I
Sir Charles Stuart, Chief Constable of the county, was nearing the end of his second year of office in that capacity. During that period, his reign had been singularly uneventful. Not a single crime of any importance had reared its ugly head to trouble him. To justify himself—and the effort bordered on the frantic—he made a point of telling everybody of note with whom he came into contact that it was a much greater feat to prevent crime than to lay its perpetrators by their slippery heels. But Sir Charles was nobody’s fool, and as he stood before his own hearth and addressed himself to his wife this fact was easy of discernment by the acute observer.
“Inspector Venables is coming up,” he said rather eagerly, “we may expect him within the hour. Or even sooner than that. Until I hear fully what Venables has to say, I’m not opening my mouth at all. I’m just shutting up, sitting tight and suspending judgment.”
His teeth closed with a snap and he rubbed his hands together. Elinor Stuart shrugged nonchalant shoulders at her husband. As she did so, her subtle perfume came to his nostrils and made him even more aware than usually of her beauty. Her intimate personal fragrance invariably had that effect on him. It was one of the reasons why he had asked her to marry him. On this particular evening she was dressed in black. Her hair was blue-black, her eyes dark blue, her skin faultless and her parted lips an almost irresistible invitation. Her long diamond earrings set off the shape of her face and made her alluringly exquisite and superbly soignée. People—and this term included her own intimate circle—found it hard to describe accurately what they considered were her feelings towards her husband. Perhaps she herself would have found it equally difficult to describe them. If she had so desired! Which is definitely unlikely.
“Why all the fuss?” she remarked somewhat petulantly. “After all, it seems to me only a very ordinary and extremely sordid murder. The sooner forgotten the better. Why talk about it?”
Sir Charles planted his feet a little further apart and clasped his hands behind his back. With his forefinger he then rubbed the end of his nose.
“Don’t know. Don’t know that I agree with you, my dear. Sordid perhaps, but I’m sugared if you can reasonably call it ordinary. Far from it, if you ask me.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just a horrible incident—and nothing more. Wants to be treated as no more than a beastly dream.”
Sir Charles’s grey brows went up. Furrows appeared on the high, straight forehead and his greying hairs bristled. The blue eyes watching him waited for him to speak.
“I’m afraid, my dear Elinor, that, much as I might like to, it will be impossible and impracticable for me to dismiss the matter as easily and lightly as that.” He paused and cleared his throat. “It’s murder—that’s an ugly word in our language. Whatever it may be in other countries.”
She gave a little gesture of disgust. “My dear Charles, I’m quite prepared to agree with you as far as that goes. Concerning its beastliness, its horror and its frightful inconvenience, I merely urge—but why should we talk about it.” She turned away and shrugged her shoulders.
Sir Charles stroked his chin which from habit he had thrust forward. “H’m. Quite so! Have it your own way, of course.” He grunted, turned away and consulted his watch again. “Venables shouldn’t be too long now,” he muttered. “He’s pretty reliable as a rule. And punctual. I like a man of his class to be punctual.”
“In that case, then,” said the wife of his bosom, “I’ll leave you and the coast clear for him. Then both of you can talk ‘murder’ to your hearts’ content.”
She rose slowly to her feet, went over to the door and made her exit from the room. The grace of her carriage was in complete harmony with the rest of her. Sir Charles Stuart watched her go with avid eyes and then resumed his position at the fireplace. The place where he resided, Sandals, was a matter of ten miles from Mallett. Inspector Venables had been in communication with him by telephone that afternoon and Sir Charles had made immediate arrangements for the Inspector to come over to his place as soon as was convenient.
Five minutes after the departure of his wife, the Chief Constable was informed that the Inspector had arrived. He gave orders that Venables was to be shown into him at once. The Inspector took the chair which the Chief Constable offered him. Sir Charles sat back in his own armchair and turned his cold, militant gaze on the Inspector.
“Well, Venables, so somebody’s waking us up at long last—eh? Thought we’d been allowed to rust too long. Now—first of all—-just amplify what you’ve already told me over the telephone.”
“That was my intention, sir. I’ll start with the story of Police-Constable Wragg, who was on duty at Mallett yesterday evening. If I’m not sufficiently clear with regard to anything, please stop me and I’ll do my best to explain.”
