And this was the story to which Mrs Arbuthnot stuck. It was not, Appleby reflected, without some faint colour of possibility. But one major difficulty was evident. Slade had been struck from behind – to all appearance an unsuspecting man. And he was in no sense cutting off the supposed thief’s retreat; the whole geography of the apartment negatived this. To say, therefore, that Slade was barring his way to safety was manifestly unsound.
Was Mrs Arbuthnot, then, shielding her husband with this tale of stolen diamonds? Had the two of them concocted the tale together? Suppose Arbuthnot had killed his wife’s lover. Was it not very likely that, faced by this frightful fact, husband and wife had got together to present the most convincing lie that occurred to them?
Arbuthnot himself was brought in. He was a man, it struck Appleby, who either as witness or accused would make a poor impression on a jury. He was obviously clever and almost as obviously insincere – a man wavering, perhaps, between incompatible attitudes to life, indecisive and therefore unreliable and possibly dangerous. And now he was in an awkward situation enough, for his wife’s lover had been found murdered beneath his roof. Nevertheless, at first he faced things confidently.
“I went to bed early and read,” he said. “I never really go to sleep until my wife gets home.”
“And of late that has frequently been in the small hours?”
The man flushed, hesitated, and then ignored the question. “But I did eventually doze off, and all I can say is that I heard three distinct voices. Not what they said, but just the sound of them.”
“That’s it!” Mrs Arbuthnot broke in anxiously. “My voice, Rupert’s voice, and then the voice of the thief and murderer. He must have tried to bluff when he blundered in on Rupert.”
Appleby ignored this. “You mean,” he asked Arbuthnot, “that you heard three voices engaged in conversation?”
“I couldn’t say that. And I can’t be sure that the third voice said very much. But the other two were Slade’s and my wife’s, all right. So I suppose her explanation fits well enough.”
“Do you, indeed?” Appleby spoke dryly. “By the way, was this third voice a cultivated voice?”
Arbuthnot hesitated. “Well, yes; I’m pretty sure it was. I sleepily felt something rather disconcerting about it, as a matter of fact.”
“A gentleman cracksman. And one, incidentally, who turned with some facility and abruptness to murder.” Appleby paused. “Mr Arbuthnot,” he continued abruptly, “you must be very aware of one likely hypothesis in this case. Are you prepared to swear – in a criminal court, if need be – that last night you didn’t get out of bed, enter this room while your wife was making sandwiches in the kitchen, and here – well, encounter the dead man?”
Arbuthnot had gone pale. “I did not,” he said.
“And you are sure that this story of a third voice, and of stolen diamonds, has not been concocted between your wife and yourself?”
“I am certain that it has not.”
Appleby turned to the Sergeant. “There are two servants – the Ropers. Are they in a position to corroborate this story in any way?”
The Sergeant fumbled with a notebook. And Arbuthnot gloomily cut in. “Not a chance of it, I’m afraid. I told them to go to bed. And they sleep like logs. It’s been a regular joke between my wife and myself.”
Mrs Arbuthnot nodded. “They wouldn’t hear a thing,” she declared confidently.
Appleby moved to the bell. “We’ll have them in,” he said. “And the whole dramatis personae will then be present for the conclusion of the play.”
Arbuthnot started. “The conclusion, did you say?”
And Appleby nodded. “Yes, Mr Arbuthnot. Just that.”
The Sergeant buried his nose in his notebook. He was thinking that he had heard his superiors employ that sort of easy bluff before.