“And then?”
Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in.
“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all. The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at the station.”
“What had become of Mr Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question.
“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the valet. I don’t know.”
Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he silenced him by a glance.
“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan. “Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum yourself?”
Joan thought for a few seconds.
“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr Clifton, and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard the shout?”
“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested.
“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time we heard the shout.”
“About that,” Michael agreed.
Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook.
“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter, so far as you know?”
Joan paused for a moment or two before replying.
“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else that would be of use.”
“You’ve no idea where your brother is?”
“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her. “You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded, anxiously.
“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr Clifton away for a few minutes, but he’ll be back again almost immediately.”
With a reassuring smile, the Chief Constable excused himself and led the way to the door, followed by Michael and the Inspector. As soon as he was out of the room, he turned to Michael.
“You’re quite sure that Mr Chacewater wasn’t in the museum when you reached it?”
Michael considered carefully before replying.
“I don’t see how he could have been. I glanced into all the bays; and you know there isn’t cover enough for a cat in the place.”
“Was the safe door open or shut, did you notice?”
Michael again reflected before replying.
“Shut, I’m almost certain.”
Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two.
“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.”
Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir Clinton turned and confronted Michael.
“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the truth.”
Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand.
“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you like.”
The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the valet.
Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Thomas Marden.”
“How long have you been in Mr Foss’s service?”
“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.”
“How did he come to engage you?”
“Advertisement.”
“You knew nothing about him before that?”
“Nothing.”
“Where was he living then?”
“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.”
“He still has that flat?”
“Yes.”
“How did he spend his time?”
The valet seemed astonished by the question.
“I don’t know. None of my business.”
Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside.
“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out regularly at fixed times.”
Marden seemed to see what was wanted.
“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went just when it suited him.”
“Had he much correspondence?”
“Letters? Just about what one might expect.”
The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go upon.
“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’”
“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a dozen. Just what one might expect.”
“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely private correspondence?”
Marden seemed annoyed by the question.
“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to pry into my employer’s affairs.”
“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?”
“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.”
“Did you notice the stamps?”
“Some were American, of course.”
“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of you?”
The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone.
“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.”