‘Yes. My point is this, though. What about all his other victims, whose names have not yet come to light?’
‘Ever go to the Picturedrome in Bossbury High Street, sir?’ asked the inspector, grinning broadly. ‘I used to go regular when I was courting. We used to see headings on the films very like that mouthful you’ve just spoken. Mind you,’ he added, with lumbering tact, ‘I don’t say there’s nothing in the idea. I don’t say that at all. All I do say is – it takes me back ten years at least, blowed if it don’t. Victims! That’s a good word, that is. Victims!’
He sat and bellowed with joy.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Jim, furious. The inspector sat up and mopped his brow.
‘No offence, sir,’ he remarked, rising and resuming the mantle of gravity. ‘Well, I’d better be off, unless, of course – ?’ He looked enquiringly at the young man.
‘If you mean, will I make a voluntary statement, or some such rot as that, you can jolly well hop it out of here,’ said Jim savagely. ‘I’m not going to do your sneaking work for you!’
The inspector left him, and was walking down the drive towards the lodge gates when he met a perspiring and very dusty middle-aged gentleman in morning dress, who stopped to speak to him.
‘Inspector Grindy? You received my letter? I ought to say that in justice to my client – perhaps I ought to say my late client – Mr Sethleigh, you should find out whether his cousin, Mr Redsey, was acquainted with the terms of his will.’
‘What about the terms of his will, sir? You suggested something about a will in your letter.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. But one hardly likes to commit oneself on paper, you know, inspector. Littera scripta manet! Eh? Paper is so – so permanent at times. Yes. Well, this is the point. It seems to me I ought, in fairness to my client, to mention it, especially if he has met with foul play. According to the terms of Mr Sethleigh’s will, this Mr Redsey inherits the whole fortune and estate with the exception of about three thousand pounds. If the will were altered in accordance with a rough draft which Mr Sethleigh drew up less than three weeks ago, and which I have in my possession, Mr Redsey would find himself completely disinherited, as the result of a serious quarrel between the cousins.’
‘They did quarrel then?’ cried the inspector. ‘What was the cause, sir? Do you know that?’
‘Money. Mr Redsey wanted Mr Sethleigh to make him an advance – a loan, of course, not a gift – to enable him to buy a share in a Mexican ranch instead of going out there as a paid servant of the owner, a friend of his.’
‘And Mr Sethleigh refused?’
‘In the roundest terms, inspector. Rather a pity, I think, as he could so easily have afforded the money.’
‘Redsey was angry, of course, sir?’
‘Very angry. According to Sethleigh, he said, at the conclusion of one of the several acrimonious arguments which took place, “Very well, you mingy devil! I suppose the stuff will be mine some day! Perhaps that day will come sooner than you think!”’
‘And after that Mr Sethleigh decided to alter his will and leave Redsey out of it?’
‘That’s it. But, you see, he hasn’t had the chance, apparently. I came down on Monday last and interviewed Mr Redsey, as Sethleigh was not there. A most unsatisfactory interview in every way. Oh, and a curious feature of the afternoon was Redsey’s determination that Mrs Bryce Harringay and I should on no account approach the Vicarage by way of the Manor Woods. He went through the most extraordinary manoeuvres to prevent it.’
‘The Manor Woods?’ said the inspector thoughtfully. ‘I wonder – ? We’ve exhausted the clues in Bossbury, I think, and in this house. In fact, I don’t really know that there were any in Bossbury except fingerprints. Plenty of those! But who to fix ’em on to beats me, sir, blowed if it doesn’t! But the Manor Woods! Tried to prevent your going in, did he? Did it come off?’
‘I humoured him,’ confessed the lawyer. ‘I am sorry now that I gave way.’
‘Well, he won’t prevent me going into them,’ said Inspector Grindy, ‘although, after all this time – a full week, you see – I doubt whether there will be anything much worth finding. Still, thanks for the tip, sir.’
‘A pleasure,’ said the lawyer. ‘Well, I might as well return to Town. You are the person I came to see, and I would just as soon not encounter Mrs Bryce Harringay,’ he added, as he saw the stately matron approaching them across the lawn, ‘as I am in haste to return to the station.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ said the inspector, ‘and that is – could you give me any idea of a birthmark or other marks Mr Sethleigh might have had on his body, by which he could be identified?’
‘No idea! No idea!’ cried the lawyer, observing with dismay that Mrs Bryce Harringay was hastening towards them, and obviously had recognized him. ‘No idea at all! So sorry! I must really get that train!’
So saying, he gripped his neat attaché-case a trifle more firmly, snatched his silk hat from his head, and sprinted rapidly down the drive.
‘Mr Grayling! Mr Gray-ling!’ called Mrs Bryce Harringay behind him. The lawyer clenched his teeth and put a spurt on.
Mrs Bryce Harringay approached the inspector.
‘Most unfortunate,’ she said, raising lorgnettes and glaring after the flying figure of the lawyer with an expression of intense annoyance upon her florid countenance. She objected strongly to calling loudly after people who took no notice of her cries.
‘He was trying to catch a train, I believe, madam,’ said the inspector soothingly. ‘I suppose you can’t offer any suggestion as to what became of that skull, madam, can you?’
‘What information, exactly, are you attempting to extract from me, inspector?’ enquired Mrs Bryce Harringay haughtily. ‘Pray ask your questions in a proper manner. I object to your attitude and your tone.’
‘Have you any reason for supposing that in a fit of absent-mindedness the bishop might have taken the skull away from Mr Wright’s house?’ enquired the inspector bluntly.
‘The bishop is neither absent-minded nor mad,’ responded Mrs Bryce Harringay. ‘I do not know whether that is sufficient answer to what I can only hope and trust is not a fair sample of –’
‘Oh, come now, madam,’ remonstrated the inspector. ‘I’ll withdraw the question, if you like. The only point is this: if the bishop, who, in a sense, we might say, it belonged to, didn’t move it from Mr Wright’s house, who did?’
‘I don’t know why you are worrying about that skull at all,’ said Mrs Bryce Harringay petulantly. ‘You said yourself that you knew it couldn’t be Rupert’s skull, poor boy! If only the police would take a straight line to get to the heart of the mystery of my nephew’s disappearance, instead of going off into these ridiculous side-tracks, it would be far more profitable, I consider. You should tackle James Redsey. He knows more than anybody! He must do! He was with him when he disappeared! Why don’t you make him tell you what he knows?’
‘All in good time, madam,’ said the inspector, more soothing than ever. ‘I don’t want to make unpleasantness. There’s no need at present. I know where Mr Redsey is, and I can get him when I want him.’
‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ said Mrs Bryce Harringay aggrievedly. ‘And meanwhile poor Rupert is not being traced – no effort is being made to trace him – and James will slip through your fingers and go off to South America or somewhere before you know where you are!’
‘That, madam, is certainly something to guard against,’ said the inspector, taking out his note-book. ‘And, talking of America, there is just one more point. Why didn’t anybody in the house worry about Mr Sethleigh’s disappearance until Mr Redsey gave out that he had gone to America? See what I’m after, madam, don’t you? None of you saw Mr Sethleigh after he walked into those woods over yonder with his cousin at about eight o’clock on Sunday night, but, so far as I can make out, nobody seems to have asked anything about him until nearly tea-time on Monday. A bit queer, that, to my way of thinking.’