seemed to prick up his ears,
and then he said: ‘There’s some one calling for you, Miss Chacewater.’
I couldn’t hear anything myself; but he explained that the voice was
pretty far off. He had extra good hearing, I remember he said. He
seemed very positive about it, so I went off to see what it was all
about.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes,” said Joan, but she had obviously more to tell.
“And then?”
“As I was going away from the museum door, I met Mr. Foss’s man,
Marden. He had a small brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stopped me
and asked me if I knew where Mr. Foss was. Something about the parcel,
I gathered, though I didn’t stop to listen to him. I told him Mr. Foss
was in the museum; and I went on to see if I could find who was
calling. I searched about and came across Mr. Clifton; but I didn’t
hear any one calling my name. Mr. Foss must have been mistaken.”
“And then?”
Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear
the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in.
“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard
a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left
Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could
towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I
found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He
was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all.
The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding
badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under
my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at
the station.”
“What had become of Mr. Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without
showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question.
“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in
the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere
since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the
grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he
had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the
valet. I don’t know.”
Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he
silenced him by a glance.
“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan.
“Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’
was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum
yourself?”
Joan thought for a few seconds.
“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr. Clifton,
and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard
the shout?”
“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested.
“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or
nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time
we heard the shout.”
“About that,” Michael agreed.
Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook.
“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter,
so far as you know?”
Joan paused for a moment or two before replying.
“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident
effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else
that would be of use.”
“You’ve no idea where your brother is?”
“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her.
“You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded,
anxiously.
“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir
Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just
now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr. Clifton away
for a few minutes, but he’ll be back again almost immediately.”
With a reassuring smile, the Chief Constable excused himself and led
the way to the door, followed by Michael and the Inspector. As soon as
he was out of the room, he turned to Michael.
“You’re quite sure that Mr. Chacewater wasn’t in the museum when you
reached it?”
Michael considered carefully before replying.
“I don’t see how he could have been. I glanced into all the bays; and
you know there isn’t cover enough for a cat in the place.”
“Was the safe door open or shut, did you notice?”
Michael again reflected before replying.
“Shut, I’m almost certain.”
Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two.
“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if
you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the
spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.”
Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief
Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir
Clinton turned and confronted Michael.
“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the
truth.”
Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand.
“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got
there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you
like.”
The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on
his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly
passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the
valet.
Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton
noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his
head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without
any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly
clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible
gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector.
Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Thomas Marden.”
“How long have you been in Mr. Foss’s service?”
“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.”
“How did he come to engage you?”
“Advertisement.”
“You knew nothing about him before that?”
“Nothing.”
“Where was he living then?”
“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.”
“He still has that flat?”
“Yes.”
“How did he spend his time?”
The valet seemed astonished by the question.
“I don’t know. None of my business.”
Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside.
“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out
regularly at fixed times.”
Marden seemed to see what was wanted.
“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went
just when it suited him.”
“Had he much correspondence?”
“Letters? Just about what one might expect.”
The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go
upon.
“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’”
“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a
dozen. Just what one might expect.”
“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely
private correspondence?”
Marden seemed annoyed by the question.
“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to
pry into my employer’s affairs.”
“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that
the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you
did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?”
“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like
most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.”
“Did you notice the stamps?”
“Some were American, of course.”
“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not
carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were
ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as
well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t
you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of
you?”
The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone.
“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just
letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.”
Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to
his powers.
“Had he many visitors?”
“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant
downstairs for all I know.”
“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?”
“No.”
The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed.
“Did he get any telegrams?”
“Yes.”
“Frequently?”
“Fairly often.”
“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?”
Marden obviously took offence at this.
“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I
didn’t.”
“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no
notice of Marden’s annoyance.
“Perhaps once or twice a week.”
“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him
that the telegrams might thus be explained.
“I know nothing about that.”
Armadale went off on a fresh tack.
“Did he seem to be well off for money?”
“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Were they his own or simply hired?”
“I don’t know. Not my business.”
“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?”
“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.”
“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.”
“I’m not paid for being curious.”
The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two.
“Have you any idea of his address in America?”
“Not my business.”
“Did he write many letters?”
“I couldn’t say. None of my business.”
“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.”
“He didn’t.”
“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?”
Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied.
“All his clothes were split new.”
“Anything else?”
“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.”
“What size was it?”
“About that length.”
The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and
winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one.
“H’m! A .38 or a .45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a .22,
anyway.”
He took up his pencil again.
“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.”
Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory.
“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr. Foss came to me with a parcel in
his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He
wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished;
but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.”
“And then?” demanded the Inspector with an unconscious plagiarism of
his Chief.
