Pointer wasted no time in trying to revive Mrs. Dexter—Smith. On the contrary, she was bound and carefully gagged, so that she could not make any loud noise, and carried into the coal—cellar. One of Pointer’s men stood behind the door which, owing to a skilfully placed sack of coal, gave him ample shelter. Beside the sack of coal stood the axe and the other things which were to have been used to prevent Ann Bladeshaw’s body from ever being found. Pointer had hardly closed the door behind the two men carrying the woman down the stairs, when there came the sound of the front door being opened. Pointer stepped into the entrance hall. Santley was letting himself in. A very roused—looking Santley.
“How did you get in? Who screamed?” he asked.
Before Pointer could reply there came a long ring of the bell. Santley opened the door. Goodenough stood there.
He stared in amazement at the two men. “Where’s Ann? She was to lunch with me. Anything wrong, Chief Inspector? I’ve tried to ring her up twice and got no reply.”
“Come on in,” said Santley, “and explain. Why did you expect to meet Ann under my humble roof?”
“Because she brought the kids here for their picture, of course,” Goodenough spoke impatiently. “You asked her to bring them. But where is she?”
Santley wheeled on Pointer. “That wasn’t Miss Bladeshaw I heard, was it?”
“Certainly not,” Pointer said promptly. “As far as I know. Miss Bladeshaw is quite all right. But do you mind explaining?” he turned to Goodenough. “You say you expected to find Miss Bladeshaw and the twins here?” From his voice one would have said that the chief inspector was quite surprised.
“I met Miss Bladeshaw at the station as we had arranged,” Goodenough said shortly. “She told me that a message had been handed to her at some station on the way (I forget which), from you, Santley; asking her to bring the kids here for you to go on with their portraits. She accordingly scrapped the tickets they had for the Children’s Theatre, and said she would leave them here; come on and have lunch with me, and would call for them at whatever time you should arrange with her. I saw them into a taxi, and waited an hour for her at The Florence. What’s wrong?”
He stopped, as another car could be heard driving up. “That’s her!” he said in relief, and flung the door open; but it was Pusey’s car, and Pusey and Ayres were getting out of it. There was no sign of Ann.
Pusey stared. “Are Miss Bladeshaw and the twins holding a reception? Or—“ he stopped at sight of the chief inspector. “Anything wrong?” he asked quickly. And Ayres repeated it like an echo.
“Nothing,” Pointer replied blandly. “May I ask why you expected to meet her here?”
“Telephone message,” Pusey said promptly, “asking me to come here at once and bring Ayres. If she wasn’t here, we were to wait half an hour and then go down to Beechcroft. Said it was urgent. No, it wasn’t her voice, but it was a woman’s voice. I supposed it was the Nannie...Well, I called for Ayres, and here we are. Now, what’s brought all the rest of you? And especially you. Chief inspector?” He picked up a glove from the table as he was speaking, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Your glove?” Pointer asked.
Pusey nodded casually. “The twins are at the magpie stage,” he said. “I missed it when talking to Miss Bladeshaw some days ago. Left them in my hat, and the kids had been at them,” he smiled pleasantly. “But is anything wrong?” His eye was on Pointer.
“What about you, Mr. Santley?” Pointer asked, “how did you happen to come back to—day?”
“Chance. And I confess I don’t understand what all this means.”
“I found the twins here, but not Miss Bladeshaw.” Pointer spoke as though perplexed. “I, too, came because of a telephone message from her,” he went on mendaciously. “I decided there was some mistake in the time; came back an hour later to find her just driving off in a taxi with the twins. She didn’t see me. I suppose we may take it that they were going back to Beechcroft.”
“But how did they get in?” Santley demanded.
“Do you mean to say you weren’t here?” Goodenough spoke as though this was too much to believe.
“I was on my way down here from Westmorland. I’ve only just got here to find the police apparently in possession.” He nodded to Pointer.