Sir Charles Stuart swallowed hard and in a slightly husky voice replied, “I’ll do that, Venables—never fear.”
Venables proceeded with his story. Its various points were punctuated by Stuart with grunts, nods and rather aggressive clearings of the throat. When Venables had reached the stage which suggested something like finality to the Chief Constable, Stuart made an elaborate announcement:
“The worst murders, Venables, from our point of view as the Police authorities, are those which appear to be motiveless. Don’t you agree?”
The Inspector concurred without demur. “Every time, sir.”
“Of course you do. And if I mistake not, this one will prove to be definitely in that category. In addition, there seems ample evidence that it’s the work of a madman. Hot cinders down a man’s back. Blast it! The whole thing’s fantastic. And absurd. Nobody in his right senses would think of doing such a thing.”
Inspector Venables nodded. “I entirely agree, Sir Charles. In fact, I should tell you that I’ve been in communication with the two mental hospitals in the vicinity, St. Andrew’s and Mitford, to find out whether any patient had escaped from either of them. But I drew a blank in each case, Sir Charles. There was no news of that kind from either of the places.”
Sir Charles Stuart bristled at the Inspector’s words. He looked as though he would like to be indignant at the information Venables had given him.
“H’m,” he muttered. “Pity! We might have solved the problem that way, if we’d had any luck. But you say ‘No.’ Well—there it is. It’s no good trying to turn ‘no’ into ‘yes,’ just in order to please ourselves. That’s no way of doing business.”
A silence reigned in the room for a matter of ten seconds. Venables waited to see if Sir Charles were going on. Eventually the Chief Constable did so. He cleared his throat again and said: “There’s one thing I don’t want, Venables, and I’ll tell you what it is. I don’t want us to be forced to call the ‘Yard’ in. I don’t want any early confessions of failure. I like to feel, and to think, that we can deal with a crime of this calibre as well as the big noises can at Scotland Yard. And I’d like you to think the same, Venables.”
“I do, Sir Charles. Nobody more so. And rest assured that everything that can be done as far as I personally am concerned will be done. At the same time—”
Venables stopped abruptly and shrugged his shoulders.
“At the same time—what?” echoed Sir Charles.
“Well—things don’t look any too promising. I must be frank with you. That’s what I was on the point of saying, Sir Charles.”
The Chief Constable saw fit to administer a reprimand. “Now look here, Inspector. Hold your horses, for Heaven’s sake. The case is twenty-four hours old. Not a minute more than that. Have a little patience. Rome wasn’t built in a day, remember, Venables.”
“I know, sir,” replied Venables rather desperately. “I know all about that. Nobody better. But since I’ve been anything in the Force my experience has always been that if you don’t pick up a vital clue in the early stages of these affairs, you rarely pick one up later. It’s too much to hope for. The scent’s growing cold all the time, you see, sir. That’s the main point.”
Venables drew a deep breath. Sir Charles, however, scouted the idea. “Stuff and nonsense, Inspector! The main point is to pick the clue up, not when you pick it up. And it’ll come to you in this job, I feel convinced. It’s there somewhere and it’s your job to find it. Now I want to ask you a few routine questions. You mustn’t mind that. Although I can readily see that the case is right away from the ordinary.”
Venables prepared to answer them. When they came, none of them occasioned him any uneasiness or surprise. Sir Charles showed neither more nor less imagination than Venables had anticipated. After a time the Inspector found himself dismissed.
“Well,” said the Chief Constable, “I think that will be all we can reasonably set ourselves to do to-day. It’s not a bit of good wastin’ time in merely theorising. I’ll come over to Mallett to-morrow morning in the car and have a further discussion with you. You may have some more information for me by then. I hope you will.”
Venables rose to take his departure. He felt himself a prey to despondency. He shook hands with the Chief Constable. By a strange coincidence, at that moment, Martin Chavasse ’phoned to Dr. Pegram with regard to certain theories which had come to him concerning the effect on human tissue of any substance like a hot cinder. Dr. Pegram listened attentively and with a tremendous amount of interest. What Chavasse was telling him was distinctly important.
