“Might be a bit of marble that got swept over the top when they were putting up the balustrade in the old days,” the Inspector hazarded.
Sir Clinton looked at it again and shook his head.
“I doubt it,” he said. “However, since it’s the only thing you’ve fished up, you’d better keep it, Inspector. One never knows what may be useful. I might make a paper-weight out of it as a souvenir.”
The Inspector failed to see the point of the joke, but he laughed as politely as he could.
“Very well, Sir Clinton, I’ll see that it’s put aside.”
He glanced over the Chief Constable’s shoulder.
“Here’s Mr Clifton coming, sir.”
Sir Clinton turned round to find that Michael Clifton had approached while he was engaged with the dragging operations. Leaving the group by the bank, he walked slowly to meet the advancing figure.
“Good morning, Mr Clifton. Come up to see how we’re getting on, I suppose. There’s nothing to report, I’m afraid.”
“Drawn blank?” Michael inquired, needlessly. “There ought to be something there, all the same.”
“It may have been only a stone,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “You heard a splash; that’s all we have to go on. And a stone would make that as well as anything else.”
“That’s true,” Michael admitted. “None of us saw the thing hit the water, so we’ve no notion what it was like. It might have been a stone for all we can tell. But why should the fellow pitch a brick into the water? That’s what puzzles me.”
Before Sir Clinton could reply, a shout came from the bank, and the Inspector waved to them to come down.
“We’ve got something, sir,” he called, as they drew nearer.
Followed by Michael, Sir Clinton hurried up to the group at the water’s edge. The Inspector was kneeling down, carefully disentangling the grapnel from something white. At last he rose and held out his capture. Michael gave an exclamation.
“A white jacket!”
A little further shaking of the material showed that it was a complete white Pierrot costume, except for the cap and shoes. The Inspector spread it out on the grass to dry, after holding the jacket outspread in the air so that they could gauge its size by comparison with his own body.
“That’s what I’ve been hoping to get hold of, Inspector,” Sir Clinton said. “I doubt if you’ll find much more in the pool. But perhaps you’d better go on dragging for a while yet. Something else might turn up.”
He examined the costume carefully; but it was quite evident that there were no identifying marks on it. During the inspection, Michael showed signs of impatience; and as soon as he could he unostentatiously drew Sir Clinton away from the group.
“Come up here, Mr Clifton,” the Chief Constable suggested, as he turned towards the hillock he had chosen earlier in the morning. “We can keep an eye on things from this place.”
He sat down and Michael, after a glance to see that they were out of earshot of the dragging party, followed his example.
“What do you make of that?” he demanded eagerly.
Sir Clinton seemed to have little desire to discuss the matter.
“Let’s be quite clear on one point before we begin,” he reminded Michael. “I’m a Chief Constable, not a broadcasting station. My business is to collect information, not to throw it abroad before the proper time comes. You understand?”
Rather dashed, Michael admitted the justice of this.
“I’m a public servant, Mr Clifton,” Sir Clinton pointed out, his manner taking the edge off the directness of his remarks, “and I get my information officially. Obviously it wouldn’t be playing the game if I scattered that information around before the public service has had the use of it.”
“I see that well enough,” Michael protested. “All I asked was what your own views are.”
Sir Clinton smiled and there was a touch of mischief in his eye as he replied.
“Seeing that my conclusions are based on the evidence—at least I like to think so, you know—they’re obviously part and parcel of my official knowledge. Hence I don’t divulge them till the right moment comes.”
He paused to let this sink in, then added lightly:
“That’s a most useful principle, I find. One often makes mistakes, and of course one never divulges them either, until the right time comes. It’s curious, but I’ve never been able yet to satisfy myself that the right time has come in any case of the sort.”
Michael smiled in his turn; and Sir Clinton went on:
“But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t draw your own conclusions and give me the benefit of them. I’m not too proud to be helped, you know.”
For a moment Michael kept silence, as if considering what his next move should be. Sir Clinton had given him what might have looked like a snub; but Michael had acuteness enough to tell him that the matter was one of principle with the Chief Constable and not merely a pretext devised on the spur of the moment to suppress inconvenient curiosity.
“It just occurred to me,” he confessed, “that there’s a possible explanation of that thing they’ve fished up. Do you remember that I found Maurice in the Fairy House up above there”—he indicated the cliff-top with a gesture—“and when I left him there he was still wearing a white costume like this one?”
“So you told us last night,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
“Now when Maurice turned up in the museum later on,” Michael continued, “he was wearing ordinary evening clothes. He’d got rid of the Pierrot dress in the meantime.”
“That’s true,” Sir Clinton agreed.
“Isn’t it possible,” Michael went on, “that after I left him, Maurice got over his troubles, whatever they were, and pitched his disguise over the edge here. This may quite well be it.”
“Rather a rum proceeding, surely,” was Sir Clinton’s comment. “Can you suggest any earthly reason why he should do a thing like that?”
“I can’t,” Michael admitted, frankly. “But the whole affair last night seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason in it; and after swallowing the escape of that beggar we were after, I’m almost prepared for anything in this neighbourhood. I just put the matter before you. I can’t fake up any likely explanation to account for it.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be reflecting before he spoke again.
“To tell you the truth, I was rather disappointed with the result of that drag. Quite obviously—this isn’t official information, for you can see it with your own eyes—quite obviously that Pierrot costume must have been wrapped round some weight or other, or it wouldn’t have sunk to the bottom. And in the dragging the weight fell out. I could make a guess at what the weight was; but I wish we’d fished it up. It doesn’t matter much, really; but one likes to get everything one can.”
Michael, unable to guess what lay behind this, kept silent in the hope that there was more to come; but the Chief Constable swung off to a fresh subject.
“Did you take a careful note of the costumes of the gang who helped you in the attempt to round the beggar up? Could you make a list of them if it became necessary?”
Michael considered for the best part of a minute before answering.
“Some of them I could remember easily enough; but not all, I’m sure. It was a bit confused, you know; and some of the crew turned up pretty late, when all my attention was focused on the final round-up. I really couldn’t guarantee to give you an accurate list.”
Sir Clinton’s nod indicated approval.
“That’s what I like,” he said. “I’d rather have a definite No than a faked-up list that might mean nothing at all. But there’s one point that’s really important. Did you notice, among your assistants, anybody in white like the man you were hunting?”