“The door wasn’t caught,” Pointer said to that. “I came on in expecting to find you, Mr. Santley.”
Santley looked more bewildered than ever. “I have another key, but I lent it to Miss Bruton. She wanted to house some of her tiles here; but she wouldn’t have lent it without asking me—hallo, who’s this?” For still another car was driving up. Driven at top speed too, and when it came to a dashing stop they saw that Don Plutarco was driving, while beside him sat Flavelle Bruton.
“It’s a hoax, that’s what it is!” Pusey said as though relieved and vexed at the same time. And when Don Plutarco and Miss Bruton came in, asking where Miss Bladeshaw and the twins were, and why they had been asked to come at once, he began to roar with laughter.
“Don’t say you were to wait half an hour!” he begged. But yes, that had been the telephone message.
Flavelle looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only a joke?” she asked Pointer in a low tone.
“I’m afraid it is,” he said smiling broadly, “and I think we must carry out the second part of the message and go to Beechcroft to hear the explanation.”
“I don’t think much of her lemonade,” Goodenough said after pouring himself out some. “Too sweet.”
Santley alone refused to see any humor in the situation.
“My dear Mr. Santley,” Pointer explained, “I think we shall find that Miss Bladeshaw was asked to come here, and then asked to take the twins back to Beechcroft by the same merry jester. Someone who evidently opened the door to her. Probably posed as your secretary or housekeeper or butler. Now, suppose we all do as she seems to have done?”
“But how did she, or he, or they, get in?” Santley demanded.
“You needn’t look at me so searchingly,” Flavelle said to that. “Here’s the key you lent me. I haven’t been near the place. Don Plutarco shifted the tiles for me.”
“And closed the door carefully,” Don Plutarco supplemented. “I tried it, to make sure it was locked.”
“I think the sooner we are back at Beechcroft the sooner we shall have a chance of understanding things,” Pointer urged, and the others agreed that this was good sense.
Santley had also poured himself out a drink of the tempting lemonade, but he set his tumbler down after the merest sip.
“You need grape juice to make lemonade, not water,” Ramón said, “white grapes. A drink for the gods. But we should start back?”
Pointer had felt certain that the criminal must return to the studio, but he had not expected this general meeting. A clever brain was here. Each person from Beechcroft was to be at the rendezvous; probably wait different lengths of time, and finally make for Beechcroft; leaving the field free for the dreadful last act, which would certainly not take place till dusk. Pointer had seen as he went over the house that the telephones were all cut. A clever brain. That glove was Pusey’s. But that new dent in the door of the room where the lemonade stood was Goodenough’s hallmark. It was a trick of his to shut a door with foot as well as hand. It only remained for something of Ayres’ and Don Plutarco’s to be provided, and since Santley’s belongings were here anyway, the set of clues would be complete.
“But what was that screaming I heard?” Santley again demanded.
“Mrs. Dexter—Smith came here just a little while ago,” Pointer said to that. “She evidently saw me arrive. She wanted to know why we had arrested her husband.”
“Arrested Mr. Mish?” Pusey sounded delighted. “What for?”
“Shoplifting, according to her,” Pointer said casually. “Nothing to do with me, but women have no idea of division of work.”
“Shoplifting!” Pusey repeated, rolling it under his tongue like a delectable morsel. “Texts or Bibles? Thought he looked a thorough wrong ‘un.”
“I don’t know what he took,” Pointer said. “When I pressed his wife for details, she—but you heard her—“ he finished to Santley, who still had a frown on his face.
“I heard what sounded to me like a shriek of sheer terror.”
“Just so,” Pointer agreed, “that’s what hysteria always does sound like. I’m afraid she didn’t believe me, but at least she went off in a taxi to see if by any chance he had been released and was back at their rooms. Of course she insisted that he was innocent. I didn’t tell her that even if he is, he won’t be home to—night.”
