“He’s done for, sir,” he reported in a low voice to Sir Clinton. “His pelvis is smashed and I think his spine must have gone as well. He’s paralysed below the waist. I doubt if he’ll last long. It was a fearful smash.”
Cecil crossed over and peered down at the face of the dying man. For a moment he failed to recognize him; for the white grease-paint disguised the natural appearance of the features: but a closer scrutiny revealed the identity of the living statue.
“Why, it’s the chauffeur!”
“Of course,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it worth while to say.
Armadale brought something up from the water-side.
“Here’s the waterproof he was wearing, sir. It’s Marden’s, just as I told you when I saw him in the museum to-night. When he flung it over the edge of the cliff as we were coming up, it landed on a broad bit of rock instead of sinking like the Pierrot costume, the other night.”
Sir Clinton was silent for a moment. His glance wandered to the broken, white-clad figure on the ground, but no pity showed on his face. Then he turned back to Armadale.
“See if you can get a confession out of him, Inspector. He won’t live long at the best; and he might as well tell what he can. We can’t hang him now, unfortunately; and he may as well save us some trouble in piecing things together. For one thing, he’s got a bag or a suit-case lying around somewhere in the neighbourhood with a suit of clothes in it. You’d better find out where that is, and save us the bother of hunting for it. If you manage to get anything out of him, take it down and get it witnessed. Bring it down to Ravensthorpe at once.”
He passed, then added as if by an after-thought:
“You’d better search these tights that he’s wearing. There ought to be five of the medallions concealed about him somewhere. Get them for me.”
He turned to Cecil and Michael.
“We’ll go back now to Ravensthorpe. Unless I’m far astray in my deductions, there’s been another murder there; and we must keep the girls from hearing about it, if we can.”
As they walked through the pine-wood, Sir Clinton maintained a complete taciturnity, and neither of the others cared to break in on his silence. His last words had shown that ahead of them might lie yet another of the Ravensthorpe tragedies, and the shadow of it lay across their minds. It was not until they were approaching the house that the Chief Constable spoke again.
“You’ve spun that yarn I gave you to the girls?”
“They know there was some stunt afoot,” said Cecil, “but they were to keep out of the way, in their rooms, until we were clear of the house.”
“One had to tell them something,” Sir Clinton answered. “If one hadn’t, they’d have been pretty uncomfortable when all that racket started. You managed to scare him out very neatly with the row you raised when I blew my whistle.”
“The girls are sitting up, waiting for us,” Cecil explained. “They said they’d have coffee ready when we came back.”
“The deuce they did!”
Sir Clinton was obviously put out.
“I’d been counting on their going back to bed again. Then we could have got Marden’s body away quietly—if he’s been murdered, as I think he has. There’s no use upsetting people if you can avoid it. Ravensthorpe’s had its fill of sensations lately and there’s no need to add another to-night.”
He reflected as he walked on, and at last he seemed to hit on an expedient to suit the circumstances.
“The bottom’s out of this case now,” he said, at last. “There’ll be no trial; so there’s no need for any more secrecy, so far as I can see. I’ll be giving nothing away that I shouldn’t, at this stage of the game.”
He threw away the end of his cigarette and looked up at the bulk of Ravensthorpe before them. Here and there on the dark front the yellow oblong of a window shone out in the night.
“Suppose I spin them a yarn,” Sir Clinton went on. “I can keep them up until dawn with it. After that, they’ll sleep sound enough; and while they’re asleep, we’ll get Marden’s body away in peace and comfort. It’ll spare them the shock of finding another corpse on the premises; and that’s always something gained.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.
“You’d better go and close the safe in the museum. No use leaving things like that open any longer than’s necessary. I must go up to Marden’s room now. I’ll be back again in a minute or two.”
Ascending the servants’ staircase, Sir Clinton made his way to the valet’s room. The door was locked; but when Sir Clinton tapped gently, a constable opened it and looked out. At the sight of the Chief Constable, he stood aside.
“He’s been murdered, sir,” the man explained in a whisper.
“I guessed it might be that,” Sir Clinton returned.
“Whoever did it must have chloroformed him first,” the constable went on. “There was a pad of cotton-wool over his face; and his throat’s cut.”
The Chief Constable nodded in comprehension.
“That would prevent any sounds,” he said. “Brackley was a first-class planner, there’s no doubt.”
The constable continued his explanation.
“We came up here as you told us, sir; and when we heard your whistle we slipped into the room, expecting to arrest him according to your orders. But he was dead by that time. It was quite clear that he’d been murdered only a short time before. Your orders didn’t cover the case, so we thought the best thing to do was to lock the door and wait till you came back. You’d said we were to keep him here till your return, anyhow; so that seemed to be the best course.”
“Quite correct,” Sir Clinton commended them. “You couldn’t have done better. Now you’ll need to wait here till morning. Keep the door locked, and don’t let any word of this affair get abroad. I’ll see about removing the body in due course. Until then, I don’t want any alarm on the subject.”
He stepped across the room, examined the body on the bed, and then, with a nod to the constables, he went downstairs once more.
Chapter Fifteen. SIR CLINTON’S SOLUTION
“IT’S a pleasure to meet Sir Clinton again,” Joan observed when they had finished their coffee. “For the last ten days or so, I’ve been dealing with a man they call the Chief Constable. I don’t much care for him. These beetle-browed officials are not my sort. Too stiff and overbearing for me, altogether.”
Sir Clinton laughed at the hit.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve invited one of your aversions to join us. In fact, I think I hear him at the door now.”
“Inspector Armadale?” Joan demanded. “Well, I’ve nothing against him. You never let him get a word in edgeways at our interviews. Grasping, I call it.”
The door opened and the Inspector was ushered in. As he entered, a glance passed between him and Sir Clinton. In reply, Armadale made a furtive gesture which escaped the rest of the company.
“Passed in his checks,” Sir Clinton interpreted it to himself. “That clears the road.”
Joan poured out coffee for the Inspector and then turned to the Chief Constable.
“Cecil promised that you’d tell us all about everything. Don’t linger over it. We’re all in quite good listening form and we look to you not to be boring. Proceed.”
Sir Clinton refused to be disconcerted.
“Inspector Armadale’s the last authority on the subject,” he remarked. “He’s got the confession of the master mind in his pocket. I haven’t seen it yet. Suppose I give you my account of things, and the Inspector will check it for us where necessary? That seems a fair division of labour.”