"H’m! It seems silly, doesn’t it?"
"Of course, unlikely things do happen," Sir Clinton admitted. "I’m no stickler for probability in crime. One so seldom finds it."
Flamborough took his notebook from his pocket and entered in it a copy of Sir Clinton’s classification.
"I’ll have another think about this later on," he said, as he finished writing. "I didn’t think much of it when you showed it to me at first, but it certainly seems to be one way of getting a few ideas to test."
"Now let’s look at the thing from another point of view," Sir Clinton suggested. "Assume that young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale were in the room of the bungalow. There were traces of somebody at the side-window, and someone certainly broke the glass of the front window. By the way, Inspector, when you went over young Hassendean’s clothes finally last night, did you find a key-ring or anything of that sort?"
"He had a few keys—the latchkey of Ivy Lodge, and one or two more."
"You’ll need to make sure that the key of the bungalow was amongst them, because if it wasn’t, then he may have had to break in—which would account for the window. But I’m pretty certain he didn’t do that. He’d been up beforehand with these flowers in the afternoon, getting the place ready. It’s most improbable that he hadn’t the key of the front door with him."
"I’ll see to it," the Inspector assured him.
"In the meantime, just let’s assume that the broken window represents the work of a third party. What do you make of things on that basis?"
"What is there to make out of them except one thing?" Flamborough demanded. "At the side window you had somebody whom you christened Peeping Tom; at the front window was a second person who got so excited that he broke into the room. You’re not trying to make out that these two characters were filled by one person, are you, sir? There would be no point in Peeping Tom leaving his window and walking round to the front one before breaking in. Either window was good enough for that. He’d no need to shift his ground."
"No," Sir Clinton assured him in a thoughtful tone, "I wasn’t looking at it from that angle. I was merely wondering where Mr. Justice came in."
"You mean whether he was Peeping Tom or t’other?"
"Something of that sort," the Chief Constable answered. Then, changing the subject, he added: "What bits of information are you going to hunt for next, Inspector?"
Flamborough ran over some points in his mind and cleared his throat before speaking.
"First of all, I want to know what this poison was, where it came from, and how long it takes to act. I expect to get something from the P.M. results, and we can always send some of the organs for analysis."
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement.
"I think we’ll get two people on to that part of the thing independently. Say a London man and perhaps one of the chemists at the Croft-Thornton Institute here. We’ll need to see this fellow Markfield in any case, just to check the statements that Ringwood gave us, and when we’re doing that we can find out if there’s anyone capable of doing the analysis for us. Perhaps Markfield himself might take it on."
The Inspector, seeing that Sir Clinton was waiting for him to continue, proceeded with his list of evidence required.
"I’ll put Yarrow on to the matter of young Hassendean’s pistol license. That won’t take long to look up, and it will help to clinch the fact that it really was his pistol that we found on the floor. I don’t suppose for a moment that it was brought in from the outside. The loose ammunition in the drawer seems convincing on that point."
"I’m quite with you there," Sir Clinton admitted.
"Then I want to look into the maid’s affairs and see if she had any grudge against Mrs. Silverdale. It’s a pity the second maid’s so ill. We can’t get anything out of her for a while, I’m afraid. And I want her for another thing: to see if Mrs. Silverdale doped herself at all. But I expect, if she did, that I’ll be able to pick up some hint of it somewhere or other. And of course, if the poison turns out to be a non-dope kind, that line of inquiry drops into a subsidiary place."
"Yes?" the Chief Constable encouraged him.
"Then I’ll send a man up to try the keys we found in young Hassendean’s pocket on the lock of the bungalow door, just to clear up the broken window matter. That won’t take long."
"And then?"
"Well, I suppose I’ll need to make a try at finding out who Peeping Tom was and also your Mr. Justice."
"Quite a lot of suggestions you seem to have extracted from my little list of possibilities, Inspector. I think you owe it an apology for the rather contemptuous way you approached it at first."
"Well, sir, it’s been more suggestive than I expected, I admit."
"One thing’s certain, Inspector. The solution of the affair must lie somewhere on that little table. It’s simply a matter of picking out the proper case. The odds at most are eight to one and they’re really less than that if one discards some of the very improbable combinations."
The desk-telephone rang sharply, and Sir Clinton listened to the message.
"That interests you, Inspector. A report’s come in that Mr. Silverdale came home and has gone down to the Croft-Thornton. He mentioned where he was going to the constable in charge at Heatherfield, and he very thoughtfully suggested that as the Croft-Thornton is quite near here, it would be easy for us to interview him there if we desired to do so. The perfect little gentleman, in fact. Well, what about it, Inspector?"
"I suppose I’d better go at once," Flamborough proposed after a glance at his watch.
"I think I’ll include myself in the invitation," Sir Clinton volunteered. "And, by the way, you’d better take that fly-in-the-amber cigarette-holder with you, if they’ve finished with it downstairs. Young Hassendean was working at the Croft-Thornton and someone there may be able to identify it for us if it was his. I’m not anxious to trouble his relations in the matter."
"Very good, sir," Flamborough acquiesced. "You’ll want your car. I’ll give the order for it now."
Chapter Seven. THE FLY IN THE AMBER
At the door of the big block of buildings which formed the Croft-Thornton Institute, Inspector Flamborough made inquiries from the porter and obtained a guide through the labyrinth of stairs and corridors.
"This is Dr. Markfield’s laboratory, sir," their pilot finally informed them as he knocked on a door. "Two gentlemen to see you, sir," he announced, standing aside to allow Sir Clinton and the Inspector to enter.
As they walked into the laboratory, Trevor Markfield came towards them from one of the benches at which he had been occupied. His face betrayed his slight surprise at finding two strangers before him.
"What can I do for you!" he inquired politely, but without any needless effusiveness.
Flamborough, in response to an almost imperceptible gesture from his superior, stepped to the front.
"This is Sir Clinton Driffield, the Chief Constable, Dr. Markfield. I’m Inspector Flamborough. We’ve called to see if you could give us some expert assistance in a case."
Markfield, after a glance at a water-bath on which a flask was being heated, led the way to a little office which adjoined the laboratory and closed the door behind the party.
"We shall be more private here," he said, inviting them with a gesture to take chairs. "One of my assistants will be back shortly, and I take it that your business is likely to be confidential."
The Inspector agreed with a nod.
"It’s a poisoning case and we’ll need some help in detecting the poison."
"That’s a bit vague," Markfield commented with a smile. "There are so many kinds of poisons, you know. If it’s arsenic or anything of that sort, a first-year student could spot it for you; but if it’s one of the organic lot, it’ll be a stiff business most likely."