"Pardon me, sir, but I did not show Mrs. Twining on to the terrace," said Finch. "Mrs. Twining said that she would announce herself."
"Was that usual?"
"In Mrs. Twining's case, quite usual, sir. Mrs. Twining was a very old friend of Sir Arthur's. She had been motoring in an open car, and she wished to tidy her hair before going on to the terrace. There is a mirror in the hall, as you will notice, sir. Mrs. Twining went to look at herself in it, and told me I need not wait."
"So that you did not see her go out on to the terrace?"
"No, sir, I went straight back to my pantry to mix the cocktails."
"Was anyone else in the pantry?"
The butler considered for a moment. "I rather fancy that Charles — the footman, sir — was, as one might put it, between the pantry and the dining-room, laying the table for lunch. But I could not be sure on that point. When the front door bell rang again — it would be only a few minutes later, for I was in the act of cutting the orange for the cocktails — I went back to the hall."
"Again you heard no sound from the study?"
"No, sir, it was quite quiet."
"Who had rung the front door bell?"
"Mrs. Chudleigh, sir — the Vicar's wife. I showed her on to the terrace, and then went back to my pantry."
"Did you go into the hall again after that?"
"Not until I took the cocktail tray out, sir. That would be just after half past twelve, on account of my being interrupted while mixing the cocktails, and so being a few minutes later than I should otherwise have been."
"And you did not pass through the hall again until one o'clock, when you met Mr. Guest and Mr. Halliday on their way to the study?"
"No, sir. I was busy preparing for luncheon."
"In the dining-room?"
"Between the dining-room and the pantry, sir. I should tell you that there is a door leading from the dining-room to the passage outside the pantry."
"You did not show Mrs. Chudleigh out?"
"No, sir. I understand that Mrs. Chudleigh left by way of the garden."
"Oh? Which way is that?"
The butler moved towards the west window. "You may see for yourself, sir. This opens on to the path leading from the drive to the lawn at the back of the house."
Harding followed him, and looked out. "I see." He consulted the paper in his hand again. "One more question. At what hour did Mr. Billington-Smith leave the house on Monday morning?"
"I really couldn't say, sir," replied Finch, after a moment's consideration.
The grey eyes lifted to his face. "Try to remember, will you?" said Harding gently.
"I'm afraid I didn't notice the time, sir. It was before Sir Arthur came in, I know."
"Would you agree that it was half past eleven?"
"Somewhere about there, sir, I should say."
"Did it strike you that Mr. Billington-Smith was at all upset when he went out?"
"I did not notice anything unusual, sir."
"You did not consider it unusual for him to go without his hat on a hot day?"
"Oh dear me, no, sir! Mr. Billington-Smith very rarely wore a hat in the country."
"Did he appear to be in a hurry?"
"It did not strike me in that way, sir."
"He did not, in your opinion, rush out of the house as though he were quite beside himself?"
"No, sir, certainly not. But then I know Mr Geoffrey very well, and I should not set any store by him moving quickly, as one might say. Mr Geoffrey has an impetuous way of going about his business, if you understand me."
"So that you did not think it odd that he should leave the front door open behind him?"
"Oh no, not at all, sir. Mr Geoffrey is very forgetful in those ways."
Once more Harding favoured him with a long, appraising look. "Thank you," he said. "I don't think there is anything more I want to ask you at present."
The butler bowed. "No, sir. Perhaps you would touch the bell when you wish me to conduct you over the house?"
The Sergeant watched him go out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him, and transferred his gaze to Inspector Harding's face. "You got more out of him than what the Superintendent did, sir," he remarked in his deep, slow voice. "A sight more."
"A very precise witness — until we got to Mr. Billington-Smith, where I think he swerved a little from the truth," commented Harding.
"I was watching him close all the time," said the Sergeant unnecessarily. "It struck me he was being careful — I won't say more than that. Careful."
"Sergeant, will you sit down at the desk?" said Harding, going to the west window again. "I think it might help us to know whether a man seated in that chair would be visible to anyone walking down the path to the drive." He unbolted the window as he spoke, and stepped out into the garden, drawing the window to behind him. As at the front of the house, a broad grass border ran from the window to the gravel path. Harding crossed this, went a little way up the path, and then turned, and walked down it, past the window. Then he re-entered the room, and bolted the window once more. "Yes, I think perhaps Mrs. Chudleigh may be able to help us fix the time of the murder more exactly," he said. He came up to the desk. "Now, Sergeant, let us look through these papers," hc said, taking the swivel-chair which the Sergeant had just vacated. "I don't think there's anything else likely to interest us, with the possible exception of the safe. I shall want that opened, of course. Do you know if the Chief Constable warned Mr. Billington-Smith to have his father's lawyer down?"
"Yes, sir, that I do know he did, for I was in the hall at the time. But we found it just like you see, not tampered with at all."
"Any finger-prints?" inquired Harding, his eyes on the pencil that lay on the desk.
"No, nothing of that kind. Quite clean it was." He looked rather dubiously at Harding. "Were you thinking there might have been robbery, sir?"
"No, I should say most unlikely."
"That's what I thought," said the Sergeant, glad to find himself in agreement.
Harding had picked up a slip of paper on the top of tie sheaf on the desk. Some memoranda had been jotted down on it in pencil. Harding considered the pencil again for a moment.
"Looks like the General was making a list of what he had to do," suggested the Sergeant helpfully.
"It looks as though he were interrupted while he was doing so," said Harding. "He did not finish the last note he made."
"No more he did!" said the Sergeant, stooping to read the pencilled scrawl more nearly. "Speak to Lester," (that's the gardener) and then "See Barker about."
Well, that isn't sense, is it? The General wouldn't write a thing like that. He was a very methodical man. No, you're right, sir. Someone interrupted him before he had time to put down what he wanted to see Mr Barker about, and what's more he didn't finish that memo, afterwards, because he was dead."
"Well, perhaps that's leaping to conclusions a bit," said Harding. "At the same time it is just possible that he was jotting down that note when his murderer entered the room, and equally possible that at the moment when the blow was struck he was still holding the pencil in his hand."
The Sergeant turned this over in his mind. "You're thinking of that bit of writing the Superintendent showed you," he pronounced.
"I am, yes." Harding laid the slip of paper aside, and began to go through the others littered over the desk. There was nothing amongst them of any interest, and when he had glanced through them he turned to the waste-paper basket beside the chair. It was half-full of torn and crumpled letters which a cursory inspection informed Harding were either circulars or begging appeals. Under these were the scattered fragments of a cheque, torn into four pieces. Harding lifted these out and laid them on the desk, piecing them together.
The Sergeant drew nearer, watching this process. When it was finished he was silent for a moment. Then he said: "That's black, sir."