I
HIS meal over, he left the flat, going first to a District Messengers’ office and then back to the garage for his car.
He knew the road to Marling so well by this time that he could almost have driven blindfold, and he has said that on this morning he once or twice found himself to have been sleeping at the wheel. It is certain, anyhow, that he barely saw where he was going. Such thought as his tired brain could compass was not of murders and murderers, but of Love, a Lover and a Lady.
It was, if one is to believe him, at the cross-roads beyond Beachmere that he made up his mind to see Her, to drive straight to the house on the bank of the Marle.
He looked at his watch. The hands pointed to ten. He settled down in his seat. The needle on the speedometer jerked to twenty, to twenty-five; then gradually crept on till it hesitated between forty-five and fifty.
His spirits mounted with the speed. The car tore her way into Marling and down the cobbled slope of the High Street, swung to the left, took the little bridge at a bound, raced on, turned the corner next on the left after the river-bank on two wheels, ploughed up the little lane, and pulled up at the gates of the house which was graced with Her presence.
Or should have been. For the parlourmaid informed him that her mistress and her mistress’s sister were out. For the day, she thought. She was not sure, but she imagined the ladies to have gone to London.
Anthony, his fatigue heavy upon him, walked slowly back to his car. For a moment he sat idle in the driving-seat; then suddenly quickened to life. Though their ultimate destination might indeed be London, the women would surely stop on their way through Greyne. For in Greyne’s jail was Deacon.
So to Greyne he drove at speed. He missed them by five minutes.
Had Anthony Gethryn been a man of common sense he would have returned at once to his Marling inn, fallen upon his bed, and let Sleep have her way with him. But he was not, so he stayed with Deacon. Deacon was so obviously—in spite of his flippancy—delighted at this visit, Anthony stayed with him until two o’clock, when the great Sir Edward Marshall, K.C. arrived in person for consultation for his latest case, and then set out for Marling. This he did not reach for two hours, fatigue and preoccupation having cost him no fewer than three wrong turnings.
At the inn was waiting the reply to the letter he had sent by District Messenger that morning. It had come, this reply, in the form of a seemingly ordinary message over the inn’s telephone. It was what he had expected, but nevertheless it made it necessary for him to think.
And think he did, sitting on the hot grass bank at the edge of the little bowling-green behind the inn, for as long as it takes to smoke one cigar and two pipes. Then he sought the bar, to slake a savage thirst.
He ordered a meal to be served at seven. To pass the hour that must elapse before this and to throw off the lassitude brought on by this fatigue and the oppression of the day’s heavy, airless heat, he sought the bathroom and much cold water.
After the bath he felt better. He returned to his quarters whistling. Crossing his sitting-room to get to the bedroom which opened out of it, he saw something he had not noticed when going bathwards. The whistling ceased abruptly. On the table in the centre of the room lay an envelope. His name was on it, in hurried, pencilled scrawl. The writing was feminine.
He ripped it open, read, and jumped for the door. The pink-cheeked chambermaid came running. She would not have believed this quiet gentleman could shout so loud, nor so angrily.
Anthony, his lank black hair dishevelled, his long, lean body swathed in a bath-gown, towered wrathfully above her.
‘When did this note arrive?’ He waved the envelope in her face.
The girl fingered her apron. ‘Oh, sir! It came this morning, please, sir. Lady left it, sir. Just after ten, it was. Mrs Lermeesherer, sir.’
‘I know, I know!’ Anthony snorted. ‘But why in Satan’s name wasn’t I told about it when I got back this evening?’ He went back into his room, slamming the door and feeling not a little ashamed of himself.
The little chambermaid clattered downstairs to discuss with her colleagues the strange effect of a note upon a gentleman before so pleasant.
Anthony clad himself with speed; then ran downstairs to the telephone. The answer to his first call was disappointing. No, Mrs Lemesurier was not back; would not be, probably, until eight.