“Immediately after lunch, I set out and walked through the grounds
towards Hincheldene village. I didn’t hurry. It was a nice afternoon
for a walk. By and by I met a keeper, and he told me I couldn’t go any
farther in that direction. He’d orders to turn back any one, he said.
I talked to him for a minute or two, and explained where I was going;
and I pulled the parcel out of my pocket as a guarantee of good faith.
He didn’t know me, you see. And when I got the parcel out, I noticed
the label quite by chance.”
“Ah, you do look at addresses after all!” interjected the Inspector.
“Quite by chance,” Marden went on, without taking any notice of the
thrust. “And I saw that Mr. Foss had made a mistake.”
“How did you know that,” Inspector Armadale demanded, with the air of
a cat pouncing on a mouse. “You said you’d taken no interest in his
correspondence and yet you knew this parcel was directed to a wrong
address. Curious, isn’t it?”
Marden did not even permit himself to smile as he discomfited the
Inspector.
“He’d left out the name of the town. An obvious oversight when he was
writing the label.”
“Well, go on,” growled the Inspector, evidently displeased at losing
his score.
“As soon as I saw that, I knew it was no good taking the thing to the
post office as it was. So I asked the keeper a question or two about
the shortest way to Hincheldene without getting on to the barred
ground. Then I turned and came home again, intending to ask Mr. Foss
to complete the address on the parcel.”
“What time was it when you reached here again?”
Marden considered for a while.
“I couldn’t say precisely. Sometime round about half-past three or a
bit later. I didn’t look at the time.”
“What did you do then?”
“I hunted about for Mr. Foss, but he didn’t seem to be in the house.
At last, when I was just giving it up, I met Miss Chacewater coming
away from this room, and she told me that Mr. Foss was inside. She
went away, and I came to the door. It was half-open and I could hear
voices inside: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater from the sound. I thought
they’d soon be coming out and that I’d get Mr. Foss as he passed me;
so I waited, instead of interrupting them.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Only a minute or two, so far as I can remember.”
“You could hear them talking?”
“I could hear the sound of their voices. I couldn’t hear what they
said. There’s an echo or something in this room and all I heard was
the tone they were speaking in.”
“What sort of tone do you mean?”
Marden paused as though searching for an adjective.
“It seemed to me an angry tone. They raised their voices.”
“As if they were quarrelling?”
“Like that. And then I heard Mr. Chacewater say: ‘So that’s what
you’re after?’ Then I heard what sounded like a scuffle and a gasp. I
was taken aback, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I stood stock still with
the parcel in my hand for a moment or two. Then I got my head back and
I pushed open the door and rushed into the room.”
“Be careful here,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “Don’t try to force your
memory. Tell us exactly what comes back into your mind.”
Marden nodded.
“When I got into the room here,” he went on, “the first thing I saw
was Mr. Chacewater. He had his back to me and was just turning the
corner here.”
Marden walked across and indicated the end of the bay beyond the one
which contained the safe, the last recess in the room at the end
opposite from the door.
“He went round this corner in a hurry. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Marden’s face betrayed his amazement even at the recollection.
“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did
yourself.”
“I couldn’t see Mr. Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the
corner where I’d seen Mr. Chacewater, I saw Mr. Foss lying on the
floor. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give
him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest
and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I
slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out
my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these
cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a
nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it around my
hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and
I thought of it first of all.”
Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof.
“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr. Foss. By that time he was
either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him,
for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and
shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it
struck me as queer that Mr. Chacewater had disappeared.”
“It didn’t occur to you that he might have slipped out of the room
while your back was turned—when you were busy over Mr. Foss?” demanded
Inspector Armadale in a hostile tone.
Marden shook his head.
“It didn’t occur to me at all, because I knew it hadn’t happened. No
one could have got out of the room without my seeing him.”
“Go on with your story, please,” Sir Clinton requested.
“There’s nothing more to tell. I kept shouting ‘Murder!’ and I
searched the room here while I was doing it. I found nothing.”
“Was the safe door closed when you saw it first?” Sir Clinton
inquired.
“Yes, it was. I thought perhaps Mr. Chacewater might be inside, with
the door pulled to; so I tried the handle. It was locked.”
Sir Clinton put a further inquiry.
“You heard only two voices in the room before you burst in?”
A new light seemed to be thrown by this question across Marden’s mind.
“I heard only two people speaking: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater; but of
course I couldn’t swear that only two people were in the room. That’s
what you meant, isn’t it?”
Inspector Armadale caught the drift of the inquiry.