“But look here,” Goodenough said in anything but an amused tone, “these people had introductions to Miss Bladeshaw! She’s made friends of them. She intended staying overnight with them.”
“Can’t you give us more details, or tell us where we can get them?” Ayres added.
“I don’t know them myself”—Pointer was speaking the literal truth—“but I suppose he was caught red—handed, and taken at once to the local police station. If so, we shan’t hear of it till the morning. However, the first thing now is to go back to Beechcroft, and see Miss Bladeshaw.” Pointer led the way with decision.
Everyone seemed to feel the same need for finding out what did lie behind this extraordinary series of summons and dismissals. No one appeared to want to linger. Santley touched the chief inspector on the arm.
“May I drive you back, and have a word with you on the way? Mine’s a two—seater. For the funny part of this very funny afternoon is that I came all the way back expressly for a word with you. I only stopped inhere to get rid of my traps.”
Pointer said he would be only too glad to hear anything that Mr. Santley might tell him.
“It’s only this,” the artist began as they started off, the last of the procession, thanks to Pointer’s difficulty in finding his notebook and pencil. “Only a guilty feeling that I ought to have told you what a very clever aunt of mine thought when she first saw Moncrieff, without knowing it was the Major, giving money to Lee, that mechanic who has run away. She said it looked unmistakably a case of blackmail. Now, I’m wondering if that might not be the truth, rather than the Major’s explanation to me, and if so, whether there doesn’t lie the key to the dreadful happenings at Beechcroft. Something in Moncrieff’s past. Something that Lee knows. He was waiting on us when that attempt to poison Goodenough, or me, was made. I think, when you get him again, you will find he’s the master—key. But probably you know that already.”
“I think I should like to look into it,” Pointer said as though grateful for a most original tip. “Which means that I must go back to the Yard. But I think the rest of you ought to go on to Beechcroft to have a word with Miss Bladeshaw. Even if she’s not there when you get to the house, she’ll probably turn up very soon. Now, suppose you drop back a little, and slow down without actually stopping. I want to slip out unnoticed. And if you can stop at the police station, so that the others assume that I got out there, I should be much obliged.”
Santley dropped back and slowed down; Pointer was out of his seat and out of the door with the ease of a practiced contortionist, and Santley drove on.
Pointer motioned to the decrepit taxi which had followed the cars, and, getting in, heard how Miss Bladeshaw had been taken to hospital and was even now being worked over. They thought she would pull round. Pointer thought so too. He did not think that the murderer intended to poison her with the drug. That might be too dangerous in the event of anything untoward happening. Pointer believed that she would only have been killed immediately before her body could be disposed of.
But if Mish was to do this last horrible part, and was believed to be unable to see to it, who would take his place? Only the actual planner of the whole long—thought—out crime; the crime that had already caused two murders, the crime based entirely on greed. This was why Pointer had casually thrown in the quite imaginary news that Mish was arrested. That good man was still at liberty, and unfollowed, unless Pointer’s man was proving better than the chief inspector feared.
He let himself in once more to the studio, and telephoned to the Mishes’ apartment house. Yes, he was told, the child’s glass house had just been fetched. The manageress had been out and the office locked, which was why the man could not have it the first time he called. Pointer hung up the receiver, and went down to the coal—cellar. The man on duty behind the door was sent outside to get a breath of fresh air and stretch himself, while Pointer untied Mrs. Dexter—Smith’s gag. She sat looking at him with those cold, soulless eyes of hers.
“Are you going to help us,” he asked, “or are you ranging yourself along with the murderer of the Moncrieffs? The man who is coming back to finish off Miss Bladeshaw—as he thinks.”
She said nothing, but her eyes darted to and fro, to and fro, to and fro.
“Mr. Dexter—Smith isn’t coming back to do it,” Pointer went on. “He has just been arrested. So we both know who will come here to—night to see to things himself. I’m afraid he’s vexed with you. Thinks you blundered.”
And at that the woman was stung into speech.
