Rather to his relief, Sir Clinton made no objection. The Inspector drew his pencil through the first two lines of the table, then let it hover over the last line.
"What about Case F, sir? She suicided and he was murdered. If she suicided, it was a premeditated affair—otherwise they wouldn’t have had the hyoscine at hand. But if it was one of these lovers’ suicide-pacts, they’d have had a dose ready for him as well—and there wasn’t a trace of the stuff spilt on the floor or anywhere about the bungalow. Score out Case F, sir?"
"I’ve no objections to your putting your pencil through it if you like, Inspector, though my reasons are rather different from the ones you give."
Flamborough looked up suspiciously, but gathered from Sir Clinton’s face that there was nothing further to be expected.
"Well, at least that’s narrowed down the possibilities a bit," he said with relief. "You started out with nine possible solutions to the affair—covering every conceivable combination. Now we’re down to three."
He picked up his paper and read out the residual scheme, putting fresh identifying letters to the three cases:
"You agree to that, sir?" Flamborough demanded.
"Oh, yes!" Sir Clinton admitted, in a careless tone. "I think the truth probably lies somewhere among those three solutions. The bother will be to prove it."
At this moment a constable entered the room, bringing some letters and a newspaper in a postal wrapper.
"Come by the next post, as I expected," the Chief Constable remarked, picking up the packet and removing the wrapper with care. "The usual method of addressing, you see: letters cut from telegraph forms and gummed on to the official stamped wrapper. Well, let’s have a look at the news."
He unfolded the sheet and glanced over the advertisement pages in search of a marked paragraph.
"Ingenious devil, Inspector," he went on. "The other advertisement was in the Courier, this is a copy of to-day’s Gazette. That makes sure that no one reading down a column of advertisements would be struck by a resemblance and start comparisons. I begin to like Mr. Justice. He’s thorough, anyhow. . . . Ah, here we are! Marked like the other one. Listen, Inspector:
"CLINTON: Take the letters in the following order.
55. 16. 30. 17. 1. 9. 2. 4. 5. 10. 38. 39. 43. 31. 18. 56. 32. 40. 6. 21. 26. 11. 3. 44. 45. 19. 12. 7. 36. 33. 15. 46. 47. 20. 34. 37. 27. 48. 35. 28. 22. 29. 41. 49. 23. 50. 53. 51. 13. 25. 54. 42. 52. 24. 8. 14.
Now that was why he split up his letters into groups of five in the first advertisement—to make it easy for us to count. I really like this fellow more and more. A most thoughtful cove."
He placed the two advertisements side by side on the table.
"Just run over this with me, Inspector. Call the first A number 1, the second A number 2, and so on. There are fifty-six letters in all, so number 55 is the W. Number 16 is the first letter in the fourth quintette—H. Number 30 is the last letter in the sixth quintette—O. So that spells WHO. Just go through the lot and check them please."
Flamborough ploughed through the whole series and ended with the same solution as Sir Clinton had obtained earlier in the morning: "WHO HAD ACCESS TO HYOSCINE AT THE CROFT-THORNTON INSTITUTE?"
"Well, it’s pleasant to hit the mark," the Chief Constable confessed. "By the way, you had better send someone down to the Courier and Gazette Offices to pick up the originals of these advertisements. But I’m sure it’ll be just the same old telegram stunt; and the address which has to be given as a guarantee of good faith will be a fake one."
Chapter Twelve. THE SILVERDALE WILLS
"This is Mr. Renard, sir."
Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton’s office and ushered in the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at the interruptors.
"Mrs. Silverdale’s brother, isn’t it?" he asked courteously.
Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as though leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into the breach:
"It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn’t entirely satisfied with the state of things he’s unearthed in the matter of his sister’s will. It’s taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about it. He’d prefer to lay the point before you, so I’ve brought him along. It seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand, for it looks as though it might be important."
Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a seat.
"I’m at your disposal, Mr. Renard," he said briskly. "Let’s hear the whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will make notes, if you don’t mind."
Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.
"I shall be concise," he assured the Chief Constable. "It is not a very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as you English say."
He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.
"My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in 1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr. Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right man for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He had not the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for Yvonne. Already I was in doubt, at the very moment of the marriage. There were incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?"
Sir Clinton’s gesture assured him that he had made himself sufficiently clear.
"I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow me?" Renard went on. "It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the best of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not found a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one who would make trouble by sympathising too much."
"I quite understand, Mr. Renard," Sir Clinton intervened, with the obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the self-evident.
"Now I come to the important point," Renard went on. "At the time of the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your English law about testaments very well—my brother-in-law transferred part of his property in stocks and shares to my sister. It was some question of Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then she would have had to pay on his whole estate; but by transferring some of his property to her, this could be avoided. In case of his death, she would have to pay only on what he had retained in his own name. It is, I understand, a usual precaution in the circumstances."
"It’s often done," Sir Clinton confirmed. "By the way, Mr. Renard, can you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on their marriage?"
"I cannot give you the precise figures," Renard explained. "I have seen the lawyer’s accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds—a mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum itself is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest, as you shall see."
He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton’s attention.
"When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my sister, they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the advice of a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property to my sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that seemed very fair. The second will, my sister’s, was in identical terms, so far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks, shares, and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little provision at the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of sentimental value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I suggest nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?"