1
MacMorran studiously examined the notes made previously by Inspector Burrows and his henchman, Sergeant Arnold. He saw, first of all, that Helen Repton was able to give entirely satisfactory alibis for Elisabeth Grenville, Ann Waverley, Virginia Proud and Clarice Irving. They had all been together on the walk to Swanley Bottom.
The second party which had travelled abroad on the afternoon of Medlicott’s murder had consisted of Percival Comfit and his wife, Myra Lillywhite, Charles and May Stansfield and Henry Poulton, Catherine’s husband. Each of the two parties had gone out “soon after lunch”. (Burrows had timed it round about 2.30 p.m.) and returned round about “half-past four”. Medlicott’s death, as nearly as the medical evidence could place it, had occurred “between three and four o’clock”. Thus MacMorran read the notes and passed their essentials on to Anthony. Which meant that unless something was radically wrong somewhere, eleven members of the house-party could be immediately eliminated from the area of suspicion.
“I’ll see all the others,” announced MacMorran firmly as the car reached High Fitchet again. “I’ve been long enough at this game to know that nothing’s so informative as personal contact. No matter what else you may do. Yes, I’ll have a word with all the others.”
Burrows leant over to open the door of the car. “There’s one thing, Chief, I feel obliged to point out. And that’s this—that an alibi for the Medlicott murder might well be possessed by the person that murdered Gooch.”
MacMorran smiled. “Here—here—what’s that? I thought you suspected Gooch himself. Didn’t you get that impression, Mr. Bathurst?”
“I did,” replied Anthony, “but I think all the same that we’ve got to hand it to the Inspector. He doesn’t miss much.”
Burrows returned MacMorran’s smile as they got out. He was feeling even better than ever.
2
MacMorran, who had made himself and his colleague known to the Wynyards before lunch, was very affable all the time. He saw the members of the family first—beginning naturally, with Lady Wynyard herself. He was sympathy itself. This interview was soon over. She could throw no light whatever on either murder. Coming so soon after the tragic death of her husband, she found it difficult even to think clearly and it all seemed to her like a horrible dream—unreal.
On the afternoon of Medlicott’s death she had stayed indoors and occupied herself with various household tasks. Just to take her mind off things. Several people must have seen her. Two questions. The first from MacMorran.
“Did she know anything about a diamond or anybody named Levi?”
Lady Wynyard replied that she had diamonds of her own—some very valuable—but none could be called “the diamond” as far as she knew, and none was missing. She had no one diamond that stood out in any way from all the others. The name Levi was unknown to her—except, of course, in the passages of Holy Scripture. She seemed to remember that she had met it there somewhere. The second question came from Anthony.
“Was there any special significance, did she know, attached to Mr. Medlicott’s invitation to High Fitchet for Christmas?” There could be no doubt that Lady Wynyard showed a certain hesitancy before she answered.
“Not—as far as I know,” were the exact words of her reply. She spoke slowly. Anthony waited for her to amplify her answer. She had given him the impression that she was going to but subsequently, evidently, she had thought again and decided not to. He attacked again, therefore.
“You are just . . . a little doubtful . . . Lady Wynyard?”
“No. I wouldn’t say that. But my husband was entirely responsible for Mr. Medlicott’s invitation. That’s all I know about it. He came and told me that he had invited him. And it was a belated invitation.”
“How belated, Lady Wynyard?”
“The Saturday prior to Christmas Eve.”
“And Sir John gave you no indication as to why he had extended this rather sudden invitation to Mr. Medlicott?”
“None at all, Mr. Bathurst. It was not my habit to question my husband’s actions in any way. And, of course, he and Walter Medlicott were very old friends. Right from boyhood.”
“Thank you, Lady Wynyard.”
Anthony nodded to MacMorran. The interview terminated. Miss Wynyard was the next of the family on MacMorran’s list.
“Enter the venerable battle-axe,” thought Anthony at his first glance of her. She had, as Catherine had told Elisabeth Grenville, a forbidding exterior, most prominent in which was an aggressive high-bridged nose.
“I know nothing whatever, my dear policeman, and I’m old-fashioned enough to tell you to your face that I strongly resent being questioned by you or by any of your underlings.”
MacMorran purred to her that he came to her merely suppliant. An earnest solicitor for her help and assistance.
“Stuff and nonsense,” was the uncompromising reply, “you’re grilling me. I’m not a congenital idiot. I was indoors all the afternoon—my sister-in-law will confirm that—and I’m an old woman. My arms aren’t strong enough to wield a blunt instrument.”
“A blunt instrument.” MacMorran expressed surprise. “I wasn’t aware that any—”
“Poppycock, my man! Everybody who isn’t shot, stabbed or poisoned is killed by a blunt instrument. That’s an absolute certainty. You know that as well as I do—so don’t pretend to me, you don’t. I loathe hypocrisy—even in a policeman. The blunt instrument is with us from the cradle to the grave—like that Beveridge fellow’s pink paper was supposed to be.”