He rang off, swore, bethought him of his work, made sure that the door of the telephone cabinet was closed, lifted the receiver and asked for another number.
It was ten minutes before he left the cabinet and went slowly to his dinner. He ate little, fatigue, preoccupation, and the stifling heat of the evening combining to deprive him of appetite. Over coffee he re-read his letter. It is a tribute to his self-restraint that he had delayed so long. It was a short letter, running thus:
DEAR MR GETHRYN—I am sorry you were out: I wanted to apologise for my unpardonable behaviour. I can’t think what made me so foolish; and quite see now that you had to talk to Jim and also that he was none the worse for the interview—in fact I hear from Mr Hastings, who rang up early this morning, that he is ever so much better!
If you are not too busy and would care to, do come and see us this evening. I would ask you to dinner, but we shall probably be late and have a very scrappy meal.
Yours gratefully,
LUCIA LEMESURIER.
P.S.—You were rather hard on me, weren’t you? You see, I had asked Dot and she had urged me to go to town!
There is a peculiar and subtle and quite indefinable pleasure that comes to a man when the woman he loves first writes to him. Soever curt, soever banal the letter, there is no matter. It is something from Her to him; something altogether private and secret; something She has set down for him to read; something not to be shared with a sordid world.
Anthony lost himself in this sea of subtle delight, varying joy with outbursts against himself for having exhibited such boorishness and for being so insanely, so youthfully in love. ‘For, after all,’ he told himself, ‘I haven’t known her for a week yet. I’ve spoken with her not a dozen times. I am clearly a fool!’
Unpleasant thoughts broke in upon him. He looked at his watch; then jumped to his feet and made his way upstairs to his rooms. He reached them mopping his forehead. He could not remember a day in England so oppressive.
He took his hat and turned to leave the room. As he did so a rush of wind swept in through the open window, and a long, low angry mutter of thunder came to his ears. Then, with a rush, came the rain; great sheets of it, glistening in the half-dusk.
Anthony put on a mackintosh, substituted a cap for the hat, and left the inn. He did not take his car. Even as he turned out of the yard into the cobbled street, the thunder changed from rumble to sharp, staccato reports, and three jagged swords of lightning tore the black of the sky.
Anthony strode on, hands thrust deep into pockets, chin burrowed into the upturned collar of the trench-coat. Incredibly almost, the volume of rain increased and increased.
II
Mr Poole the butler—Anthony once said that he sounded like a game of Happy Families—was in a state of nervous agitation verging upon breakdown. The events of the past few days had shaken him, for some time an old man aged beyond his years, to such extent that he would not, he was sure, ‘ever be the same man again’.
He sat in the little room opposite that which had been the master’s study. He shivered with age, vague fears, and fervent distaste for the storm whose rain beat upon the windows, whose sudden furies of wind shook the old house, whose flashes of lightning played such havoc with the nerves.
Mr Poole was alone. Miss Hoode had retired. Sir Arthur was reading in the billiard-room at the other end of the house. Belford was on three days’ holiday, his wife, it seemed, being an invalid. The other servants were certainly either in bed or huddled together moaning as women will at the violence of the storm.
Mr Poole was alone. All manner of lurking terrors preyed upon him. There were noises. Sounds which seemed like the master’s voice. Sounds which seemed like the rustling of curtains, whispering and soft footsteps. Elusive sounds as of doors opening and shutting. Mr Poole trembled. He knew his fears groundless; imaginings born of the roaring rattle of the Universe. But nevertheless he trembled.
Suddenly there came a knocking on the great front door. This knocking was not loud, yet it seemed to the old man the more terrible for that. For there is always something terrible about a knock upon a door.
For a full minute he strove to leave the shelter of the little, cheerful, glowing room. At last he succeeded, struggling through the beastly mysteries of the dimly lighted hall to open with trembling hands the great oak door.
Anthony stepped over the threshold; stripped off dripping cap and mackintosh.
