ELLIS, Arling’s butler, was produced—a butler of the unctuous, refined type. He repeated, rather sulkily, his statement that Lady Gaul’s voice over the telephone that night had sounded shrill and excited. Requested by Gore to give an imitation, he refused at first, produced some ludicrous squeaks from an unwilling throat, refused finally and definitely to make a fool of himself. But Gore thanked him with such grave sincerity that he was visibly mollified.
‘You had no difficulty with Lady Gaul before you left her service?’
‘I have never had any difficulty with my employers in any place, sir. I esteemed Lady Gaul most highly. I did not quite suit her requirements—so I looked out for another place.’
‘Is it not a fact that Lady Gaul dismissed you because you drank too much?’
The man’s face changed. The cast became a malevolent permanency. He turned to Arling.
‘I’ll answer no more questions from this gentleman, sir. Let him go ask those who have reasons of their own for telling lies about me.’
But Arling displayed no sympathy with offended dignity.
‘Were you dismissed for drinking too much, Ellis?’
‘I was not. I left of my own free will.’
‘Where were you on the night of the murder?’ Gore asked placidly. ‘From nine to nine thirty?’
‘I’ve told you I will answer no more—’
‘Where were you, Ellis?’ Arling demanded.
‘Lying down, sir, in my room.’
‘But you told me that night that you had been out for a walk.’
‘I was lying down in my room, sir. I didn’t feel very well that night.’
‘Two lies,’ said his employer, abandoning him. ‘Do you want to hear any more?’
‘Not from him,’ Gore replied curtly. ‘I shall probably hear as many as are likely to be of any help before the day is done. I should get that statement to the police at once, if I were you, Mr Arling. It will give them plenty of opportunity for attending to their own business.’
He found on his return to the Oast House that they had lost no time in doing so. Spain was standing in the road outside his cottage waiting with the news that the expected blow had fallen at last and that Sir Maurice had been arrested. Apparently the discovery of the morning had precipitated the disaster.
Spain was utterly dejected.
‘It seems to be the basest kind of treachery and disloyalty on my part,’ he said mournfully. ‘but I can’t help it. Do as I will, the fact that he has been arrested persuades me to believe that perhaps the impossible is possible, and that he did kill her. I suppose I must not ask how you feel, Colonel Gore?’
‘I?’ said Gore brightly. ‘I feel remarkably hungry, if I may say so. This Surrey air—’
‘A thousand apologies,’ said Spain. ‘Lunch is ready. Will you forgive me if I leave you to be your own host? I have to get into Mortfield on my motorcycle at once to send off a lot of telegrams for Sir Maurice. Shall you stay the night—or do you think that, now, you will return to London this afternoon?’
‘No idea yet,’ Gore replied succinctly. ‘You can put me up here if necessary?’
Spain assured him that a room was at his disposal and left him to an excellent lunch. Presently, through the window of the sitting room, where the butler had brought his coffee, Gore saw him depart on his motorcycle.
‘A sad little gentleman, sir,’ the butler commented. ‘I’m afraid, like the rest of us, he’s going to lose a good job.’
When the secretary returned it was to find Gore browsing among his books.
‘Your literary tastes are severely classical, Mr Spain, I perceive. Rather too classical for me. I’ve been looking for a nice, bright, jolly modern novel to help my digestion. I have been able to find only three novels that could be called modern—all by the same man, by the way—a man of whom I never heard before.’
He reached out a hand and selected one of three novels which stood in a clump between a set of George Meredith and a set of Hardy.
‘Silas Furlonger. No. I don’t believe I ever even heard of Mr Silas Furlonger.’
The secretary smiled faintly.
‘Probably not. He is not a popular person.’
Gore turned over some pages.
‘This one appears to be about a dipsomaniac. Not jolly things, dipsomaniacs. I’ve known two or three of them in my—’
He paused to read some lines.
‘Um,’ he said, and replacing the novel, picked out one of its fellows.
‘Birth control. Most interesting—but not utterly jolly.’
He replaced the second volume and picked out the third, glanced at its title page, said ‘um’ again, and put it back in its place.
‘No, I’m afraid I’m not quite up to Mr Furlonger. A favourite of yours, Mr Spain?’
‘Well, yes. I was for a time Mr Furlonger’s secretary before I came to Sir Maurice.’
‘Indeed. Has he written many novels?’
‘No. Those three only. He doesn’t write at all now, I believe.’
‘A curious name. A nom de plume?’
‘No.’
‘Really. Quite an unusual name.’
Gore glanced at his watch. ‘A quarter to three. I wonder if you have a timetable, Mr Spain. I shall not stop the night, thank you. I find I must go back to town.’
Spain, if a little resentful at the sudden change of programme, provided a timetable promptly. Gore caught a train at Guildford and spent a penny on a special edition.
‘The Oast House Tragedy,’ he read. ‘Startling Developments. Arrest of Sir Maurice Gaul.’
The only other occupant of the compartment, a stout woman, obviously bound for a garden party, distinctly heard the military looking gentleman in gray tweeds in the opposite corner, emit a snort. He appeared otherwise perfectly harmless, but at the last moment she decided to change into another compartment.