II
Inspector Venables had been quick to visit Rapson’s Farm and to make the acquaintance of Christopher and Laura Norman. He intimated to Mrs. Norman that he would like to interview them alone and separately. The son was tall and thin, with rather stooping shoulders and a tangle of unruly, incontinent hair which persisted in straggling over his sensitive forehead. To the Inspector, on first appearance, he looked far more like an unsuccessful artist than the only son of a working farmer. He also looked much younger than the age, twenty-six, which his mother had ascribed to him. Venables explained who he was and put several questions to Christopher Norman. At the same time he pointed out that Christopher Norman was under no obligation to answer if he desired otherwise. Norman nodded his head quickly.
“Don’t worry about that, Inspector. I understand the implications of that quite well. What is it you wish to ask me?”
“You were on good terms with your father?”
The young man answered with easy composure. “Perfectly. He was a man easy to get on with. I could hardly have been otherwise.”
“You know of no enemies he might have had?”
Christopher furrowed his brows. “Might have had?” He emphasised the first word.
Venables was quick to see the point. “I’m sorry,” he corrected himself; “had.”
The young man shook his head with every indication of emphasis. “I know of none. Absolutely none.”
Venables found himself attracted to this young man. “Did your father consult you or confide in you with regard to his business and the working of the farm generally?”
Christopher hesitated. “To a certain extent,” he replied eventually. “Perhaps not a lot. I helped him here in many ways and in various directions, so that we had to discuss things sometimes. We were compelled to. But my father was always the boss of the outfit, so to speak, and what he said and thought, went! He invariably formed and dictated policy. I mean by that even if we didn’t see eye to eye, he always backed his own judgment—never mine.”
He quickened the rate of his speaking as he delivered the last few words. Venables made a note of this. “Let us come to the evening of your father’s death,” continued the Inspector.
Christopher Norman jerked up his chin. For the moment his face showed signs of agitation. “What about it, Inspector? I’m afraid I can tell you nothing of any importance.”
Venables gently reprimanded him. “That will be for me to judge. Let us take our time, please. How did you spend the evening?”
“I walked over to our nearest neighbours at Walters; the farm’s about a mile’s walk from here.”
“What time did you leave here?”
“About half-past six, I should imagine. I can’t be absolutely certain. My mother would be able to confirm the time. But that’s about my usual time for setting out.”
“And you arrived?”
“About ten minutes to seven, I should think.”
“You were there the whole evening?”
“As good as. You can call it that. When I reached home again mother was out. Your people had sent for her to go to the Police-station at Mallett. My sister was alone.”
Venables made a note of the successive answers. “According to the information that has been given me at the ‘White Lion,’ the place where your father had dinner, he left there about half-past six. That is to say, just as you were starting away from here to visit your friends at the other farm.”
Christopher shook his head disclaimingly. “Very likely, but of course, I know nothing of my father’s movements that evening. I can’t help you at all with regard to that.”
He rose to his feet as though he had been set in motion by a hidden spring somewhere inside him and stood in front of Inspector Venables swaying a little.
“Of course not,” returned the latter. Suddenly all trace of anxiety left the young man and he became again complete master of himself and of his emotions. He sat down again.
“Did you stay at Walters all the time during the evening?”
Christopher flushed. “No. For part of the time, say about an hour, I was out walking with Miss Preston. That’s the daughter of the house. She happens to be my fiancée. We hope to marry very shortly.”
“I see.” Venables made more notes with an air of extreme gravity.
Christopher Norman stood up and then sat down. Venables pulled his chair a little nearer to him. He might have been a doctor moving forward a little to question more closely an anxious patient.
“Your father’s heart wasn’t any too strong, I understand. So your mother has told me.”
“It has been a trouble to him for some years. Nothing acute. But he had been ordered by his doctor to go slow and not to take unnecessary risks. He managed all right by obeying doctor’s orders. What I mean is—he was nothing like an invalid. Did his work—but took great care in all of it. I want you to be perfectly clear as to the exact position.”
Venables nodded again. “I see. Thank you.” He sat back a little in his chair. Norman waited for the next question. It came.
“I meant to ask your mother, Mr. Norman, about your father’s will. I take it that there is one?”
“Everything is left to my mother. My father’s solicitors were Lindley, Tinsley and Mitchell at Mallett.”
“Thank you.” Venables jotted down the names. “And now if you don’t mind, Mr. Norman, I’d like a word with your sister. I take it she’s available now.” As he spoke, the Inspector looked up expectantly.
