The Barkeeper was the first to speak. He saw Fate had played into his hand and felt that the least he could do was to score the trick at once. So he spoke politely to the Inspector.
‘I reckon it’s one of two things, ’Spec. Either there came along somebody and done this devil’s job while I was fetchin’ the poor toad his physic, or else he done it himself. You see the shelf’s within reach of his ’and. And if he woke up torn with thirst, and got his paw on a glass with liquid in it, maybe, in his mazed state, he’d a’ sopped it up and never stopped to think.’
‘What’s the action of this ’ere stuff, Doctor?’ asked the Inspector, not paying much attention to Raynham.
‘Depends on how much he was given—’
‘Or took,’ suggested Raynham. ‘Maybe, Doctor Millett,’ he continued, ‘you’ll haul him over now, poor devil, and me an’ ’Spec ’ll bear witness of what you find. All that’s known ’pears to be that the cove come by coach, that he told the driver to drop him by Flying Fox Corner, and that two hours later he was found insensible not a hundred yards from where he got off the coach by Jenkins’ Claim.’
Doctor Millett had already begun to assist Inspector Mark. They removed the dead man’s coat and waistcoat and, as they did so, from the pocket of the former dropped a letter. This the Doctor took to the light and read, while Inspector Mark continued to strip the corpse.
‘Listen,’ said Millett presently, after reading the communication. ‘Here’s a mighty strange story. Blest if we ain’t up to our necks in the tidiest mystery that ever made men scratch their heads in Black Rock Creek. Listen to this.’ And he read the following communication:—
‘Dear Ned, you’d better watch it pretty sharp and keep your weather eye lifting, for young Peterkin hasn’t panned out after all. In fact the cuss is on his damned legs again and hopping round lively as a grig. Of course he don’t know what you’re playing at – not yet. But Sally’s hardly to be trusted. Half a word from her and he’d be on your track like a bloodhound. Get rid of the stone at all costs. The dibs is your own and mine – you can just shovel them into the bank when you get to Sydney; but the stone’s different. You’ll have to take that to Europe. He looks at the quartz in the case and doesn’t see the difference. But any day the cat may be out of the bag.
‘Yours,
‘T. F.’
‘Not much light in that, I’m thinking,’ commented Millett.
‘Here’s one glimmer of light, maybe, and only one,’ said Inspector Mark. ‘Look at this. ’Twas round his neck.’
He showed them a little bag made of soft chamois leather with a receptacle of about an inch in depth. It was hung upon a very delicate gold chain, next his skin; and it was empty. The Inspector said, ‘That’s about all I find. There ain’t no big hunk of money as that letter alludes to, but there’s a gold pencil-case in the waistcoat pocket, and a pipe and baccy and a few stray shillings and some cards done up in a bit of paper. The cards has “The Honble. Ralph Peterkin’ on ’em.”
‘And yet if the letter is to be believed, this is one Ned or Edward; the envelope is addressed certainly to the Honble. Ralph Peterkin. Moreover the letter is a month old.’
Doctor Millett turned to look at the dead man. He had been handsome in life and, whether blue-blooded or not, certainly showed an almost patrician cast of features.
‘Shall you want to cut the cove up, Doctor?’ asked Inspector Mark calmly.
‘I think not. There is no need. But, of course, an official inquiry must be held. It is a difficult matter. We find him first insensible. Then he is left here by himself about an hour or more—’
‘More,’ said the Barkeeper.
‘More. And Raynham comes back and finds him poisoned. You see, Raynham, a good deal depends on you. Mark must decide as to whether you’re to be locked up or not. You say he was dead when you came back. I don’t doubt it, but the law’s bound to doubt everybody in a fix like this. It’s clear this man was personating some chap called Ralph Peterkin. It’s also clear, from the letter, that he had money of his own and a diamond or some precious stone stolen from somebody else. But neither gold nor diamond are on him now, though we can guess he had a diamond or something in that chamois leather bag.’
‘We can’t say as he ’ad them things on him when he come to my bar,’ declared Raynham.
‘No – so far as the diamond was concerned. But I’ll swear he wore a heavy belt, for I felt it when I lifted him and put my arm round him. Where’s that belt? Who took it off?’ asked the Doctor.
‘It’s a mighty tangle, sure enough. I’ll have to search the bar anyhow, Raynham,’ said Mark. ‘And I’ll ask you to help me if it’s all the same to you. There’s a missing belt – see? Well, if I don’t find that here it proves you honest anyway.’
‘Or else deeper than we think you,’ said Doctor Millett calmly. He did not trust Mr Raynham far.
Raynham scowled, but felt pretty comfortable and triumphant. He had hidden the belt and its contents under the floor of the room in which they stood. The rough board was nailed back in its place. Twenty detectives would hardly have pulled up the floor planking.
‘Look in welcome, and I’ll ’elp with all my ’eart,’ said the Barkeeper. ‘But if you asks me, I reckon belt and gold and diamond’s all a-making tracks and leaving more space ’twixt them and this poor clay every minute of the night. It’s twelve now. Him as broke in while I was away might be twenty mile off by this if he had a tidy horse.’
Inspector Mark made a thorough search by lantern light, but nothing rewarded it until its conclusion. Then he returned to the room in which the dead man lay.
‘We’ve found nothing, Doc,’ he said to Millett, who was still bending over the corpse.
‘But I have, Mark. I was wrong. Henbane never killed this man. See, it is the bottle of the stuff that fell and broke and saturated his coat and shirt. The bottle was knocked from the shelf. It might have been by one of the rats that swarm here. The glass is dry at the rim and sides. It has not been moved. The henbane in it was poured out long ago. Why did not you mention that, Raynham?’
‘I didn’t think of it. I poured the stuff out, as you say, and soaked cheese in it for them same rats.’
‘Well, it was not poison killed this man. An autopsy will be necessary now. I shall …’
He was interrupted in a manner very startling. Mark, still pursuing his search, had reached a tall cupboard at one corner of the room in which they were assembled. He threw it open and started violently back as he did so, for within it stood a woman – a pale, wild-eyed creature dressed in black – a stranger to them all.
‘Who in God’s name are you, and how did you get here?’ asked Raynham, who first found his tongue.
‘I can explain if you will listen,’ she answered. ‘I came by the coach which brought this unhappy man today. My name is Sarah Peterkin.’