“Aren’t we running our heads against a brick wall?” he said at last. “Doesn’t all the evidence point to accidental death?”
“I won’t settle for accident until I can be sure of the kind of accident it was,” said Mallett stubbornly. “And there’s another thing, Mr. Pettigrew. This accident happened a deal too conveniently to satisfy me. He had only to live one day more for his daughters to come into all Gilbert’s money. Don’t tell me it was coincidence that he died when he did.”
In that moment revelation came to Francis Pettigrew.
“Of course not!” he said. “You are perfectly right- it wasn’t coincidence at all. I can see the whole thing now. Our whole trouble has been that we’ve been looking at this case from the wrong end. Look at it from the proper end and it sticks out a mile. Don’t you see, Mallett? The reason why we haven’t got the right answer is that we’ve never asked the right question!”
And he proceeded to ask the right question and to supply the answer to it with emphasis and elaboration.
Mallett had never been an emotional man-members of his profession cannot afford to be-and with increasing age his manner had become calmer and quieter than ever. He listened to Pettigrew’s excited harangue with an air of no more than interested attention. When it was over he took time to refill and light his pipe. Then he said:
“You know, Mr. Pettigrew, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were right. In fact, I think I’d be prepared to go so far as to say outright that you are right. As you say, once you look at the case from the proper angle all the probabilities point that way. It’s a pity that we shall never be able to prove it, but at least you have the satisfaction of knowing the answer.”
“Don’t be so dismal,” said Pettigrew. “In any case, it’s not for us to prove anything. That’s up to Parkinson and his merry men.”
“Suppose I can persuade Mr. Parkinson to start this enquiry all over again from a new standpoint, do you suppose there’ll be any evidence left after all this time?”
“Nobody can tell that till the evidence is looked for. There are some kinds of evidence that are indestructible. With any luck this will be.”
“Let’s hope so. I’ve got to persuade Inspector Parkinson, and Parkinson’s got to persuade his Chief. Then if the preliminary enquiries indicate that we’re on the right track, the Chief’s got to persuade the Home Office. It will all take time, and the first stage will be the longest, I fancy. If there’s nothing to show at the end of it, my name will be mud.” He drained his glass and stood up. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Pettigrew, I think it is time I went to bed. It has been a most rewarding evening and I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done. If only-”
“Yes?”
“If only I could get an answer to that other problem that was troubling us, then I should really know we were on the right lines.”
“I’m in a generous mood,” said Pettigrew. “I’ll answer that one for you too. Or rather, I’ll tell you where to find the answer. It’s in your library. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes-or is it The Memoirs? Look it up when you get home-you’ll recognise it easily enough.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” repeated Mallett. “I won’t forget. Good night, sir, and thank you.”
CHAPTER XVII. The Right Answer
About the middle of June, Pettigrew received a letter from Exmoor:
“Dear Mr. Pettigrew,
I thought you would be interested to know-the baby was born yesterday, and it’s a boy. Dick Gorman rang me up to tell me, and I’m glad to say he’s taken the news very well. I have Doreen and Beryl staying at Sunbeam while their mother is in hospital-did I tell you, my housekeeper was stepsister to Bob Gorman, Jack’s third cousin, who lives at Combe Martin, so she is really one of the family?-and they are thrilled at having a brother. I expect they will be here another two or three weeks, when they will go to join their mother at Tracy Grange. It would give me very great pleasure if you and your good lady could come to spend a week here next month, after they have gone. The country should be looking very pretty then, and with no hunting going on, there won’t be so many visitors about. I may say I have at last persuaded Mr. Parkinson to look into the matters we discussed the last time we met, and there may be some interesting developments shortly. Looking forward to seeing you,
I am,
Yours respectfully,
J. Mallett.
PS. I have looked up the Sherlock Holmes story you were thinking of. I am sure you are right, but it seems to be altogether too late to do anything about that now.”
Owing to various difficulties and delays, it was not until nearly the end of July that the Pettigrews were able to accept Mallett’s invitation. On the evening of their arrival, they found him in his sitting-room contemplating three silver porringers, four silver mugs and half a dozen spoons of different shapes and sizes, alike only in their emphatic ugliness.
“It’s the christening to-morrow,” he explained. “Mrs. Gorman’s asked me to be a godfather. Odd, isn’t it, considering that I nearly disinherited her, but she said that if it hadn’t been for me she would never have known the truth about Jack, and by way of showing her gratitude she’d like to make me responsible for his son. Can you understand how women’s minds work, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
Eleanor, contemplating the fearsome array of silver, murmured that she found men’s minds also a little difficult to understand sometimes.
“I wish you’d help me, ma’am,” said Mallett. “I’ve been so busy with other things that the matter of a present went clean out of my mind, and I got these in on appro at the last moment. Which shall I have?”
Tactfully Eleanor steered Mallett’s choice in the direction of the plainest and least offensive of the mugs, and then they became free to talk of other things.
The christening was fixed for half-past three, with tea at the Grange to follow. Mallett was taking his housekeeper to the service and proposed that his guests should accompany them. Pettigrew was quite prepared to go, but Eleanor, unhappy in the knowledge that her holiday clothes would not stand up to the full finery of the Gorman clan on a state occasion, protested vigorously that outsiders would not be welcome. Eventually it was arranged by way of a compromise that they should accompany Mallett to Minster Tracy, but spend the afternoon with Hester Greenway, who was only too glad to entertain them.
It was a fine day, and the prospective godfather was in high spirits, until something occurred on the way that seriously discomposed him. As they turned off the high road into the Minster Tracy lane, another car, coming in the opposite direction, turned also and followed them down the lane. Mallett, normally a punctiliously courteous driver, pulled up abruptly where the road was at its narrowest, so that the following car had to stop also. Then he got out and went back to speak to the other driver.
He was gone some time, and when he returned it was apparent that he was, for him, in a very bad temper.
“That idiot Parkinson!” he confided to Pettigrew, who was in the seat beside him. “For months now I’ve been on at him to get something done, and he has to choose to-day of all days!”
Pettigrew could think of nothing useful to say, and accordingly said nothing. Presently Mallett’s sense of justice asserted itself.
“Of course, he wasn’t to know,” he went on. “And he says it’s too late to stop anything now. He’s promised to keep everyone out of the way as much as possible till the service is over, so I dare say it will be all right. But it is awkward, all the same. It’s my godson I’m thinking of. Are babies of that age easily upset, do you think, Mr. Pettigrew?”
Pettigrew assured him that according to his experience, babies of that age were not normally upset by the activities of the police, and Mallett regained his calm. By the time they reached their destination, the police car had dropped behind and was nowhere to be seen.