“There’s a good deal that needs explaining about Foss,” the Inspector observed. “I’ve got his photograph here, taken from the body yesterday.”
He produced it as he spoke.
“Send a copy to Scotland Yard, Inspector, please, and ask if they have any information about him. Considering everything, it’s quite likely we might learn something. You might send his finger-prints also, to see if they have them indexed there.”
“I’ll send Marden’s too, when I’m at it,” the Inspector volunteered, “and the chauffeur’s. We might as well be complete when we’re at it.”
Sir Clinton indicated his agreement without saying anything. He changed the subject when he next spoke.
“We’ve agreed to pool the facts, Inspector, and I’ve got a contribution—two contributions in fact—towards the common stock. Here’s the first.”
He laid a telegraph form on the desk before Armadale, and the Inspector read the wording:
Have no agent named Foss am not negotiating for Leonardo medallions. Kessock.
“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!” ejaculated the Inspector. “It was obvious that there was something fishy; but I hadn’t imagined it was as fishy as all that. Kessock knows nothing about him, then?”
“My cable was fairly explicit. It’s clear that friend Foss had no authority from Kessock.”
“But what about all that correspondence between Maurice Chacewater and Kessock that we saw?”
“Forgeries, so far as the Kessock letters were concerned, obviously. One of Kessock’s household must have been in league with Foss and intercepted Maurice Chacewater’s letters. Then replies were forged and dispatched. I’ve cabled Kessock about it this morning, so as to get the news in at once. The confederate may hear of Foss’s murder through the newspapers in four or five days when our papers get across there. He might bolt when he got the news. I’ve given Kessock a chance to forestall that if he wants to.”
“That puts a new light on things, certainly,” Armadale said when he had considered the new facts. “Foss was a wrong ’un masquerading here for some purpose or other—the medallions, probably. That fits in with all the unmarked linen and the rest of it. But why was he murdered?”
Sir Clinton disregarded the question.
“I’ve got another fact to contribute,” he went on. “You remember that Marconi Otophone in Foss’s room? I’ve made some inquiries about it. It’s a thing they make for the use of deaf people—a modern substitute for the ear-trumpet.”
The Inspector made a gesture of bewilderment.
“But Foss wasn’t deaf! He admitted to you that he had good enough hearing, when he was telling you about overhearing Foxton Polegate in the winter-garden.”
“That’s quite true,” Sir Clinton rejoined. “But he evidently needed an Otophone for all that.”
The Inspector pondered for a few moments before speaking.
“It beats me,” he said at last.
Sir Clinton dismissed the subject without further discussion.
“Now what about Maurice Chacewater?” he inquired. “There’s no great difficulty in suggesting how he disappeared from the museum. It’s common talk hereabout that Ravensthorpe has secret passages; and one of them may end up in the wall of the museum.”
It was the turn of Armadale to contribute a fresh fact.
“He didn’t appear at any local station yesterday or this morning; and he didn’t use a motor of any sort that I’ve been able to trace. I’ve had men on that job and it’s been thoroughly done.”
“Congratulations, Inspector.”
“If he hasn’t got away, then he must be somewhere in the neighbourhood still.”
“I should say that was indisputable, if not certain,” commented Sir Clinton, with a return of his faintly chaffing manner. “A man can only be in one place at once, if you follow me. And if he’s not there, then he must be here.”
“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere around. It’s what anyone might do if they found themselves up to the hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter, and got into a panic over it.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence.
“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to take charge of things up there.”
“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Sir Clinton put the subject aside.
“Now, Inspector, let me remind you of what’s wanted:
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?
You put it down as murder?”
“Or manslaughter,” corrected Armadale. “And we know When, How, and Where, at any rate.”
“Do we?” Sir Clinton rejoined. “Speak for yourself. I’m not so sure about When and Where yet, and How is still a dark mystery so far as I’m concerned. I mean,” he added, “so far as legal proof goes.”
The Inspector was about to say something further when a knock at the door was heard and a constable appeared in answer to Sir Clinton’s summons.
“The Ravensthorpe head keeper wants to see you, Sir Clinton, if you can spare him a moment. He says it’s important.”
The Chief Constable ordered the keeper to be admitted.
“Well, Mold, what’s your trouble?” he inquired, when the man appeared.
“It’s this way, Sir Clinton,” Mold began. “Seein’ the queer sort o’ things we’ve seen lately, it seemed to me that maybe another queer thing that’s happened might be important. So I thought it over, and I made bold to come and tell you about it.”
He seemed to lose confidence a little at this point; but Sir Clinton encouraged him by a show of interest.
“Last night,” he went on, “I was goin’ through the wood at the back o’ the house—about eleven o’clock it was, as near as I can make it. At the back o’ the house there’s a strip of woodland, then a little bit of a clearin’, and then the rest of the wood. I’d come out o’ the bigger bit o’ the wood and got most o’ the way across the clearin’ when it happened. I can tell you just where it was, for I was passin’ the old ruin there—the Knight’s Tower they call it.”
He paused for a moment or two, evidently finding continuous narrative rather a strain.
“The moon was well up by that time. It’s just past the full these days; and the place was as clear as day. Everythin’ was quiet, except an old owl that lives in a hollow tree up by there. I could hear the swish of my feet in the grass and mighty little else; for the grass was dewy and made a lot o’ noise with my stepping through it. Well, as I was goin’ along, all of a sudden I heard a shot. It sounded close by me; an’ I turned at once. There’s a poachin’ chap that’s given me a lot o’ trouble, an’ I didn’t put it past him to think he might be tryin’ to give me a scare. But when I turned round there was nothin’ to be seen. There was nothin’ there at all; an’ yet that shot had come from quite close by.”
“Did it sound like the report of a shot-gun?” Sir Clinton asked.
Mold seemed to be in a difficulty.
“Shot-gun sounds I know fairly well. ’T weren’t from a shot-gun. More like a pistol-shot it sounded, when I’d had time to think over it. An’ yet it weren’t altogether like a pistol-shot, neither. That’s a sharp sound. This was more booming-like, if you understand me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it yet, Mold,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I know how difficult it is to describe sounds, though. Have another try. Did it remind you of anything?”