Dr. Ringwood opened the door of Ivy Lodge and took the key of the smoke-room from his pocket. The house was silent as when he left it. Evidently no one had come home.
Chapter Three. SIR CLINTON AT IVY LODGE
Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room door open to ensure that he would hear anyone who entered the house. He made a second cursory inspection of young Hassendean’s body; but as he took care not to alter the position of anything, he discovered no more than he had done when he inspected it originally. There seemed to be nothing further for him to do until the police came upon the scene; so he picked out a comfortable chair and let himself relax whilst he had the chance.
The patient next door worried him a little. Perhaps he ought to have got the girl off to hospital at once, fog or no fog. It would be awkward if she turned delirious in the night. And from that, his mind drifted to other cases which were giving him anxiety. With this ’flu epidemic, Carew’s practice had been anything but the nice, quiet, jog-trot business he had imagined it to be when he promised to come as locum.
By some incongruous linking, his thoughts came back to the events through which he had just passed. Death was all in the day’s work for a medical man, but he had hardly bargained for murder. At least, he had hitherto assumed that this was a case of murder, but possibly it was suicide. He recalled that he had not seen any pistol; and he felt a momentary inclination to search the room for the weapon; but his fatigue was greater than his interest, and he abandoned the project. After all, it was an affair for the police, when they came to take charge; it was no business of his.
Nevertheless, he could not shake off the subject of the tragedy; and, despite himself, he began to speculate on the possibilities of the situation. Suppose that, after dinner, young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale had simply driven round to Ivy Lodge. That would account for the empty car at the door. Then they must have come into the house. He had found the door unlocked, so that anyone could enter. That seemed rather a peculiar point. Surely, if they had come here for the only purpose which seemed covered by the case, they would have taken the obvious precaution of closing the front door against intruders. But if they had done that, how could Silverdale have got in? He could hardly have had a latch-key for his neighbours’ house.
It occurred to Dr. Ringwood that possibly Silverdale might have gained admittance through some unlatched window. He might have seen something through the smoke-room window and got into the house like a burglar. But all the curtains were tightly drawn. No one could see in from the outside, even if they had wished to do so. Obviously, then, it could not have been a chance discovery of his wife’s guilt that had roused Silverdale to the pitch of murder. He must have had his suspicions and deliberately tracked down the guilty couple.
Almost against his will, Dr. Ringwood’s mind persisted in an attempt to reconstruct the happenings of the night. Suppose Silverdale got in—no matter how—then evidently he must have surprised the two; and the end of that business had been the shooting of young Hassendean. But that left Yvonne Silverdale and her husband still unaccounted for. Had she fled into the night before Silverdale could shoot her in her turn. Or had her husband forced her to go with him—whither? And if this were the truth of the matter, why had Silverdale not locked the door? There seemed to be many things needing explanation before one could feel that the case was clear. Well, that was the business of the police.
His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sound of feet at the front door, and he pulled himself together with a start and rose from his chair. He was just moving towards the door when it opened and Sir Clinton Driffield, accompanied by another man, entered the room.
"Good evening, Dr. Ringwood," the Chief Constable greeted him. "I think we’ve managed to get here at the time I promised, though it was a difficult business with all this fog about."
He turned to introduce his companion.
"This is Inspector Flamborough, doctor. He’s in charge of the case. I’m merely here as an onlooker. I’ve given him the facts, so far as I know them from you; but I expect that he may wish further information if you have any."
At Sir Clinton’s words, the mouth under Inspector Flamborough’s tooth-brush moustache curved in a smile, half-friendly and half-inscrutable. Simultaneously, he seemed to be establishing good relations with the doctor and appreciating some obscure joke in the Chief Constable’s remarks.
"It’s very lucky you’re a medical man, sir. Death’s all in the day’s work with you and me; neither of us is likely to be put off our balance by it. Most witnesses in cases of this sort get so confused by the shock that it’s difficult to squeeze any clear story out of them. A doctor’s different."
Dr. Ringwood was not particularly susceptible to flattery, but he recognised that the Inspector probably was voicing his real sentiments. All three of them were experts in death, and among them there was no need to waste time in polite lamentations. None of them had ever set eyes on the victim before that night, and there was no object in becoming sentimental over him.
"Sit down, doctor," Sir Clinton broke in, after a glance at the medical man’s face. "You look as if you were about tired out. This ’flu epidemic must be taking it out of you."
Dr. Ringwood did not wait to be asked twice. Sir Clinton followed his example, but the Inspector, pulling a notebook from his pocket, prepared to open his investigation.
"Let’s see, now, doctor," he began pleasantly. "I’d like to start from the beginning. You might tell us just how you happened to come into the business; and if you can give us some definite times, it’ll be a great help."
Dr. Ringwood nodded, but seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying:
"I think I could give you it clearest if I were sure of one thing first. I believe that’s the body of young Hassendean who lived in this house, but I haven’t examined it closely—didn’t wish to disturb it in any way before you turned up. If it is young Hassendean’s body, then I can fit some other things into my evidence. Perhaps you’ll have a look for yourselves and see if you can identify him."
The Inspector exchanged a glance with his superior
"Just as you please, sir," he answered.
He crossed the room, knelt beside the chesterfield, and began to search the pockets in the body’s clothes. The first two yielded nothing in the way of identification, but from one of the pockets of the evening waistcoat the Inspector fished out a small card.
"Season ticket for the Alhambra," he reported, after glancing over it. "You’re right, doctor. The signature’s here: Ronald Hassendean."
"I was pretty sure of it," Dr. Ringwood answered. "But I like to be certain."
The Inspector rose to his feet and came back to the hearthrug.
"Now, perhaps, sir, you’ll tell us the story in your own way. Only let’s have it clear. I mean, tell us what you saw yourself and let’s know when you’re bringing anything else in."
Dr. Ringwood had a clear mind and could put his facts together in proper order. In spite of his physical weariness, he was able to take each incident of the evening in its proper turn and make it fit neatly into its place in his narrative. When he had finished, he had brought the story up to the point when the police arrived. As he closed his tale, the Inspector shut his notebook with a nod of approval.
"There’s a lot of useful information there, doctor. We’re lucky in having your help. Some of what you’ve told us would have cost a lot of bother to fish out of different people."
Sir Clinton rose to his feet with a gesture which invited the doctor to remain in his chair.