“And he’s to do me in instead of that Bladeshaw?” Mrs. Dexter—Smith asked fiercely. “That your idea, eh? Not much! Not me!” But she was patently terrified of what she professed to scout. Had been so ever since she was brought back to the house.
“You know best what to expect from him, when he finds things have gone wrong,” Pointer said indifferently. “You will be lying here helpless—just as Ann Bladeshaw was.”
“Look here! Be a gentleman!” she suddenly urged. “Get them first! Get them safely, and I’ll tell you everything. No, no,” as he opened his mouth, “I won’t speak while they’re at liberty. Not much!”
Pointer looked at her. He believed she would do just what she said, tell everything which she could twist so as not to implicate herself, once she was certain that she had no violence to fear.
“You’ll have to help us to get them,” he said. “If you’ll let me gag you again, and will lie still on the coke. I’ll be here behind the door. And I can promise you that you won’t be in any real danger.”
“I’m worth a lot more to you alive than dead,” she said to that. “As for the rest—“ She hesitated, then she pressed her lips still more tightly together. “I’ll do it! Provided you make it easy for me afterwards.”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Pointer answered. “The kidnapping of the twins lies at the root of the Moncrieff murders, and of this intended murder of Miss Bladeshaw also.”
“I wasn’t in on any murder,” she retorted promptly. “Nor did I have any notion of what was to happen to Miss Bladeshaw. I thought she was in it, too,” insisted Mrs. Mish adroitly. “My orders were to dress like her to—day, come for the kids, and drive them to where a plane would meet us and take them into safety. See? I knew nothing more than just that.”
Pointer looked at her. She would stick to that defence, he felt sure; and because she thought she saw a way out for herself she would be willing to give any accomplices away.
“I quite understand,” he said grimly; “but can I get my man back and have him take down in shorthand what you are going to say?”
“And have me sign shorthand squiggles? Not much. I don’t sign what I can’t read.” Mrs. Dexter—Smith spoke with assurance. Pointer explained that the notes would be written out in longhand at once; and the sheets, in that legible form, signed by her. And on that understanding they got to work.
They brought her some port wine—her request—and a very decent dinner which she ate on a blanket over the coke. But they dared not be too certain that the master criminal would wait until dark, though Dexter—Smith—or Murphy—(for she acknowledged that he was Murphy) was not to go to the studio until ten. But it was quite darkish by nine, and Pointer hoped for an earlier capture.
His man brought word that the child’s glass house was at the Yard; and that, as Pointer had hoped, the missing half of the photograph had been used to make the similar door. But that it was so smudged with paint that it would be no help.
Eight o’clock came at last. At half—past eight, they took up their positions; Mrs. Mish’s last warning to Pointer being not to be too quick. To let the man get hold of the axe before he stopped him. She wanted the man safely hung, and warned Pointer that it he could plead extenuating circumstances he would. Exactly what extenuating circumstances could be found, Pointer did not see; but he was only too thankful that the woman was for the time being, and her own purposes, on their side.
At a little before nine something creaked in the house. Then came another creak. Someone was in; someone besides Pointer’s men. Mrs. Mish’s teeth began to chatter. Pointer held out a brandy flask. She took a gulp and then lay back. After a minute they heard the door at the top of the basement opened, and steps come cautiously down. Then came a horrid sound. The noise of the furnace being stoked up. Pointer had seen to it that it was going well, but now another hod of coke was put on and the whole raked clear.
The light of the coal cellar was clicked on outside, and the door opened.
A man came in. Mrs. Mish had been carefully laid, with her own help, in such a way that her face was in deep shadow, as indeed was all the cellar; for the light was only of five—watt power.
The man stood a moment quite still, then, with what sounded like a breath of relief at sight of the figure stretched on the coke, he stepped closer; a revolver in his right hand.