‘A dirty night, Poole,’ he said.
‘It is indeed, sir! Indeed it is, sir!’ The old man’s voice was hysterical with relief.
Across the hall to them came Sir Arthur, sturdy, benign, hair as smoothly brushed as ever.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Gethryn?’ he said. ‘I wondered who was knocking. You must have very pressing business to bring you up here on a night like this. Aren’t you wet?’
‘Nothing to speak of. I wanted a talk with you. It’s important—and urgent.’
Sir Arthur grew eager. ‘My dear boy, of course. Where shall we go? Billiard-room?’
‘All right.’
They turned, but before they had crossed the hall:
‘Tell you what,’ Anthony said, ‘the study’d be better. Not so near the servants, you know.’
‘You’re right,’ Sir Arthur agreed.
The study had that queer stillness which comes to a room at one time in constant use and then suddenly deserted save for the morning activities of a servant with duster and broom. It had an air of almost supernatural lifelessness increased, perhaps, by the fact that now everything was in its accustomed place; the same pictures on the walls; the table; the chairs; the very curtains cutting off the alcove at the far end of the room hanging in the old slightly disordered folds.
A silence fell upon both men while they found chairs and drew them up to the table, under the light.
Sir Arthur spoke first. ‘Out with it, now, Gethryn. You’ve excited me, you know.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I’ve always thought you’d do something; go one better than those damn fools of policemen!’
Anthony leant back in his chair. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a most unusual business. I said so at the beginning, and, by God, I say so now! You might say that I have solved the mystery. After I’ve told you, that is. And in another way, as you’ll see, it’s more of a puzzle than ever.’
Sir Arthur leant forward. ‘Go on, man, go on! Do you mean to say you actually know who killed John?’
‘I do not.’ Anthony laid his head against the back of his chair and closed his leaden, burning eyes.
Sir Arthur started to his feet. A crash of thunder drowned his words. Followed a zig-zag of lightning so vivid as to seem more of a stage-effect than an outburst of nature. Outside, the rain fell heavily, solidly—a veil of water. The furious blast of wind which had come hard on the heels of the great peal died away in a plaintive moan.
Anthony opened his eyes. ‘What did you say? Before that barrage, I mean.’
Sir Arthur paced the room. ‘What did I say?’ he exploded. ‘I said that if you hadn’t found out who did it, I couldn’t see the use of coming here and gabbling about mystery. Damn it, man, we’re not in a two-shilling novel! We’ve got to get Deacon off, that’s what we’ve got to do! And find the murderer! Not sit here and play at Holmes and Watson. It’s silly, what we’re doing! And I expected great things of you, Gethryn!’
‘That,’ Anthony said placidly, ‘was surely foolish.’
Sir Arthur made impatient sounds in his throat; but lessened the pace of his prowling. Under the greying hair his broad forehead was creased in a tremendous frown.
Anthony lit a cigarette. ‘But I may yet interest you,’ he went on. ‘You said, I think, that you wished to lay your hands on the murderer.’
‘I did. And by God I meant it!’
Anthony looked up at him. ‘Suppose you sit down and then I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Sit down!’ Sir Arthur shouted. ‘Sit down! God above, you’ll be telling me to keep calm next!’ He flung himself into his chair. ‘Here I am then. Now get on!’ He buried his face in his hands; then looked up to say: ‘You must forgive me, Gethryn; I’m not myself. I’ve been more on edge the last few days—a lot more—than I’ve let anyone see. And tonight, somehow, my nerves have gone. And when you came with news I thought it meant that you’d caught the real murderer and that the boy would get off—and—and everything!’
‘I was going to tell you,’ Anthony said, ‘that the murderer of John Hoode will never be caught. To get him is impossible. Please understand that when I say impossible I mean it.’
‘But why, man? Why?’ cried Sir Arthur.
‘Because,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘he doesn’t exist.’
