Murder of a Snob - Roy Vickers

# Bello:

## hidden talent rediscovered!

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# Contents

  * Roy Vickers
  * Chapter One
  * Chapter Two
  * Chapter Three
  * Chapter Four
  * Chapter Five
  * Chapter Six
  * Chapter Seven
  * Chapter Eight
  * Chapter Nine
  * Chapter Ten
  * Chapter Eleven
  * Chapter Twelve
  * Chapter Thirteen
  * Chapter Fourteen
  * Chapter Fifteen
  * Chapter Sixteen
  * Chapter Seventeen
  * Chapter Eighteen
  * Chapter Nineteen
  * Chapter Twenty
  * Chapter Twenty-One
  * Chapter Twenty-Two

## Roy Vickers

# Murder of a Snob

#  Roy Vickers

Roy Vickers was the author of over 60 crime novels and 80 short stories, many written under the pseudonyms Sefton Kyle and David Durham. He was born in 1889 and educated at Charterhouse School, Brasenose College, Oxford, and enrolled as a student of the Middle Temple. He left the University before graduating in order to join the staff of a popular weekly. After two years of journalistic choring, which included a period of crime reporting, he became editor of the _Novel Magazine_ , but eventually resigned this post so that he could develop his ideas as a freelance. His experience in the criminal courts gave him a view of the anatomy of crime which was the mainspring of his novels and short stories. Not primarily interested in the professional crook, he wrote of the normal citizen taken unawares by the latent forces of his own temperament. His attitude to the criminal is sympathetic but unsentimental.

Vickers is best known for his 'Department of Dead Ends' stories which were originally published in _Pearson's Magazine_ from 1934. Partial collections were made in 1947, 1949, and 1978, earning him a reputation in both the UK and the US as an accomplished writer of 'inverted mysteries'. He also edited several anthologies for the Crime Writers' Association.

#  Chapter One

Samuel Cornboise was murdered because he was a snob. Not the harmless kind of snob who wants to be admitted to ever more exalted circles—indeed, it is doubtful whether he could conceive of a circle of which he was not the centre. His snobbery was of the mystical kind. He believed in "birth and breeding." In defiance of biological science and social history, he believed that a small percentage of the population possesses the power of transmitting to its descendants certain moral qualities which make them a natural aristocracy.

"Take my case!" he would insist. "Born in a London slum. Finished schooling at fourteen. Slipped over to Africa when I was sixteen. I was fifty-six before I found out that I was heir to a barony, and it cost me thirty thousand to establish my claim in the courts. 'The Bell-Hop Baron' they call me in Africa—and why not! When I really was a bell-hop I knew I was the stuff of which barons are made!"

Bell-hop, diamond miner, steeplejack, and whatnot! Yet at thirty he was a substantial man, and at forty a millionaire. He discovered in himself a talent for finance—the most mysterious of all talents to those who do not possess it.

Though he could never interpret a menu with any confidence, he was at one time a hotel king. In one of his own hotels—if such words have meaning—he was nearly killed by an accident to an elevator. By a process which the initiated will accept without wonder, he brought and won an action against himself, damages being inflated by the fact that, for the rest of his life, he would have to wear a wig to conceal a silver plate set in his skull.

After his convalescence, he abandoned hotels, to become something imperial in Ladies' Footwear. He never directed these enterprises. He never organised anything, except figures on a blotting pad—generally someone else's blotting pad. He went into a score of trades and out again, leaving behind him, not men thirsting for his blood, as one might suppose, but an ever-widening circle of admiring friends. He even seems to have 'gone into' himself—Cornboise Investment Trust Limited—and strangest of all, we must believe that he went out of himself as irrevocably as if he had been Ladies' Footwear. When he retired and returned to England he had the greater part of three million pounds, most of it already converted into Government Stock.

To make all that money in that way without going in fear of an accountant—or of a gunman—connotes a man of remarkable enterprise, intelligence and shrewdness. Behind his financial jugglery there must have been an acute sense of economic values. But human values were beyond his power of analysis. He sacrificed his personal happiness to an adolescent dream of an aristocracy that had never existed outside melodrama—the first sacrifice being his wife.

Before he had floated his first company he married a respectable, buxomly attractive girl, who provided the domestic background he needed but was unable to provide an 'heir.' He separated from her, after discovering that her religious principles forbade divorce.

In later life, his dream-interest centred on his nephew, the son of his elder brother, head potman of the _Goat-in-Flames_ , an historic but otherwise obscure tavern in north London. When his brother was accidentally killed, Samuel, in effect, adopted the twelve year old boy, sent him to an expensive school, thence to Oxford with a fantastic allowance and every possible encouragement to get into mischief. It was Samuel's idea of grooming him for inheritance of Samuel's fortune.

No doubt, Samuel's delusions in the matter of blue blood would have remained an amusing foible, but for his freak inheritance of a dormant barony. It was Andrew Querk, his agent in England, who discovered the thin thread of evidence—Querk who engaged a team of lawyers and lineage experts. The thin thread was doubled and re-doubled on itself until it became a cable, which hoisted Samuel Cornboise into the peerage. The romantic nonsense about birth and breeding seemed to be translated into reality.

On his retirement, he decided to 'go into' aristocracy as he had gone into Ladies' Footwear, using much the same technique.

The result was immediate disaster. Cornboise—the hero of so many financial epics—now correctly entitled Lord Watlington—had been in England scarcely a month before he set the stage for his own murder.

In the interval between finishing lunch and taking his afternoon doze, he made three dangerous mistakes, the first of which was a witless under-estimate of Claudia Lofting, a vivacious brunette of twenty-six engaged to marry his nephew and sole heir. She was herself a sprig of impoverished aristocracy; she possessed, in addition to physical beauty and intelligence, most of the qualities which he fondly imagined to be aristocratic. Yet he thought he could afford to tell her to her face, in the presence of his nephew and Andrew Querk, that she was not up to the standard he required—thought it safe to offer to buy her off on liberal terms.

By way of proof, he confronted them with letters written by Claudia before she had met Ralph—letters which seemed to Watlington to destroy her reputation. So that his trustees should make no mistake, he sealed the letters in an envelope containing his Will, which stipulated that his nephew's bride should be "a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation."

Hitherto, he had been successful in dealing with humanity because both associates and rivals had been dominated, like himself, by the single purpose of making money. Claudia Lofting, as it happened, was dominated by a purpose that is much older and much more relentless than the purpose of making money.

Ralph Cornboise, the nephew and sole heir, was equally lacking in the desire to make money. He desired, primarily, to live. He believed, with slightly more justification than is usual in such cases, that his life would not be worth living without Claudia.

Thus, his uncle's technique, which was based on converting opponents into allies, was doomed to fail. In this case, the technique followed the usual pattern of conciliation, beginning with an invitation to Claudia, also to Ralph, to spend a weekend at Watlington Lodge, _'with me and my old friend, Andrew Querk, and to meet a few new friends at dinner on Saturday night.'_

On Saturday night, the guests duly arrived. But there was no dinner party because, by that time, the host was dead.

In the county police headquarters at Kingsbourne, Colonel Crisp, the Chief Constable, had been kept at his desk throughout Saturday afternoon preparing evidence in a river smuggling case. As the Town Hall clock boomed seven he touched the bell push which summoned his aide, David Benscombe, a presentable, eager junior in the early twenties.

"Let me have what you've done and you can knock off now."

"Thank you, sir. Have you finished?"

"No. But I shan't need you any more tonight. Better go, boy, while the going's good... There! You've lost your chance. Take that call will you?"

Benscombe took up the receiver.

"The Chief Constable is in conference—I'm speaking for him... Oh-h!... Are you quite sure it's murder?... Right, we'll come along. Who are you, please? Hullo? Damn!"

The last under his breath as he turned to his chief.

"Lord Watlington murdered, sir. At Watlington Lodge. He's that South African millionaire featured in the local paper three weeks ago. Shall I call Detective-Inspector Longley? As a matter of fact, I know he's not at home—told me he was going up river to fish. There's Inspector Bassett?"

"No. I'll go myself. You've lost your weekend, boy. Tell Bassett to call up the team. We'll go in my car. They can follow us."

Colonel Crisp had held his present post for a few weeks only. He was, as it were, a permanent temporary Chief Constable, being seconded by the Home Office to any county that had need of his services. Behind him was a distinguished military career as a leader of guerilla troops. To look at, he was unimpressive. A little above medium height, he was broad and stocky. He slouched: all the pockets of his uniform bulged, so that he barely escaped slovenliness. His hands were noticeably large and seemed to have more than the natural complement of knuckles.

During the war years he had become one of the world's greatest experts in leading hand-picked bands of intelligent, civilised men in the dreadful business of inflicting death and destruction. His disciplined desperadoes had consisted mainly of ex-shop assistants, bank clerks and students; for he had discovered that the tough-guy type of humanity is not even tough. He was himself mild and unassertive in manner. He would speak with the same informal friendliness to judge and criminal, to the lowest and the highest, which sometimes astonished the highest.

At twenty past seven, piloted by young Benscombe, he turned through the scrolled gates of Watlington Lodge—a late eighteenth-century manor house, with five acres of garden, some dozen miles from London, which had belonged to the family with which Samuel Cornboise had successfully connected himself.

The house had been unoccupied for forty years. Arriving in England a month ago, Lord Watlington had moved straight in. The caretaker was still in residence. She had been supplemented by a temporary cook and two housemaids while he postponed the tricky business of engaging a domestic staff.

A short, semi-circular drive brought them into full view of the house, an undistinguished rectangular block, the rectangle broken on the west side by the stables, built on to the rear of the house—rococo stables of tortured design, including a chiming clock set in an irrelevant turret.

The garden—more grandiloquently, the home park—lay to the west of the house, from which it was screened by a tangle of yew hedges, clipped here and there into conventional shapes which had gradually become grotesque under years of inexpert maintenance.

As the car rounded the bend of the drive, young Benscombe's attention was caught by what he saw on the terrace.

"Good lord, sir! I believe it's a hoax!"

The calm of a hot summer evening hung over house and garden. On the terrace was a score or more of wicker armchairs, flanked by an outsize cocktail cabinet. Three of the chairs were occupied. Between two men—one young, the other middle-aged—Benscombe saw an attractive girl in a light evening cloak.

He stepped out of the car and hurried to the terrace.

"The Chief Constable is here," he announced. He paused a moment for their reaction, noted that the girl put her hand on the young man's sleeve. The middle-aged man, Andrew Querk, beamed on him.

"We are only guests," he explained. "Lord Watlington will be here in a moment. In the meantime, on behalf of our host—"

"We have had a telephone message that Lord Watlington has been murdered."

"Upon my soul!" mouthed Querk. "The Chief Constable, too, you said! This is most serious. I can only suggest that there must be some confusion of names. I would hesitate to suspect a practical joke."

In the meantime, the Chief Constable had entered the house by the front door, which was open. Bessie, the housemaid, was waiting in the hall to announce the guests.

"Will you please tell Lord Watlington that the Chief Constable of the county would like to see him."

"Yes, sir. I expect he's still dressing."

Bessie, who was willing but untrained in the niceties of her calling, scampered upstairs, to scamper down again.

"He must be in the library after all," she puffed. She crossed the hall, tried the door of the library, knocked and rattled the handle.

"It's locked. You'll have to wait, sir, while I go round by the window and tell him—p'raps he's still asleep."

"Don't bother," said Crisp. "Does he generally lock himself in?"

"No, sir. He wouldn't need. No one ' ud dare go in while he was taking his nap."

Crisp saw a waiter carrying a load of table silver to the dining-room.

"What exactly is going on here?"

"A dinner party, sir. Those waiters and cooks have come down from London, as there's only the caretaker and me and cook and another girl in the house. There's cocktails at seven thirty, and dinner at eight."

"Right! Just carry on, will you. Don't take any notice of me."

Benscombe had joined Crisp.

"Those three outside are guests. They expect Watlington in a few minutes," he reported.

Crisp nodded. "Don't let anybody follow me."

He went to the door of the library, bent to examine the lock. From one of the bulging pockets he took a small pair of double-action pincers, which gave him a firm grip on the protruding end of the key. He turned it and entered the library, closing the door behind him.

Watlington was sitting in the swivel chair, which had been swivelled some forty-five degrees, as if he had been turning towards the wall-safe when death overtook him.

That he was indeed dead was obvious from the face, the left side of which was contorted into a fantastic wink, while the right side was normal. The left hand was across the breast, the fingers and thumb bent at the joints so that the whole hand had a spiderlike appearance—a nightmare spider with a signet ring. By contrast, the right hand rested on the knee, relaxed—the natural position for the hand of a man who had dozed off in his chair. The left leg was bent at knee and ankle so that the toes alone touched the floor. The right leg was normally relaxed.

Crisp's eye travelled back to the face, which looked like the halves of two separate faces welded together by a maniac. Added was a certain gruesome rakishness, due, Crisp thought, to the fact that the scalp itself was awry—until he realised that he was staring at a wig, slightly displaced.

There was no obvious sign of external violence.

"Looks like some kind of seizure," ran his thoughts. "Probably while he was asleep."

All the same, he would have to proceed on the assumption of murder until the doctor had given a lead.

He took in the objects immediately surrounding the body. Long writing table: telephone: three upright chairs at the opposite side of the table, with three writing pads in front of them. A small pearl-handled penknife on one of the writing pads. The wall safe. On the mantelpiece a hand-operated die-stamp. Why on the mantelpiece instead of the writing table? Go into that later.

Mechanically, he ticked off the small detail of the objects. Watlington's writing pad at an angle, liberally scrawled with pencil, the pencil lying on the pad. The pencil was of ordinary pattern, except that it had a white enamelled barrel, with the South African maker's name impressed in red. Similar pencils lay beside each of the three blotting pads on the other side of the table—no, by the middle pad there was no pencil! Yet the middle pad, alone of the three, had been touched with a pencil—incomplete geometrical patterns—the handiwork of a 'doodler.

Last, he observed the room itself. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, heavily curtained, in the Victorian style. There were no books behind the curtains. The furniture, like that of the hall, was not old but merely out-of-date. There was a single window frame with sash windows ten feet high and five feet wide, counterpoised so that they could be raised or lowered with a light movement of the wrist.

"The team is arriving, sir," called Benscombe without entering the room. He added: "And the dinner party guests too!"

After a glance round the room, during which he noted that the window was open at the top only, Crisp returned to the doorway.

"Get a screen for this door," he ordered Benscombe.

The team was pouring into the hall. They knew their work and needed no shepherding. But there was a small point to be cleared up at once.

"Do the key in the door first, and check with the finger prints of the deceased."

Out came a powder spray. When the powder had settled:

"There's no print on the key, sir. There's a lot of scratches on the stub—the part that sticks out on the other side."

So Watlington had not locked himself in. It was theoretically possible that some innocent person wearing gloves had done so. But it was extremely unlikely.

The scratches, Crisp reflected, had probably been made by himself. Nevertheless: "Wrap the key for microscopic examination," he ordered.

He left the fingerprint man, the doctor, and the photographers to their work and went to the terrace. More than half the guests had arrived. Bright sunlight was streaming on the white shirt fronts of the men, making them look like foreigners at a wedding. They were clustered round Querk, questioning and even heckling him. The presence of the police in numbers had produced a variety of reactions, chief of which was the dread of being associated with a financier who had broken the law.

Most of the guests were well known in fashionable and sporting circles. In one way and another, they had been profitably entangled in Watlington's massive financial movements.

They had received invitations to dinner at short notice, couched in terms that were almost peremptory. Those who had previous engagements cancelled them. They felt for Watlington that gratitude which is a lively sense of favours to come.

They all turned as Crisp approached.

"It's the Chief Constable himself... That looks serious... What's it all about, Colonel?"

"I am sorry to tell you that Lord Watlington is dead," said Crisp.

The collective gasp was broken by Claudia Lofting.

"Has he been murdered?"

