A light seemed to flicker for a moment in Mold’s memory.
“I know!” he exclaimed. “It was like this. I’ve got it! Did you ever stand at the door of our Morris-tube range in the village while there was firin’ goin’ on inside? Well, this was somethin’ like that, only more so. I mean as if they’d fired somethin’ a bit heavier than a miniature rifle. That’s it! That’s just how it sounded.”
He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt simile.
“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story about lately . . .”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us what you did at that moment.”
“Well, sir, I searched about. The moon was clear of clouds and the place was just an open glade. The shot had come from quite near by, as I said. But when I hunted I could find nothing. There wasn’t a track in the dew on the grass. My own tracks showed up in the moonlight as clear as clear. There wasn’t anyone hiding in the old ruin; I went through and around it twice. There wasn’t a sound; for the shot had frightened the owl. I found nothing. And yet I’d take my oath that shot was fired not more than ten or a dozen yards away from me.”
“Did you hear any whistle of shot or a bullet?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m! That’s the whole story? Now, tell us about this Black Man you mentioned.”
Mold seemed rather ashamed.
“Oh, that’s just child’s chatter, Sir Clinton. I oughtn’t to have mentioned it.”
“I’m quite willing to listen to ‘child’s chatter,’ Mold, if it happens to be unusual.”
Mold evidently decided to take the plunge, though obviously he regretted having mentioned the matter at all.
“This Jennie Hitchin’s a child that lives with her grandmother on the estate. The girl’s there at night in case anything goes wrong with the old woman. Old Mrs. Hitchin was taken ill one night lately, about the middle of the night. Pretty bad she seemed; and Jennie had to dress and go off for the doctor in a hurry. That took her through the woods—it’s a short cut that way and the moonlight was bright. An’ as she was goin’ along . . .”
“What night was this,” Sir Clinton interrupted.
The keeper thought for a moment or two.
“Now I come to think of it,” he said, “’t was the night of that robbery up at Ravensthorpe. So it was. An’ as Jennie was goin’ along through the woods she saw—so she says—a Black Man slippin’ about from tree to tree.”
“A man in dark clothes?”
“No, sir. If I understood rightly, ’t was a black man. I mean a naked man with a black skin, black all over.”
“Did he molest the child?”
“No, sir. He seemed to be tryin’ to keep out of her road if anythin’. But o’ course it gave her a start. She took and ran—and small blame to her, I think. She’s only eleven or so, an’ it gave her a dreadful fright. An’ of course next day this tale was all over the country-side. I wonder you didn’t hear it yourself, sir.”
“It’s news to me, Mold, I’m afraid. Even the police can’t know everything, you see. Now before you go I want something more from you. That night when you were on guard in the museum, you remember. Do you recall seeing anyone there at any time during the evening dressed in cow-boy clothes? You know, the kind of thing in the Wild West films.”
Mold pondered for a time, evidently racking his memory.
“No, sir. I remember nobody like that. I think I’d have recalled it if I had. I’m rather keen on films about cow-boys myself, and if I’d seen a cow-boy I’d have had a good look at him, just out o’ curiosity.”
Sir Clinton had apparently got all he needed from Mold just then; and he sent him away quite reassured that his visit had not been wasted.
“What do you make of all that, Inspector?” he inquired with a faintly quizzical expression on his face, as soon as the door had closed behind the keeper.
Armadale shook his head. Then, seeing a chance of scoring, he smiled openly.
“I was to keep my ideas to myself, you remember, Sir Clinton.”
The Chief Constable gave him smile for smile.
“That arrangement must be especially useful when you’ve no ideas at all, Inspector.”
Armadale took the thrust with good humour.
“Give me time to think, Sir Clinton. You know I’ve only a slow mind, and perhaps this isn’t one of my bright days.”
Before Sir Clinton could retort the desk telephone rang and the Chief Constable lifted the receiver.
“Yes, I am . . . Thanks very much. I’ll take down the address if you’ll read it to me.”
He jotted something down on a sheet of paper.
“Thanks. Good-bye, Joan.”
He flicked the note over to Armadale.
“Would you mind seeing if we can get on to that house by ’phone, Inspector? Hunt up the London Directory for it.”
“It’s Cecil Chacewater’s address?” said Armadale, glancing at the slip.
“Yes. The man he’s staying with may be on the ’phone.”
In a few minutes the Inspector came back with the number and Sir Clinton rang up. After a short talk he put down the receiver and turned to Armadale.
“He says he can’t come to-day. You heard me explaining that we want that secret passage opened, if there is one. But he doesn’t seem to think there’s any hurry. He has some business which will keep him till to-morrow.”
“I heard you tell him that his brother’s disappeared,” the Inspector commented. “I’d have thought that would have brought him back quick enough.”
“It hasn’t, evidently,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it necessary to say. There seemed to be no reason for admitting the Inspector into the secret of the Ravensthorpe quarrels.
Chapter Eleven. UNDERGROUND RAVENSTHORPE
WHEN Inspector Armadale presented himself at the Chief Constable’s office next morning he found Sir Clinton still faithful to his proposed policy of pooling all the facts of the case.
“I’ve just been in communication with the coroner,” Sir Clinton explained. “I’ve pointed out to him that possibly we may have further evidence for the inquest on Foss; and I suggested that he might confine himself to formalities as far as possible and then adjourn for a day or two. It means keeping Marden and the chauffeur here for a little longer; but they can stay at Ravensthorpe. Miss Chacewater has no objections to that. She agreed at once when I asked her.”
“The jury will have enough before them to bring in a verdict of murder against someone unknown,” the Inspector pointed out. “Do you want to make it more definite while we’re in the middle of the case?”
Sir Clinton made a non-committal gesture as he replied:
“Let’s give ourselves the chance, at least, of putting a name on the criminal. If we don’t succeed there’s no harm done. Now here’s another point. I’ve had a telephone message from Scotland Yard. They’ve nothing on record corresponding to the finger-prints of Marden or the chauffeur. Foss was a wrong ’un. They’ve identified his finger-prints; and his photograph seems to have been easily recognizable by some of the Yard people who had dealings with him before. He went by the name of Cocoa Tom among his intimates; but his real name was Thomas Pailton. He’d been convicted a couple of times, though not recently.”
“What was his line?” the Inspector inquired.