‘What?’ Sir Arthur was on his feet again at a bound astonishing in its agility.
Anthony lay back in his chair. ‘I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!’ he said plaintively. ‘You know, you’re very violent tonight, I can’t talk if you will jump about so.’
The elder man groaned apology and sat again in his chair. His eyes, bewildered, sought Anthony’s.
Raising his voice to carry above the increasing roar of the storm, Anthony said: ‘Sorry if I seem too mysterious. But you must let me elucidate in my own way. Here goes: I have said that the murderer of John Hoode doesn’t exist. I don’t mean that the murderer’s dead or that Hoode committed suicide. I mean that John Hoode was never killed; is not, in fact, dead.’
Sir Arthur’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. His chair was outside the circle of light and it was by the vivid violet illumination of a quivering glare of lightning that Anthony saw the pallor the shock of his revelation had caused. Following that lightning came peal after peal of thunder.
As it died away, Anthony saw that the other was speaking. He had not moved in his chair, but his strong, square hands were twisting about each other to testify to the intensity of his emotion.
‘What are you telling me?’ he whispered. ‘Are you mad? John not dead! John not dead! Why, it’s idiocy—stark idiocy to say what you have said!’
Anthony shook his head. ‘It isn’t. Whatever it is, it isn’t that. Wait till I have told you more. It’s a long tale and strange.’
Sir Arthur moistened his lips with his tongue but did not speak. Anthony’s words had carried conviction; his words and a way he had of commanding attention.
The thunder, after the outburst of a moment before, seemed to have ceased entirely. No sudden furies of wind shook the house. The only sounds in the oppressive room were the tick-tick of the grandfather clock and the soft hish-hish of the rain against the closed windows.
Anthony drew a deep breath, and began:
‘My first impression of this affair was, as you know, that it was a straightforward murder, committed by some member of this household. Later, I had good reason to search this table here, and it was from the time of that search that I began to revise my theories. In this table I found—as I had expected—a drawer hidden from the casual eye. From that drawer I took some letters, a collection of newspaper-cuttings, a memorandum book, and other papers. You shall see them all in due course.
‘The letters gave me my first inkling that there was something more obscure about the case than I had thought. So I went to the lady who had written those letters. From her I got the first pieces of the story, not without difficulty. I also went to see a man who had once been Hoode’s secretary. He was obliging and clever. He had seen things, heard things, while he served Hoode that had set him thinking. He thought so much that he employed, on his own initiative, a private detective. I have seen the detective. The detective, even after he was told to drop the business, went on detecting. You see, he had become interested. He is not a nice man. He smelt scandal and money. He, without knowing it, has helped me to piece together the whole amazing story—the story which shows how it was that John Hoode was not killed.’
Sir Arthur, grey of face, hammered with his fists on the leather-padded arms of his chair.
‘But the body!’ he gasped. ‘The body! It was there!’ He glanced wildly over his shoulder at the fireplace. ‘I saw it! I tell you I saw it!’ His voice gathered strength. ‘And the inquest, the arrests, the identifications! And the funeral! Why, you fool!’ he cried in a great voice, ‘the funeral is tomorrow. All England will be there! And you tell me this absurd story. What in God’s name has come to you that you can play pranks of this sort? Haven’t we all suffered enough without this?’ The man was shaking.
Anthony sat up. ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘And let me finish. I said that John Hoode had not been murdered. I did not say that no murder had been done. Murder was done. I know it. You know it. The world knows it. But what you and the world do not know is that the body upon which the inquest was held, the body which is to be buried tomorrow, is not the body of John Hoode!’
Sir Arthur glared at him. ‘What does this mean?’ he said, and his lips trembled. ‘What is all this? I don’t understand! I—I—’
Sleep was creeping insidiously upon Anthony. He wished that the storm had not ceased. Its violence had at least helped to keep one awake, helped to conquer this deadly fatigue which made talking so great an effort.