"We don't know yet. I imagine that those who have been asked here to dinner will not care to stay. I would be obliged if you would kindly give your names to the constable at the door before you go. And please don't walk about the garden."

Thank heaven it had nothing to do with the accounts! The guests, chilled by Crisp's method of kicking them out, began to drift back to their cars. Some of their chatter reached Crisp.

"They say he married in South Africa, but no one has ever seen her. Perhaps she was waiting behind the door with an assegai—or is it a tomahawk? What is a tomahawk?"

Then a deep, self-assured voice:

"It's either natural causes or murder. I happen to know it can't be suicide."

Crisp swooped. The speaker was a distinguished looking man in the middle thirties. His face was long and thin: his eyes, large but deep set, were framed with thick, curving eyebrows. In contrast to the evening dress of the others, he was wearing baggy flannel trousers and a sports coat of somewhat elaborate cut; it was pleated, back and front, and had special side pockets, from one of which protruded the edge of a leather-bound sketch-book. On his left hand, unexpectedly, was a dun-coloured, cotton glove.

"How d'you know that?" asked Crisp.

The other looked Crisp up and down. He was unimpressed by the badges of rank, paid more attention to the bulging pockets.

"Because he told me he intended to make an announcement tonight about his nephew's engagement to Miss Lofting. And because he made an appointment to sit for me next Tuesday." He added, with some surprise: "I say—don't you know who I am?"

Crisp admitted ignorance.

"As a matter of fact, I'm Arthur Fenchurch!"

"Thank you, Mr. Fenchurch," said Crisp and lost interest.

While Crisp was talking to Fenchurch, Claudia sought Ralph Cornboise.

"More people are turning up," she warned him. "I don't think we need bother to break it gently."

The newspaper descriptions of Claudia in court, by emphasising her physicality and writing up every detail of her dress, contrived to suggest a type of mindless play-girl who would do most things for money, including murder if necessary.

Actually, her appearance did not justify the superlatives of the special reporters. She was a smallish woman, but so well proportioned that no one would have called her short. Her disciplined body gave her unusual poise and gracefulness—missed by the reporters. Her hair was dark, as were her wide-set eyes: her skin fair, so that she looked fragile, which she was not. Her features escaped the regularity demanded of the standard glamour girl. Her nose had the hint of a tilt, and her mouth was dynamic.

In sum, not a ravishing beauty but a good-looking girl with a physical individuality. From an artist's point of view, her weak spot was her hands, which were a shade too large and lacked femininity.

As Ralph showed no sign of taking action, she added: "Hadn't you better go and head them off?"

Ralph Cornboise, to look at, was any schoolgirl's ideal. He was tall and athletic, with crisp gold curls and long eyelashes, which concealed the slight prominence of his eyes. Claudia approved of his appearance, much as a woman approves of a man's clothes and with as little emotion. She had been drawn to him by that element in herself which she had not tried to understand—a desire to protect and sustain a neurotic whose nature needed hers. This desire had grown to a dominating passion.

"Very well!" He was reluctant. "If you think I ought to."

"I'll join you in a minute." Claudia raised her voice for the benefit of some laggards. "We're awfully sorry, everybody, but we're afraid you'll have to go."

Crisp approached her.

"Are you hostess for Lord Watlington?" he asked.

"No. Not officially. I'm Miss Lofting. I'm engaged to his nephew—Mr. Cornboise. He and I and Mr. Querk—the one bowing people out over there—were asked to stay for the weekend. I must hurry and help Ralph—that is, Mr. Cornboise. He's a bit shaken."

Crisp told Benscombe to find out all about the imported waiters and to get rid of them, too. "Have their names and addresses taken. And pass the word that those three—Miss Lofting and Cornboise and that fleshy chap who has just sat down over there—are not to leave the house until I give the word."

Crisp went back to the house, taking note of the groundfloor rooms.

As you entered the house, through a lobby, the dining-room was on your right, the east side: behind it, the onetime 'smoking room' and a second small room, which the caretaker called the gun-room.

Opposite the dining-room was the drawing-room: next to it, the library, then the morning-room.

Tredgold, the doctor, came out of the library and approached Crisp.

"Better take the morning-room, sir," suggested Benscombe, who was passing Crisp's orders to the sergeant in charge of the hall. As was his duty, he followed Crisp and the doctor into the morning-room.

"It's murder right enough, Colonel—and that doesn't mean that I'm trespassing on your ground. A good many years ago, deceased had a trepanning operation. There was a silver plate set in the top of his skull. Over it he wore a wig. The plate was crumpled and driven in."

"Smashing the brain?"

"Piercing the brain. That would account for the distortions of the body you noticed. The wig was, as far as I could see, undamaged."

"How many blows?"

"By the appearance of the plate, only one."

"Heavy blow required?" asked Crisp.

"N-no. I'm no metallurgist, but I should say an eight or ten pound blow would do it. A child of ten could certainly exert enough pressure to smash that plate—using a blunt instrument, of course."

"A ten-pound wallop! Wouldn't that have damaged the wig?"

"It would indeed. All the same, he was not wearing the wig when he was struck. It's very unlikely that he himself had previously removed it—trepanned patients are always cautioned never to leave the head uncovered."

"Then the murderer removed the wig, delivered his blow, then replaced the wig?" asked Crisp.

"I don't see how it could have been done otherwise," answered Tredgold. "Anyhow, I can positively assure you that the blow was not struck through the wig."

While Crisp pondered the doctor's statement, young Benscombe cut in:

"Could he possibly have done it himself, doctor?"

"Hardly!" The doctor smiled. "Anyhow, he couldn't have replaced the wig, because he'd have been dead."

"How long has he been dead?" asked Crisp.

"About a couple of hours. I can't get nearer than that. Call it between five and five thirty."

"Can you give us a lead as to the weapon?"

"I'm afraid not. The condition of the plate might help you there. It might have been any object in the room weighing a pound or two—or a fair-sized spanner carried in the pocket. If you don't want me any more at the moment, I'll go and get everything ready for conveyance to the mortuary. Awkward that all this should happen on a Saturday evening!"

"Thanks, doctor," said Crisp after a short silence. "You might have that plate ready for us as soon as possible You've given us plenty to start on."

When the doctor had gone, Crisp asked Benscombe:

"Who was it who spoke to you on the phone?"

"I don't know, sir. As I told you at the time, he cut off."

"It was a man's voice, then?"

"I remember _supposing_ it was a man." Benscombe stared down at his feet while his face flushed. "But now—I can't swear it wasn't a woman with a lowish voice—or a man with a softish voice."

As Crisp scowled, Benscombe added:

"I'm very sorry, sir. At the police college we had that very test, and no one ever got one hundred per cent."

Crisp turned his back, looked out of the window.

"Come here a minute, Benscombe."

Benscombe exclaimed as he stared at a grouping of three grotesque shapes, clipped out of the yew trees. A vaguely heraldic figure that might have been a two-headed serpent menaced a huge, impossible fowl, which was curtseying to a green octopus. The trees stood at an intersection of the avenues of yew hedges. Under the two-headed serpent, some fifty yards from the window, was a stout woman, unfashionably dressed and apparently elderly. She was sitting on a rustic bench, knitting.

"Shall I go and quizz her?"

"No. Keep an eye on her while I see what they're doing next door."

In the library, the doctor was bending over the corpse, as if continuing his examination. The upper part was already covered. The photographers had completed their preliminary work and were waiting for the finger-print man.

"We've got a lot, sir," said the latter. "All over the writing table, two or three on the window, and two on the sash outside."

"Just a minute, Colonel!" The doctor seemed to have increased in stature. "I suggest that you try this signet ring for prints." He paused to rivet Crisp's attention. "It was removed after death and replaced. I missed that point the first time."

" _After_ death? You're sure of that?"

"I oughtn't to say I'm sure, but I am. The ring is a very tight fit. He would probably have needed soap to coax it off himself. Soap was not used. A small knife was used—as a shoe-horn is used—possibly that little pearly knife on the table. The flesh is perceptibly cut in two places, but the incisions have not bled."

The powder was applied, but with negative result. The ring had been wiped clean.

The table had been dealt with for finger prints. Across the blotting pad opposite the swivelled chair, covered with a maze of notes in pencil, was a sheet, torn from a writing pad, all four sides of which were dotted with embossments of a crest—a two-headed serpent.

"Have the notes on that blotting pad typed out," ordered Crisp.

Laid on an oilskin cloth and ticketted were the contents of the deceased's pockets. A gold cigar case, a slim wallet containing notes, a toothpick, several pencils, a bunch of keys, a gold watch and chain, with a key on the end of the chain.

Crisp glanced from the key to the wall safe, then picked up watch and chain and applied the key to the safe, hoping to find a significant document.

He at once found what he sought—indeed, the safe contained nothing but a long envelope with a printed address to a firm of solicitors. He picked it up, found that it had been lying on a similar envelope, empty, with the same printed address. On the back of the topmost envelope was a liberal blob of red sealing wax.

Crisp took the sealed envelope by the edges.

"Try this for a finger print."

This time the powder gave a clear result. The prints were immediately photographed.

Next, Crisp examined the sealing wax on the envelope. Imprinted was the crest of the two-headed serpent. To make sure, he dropped wax on a writing pad and applied the signet ring. The imprints were identical.

He ran his fingers the length of the envelope. It certainly was very slim—if indeed it was a significant document.

It seemed to contain a single folded sheet.

#  Chapter Two

Inspector Sanson, who was superintending measurements, approached Crisp.

"We've taken the prints of Harridge's waiters and of the three resident servants," he reported. "There's a lady and two gentlemen staying in the house—"

"Take those, too," ordered Crisp, and added: "As soon as your log is ready bring it to me in the little room behind this."

Crisp strode on to the terrace. Benscombe was at the west end.

"The old girl is still knitting," he reported. "I think she's watching points, sir. That bench is at the crossing of four avenues. She doesn't catch the eye herself, but she can see this terrace and the side of the house. By the way the hedges run, she could probably see anyone coming to the house from the garden."

"Right! I'll tackle her myself."

As he crossed the strip of lawn and entered the nearest avenue, the woman placed her knitting in a large canvas handbag. Crisp noted that she was probably about sixty, that her dress, though dowdy, was by no means shoddy. She was a big woman and even stouter than she had appeared to be when seen from the window of the morning-room. Yet her face was thin and boney, her skin excessively wrinkled, so that her large, well-shaped eyes created the eerie effect of having been filched from a younger woman.

"Good evening," she said in the tone of one who has been kept waiting. She shifted her position on the bench, to make room for him.

Crisp echoed her greeting and sat beside her. Unexpectedly, she opened the canvas bag and took out the knitting she had just put away.

"D'you mind telling me," he asked, "what you are doing here?"

"I guessed you'd want to know. That's why I waited until you came."

Her words were well formed, but the intonation was unmistakably Cockney. Her voice might once have been a pleasing contralto, but with the years it had dropped almost to tenor. "I told myself it doesn't matter talking to the police because they don't tell the newspapers anything they don't have to. And it wouldn't be fair to him—" she nodded in the direction of the house "——to put me in the papers. And fair's fair, whatever a man has done!"

"Quite so!" agreed Crisp. In her conversational stance he recognised the recluse. She was not talking directly to him. She was talking to herself and allowing him to listen. "Will you begin with your name, please?"

"I had better begin with my name." Crisp observed that even his question registered as her own thought. "I'm a married woman. Agnes Julia Cornboise." She added her address.

"Cornboise," repeated Crisp. "Are you related to that young man staying in the house?"

"So that's his name is it!" The old lady seemed deeply impressed. "Well, I never! He must be that nephew of his he's told me so much about. Then, of course, I'm his aunt by marriage, though there's no need for him to know that." Again she nodded at the house. "I'm his wife, though we're separated these thirty years or more."

"D'you mean that you're Lord Watlington's wife—that you're Lady Watlington?" For a moment, Crisp suspected her mental balance.

"Oh, I don't take any notice of all that! And it certainly wasn't why I came and sat in his garden." She was amused. "Me setting up as a ladyship at my time o' life and living in Kilburn—I'd never hear the last of it!" She became abstracted. Crisp gave her time. "Did I say thirty years? It's thirty-two years, come next October, since we parted, because he wanted to. He never told me why, though I guessed. It wasn't another woman. Though it's wrong to say so, I wish it had been, because he'd have got tired of anybody but me. He never did get tired of me. Why in thirty years, I've got more than twenty big bundles of his letters—the nice ones, I mean: I didn't keep the other sort.

"Nice letters," she repeated. "You'd think we'd gone on living together and only parted a week or two before they were written. I suppose I ought to have known better at the time than to marry him. But there it is! What's done can't be undone. At least, it oughtn't to be, when it's marriage."

She showed signs of drying up. She began to knit, somewhat clumsily. Crisp had already winnowed two small points and wanted more.

"And you wrote nice letters back to him?" he prompted.

"I never wrote to him at all. Only picture post-cards, saying I'd got the letters. He'd write when the mood was on him, sometimes three letters in a week and sometimes none for a couple of months. Used to write about me as if I was still a young woman."

"That's very unusual," said Crisp. "Why did he desert you?"

" _Who_ said he deserted me!" She was indignant. "If I said anything to make you think that, I did wrong. Fair's fair, whatever I've suffered. He always sent me the money he said he would. And lots of extra, sometimes. But the extra was because he wanted to bribe me into going against my principles and have a divorce. Those were the letters I didn't keep. And now you've made me forget what I was saying."

"You were telling me why you are here in this garden, said Crisp. His eye was caught by the van from the mortuary, which was drawing up at the front door. He added: "We—er—began with your marriage some thirty years ago."

"That's right!" she applauded. "In Jo'burg, as they call it, meaning Johannesburg. In South Africa, y'know." She mentioned a politician who was once well known in Empire politics. "He had a delicate stomach—died of it in the end—and when he had to go to Africa for the Government he took his cook with him. The cook was me.

"Samuel was just finishing being a miner then. I don't remember what he was at the time. In the fifteen months we lived together he must have had half a dozen different kinds of job, but he always brought home good money. That was the ruin of him, if you ask me."

She was looking towards the front door. Without change of tone, she went on: "They might have used some sort of makeshift coffin, just to take him away in."

"Mrs. Cornboise! Who told you Lord Watlington was dead?"

"Nobody told me. Where did I get to?—oh yes!—when we were walking out, he told me he could see I was of good family—mind you, there's nothing wrong with my family—better than his, come to that—only it wasn't what _he_ meant by a good family—and it came out that he thought I was a sort of paid companion, or something, to her ladyship. And I didn't let on I was only the cook. Maybe I did wrong, but I was in love with Sam and I was twenty-eight and hadn't had many chances, so though I didn't tell him a single untruth I let him think what he liked and we got married almost right away." She looked wistfully at the mortuary van. "And now it's all ended like _that!_ There you go, then, Sam! It seems hardly decent."

She watched the van turn the bend in the drive, then resumed:

"We had a little boy, but he died almost before he was born. I believe that broke Sam's heart. Not that men are often fond of babies at that stage. But he said something about losing his heir—talking as if he was Henry VIII! It was to do with his talk about good families and the rest of it. It turned him against me. He said he still loved me and always would, but he wanted a divorce—which, of course, I wouldn't agree to. There wasn't any quarrel—he just sort of asked me to go.

"So back I came to England, all alone. I've been alone ever since, in a manner of speaking, and I've never really got used to it. I took to knitting about ten years ago—undervests for Sam, as he has to have wool next the skin. I must've sent him fifty or sixty. And he's never once mentioned them in his letters—not even to say 'thank you.'

"What I was saying was, the money didn't really help at all, when you wanted company. When I heard he'd had to have the top of his head sliced off, I went to Johannesburg, thinking they might have cut out his senses and he'd need me to look after him. But he wouldn't even see me. And after I'd been back in London a couple of years, he wrote to say he was making a lot of money and he was sending a gentleman called Mr. Querk—I think I saw him this evening, over there with the others—he took me to an insurance office. Something was signed, which meant I was to have a nice little income all my life, whether Sam lived or died, or whatever happened to him, provided I didn't molest him."

