"It looks like one of the mydriatic alkaloids," Sir Clinton put in. "Atropine, or something akin to it. The eye-pupils of the body were dilated."
Markfield considered for a moment.
"I’ve done some alkaloid work in my time," he explained, "but I suppose in a case of this kind you ought to have the best man. Some of the alkaloids are the very devil to spot when you’ve only a small quantity. I’d like the fee for the case, of course," he added with a faint smile, "but the truth is that Dr. Silverdale, my chief, is an alkaloid specialist. He’s worked on them for years, and he could give me points all along the line. I’ll take you along to his room now."
He rose from his chair, but a gesture from Flamborough arrested him.
"I’m afraid that would hardly do, Dr. Markfield. As a matter of fact, it’s Mrs. Silverdale’s death that we’re inquiring into!"
Markfield could not repress an exclamation at the Inspector’s statement.
"Mrs. Silverdale? You don’t mean to say that anything’s happened to her? Good God! I knew the girl quite well. Nobody could have a grudge against her."
He glanced from one official to the other, as though doubting his ears.
"Wait a bit," he added, after a moment’s pause. "Perhaps I’ve taken you up wrong. Do you mean Yvonne Silverdale?"
"Yes," the Inspector confirmed.
Markfield’s face showed a struggle between incredulity and belief.
"But that girl hadn’t an enemy in the world, man," he broke out at last. "The thing’s clean impossible."
"I’ve just seen her body," said the Inspector curtly.
The blunt statement seemed to have its effect.
"Well, if that’s so, you can count on me for any work you want me to do. I’m quite willing to take it on."
"That’s very satisfactory, Dr. Markfield," Sir Clinton interposed. "Now, perhaps you could give us help in another line as well. You seem to have been a friend of Mrs. Silverdale’s. Could you tell us anything about her—anything you think might be useful to us?"
A fresh thought seemed to pass through Markfield’s mind and a faint suggestion of distrust appeared on his face.
"Well, I’m ready to answer any questions you care to put," he said, though there seemed to be a certain reluctance in his voice.
Sir Clinton’s attitude indicated that it was the turn of the Inspector. Flamborough pulled out his notebook.
"First of all, then, Dr. Markfield, could you tell us when you first became acquainted with Mrs. Silverdale?"
"Shortly after she and her husband came to Westerhaven. That’s about three years ago, roughly."
"You knew her fairly well?"
"I used to see her at dances and so forth. Lately, I’ve seen less of her. She picked up other friends, naturally; and I don’t dance much nowadays."
"She danced a good deal, I understand. Can you tell me any particular people who associated with her frequently in recent times?"
"I daresay I could give you a list of several. Young Hassendean was one. She used him as a kind of dancing-partner, from all I heard; but I go out so little nowadays that I can’t speak from much direct knowledge on the point."
"What sort of person was Mrs. Silverdale, in your judgment?"
Markfield took a little time to consider this question.
"She was French, you know," he replied. "I always found her very bright. Some people called her frivolous. She was out to enjoy herself, of course. Naturally she was a bit out of place in a backwater like this. She got some people’s backs up, I believe. Women didn’t like her being so smartly-dressed and all that."
"Have you any reason to suppose that she took drugs?"
Markfield listened to this question with obvious amazement.
"Drugs? No. She’d never touch drugs. Who’s been putting that lie around?"
Flamborough tactfully disregarded this question.
"Then from what you know of her, you would say that suicide would be improbable in her case?"
"Quite, I should say."
"She had no worries that you know of, no domestic troubles, for instance?"
Markfield’s eyes narrowed slightly at the question.
"Hardly my business to discuss another man’s affairs, is it?" he demanded, obviously annoyed by the Inspector’s query. "I don’t think I’m called upon to repeat the tittle-tattle of the town."
"You mean you don’t know anything personally?"
"I mean I’m not inclined to gossip about the domestic affairs of a colleague. If you’re so keen on them, you can go and ask him direct."
It was quite evident that Markfield had strong views on the subject of what he called "tittle-tattle"; and the Inspector realised that nothing would be gained by pursuing the matter. At the same time, he was amused to see that Markfield, by his loyalty to his colleague, had betrayed the very thing which he was trying to conceal. It was obvious that things had not gone smoothly in the Silverdale household, or Markfield would have had no reason for burking the question.
"You mentioned young Hassendean’s name," Flamborough continued. "You know that he’s been murdered, of course?"
"I saw it in the paper this morning. He’s no great loss," Markfield said brutally. "We had him here in the Institute, and a more useless pup you’d be hard put to it to find."
"What sort of person was he?" the Inspector inquired.
"One of these bumptious brats who think they ought to have everything they want, just for the asking. He’d a very bad swelled head. Herring-gutted, too, I should judge. He used to bore me with a lot of romantic drivel until I sat on him hard once or twice. I couldn’t stand him."
It was evident that young Hassendean had rasped Markfield’s nerves badly.
"Had anyone a grudge against him, do you think?"
"I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing him as I did. He would have put a saint’s back up with his bounce and impertinence. But if you mean a grudge big enough to lead to murder, I can’t say. I saw as little of him as possible even in working hours, and I had no interest in his private affairs."
It was quite evident that nothing of real value was to be elicited along this line. The Inspector abandoned the subject of young Hassendean’s personality and turned to a fresh field.
"Young Hassendean smoked cigarettes, didn’t he?"
"I’ve seen him smoking them."
"Is this his holder, by any chance?"
Flamborough produced the fly-in-amber holder as he spoke and laid it on the table. As he did so, he glanced at Markfield’s face and was surprised to see the swift change of expression on it. A flash of amazement followed by something that looked like dismay, crossed his features; then, almost instantaneously, he composed himself, and only a faint trace of misgiving showed in his eyes.
"No, that isn’t young Hassendean’s holder," he answered.
"You recognise it?"
Markfield bent forward to inspect the article, but it was evident that he knew it well.
"Do I need to answer these questions of yours?" he demanded, uncomfortably.
"You’ll have that question put to you at the inquest, when you’re on your oath," said the Inspector sharply. "You may as well answer now and save trouble."
Markfield stared for a moment longer at the fly in the amber.
"Where did you pick this thing up?" he demanded, without answering the Inspector’s question.
But Flamborough saw that he had got on the track of something definite at last, and was not inclined to be put off.
"That’s our business, sir," he said brusquely. "You recognise the thing, obviously. Whose is it? It’s no use trying to shield anyone. The thing’s too conspicuous; and if you don’t tell us about it, someone else will. But it doesn’t look well to find you trying to throw dust in our eyes."