Aunt Amy twitched her combative nostrils at MacMorran and scored heavily on points all through the round.
“Another thing,” she said fiercely. “I shouldn’t go for an afternoon walk across the fields with a man! Not even with a man I knew like Mr. Medlicott. I happen to have been brought up properly and to know what decent conduct is. And not for any lack of opportunity, Mr. Policeman, in my early days. Oh, no, don’t you think that. That was far from the case. I may be a survival—I may be a ‘has-been’—but I’m certainly not a ‘never-wasser’.”
Aunt Amy was piling up the points. MacMorran let her go eventually, and as Anthony (appealed to) acquiesced immediately, they came to Nick Wynyard. Nick looked tired and anxious. Anthony could see that he had been through a tough time. He answered various questions from MacMorran with regard to the finding of Medlicott’s body but could furnish no real information with regard to Levi or to any diamond that Medlicott might have had in his possession. When MacMorran tackled him with regard to his own alibi, he looked up and said something rather surprising.
“The murder of Gooch, my chauffeur, has come rather awkwardly for me I’m afraid—from that point of view. Because after lunch that afternoon—until I should say about half-past three—I was helping Gooch in the garage. The big car had been giving trouble for some days—it was the carburettor we discovered eventually—and we put it right that afternoon. If it hadn’t been for that job, I should have gone out with the girls over to Swanley Bottom. You see,” he added by way of explanation, “for some time before we engaged Gooch we had been without a chauffeur and I’ve learned to mess about with the cars quite a lot. And of course it’s down my street, because I’m mechanical, and I rather like it.” Nick smiled.
“I see,” said MacMorran. He looked at the notes. “After half-past three, Sir Nicholas. That was the time you said, I think, that you stopped. What happened then?”
“Happened? Oh—I see what you mean. You mean after we finished the job. I went up to my room to clean up, naturally. I was in a pretty filthy mess. I don’t know what Gooch did. Probably, much the same, I should imagine. But I had a bath, dressed and came down to tea. I had been in the lounge, I should think, about twenty minutes when the girls came back from their walk. They got in about a quarter of an hour before the Comfit party did.”
MacMorran nodded to Anthony. The latter tried Nick Wynyard on the same lines as he had his mother. Concerning the Medlicott invitation.
“I don’t think,” said Nick, “that you need attach too much importance to that. You must always bear in mind that my father and Medlicott were very close friends. In addition to their business relationship. And Medlicott was a bachelor, don’t forget. My father probably rang him up on an ordinary matter of business, then said casually ‘what are you doing for Christmas, Walter?’ Medlicott said ‘nothing in particular’, and the Guv’nor clinched it with ‘well then, why not come and spend it with us. Because you’ll be very welcome.’ That’s my opinion what occurred.”
Anthony nodded. “Thank you, Sir Nicholas. I take your point.”
Nick turned to MacMorran. “But before we part, Inspector, there is something which I feel I should tell you. Something further.”
“About Medlicott?” queried MacMorran.
“No—Gooch. And this is something which I do regard as significant. I don’t know how you’ll react to it when you’ve heard what it is.”
“Let’s have it, Sir Nicholas—then we can judge.”
“It happened,” began Nick, “on the evening that Sergeant Arnold came here. After we’d sent for him—when Miss Repton and I found poor old Medlicott. When the Sergeant had finished his investigation and told me he was through for the time being, I came downstairs from the billiard-room to have a word with my mother and saw Gooch standing in the hall. He wasn’t doing anything in particular. He was just standing there. He was in his uniform and he gave me the impression that he had either been sent for or was waiting there to see somebody. The latter idea turned out to be the correct one. Because he came straight up to me and asked me if he could have a word with me in private. That was the phrase he used—’in private’. Well, I was very busy and tired and pretty well ‘all in’; there was my father’s death and all the inevitable complications arising therefrom and then had come the Medlicott trouble on top—and to speak bluntly, I put him off. Told him that whatever it was, it must wait and that I’d send for him in the morning. Well, he eventually accepted the suggestion but pointed out that the matter was important as it concerned both my father and Medlicott. Anyhow he didn’t press it and that was that.”
“I should have thought,” said MacMorran, “that you would have listened to him then and there. In view of what he said. As it was to do with your father and Medlicott.”
Nick nodded. “I should have. I know that now. And I blame myself for the delay. But it’s easy to be wise after the event. And frankly—I was tired—I was worried—I considered that in all probability Gooch was exaggerating the importance of some trivial incident he had heard or witnessed between perhaps my father and Mr. Medlicott and I didn’t want any more trouble that night. The morning could take care of itself.”
The bitterness in Nick’s voice showed conclusively how he regretted his action and the shrug of his shoulders denoted likewise. Anthony, however, had listened with a strong feeling of satisfaction. Here was something which fitted. Gooch had been killed because he knew too much.
“I’d like to ask Sir Nicholas a question” he said to MacMorran. MacMorran gestured his consent.
