Sir Clinton showed no sign that he attached much importance to Markfield’s explanation.
"You became intimate with her some time in 1925, I think, just after the Silverdales came here?"
Markfield nodded his assent.
"And very shortly after that, you and she thought it best to conceal your liaison by seeing as little of each other as possible in public, so as not to draw attention to your relations?"
"That’s true."
"And finally she got hold of young Hassendean to serve as a blind? Advertised herself with him openly, whilst you stayed in the background?"
"You seem to know a good deal about it," Markfield admitted coldly.
"I think I know all that matters," the Chief Constable commented. "You’ve lost the game, Dr. Markfield."
Markfield seemed to consider the situation rapidly before he spoke again.
"You can’t make it worse than manslaughter," he said at last. "It’s no more than that, on the evidence you’ve given me just now. I saw him shoot Yvonne, and then, in the struggle afterwards, his pistol went off twice by accident and hit him. You couldn’t call that a case of murder. I shall plead that it was done in self-defence; and you haven’t Whalley to put into the box against me."
Sir Clinton took no pains to conceal a sardonic smile.
"It won’t do, Dr. Markfield," he pointed out. "You might get off on that plea if it were only the bungalow business that you were charged with. But there’s the murder of the maid at Heatherfield as well. You can’t twist that into a self-defence affair. No jury would look at it for a moment."
"You seem to know a good deal about it," Markfield repeated thoughtfully.
"I suppose what you really wanted at Heatherfield was a packet of your love-letters to Mrs. Silverdale?" Sir Clinton asked.
Markfield confirmed this with a nod.
"That’s all you have against me, I suppose?" he demanded after a pause.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
"No," he said, "there’s the affair of the late Mr. Whalley as well."
Markfield’s face betrayed neither surprise nor chagrin at this fresh charge.
"That’s all, then?" he questioned again, with apparent unconcern.
"All that’s of importance," Sir Clinton admitted. "Of course, in the guise of our friend Mr. Justice, you did your best to throw suspicion on Silverdale. That’s a minor point, so far as you’re concerned now. It’s curious how you murderers can’t leave well alone. If you hadn’t played the fool there, you’d have given us ever so much more trouble."
Markfield made no answer at the moment. He seemed to be reviewing the whole situation in his mind, thinking hard before he broke the silence.
"Good thing, a scientific training," he said at length, rather unexpectedly. "It teaches one to realise the bearing of plain facts. My game seems to be up. You’ve been too smart for me."
He paused, and a grim smile crossed his face, as though he found something humorous in the situation.
"You seem to have enough stuff there to pitch a tale to a jury," he continued, "and I daresay you’ve more in reserve. I’m not inclined to be dragged squalling to the gallows—too undignified for my taste. I’ll tell you the facts."
Flamborough, eager that things should be done in proper form, interposed the usual official cautionary statement.
"That’s all right," Markfield answered carelessly. "You’ll find paper over yonder on my desk, beside the typewriter. You can take down what I say, and I’ll sign it afterwards if you think that necessary when I’ve finished."
The Inspector crossed the room, picked up a number of sheets of typewriting paper, and returned to the table. He pulled out his fountain-pen and prepared to take notes.
"Mind if I light my pipe?" Markfield inquired.
As the chemist put his hand to his pocket, Flamborough half-rose from his seat; but he sank back again into his chair when a tobacco-pouch appeared instead of the pistol which he had been afraid might be produced. Markfield threw him a glance which showed he had fathomed the meaning of the Inspector’s start.
"Don’t get nervous," he said contemptuously. "There’ll be no shooting. This isn’t a film, you know."
He reached up to the mantelpiece for his pipe, charged it deliberately, lighted it, and then turned to Sir Clinton.
"You’ve got a warrant for my arrest, I suppose?" he asked in a tone which sounded almost indifferent.
Sir Clinton’s affirmative reply did not seem to disturb him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair and appeared interested chiefly in getting his pipe to burn well.
"I’ll speak slowly," he said at last, turning to the Inspector. "If I go too fast, just let me know."
Flamborough nodded and sat, pen in hand, waiting for the opening of the narrative.
Chapter Eighteen. THE CONNECTING THREAD
"I don’t see how you did it," Markfield began, "but you got to the root of things when you traced a connection between me and Yvonne Silverdale. I’d never expected that. And considering how we’d kept our affairs quiet for years, I thought I’d be safe at the end of it all.
"It was in 1925, as you said, that the thing began—just after Silverdale came to the Croft-Thornton. There was a sort of amateur dramatic show afoot then, and both Yvonne and I joined it. That brought us together first. The rest didn’t take long. I suppose it was a case of the attraction of opposites. One can’t explain that sort of thing on any rational basis. It just happened."
He hesitated for a moment, as though casting his mind back to these earlier times; then he continued:
"Once it had happened, I did the thinking for the pair of us. Clearly enough, the thing was to avoid suspicion. That meant that people mustn’t couple our names even casually. And the way to prevent that was to see as little of each other as possible in public. I dropped out of things, cut dances, left the theatrical affair, and posed as being engrossed in work. She advertised herself as dance-mad. It suited her well enough. Result: we hardly ever were seen in the same room. No one thought of linking our names in the remotest way. I gave her no presents. . . ."
"Think again," Sir Clinton interrupted. "You gave her at least one present."
Markfield reflected for some moments; then his face showed more than a trace of discomfiture.
"You mean a signet-ring? Good Lord! I forgot all about it, that night at the bungalow! So that’s where you got your story about the initial ‘B.’ from? I never thought of that."
Sir Clinton made no comment, and after a few seconds Markfield continued.
"In the early days, we wrote letters to each other—just a few. Later on, I urged her to burn them, for safety’s sake. But she treasured them, apparently; and she wouldn’t do it. She said they were quite safe in a locked drawer in her bedroom. Silverdale never entered her room, you know. It seemed safe enough. It was these damned letters that landed me in the end.
"Yvonne and I hadn’t any reason to worry about Silverdale. He’d lost all interest in her and gone off after Avice Deepcar. Oh, that was all quite respectable and above-board. She’s a decent girl—nothing against her. We’d have been quite glad to see him marry her, except that it wouldn’t have suited our book. My screw was good enough for a single man. It wouldn’t have kept two of us—not on the basis we needed, anyhow. And a divorce case might have got me chucked out of the Croft-Thornton. Where would we have been then? So you see that alley was barred.
"By and by, young Hassendean turned up. When I found he was getting keen on Yvonne, I encouraged her to keep him on her string. She had no use for the boy except as a dancing-partner; but we used him as a blind to cover the real state of affairs. So long as people could talk about him and her, they weren’t likely to think of her and me. So she led him on until the brat thought he was indispensable. I suppose he fell in love with her, in a way. We never imagined he might be dangerous.