"I didn't give any heed to Mr Geoffrey, sir. I have my work to do, unlike others I could name who waste their time goggling at their betters and making up a pack of theatrical nonsense about them."
With Dawson's colourful statement under his hand Harding asked: "When you sent Dawson out of Captain Billington-Smith's room, was Mr Geoffrey — er — "holding his head in his hands, and looking fit to kill Himself"?"
Peckham gave a sniff. "I'm sure I couldn't say, sir. I didn't notice him particularly."
"Thank you, that's all then. Will you ask the butler to send Mr. Guest to me, please?"
When she had left the room the Sergeant shook his head. "She's speaking the truth all right, sir. That was a lie what Mr. Halliday told you: he never had that talk with his wife which he said he did. If you was to ask me, I should be bound to say that to my way of thinking he had his suspicions about her little game all along, and he found that cheque when she'd gone out on to the terrace. It looks bad, sir; uncommon bad it looks."
Harding had picked up Stephen Guest's statement. "Do you know if there's any truth in what Mrs. Halliday said about Guest and Lady Billington-Smith?"
"I never heard anything about it," said the Sergeant. "Of course the General was a lot older than her ladyship, not that that proves anything."
"Mr. Guest!" announced Finch, from the doorway.
Stephen Guest came in with his slow, deliberate tread.
Chapter Twelve
Guest's deep-set eyes considered the Sergeant for one indifferent moment, and then passed on to Harding's face, and remained there. "Good afternoon, Inspector," he said, and walked up to the chair by the table and sat down.
"Good afternoon," Harding returned. "I have one in two questions I want to ask you concerning your movements yesterday morning, Mr. Guest."
"Carry on," said Guest, feeling in one coat-pocket for his pipe and tobacco-pouch. He settled himself at ease in his chair and began in a methodical way to fill his pipe.
"Can you remember just what you were doing up till twelve o'clock?"
Guest smiled slightly. "Rather a tall order, Inspector. I don't think I did anything in particular. I read the papers, knocked the billiard balls about a bit, and went out to sit on the terrace — round about eleven-thirty, I should say. Halliday was with me: he might know the exact time."
"Then it was not because you had something particular to do that you told the footman he need not be in a hurry to pack your bag, as you had changed your mind and were not leaving by the early train?"
Guest struck a match, and waited for it to burn a little way up the stick before holding it to his pipe. "No," he said.
"What did induce you to change your mind, Mr. Guest?"
Stephen Guest puffed at his pipe, and pressed the tobacco down with one spatulate finger. "I thought I might as well travel up with the Hallidays on the afternoon train," he replied.
Harding glanced up from the paper in his hand. "There had been, before breakfast, some unpleasantness between Sir Arthur and Lady Billington-Smith, I think?"
"So I believe," replied Guest uncommunicatively.
"Did you hear this quarrel in progress?"
"I did."
"Did that in any way influence you when you decided to leave by the later train?"
"It did not."
There did not seem to be anything more to be got out of him on this point. Harding scrutinised him for a moment in silence, and then asked: "You were, I believe, related to General Billington-Smith?"
"Some kind of cousin," agreed Guest. "More like a connection."
"You visit this house fairly frequently?"
"Now and again," said Guest, carefully laying the charred match down on the edge of the table.
"You were, then, on good terms with the General?"
"We didn't quarrel," replied Guest?"
"What does that mean, Mr. Guest?
"Well —" Guest shifted the pipe to the corner of his mouth —"The General wasn't just the type of man I get on very good terms with."
"Yet you stay in his house?"
"Oh yes!" said Guest with equanimity.
Harding looked at him for a moment; there was nothing to be learned from that square, contained face. Stephen Guest returned the look, and continued to puff at his pipe. "Will you now describe to me, as accurately as you can, what your movements were after twelve o'clock yesterday morning?" Stephen Guest reflected. "That would be about the time the General came in with Mrs. Halliday, wouldn't it? I was on the terrace."
"Was anyone with you?"
"Yes, Miss Fawcett joined me there."
"Mr. Halliday was not on the terrace?"
"Halliday went into the billiard-room shortly before Miss Fawcett turned up."
"When did you leave the terrace, Mr. Guest?"
"Very hard to say," Guest answered. "Somewhere about twelve-thirty, I should put it."
"Were you on the terrace when Mrs. Chudleigh arrived?"
"I was."
"And when she left?"
"No, I didn't see her go."
"And when the butler brought out the cocktails?"
"No."
"How long would you say that you were absent from the terrace, Mr. Guest?
Guest considered the point. "Some little while. Ten to fifteen minutes."
"What were you doing during that time?"
"I went up to my room to get some tobacco."
"Is that all, Mr. Guest?"
"Substantially," nodded Guest. "I opened a new tin, and cut myself on the jagged edge. It took a few minutes to stop it bleeding." He pulled up his shirt-cuff in a leisurely way, and showed Harding a long scratch on his wrist. "Nothing much, but I'm an easy bleeder."
"Did you see anyone while you were upstairs?"
"No."
"And when you had stopped the bleeding, did you go straight back to the terrace?"
"Straight back."
"Mr. Halliday, I think, called attention to the fact that there was blood on your cuff?"
"He did."
"Did you show him that cut?"
"I should say not."
"Or anyone else?"
"No."
"Did anyone ask you to show it?"
"I fancy Mrs. Halliday had a deal to say about it. I didn't show it. It was nothing to make a song about." Harding picked up his pencil. "Thank you, Mr. Guest: that's all at present. Will you please ask Miss de Silva to come here?"
Guest got up. "I will," he said tranquilly, and walked out.
Harding lifted an eyebrow in the Sergeant's direction.
"Did you make anything of that, Sergeant?"
"You can't, not when they stick to Yes, and No," said the Sergeant rather disgustedly. "Tough-looking customer.
Daresay he wouldn't stick at much."
Harding propped his chin in his hand, and looked thoughtfully before him, at the closed door. "He's got a very cool head on his shoulders," he remarked. "And he doesn't mean to give anything away. I wonder."
The Sergeant gave a little cough. "There was one thing as struck me, sir."
"Let's have it, Sergeant."
"Well, sir, he wouldn't show that scratch on his wrist to anyone yesterday, but he was what I'd call very prompt in letting you see it today."
"He was," agreed Harding.
"Of course, it doesn't prove anything," said the Sergeant.
"That," replied Harding, "is just the trouble."
The door opened, and Miss de Silva sailed into the room.
Harding rose, betraying no visible sign of surprise"Miss de Silva?" he asked.
"Yes," announced the lady. "I am La Lola." Her gaze lighted on the Sergeant, and kindled. "Is it you whom I have told that I will not have looking at me as though I am an assassin?" she demanded.
"No, miss, that was Constable Fletcher," replied the Sergeant hastily.
"To me," said Lola, "there is not any diflerence between you. Moreover you too stare at me. Perhaps, it is that you like to look at me a great deal because I am beautiful?"