Flamborough’s voice grew hard as he answered:
"There’s one thing I want you to bear in mind, Dr. Markfield. A man may very easily become an accessory after the fact in a murder case; and the penalty runs as high as penal servitude for life. I’m not at all satisfied with the way in which you seem to have determined to evade some of the questions I’ve had to put to you; and I’d like to remind you that you may be running risks. It would be far better if you’d deal frankly with us instead of shuffling."
The covert threat seemed to have its effect on Markfield. He looked sulky, but he appeared to make up his mind to alter his tactics.
"Well, ask your questions, then," he snapped. "But put them on matters of fact. I’m not going to say what I think about this and what I suppose about that. I’ll tell you anything that I know definitely, if you ask about it."
Flamborough wasted no time before taking up the challenge.
"Very good, Dr. Markfield. We’ll stick to facts, if you like. Now once upon a time you saw Dr. Silverdale acting in some private theatricals, I believe. I learned that from Dr. Ringwood. That’s correct, isn’t it?"
"Yes. We were members of a small amateur show at one time."
"In any of his parts, did Dr. Silverdale play the banjo?"
Markfield reflected for a moment.
"I think he did."
"He’s an expert banjo-player?"
"He plays the banjo," Markfield corrected. "I’m not going to give you my opinion about his playing. That’s not a question of fact; it’s a mere matter of taste."
Flamborough let this pass without comment.
"He plays the banjo, anyhow. That’s what I want to get at."
He stepped across the laboratory to where a little glass apparatus was attached to a tap at a sink and examined the rubber tubing attached.
"What’s this thing here?" he demanded.
"A water-pump," Markfield answered, as though not quite following the Inspector’s train of thought.
"And this rubber tubing, what sort of stuff is it?"
"Pressure-tubing. What about it?"
"Does Dr. Silverdale use anything of that sort?"
"Everybody in the place uses it. Whenever one wants quick filtering one uses a water-pump with pressure-tubing connections."
"Miss Deepcar and Miss Hailsham use it, then?"
"I should think there are a dozen or two of these pumps in this department alone. They’re ordinary fittings in every chemical laboratory. If I may ask, Inspector, what are you getting at?"
Flamborough switched off to a fresh line without making any direct reply.
"Is Miss Deepcar here to-day?"
"I don’t think so. I believe she’s out of town—been away for a couple of days. I’ll send a message to find out definitely if you want to know."
Flamborough shook his head.
"Don’t trouble. I can find out for myself."
"I heard that she would be back the day after tomorrow," Markfield volunteered. "But you’d better find out for yourself of course."
Again the Inspector turned to a fresh line.
"Do you know anything about a man Whalley—Peter Whalley?" he demanded.
"Whalley?" Markfield repeated as though trying to recall the name. "Whalley? Oh, yes. He came to me with some story about having been hit by my car on a foggy night. I didn’t believe him. I knew I’d hurt no one with the car, though once I came near it that night. Mr. Whalley got no change out of me."
"He didn’t go any further in the matter, then?"
"I heard no more about it. The thing was so obviously a try-on that I didn’t even advise my insurance company about it."
Flamborough reflected for a few moments, obviously trying to think of fresh questions which he could put; but apparently he had come to the end of his stock.
"We’ll go along to Dr. Silverdale’s room," he said, leading the way to the door. "You had better come with us, Dr. Markfield. You’ll do as a witness, perhaps."
"I’m not very keen," Markfield retorted grumblingly.
However, he followed Sir Clinton and the Inspector along the corridors to Silverdale’s laboratory. The room was empty, but the door was unlocked and the Inspector opened it and stepped inside. A glance round the place revealed Silverdale’s laboratory jacket hanging on a peg; and Flamborough went over and took it down.
"Now we’ll see," he said, laying it on the table and spreading it out for examination. "Ah, I thought there was no mistake."
He pointed to the right-hand side, where it was obvious that one of the buttons had been wrenched away, taking a piece of the cloth with it.
"Now we’ll see if it fits," Flamborough continued, producing the fragment of fabric found in Whalley’s hand and adjusting it to the tear in the coat. "That’s clear enough. You see now the stains on the two bits correspond exactly."
Markfield leaned over and satisfied himself that the Inspector’s statement was accurate.
"What is this bit of cloth?" he asked.
Flamborough, however, had found something further, and Markfield got no answer to his question.
"Look there," the Inspector ejaculated, indicating a a small brownish stain on the breast of the jacket. "That’s blood, clear enough."
Markfield seemed about to repeat his demand for information when steps sounded in the corridor outside. Flamborough picked up the coat, moved swiftly across the room, and hung the garment on its original peg. As he turned away unconcernedly from the spot, the door opened and Silverdale entered the laboratory. He seemed taken aback by the presence of the police and looked from one to another in the group without speaking. Then he came forward.
"Do you want me?" he asked, in a colourless voice.
Markfield seemed rather ashamed at being caught there in the company of the two officials. He was about to say something when Flamborough robbed him of the opportunity.
"I’ve come to put one or two questions, Dr. Silverdale," the Inspector began. "First of all, have you had any dealings lately with a man named Peter Whalley?"
Silverdale was obviously taken aback.
"Whalley?" he repeated. "I know nothing about anyone of that name. Who is he?"
Flamborough seemed to discount this statement, but he did not persist along that direct line.
"Can you tell us what you were doing last night?" he demanded.
Silverdale reflected for a time before answering.
"I left here about six o’clock—between six and six-thirty. Then I walked down to the Central Hotel and had dinner. I suppose I left the hotel again about a quarter to eight. I walked home, as it was a clear night; and I did some work until about half-past eleven. After that I went to bed and read for a while before going to sleep."
Flamborough jotted something in his notebook before going further.
"I suppose you could produce some witnesses in support of that?" he asked.
Silverdale appeared to consult his memory.
"I met Miss Hailsham as I was leaving here," he explained. "That would give you the approximate time, if she remembers it. The waiter at the Central could probably satisfy you that I was there—it’s the tall one with the wart on his cheek who looks after the tables at the north window. After that, you’ll have to take my word for it."
"What about your maids at Heatherfield?"
"I haven’t anyone on the premises. No maid would take the place owing to the murder. I merely sleep there and take my meals at an hotel. A charwoman comes in during the day and cleans the place."
"Ah," said the Inspector, thoughtfully. "Then you can’t prove that you were actually at home after, say, half-past eight? By the way, you hadn’t a visitor by any chance?"
Silverdale shook his head.