There was a blinding flash, and a report which seemed to shatter the very walls of the cellar. Something leapt from the doorway and flung itself on the man; they struggled on the floor. Pointer got first one and then the other revolver. In spite of their efforts he pried the men apart. The top man was Lee.
“Steady on,” Pointer said calmly, “no need of violence. No call for shooting.”
“He murdered the Captain and his wife, and he’s after the gov. now!” panted Lee. “I saw him do it. Yes, I saw you—“ There followed a spate of luridly descriptive words.
Some of Pointer’s men had followed Lee, and two caught and held him now, while another helped the chief inspector secure the man at whom Lee had fired; and whom, incidentally, he had missed by nearly a foot.
“Now then. Lee!” Pointer turned to him sharply. “What’s this about your having seen this man shoot Major Moncrieff? As to Mrs. Moncrieff, you couldn’t have seen him kill her.”
“But I did!” Lee insisted. “I was in the hall at the back; watching. Many’s the time I’ve helped the Major with his tricks when I was his mechanic in the old days. I know every one of ‘em. That bloke in the dressing—gown wasn’t the Major! And when he dashed off the stage I dashed out too, and round by the garden, and up the ladder. I had placed it there to have a word with the Major after his trick. I could get into his—room that way, and after doing his little piece he ought to be in a reasonable temper, I thinks. At any rate, he can’t throw me out so quick. So I left the ladder all handy. And when the bloke rushed off, I rushed out and climbed up it, but a branch caught me in the eye. Rose—branch it was, with thorns in it. I thought I was blinded for life. Then when I could see again I went on up, and I saw all right! I saw that there bloke put a revolver to the Captain’s ear and shoot him same as if he was an old hoss. Then he kicks something, I couldn’t see what, for just then I fell off the ladder—lost my balance and dropped like an apple from a tree; on to grass, luckily. Lucky I made no noise, I mean! I crawled around the corner damned quick, I can tell you, and lay quiet till I got my wind. Then I went for Mr. Edwards at the garage. But he was in a sweating hurry and wouldn’t listen to a word from me. Told me that the Major had just killed his wife by accident, and shot himself, and that he must get off at once, and I was to carry on, meanwhile, as chauffeur. I couldn’t get no word in edgeways. Not that I was sure of what I wanted to say. It was too big for me. I wanted time to think things over, and the more I thought, the less I liked the look of them. I hadn’t no proof. You chaps could tear my story to pieces. Time was when I could have told it and been believed. But—“ Lee looked frowningly at the officer, “not now! ‘Cause of the drink. ‘Cause of my having lost my place and not kept the other one the Captain got for me. I thought of a—nony—mouse letters to you, but what reason could I give? I saw I’d a lot more to find out. But I couldn’t find it. And you seemingly couldn’t neither. He was too cunning to be caught, I saw then. But I’d get him; law or no law. He mightn’t swing for what he had done, but poison wasn’t a bad way to get things even. My father’s a gardener. He uses prussic acid for white fly. I took some! But I got the little dog instead, I know now. Wish it had been the cat! However, I thought as how I had paid him out and got away. I’m half—gypsy, and they passed me along to my cousin in London what’s a window—cleaner. He got me took on, and him or me watched this swine since, after I heard as how he was still alive. I followed him here to—day; but he was out of the house again too quick for me. I was just opening a window at the back and a—letting myself in when I heard the front door slam after him. I sees as how visitors is expected, and I felt sure as how that bloke was a—coming back. So I waited. I saw a clergyman come in who swore something wonnerful when he stubbed his toe on the umbreller stand. And I saw the gov. and the kids come. He and she had quite a little chat, then off he goes and the gov. she says, ‘Of course, we’ll wait for him.’ So I waits too. Then you come and sent me racing over the roof, sir.” He looked at Pointer. “Then I picked him up again at his club and followed him here once more. Then the party began to arrive. Then they all went off. Him and you too. But I stayed on here. I seed you come in, but as time went on, and all seemed quiet, I thought you had slipped out again. But I waits. And he come back, and stokes up that fire in there and opens the door of the coal shed and comes on in, and I sees the gov. a—lying on the coke, and I thinks it’s time to let loose, so I fired. And missed him! Time was when I could have got him running at a dozen yards. But it doesn’t pay to drink. It costs you dear in the end.”