"So you still have the income?" put in Crisp.

"That's what I'm coming to, if you give me time," she answered. "I couldn't stand having no one to talk to, so I went back to cooking, for company. I saved most of what the insurance company paid me—and all the money Sam sent as extra presents, hoping for divorce. I reckoned I'd have a nice tidy sum ready for him if—" she glanced meaningly at Crisp's uniform—"if anything went wrong through all that money making. When I read in the paper that he'd set himself up as a lord, I knew something 'ud happen. You can laugh at me, but I had a feeling in my bones this morning that it was going to happen today."

"I shan't laugh," Crisp assured her. "I've known many cases of that sort of thing."

"Well, so I had a bite o' lunch at home then came along here with my knitting and a few sandwiches, meaning to wait about quietly, in case he should go for a stroll in the garden. You couldn't call that molesting him. And even if I was wrong about something bad going to happen, I thought maybe he'd like us to spend our old age together and live simply and comfortably, as soon as he's tired of playing at being a lord. Why, he doesn't even know what the gentry eat!"

With the last words, she turned towards him. Crisp observed that the large eyes suggested not only vigour but also intelligence. Yet she had rambled on in the manner of a person who has no sense of proportion. She had not even asked him the usual irritating questions as to whether it were a case of murder and if so who was the murderer.

"I've told you all about Sam and me because I didn't want you ferreting about and getting it all wrong. He gave me much more money than he need have done. All the same, he spoilt my life as well as his own, and now he's gone it won't really make any difference. He didn't want me, whatever you say. For one thing, I ought to have told myself he'd get a shock at seeing me an old woman."

Crisp made a leap in the dark.

" _Was_ it a shock to him when he saw you, Mrs. Cornboise?"

"I don't care for that kind of question!" She drew herself up primly, as if he had made an obscene remark. "If I'd seen him I'd have mentioned it. If you ask me in a straightforward way what you want to know, I'll give you a straightforward answer."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cornboise." Crisp contrived to look like a penitent schoolboy. "Here's a very straightforward question. What time did you get here this afternoon?"

"About ten past two. I could see the time from the stable clock—let alone it keeps on striking. I found this nice seat where I can see two sides of the house and anybody coming up from this side of the garden, though I will say these awful shapes gave me the creeps at first."

"You must have seen a good deal in that long time?"

"There was nothing to see until you came. Unless you mean the other people in the house. And I'm one to mind my own business."

"Come, Mrs. Cornboise!" Crisp was changing tone. "I think you know as well as I do that this is your own business."

"I'm sure I've got nothing to hide, except from the newspapers. Well then, a bit after it had struck half past two, I saw that window open—look down this alley—one of those big windows, I mean." She indicated the library. "And a young lady came out. And that young man you say is my nephew by marriage came after her. It looked to me as if they were having a tiff and she was in the wrong, because she put her hand on his arm and he shook it off; then she put it there again and he let it stay and they walked across over there, only it wasn't any good. They must have had a good long quarrel. And she was unlucky, by the look of it."

"Did you hear what they said, then?"

"No. But more'n a couple of hours later she came back without him. And she walked right past me without seeing me and went into the house."

"What time did she go into the house?"

"Five, as near as makes no matter."

According to the doctor, Watlington had died between five and five thirty.

"What about young Cornboise?" asked Crisp.

"He gave her a good start. It was a good ten past before he showed up. And then he didn't go in by the front door, as she did. He went in by the window he had come out of, pushed it up from the outside. I think she must've been in that room—or else he had some trouble with Samuel. It hadn't finished striking the quarter past before he came out again—wiping his face with his handkerchief he was, as if he'd been crying. Then he walked across that bit o' lawn, but caught his foot, or something, and fell down. When he'd picked himself up he turned round and went to the stables—but it's the garage, really—then he came out in one of those big cars that only seat two—silly, I call ' em—and drove himself off. All painted up, the car was, like it belonged to a circus."

"But he came back?"

"I'm telling you. He came back a little after half past six. He'd left it late, I suppose, because he fairly ran from the stables to the front door.

"I didn't see either of those two again until just before you came. Then they came out together, him in his evening dress and her wearing a cloak. They hadn't hardly sat down before that Mr. Querk—if it _is_ Mr. Querk—joined them. You saw the three o' them when you came, before all those others turned up."

"And you saw nothing else at all?"

"Well unless you count the maid, bringing out tables and chairs and things, about seven. Oh, and the postman—about a quarter to four, that would be. With a registered parcel I expect, because he waited while the maid signed for it."

Crisp had made a rich haul of important little items, invaluable in checking the statements of others. And for this he was indebted to the vague, rambling old woman who had suddenly converted herself into an ideal witness.

"You've helped me a lot, Mrs. Cornboise, and I'm grateful." He added in the same tone: "And you yourself have been sitting on this bench continuously for more than six hours?"

"Seven hours, come another few minutes. Didn't you hear it strike nine just now? There'll be the dew presently and I think I'll be getting home, if there's nothing else you want to ask me."

"As a matter of form, Mrs. Cornboise," said Crisp, "I must ask you to let me look inside that canvas bag of yours."

"Well, I never!" Again she had the air of being shocked. "Like the police in the pictures." She handed him the bag, adding gloomily: "In a picture I saw last week, a policeman put a revolver in somebody's bag so that another policeman could find it there and make a lot of bother."

"You watch me and see that I don't cheat," grinned Crisp as his hand groped in the bag.

He removed the topmost articles—a novelette with a lingerie jacket, a sixpenny packet of stationery, and a pair of gloves.

After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a woollen stocking. Inside the stocking, at the toe, was a hard, heavy substance. He tumbled it into his palm. It had the appearance of a duck's egg. It was solid and was made of earthenware.

"That's a nest-egg," she explained. "I tried keeping chickens at one time, but they weren't really company. I use it now for stretching the stocking and holding it steady while I darn it—in case you're wondering."

"I was wondering," said Crisp, "why you carry this darning device in a stocking that has no hole, has never been darned and is, in fact, a new one."

"There now!" exclaimed Mrs. Cornboise. "I must have brought the wrong pair. You have got sharp eyes, I must say!"

He opened the bag to its full extent, found two more stockings, making a total of three.

"I shall have to keep these for the present," he told her. "I'll give you a receipt."

When he had calmed her protests he passed her to young Benscombe, telling him quietly to send her home and have her address checked.

#  Chapter Three

Inspector Sanson, a pompous little man who had gained promotion for his desk work, had already given the Victorian morning-room the semblance of an office at headquarters. On the breakfast table, from which the patterned cloth had been removed, were all the portable objects which had been examined for finger prints. Crisp dropped into the only easy chair.

"Give me the log of the witnesses first, Sanson, then your stuff."

"The only witness of any account so far, sir, is Bessie Walters, temporary maid, who has been in the employment of the deceased, as have the other two, for three weeks. At nine this morning, when Bessie Walters brought deceased his breakfast in the room we are now occupying, deceased told her there would be three guests to luncheon—which he said the cook could serve out of tins—and twenty all told to dinner, for which arrangements had been made with Harridge's. The three to luncheon were to stay till Monday morning.

"Mr. Querk arrived shortly before noon, when he _re_ -paired to the library. He remained there closetted with deceased until about a quarter to one, when Mr. Cornboise, his nephew, and Miss Lofting, the nephew's intended, also arrived. The four I have mentioned consumed cocktails on the terrace until luncheon was served. After luncheon, all four _re_ -paired to the library, where they remained closetted until a quarter to three, approximately, when Walters saw Mr. Querk going up to his room. She did not see the other two guests between luncheon and about seven, when they came downstairs together in evening dress and _re_ -paired to the terrace. A few minutes later Mr. Querk added himself to their company.

"Walters last saw the deceased at luncheon. It was his habit to sleep after luncheon in the library, where he would remain closetted until dinner, and orders were that he was never to be disturbed until dinner was served. Having lived abroad, he did not take afternoon tea.

"There had been no orders for tea for the guests. But at four, Walters went in search of the guests. She found only Mr. Querk in the house. He was in his room, and she said she thought he also had been sleeping in his chair. She offered to bring him tea, which offer having been accepted, she came back with a tray and put it on the table by the window where he was sitting.

"At four fifteen approximately, Walters _re_ -paired to her bedroom where she remained closetted until a quarter to six. At six, Messrs. Harridge's employees arrived with a mobile kitchen unit and all Walters had to do was to show them the dining-room. The cook and the under-housemaid not being required to—to exercise their respective functions, sir—had leave of absence from four until ten. Walters remained in the staff sitting-room until seven, when, after putting some chairs on the terrace, she took up a position in the hall in readiness for the arrival of the guests. That completes the essentials of the log of the witnesses."

"There's a detail missing," said Crisp. "Benscombe, find out whether Bessie Walters was called to the front door between lunch and our arrival. Get details, but mind you don't lead her. Carry on, Sanson."

"Finger prints, sir, ignoring those of deceased." The Inspector turned to a separate sheaf of notes. "Miss Lofting: On exterior and interior hand plates of the door of the library. On the edge of the writing table: on some brown wrapping paper, sent through the post and post-marked London this morning ten-fifteen, found in the waste paper basket—Exhibit Two: also on the woodwork of the east window of the library, internal.

"Mr. Cornboise: Interior handplate of door: writing table: woodwork of window, interior and exterior.

"Mr. Querk: On interior handplate of door: on writing table: on an address die-stamp found on the mantelpiece—Exhibit One: On sealed envelope which you took from the safe—Exhibit Four. The sealed envelope also bears prints of deceased. That's all of what you might call the major prints, sir. The rest is check-up—including the prints of Bessie Walters all over the place, as you might say."

Exhibit Three was the little pearl-handled pen-knife, on which no prints had been found.

"Blurred, I suppose?" asked Crisp.

"No, sir. Wiped clean."

Wiped clean, like the signet ring and the key of the safe, bearing out the doctor's guess that the knife had been used to ease the ring off the finger and replace it. Nothing else of note, except that Querk had apparently put the die-stamp on the mantelpiece.

Crisp got up and looked at the die-stamp. From a metal base, two by three inches, a lever of some eight inches operated a copper stamp, the whole weighing a little over two pounds.

Crisp inserted a piece of paper and pressed the lever.

"I guessed it wasn't an address stamp—the copper is too short. It's a stunt for embossing the family crest. Two-headed serpent."

"Relevant to Exhibit Two," said Sanson, "the postal wrapping paper previously referred to, sir—here it is—bears the name of a firm of lithographers and die-cutters."

"It probably came by this afternoon's post, sir," cut in Benscombe, who had returned a minute or so previously. "Bessie says the postman came about a quarter to four with two parcels, one registered and marked personal."

"This die-stamp wasn't registered," said Crisp, after a glance at the wrapping. "Find out where the registered parcel is. Don't ask anybody but Walters."

So far, the information received tallied with that given to Crisp by the old lady in the garden.

While Crisp was making his own note of the known whereabouts of the servants and guests between two and seven o'clock, a constable brought him a package.

"From Dr. Harris, sir."

The package contained the silver plate from the skull of the deceased. Enclosed was a memo from the doctor:

_'I have taken scrapings for analysis elsewhere. On outer side of plate was substance which, with my own small microscope, I could recognise as dust of plectyt—a finely processed canvas used as the foundation for wigs.'_

Friction, presumably, decided Crisp, since the wig had been removed by the murderer before the blow had been delivered. The plate itself had been puckered and driven inwards.

He bent low over the die-stamp, examining the edges of the base, which were clean. The new paint gleamed, but there was a chip of about an eighth of an inch on one side, which might have been made by impact on the silver plate on the skull itself. He picked it up by the lever, fitted a corner of the base to the puckerings of the silver plate.

"That's the weapon!" he said aloud. "And it only struck once. Well, Benscombe?"

"Blank on the registered parcel, sir. Can't get a thing out of Bessie—disclaims responsibility, but is worried about having signed for it. I tried to calm her down, sir—"

"I'll have a go," said Crisp. "Ask her to come here—don't tell her."

In mistaken self-defence Bessie launched a counterattack from the doorway.

"If its about that registered parcel, sir, all I want to know is what you say I ought to have done with it, having signed for it, as I've owned up, and put it where the old man—where Lord Watlington—would be sure to see it as soon as he'd finished his sleep—meaning the table in the hall."

"Quite so!" said Crisp soothingly. "That was the proper thing to do."

"Then I'm glad that's settled, sir." The words were spoken at Benscombe. "Only, with the young gentleman asking me all those questions, I was beginning to wonder."

"He doesn't think you pinched it, Bessie—he isn't such a fool!"

smiled Crisp. "We have to find that parcel, and we hoped you'd be able to give us a hand."

"Well, I'm sure I'll do all I can, sir, but I don't see how it'll help." She related the known facts. "The last I saw of that parcel was when I took Mr. Querk his tea—reminds me, I forgot to take his tray away."

"That was the last time you saw it, eh?"

" _Oo!_ Your saying that makes me think o' something. It _was_ the last time, but it didn't ought to 've been—that is, not unless something woke him up and he took it himself, if you understand me."

"I understand perfectly," asserted Crisp. "You expected to see that parcel again. When?"

"When I came downstairs a bit before six, so as to be ready for those Harridge's men. But there wasn't neither of the parcels on the table then. The one that wasn't registered had gone, too. I'm sure of that, sir, as I'm standing here, because I remember what they looked like before they'd been moved. There was the unregistered one, heavy and standing up like. The registered one was flattish and felt as if it had cardboard under the paper."

"Thank you very much, Bessie! You've helped us a lot," said Crisp. "Let's see if I've got it right. You noticed both parcels on the hall table when you went upstairs at about four fifteen?"

"Yes, sir. And when I came down a bit before six, they'd both gone."

"You heard what that girl said. That parcel must be accounted for." Crisp spoke to Sanson, who made a note. Presently he turned to Benscombe.

"Come with me on a tour of the house. You can make a sketch plan so that we can locate everybody."

In the century and a half of its existence the Manor House had suffered two fires and five barons of varying tastes and fortunes. The original staircase survived in a broad flight which failed to reach the first floor.

"This landing has been built in," remarked Crisp. "So has this bow window." From the landing there were but three stairs to the first floor.

The first bedroom, smaller than one would have expected, was evidently allotted to Ralph Cornboise. It was dingily but adequately furnished in satinwood, with an easy chair of old leather, which must have strayed some fifty years ago from a downstairs room. Crisp looked round, finding nothing to rivet his attention.

"This is part of a large room," he said. "Done on the cheap, too!" He tapped the dividing wall, which resounded as if he had tapped a drum, revealing itself as match-boarding.

In the next room, the dinginess was even more pronounced. A cheap iron bedstead, a gimcrack wardrobe of stained deal and a bamboo dressing table with a spotted mirror.

On either side of the dressing table, the two men looked down on the terrace, obtaining a foreshortened view of Claudia, who was apparently consuming tea and sandwiches while her companion smoked.

"Miss Lofting and Cornboise working out how much they'll tell us, sir?" remarked Benscombe.

"If you stand here, you'll see it isn't Cornboise. It's an artist called Arthur Fenchurch. Ever heard of him?"

"No. A dinner guest, eh? He ought to have buzzed off when you told ' em to. Shall I—?"

"If we leave him alone, we're more likely to find out why he's hanging around."

Crisp lingered, taking note of the layout of the garden. Nearly the whole five acres of it sprawled on the west side of the house. On the east side, only a narrow strip at the foot of the brick wall separated it from a side road.

He was about to move on, when he heard Ralph Cornboise entering the adjoining room. He motioned Benscombe to silence.

"Can't remember... Can't remember!" It was a muttered undertone, but the words came distinctly through the matchboard partition. "Don't run your hands through your hair. All right dear, I forgot... I can't remember. Can't remember."