“I will tell her,” said Christopher.
“Thank you. I should be obliged if you would.”
When Laura Norman came in, Venables had a surprise. For the girl was near to being a beauty. Her face was delicate in colouring, she had a mist of fair hair that almost shone in its brilliance and a pair of glorious blue eyes. She stopped short in her stride when she saw Venables, but then drew a step nearer to him before she spoke.
“You want to see me, Inspector?”
He smiled at her. The smile was intended for encouragement. Venables rather prided himself on it.
“Yes, Miss Norman. I’ve only a few questions to ask you. That’s all.” He put to her the ordinary questions. “Where were you on the evening of your father’s death?”
“Here. At the farm with my mother. All the evening.”
“Your brother was not here with you?”
“No. He went over to the next farm. To see Miss Preston.”
“What time did your brother return, Miss Norman?”
A slight flush of colour tinged her cheeks. “Late, Inspector. After the police had called to take away my mother. It would have been after ten o’clock.” There came a swift change of expression in her eyes as she answered. And then, just as swiftly came tears. They streamed down her face and she made no effort to check them. “Oh, why do you ask me these things. Must you? Is it absolutely necessary?” The words were spoken almost in a whisper.
“The truth can harm no one,” declared Venables both pompously and illogically. He waited for her to recover herself. Laura Norman threw up her hands with a gesture of despondency.
“I am sorry, Inspector, if it would appear that I am trying to cut our interview short. But, believe me, I know nothing about this horrible affair. If I know nothing, I am not able to tell you anything—am I? That’s sound common sense, isn’t it? And I have also told you all I know of my brother’s movements.”
Venables said nothing in criticism of these statements. But he appeared to come suddenly to a decision. “Very well, Miss Norman. If that’s how you feel, I won’t trouble you any more at present. But I may find myself compelled to talk to you again later.”
The Inspector rose, snapped the elastic band round his official note-book and placed the book carefully in his pocket. On his way back to Mallett, he was forced to admit ruefully that he was making but little progress with the case. So far, none of his investigations had yielded him anything of value. His one remaining hope lay in the further inquiry he was about to make at the ‘White Lion,’ the hotel at which Norman had dined just before he set out on his last journey. If he drew blank there, Venables knew in his mind, with a strange certainty, that he would be compelled to list the case as a failure.
He had arranged with the landlord of the ‘White Lion’ to meet the five people who had been present in the dining-saloon on the evening when William Norman had eaten his last dinner, and the appointment was timed to take place immediately upon the Inspector’s return to Mallett. He looked at his watch and saw to his satisfaction that he had ample time at his disposal for the journey. When he entered the doors of the ‘White Lion,’ Denton, the landlord, informed him that the company he desired was all assembled.
“Thank you, Mr. Denton,” he replied. “I’m much obliged. I’ll see them at once.”
III
The five people who had dined at the ‘White Lion’ on the evening that William Norman of Rapson’s Farm met his death were by name, Henry King, Richard Cox, Donald Marnoch, Septimus Waghorn and Horace Marsden Hardwick. King was the principal baker and pastrycook of Mallett and the surrounding district. Cox was a farmer with a small farm near Conniss, a small village which lies on the other side of Mallett to Forge and Fell. Marnoch was a retired Inspector of Police who had come down to this particular part of England a few years previously. Waghorn was the manager of the Western Counties Bank and Hardwick was the Deputy Town Clerk of Mallett.
Venables let Denton, the landlord, do the preliminary talking. Then he suggested that they sat down together, made themselves entirely comfortable, and that he himself would take a convenient seat in the centre of the circle as they had made it. Cigarette cases were passed round, pipes were lighted, and within a very short interval Venables succeeded in obtaining an excellent and most congenial atmosphere. Before asking any questions, he encouraged his companions to conversation, and conversation as he well knew must mean mental exposure. Thoughts were very soon in the process of being dragged from their various hiding places. Suddenly, it became clear to most of the company that the Inspector had begun to ask questions, almost before they had been aware of it. The main point which emerged from the discussion was that Norman, on the evening in question, had dined alone. All five of the company were insistent and positive thereon.
“This,” said Septimus Waghorn, “was rather noticeable. If I may use such a word with regard to an ordinary occurrence. And I’ll explain why, Inspector.”
