Then he remembered the moment when the other car had swept down upon him out of the fog.
"That probably explains it," he said aloud. "When I had to swerve out of his way, I must have missed one of the entrance gates before I got back in touch with the pavement again. If that’s so, then obviously I’m in the wrong house. But whose house is it?"
He re-entered the smoke-room and looked round in search of some clue. A writing-desk stood over against one of the walls, and he crossed to it and took up a sheet of paper from a note-paper case. The heading was what he wanted: "Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue, Westerhaven."
"That’s what happened," he reflected, with a faint satisfaction at having cleared the point up so simply. "I’m next door to Silverdale’s place, evidently, I can ’phone from there."
It occurred to him that he had better be on the safe side and make sure of his information by adding the name of the householder when he rang up the Chief Constable. A fresh search among the pigeon-holes of the desk produced a letter in its original envelope addressed to "Edward Hassendean, Esq." Dr. Ringwood put it down again and racked his memory for an association with the name. He had paid only the most perfunctory attention to Markfield’s talk, earlier in the evening, and it was some seconds before his mind could track down the elusive data.
"Hassendean! That was the name of the cub who was hanging round the skirts of Silverdale’s wife, I believe."
He glanced at the body on the chesterfield.
"It might be that youngster. The police will soon find out from the contents of his pockets, I expect. Besides, the rest of the family will be home soon. They must be out for the evening, and the maids too. That accounts for the house being empty."
He pulled out his pocket-book and scanned the note he had made of the boy’s disjointed utterance.
"Caught me . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . ."
A flash of illumination seemed to pass across Dr. Ringwood’s mind as he re-read the words. In it he saw a frivolous wife, a dissolute boy, and a husband exasperated by the sudden discovery of an intrigue; a sordid little tragedy of three characters. That seemed to be a plain enough explanation of the miserable affair. Markfield’s suspicions had clearly been fairly near the truth; if anything, they had fallen short of the real state of affairs. Something had precipitated the explosion; and Dr. Ringwood idly speculated for a moment or two upon what could have led to the husband’s enlightenment.
Then he awoke to a fresh aspect of the affair. The Hassendean family would be coming home again shortly, or else the maids would put in an appearance. The sooner the police were on the premises, the better. In the meanwhile, it seemed advisable to prevent any disturbance of things, if possible.
Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room, locked the door after him, and removed the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Then, making sure that the front door could be opened from the outside when he returned, he went down the steps and out into the fog once more.
Chapter Two. THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
The box edging of the drive gave Dr. Ringwood sufficient guidance through the darkness down to the gate; and by following the garden wall thereafter, he had little difficulty in making his way to the entrance of No. 26. By the light of a match he read the name Heatherfield on the gate-pillar, but here also there was no distinguishing number. This time, however, there could be no mistake and he groped his way cautiously up the drive until the light over the front door shone faintly through the fog.
As he went, a fresh complication in the situation presented itself to his mind. What would be the effect if he blurted out the news of the tragedy at Ivy Lodge? If the maid at Silverdale’s happened to be of a nervous type, she might take fright when she heard of the murder and might refuse to be left alone in the house with only a sick companion. That would be very awkward. Dr. Ringwood decided that his best course would be to say nothing about the affair next door, and merely make some simple excuse for going to the telephone. If he could shut himself up while he telephoned, she would learn nothing; if not, then he would need to invent some pretext for getting her out of the way while he communicated with the police.
He climbed the steps and pressed the bell-button. This time he was not kept waiting, for almost immediately the door opened and a middle-aged woman, apparently a cook, peered nervously out at his figure framed in the fog. Seeing a stranger before her, she kept the door almost closed.
"Is that Dr. Ringwood?" she asked.
Then, as he nodded assent, she broke into a torrent of tremulous explanation:
"I thought you were never coming, doctor. It’s such a responsibility being left with Ina upstairs ill and no one else in the house. First of all, she was headachy; then she was sick; and her skin’s hot and she looks all flushed. I think she’s real ill, doctor."
"We’ll see about it," Dr. Ringwood assured her. "But first of all, I have to ring up about another patient. You’ve a ’phone, of course? It won’t take me a minute; and it’s important."
The maid seemed put out that he did not go straight to his patient; but she led the way to the cloakroom where the telephone was fixed. Dr. Ringwood paused before going to the instrument. He bethought himself of a pretext to get this nervous creature out of earshot.
"Let’s see," he said. "I may need some boiling water—a small jug of it. Can you go and put on a kettle now, so that it’ll be ready if I want it?"
The maid went off towards the kitchen, whereupon he closed the door behind him and rang up. To his relief, Sir Clinton Driffield was at home; and in less than a couple of minutes Dr. Ringwood was able to tell his story.
"This is Dr. Ringwood speaking, Sir Clinton. You may remember me; I’m attending your butler."
"Nothing wrong in the case, I hope?" the Chief Constable demanded.
"No, it’s not that. I was called here—Heatherfield, 26 Lauderdale Avenue, this evening. I’m Dr. Carew’s locum and a stranger in Westerhaven; and in this fog I went to the wrong house—the one next door to here: Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue. Mr. Hassendean’s house. The place was lit up and a car was at the door; but I got no answer when I rang the bell. Something roused my suspicions and I went inside. The house was empty: no maids or anyone on the premises. In a smoke-room on the ground floor I found a youngster of about twenty-two or so, dying. He’d been shot twice in the lung and he died on my hands almost as I went in."
He paused; but as Sir Clinton made no comment, Dr. Ringwood continued:
"The house hadn’t a telephone. I came in here, after locking the smoke-room door. I’ve a patient to see in this house. How long will it take your people to get to Ivy Lodge and take charge?"
"I’ll be over myself in twenty minutes," Sir Clinton replied. "Probably the local police will be there about the same time. I’ll ring them up now."
"Very well. I’ll see to my patient here; and then I’ll go back to Ivy Lodge to wait for you. Someone ought to be on the premises in case the maids or the family come home again."
"Right. I’ll be with you shortly. Good-bye."
Dr. Ringwood, glancing at his watch, saw that it was twenty minutes past ten.
"They ought to be here about a quarter to eleven, if they can find their way in that fog," he reflected.
Leaving the cloakroom, he made his way to the nearest sitting-room and rang the bell for the maid.
"The water will be boiling in a minute or two, doctor," she announced, coming from the back premises. "Will you need it before you go up to see Ina, or shall I bring it up to you?"