"That was the state of things up to ten days before the affair at the bungalow. There seemed to be no reason why it shouldn’t have lasted for years. But just then Yvonne got news of this money that had been left her—about £12,000. That put a new light on the affair. It gave her an income of her own. We could afford to let Silverdale divorce her; then I could have chucked the Croft-Thornton, married her, and set up in private practice somewhere. Her money would have kept us going until I had scraped a business together; and no one cares a damn about the matrimonial affairs of a chemical expert in private practice.
"We talked it over, and we practically made up our minds to take that course. It seemed a bit too good to be true. Anyhow it would have got us out of all the hole-and-corner business. After three years of that, we were getting a bit sick of it. Another week or two, and Westerhaven would have had all the scandal it needed, if it was inclined that way. We’d have got each other. And Silverdale could have married his girl with all the sympathy of the town. Ideal, eh?"
He puffed savagely at his pipe for a moment or two before speaking again.
"Then that young skunk Hassendean. . . . He must needs get above himself and ruin the whole scheme, damn him! I can only guess what happened. He got to know about the properties of hyoscine. There was plenty of it at the Croft-Thornton. He must have stolen some of it and used it to drug Yvonne that night. However, that’s going a bit fast. I’ll tell you what happened, as it seemed to me."
Markfield paused and glanced inquiringly at the Inspector.
"It’s all right," Flamborough reassured him. "If you don’t speak quicker than that, I can take it down easily."
Markfield leaned over and gave the contents of his flask a gentle shake before continuing his narrative.
"That night, I’d been out late at the Research Station on a piece of work. I mean I’d gone there after dinner for a few minutes. When I finished, I came in by the Lizardbridge Road in my car. It was a bit foggy, and I was driving slowly. Just after I’d passed the bungalow, I met an open car. We were both crawling, owing to the fog; and I had a good look at the people in the other car. One was young Hassendean. The other was Yvonne; and even as I passed them, I could see there was something queer about the business. Besides, what would she be doing With that young whelp away out of town? I knew her far too well to think she was up to any hanky-panky with him.
"It looked queer. So as soon as I was past them, I turned my car, meaning to follow them and stand by. Unfortunately in the fog, I almost ditched my car in turning; and it gave me some trouble to swing round—one wheel got into the trench at the edge of the road. It was a minute or so before I got clear again. Then I went off after them.
"I saw the car at the door of the bungalow, and some lights on in the place which hadn’t been there when I’d passed it on my way down. So I stopped my car at the gate and walked up to the bungalow door. It was locked.
"I didn’t care about hammering on the door. That would only have put Hassendean on the alert and left me still on the wrong side of the door. So I walked round to the lighted window and managed to get a glimpse of the room through the curtains. Yvonne was lying back in an armchair, facing me. I thought she’d fainted or something like that. The whole affair puzzled me a bit, you see. That young skunk Hassendean was wandering about the room, evidently in a devil of a state of nerves about something or other.
"Just as I was making up my mind to break the window, he bolted out of the room; and I thought he meant to clear off from the house, leaving Yvonne there—ill, perhaps. That made me pretty mad; and I kept my eye on the front door to see that he didn’t get away without my catching him. That prevented me from breaking the window and climbing into the room.
"Then, a bit to my surprise, the young swine came back again with something in his hand—I couldn’t see what it was then. He walked over to where Yvonne was, in the chair, lifted his arm, and shot her in the head. Deliberately. Nothing like an accident, remember. And there, before my eyes, I saw the whole of our dreams collapsing, just when we thought they were going to come true. Pretty stiff, wasn’t it?"
He bent forward and made a pretence of knocking the ashes from his pipe. When he looked up again, his face was set once more.
"I’m no psychologist to spin you a yarn about how I felt just then," he continued. "In fact, I doubt if I felt anything except that I wanted to down that young hound. Anyhow, I broke the glass, got my hand inside, undid the catch, and was through the curtain before he knew what was happening. I don’t know what he thought when he saw me. His face was almost worth it—sheer amazement and terror. He was just bringing up his pistol when I dropped on him and got his wrist. Then there was a bit of a struggle; but he hadn’t a chance against me. I shot him twice in the body and when he dropped, with blood coming from his mouth, I knew I’d got him in the lung, and I didn’t bother further about him. He seemed done for. I hoped he was."
Markfield’s voice in the last few sentences had expressed the bitterness of his emotions; but when he continued, he made a successful effort to keep his tone level.
"One thinks quick enough in a tight corner. First thing I did was to look at Yvonne."
He shrugged his shoulders to express what he seemed unable to put into words.
"That dream was done for. The only thing to do was to clear myself. I had another look at Hassendean. He seemed to have had his gruel. I’d a notion of shooting him again, just to make sure, but it didn’t seem worth while. Besides, there had been row enough already. A fourth shot might draw some passer-by. So I left him. I picked up the pistol and cleaned my fingermarks off it before putting it on the floor again. Then I did the same for the window-hasp. These were the only two things I’d touched, so I wasn’t leaving traces.
"Then I remembered something. Silverdale was always leaving his cigarette holder lying about the lab. He’d put it down on a bench or a desk and wander off, leaving the cigarette smouldering. That happened continually. That very afternoon, he’d left the thing in my room and I’d pocketed it, meaning to give it back to him when I saw him again. There it was, in my vest-pocket.
"In this world, it’s a case of every man for himself. My business was to get out of the hole I was in. If Silverdale got into a hole himself, it was his affair to get out of it. Besides, he’d probably have an alibi, whereas I hadn’t. In any case, the more tangled the business was, the better chance you fellows had of getting off my scent. If the whole story came out, I didn’t see how I was to persuade a jury it had been pure self-defence when I knew myself that it wasn’t that really. Besides, there were these infernal love-letters waiting at Yvonne’s house, all ready for the police and pointing straight to me as a factor in the affair. I’d have had awkward questions to answer about the contents of them.
"The net result was that I cleaned Silverdale’s cigarette-holder with my handkerchief to take off any finger-prints; and I dropped it on the floor to amuse you people. It had that fly in the amber—absolutely unique and easily identifiable.
"Then I switched off the lights, got out of the window again, closed it behind me in case it should attract a passer-by. I used my handkerchief to grip the hasp when I closed it, so as not to leave any fingerprints there. In fact, as I walked down to my car, I felt I’d done remarkably well on the spur of the moment.