“I suppose if one man can disappear in a mysterious way, there’s
nothing against two men vanishing in the same way,” he hazarded. “So
all you can really tell us is that Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater were
here at any rate, and possibly there were other people as well?”
“I couldn’t swear to any one except these two,” Marden was careful to
state.
“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Have you any idea whether Mr.
Foss came into contact with a person or persons outside the house
during his stay here? I mean people known to him before he came to
Ravensthorpe?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“None of your business, I suppose?” Inspector Armadale put in, with an
obvious sneer.
“None of my business, as you say,” Marden returned, equably. “I wasn’t
engaged as a detective.”
“Well, this question falls into your department,” Sir Clinton
intervened, as Armadale showed signs of losing his temper. “What
costume was Mr. Foss wearing on the night of the masked ball? You must
know that.”
Marden replied without hesitation.
“He was got up as a cow-puncher. He hired the costume from London when
he heard about the fancy dress. It was a pair of cow-boy trousers, big
heavy things with fringes on them; a leather belt with a
pistol-holster on it; a coloured shirt; a neck-cloth; and a flappy
cow-boy hat.”
“Rather a clumsy rig-out, then?”
Marden seemed to find difficulty in repressing a smile.
“It was as much as he could do to walk at all, until he got accustomed
to the things. He told me it gave him a good excuse for not dancing.
He wasn’t a dancing man, he said.”
“He carried a revolver, you say. Did you ever see any sign that he was
afraid of anything of this sort happening to him?”
“I don’t understand. How could I know what he was afraid of or what he
wasn’t? It was none of my business.”
Sir Clinton’s smile took the edge off Marden’s reply.
“Oh, I think one might make a guess,” he said, “if one kept one’s eyes
open. A terrified man would give himself away somehow or other.”
“Then either he wasn’t afraid or else I don’t keep my eyes open. I saw
nothing of the sort.”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment or two. He glanced at Armadale.
“Any more questions you’d like to put? No? Then that will do, Marden.
Of course there’ll be an inquest and your evidence will be required at
it. You can stay on here until you’re needed. I’ll see Miss Chacewater
about it. But for the present you’ve given us all the help you can?”
“Unless you’ve any more questions you want to ask,” Marden suggested.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“No, I think I’ve got all I need for the present, thanks. I may want
you again later on, of course.”
Marden waited for nothing further, but left the room pursued by a
slightly vindictive glance from Inspector Armadale. When he had
disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Michael Clifton.
“Hadn’t you better go back to Joan, now? She must be rather nervous
after this shock.”
Michael came to himself with a slight start when the Chief Constable
addressed him. Hitherto his rôle had been purely that of a spectator;
and he had been so wrapped up in it that it came as a faint surprise
to find himself directly addressed. Throughout the proceedings he had
been semi-hypnotized by the deadly matter-of-fact way in which the
police were going about their work. When he had first heard of the
murder, he had felt as though something unheard-of had invaded
Ravensthorpe. Of course murders did take place: one read about them in
the newspapers. But the idea that murder could actually be done in his
own familiar environment had come to him with more than a slight
shock. The normal course of things seemed suddenly diverted.
But during the last ten minutes he had been a witness of the beginning
of the police investigation; and the invincible impression of
ordinariness had begun to replace the earlier nightmare quality in his
mind. Here were a couple of men going about the business as though it
were of no more tragic character than a search for a lost dog. It was
part of their work to hunt out a solution of the affair. They were no
more excited over it than a chess-player looking for the key-move in a
problem. The cool, dispassionate way in which the Chief Constable had
handled the affair seemed to strike a fresh note and to efface the
suggestions of the macabre side of things which had been Michael’s
first impression of the matter. The Dance of Death retreated gradually
into the background in the face of all the minute questionings about
letters, and visits, and parcels—these commonplace things of everyday
life.
“If I can be of no use here,” he said, “I think I’d better go.”
He hesitated for a moment as a fresh thought struck him.
“By the way, how much of this is confidential?”
Sir Clinton looked at him with an expressionless face.
“I think I may leave that to your discretion. It’s not for
broadcasting, at any rate.”
“What about Maurice?” Michael persisted.
“I’d leave Maurice out of it as far as possible,” said Sir Clinton, in
obvious dismissal. “Now, Inspector, I think we’d better have a look at
the late Mr. Foss.”
Michael retreated from the room as they turned towards the body on the
floor.
“Leave Maurice out of it!” he thought, as he walked at a snail’s pace
towards the room where he had left Joan. “That’s a nice bit of advice!
If you leave Maurice out of it, there seems to be nothing left in it.
Now what the devil am I to say to her? If I say nothing, she’ll jump
to the worst conclusion; and if I say anything at all, she’ll jump to
the same.”