Pointer turned from the drunkard, who was seeing the effects of drink so ruefully, and stepped to the other man, the man at whom Lee had fired, the man who had not spoken since he was caught, but only tried desperately to get his hand into an inner pocket.
“Victor Goodenough,” Pointer said, “I arrest you for the attempted murder of Ann Bladeshaw, and the murders of Major and Mrs. Moncrieff.” He proceeded to give the usual caution.
“An’ he done it for his papers! That new car of the Major’s,” Lee went on hotly. “I watched him search for ‘em. And I saw him dot Mr. Santley one on the nob too, ‘cause he came in while he was a—hunting. I got down from the ladder, then, and was off back to the garage. Next morning I wanted a word with Mr. Santley; but I saw him and this bloke, all friendly, strolling around the garden. He’d got over Mr. Santley with some lie; or Mr. Santley didn’t know who coshed him.”
Victor Goodenough was not listening to any of this. He was desperately trying to get a finger—tip into a pocket. But his hand was too firmly grasped and he was led away just as Lee was yelling that the lady on the coke wasn’t the gov.
“Lucky your men were better than you feared and got Murphy before he sailed away into the blue. You think the photograph, the missing part, would have shown Goodenough himself?” The Assistant Commissioner and Pointer were talking the case over that evening.
“Sure of it, sir. Mrs. Mish described it. It was being taken by young Moncrieff himself; and showed dimly, but quite visibly when you looked into it, the face of Goodenough peering round a tree trunk. Murphy says that Goodenough, seeing he was discovered, came forward; and that he and young Moncrieff had quite a pleasant chat, until something Goodenough let slip roused the other’s suspicions. When in a flash Goodenough clubbed him to the ground and killed him. Murphy got the film and kept it. But it wasn’t much use, as he too would have had to swing for it. In spite of the fact that I believe him when he swears that he had no hand in that murder. Not that he would have minded, in my opinion, had he been paid a little extra for it,” Pointer added.
“Goodenough’s alibi would have been torn by it. Still, as you say, the two were as mixed up as a coil of snakes. Hard to disentangle one from the other.” Pelham lit a cigar. “That photograph which would have made a leper of Goodenough,” he went on, “and dished his carefully thought out, elaborately planned new scheme for getting rich. I don’t wonder that, given his nature, given the fresh crime already well started, he murdered the Moncrieffs rather than have it fall into the Major’s hands. What I don’t know yet is how Mrs. Moncrieff got hold of it.” The A.C. was frankly curious.
“Mrs. Mish brought it down with her in her handbag, sir, when she and Mish lunched at Beechcroft. They had had a private talk with Goodenough before presenting themselves at the cottage, and she showed him the snapshot, just as a hint that he was in the same boat as themselves, and that they were not his slaves—her words to me. When she got back to town she found that it was missing. Goodenough had stolen it.”
“But how? When?” pressed Pelham.
“I think he did it while it was hanging on the back of her chair together with her cloak at lunch, sir. So does she. She says that she noticed his pretty manners in getting up several times to help carve and pass things and take plates off the table. The service at Beechcroft was distinctly elementary, we know.”
“That would have given a neat-fingered man all the opportunity he needed,” Pelham agreed. “But how did it reach Mrs. Moncrieff?”
“Goodenough lost it while helping with the preparations for the tableaux, sir.” And Pointer read a summary of the artist’s words talked with the accused, arrested man on the subject. “Mrs. Moncrieff evidently was not quite sure of her ground,” he went on. “She knew that Goodenough wasn’t supposed to have been anywhere near the scene of the kidnapping, let alone anywhere in company with that young Moncrieff and Murphy, but she wasn’t certain...I think she asked Goodenough about it, after telephoning to her husband, and that he gave her some sort of explanation which the Major would be sure to look into, given time. For which reason, since the kidnapping program was already in full swing, both had to be put out of the way.”
