“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?”
“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so far as we can see.”
As he spoke, his glance telegraphed a warning to the rest of the group. It seemed unnecessary that Maurice should know all the inns and outs of the night’s doings.
But Foxy evidently failed to grasp the meaning of the Chief Constable’s look.
“We saved the real medallions for you, Maurice. Vote of thanks to us, eh?”
“How did you manage that?” Maurice demanded, with no sign of gratitude in his voice.
Quite oblivious of the warning looks thrown at him by the rest of the group, Foxy launched at once into a detailed account of the whole practical joke and its sequel. Maurice listened frowningly to the story. When it was completed, he made no direct comment.
“Who’s got the medallions? You, Joan? I’ll take them.”
When she had handed them over, he scrutinized them carefully.
“These seem to be the Leonardo ones,” he confirmed.
Sir Clinton interposed a question.
“Were the medallions and the replicas in their usual places to-night, Maurice? I mean, were the real things in the top row and the electros down below?”
Maurice gave a curt nod of assent. He weighed the three medallions unconsciously in his hand for a moment, then moved over to the safe in the wall of the museum.
“These things will be safer under lock and key, now,” he said.
He opened the safe, inserted the medallions, closed the safe-door with a clang, and busied himself with the combination of the lock.
Before saying anything further, Sir Clinton waited until Maurice had returned to the group.
“There’s one thing,” he said. “I shall have to look into this affair officially now. It’s essential that things shall be left as they are. Especially the place where that fellow gave you the slip, Clifton. Nobody must be wandering about there, up at the spinney, until I’ve done with the ground. There may be clues left, for all one can tell; and we can’t run the risk of them being destroyed.”
Maurice looked up gloomily.
“Very well. I’ll give orders to the keepers to patrol the wood and turn everyone back. That do?”
“So long as no one sets foot on anything beyond the wood, I’ll be quite satisfied. But it’s important, Maurice. Impress that on your keepers, please.”
Maurice indicated his comprehension with a nod.
“I’ll begin dragging the lakelet up there to-morrow morning,” Sir Clinton added. “Something must have gone into the water to make the splash that was heard; and perhaps we shall find it. I don’t mind anyone going down by the lake side. It’s the top of the cliff that I want kept intact.”
He looked at his watch.
“You’re on the ’phone here? I must ring up the police in Hincheldene now and make arrangements for to-morrow. Show me your ’phone, please, Joan. And as I must get some sleep to-night, I’ll say good-bye to the rest of you now. Come along, Ariel. Lead the way.”
Chapter Seven. WHAT WAS IN THE LAKE
“IWAS afraid of it,” Sir Clinton observed, as he lifted the dripping pole with which he had been sounding the water of the lakelet. “The net will be no good, Inspector. With these spikes of rock jutting up from the bottom all over the place, you couldn’t get a clean sweep; and if there’s anything here at all, it’s pretty sure to have lodged in one of the cavities between the spikes.”
It was the morning after the masked ball at Ravensthorpe. The Chief Constable had made all his arrangements over-night, so that when he reached the shore of the artificial lake, everything was in readiness. The decrepit raft had been strengthened; a large net had been brought for the purpose of dragging the pool; and several grapnels had been procured, in case the net turned out to be useless. Sir Clinton had gone out on the raft to sound the water and discover whether the net could be utilized; but the results had not been encouraging.
Inspector Armadale listened to the verdict with a rather gloomy face.
“It’s a pity,” he commented regretfully. “Dragging with the grapnel is a kind of hit-or-miss job, Sir Clinton; and it’ll take far longer than working with the net.”
Sir Clinton acquiesced with a gesture.
“We’d better start close in under the cliff-face,” he said. “If anything came down from the top, it can’t have gone far before it sank. One of the people last night was watching the pool and he saw nothing on the surface after the splash, so it ought to be somewhere near the cave-mouth. You can pole over to the shore now, constable; we’ve done with this part of the business.”
The constable obeyed the order and soon Sir Clinton rejoined the Inspector on the bank.
“It’s likely to be a troublesome business,” the Chief Constable admitted as his subordinate came up. “The bottom’s very irregular and the chances are that the grapnel will stick, two times out of three. However, the sooner we get to work, the better.”
He considered for a moment or two.
“Tack a light line to the grapnel as well as the rope. Get the raft out past the cave and let a constable pitch the grapnel in there. Then when you’ve dragged, or if the grapnel sticks, he can pull the hook back again with the light line and start afresh alongside the place where he made the last cast. But it’s likely to be a slow business, as you say.”
The Inspector agreed and set his constables to work at once. Sir Clinton withdrew to a little distance, sat down on a small hillock from which he could oversee the dragging operations, and patiently awaited the start of the search. His eyes, wandering with apparent incuriosity over the group at the water’s edge, noted with approval that Armadale was wasting no time.
Having made his instructions clear, the Inspector came over to where the Chief Constable was posted.
“Sit down, Inspector,” Sir Clinton invited. “This may take all day, you know, and it’s as cheap sitting as standing.”
When the Inspector had seated himself, the Chief Constable turned to him with a question.
“You’ve seen to it that no one has gone up on to the terrace?”
Inspector Armadale nodded affirmatively.
“No one’s been up on top,” he explained, “I’d like to go and have a look round myself; but since you were so clear about it, I haven’t gone.”
“Don’t go,” Sir Clinton reiterated his order. “I’ve a sound reason for letting no one up there.”
He glanced for a moment at the group of constables.
“Another thing, Inspector,” he continued. “There’s no secrecy about that matter. In fact, it might be useful if you’d let it leak out to the public that no one has been up above there and that no one will be allowed to go until I give the word. Spread it round, you understand?”
Slightly mystified, apparently, the Inspector acquiesced.
“Do you see your way through the case, Sir Clinton?” he demanded. “You’ve given me the facts, but we’ll need a good deal more, it seems to me.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his cigarette-case and thoughtfully began to smoke before answering the question. When he spoke again, his reply was an indirect one.
“There’s an old jurist’s saying that I always keep in mind,” he said. “It helps to clarify one’s ideas in a case:
Quis, quid, ubi, quibus auxiliis, cur, quomodo, quando?
That puts our whole business into a nutshell.” He glanced at the Inspector’s face. “Your Latin’s as feeble as my own, perhaps? There’s an English equivalent:
What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where, How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share?