“How long had Gooch been in your employment, Sir Nicholas?”
“Not quite three months. He came along early in October. As I informed you just now, we were without a chauffeur for some time.”
“Was he a local man?”
“I couldn’t say for certain—but I should say not.”
“How did he come to you—through the local Ministry of Labour?”
“No. Not directly. In answer to an advertisement. He had been in the Air Force and been discharged. The Labour Exchange people here didn’t demur when the matter was put to them.”
“Did you engage him personally?”
“Oh no. I had nothing whatever to do with it. My father did all that. Always did.”
“Was the man satisfactory?”
“Absolutely. I’ve never heard a complaint against him. We always considered ourselves very lucky to get him.”
“When the search-parties went out to look for Medlicott, did Gooch go? I rather think, from memory of what I’ve heard, that he did. Yes?”
“Yes. Gooch went.”
“With which party? Just confirm the idea that I have, Sir Nicholas, will you please?”
“With my brother—Quentin. In the direction of Swanley Bottom.”
“Thank you. That was what I thought.” Anthony sat back and nodded to MacMorran.
“Perhaps your brother would be good enough to come in, Sir Nicholas,” said Inspector MacMorran. “And thanks for your help.”
3
Anthony was interested to see the physical dissimilarities between Quentin Wynyard and his elder brother. His fair, slim slenderness rather took Anthony by surprise as he hadn’t particularly noticed Quentin Wynyard when they had had their hasty lunch.
“Artistic temperament,” thought Anthony to himself, “whatever that may mean. Nervy, highly-strung.”
MacMorran, if possible, exuded more cordiality than ever. And Quentin for once belied his looks and seemed almost absurdly at ease under the Inspector’s questions. Also—like Nick—his most important contribution came towards the end of the interview. MacMorran shepherded him through what he knew and plied him with the normal questions—and the results were entirely negative. His own alibi? Quentin remained unperturbed. He had written three letters in his room to three friends of his—informing them of his father’s terribly sudden death and of the funeral arrangements—and had then walked down to the Post-office to post them. Which Post-office? Well, not the Post-office exactly—the pillar-box on the Colbury Road. About a quarter of a mile’s walk. He usually referred to the pillar-box as the Post-office. It was the nearest posting-place to them and the one they almost always used. No, that was not in the direction which Medlicott had taken. He himself had returned to the house about four o’clock.
Anthony watched him closely all through the interview. And it was just on the moment when MacMorran appeared to be deciding that he wouldn’t need Quentin’s services any more for the time being, that Quentin held up his hat as it were and produced his rabbit. And a rather remarkable specimen it was, too!
“There is one thing,” he said, just a little diffidently, perhaps, “that I feel I ought to let you know about.”
“Yes, Mr. Wynyard?” prompted MacMorran.
“It may or may not be important,” Quentin went on, “and that will be for you to judge, but it’s annoyed me considerably.”
“What is it, Mr. Wynyard? Let’s have it.”
“It’s this. During the afternoon that . . . er . . . we’ve been talking about . . . my camera was stolen. It was a beautiful camera, and apart from the . . . er . . . pecuniary loss, I shall find it most difficult to replace.”
Anthony’s interest was stimulated. He waited eagerly for MacMorran’s next question.
“Are you positive, Mr. Wynyard, that the theft took place on that particular afternoon?”
“Absolutely positive.” Quentin was emphatic.
“Will you tell me why you feel so certain about it?”
“Only too pleased, believe me.” The indignation in Quentin’s voice was most noticeable. “I’m a keen photographer. Very keen. Have been since I was a kid. I brought my camera downstairs that morning in the hope of getting a photograph of a real snow-scene in England. The weather seemed absolutely made for it. All round here about midday looked like a slice of another country. And the light for the time of the year was marvellously good. So I decided to wait until just after lunch when the sun might even be stronger. I left my camera on a table in the hall. It was there when we sat down to lunch. I know that because I saw it . . . saw it several times. But when I went to pick it up after lunch—it had gone. There wasn’t a sign of it anywhere. I enquired of several people and looked everywhere for it, but nobody seemed to know anything about it at all.” Quentin approximated sulkiness.
“And it hasn’t shown up since?”
“It has not,” replied Quentin Wynyard curtly.
“You’ve looked for it, I take it? Made a search?”
“You bet! Been everywhere—except, of course, in people’s bedrooms. Must draw the line somewhere.”
“H’m,” said MacMorran, “strange business.” He lit a cigarette, emitted smoke and then waved away the smoke from his face with his hands.
“A question, Mr. Wynyard, if I may.” The speaker was Anthony. Quentin turned to him. “Were there any undeveloped plates in the camera?”
Quentin hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure. I’m trying to think.”
Anthony let him wait. “Yes,” said Quentin after a period of reflection, “there was—one.”
“What was the photograph?”