“Yes,” prompted Venables. “I’m listening with all ears. Why was it?”
“Because,” replied the bank manager, “it was Norman’s habit to dine with another man. I know that without the slightest fear of contradiction. Six times out of every seven, they were to be seen at the same table. On this particular night, however, the man was absent. The result was that Norman dined alone.”
Denton nodded. “I know the man by sight—but nothing more than that.”
Venables at once asked for details of this man’s appearance. The five men looked at each other, as though seeking individual inspiration. Marnoch, the ex-inspector of Police volunteered certain information.
“I know the man to whom Waghorn has referred. He was a tall, heavily-built chap. Say in the early forties. Rather a rough-looking customer, taking him on the whole.”
“Was he a local man, do you know?”
Marnoch shook his head. “In my opinion—no. Certainly I’d not seen him anywhere about other than in here with Norman.”
“What do you other gentlemen say with regard to that?”
Venables put a pertinent question round the members of the circle. He followed it up with a glance that searched their faces. The four men looked at each other. But they all shook their heads and agreed with ex-inspector Marnoch.
“I’ve no recollection of seeing him except in here,” said Hardwick. “Nor I,” said Waghorn.
King and Cox expressed similar opinions. “That seems to be pretty well agreed then,” accepted Venables. “Now here’s something else I’d like you to tell me.” They waited for the question. “Did any of you gentlemen notice Norman leave the table on the evening he was murdered? I mean, when he got up to go home?”
Marnoch and Waghorn shook their heads again. “No,” they replied in unison. But from the remaining three, Venables succeeded in getting affirmations.
“I did,” said Cox. “I actually called out ‘Good-night’ to him.”
“Did he answer you?”
Cox thought for a moment. “No. Not in actual words. But I remember that he waved his right hand towards me in a sort of salutation. Then he went out through the main door.”
“Just a minute. The main door, you say? That door doesn’t lead to the street, does it?”
“No. It leads into one of the bars. Have a look for yourself before you go. You’ll see how it is.”
Hardwick said, “I saw Norman go out on the night he was killed. He passed by my table. Quite close to me.”
“Did he make any remark to you as he went by.”
Hardwick smiled. “He did. And one that was, I’m afraid, extremely commonplace. He said, ‘Lousy night outside.’ And I concurred. I hadn’t been in from the street much more than twenty minutes or so and was only just finishing the soup course, so I knew all about the weather conditions.”
“And he went into the bar just as Mr. Cox stated?”
“Yes. I can confirm that. I should say there’s no doubt that he found his way into one of the other bars.”
Venables jotted down a note that was to act as a reminder to him to see the barmaid who had happened to be on duty that night in the adjoining bar. Then he turned to King. “Now, what have you to say, Mr. King?”
“I can also confirm what Cox and Hardwick have told you. I was actually sitting with Marnoch. But his back was towards Norman, whereas mine wasn’t. I saw Norman pay his bill to Kitty, the waitress. I saw him get up to leave and I also saw him speak to Hardwick here on his way out. He was alone and I sized it up that he was going out to his car and would then drive home to his farm.”
“It’s on the cards, then,” declared Venables with quiet insistence, “that he picked up somebody in the other bar. I shall have to look into that possibility.”
Denton nodded at the remark before walking away to attend to something.
“I can help you a little there, Inspector Venables.” It was Waghorn who spoke.
“What’s your story this time?” demanded the Inspector.
“Well,” returned Waghorn, “I happen to know for a fact that Norman did speak to somebody in the inner bar. For the best of all reasons. I actually saw him in conversation with this man at the end of the bar. They were standing just by the connecting doors.”
“How was that, Mr. Waghorn? I mean, how do you come to know that?”
“Well, Inspector. It’s quite a simple matter really. The gentlemen’s lavatory is just beyond those doors. I went over there, and as I walked through the bar—you must walk through the bar to get to the lavatory—I saw your man leaning up against the counter talking to another man.”
Venables evinced keen interest at Waghorn’s statement. “Now this is getting more satisfactory. What was this other man like, Mr. Waghorn? Did you have the luck to notice him particularly?”
Waghorn shook his head doubtfully. “Hardly. I walked by them in a second as you may say. But let me think. I caught an impression, no doubt. Let me see if I can conjure anything up.”