The sound of a male head being brushed became audible—then of the brushes being replaced—after which Ralph left the room and went downstairs.

"Talks to himself without saying anything," remarked Benscombe.

The tour of the house became perfunctory, Crisp's purpose being merely to absorb background detail. In the kitchen quarters he observed that there was no window on the west side, which was blinded by the stables. The last room they entered was the dining-room.

Alone at a table intended to seat twenty sat Andrew Querk, before him a large helping of lobster salad.

Querk was a large, fleshy man early middle age, who moved like a sleek cat and spoke in sonorous platitudes. His clothes, of the most expensive material, were cut with a conscious provincialism, so that one hardly needed to be informed that he was a mayor. In so far as he could be said to have a profession, he was a financial agent. He had qualified as a solicitor, but had never practised.

Early in life, he had discovered that the English mistrust an obviously clever man, but open their hearts to a fool who can be relied upon to make a fool of no one but himself. Like Watlington, though working along a different line, he had imposed upon himself a personality which in time acquired reality. He had sensed that the business man, secretly afraid of modern trends, looks backwards to the beginning of the century as the golden age. While adopting modern methods, he steeped his mentality in the mannerisms and thought-forms of fifty years ago, thereby subtly creating an atmosphere of stolid security. Except that he had made three unsuccessful attempts to marry, Querk could count himself a successful man in his own sphere.

Over the lobster salad, Querk beamed a welcome.

"Oh, pray come in!" he invited. "I feel that my poor old friend would have wished us to behave as normally as possible. The young people maintained that food would choke them—a somewhat hysterical attitude. You are under no strain, Colonel. Won't you join me while we have our talk. I will ring for Bessie."

"No thanks. Don't let me disturb you. I'll see the other two first."

"You will find them a charming couple," said Querk. "And I have no need to emphasise to you, my dear Colonel, that if they should seem to you evasive on one or two matters of a purely personal nature, their reticence will have nothing whatever to do with the manner in which poor Sam—I should say Lord Watlington—met his death."

Crisp spoke from the door.

"Perhaps you would be good enough to wait in this room, Mr. Querk, until I send you word."

"Certainly—by all means! As Mayor of Taunchester I have worked with our own Chief Constable. I am familiar with the routine, and I need not say I am wholly at your disposal, Colonel."

Crisp thanked him as if this were a special concession. In the hall he spoke in an undertone to Benscombe.

"You've got to keep your temper with that chap, young man. If I catch you smacking his face, there'll be trouble. Keep him in there until I've seen the other two. Bring the girl in first, then put her in the drawing-room. Don't let her talk to Cornboise before I've seen him. Nor to Querk."

In the morning-room, Inspector Sanson was gathering up his papers.

"I've assembled my requirements in that somewhat diminutive room they call the gunroom, behind the dining-room. I thought I would make that my office _in situ_ , sir."

"Right, Sanson. If Benscombe brings you anybody, keep 'em there until I give the all clear."

"Miss Lofting, sir," announced Benscombe.

#  Chapter Four

In the matter of women, Crisp was not afraid of himself. He knew that there are uncharted cross-currents of sympathy between the sexes which are likely to upset the judgment. His formula was to let himself be impressed, then rub out the impression.

In something under a second, he made a preliminary assessment of Claudia. Her dress he saw as a wisp of an evening frock in a blue that was insistent when you looked at the frock but ingenious when you looked at the girl. A cloak that contrived to seem part of the frock. A physically attractive woman who was intelligently aware of her attractiveness.

From her style, he guessed that she was typical of her class—probably ill-educated but well informed, shallow but well disciplined, loyal only to her own set and unscrupulous outside her own code, dignified and well mannered, but fundamentally tougher than any gun moll because she was sure of herself.

With the ghost of a bow, she acknowledged his position. Her eye ran over the exhibits on the table, stopped at the pearl-handled penknife.

"Your knife?" asked Crisp.

"Yes. I think I left it in the library."

"When d' you think you left it there?"

"Some time during the afternoon. It must have been about five."

Typical of her class. No evasion, no apologetic explanation. She might or might not know that Watlington had been killed between five and five thirty.

She turned to the one easy chair. Crisp watched her sit down, an act which defeats the majority of graceful women and makes them self-conscious. When Claudia sat down, Crisp knew that she must have served an apprenticeship at all the light games—tennis, squash and probably fencing—that she took little or no alcohol and that she slept well. She had not even fussed with her dress, as most of them did. She could sit, too, without fidgetting. Her hands, slightly over-developed, were still.

"What was the knife being used for?"

Claudia smiled. "It will take hours this way, Colonel. Wouldn't it be better for me to recite my little piece first?"

"Much better," he agreed. "Let's begin with your arrival."

"A bit before that, if you don't mind. Ralph—that's Cornboise, my fiancé—drove me up from my home in Wiltshire to meet his uncle, for the first time. Ralph was worried because he was expecting a stormy interview about his extravagance. He has spent an awful lot—but that's because his uncle kept sending cheques and writing him nonsense about keeping up his position. Watlington had the gipsy fortune-teller's idea of the peerage. The point is, Ralph was in a state of hopeless nerviness. That explains the odd way we all behaved."

"All—including yourself?" Crisp gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

"Including me! Lunch went off fairly well. Watlington was quite good company when he wasn't thinking about the peerage. Ralph was gloomy, so Querk and I had to laugh at all the jokes. After lunch we all trouped into the headmaster's study. There was a bit about Ralph's extravagance, but not much. Then we got back to the peerage _motif_ —founding a family and all that. Watlington read us his Will. You've got it there on the table in that sealed envelope. Or haven't you?"

She seemed to have lost her way. The long summer day was fading. Crisp turned on the light.

"This may be the Will," said Crisp. "We always avoid opening sealed documents if we can."

She came out of her abstraction.

"Anyhow, the Will said that, provided Ralph married a suitable sort of woman, he'd get a million, apart from the trimmings—which may be another million or so, for all I know. That was how the trouble started."

Again she lapsed into silence.

"Trouble?" he prompted. "Not about the suitability of yourself as a wife, surely?"

"It was, though! Now, I might turn out a ghastly flop as a wife, but I _am_ suitable by Watlington's standards, if by no one else's. He said something about modern girls being too broadminded about love affairs, meaning that I personally was once in love with another man, as Ralph knows." She paused. "He had somehow got hold of some letters I had written to this man. That'll give you a sidelight on Watlington."

"Very special letters?" asked Crisp.

"They seemed so, when I wrote them." She smiled ruefully. "But if they were read aloud in court, I'm afraid they'd sound as awful as other people's do."

"What became of those letters?"

"He kept them as evidence for the trustees that I was not 'of unblemished social position'—as I think he called it in the Will." She went on: "Watlington didn't say anything which was not true. But Ralph, being nervy, made a scene.

"When I had damped Ralph down, Watlington said he was sleepy and he would see us all at cocktail time. He made us watch while he put the Will in an envelope and sealed it with sealing wax. He sealed it with the family crest on his signet ring. Peerage _motif_ again!"

"Did he seal up the letters with the Will?" asked Crisp.

She took time over her answer. He was uncertain whether she were trying to remember, or thinking of something safe to say.

"I didn't notice. I was watching Ralph. He's a bit of an invalid."

"What sort of invalid?"

"Oh—just nerves, as I told you. Having all that money thrown at him when he was an undergraduate unbalanced him a bit. Before we left the library, he did break out again—I forget quite why—said I had been insulted and that we would both leave the house and never enter it again—and he would be heroic and keep me on his earnings, when everybody knows he couldn't earn anything, poor dear!

"I said I didn't feel insulted—which I didn't. If I had felt insulted, I wouldn't have stayed on for the week-end. In the library, I said perhaps a bit more than I meant to Ralph—that I couldn't marry him if he were to quarrel with his uncle, because I didn't think I could hold down the job of harrassed housewife. Then I went into the garden and Ralph followed me—rather huffily at first. I told him it was all very dramatic and silly, and that, by dinner time, Watlington would have forgotten what he had said. Ralph agreed, and we talked of other things. But he kept harking back to the insult nonsense. So I said I'd go and talk to his uncle myself, and I left Ralph in the garden. This was about five o'clock. The stable clock struck as I reached the house.

"I went in by the front door. On that table in the hall I saw a couple of parcels, one registered. The other had the printed label of a lithographer. I picked it up, as a good excuse for butting in on Watlington. In part of the peerage talk, he had told us he was waiting for—that thing on the table there, to stamp the family crest on things when you couldn't use sealing wax.

"I fancy he was only pretending to be asleep. I sat down quietly at the writing table opposite him. I took that knife from my bag and cut the string. With the crackle of the paper he had to admit he was awake. He made a pleased noise and grabbed the stamp, like a child grabbing a toy. I gave him a piece of paper and we both played with it. He asked me whether there was another parcel in the hall. I didn't want another diversion, so I said I hadn't noticed one. As soon as I could, I said: 'Ralph is being rather hysterical because he thinks you don't want us to get married.' And he said 'Hysterical! You've said it. The boy's soft. You'll have to toughen him up, my dear, if you want to make anything of him.'

"When I pointed out that I couldn't do anything, if it were to be made impossible for us to marry, he said. 'Forget all that. I said most of it because Ralph was getting my goat. He explained that when he was told Ralph had become engaged to me he had made inquiries. He heard that I had been 'entangled,' as he called it, with another man, but he was now satisfied that he need not have bothered himself. After that, he became complimentary—quite definitely so—the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph."

"He didn't give you back those letters you had written? Did you ask him for them?"

"No. He had forgiven himself and me and everybody, and was making courtly little speeches. It would have spoilt the atmosphere to remind him of what a horrible cad he had been over the letters."

Crisp could not gauge whether it was true or untrue. She had a compelling honesty of manner—which might be only manner.

"Will you tell me the name of the man to whom those letters were written?"

"Of course I won't!"

Of course she wouldn't, reflected Crisp. That sort of thing was protected by the code—no earthly good pressing her. He smiled and asked:

"After you had left Watlington?"

"I went upstairs to my room, had a bath, and stayed in my room until it was time to dress for dinner. That's all!"

Crisp made a swift analysis. The girl's story contained a feasible explanation of every fact which an intelligent person might assume to be already in the possession of the police.

"What time did you leave the library?"

"On my way to the bathroom—after picking up my things in the bedroom—I heard a quarter past five strike. That would be about three minutes after I left the library."

"That's a precise answer—you'd make a very good witness." She looked as pleased as a schoolgirl when the music master has expressed approval. Crisp asked:

"Was Watlington's objection to you—possibly—a bit stronger than you've implied?"

"Possibly!" She laughed. "You mean that—as I didn't know he was going to change his mind about me—I ought to have murdered him myself, recovered the letters and married Ralph on the million and trimmings?"

"That was in my mind," grinned Crisp.

"Then for heaven's sake don't let it wander out of your mind when you're grilling Ralph. I mean it, though I've put it stupidly. I mean that, if you drop the slightest hint that you suspect me of murder, he'll promptly confess and demand to be hanged." Her eyes searched his face—her tone changed and her self-possession vanished. "Please be gentle with him, Colonel."

She assumed that he had no more questions for her, and got up. He went to the door and let her out—then, on an afterthought, turned, as if to bar her way.

"I don't suspect Cornboise of murdering his uncle," he said, watching her eyes. "But you do!"

"I do not!" Her voice held both surprise and reproof. "But he's so nervy. As soon as he gets frightened of you, he'll bluster and say silly things and contradict himself."

"Why should you think he'll 'get frightened' of me?" Crisp was puzzled, "I haven't bullied you, have I?"

"No—but I've told you ten times as much as I meant to." She added: "You're the only formidable man I've ever met."

That last bit was inverted flattery, he told himself when she had gone. Most civilian men liked to be thought formidable—she had taken a bet that the same applied to himself.

But he had to admit that she had not tried any tricks while she was giving evidence. He found himself approving her. She had given straight answers, told her tale without trying to lead him in this direction or that. The tale was consistent with the known facts, corroborated in detail by Mrs. Cornboise and by Bessie, the maid.

At the back of his head was the suspicion that there was a catch in it somewhere.

"That Will is the catch!" he exclaimed.

As before, he ran his fingers over the envelope, wondering at its slimness. One would expect a millionaire's Will to be a complicated, bulky affair. He was certain now, that there was only a single folded sheet inside the long envelope.

"If Cornboise gives me the same tale I'll open it in his presence."

He was about to call Benscombe, when the latter came in.

"That artist, Arthur Fenchurch, sir. Do you want to see him before he goes? He gave an address about half a mile from here."

"All right! I'll see him before I see Cornboise."

Arthur Fenchurch registered elaborate indifference. Crisp recognised his type too—the poseur who explains that he is posing.

"I'd like to know your business here this evening, Mr. Fenchurch?"

"Businesss? None. That is, not directly. I consented to come in order to kow-tow to a wealthy client. I was to paint him, including—my God!—his wig." He added: "I have to do portraiture to make a living. My portraits are very vulgar, and so I am becoming very popular."

Crisp eyed the sports coat and flannel trousers—noticed that the leather-bound sketch-book was no longer in the side-pocket.

"D'you mean you were asked to dinner?"

"Yes. I never wear evening dress. When I turn up like this, people think I'm much better known that I am. That helps to stiffen my prices."

Crisp consulted the list of dinner guests. _Mr. Fenchurch. Mrs. Fenchurch_ , followed by a local address and telephone number.

"The other guests had all left by about eight at my request. It's now ten."

"I apologise. I lingered partly out of morbid curiosity, partly in the hope of publicity, and partly because I know Ralph Cornboise and Miss Lofting very well."

"But Mrs. Fenchurch went home alone? I take it the lady is your wife?"

"Yes—but not legally, of course! Everybody knows we're not married."

"And she was asked to dinner as your mistress?" Crisp was sceptical.

"In effect, yes. People who can afford to have their portraits painted always expect an artist to have a mistress. As a matter of fact, my relations with the fair Glenda are what you would probably call blameless. She believes she's my secretary—she's actually my domestic help. She likes people to think she's living in sin, so the arrangement pleases everybody. Only, for some reason, she funked turning up tonight."

Crisp was framing a question, when the explanation came of its own accord.

"She cried off yesterday on the ground that Watlington was a nasty old man who had—er—I think you call it?—made advances to her. It may or may not have been true. She is very pretty and very vain. I adore her vanity but detest her prettiness."

Putting himself over, thought Crisp. He let a silence hang, knowing that this type could rarely endure inattention. His eye lighted on the dun coloured cotton glove on the other's left hand.

"In hot weather, I am afflicted with a slight eczema—due to excessive drinking," he explained, and added: "By the way, am I suspected of guilty knowledge of the murder and—that kind of thing?"

"Theoretically, you are—until we have checked you out. Where were you between lunch and dinner?"

"Heavens, have I to produce an alibi? I must take fantastic care not to contradict myself." He possessed himself of one of the pencils exhibited on the table and made notes on the back of a typewritten letter. "I remember trying to go to sleep after lunch, but it was too hot. I went out alone and wandered by the river. I lay down under that oak near the lock until I began to bore myself. Then I came on here, apparently arriving at the right time."

"Perhaps someone saw you during that time who could identify you?" suggested Crisp.

"Undoubtedly! People tend to point me out to each other. But I myself don't know a soul in these parts. We might advertise in the local paper, asking all those who stared at me to come forward. Otherwise, I warn you, I can't prove a word of my story."

"In your case, I don't think we need worry you about proof." Crisp surprised an unguarded look of relief on the other's face. "If you find you can remember anything for us to check, you might ring me at headquarters, will you? Goodnight!"

"I wonder," said Fenchurch as he rose to go, "why people think the police subject them to third degree or whatever it is. I've enjoyed our chat immensely."

"So have I. Would you mind returning that pencil which you have pocketted?"

"Oh, sorry! I'm so glad you told me! People generally hate to mention it. My studio is littered with other people's pencils and fountain pens—mostly belonging to autograph hunters."