“I took it about ten days ago, I should think, and I hadn’t had time to develop it. It was of my father and Nick standing leaning up against the car. I took it one sunny morning, just outside the house here. It’s the last photo of my father ever taken—probably. Although I hadn’t thought of that till you reminded me.”
“Who knew of its existence, besides the people in it and yourself?”
“Oh, all the family, I should say. Catherine and Henry—that’s my sister and brother-in-law, they were here at the time. And Aunt Amy. And some of the servants, I should think. There was no secret about it.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wynyard, was Gooch in the photograph?”
“Gooch? Oh—yes! He was sitting at the driving-wheel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wynyard.” Anthony gestured to MacMorran. “That’s all from me, Inspector, thank you.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Wynyard,” said MacMorran, “as you go out, you’d be good enough to ask Mrs. Poulton to come in. I hope I shan’t have to keep her very long.”
“Very good, Inspector,” replied Quentin.
Anthony watched him as he made his way out. Quentin Wynyard’s face was grim and set. “I should hate to do him an injustice,” thought Anthony to himself, “but as I see things he almost seems to feel the loss of his camera more than the loss of his father. Or doesn’t he?”
4
Catherine Poulton arrested Anthony’s attention the moment she entered the room. The loss of her father, and the two tragedies which had followed it, had naturally left their mark on her face, but Anthony saw at once that here was a beautiful specimen of an English girl.
Without, of course, being aware of it, he thought on the lines of the late Mr. Medlicott’s conversation with Elisabeth Grenville on their train journey. That Catherine and Quentin were like each other and that Nick Wynyard was the odd one of the three. Catherine replied to all MacMorran’s questions with candour and composure. And really, she was quite unable, she insisted, to give him any help. She had stayed in after lunch on the fatal afternoon—for the only reason that she just hadn’t felt like going out. After what had happened that morning all she wanted was to be alone.
“But your husband, Mrs. Poulton—did go out? With some of the ladies? That’s so, isn’t it?”
Catherine’s clear and friendly eyes opened wide at the remark. “Well—why not? I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is your point? Will you please make it clear?”
MacMorran showed signs of embarrassment. “Oh . . . er . . . nothing, Mrs. Poulton. I felt that I might mention the fact.” He withdrew in disorder and passed rapidly to another matter. He asked her a question which Anthony couldn’t recall him having asked any of the others and Anthony found himself wondering why MacMorran had asked it.
“Did you happen to see the late Mr. Medlicott after lunch—anywhere in the house? I ask you that because you . . . er . . . say that you stayed in the house yourself.”
To Anthony’s surprise, MacMorran’s shot registered a bull.
“Yes,” replied Catherine Poulton, “I did.”
“Where was that, Mrs. Poulton?”
“It wasn’t exactly in the house. I expect you’d like me to be exact. It was in the drive, just where it curves round, about half-way to the garage. I should say the time was about a quarter-past two.”
“Was he dressed for out-of-doors?”
“Oh yes. As far as I could see he was wearing overcoat, hat and gloves.”
“What was he doing? Waiting for somebody?”
Catherine shook her head. “No. As a matter of fact he was talking.”
MacMorran leant forward towards her with some eagerness. He began to feel he had got somewhere at last. “Ah! Who was talking to him?”
“He was engaged in conversation with two people. Mr. Isaacs and Gooch.”
Anthony noticed Inspector Burrows nod to himself with a suggestion of complacent satisfaction. Then Anthony remembered. Burrows had probably already heard this from Catherine when he and Sergeant Arnold had made the initial inquiries after the death of Medlicott. Before MacMorran could jump in again, however, Catherine had gone on.
“But I can’t tell you any more, Inspector. I saw what I saw from one of my bedroom windows. It wasn’t very long after lunch. And I came downstairs immediately afterwards.”
“Perhaps you can, Mrs. Poulton. At any rate—we’ll see. Were the other two men—Mr. Isaacs and Gooch—dressed as though they intended going out?”
“Gooch had on a suit of overalls—I couldn’t say with regard to Mr. Isaacs. I really didn’t take sufficient notice.”
Anthony shook his head after MacMorran glanced towards him, and as he did so Catherine had her last say.
“No doubt Mr. Isaacs can tell you himself, Inspector—if you care to ask him.”
“I expect he’ll be able to, Mrs. Poulton,” returned MacMorran cordially. “And thank you very much for what you’ve told us.”
5
MacMorran subsequently interviewed Guy Stansfield, Alfred Lillywhite, Gregory Copplestone, Ebenezer Isaacs and Percival Comfit in that precise order. It was not his intention to trouble about Mrs. Copplestone unless anything transpired from the series of interviews which might appear, on the surface at least, to render such a procedure desirable or necessary.