He began again: ‘The story is this. And though it’s as mad as Hatta and the King’s Messenger, it’s true. John Hoode’s mother, as you probably know, was, before marriage, a Miss Monteith. His father, as you must know also, was John Howard Beauleigh Hoode. Now, do you know that your John Hoode is very like—to look at, I mean—one of his parents and not the other?’
‘Yes, yes. He and his father were—well like twin brothers almost.’
‘Exactly. John Howard Beauleigh Hoode had a way of passing on his features. John Howard Beauleigh Hoode was married to Miss Adeline Rose Monteith in ’73. In ’72 John Howard Beauleigh Hoode’s mistress, the daughter of Ian Dougal—he was a smith in Ardenross—gave birth to a son. That son, named also John, was maintained and educated at his father’s expense; but he turned out as complete a waster as any man well could be. John Hoode—your John—didn’t know of his half-brother’s existence until John Howard Beauleigh Hoode’s death. When he did find out—from his father’s executors, I imagine—John—your John—was good to his bastard brother; and when first he saw him, he marvelled exceedingly at this bastard brother’s likeness to him, for to look at his face was almost like looking into a mirror.
‘The result of his kindness was the expected. Ingratitude, surliness, constant demands for money and yet more money; finally threats and blackmail—’
‘No, no, no!’ groaned Sir Arthur, his face in his hands. ‘It’s all lies, lies! I knew John. He told me everything, everything!’
‘Not he,’ Anthony said. ‘I’ve all the papers, some of them here.’ He tapped his breast-pocket. ‘Birth certificates. Copy of John Howard Beauleigh Hoode’s will, and so on. It’s all by the book. Well, things went from bad to worse and from worse to intolerable for John—your John. These threats—I’ll show you some letters later—wore his nerves, his health, to shreds. He tried every way of kindness—and failed.’ Anthony paused to moisten with his tongue his parched lips.
‘Finally,’ he went on, ‘John—your John—found his work for the State to be suffering. He is, as I see him, an upright, conscientious, kindly man, but determined. He made up his mind. He would help once more, but once more only. He sent for the other John. He told him when and how to come, how to approach the house, to get into this room by that window, all without being seen.
‘The other John came at the appointed time and knocked on the window. Your John helped him in. The other John, as always, was rotten with liquor. Your John told of the determination he had come to that this was to be the last time if the other John did not amend his ways. Then came trouble. Perhaps half-brother was more drunk than usual. Anyhow, he attacked your John. Sodden with drink though he was, he was the more powerful man. But John—your John—managed somehow to tear himself free. Not knowing what he did, he picked up the heavy poker and struck, not once, but many times—’
‘But what—Good God—!’
Anthony overrode the interruption. ‘Wait. Don’t speak till I’ve finished. Appalled at what he had done, he stood looking down at his bastard half-brother’s body. It sprawled there on the hearth in its untidy, shabby, mud-stained clothes. It was not, I conceive, a pretty sight. Then John—your John—did what better men had done before him. He lost his head. Completely he lost his head. And he thought at the time that he was clever!
‘He locked the door, quietly, as the struggle had been quiet. Better for him had the struggle been noisy! He stripped to the skin. Then, naked as he was born, he stripped that sprawling thing which had been his brother. He donned the foul linen and musty clothes, the worn-out boots. More horrid still, he clad the body in his own good clothing. Carefully he did it, even to the tying of the black bow. And all the time, beneath his horror, was wonder for the amazing likeness of the thing’s face and body to his own. For half-brother John was not one of those who carry the stamp of their dissipations.
‘Then John—your John—hurried away. Through that window he went. As he crouched outside it, he heard the door of the room, which he had unlocked, open. He peered, and saw his sister. He saw her hand fly to her bosom. He saw her rush to the thing on the hearth. And he knew that his sister took that Thing for the brother she had known and loved and cherished all her life.