When Fenchurch had left the room, Crisp summoned Benscombe, gave him the list of guests.

"Before Fenchurch can reach home, ask Mrs. Fenchurch—that's what she's called—what time he left their flat this afternoon, and where he was going. She may not know that Watlington is dead. She may not know that you are in the Force. Her name is Glenda, in case she mistakes you for a cocktail party boy friend."

Benscombe made for the telephone. Crisp called an orderly.

"Tell Mr. Cornboise I'd be obliged if he would come to the morning-room."

Before Cornboise appeared, Crisp put the envelope containing the Will on the mantelpiece, seal downwards.

#  Chapter Five

Ralph Cornboise seemed to Crisp to be no more nervy than any young man might be in the circumstances. He made a graceful response to condolences on the death of his uncle. As the hard light from the Victorian chandelier fell full on his face, Crisp spotted signs of a sedative drug, and suspected the hand of Claudia.

A playboy, Crisp decided, but of the kind that takes itself seriously—floating through life with highfalutin' intentions but never actually breaking free from a routine of trivial amusements, which might include the amusement of playing at work. Strange that a woman like Claudia Lofting could be attracted to such a man—and to the extent of asking other men to be gentle with him.

Rather impertinent of her, now he came to think of it.

"As you probably know," said Crisp, putting it as gently as Claudia could wish, "we have to tick off everybody's movements."

"Where d'you want me to begin, Colonel?"

"Begin at the point where you last saw your uncle alive, and work backwards."

Ralph Cornboise nodded, while he weighed his words.

"I last saw him alive at a quarter past five this afternoon. In the library."

Crisp was surprised. That was the time given by the old lady in the garden. Ralph Cornboise had made a good beginning.

"Give the full circumstances, please—how and why you went to the library, and so on."

"That will be difficult without dragging in family matters." He spoke as if Crisp's convenience were his sole concern. "After lunch, Miss Lofting, Querk and myself went with my uncle into the library, where we were occupied with family affairs for half an hour or so, after which Miss Lofting and I drifted into the garden.

"As a matter of fact, Miss Lofting and I were discussing a rather offensive remark of my uncle's which, in my opinion, implied that she was not a suitable woman for me to marry. You never met him? He used to make a point of being rougher than he really was—and that was a lot! Miss Lofting thought I was exaggerating the importance of the remark. After a couple of hours, she said she would go at once to my uncle and get him to define his attitude. I told her I hoped she would not do so, as it could only make matters worse. I asked her instead to come with me to a swimming pool—the Three Witches, a roadhouse ten minutes' drive from here. She said she did not want to. My last words as she left me were: 'Please don't go to the library'."

Benscombe came quietly into the room and sat down. Ralph continued:

"I saw her go into the house by the front door, not the window, which was nearer. I hoped she had decided to take my advice and do nothing. I hung about a bit. I admit I was rather worked up about it. When I felt I could stand the suspense no longer, I went to the library window and opened it."

He paused, looked Crisp in the face, and added:

"Then I was very relieved to see that Miss Lofting had not gone to the library after all."

That was Crisp's second surprise—that Ralph and Claudia had not put their heads together and agreed on their tale, though they had had ample time and opportunity to do so.

"How could you tell? She might have gone to the library and left before you arrived?"

"My uncle was asleep." Ralph's tone had become sulky.

"He wouldn't have had time to go to sleep if she had been talking to him a few minutes before I came in."

"Go on. Don't leave it to me to pull the facts out of you."

"You want such tiny details!" Ralph sank back in the easy chair and covered his eyes with his hands. "I was uncertain what I wished to do. It's a bit of an effort to remember every single thing... I saw a metal thing on the floor, near his feet, as if he had knocked it off the writing table. I picked it up. It was an address die-stamp, I think."

His voice tailed off into silence.

"Was it this one on the table here?" asked Crisp.

Ralph did not remove his hands from his eyes.

"Yes. I saw it just now. That's the one." He added querulously: "Why shouldn't it be?"

The effect of the sedative drug seemed to be wearing off, leaving him irritable and suspicious.

"What did you do with it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute—it's no good hurrying me! I put it on the table with a bit of a clatter. But it didn't wake him up. Then I hoped he wouldn't wake up, as I'd forgotten what I meant to say to him. I went out by the window just as that beastly clock was chiming a quarter past five. I tripped on the lawn and fell down. Then I remembered that I had decided to have a swim. So I went and had the swim."

"That's better!" approved Crisp. "I gather you were in a somewhat agitated state from about two-thirty onwards, weren't you?"

"I certainly was!"

_"Why?"_

Ralph dropped his hands and stared at Crisp.

"Why?" repeated Crisp. "You've told me that your uncle made some disparaging remark about Miss Lofting. It must have been a very mild remark, or Miss Lofting would have walked out of the house. But she intended to stay on for the weekend. Surely the remark can't have been worth all that hullabaloo! She didn't seem to think herself insulted when she was talking to me just now."

"In my own mind I may have exaggerated the insult element," admitted Ralph. "But I didn't exaggerate the practical element. If his Will left me penniless in the event of my marrying Miss Lofting—"

" _If!_ But I understand from Miss Lofting that he read the Will to the three of you: then locked it up and put it in his safe, sealed and addressed to his solicitors?"

Ralph groped for an answer. "You don't understand the atmosphere—"

"I don't!" Crisp frowned. "But that Will is growing more and more mysterious. Do you object to my seeing it?"

"Yes, I do!" cried Ralph. "I'm very sorry, Colonel, but I definitely object. I can tell you the contents!"

"Then why not let me read 'em?"

Ralph pouted and fidgetted like a resentful child.

"I wish we could leave that Will alone!" he whined. "Besides, I don't know where it is. You're talking as if I had it in my pocket."

Crisp took the sealed envelope from the mantelpiece.

"Is this the Will?"

Ralph stopped fidgetting.

_"That?"_ He took the envelope, ran his fingers the length of it, as Crisp had done in the library. "No," he said. "At least—that is—I don't think it is." And then that vacuous little question again: "Why should it be?"

Crisp's eyes were on the envelope as he asked:

"Did your uncle produce some letters written by Miss Lofting?"

"Yes. An abominable trick! But there was nothing in it as far as I was concerned. Miss Lofting had told me all there was to tell."

"What did he do with those letters?"

"I don't know." The words were uttered with sulky defiance.

"We'll see what's in that envelope."

Crisp opened the door and called Inspector Sanson.

"You and Benscombe witness this," he ordered. "I'm going to open a sealed document."

The envelope was still in Ralph's hand.

"Perhaps you would prefer to open it yourself, Mr. Cornboise?"

Ralph made no move. His expression was vacant and listless. Crisp took the envelope from his fingers, slit the flap and removed the contents, a single folio sheet, folded. He unfolded it, spread it on the table.

He read the Will aloud, in summary, addressing Ralph.

"Hm! Residuary estate left to you, Mr. Cornboise, 'provided that... he shall hold himself in readiness to marry and shall so marry before his fortieth year a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.' Witnessed by the housemaid and the caretaker two days ago." Crisp looked up. "I don't see that that is an insult to Miss Lofting."

The remains of the sedative drug proved ineffective. From Ralph Cornboise came a burst of high-pitched laughter—and another.

Crisp watched him with almost clinical interest. So this was why Claudia had begged him to be gentle—she knew that he was subject to hysteria. Moreover, the hysterical attack had been brought on at sight of a Will, of which Ralph already knew the contents—taken from an envelope in which he had, presumably, seen the Will sealed up.

Ralph had recovered and was lighting a cigarette. His cheeks glistened with tears he had already forgotten.

"You're steady enough now to answer a question. You expected me to find something in that envelope beside the Will—"

"That's not a question. It's a statement. And it's not true."

"My mistake," grinned Crisp. "Here comes a proper question for a plain yes-or-no answer. But take your time."

"Go ahead, Colonel." Ralph had swung to the other extreme, and was now unnaturally calm.

"When you entered the library through the window, at a quarter past five—" Crisp held himself ready for another outburst "—was your uncle _already dead?_ "

There was no more than a slight catch of the breath before Ralph answered:

"No. He was not dead until I killed him."

"Ah!" sighed Crisp. "I was afraid you'd say that!"

"The worst of it is," continued Crisp, "I have to pretend to take you seriously. Benscombe, you might bring the typewriter in here for Inspector Sanson."

Ralph was wearing an expression of arrested determination, so that he suggested the still photograph of a film star in his big scene. Crisp knew that the hysteric perpetually dramatises himself and that his statements should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, the young man was forcing police procedure along a line Crisp had wished to avoid.

"Well, Cornboise, how did you do this murder of yours?"

"So you don't believe me!"

"My dear fellow, you can't stop a police investigation by accusing yourself. What's to prevent you withdrawing your confession when we've packed up?"

Sanson inserted paper and carbon in his typewriter.

"I'll make you believe me. I'll give all the tiny details you're so fond of," said Ralph. "My uncle was asleep, as I said he was. That thing—" he pointed to the die-stamp—"was on the floor, as I said it was. I picked it up. At first I intended only to put it on the table. And then—well, I didn't see any red as is supposed, but there was the illusion of a kind of mist: yet the physical eye could see through the mist."

"Well?" prompted Crisp. "What did you _do?_ "

"I swung that die-stamp thing to his head and killed him instantly."

"Did you indeed!" grinned Crisp. "What did he look like the moment after you killed him?"

"Oh—" Ralph shuddered elaborately. "The blow damaged the wig. It stuck out behind his ears like—like a bat's wings."

Crisp glanced at Benscombe before asking his next question.

"Apart from the wig, what did he look like?"

"I don't know. I felt—spiritually sick. I wanted to run away from myself."

"What did you do with the thing you call the diestamp?"

Ralph's mouth twitched violently.

"I don't remember. Oh yes, I do! I let it drop on the floor—where it was when I picked it up!"

"Before you left—by the window—did you lock the door?"

"No!"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Crisp. "A most unfortunate thing has happened. I forgot to warn you, when you started confessing, that what you said might be used in evidence. That means we can't use any of your confession. The judge would strike it out."

"I don't know why you're fooling with me, unless it's sadism," whined Ralph. "Anyhow, you've warned me now. I'll dictate to that officer what I've said."

Crisp let him dictate and sign his confession.

"I still don't understand why you murdered him," continued Crisp.

"I hadn't any clear cut motive. I was a swine to accept his money, because I've always hated him. But surely the confession lets me off all this catechism!"

Crisp shrugged.

"Very well, Cornboise. We shall have to detain you on suspicion, pending further investigation." He turned to Sanson. "Take him with you, please. Let him pack his things, but send an orderly with him."

When Cornboise had left the room with Inspector Sanson, Crisp lit a cigarette—a comparatively rare occurrence. No one had ever seen him smoke one to a finish. His eye rested on Benscombe.

"Did you get anything out of that artist's girl?"

"Nothing striking, sir. Fenchurch left their flat about three, telling her he was going to Watlington Lodge to rout out Ralph. Presumably, he changed his mind."

"Why presume it? He may have come here and murdered Watlington."

He became aware that Benscombe was watching him like an expectant puppy.

"Well, boy, what is it?"

"Are you sure that confession is only a stunt, sir?"

"Not sure, but extremely suspicious," answered Crisp. "Work it out for yourself. His account of his movements, outside the library, is true. He says Watlington was asleep when he went in. Possible but unlikely, because Cornboise must have entered by the window within two minutes or so of Miss Lofting leaving by the door."

He outlined Claudia Lofting's evidence.

"Next, he says he struck through the wig. Untrue. The doctor says the wig was removed and replaced after the fatal blow had been struck. Also, I saw the wig myself. It was a bit awry, but undamaged. I was looking for signs of violence and found none.

"Next, he says he dropped the die-stamp on the floor. It was found on the mantelpiece. Admittedly, he revealed knowledge that death had been caused by a single blow, but he dodged my question about the appearance after death.

"Further, my question as to whether Watlington was already dead when Cornboise entered the study suggested that Miss Lofting might be guilty. As she warned me, he promptly confessed."

"Yes, sir. But assuming he's innocent, he wouldn't know about the murder until we turned up. I'm putting myself in his place and assuming I'm innocent. The first thing I'd do when the police turned up would be to talk it over with my fiancée—there were about a couple of hours for this purpose. I'd say: 'The police are bound to quiz us. Where were we when it happened? We'd better tell 'em the same tale or they'll think we're fishy.' That's what I'd say, sir—if I were innocent. But if I were guilty I'd avoid discussing it with her. Cornboise did avoid discussing it with her."

"That would equally prove her guilty instead of him," Crisp pointed out, "since she did not discuss it with him. The only inference you can draw from the fact that their tales conflict is that they are not in conspiracy."

"And another thing, sir!" continued Benscombe unabashed. "What about that Will? When you handed him the envelope he fingered it and said it wasn't the Will. When you opened up and showed it was, he threw his laughing fit. There was something there that shook his nerve. And it wasn't the text of the Will."

"Hm! You've got something there, boy!" It was part of Crisp's policy to encourage bright juniors. "We'll have to get to the bottom of this Will business—see who that is knocking."

Benscombe opened the door to Andrew Querk in an advanced state of alarm.

#  Chapter Six

"Pray forgive me for this intrusion, Chief Constable. I have just seen Ralph Cornboise going upstairs, apparently in—ah—custody. As he passed me he called out: 'Goodbye, Mr. Querk. I'm done for.' My imagination attached an appalling meaning to those words—"

"He has confessed that he murdered his uncle, and has signed the confession—"

"I feared it! I _knew_ it!" wailed Querk. "Lacking a shred of proof, I was nevertheless positive, though I refused to admit it to myself."

"Come in, please, Mr. Querk."

Querk came in, but not as other men come into a room. He walked as a man walks when he is leading a procession. He came to a halt when he had reached a position from which he could address the. Chief Constable and his aide as an audience.

"This is tragedy. Stark tragedy!" he proclaimed. He removed his pince-nez, deemed to have been obscured by the effects of his emotion. When he replaced them, he abandoned his office as a symbolic figure and became a provincial mayor in distress. "Forgive me! We were old friends, Lord Watlington and I. I was 'dear old Andrew' to him and he was 'old pal Samuel' to me—though, of course, he was considerably my senior in years."

"Quite! Will you sit here, Mr. Querk. There are one or two questions—"

"Ask me anything you like, Colonel. Anything! There can be no fear now of betraying professional confidence. His vast fortune has become meaningless. The family he had hoped to found is already destroyed. It is saddest of all when a successful life ends in undeserved squalor. Don't you think!"

"I do!" said Crisp. "Will you tell me how you knew Cornboise was guilty before we knew it?"

"My fear—my intuitive knowledge—was based on a premonition."

Querk sat down with an air of one conferring an honour on the company.

"In the library after lunch, my poor friend made a questionable remark—I prefer not to repeat it—which seemed to cast doubt on Miss Lofting's status as—ah—a lady of reasonable education and unblemished social repurtation. His own phrase, used in his Will, to describe an essential prerequisite in his nephew's wife. I happened to be watching Ralph's eyes. What I saw there positively frightened me, Colonel."

Benscombe writhed and received a scowl from his Chief. "Is that all, Mr. Querk?"

" _Everything_!" said Querk with profound satisfaction. "I am keeping nothing back. Nothing whatever. It would be very difficult, Colonel, to exaggerate the unease I subsequently suffered. When I retired to my room at about a quarter to three, I was unable to rest, though the heat almost invariably makes me drowsy after lunch. I sat wide awake by the window which, I may remark, permits an oblique view of the window of the library."

"Ah!" Crisp permitted himself a sigh of relief. "And you saw something?"

"I did indeed. Something, however, which merely served to increase my anxiety. I saw poor Ralph approach the window and enter the library. Within, say, a couple of minutes, he emerged. As he did so, the stable clock struck a quarter past five. In such circumstances, a striking clock gives an almost uncanny emphasis. Don't you think?"