The interview with Guy Stansfield proved as barren as most of its predecessors. He, too, had stayed indoors on the afternoon of Medlicott’s death. He had not accompanied his father and mother to the house of the Comfits because, frankly, he hadn’t been feeling too fit. And he had never been too fond of walking. A car now . . . or yacht . . . was a different matter. Bit of a hangover too, in all probability, from the night before. How had he occupied his time before tea? Oh—he had dodged about a bit—fooled around generally—listened to the radio—read a bit—really nothing in particular. The afternoon had been on the empty side and more than once he had found himself wishing that he had felt more energetic and gone out. Specially as nearly all the girls had. There was really very little indeed he could tell the Inspector. Much as he would have liked to.
Anthony had listened carefully as MacMorran had put his questions. He thought that from all appearances, young Stansfield seemed a decent enough chap. Bit weak-chinned, perhaps. And a trifle nervous. Yes—nervous certainly, on more carefully-gathered impressions.
“One question, Mr. Stansfield,” said Anthony, “I believe you were the person who found Gooch, the chauffeur, dead in the garage?”
“Er . . . yes . . . that is so.”
“What time would that be?”
“As I crossed to the garage, I remember hearing a clock strike eight in the distance. A church clock, I should say, from the sound of it.”
“Tell me what happened, if you would be so good, Mr. Stansfield.”
“Well, I’d been in the smaller garage to have a squint at Dad’s car. The morning before it had got frozen up and I wanted to keep an eye on it. I just messed about with it for a bit and I found I wanted a bigger spanner than any we had brought with us. So I thought I’d drift along to the big garage and see if I could borrow one from the chauffeur. I thought he might be there. Of course I had no real idea whether he would be or not. Well, I found the poor blighter dead over the wheel.”
“You knew he was dead—at once?”
“Oh—no—” Guy Stansfield’s eyes flickered a little unsteadily for the moment—“I sang out to him, you see, as I entered. I thought from his position that he was at work on the car. Anyone would have thought the same. When he didn’t answer—I went up to him. I could see he was dead then, all right. Well, it didn’t take me long to see it. So I just left him where he was, went back to the house and informed Sir Nicholas Wynyard. Thought it was the best and proper procedure.”
“There was no disorder in the garage? No sign, say, of anything in the nature of a struggle?”
“Oh no! Nothing of that kind whatever.”
“Was it reasonably light in the garage?”
“Oh yes. You could see all right.”
Anthony thought that Guy Stansfield seemed relieved at the turn the questioning had taken. But he could grasp at nothing upon which to embroider any theory, and a few seconds later the young man was dismissed.
Alfred Lillywhite was a horse of another colour altogether. He seemed bathed in an oleaginous perspiration which in some way appeared to be produced by a non-stop activity of complete self-satisfaction. He knew Walter Medlicott well. Had known him for years. Any close friend of the late Sir John Wynyard over any length of time, as he had had the honour to be, must have known Walter Medlicott! But he could throw no light on the man’s death. None whatever. As for ‘diamonds’ and this ‘Levi’ business—well, he was in timber himself—a very different proposition. He and Sir John Wynyard had been fellow directors for more years than he cared to remember. How had he spent the afternoon? Asleep, my dear sir! In his bedroom. Did the Inspector know a better way of spending an afternoon in December? After a good meal? If so, he, Alfred Lillywhite would like to hear of it. He was always open for excellent and profitable suggestions. Always had been—perhaps that partly accounted for the success he had made of life.
He folded his podgy hands on his paunch complacently and looked round the room like a man who had just concluded a most gratifying bargain. His small, pale-blue eyes glinted as they travelled from the contemplation of one face to another. When he retired, Anthony, who had had no questions to ask him, noticed that Burrows was looking distinctly worried over something. Something, evidently, which a little later on forced him to the examination of his note-book.
The local Inspector was still turning over the pages rather feverishly when the door opened to admit Gregory Copplestone.
6
Anthony saw a brown-bearded man enter. A man, too, who looked definitely out of place in the surroundings in which he found himself. What was it about him that caused this impression? He was certainly un-English looking. Also, his face was worn and showed unmistakable traces of tiredness.
His hands arrested one’s attention, too. Almost as much as his beard and that strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. They were podgy, it’s true, but not in the way that the hands of Alfred Lillywhite were. Copplestone’s were strong-podgy, whereas Lillywhite’s were flabby-podgy. And besides strength, they had a most extraordinary restlessness. The fingers were seldom still for more than a few seconds at a time. They wavered and vacillated, caressed, cajoled and then suddenly became predatory and, after that, minatory. Anthony listened for the accent when Gregory Copplestone first spoke.
“I shall be relieved, gentlemen,” he said with a curious, superior-like pomposity, “when I can depart from this abode of sorrow—this house of Death. In three days, Death has struck thrice at the assembled company. Who knows what a fourth and fifth day have in store for those who stay here?”
“Er . . . quite . . .” said MacMorran, “and do please sit down, Dr. Copplestone . . . and I’m sure that whatever your feelings may be, you’ll do your best to help me.”
Copplestone sat down with a curious little jerky half-bow to the Inspector.