‘He heard her scream. He saw her sway and fall. For an instant sanity returned, and he thought of going back to help her. Then fear got him by the throat again; fear of arrest; fear of publicity; fear of the hangman. He saw it all. And he drifted silently away through the darkness. And next morning, while the world read about his death, John Hoode lay in a Whitechapel doss-house. Later, an officious policeman found a carpenter’s wood-rasp and on it some blood and some fingerprints. So Deacon was arrested for the murder of a man who was still alive. The blood on that wood-rasp was not the dead man’s, nor were the fingerprints Deacon’s. The explanation is long, but I will give it if you like.’ Anthony half closed his eyes and lay back in his chair.
A silence fell upon the room.
Sir Arthur shattered it. He leapt to his feet, his virility returned uncannily a thousandfold. The light-blue eyes held fire in them.
‘It’s a lie!’ he roared. ‘It’s a lie!’ He smashed his fist down upon the table. ‘A lie, I tell you! What’s that?’ He turned sharply to face the end of the room.
‘What?’ Anthony rose to his feet.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ He came close to Anthony. ‘What you tell me is lies! All lies! Lies and more lies, you—!’ His voice rose with each word.
Suddenly, amazingly, Anthony shouted too. ‘It’s true, and you must believe it! Your help is wanted.’ He thrust his thin, dark face at the other’s. ‘It’s the truth! Truth! D’you understand? I know! I know because—because Hoode told me himself—today! He’s coming here tonight! Now!’
Sir Arthur flung his arms above his head. ‘Lies, lies, lies!’ His voice rose to a harsh, unnatural scream, ‘All lies! God rot him! Christ torture his soul in hell! He’s dead! He’s dead! You fool! I know, I, I! You know nothing!’ His hands seemed to be reaching higher, clawing, as if they would tear holes in heaven.
‘You fool!’ he screamed again. ‘He’s dead. I know! I killed him! I climbed down and killed him—’
Anthony sat down on the edge of the table. ‘That’ll be all, I think,’ he said.
The curtains over the alcove at the end of the room parted. From behind them came three men: the first tall and of middle-aged immaculateness, the second an obvious detective-inspector, the third negligible save for the pencil and notebook he carried.
Sir Arthur turned, crouching like an animal, to see the invasion. In a flash he whipped round and leapt at Anthony’s throat, his arms outflung, his fingers crooked. Anthony, still sitting, had little time to avoid the rush. He raised a knee sharply. Sir Arthur fell to the floor, where for a time he rolled in agony.
The obvious detective-inspector bent over him. There was a click of handcuffs.
The immaculate man advanced to the table. ‘Very good indeed, Gethryn,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Anthony said. ‘I suppose you’re satisfied now, Lucas?’
‘Eminently, Gethryn, eminently!’ Mr Lucas beamed.
‘Then that’s all right.’ Anthony’s tone was heavy. ‘Now what about young Deacon? Can you unwind the red tape quickly?’
Mr Lucas leant forward. ‘If you like,’ he whispered, ‘I can arrange for him to get away tonight. It’s all very wrong and most unofficial; but I can manage it. Speak to the chief on the ’phone and all that sort of thing, you know.’
Anthony’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Good for you. You might have Deacon told that if he likes I can arrange for the Bear and Key to fix him up for tonight.’
‘I’ll tell him myself,’ said the other. ‘You’re really rather a wonder, Gethryn! We ought to have you as a sort of super-superintendent. Or you might do well on the stage. At one time just now you almost took me in with that grisly tale and manner of yours. And what a yarn it was, too. Just enough to make that half-crazy devil think he’d killed the wrong man. Enough, I mean, to make him wonder whether you hadn’t got half the tale right and had only gone astray about who actually did the bashing.’ Lucas chuckled reminiscently. ‘I say,’ he added, ‘it was a good thing nobody heard us getting in here through the window. It would’ve spoilt the whole thing. The storm effect helped everything along nicely, though, didn’t it?’