Waghorn put his hand to his forehead and thought hard over the Inspector’s question. Venables and the others waited patiently for his answer.
After a time, Waghorn nodded.
“Yes. I’m getting a picture of the man. He was a man, I should say, of average height. A little under that, if anything. But with broad, powerful and rather restless shoulders. I have a recollection that he moved his shoulders more than once as I was going by. Darkish hair. Well-brushed and groomed. Wore a dark grey suit. Dark grey flannel, I think. His hands moved quickly, too. There was a gold ring on one of the fingers of the left hand, I can remember that well. Black shoes. He was smoking a cigarette and was drinking something out of a round glass. That may sound strange—but I mean by that remark that I don’t think he was drinking beer.” Waghorn looked up at the company and addressed himself to the Inspector of Police. “I’m afraid I can’t recollect anything else about him. Pretty thin effort—what?”
Venables smiled. “Not so bad. You never know. Though you haven’t given me a lot to go on, I’m afraid.” He leant over and touched the bell. An aproned maid answered the summons. “Ask Mr. Denton to come over here for a few moments, will you, my girl? Tell him Inspector Venables wants him and won’t detain him for more than a couple of minutes.” The girl nodded her understanding and vanished. Denton was quick to leave his customers and join them. Venables mentioned the story which Septimus Waghorn had just recounted to him.
“Now, Mr. Denton,” he said as he concluded, “any idea who this man might have been?”
Denton shook his head.
“Not the slightest. From the description given, I can’t recognise him as one of the regulars in the bar over there. I know most of ’em and this chap doesn’t strike a familiar chord. But just a minute. I’ll ask Jo.” Venables lifted his eyebrows.
“Josephine, I mean. My barmaid over there. We usually call her Jo for short.”
He walked to the door and called the girl by name. A tall, thin, fair wisp of a girl came into them.
“You wanted me, Mr. Denton?”
“That’s right, Jo. Now keep your head and don’t get ‘jittery.’ Nothing to be frightened of. This is Inspector Venables. He’s here making a few inquiries concerning the death of Mr. Norman of Rapson’s Farm.”
Denton turned suddenly towards the Inspector. “Shall I ask her or would you rather do the job yourself?”
Venables nodded good-humoredly. “That’s all right. You ask her. She’s more used to you than she is to me.”
“All right then. Now, Jo—you remember that Mr. Norman was in here on the evening of his death?”
“Yes, Mr. Denton. He dined in the big saloon, I’m told, and after that he walked over into the bar where I was serving.”
“Did you serve him yourself?”
“Yes, Mr. Denton.”
“Was there anyone with him?”
“A man who was already in the bar called him over. I served them both with drinks. Mr. Norman had a Scotch and soda and the other man had a brandy.”
“Did you know this other man—this man who called Norman over to him?”
“No, Mr. Denton.”
“Ever seen him before in this house?”
“No, Mr. Denton.”
“Anywhere else?”
“No, Mr. Denton. Never seen him anywhere—to the best of my recollection. He was a complete stranger to me.”
Denton gestured to the Inspector. “There you are, Inspector. You hear what the girl says. Should be conclusive.”
Venables took up the inquiry on his own account. “Tell me what this man was like. Give me as good a description of him as you possibly can.”
“He was a gentleman. I mean—according to the way he spoke; That’s what I always go by. Fairly short. Dark. Big shoulders. Looked athletic—if you know what I mean. Broad shoulders. Not exactly good-looking—but a strong, determined-sort of face. Bit of a he-man.” The girl smiled at the men around her as she added her final fragment of description. “Looked like a man who knew what he wanted and intended getting it—never mind what happened to him afterwards.”
Venables jotted down what the girl had said. On broad lines, it tallied satisfactorily with the description that Waghorn, the bank manager, had already supplied. With the barmaid, however, Venables intended to go a step further.
“Now tell me, Miss Jo, how long was Norman with this man?”
“Over five minutes, But well under a quarter of an hour. I only served them with drinks twice. A round, each.”
“When Norman left to go, did this man go with him?”
For the first time during her examination, the girl was not able to reply promptly. “I’m not altogether sure,” she replied after a short period of hesitation, “but I don’t think that he did.”
Venables looked straight at her. “You are not altogether sure?” he repeated.