“I am sorry—but I am not able to help you, in any way whatever. I am simply—my wife and I rather—the friends of Lady Wynyard. And we are here at her invitation. I am a musician. Before that I was a musician. And after that I shall be a musician. I am not, was not and shall not be anything else. If I were anything else—I should not be a musician.”
Copplestone folded his arms and brooded darkly at MacMorran.
“Lady Wynyard,” he continued, after MacMorran had come up for the third time, “was charming enough to invite my wife and myself to High Fitchet for Christmas. She flattered me by showing a very great interest in my work. We came. We are still here. We would now like to make our departure. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing.”
By this time, MacMorran had been able to effect a partial recovery, and Anthony to remember that he had heard of Copplestone in some remote way. What was it? Something to do with music, no doubt. Hadn’t the man hinted, rather, that he had some slight connection with the art? Of course he had.
“I see,” said MacMorran rather gallantly, “but perhaps you will be able to assist me in one direction.”
Copplestone stared at him blankly. MacMorran took another step.
“Did you happen to see the dead man at all on that afternoon?”
Anthony saw the pit which MacMorran had dug for himself yawning at the Inspector’s feet.
“Which dead man?” trumpeted Copplestone, “which dead man of three?”
‘You’re a little too clever,’ thought Anthony.
“I’m sorry. My carelessness. Medlicott.”
“Medlicott,” repeated Copplestone, “what had I to do with Medlicott? Medlicott was a man of the law. I am a musician. Is there any affinity between the two? Frankly, I know of none.”
Copplestone shrugged his shoulders as though the matter had reached finality. But MacMorran had met people of this type before. He was not to be put off by ‘blah’.
“That may be so. But it doesn’t answer the question as it was put. I take it you did not see Medlicott? Is that your answer?”
“It is,” returned Copplestone shortly. “I imagined that I’d made it clear.”
“Thank you. And now would you be good enough to help me again? How did you spend the afternoon?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m not a man who dockets his time. I did nothing of paramount importance—therefore I have forgotten it. I make a point of never cluttering up my mind with the memories of trivial things which don’t in the least matter. In all probability I listened to some music of my own making. But merely pour passer le temps and therefore of no importance. You must remember that the circumstances of the house were abnormal. Yes—I did! I played the piano first to myself and then to my wife—in the music-room. I remember now. Very softly and extremely quietly. I have little doubt that anybody else who was privileged to hear it was delighted.”
Anthony waited to see what MacMorran would try next. On the whole, perhaps, and bearing in mind the idiosyncrasies of the man facing him, the Inspector adopted the wisest course. Even though it may have been coincidental with the line of least resistance. He decided to terminate the interview. If he wanted anything more from the awkward Dr. Copplestone, he would wait until another day before he attempted to obtain it. There now remained but Isaacs and Comfit, in the former of whom Anthony couldn’t help feeling considerable interest. In view of what Catherine Poulton had recently told them, Isaacs was the man who might have more information with regard to Medlicott’s movements on the afternoon of his death than anyone else in the house.
So when Isaacs came in—a few moments later—Anthony at once subjected him to a searching scrutiny.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Isaacs,” said MacMorran.
7
As Elizabeth Grenville had thought on Christmas Eve, so did Anthony think now. Ebenezer Isaacs immediately suggested a tall and much more robust Benjamin Disraeli, one-time Earl of Beaconsfield. He was spare, it is true, but he looked strong and healthy. He was a Jew—there was no doubt about that. His eyes and his nose gave the greatest evidences of that. The eyes were dark-set and restless, and the nose prominent and cast in the mould of Judah. Anthony judged his age to be either in the late fifties or the early sixties. Probably the latter.
After MacMorran had made his opening passes, Anthony was surprised when Isaacs first spoke.
“Brother,” he said, “you have your duty to do. Say no more. I have full understanding of it. It’s a very strange world and instead of us all sitting down to enjoy a nice little hamper from say, Fortnum and Mason’s, or even Barham and Marriage’s, and opening a bottle of the real stuff so that we could all be convivial together—here we are doing our best to lay a murderer by the heels. Verily a case of life being mixed up with death, as my old friend Solomon Dinn of the International Bankers’ Federation would say.”
Isaacs crossed his legs where he sat and looked benignant. MacMorran agreed with the expressed sentiments. This man, although unusual, was more his line of country, he felt, than Dr. Copplestone had been.
“And, brother,” went on Isaacs, “I’m sorry—more sorry than I can possibly say—that I can’t help you much. The late Sir John Wynyard and I had certain business ties. If the grim reaper had not intervened, we should probably have had more. I’m a bachelor. Sir John invited me here to spend Christmas with him. I accepted. I was glad to accept. Little knowing, of course, what the outcome of it all would be. But you never know how Life is going to serve you. You never know what lies tucked ahead—just round the corner. You never know how men and women are going to act. And, brother, if you ask me, it’s just as well. Look at this, for example. I cut it out of the paper yesterday. It seemed to me to be really beautiful. As a breath of Spring or the music of the nightingale. What a tribute—and above all—how unexpected a tribute! Something right away from what I’m sure you’ll permit me to refer to—as ‘the book of form’.”