“Goodenough should have burnt it!” Pelham said.
“I think he kept it as an additional hold over Murphy, sir. Also, he wanted to get hold of the film. Murphy told him it was a lie, says Mrs. Mish, that he had the film. According to her, the film was destroyed by Murphy himself long ago in Greece.”
“And Mr. Ayres thought he was gazing on a rural scene in Wales or Derbyshire. Do you think he’s honest?”
“I do, sir. Though he’s certainly not helped things forward in this case. But an honest blunderer is worse than a clever knave at times.”
“Expensive hobby, kidnapping,” murmured Pelham. “I doubt if it ever really pays. Overhead charges must be enormous.”
“Ten thousand to the Mishes,” Pointer said, “according to Mrs. Mish, but that included, of course, Mish’s getting rid of Miss Bladeshaw. It was only five thousand before that.”
“Who drugged the lemonade?”
“Goodenough, I think, sir. Just as I feel sure he splashed some whisky over the Major and over his own duplicate Sheikh’s robes, to create the right atmosphere—literally. As for the lemonade, he had most at stake and would be the most concerned to see that all went as planned. We know that Mish met her in the studio with that yarn about Santley having been unexpectedly called away by the French art expert, and would she stay and wait for him. ‘Meanwhile, what about a spot of lemonade?’ We know, without her telling, that the place was baking hot, though she luckily didn’t guess what the furnace was lit for.” Pointer’s lips pressed themselves together for a second. “She felt sleepy after a second glass, told the twins to go into the next room and play the game so thoughtfully provided by their good kind friend Mr. Mish, and then curled up herself in the corner of the chaise—longue for a rest.”
“And woke up to find herself in hospital with every one looking delighted at her misery. The sicker the better! I hear she was distinctly peevish about it at first.” Pelham laughed a little. “And the Don is out of it. Stiff chap. Nasty temper! You told me in the beginning, that next to him, you rather had your eye on Goodenough. Why Goodenough?”
“He sat, so he said, on the window-seat. Which meant that he would sit facing the Sheikh as he dashed to his room. The light would be full on any one coming along. Whereas Mr. Ayres was standing with his back to whoever rushed from the hall, and the light was poor there. He could easily be deceived. Also, Goodenough’s character was in accordance with the qualities which the murderer had shown. He was clever. He had a ruthless jaw. He loved money. Altogether, he struck me from the first as the most likely to be a criminal of the household at Beechcroft. Only Miss Bruton and the Spaniard got in the light, so to speak, for a while.”
“I wonder what Goodenough thought when that dog was poisoned,” Pelham said thoughtfully.
“I think he guessed the truth—and with it solved the riddle as to whom it was that Mr. Santley had seen looking through the window watching the desperate hunt for that photograph. Goodenough was certain, I fancy, that he would find it among Mrs. Moncrieff’s things, since it wasn’t on the Major.”
“Just as well for Lee that he did run away,” Pelham said meaningly.
At the trial the murder in Greece was dropped, except for the assertion that it was a photograph showing Murphy and young Moncrieff eating an impromptu meal and Goodenough peering craftily from behind the hut, which was the reason for the murder of Lavinia and her husband. That old kidnapping plan had gone wrong; which was why Goodenough could not bear to hear it mentioned. But he did not intend to slip up on the kidnapping of the twins. To get the money out of “old Moncrieff,” after all, would have been a double joy to him, apart from the size of the ransom which they intended to secure. Copies of letters which were still extant under files showed that, contrary to what Mr. Johnstone thought, Mr. Ayres was in the older Moncrieff’s confidence, though pledged to inviolable secrecy. Mr. Ayres had most unfortunately lost one such letter when Goodenough had been under the same roof. The latter’s astute, alligator brain had evidently seized on the hint and followed it up.