Jo shook her head slowly. “No, sir. That’s not an easy question for me to answer. You see, it was like this. There were a lot of customers in the bar just about that time and I was busy attending to them. Here, there and everywhere, as you might say. Just dodging about. A man can leave the bar in a second while your back’s turned and your attention’s distracted, and you don’t see the goings of him.”
“I suppose that is so,” returned Venables; “but tell me why you don’t think this other man went out with Norman when he took his departure. You must have a reason for thinking as you do.”
“Well,” replied the barmaid slowly, “I’ll tell you why I said what I did. I fancy—and it’s only fancy, mind you—that I saw the man in the bar after Mr. Norman had gone away. If I said any more than that I should be telling a lie.” She wiped her hands on her handkerchief rather nervously.
“Thank you, miss,” said the Inspector. “I don’t think I need bother you any more for the moment, though I may want to sec you again later on.”
The girl turned and went back to her daily occupation. Inspector Venables had a drink with Denton and the other men, and then, shortly afterwards, followed her example.
IV
Martin Chavasse spent an evening with Dr. Pegram. He liked to do this, and he also liked Pegram. He had dropped in rather unexpectedly, but, despite this, Pegram was pleased to see him and genuinely welcomed him. Each was a man whose range of interests extended considerably beyond the equipment of expert medical knowledge. Pegram had become friendly with Chavasse some years previously when the latter had first come to reside in the district, and the friendship had developed and grown on each side.
When he entered, Chavasse slipped into a chair. “Hallo,” said Pegram. “Help yourself.”
He nodded towards the tantalus and the siphon. Chavasse faced his host and began to fill his pipe.
“What are you reading?” asked Chavasse with a quick gesture towards the book on the table.
“Poetry,” responded Pegram drily. “Oddly enough, I suppose, for a busy man these days, I happen to like it. And I’ve found a man here who’s very nearly another Rupert Brooke.”
Chavasse picked up the book and glanced at the title and the author’s name. “H’m! Collected poems of Richard Elwes. Why waste your time, my dear Pegram? Why waste your time on flowery froth and nimble nonsense.”
His voice was harsh and unsympathetic as he spoke. Pegram smiled. He knew Chavasse’s opinions of old. He had heard him in this strain before. Chavasse replaced the book on the table and helped himself to a whisky and soda. Pegram handled the book almost affectionately.
“Poetry to me, my dear Martin, is the literature of elegant escape. That’s why I find it so attractive.”
“Utter rubbish—that talk,” rallied Chavasse almost savagely. “Why can’t you be content with Shaw and Gilbert Chesterton. The former especially. He never bores you.”
“How do you know?” asked Pegram quietly.
“Well—he never bores me.”
“Different matter entirely,” replied Pegram. “De gustibus and all that.”
Chavasse emptied his glass and grinned cordially. His mood had changed. “All right. Game, set, match, I’ll take it.”
“And now you have done with all that, Martin, what was it you’ve come to see me about?” His eyes twinkled as he answered.
“‘The Hot Cinders Murder,’ as the Press call it.”
Pegan smiled grimly at the description. “I thought as much. Well—what about the H.C.M. Let me put the boot on the other foot. What information have you brought me?”
Chavasse threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a good one, I must say. The boot’s on the proper foot if you ask me. Where I put it.” He eyed Pegram shrewdly as he made the thrust, and then continued. “And, if you ask me again, it pinches somewhat. Come now—open confession’s good for the soul.”
Pegram shrugged his shoulders. “If you mean that Venables has made no progress, I’m afraid that I can’t contradict you. I was speaking to him about it only yesterday afternoon. Also, the Chief Constable, old Stuart, is on his tail with regard to it. He’s a fussy old cove. He’s always advertised himself, rather, during a long period of inactivity and now that a real case has come his way, all he can show are completely negative results. Which don’t please him and make him fuss about appallingly.”
Chavasse laughed. The imps of mischief danced in his eyes. “Why doesn’t he pocket his pride and call in the ‘Yard’?”
“All,” returned Pegram, knocking out his pipe. “As you say—why doesn’t he? I expect that’s what it will come to before we’re finished.”
“So you can tell me nothing?” remarked Chavasse. “You have evolved no theories whatever about the crime?”