Isaacs rolled his eyes and fished in his waistcoat pocket to produce a cutting from a newspaper. He handed it gravely to the Scotland Yard Inspector.
“It warms your heart, brother. It does really. Read it, and when you’ve read it, pass it round to these other gentlemen. They have hearts—let them be warmed as well as your own.”
MacMorran took the cutting and read it. It was worded as follows:
“Dissenters Receive Unexpected Windfall. By the death of Samuel Levy, bookmaker (better known in racing circles as Malcolm Cameron Ltd.), the Nonconformist sect known as ‘The Brethren’, whose place of worship is situated in Lower Pendleton Road, Manchester, become entitled to a bequest of £5000. We are informed on unimpeachable authority that the late Mr. Levy’s first wife, who pre-deceased him by over twenty years, was a member of this religious community—hence doubtless, the primary reason behind the late Mr. Levy’s most generous gift.”
MacMorran passed it to Inspector Burrows, who looked at it casually and relayed the cutting to Anthony. When he read it, Anthony began to wonder, and then to wonder still more, but he pocketed the cutting in order that he might listen to the subsequent verbal exchanges between MacMorran and Ebenezer Isaacs.
“Fantastic?” continued the latter, in relation to the cutting, doubtless, “perhaps! And yet—the epitome of benevolence! The fusion of two worlds. Consider it in all its implications. Two worlds lying far apart from each other and yet suddenly brought together by a charitable action. And a charitable action that had its origin in a good woman’s love. So shines a good deed, brother, in a naughty world.”
Isaac’s dark eyes roved round the room. “Very interesting indeed,” commented MacMorran, “and, as you say, well away from . . . the . . . er . . . beaten track. But to get back to our job—or rather to my job.”
“Of course, Inspector. Please pardon the digression. I was to blame. It was thoughtless of me. But I was carried away. It’s a weakness of mine. But there you are. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’ Proceed, brother, if you please, and consider me entirely at your service.”
MacMorran cleared his throat for action. “I’ve been endeavouring to trace, as far as possible, Medlicott’s movements on the afternoon of his death. Now you, Mr. Isaacs, remained in the house that afternoon. You weren’t a member of either of the parties that went out walking in the sunshine. Neither was the dead man. Now did you happen to see anything of him? In—or, say, about the house?”
Isaacs shook his head. “No. He and I had little in common. ‘And one of them which was a lawyer.’ But . . . er . . . enough of that. The answer is ‘no’.”
MacMorran’s hand went up to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. “You’re certain of that?”
“Oh—yes. I think so. But why—do you doubt me? Surely not? I wouldn’t like to think that for the world.”
“Well, one of the people we’ve had a brief chat with thought it was you talking to Medlicott, near the garage-doors, or in the drive, perhaps, soon after lunch was over on that particular day. Soon after two o’clock, say.”
A warm and embracing smile flooded the face of Ebenezer Isaacs. “Brother, you are right! My apologies for having misled you. It was purely unintentional on my part. I did speak: to our poor friend who has passed over. I remember now. Now, how did I come to forget that? My mind, I suppose—too full! Too full to concentrate properly. Snowed under, brother, snowed under! Yes—that must be the explanation. Could I trespass on your kindness, brother, for a cigarette? Just one little smoke?” MacMorran frowned, but a Scottish cigarette found its way into a Hebrew hand. Anthony was beginning to enjoy the duel. Isaacs lit the cigarette.
“Thank you. That’s very charming of you. I didn’t happen to have a cigarette in my pocket. I don’t always carry them and I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire for one.”
“I’m glad you’ve remembered about Medlicott,” went on MacMorran, “because it confirms what we already have. Now a further question, Mr. Isaacs. Was he going out when he spoke to you?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. That is, to say for certain. But I’ve an idea that he rather hinted at it. As a matter of fact he was talking to Gooch, the chauffeur, when I came upon them. Really—what a sinister coincidence! Medlicott and Gooch together. It hadn’t occurred to me before. Those two poor souls. So soon to cross the Styx—each of them. To cross it almost hand in hand. Sad—very sad.”
“Did Medlicott seem—er—normal?” MacMorran tried again. “Yes. I think so. But I was with him for too short a time, you see, to answer you with anything approaching certainty. He and Gooch had been talking. Yes—that was it. When I came up to them—they stopped. What did I say to them, now? Oh—a commonplace remark with regard to the quality of Sir John Wynyard’s lawn. It’s all beginning to come back to me. No more than that. The lawn! ‘Some nocturnal blackness mothy and warm, when the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn.’ As far as I can remember, Medlicott laughed and agreed with whatever it was that I had said. Just before I turned back into the house for a spell of reading before tea.”
Isaacs drew smoke into his lungs.
“He was in good spirits, then?”