‘It did,’ Anthony said. ‘I didn’t arrange that, you know.’
Mr Lucas smiled. ‘No, I suppose not; though I’m so full at the moment of wonder and admiration for the great Colonel Gethryn that if anyone told me you had, I don’t know that I should disbelieve ’em.’ He turned to look at the prisoner. ‘God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at that!’
For Sir Arthur was sitting quietly at the feet of the plain-clothes man. And he was playing a little game with his manacled hands, tracing with both forefingers the intricate pattern of the carpet. Every now and again he would look up at his guard and laugh. It was not a pleasant sound, being childish and yet somehow evil.
Anthony looked, then turned away with a shiver. Lucas dropped a hand on his shoulder.
‘Never mind, Gethryn,’ he said, after a moment. ‘It isn’t your fault.’
Anthony shook off the hand. ‘Damn it, I know that! Only the whole thing is so filthy. It might be said, I know, that I sent That mad. But it wouldn’t be true. He did that himself. Hatred, ingrowing hatred of a better man: that’s the cause.’
Lucas was thoughtful. ‘It complicates things, this madness.’
‘It does. What’ll happen?’
‘Usual, I suppose. The case’ll be tried. He’ll be convicted—and sent to Broadmoor, where he’ll die, or recover in a year and be let out to kill someone else. We’re so humane, you know!’ Lucas was bitter. ‘Anyhow, you won’t be bothered any more, except for the trial, at which you’ll figure prominently. Oh, yes! Great glory will be yours, Gethryn. Think what a press you’ll have!’
Anthony grunted his disgust.
Lucas went on: ‘Lord! What a stir this is going to make. Millionaire M.P. arrested for murder of Cabinet Minister! It won’t be nice for us at the Yard either. Not at all nice! Getting hold of an innocent man and all that. Police shown the way by amateur!’ He groaned. ‘Never mind, The Owl shall be the first to publish anything. I arranged that before I came down. And then they’ll have that report of yours to get out, too. What envy will tear Fleet Street! Of course, that report can’t come out yet, you know. At least, I don’t think so; not before the trial—’
Anthony started. ‘Lucas,’ he said, ‘there’s something we’ve forgotten.’ He put a hand up to his hair.
‘Gad! So we have. Let’s see.’
Together they stooped over the prisoner. He looked up at them and cackled.
‘Rotten business!’ Anthony grunted. ‘Seems almost indecent when the man’s like this.’ He put his hand on Sir Arthur’s head. His fingers groped for a moment; then came away. With them came that immaculate head of greying hair.
‘Wonderful toupé!’ Lucas stretched out his hand for it. ‘I’d never have noticed it. And I thought they were always obvious. Well, that’s the last confirmation of your theory, Gethryn.’ He peered at Anthony. ‘Lord! You look worn out, man!’
Anthony said heavily: ‘I am. Think I’ll get back to bed at my pub.’
Lucas glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, do. Get off now: it’s only ten past eleven. Shall—’
‘What time did you say it was?’
‘Eleven-ten.’
‘Gad! I thought I’d been here at least five hours. Only eleven-ten! And I’m sitting here!’ Anthony made for the door.
Lucas grabbed at his arm. ‘Here, what’s to do?’
‘Got to go and pay a call.’ Anthony wrenched himself free and got to the door, paused to say over his shoulder: ‘Don’t tell Deacon to come to my pub. Just let him go. He’ll get where I want him,’ and was gone.
Lucas stared after him. ‘Fool ought to be in bed,’ he muttered. ‘Clever devil, though, but queer!’ He turned to the business on hand.
Sir Arthur still sat on the floor, playing his game. His fingers wandered ceaselessly over the carpet. His head, bald save for a sand-coloured tonsure, was sunk between his square shoulders. Every now and then he laughed that high-pitched laugh.