The Public Prosecutor did good work. The attempted murder of Ann Bladeshaw clinched matters. He got a conviction. Mrs. Phillimore lived only long enough to know the truth—that her terrors had been needless, that Lavinia had never been in any danger from her husband. But she died before the trial which would have told her that, by getting Goodenough to go down to Beechcroft, she was sending down her own child’s murderer. They kept that from her. Goodenough was hung, Murphy got a term of penal servitude that satisfied even Pusey’s feelings on the subject, and they were keen enough. Miss Bladeshaw was going out to New Zealand to his married sister to teach her children according to the latest ideas. But Pusey hoped to go out in the summer and see if by that time she would not have forgotten her experience with Goodenough. Goodenough, who had pretended first a knightly devotion to Lavinia Moncrieff, and then affection for the governess, so as to get to know the routine of the household perfectly.
“It was a clever conjuring trick of his,” Pelham said as he and Pointer were having a last talk over the case before putting the papers away, “even to the painting of a purplish fingernail on his hand; but owing to you, the trick didn’t come off. You always did say that the regular performance would have been chosen unless something had hurried things up. Your timetable helped Sir Harold Mere immensely in proving that Goodenough couldn’t have shown that photograph to the Major, let alone talked it over with him in the garage as he said he had. I have an idea that you weren’t entirely surprised that Goodenough was the murderer; am I right?”
“Well, sir, my first idea was that it was an act of vengeance. Double vengeance. It looked like that, and the Don fitted in uncommonly well with that notion. Especially if one thought of Miss Bruton as having killed Mrs. Moncrieff. Once I had seen her that seemed impossible; still, it was only my own impression of her character that cleared her. Barring them, the most suspect person was, of course, whoever had sat in that window—seat.”
Pelham pushed over a box of cigars, and looked an inquiry. “The two men in the corridor,” Pointer explained, “would have the best chance of getting into the Major’s room without arousing attention. They were both absent from the audience while Mrs. Moncrieff was butchered, with an absence that seemed innocent. Of the two, to get to Major Moncrieff’s room, Mr. Ayres would have had to walk down a longish corridor facing the window—seat, on which according to his own evidence sat Mr. Goodenough, who has very sharp eyes. But he himself would have had to pass no one. The window was not in view from where Mr. Ayres was placed. Incidentally, I think, Mr. Ayres dozed off in a very comfortable chair placed in a bend of the passage.”
“Probably,” assented Pelham, who had met Mr. Ayres.
“Goodenough looked ruthless and selfish. Two necessary characteristics for a murderer. While Mr. Ayres has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. Then Don Plutarco...his way of taking his dog’s disappearance was odd...believing, as I did, that he had an idea who the Sheikh had been—supposing he himself to be innocent, that is.”
“Odd in what way?”
“He was clearly suspicious of one or both the men who had been lunching just then. He didn’t pay any attention to the fact that Lee was missing. Did he connect one of the two men with another piece of foul play? Santley, we knew, could not have been in either murder, he was on view all the time. But again what about Goodenough? And the Don’s manner to Goodenough bore out the notion. Watchful...resentful...silent. Then came the finding of that photograph, and again Goodenough’s name turned up. Besides, of course, as Miss Bladeshaw’s so-called lover jumping into first place, as soon as the twins seemed to be the focus of the new kidnapping scheme.”
“Pusey?” queried Pelham.
“He only fitted there, sir, and with Mr. Holgate-Edwards’ idea that the murders were linked with an effort to obtain the Moncrieff papers. He didn’t touch the case at every point as did Goodenough.” Pointer rose, his papers neatly banded together.
“The Conjuring Trick.” Pelham read the name on the top sheet. “‘That was distinctly not worthwhile’ might be added,” and with that, as far as those two were concerned, the case was finished.