"We can safely agree on that," said Crisp. "What did you _do?_ "

"I did everything possible," answered Querk, "to persuade myself that my fears were groundless. When Ralph came out, however, his outline was, to say the least, alarming. He seemed to totter blindly away. He actually fell prone on the lawn, then picked himself up, and hurried to the garage. I take no shame in confessing to you, Colonel, that my own state of mind was not far removed from panic."

"But you still did nothing!" snapped Crisp.

"On the contrary, I took immediate action. Action which I fondly believed, had ended the whole unhappy incident. To be precise, I closed the book I had been trying to read, and went down to the library."

_"What!"_ The exclamation had burst from young Benscombe—a terrible breach of etiquette.

Querk looked at him in some surprise, was about to comment, when Crisp cut in.

"What did you see in the library, Mr. Querk?"

"Nothing noteworthy," answered, Querk. He glanced again at Benscombe, as if expecting another interruption. "My first impression was that Lord Watlington must have dozed off again. I shut the door with deliberate clumsiness, so that the noise should wake him. Then I became aware that he was _not_ asleep."

"What did he look like?" rapped out Crisp.

"I confess that I did not notice his appearance, though, had it been in any way remarkable, I should doubtless have done so. I was about to speak to him when he—er—made a noise at me."

"Are you sure?" Crisp was puzzled. "What sort of noise?"

"A deplorable noise," answered Querk. "Made by pursing the lips and blowing through them. In the same breath—if that is possibles—he said: 'What do you want, you old horse thief?'—a playful idiom much used in Africa among intimate friends."

The Chief Constable and his aide exchanged glances of secret astonishment.

"So he—started a conversation, did he?"

"No! I think I can claim to have taken the initiative. 'Samuel, old pal,' I said, 'you have never yet been the loser by taking my advice. I advise you now to tell Miss Lofting you are glad—as you know you are in your heart, Samuel—tell her you are glad she wants to marry Ralph.'

"At first he refused point blank. Leaning heavily, I fear, on our friendship, I pressed my point. To my intense gratification, he yielded his judgment to mine and promised to tell Miss Lofting at the first opportunity."

The unctuous voice came to a temporary halt. Crisp reflected that, on the pivotal point—the time at which Ralph left the library—Querk was corroborated by Watlington's wife.

"I have told you, Chief Constable, at some length and in some detail—"

"That's how we like it," said Crisp hastily. "What time did you leave the library, Mr. Querk?"

"Let me see if I can recall the time by the aid of external circumstances," mouthed Querk. "Almost as soon as I entered the library I heard Ralph's car leaving the garage. The exhaust has a noticeably high-pitched, piping note. There followed our brief but important conversation, as I have reported. My poor friend then referred to some business matters we had discussed before lunch. He mentioned—somewhat pointedly, I must confess—that he was expecting a trunk call at five-thirty. Taking the hint, I went back to my room to prepare some notes for our next business conference. I was—I remember now—in the act of removing the cap from my fountain pen some two or three minutes later when that very strident clock struck the half hour—half past five."

Young Benscombe was making notes. Crisp contemplated the deadlock. Ralph's confession that he had killed Watlington before five-fifteen—Querk's statement that he was talking to Watlington between five-fifteen and five-thirty. Add Claudia's warning that Ralph would confess if he were frightened on her account.

There was every reason to believe Querk—every reason to disbelieve Ralph. But there were more facts to be sifted before drawing any major inference.

"When you were in the library, Mr. Querk," asked Crisp, "did you notice the position of this die-stamp?"

"Indeed I had good reason to notice it, for it twice caused interruptions while I was talking to Lord Watlington. And if there is one thing more than another I dislike, it is being interrupted!"

"Where was the die-stamp?"

"Near his left elbow, in the first instance. In the very act of greeting my arrival, he knocked it to the floor and I had to wait while he retrieved it and put it back, unfortunately, in the same place. A minute or so later, his elbow precipitated it sideways into the ash-tray. As I daresay you have discovered, he kept an office duster in the right hand drawer. With this, I removed the ash from the die-stamp and placed it—rather pointedly, I fear—where it would not be likely to interrupt me again!"

The die-stamp, Crisp reminded himself, bore one set of finger-prints only. Querk's not Cornboise's. Another point in support of Querk. The duster incident, too, explained why Claudia Lofting's prints—as well as Watlington's—had disappeared.

"When you were all in the library after lunch were you shown certain letters written by Miss Lofting?"

"Lord Watlington handed the letters in question to Miss Lofting. It was, as you can imagine, an extremely embarrassing incident in which, I fear, my old friend's dignity suffered. Miss Lofting made a scornful remark to the effect that the letters proved she had been living with a man—ah—without benefit of clergy. But I have not allowed myself to take her words literally."

There were small items to be checked. Querk had not noticed a registered parcel on the hall table; his mind being occupied with other matters. He knew nothing of the arrangements for the dinner party, nor of the movements of other persons.

There remained the old lady in the garden, whose credentials Crisp had taken for granted.

"I've been given to understand that Watlington was married?"

"An unfortunate episode in early life," answered Querk sadly. "They separated by consent very shortly afterwards. A very embittered and—I say it with reluctance—and ungrateful woman. Lord Watlington bought her an adequate annuity yet she continued to pester him to return to her, on the ground that she suffered from——er—lack of company. At his request I wrote to her explaining the nature of molestation, with the result that she has ceaselessly importuned me to use my influence to effect a reconcilition. But why need we talk of that no doubt well-meaning woman who—"

"We needn't," said Crisp. "Do you know anyone called Fenchurch?"

"Fenchurch!" repeated Querk. "The name is familiar, though I cannot for the moment recall—oh yes! An artist who was to paint Lord Watlington's portrait. He was, I believe, among the dinner guests."

Crisp glanced at the typed copy of notes which Watlington had pencilled on his blotting pad.

"Do these words mean anything to you, Mr. Querk? 'Casa Flavia': 'Tarranio'; 'Fabroli'?"

"Casa Flavia I know as a small town in Italy. The other words are meaningless to me."

Before Crisp could ask another question, there came from the hall the sound of a woman's voice in energetic protest. Benscombe, hurrying to investigate, was accosted in the doorway.

"I _must_ see the Chief Constable. It's ever so important, and I won't keep him a minute."

Querk got up.

"If I can be of any further help, Chief Constable, do not hesitate to send word. I shall not be retiring for another hour."

From the doorway came Benscombe's voice in protest.

"I say, you know, you simply must wait until I have asked whether the Chief Constable will see you."

"Oh! I recognise your voice! You asked me all those questions on the phone about Arthur. Why didn't you tell me you were the police? Why didn't you tell me Watlington was dead? You played a trick on me. I shall report this."

"Let her come in," called Crisp.

An entrance was made—a lamentably self-conscious entrance—by a willowy blonde of about thirty, who could probably have made a reasonable living as a mannequin or showgirl. 'She is very pretty and very vain' Fenchurch had said, and Crisp agreed with him. The vanity would waste time, so he decided to eliminate it.

"You have a complaint against one of my officers," he barked. "What is the complaint?"

"Oh, it's nothing _really!_ Only, that man pretended to be one of us."

"A policeman often has to slander himself in the course of his duty. Anything else?"

"Slander himself! Well!" The willowy blonde looked a little like a spoilt child in a first encounter with a stern governess. "I must say I didn't expect this kind of treatment from a Chief Constable. I may as well tell you, before we go any further, that I have a friend who's a cousin of the Home Secretary."

"Then I must be careful!" said Crisp. "What is your name?"

"I'm Mrs—Arthur—Fenchurch!"

"That's your occupation. I asked your name."

_"Ooh!"_ The vanity had become as remote as the Home Secretary. Her outward covering had been ripped off, leaving her to face the fact that she was not, never had been, the Pampered Pet she desired to be. She lived in a world where 'a girl has to look after herself'—a slogan that was both her creed and her theory of the universe. She had sense enough to perceive that her long, beautiful legs and her curly, conventional prettiness were useless weapons in her present emergency.

"All right, then—Glenda Parsons," she admitted sulkily.

"What's that you're carrying?" asked Crisp.

"Mr. Fenchurch's sketch book."

"May I see it, please?"

She handed him a leather bound sketch book. Crisp opened it and turned the pages, some of which contained line notes. Crisp recognised the leather—no doubt the same which he had seen protruding from Fenchurch's pocket when he spoke to him on the terrace.

"Where did you get this?"

"Miss Lofting handed it to me when I was waiting in the hall. She said Mr. Fenchurch must have dropped it."

Crisp returned it to her.

"Sit down, Miss Parsons."

With every sign of unwillingness, she drew an upright chair from the table, removed a piece of wrapping paper from the seat. The chair was the one farthest from Crisp.

"Why have you come here?" As she seemed to find the question difficult, Crisp added: "What do you want?"

"Only something that belongs to me. Lord Watlington said if I would slip in here into his study about half-past ten he'd give it to me."

"That sounds a very odd arrangement. You were invited to dinner, weren't you?"

"Yes." She answered with reluctance, fidgetting with the wrapping paper.

"Why didn't you turn up?"

"Lord Watlington said he would ask me, but I was to make an excuse to Arthur and not turn up."

As if protecting her dignity, she was nervously folding the sketch book into the wrapping paper. The noise irritated Crisp.

"I wish you would stop making that crackling noise while I'm trying to talk to you."

"I'm sorry. But everything is so upsetting."

"Why did you have to accept, if it was agreed you were not to come?"

She pushed the sketch book from her as if to remove the temptation to crackle, then spoke with a frankness which carried conviction: "He didn't want me to meet his guests, but he was a bit overawed by Arthur, who likes showing off with me."

"What was he going to give you?"

"Only an envelope with my name on it—'Mrs. Fenchurch' I mean. If it wasn't found in his pockets, I expect it's in his study somewhere, and I asked the police in the hall to let me go in and look—and they wouldn't."

Crisp nodded to Benscombe, who left the room. In the silence that followed, Glenda reached for the sketch book and Crisp had to endure the crackling, which lasted until Benscombe returned. In his hand was a small correspondence envelope, addressed 'Mrs. Fenchurch.'

"In the drawer of the writing table, sir."

"Oh! _thank_ you!" cried Glenda. "I'm ever so sorry I said that about you. It was nerves, really."

"That's all right—please forget it!" smiled Benscombe. But he handed the envelope to his Chief.

"What does this envelope contain, Miss Parsons?" asked Crisp.

"It's personal," she answered. "Please give it to me. You know it's mine, because it's got my name on—I can see."

"I am investigating a murder," said Crisp. "What's inside?"

"It's nothing to do with the murder—really it isn't. It's just personal."

Crisp slit the envelope, took out a folded cheque.

"'Pay Bearer five hundred pounds'," he read aloud.

Glenda hung her head.

"Can I have it, please?"

"I still don't see," said Crisp, "why he didn't give it you—er—at your last meeting—or your next?"

"He couldn't. There were reasons." Already she had grasped that it was useless talking to Crisp like that. "The fact is, I had some diamonds which my mother left me. And I asked Lord Watlington, and he said he'd very kindly sell them for me. And so he couldn't give me the money at our last meeting because he didn't know how much they'd fetch. And I didn't want it sent by post, because Arthur opens everything, and he's awful with money. That's reasonable enough, isn't it?"

It might be reasonable, thought Crisp, but it wasn't true.

"I wish you'd let me have it, now you know it's nothing to do with the murder."

"Take it, if you wish," said Crisp indifferently, handing it to her. "But you can't cash it, you know. The banks stop payment at death."

"Then I shan't get a penny?" It was a horrified whisper.

"Oh yes, in time! Provided you can satisfy the executors. Of course, they'll probably want you to prove the bit about the diamonds before they pay."

Benscombe suspected her of intending to throw a faint. With a deft compromise of police officer and dancing partner, he removed her.

"That's a side-line, isn't it, sir?" he asked.

"I don't see where she fits in," answered Crisp absently. "Mother's diamonds, eh! It might be worth while finding out whether Fenchurch knows anything about that five hundred. You can look after that yourself as soon as you get the chance."

He glanced at the copy of Ralph's confession.

"This confounded fellow has made a mess of the Regulations. We can't ignore the confession unless we're satisfied it's a hoax. It may or may not be a hoax, but your hunch that it's genuine has been scuppered by Querk."

Benscombe looked sheepish.

"There's still a chance, sir. Assume that the confession is substantially true—"

"But it isn't. He says he struck through the wig, and he didn't."

" _Substantially_ true, sir, though inaccurate in detail. I'm thinking of the Sefton-Lyle case. Sefton confessed that he had shot Ashwin. But the bullet was found in the garden, Ashwin having pretended to be hit. And it was Lyle who shot Ashwin nearly an hour later."

"Two bangs and two bullets!" grunted Crisp. "Here we have one blow only. And that blow killed Watlington. Also, what about the time?"

"I'm assuming a deliberate lie in the matter of time. That would rope in your theory, sir, that he is trying to protect Miss Lofting."

"No luck, boy! Watlington's wife has corroborated the time from that bench in the garden. Cornboise left the study at five fifteen—was out of the place in his car a few minutes later, and did not return until after six thirty."

"But look here, sir! Given that Cornboise is lying and Querk telling the truth, the murderer must have entered the library almost as soon as Querk left it. That points to Miss Lofting, which is absurd."

Crisp chuckled.

"Attractive girls don't commit murder, do they, laddie!"

"If they're really attractive, they don't have to," grinned Benscombe. "I was going to say that, if you have Cornboise in again and let him see you know he's lying—then with Querk's evidence up your sleeve—"

"A rotten place to keep your evidence. We don't need all that diplomacy. We'll put Cornboise in a bag with Querk and shake 'em up together until something drops out. Trot ' em in."

Querk did not trot. He had by now imposed upon himself the stance of a man who is attending a funeral.

"I am glad, Chief Constable," he said with a hush in his voice, "that you have taken me at my word. I always feel—bless my soul!" He broke off as Benscombe appeared with Ralph Cornboise.

"Sit down, Mr. Cornboise," said Crisp.

"I am under your orders." Ralph sat down. "But I shall not answer any more questions."

"Then you can listen. In your confession you state that you left the library at five fifteen after killing your uncle. Your statement as to time has been confirmed by two independent witnesses, one of whom is Mr. Querk."

"You have discovered that I am not a liar! Congratulations, Colonel!"

Crisp turned to Querk.

"Mr. Querk, did you enter the library after you had seen Mr. Cornboise leave it?" As Querk assented. "Did you then have a conversation with Lord Watlington lasting until approximately five thirty?"

"I did, Chief Constable."

Ralph sprang from his chair. Crisp motioned him to silence.

Querk seized the opportunity to go on talking.

"But surely my friend, Mr. Cornboise, does not maintain that he did this dreadful deed _before_ five thirty?"

"What's the good, Querk!" groaned Ralph. "I know you think it's kind of you—it _is_ kind! But they'll prove you're only trying to save me. And I don't even want to be saved!"

"Ralph! You want us to believe that you killed your uncle? Before five fifteen? Come, my dear boy!"

Exasperated, Ralph dropped back in his chair without answering.

"He does believe it, Chief Constable!" exclaimed Querk. "It is the clearest possible case of hallucination. He can even persuade himself that I am telling a deliberate falsehood."

"Oh, shut up, Querk!" snapped Ralph. "It's no good, I tell you!"

"You observe," said Querk with triumph, "how irritably he addresses—er—myself. Because I am menacing the hallucination. There can be no question whatever of my friend's sincerity. I gladly pardon his brusquerie. Such cases are well authenticated. The patient first wishes he had killed a given person. I grieve to admit that he wishes he had killed his uncle, but before all else, Chief Constable, we must be realistic. The patient—"

A snort of ill-temper came from Ralph.

"Can't you let me off this, Colonel? I've saved you a lot of trouble—you might treat me decently!"