“Frankly, Martin, I haven’t. I don’t know that I’ve worried much about it. I’ve been infernally busy, and I suppose that must be the excuse. Theories are hardly my pigeon—you know. What are your theories? I’d be interested to hear them.”
Chavasse grinned. “You old devil! So you’ll make me talk, will you, whether I like it or not?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Well, you’re right. I have a theory about the case. And it intrigued me so much that I couldn’t rest awhile and went down and had a look at the scene of the crime. There’s little doubt, I suppose, in your mind, that the person who murdered Norman was a passenger with him in the car. Agreed?”
“Yes—most certainly. I’ve never considered any other possibility.”
“Well then, it looks to me as though he must have been either a friend or an acquaintance. Do you go that far with me?”
“Yes. All the way.”
“Well then, it’s passing strange to me that Venables hasn’t been able to put his hand on the man or woman who travelled with Norman that night. Had Norman such a tremendous circle of acquaintances?”
Pegram shook his head. “Couldn’t say. I should most strongly doubt it. A farmer living as he did and where he did.” Pegram nodded. “I should say you were right.”
“Look at it for yourself, Pegram. What were his habits? Cut-and-dried routine and entirely stereotyped. According to what Venables tells me, the man made two visits to Mallett a week. Every week. On market-days. The rest of his time he spent on the farm doing his work and minding his own business. Venables says he wrung the wife, the son and the daughter pretty dry with regard to their husband’s and father’s movements generally, but he didn’t extract much that was of value from any one of them. Damn it all, Pegram, where’s the motive for anyone to kill a man like this fellow Norman?”
Pegram replied quietly. “Revenge for some grievance, real or imaginary. That’s the shot I’d make at the target.”
Chavasse darted a quick look at him. “You mean something with its roots and genesis way back in years gone by?”
“Something like that, perhaps. I merely projected it as a possible theory. I have no great faith in it.”
“Well then, again taking your theory as a practical proposition, Venables should be able to strike those roots provided he digs deep enough.”
“I agree. So that we come, more or less, to a matter of time.”
Chavasse nodded. “Murder is nearly always motivated by revenge, greed or convenience. One of three things. Using slightly different words, vindictiveness, avarice or fear. Inasmuch, then, as Norman lost nothing and that nobody could reasonably have been afraid of him, we are left with revenge as the one sane and sound motive for getting rid of him.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Pegram.
Chavasse rose from his chair, walked across the hearthrug and stood over him. “And yet,” he said, “despite all the force and all the logic of that argument, there is one other possibility that we can’t ignore. And it’s one that appeals to me strongly. Have you considered it?”
Pegram began to fill his pipe again. As he worked the tobacco into the bowl with his fingers, he nodded and spoke with slow but deliberate emphasis.
“Yes. I know what you mean. If one thinks, one can’t escape it. That we may be dealing with a lunatic.”
“Right. A maniac! A homicidal maniac! And that, my dear Pegram, if you ask me, is our true solution.”
Pegram thought for some seconds. He held a lighted match in his hands. “If you’re right, Martin, you know what it means, don’t you? And it’s a pretty grim business.”
Chavasse stood erect and jingled the coins in his pocket. “I do. None better. It means that before long we shall be brought face to face with another murder. A murderer of that type never stops at one. He gets the blood-lust and it grows on him.”
“Or murders,” corrected Dr. Pegram.
Chavasse sat down again. “Or murders. Yes—I’ll accept that. Now it comes to this. If you and I are right in our conjecture, we must see Venables, and Venables, in turn, must see Sir Charles Stuart.”
“Unless—” commenced Pegram.
“Unless what?”
“Unless the murderer is not a local person and simply, as it were, happened to take in Mallett on his way and in his stride. In that case there will be no more murders here or hereabouts that will cause us anxiety. When they do occur, they will occur elsewhere and we can thank Providence that the murderer has passed from our midst.” Pegram puffed at his pipe.
Chavasse leant forward and looked into the red heart of the fire. “You may be right, Pegram, but somehow I don’t think so. Something tells me in my bones that murder will come to Mallett again. And what’s more, before many weeks are past.”
“Martin,” returned Pegram, “you’re nearly morbid—pour me out another peg of ‘Scotch’ and then take another for your own benefit and comfort. Let us not talk of graves and worms and epitaphs.”