“Definitely,” replied Isaacs. He seemed to hesitate a trifle as he spoke. “Let me amend that. The little more and how much. And shades of meaning are so important! Les nuances! Let me say rather that Medlicott wasn’t in bad spirits, or even in low spirits—whatever it may be you care to call them. I make that emendation deliberately—because Medlicott was a quietish man—the lawyer both at home and abroad. Not exactly dry as dust—I couldn’t bring that accusation against him—but getting on that way, you know.”
This time he exhaled tobacco smoke from his nose. MacMorran went off in another direction.
“What did Gooch, the chauffeur, do after you had spoken to Medlicott? Did you happen to notice?”
“Ah! Gooch! That other poor soul. I think he walked away and left Medlicott standing there. And I think, too, that he was just a little annoyed at my interrupting the conversation. He did just convey that impression. Which was, of course, brother, the very last thing in the world that I would have wished to do. My remark concerning Sir John’s lawn had been made entirely on the spur of the moment.”
MacMorran made a note and looked across at Anthony. “Only one question, Mr. Isaacs,” said the latter, “and that’s in relation to your newspaper cutting. Which I agree with you is most unusually interesting. Of what sort a man was this bookmaker, Samuel Levy?”
Anthony held up the piece of newspaper. For the first time, perhaps, during the interview, Ebenezer Isaacs looked just a little perturbed. But the dark eyes found a smile from somewhere and turned it on to the questioner.
“Surely the newspaper paragraph tells us what you are asking, young man? A man of open heart, of charitable mind, of an entirely benevolent disposition. One who would positively revel in doing good. Is there any room in your heart for doubt?”
Anthony returned smile for smile. “That is agreed between us. But apart from the qualities which the newspaper depicts. That was what I meant by my question. Was he dark, fair, tall, short?—did he like oysters?—was he a total abstainer?”
“Brother, I understand.” Isaacs became himself again and beamed on Anthony. “How admirably you do put things. But alas I cannot tell you. Perhaps I didn’t make it clear to you in the first instance. I should have done. It was a sin of omission on my part. The man was a complete stranger to me.” His smile became bland.
“Thank you, Mr. Isaacs,” returned Anthony. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, but I had the idea that he might have been a friend of yours.”
This incident closed the interview with Isaacs and paved the way for the entrance of the well-known novelist, Percival Comfit.
8
It would have been impossible to find more fitting adjectives to describe him than those used by Catherine Poulton to Elisabeth Grenville upon the latter’s arrival at High Fitchet. He certainly looked languid and he equally certainly looked drooping. And neither a sunflower nor a lily in either of his hands would have seemed at all out of place. Either in Piccadilly or elsewhere. He sank gracefully into the chair which MacMorran indicated to him and looked at his finger-nails with the air of somebody examining a rare object at a distance. But effete though he looked, he was astute enough to sit reasonably quiet and to let MacMorran do most of the talking. After the usual preliminaries had been negotiated, MacMorran came to the main point.
“You were out, sir, I’ve been given to understand, on the afternoon of the death of Mr. Medlicott with several of the guests who are staying here. That is so, isn’t it?”
Comfit dropped his head in acquiescence.
“Now, sir,” continued MacMorran, “will you be good enough to tell me the names of the people who accompanied you.”
“It will be an effort,” came the drawling reply, “a prodigious effort—but I’ll do my best for you.”
Percival Comfit closed his eyes and sat motionless. There came quite a lengthy pause. Anthony had the idea, for a moment or so, that the novelist had fallen off to sleep. The idea was wrong, however, for suddenly Comfit, still with his eyes closed, began to speak.
“My wife—Cynthia Delaunay Restarick Comfit, Henry Poulton, I’m certain he was there with us, because I have a distinct remembrance of seeing one of his shoe-laces undone and on another occasion, his nose running—Mr. and Mrs. Stansbridge—my apologies—Stansfield—I knew a man named Stansbridge once and I’m always inclined to confuse the two names—and one other. Now who was that other? Was it a man or a woman? I must think. These differences have always bothered me. Ah—I’ve got it—a woman—Mrs. Lillywhite.”
MacMorran checked the names with those on his list. “Thank you, Mr. Comfit. I’m much obliged to you. And they were in your company all the time you were out?”
Again Comfit dropped an affirmative head.
“You walked through the woods, I believe? Round to Montfichet Mill?”
“How right you are, Inspector,” replied Percival Comfit. “And you saw nothing of Mr Medlicott on your travels?”
“Assuredly not. From all that I’ve heard since, that unfortunate man had gone in another direction. It is most unlikely that any of my party could have seen him. Things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another.”
“Thank you,” said MacMorran. “I agree with you, of course. But it’s necessary for me to check up, you know, as closely as I can.”
He looked at Anthony, but this time the latter had no questions to ask and signified as much with a quick shake of the head. Percival Comfit, therefore, favoured them with a courtly bow and made a dignified and eminently graceful exit from the room.
“That,” said MacMorran, rather wearily, “is the bundle.”