"The patient," boomed Querk, "becomes terrified of his own wish—it is his secret fear of himself that gives the nightmare the semblance of reality."

"I'm not a patient, damn you!" shouted Ralph.

So far the process of shaking them up together had yielded little but noise. Crisp decided to give it direction.

"Cornboise, wouldn't you like to ask Mr. Querk a few questions?"

"About that psychological nonsense? No thanks. I've had a bellyfull of the subconscious from—others. I'll ask _you_ a question, Chief Constable. I happen to know as well as you do that a doctor can tell how long a chap's been dead. What time did my uncle die?"

For a second only, Crisp hesitated.

"Between five and five thirty," he said.

"Chief _Constable!_ " gasped Querk.

"There you are, Querk!" Ralph laughed contemptuously. "If you prove I didn't do it, you prove you did."

Querk constructed a smile—the smile that suffocates opponents with understanding and forgiveness.

"I think, my dear boy, that I can safely leave the Chief Constable to deal with _that_ little dilemma!"

There fell a short, intense silence.

"I don't know the answer," said Crisp.

With tolerance, with dignity, the saintlike smile faded. Querk coughed, gave a little deprecatory laugh. "Can it be, Chief Constable, that you think it is I who am suffering from hallucination? That Mr. Cornboise did indeed kill poor Lord Watlington?"

"I don't believe you're suffering from hallucination," answered Crisp. "And I don't believe Cornboise killed Watlington."

"That's torn it!" shrieked Ralph Cornboise. The hysteria was coming back. "He thinks you killed uncle! You old fool, you've brought it on yourself! I told you to shut up! Oh my hat!" The words came quickfire, on a high-pitched shout. "They'll hang you, and I shan't care a damn. And after it's over they'll find out you were only being a noble fathead and they'll hang me. Then it'll be Claudia's turn. They'll find something in that room—something I couldn't see and can't remember looking for." The voice rose to a shrill scream. _"They'll use a microscope!"_

Crisp caught him as he flopped forward. He laid him on the floor, whipped out a knife and cut his collar and tie.

"He's coming round! Stand by to take him upstairs, put him on his bed and ring for the doctor. The arrest is washed out."

When they had taken Ralph away, Querk spoke in the manner of one proposing a vote of thanks.

"I am sure, Chief Constable, we shall all be grateful that you have taken that course!" he declaimed. "Young Cornboise is as sane as you or I, but he is definitely neurotic. He needs a prolonged course of treatment in sympathetic surroundings. You observe how the dear boy is torturing himself with visions of myself being hanged—hanged forsooth!—in his stead. For a crime he himself committed in his imagination."

"Imagination didn't kill Watlington—between five and five thirty," grunted Crisp.

Querk wore an expression of reproof.

"The force of your remark is not lost upon me, Chief Constable. Before we can claim any progress, we must probe the movement of every person who was in the house, who might have been in the house, or who might have been concealed in the garden. The golden rule—"

"Quite so. Let's get back to your leaving the library—"

"The golden rule in a case like this—don't you think, Chief Constable?—is for everyone concerned— _everyone_ —to avoid saying anything which he might later come to regret."

For the moment, Crisp was flattened out. In that moment an old guerilla maxim flashed up: 'Avoid engaging the enemy until you know his immediate objective.'

"I trust that no word of mine—" began Crisp. Realising that he was beginning to talk like Querk, he broke off. "Look here, Mr. Querk, I'm sure you appreciate my difficulties. I—"

"Of course I do, my dear Colonel! Perhaps some of the difficulties will disappear if we put our heads together. Onlookers, as we know, often see more of the game. Confess, now—you are whipping up courage to ask me for proof that I did not myself murder my poor old friend."

An explosive cough from young Benscombe delayed Crisp's agreement.

"As a matter of routine—"

"Precisely!" agreed Querk. "For that very reason there need be no hesitation on your part. Lord Watlington was killed between five and five thirty, says the doctor, and while we know that such statements can be at best an approximation, we know in fact that, on my own admission, I left around two or three minutes of five thirty."

"Excellent! You're lightening my load, Mr. Querk. Did one of the maids or anyone see you leave?"

"I cannot say. And it is hardly worth our while to ask them. It would carry our investigation no further, unless the maid entered the library as soon as I had left it."

Crisp nodded, acknowledging that Querk had made a point. The latter continued:

"On the fantastic hypothesis of my guilt, we have to consider motive and behaviour. As to motive, I have lost not only a dear friend, but also my most valuable client who, as you are aware, has left me nothing in his Will."

"Good! That disposes of motive." Crisp wanted to get on to the behaviour.

"Not wholly, if I may say so!" corrected Querk. "We must shrink from no absurdity, Colonel. Have I perchance we must ask ourselves—have I robbed my client? Was I on the verge of exposure? In the course of more than twenty five years, securities have passed backwards and forwards through my hands, aggregating tens of millions. Have I helped myself to an illicit half per cent? That is an avenue which routine must surely forbid us to leave unexplored. You will not ask me to be judge in my own cause. I will refer you to the National and Mutual Bank, through whom every single transaction was effected."

He was making a mayoral address of it. Behind the platitudes, Crisp suspected, lurked a technique. The watery eyes were not the eyes of a fool. They were watching his reactions and missing nothing.

"To continue our little charade, Colonel, I must claim that, in my rôle of murderer, my behaviour has a certain—ah—originality. Another man confesses to my crime. Do I thank my guardian angel? On the contrary, I positively lay information against myself, information which neither you nor anyone else possessed, my dear Colonel—that I was myself on the scene of the crime at a relevant time. I stultify the confession by asserting, as it were, my own prior right to conviction."

Crisp laughed, prolonged the laugh for diplomatic reasons. This unusual man was using the police as his stooge, making them ask the questions he wished to be asked. Or was he, after all, the ponderous idiot he appeared to be?

"As a red-handed murderer, I am somewhat miscast. That does not prove that I am innocent. We have yet to consider the question of conspiracy. Is mine the mastermind directing the nefarious activities of others? Do I receive a furtive—er—rake-off—from the large fortune of which the young couple will presently take possession—following their marriage, of course?"

"That's a good point," stooged Crisp. "But I expect it'll only give you another laugh at the expense of the poor policeman."

"Oh come now, Colonel—we are laughing together! We are jointly propounding absurdities in order to clear them from our path. On the indictment for conspiracy—presumably with the same young couple—we encounter the difficulty of time and place. The remark about Miss Lofting's suitability as a bride was made in the study after lunch. Assuming that remark to have inspired the murder, we find that my master mind was not in contact with its subordinates until, approximately, one hour and a half _after_ the murder had taken place."

"Bravo!" applauded Crisp. He decided to take a risk. "Dammit, Mr. Querk, your evidence sweeps away all the cobwebs. It practically proves that there has been no murder."

"A jest that contains a truth!" mouthed Querk. "In my opinion, there has been no such murder as we have been discussing. Our weak spot, Colonel, is to be found in our motivation. Almost as if we were of the common herd, we have allowed ourselves to be dazzled by money. We see a large fortune and we say: 'There is the Motive.' Now, I ask you—excluding gangsters and other habitual criminals—what proportion of murders are committed for money?"

Crisp glanced at his aide.

"In the case of persons not previously convicted of an indictable offence," answered Benscombe, "the motive of gain preponderates in thirty-seven per cent of indictments for murder followed by conviction. I'm quoting the Manual, sir."

"That's what it sounded like," smiled Crisp.

"Less than forty per cent!" orated Querk. "I suggest that we entrench ourselves behind the sixty per cent, and search for a more subtle motive. We can safely exclude the motive of revenge. My poor friend had no enemies—unless, of course, you feel you could count his disgruntled wife. Hell—Shakespeare tells us, Chief Constable—holds no fury like a woman scorned. Even though our suspicion of the unfortunate lady be at the moment purely Shakesperian, it could do no harm to check her movements at the relevant times. Where was Watlington's wife at—say—five-thirty-five this afternoon?"

So that was his first objective, thought Crisp. Incidentally, _he had made the tactical mistake, commonly made by murderers, of nominating a suspect_.

"I will give you her address," offered Querk and dictated it to Benscombe. "Dear me! A quarter-to-eleven!"

"We are going back to Headquarters," said Crisp. "You've given us a good deal to think over."

Querk interrupted his own progress to the door.

"One little matter before we say goodnight. A trifle, but perhaps a tremendous trifle, my dear Chief Constable. Touching the doctor's statement as to the time at which death occurred—have we asked the Exchange whether a call was in fact put through at five-thirty? And whether my poor friend answered it?"

"Thank you for reminding me," said Crisp. "Benscombe, see to it, will you?"

In a spate of compliments to himself and the police, Querk bowed himself out.

In a few minutes, Benscombe returned.

"Trunk call from Edinburgh was put through at five-thirty-four, sir. It was not answered and the call was not charged."

"Which very strongly suggests that Watlington was dead by that time, Querk caught us out there, Benscombe. Contact the caller and see if he can tell us anything." Crisp went on: "Did you notice that, while talking like a blithering idiot, he actually shattered the case against himself as nimbly as a first-class lawyer? And did you notice that not a single platitude was wasted?'

"The only thing that feller doesn't know we know," he continued, "is that the signet ring was removed from Watlington's finger after death—and replaced. Go on from there, Benscombe."

"The murderer destroyed the original envelope containing the Will. That is, he wanted to get hold of the Will—or put another Will in its place."

"That didn't happen, boy! The Will we found was the Will Watlington read to the three of 'em in the study after lunch."

"Then the murderer wanted something that was in the envelope with the Will."

"That's more like it—at a guess, something about Miss Lofting—probably those letters. I may guess—you mayn't! But why all that how-d'ye-do with the wax and the signet ring? There was another empty envelope addressed to the solicitors. Good quality envelope. Good gum on the flap. If he felt he must use sealing wax, why add the family crest?"

Benscombe wrinkled his brow.

"I've got it, sir! Watlington sealed up the original envelope in the presence of the three of 'em as you say. So the substituted envelope had to be sealed too."

"Again, why? No one outside those three knew that the seal had been used."

"The answer to that one, sir, is Miss Lofting. She had seen the original envelope sealed. She would not have stood for murder, so she—"

"Nonsense! You must try to leave your incurable romanticism out of your work, Benscombe."

"All right, sir! The inference is that the murderer acted on his own without consulting the others—which lines up with their telling different tales."

"You're getting tired, my boy, and a bit woolly. The inference is that there _must_ have been one innocent person and that there _may_ have been two. If there's one innocent person, the evidence to date indicates not Miss Lofting but Ralph Cornboise."

Benscombe would have protested but was given no chance.

"Querk's evidence clears Ralph," said Crisp. "It's corroborated in part by Watlington's wife and negatively by Ralph's own mis-statements—notably the statement that he struck through the wig, which we know he did not."

"Let's have the other half, sir! Suppose there are two innocent persons?"

"Most probably there are! There's the difference in their respective tales. And there's Querk's point that they had no time in which to conspire. Yes—I think it'll turn out to be a one-man job—or let's say one-person job."

"You mean, sir, that Miss Lofting might have returned to the library after Querk left it?"

"She might have. We know only that she was having a bath, round about five-fifteen. What's a bath?—a couple of hours or a couple of minutes. She had opportunity plus motive. Querk had opportunity, but no motive, so far as we know."

"All I can say," announced Benscombe, "is that if Miss Lofting is the chief suspect, I'm ready to follow Querk and plump for Watlington's wife. That 'woman scorned' stuff!"

"Women get scorned every day, but they don't often commit murder about it. And don't forget the penknife and the signet ring—which becomes an elaborate and pointless act from the wife's point of view. To say nothing of ringing us up some hour and a half after the murder."

"But we don't know that she did that, sir!"

"We don't. But it's a working hypothesis that the murderer did, so as to get us bogged up with all those guests. Something may have happened then, which you and I missed. There's a corker for you. But we don't want corkers—we want facts. And we shan't get any more here tonight. Come along!"

As he gathered up the Chief Constable's personal paraphernalia, Benscombe harked back.

"I hope, sir, you don't take your own little joke seriously. Miss Lofting means nothing to me. I don't care tuppence whether she's innocent or guilty. I just feel sure that she isn't the type."

"Oh, I feel that too! That's because we're human. But, you know, there's no such thing as a murderer type."

In the hall, Claudia Lofting was waiting. As Crisp came out of the morning-room she approached him. She had discarded the evening dress, was wearing a morning frock and an apron, presumably borrowed from Bessie.

"Ralph is ill," she said. "I want to take him away from here tomorrow. Is there any objection?"

"What sort of 'ill'?" asked Crisp.

"That confession! He's a bit delirious after his excitement. He keeps telling me—over and over again—how he killed his uncle."

Again Crisp lapsed into the perilous business of assessing a human being on appearances. If she had been putting on an act, that apron would be free from stains, which it wasn't. She looked tired and pre-occupied. So he took her words at their face value.

"I have no authority in the matter," he told her. "I suggest that you leave the decision to the doctor. We've a lot of spadework to do yet. And perhaps it would be in his own ultimate interest if he were to stay close at hand."

Claudia nodded. Some of her fatigue vanished and she smiled.

"And in my ultimate interest too, Colonel?"

"Since you ask—yes. Goodnight, Miss Lofting."

With Benscombe beside him, Crisp drove back with more dash than was decorous in a Chief Constable.

"Good women," he remarked, "may conceivably commit crime for what they believe to be a good motive."

Benscombe was irritated into an outburst of respectful agreement.

#  Chapter Seven

On the following morning, an hour before he was due to report at headquarters, Benscombe was knocking at Arthur Fenchurch's flat. Eventually, Fenchurch himself appeared, in a dressing gown which most courageous young men would have liked for their honeymoon, and pyjamas which had passed beyond effeminacy to surrealism.

"Only the police would dare!" he exclaimed. "Please come in. My flat is yours. I will give you a latch-key. What do you want of me?"

"Sorry to disturb you," said Benscombe. "I want to see Mrs. Fenchurch."

"How disappointing!" They were in the hall. Fenchurch raised his voice. "Glenda! Glenda, darling, damn you! A really nice policeman has called for you!" He turned to Benscombe. "I believe she's gone." He opened the door of a bedroom. "Yes, she has. With suitcases. Come and see my studio before you go."

It was a top floor studio flat. The studio impressed Benscombe. Against the walls was a litter of unfinished canvases, some upside down. Those that were right way up were all pretty portraits of women, except those which were pretty portraits of men. Prominent was a nude without a face. There was a general effect of studied bohemianism and a good deal of untidiness, but the divans were roomy and well sprung, and the screens worked on electric rollers, controlled from a panel built into the easel.

"Perhaps you would give me Mrs. Fenchurch's address?"

"I don't know it. I don't even know her name. I don't know when she went. I last saw her about midnight. After that, I heard her packing."

"Then at least you knew she was going?"

"Because she was packing?" Fenchurch laughed. "Why, during the few months we've been together she must have packed dozens of times, just as noisily as that. It was a sort of last-word technique, after a row. Good lord, she hasn't left any coffee in the thermos! You'll have to wait while I make some."

"Don't bother about me, thanks! I say, Mr. Fenchurch, this is on the serious side. We shall have to winkle her out."

"What a pity! If you find her, please don't bring her back here. Frankly, the poor darling outstayed her welcome. Pray help yourself to any clues you want. I must heat up some coffee if I am to parry your deft questions."

Fenchurch disappeared kitchenwards. Benscombe went to the room that had been Glenda's.

He was surprised to find it so tidy. And so empty. Except that the dressing table was fitted with side mirrors, there was nothing to indicate that the room had been occupied by a woman. Glenda had cleaned up thoroughly, presumably in order to remove the kind of evidence for which Benscombe was looking.

The scent of gardenia still hovered about the chest-of-drawers, which was as empty as the wardrobe. Sheets had been removed. The mattress was folded on itself. Through the springs, he saw, under the bed, a large cardboard dress-box, of the kind costumiers use to deliver dresses. He stooped down.

The box was larger than any of its kind that he had ever seen. It was tied with thick string and the knots were sealed. As he pulled it from under the bed, he perceived that it did not contain dresses.

He had left the door open. He could hear a faint, distant clatter of crockery.

"Funny how fond these chaps are of coffee!" he muttered, as he cut the string and removed the lid.

The next moment he caught his breath, but not as policemen catch their breath—if, indeed, they ever do.

"God, he can paint! You can recognise her at once, though it isn't really like her to look at."

Claudia Lofting gazed at him out of the canvas. As a picture, it had nothing in common with the pretty portraits lying about in the studio. Benscombe, who knew nothing of art idioms, became aware that this artist could paint personality. Mood, too, subordinated to personality.

In the first, Claudia was gazing at him as if he were her lover. In the second, a full-length study, with an Italian background, showed her an attractive, everyday girl, thinking of amusing trivialities. Two more had the same kind of background: on one of them, which might have been symbolic, the words _'Casa Flavia'_ were scrawled across the corner.

Casa Flavia sounded familiar. He closed his eyes, visualised the Chief Constable in the morning-room reading to Querk, from the typed sheet, a row of figures and words pencilled on Watlington's blotting pad.

Watlington — Querk — Fenchurch — Claudia — Casa Flavia? Work that out later.

The last of the canvases stung him to anger. Claudia in the nude! Some devilishly clever trick with shadow made her body seem hard as armour, her hands the hands of a strangler, while the eyes, indubitably hers, looked out of the picture with fierce contempt—as if at something she had killed. In the corner was scrawled: _'O madre mia.'_

"Mothers aren't murderers. The thing doesn't make sense!"

He replaced the canvases in the cardboard dress box, turned it so that the uncut string was outermost, and slid it back under the bed.

He went back to the studio, had to wait a couple of minutes, during which he composed himself, before Fenchurch came in, with a breadboard acting as a tray for two cups of coffee.

"Thanks awf'ly!" Benscombe accepted the cup out of policy. "I found nothing I was looking for in that room. I suppose she has some friends, or a family or something?"

"She must have," agreed Fenchurch impartially. "She used to tell some obvious lies about the social standing of her people. I never listened. She picked me up one evening at Clapham Junction, where I had no defence. Her past did not interest me, as she had no future. D'you mind keeping still for a minute?"

Fenchurch, forgetting his coffee, was making line-notes in a sketch book.

"There's no sense in your painting my portrait—" Benscombe began.

"Portrait be damned!" He was sketching rapidly. "You can't suppose, my dear fellow, that I am touting you for a commission. It is I who should offer a fee. I can get into the Royal Academy on your head. Under a fancy title. 'Streamline.' The modern policeman. Science, poise, breeding! Don't be offended with me. If a doctor were to tell you that your liver was marvellously interesting, you would not quarrel with him."

"Go ahead—I'm not quarrelsome on duty," said Benscombe. "As you've spoken pretty freely about Glenda, you won't mind telling us what her relations were with Watlington?"

"There weren't any relations. I don't believe he wanted her. And I'm certain she wasn't trying for him... Can you look a tiny bit to your left? Thanks... One acquires an ability to read women's intentions by what they think they're doing with their dress. Few have the sense to employ an artist to advise on how to dress for seduction. If it's any help to you, I'm sure Glenda didn't murder Watlington. She was too lacking in temperament."

Benscombe, forgetting that he had been overawed by the skill revealed in the pictures of Claudia, now discovered in himself a sneaking respect for this man who was so adept at slithering off the point. To nail him down it would be necessary to take a risk. He waited until there came a pause in the sketching.

"Last night," said Benscombe, "we found a cheque to her, signed by Watlington, for five hundred pounds."

"God damn the dirty little crook!" The sketch book went flying. A half second later, Fenchurch looked ashamed at having made a fool of himself.

"Crook?" echoed Benscombe.

"No—no, of course not! Mercenary, not crook! Evidently I was wrong in what I said about her relations with Watlington."

"I'm taking a bet you were _not_ wrong," said Benscombe. "And another bet that you wouldn't care tuppence if she had sold herself to Watlington, or anyone else. Yet you jumped out of your pyjamas when I mentioned that cheque. What did she sell him for that five hundred?"

Fenchurch stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown as if he were hiding them.

"How the hell do I know!"

"Weak!" scoffed Benscombe. "If you'd known nothing, you wouldn't have damned her so energetically."

"My reaction, surely, was obvious! If she did succeed in nobbling Watlington, I felt she ought to have split the cash with me."

"Thanks, Mr. Fenchurch," grinned Benscombe, rising. "I'll be getting along."

"Possibly—" began Fenchurch "—with your more regular way of life and unsmirched ideals—you're revolted?"

"Not revolted—a bit sore because you think I'm so green that I don't know a gigolo when I see one."

"Science, poise, breeding!" muttered Fenchurch. "God, I must paint that picture!"

"Good luck, then! You've helped us a lot."

"By trying to mislead you?"

"By just that! You would rather brand yourself a so-and-so than tell us what Glenda sold Watlington. That narrows the field down splendidly. Cheerio!"

#  Chapter Eight

The Chief Constable was waiting for Benscombe on the steps of the Town Hall.

"Sorry, sir! I've been chasing Fenchurch's girl and tumbled on something else. She's bolted, by the way."

"Let's have the 'appreciation' first," said Crisp, as they got into his car.

"Appreciation!" echoed Benscombe. "Fenchurch didn't know Glenda was doing a deal with Watlington. Glenda sold Watlington something belonging to Fenchurch. Probably letters proving that Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting knew each other pretty well. On one of the many pictures of Claudia—some with an Italian-looking background—Fenchurch had written 'Casa Flavia'."

"Watlington's blotting pad! Good!" said Crisp. "Now the details!"

Benscombe reported everything, except the nude study of Claudia.

"Does it add up, sir?"

"You've earned your pat on the back." Crisp was pondering as he spoke. "It's a loop-line, of course. If you can find out when and why Watlington noted Casa Flavia, you'll come back to the main line. You see what the main line is, don't you, boy?"

"To discover who had the greatest interest in Watlington's death."

"Not a bit of it! The main line is the clock. That's what we keep barking our shins on. There's a catch somewhere in all these clock-times, and so far we haven't spotted it."

He negotiated a corner and continued:

"Look how we've had our noses rubbed in the time! That chiming stable clock works out as a sort of ballet master. Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia, Ralph, Querk! Each of 'em hears it strike before or after doing or seeing something, so that we can fit everything into place. The wrong place! It strikes five o'clock and the curtain rises, with Claudia going into the library. We hang on to that clock until it strikes five-thirty—when we find we've by-passed the murder."

About to turn into the drive, Crisp was held by a Rolls coming out.

"That's probably the specialist she sent for to look at Cornboise," said Crisp. "Sanson phoned me about it. Maybe she's playing for insanity—prevent him giving evidence."

The front door was open, as usual. In the hall, they heard Querk's voice coming from the first, floor landing.

"I would never have suggested it, my dear Miss Lofting, if I had the slightest fear that I would excite him. On the contrary, I feel confident—absolutely confident—that I can help the poor fellow to clarify his thoughts. Sir William has told us how important that is. I'm so glad he was able to come to our help—I admit I had to put it to him as a special favour."

"Very well, Mr. Querk. I don't want to be difficult, especially as you've been so kind about Sir William. But I do think Ralph ought to rest this morning. Say four o' clock this afternoon. I'll take tea to his room for the three of us."

Crisp passed to the gunroom, Sanson's office. After hearing a routine report, which included the stalling of Pressmen, he asked:

"What about that registered parcel? Nothing eh? Stir up the servants. Send a man with them to search every room again—except Cornboise's. Lock all unoccupied rooms, label the keys and bring 'em to me."

"Very good, sir." Sanson added: "There's a message that Miss Lofting would be grateful for an interview at your convenience."

"As soon as she likes—in the other room." Benscombe followed him into the morning-room, opened the dossier and log book.

"I want the blotting pad—not the typed notes," said Crisp.

Benscombe stood over him as he studied it. When the figures were grouped, they were in neat columns. But the columns were set at various angles, due to Watlington's habit of twiddling the blotting pad. _'Girl bosses Ralph'_ was at right angles to the most recent column of figures. At right angles again, appeared (1) _Tarranio:_ (2) _Fabroli: Casa Flavia_. This was in one line, except for the last word, which had been partly written then struck out and rewritten in full underneath the cancellation. Below 'Flavia' was a date in May of the previous year.

"Now, let's see how far we can time this stuff. Check what I say. Querk says all the figures were made before lunch. After lunch there's _'Girl bosses Ralph.'_ That marries up with what she told us about her smoothing Ralph after the alleged insult to herself.

"Now this Italian stuff! Watlington had turned the pad again. I think he took this note at dictation, because it's written much more carefully than anything else, and he didn't know how much space it would take. He wrote 'Fla' of 'Flavia,' then saw he was going to crash into the 'ph' of Ralph. So he struck out the 'Fla' and re-wrote the word in full underneath. _Therefore_ —therefore what, boy?"

"Therefore the Italian note was made after the note about Ralph."

"Right!" approved Crisp. "Hold that! Check it if you can. Maybe the girl will help."

In a few minutes, Claudia appeared. In the same morning frock, but without the apron, she threw the suggestion of a social adequacy which was not only a protection to herself but a challenge to others. Herself a normal woman in abnormal circumstances, she demanded to be taken at her own valuation. Crisp found himself addressing her as a social acquaintance.

"Good morning, Miss Lofting. I hope the doctor was encouraging?"

"He has told us how we stand," she answered. "I called Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist." She smiled. "Mr. Querk lent me his enormous fee for coming out here. Turvey said that it wouldn't affect the hallucination whether we moved Ralph from here or not. So that washes out my request."

"Then Turvey confirmed that it was hallucination and not—well, a plumb lie?" asked Crisp.

"We told him—that is, Mr. Querk and I—that Ralph had confessed, and that you had rejected the confession because you had evidence that it was not true." She gave Crisp a chance to protest and continued: "When Turvey had finished with Ralph, he explained to us that hallucination is only a symptom. It's not a thing you can have by itself. Like any other symptom, he said, it remains until the cause is removed."

"Hm! But as the cause happens to be the murder of his uncle—"

"The cause," interrupted Claudia, "is his fear that I murdered his uncle. Turvey said it would be idle to look for any other cause until that has been eliminated to the patient's satisfaction. That is where I hope you will be willing to help us, Colonel."

Crisp permitted himself to show irritation. "You would like me to hurry up and find the murderer for you?"

Claudia was better at that kind of thing than Crisp.

"I expressed myself clumsily—and I have been punished."

Benscombe came near to feeling sorry for his Chief.

"I meant—it might take you some time to complete your investigation," continued Claudia. "I hoped you would be willing to tell me if you have proved that I did not kill Lord Watlington. And to give me the proof."

Crisp's glance held something of admiration, though it was as uncompromising as her own.

"I will gladly give you that proof," he answered, "as soon as I have it."

"Oh!" For a moment she looked grave; then, in a quick little laugh, her defensiveness vanished. "How stupid of me! I thought I had been struck off the list. I suppose the weak spot is whether I dashed into the library, after Querk left it. There would have been just time."

"So you've been discussing the case with Querk?"

"Yes. After you had gone last night. He raised that point, and this morning I tackled Bessie. She remembered hearing the bath taps running. But I couldn't get her to admit she had heard the water running out—which, as it was at about twenty to six, would have carried me over the hurdle. It's one of those awfully noisy bath wastes, too. But Bessie simply would not rise."

"The next time you attempt to suborn a witness," said Crisp, with stage severity, "don't tell the Chief Constable all about it. Can you pin down any of your movements after turning on the water? I have no personal doubt that you behaved as described. But, theoretically, you might have run the water as a blind, then slipped downstairs, hiding somewhere, and waiting your chance."

"Yes, of course!" agreed Claudia. "The wretched Bessie is useless—she was probably asleep. I didn't hurry in the bathroom, and when I was back in my own room I pottered a little, and then lay down. There's nothing we can catch hold of."

"Nothing through yourself. We may be able to cover the period through other evidence. Things dovetail conveniently sometimes—that's why we ask so many questions. Now, I have here Watlington's blotting pad. On it there is a puzzling note. 'Casa Flavia.' Can you throw any light?"

Benscombe found himself hoping she would not lie—with the evidence of those pictures against her.

"N-no!"

Benscombe sighed. As Crisp was about to ask another question, Claudia added:

"It's a small market town on the Bay of Naples. I've stayed there and know it very well. But it didn't crop up in the conversation after lunch."

Crisp glanced again at the blotting pad.

"'Tarranio'. Does that mean anything to you?"

"It means to me a wine merchant in Casa Flavia."

"And 'Fabroli'?"

She repeated the name, groped in memory. "Why, yes! He is also a wine merchant in Casa Flavia."

"Can you give us a helpful guess why all that should be noted on the blotting pad, followed by a date—May 2nd last year?"

"I was there from April to June last year." Her eye roamed the room, resting for a moment on Benscombe. "Yes!" she exclaimed. "I see what must have happened. Only, you've obviously got the wrong time."

"Time again!" Crisp's remark was for Benscombe.

"The man who can probably tell you all about it is Arthur Fenchurch, the artist," said Claudia. "He was asked to the dinner last night—he was going to start painting Watlington next week. He was at Casa Flavia when I was there—he painted me. Probably he mentioned it to Watlington. But the note must have been made before we were all in the study."

_"Before?"_ challenged Crisp.

"How otherwise?" she countered. "Unless you suppose that Arthur Fenchurch turned up after we had left the study—without anybody knowing—and that he woke Watlington out of his afternoon snooze for a chat about smalltown Italian wine merchants." She added: "It simply must have been made before."

But it had not been made before. Benscombe, who had yet to complete his second year in the Force, felt his pulse quickening. Claudia's evidence was changing the whole perspective of the case.

His Chief was asking another question.

"Can you suggest why Watlington should want to make a note of these two wine merchants, local men? And add a definite date of more than a year ago?"

"I haven't the least idea. Unless it was part of the peerage campaign to lay in a stock of Italian wines." Her gaiety passed as quickly as it had come. "I'm afraid all this won't help you to strike me off the list."

Crisp nodded to Benscombe, who understood and slipped from the room.

"I'd like to run over the evidence you gave yesterday and see if you can add or subtract anything," said Crisp. By this device he detained Claudia until Benscombe returned. As soon as Claudia had left the room Benscombe reported.

"I got Fenchurch on the phone, sir." Benscombe was jubilant. "He said he last saw Watlington last Wednesday Watlington came to the studio. Fenchurch had not been in this house since last Thursday week. He was quite certain. Nailed his colours to the mast. Burnt his boats—"

"Crossed the Rubican and Cast the Die!" cut in Crisp. "Let's see how it fits in."

"Breaks the spell of the stable clock, sir. Fenchurch was in the study between the others leaving it after lunch and—"

"How do you know that note was dictated by Fenchurch?" challenged Crisp. "You think you know it because an attractive girl told you so. She is attractive. Did you notice how she hit back at me for trying to put her in her place?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't call that particularly attractive. She's at her best when she—"

"She is," agreed Crisp. "Querk told us he could fit no meaning to the Casa Flavia stuff. Claudia fits Fenchurch into it and your job o' work this morning dovetails. All this suggests that Fenchurch is in it. But it leaves us short of certainty."

"He can't prove his movements on Saturday afternoon. What about my quizzing him, sir?"

"Leave him alone for the present. If he's in it, he can't afford to bolt. He'll rely on talking himself out of it. We'll work round him. Pick up that girl of his and find out what she did sell Watlington. Tomorrow, ask the Italian consulate whether those chaps really are wine merchants."

A constable entered with a collection of house keys, labelled, and put them on the table.

"That registered parcel has not been found, sir."

"This afternoon, Benscombe," continued Crisp, when the orderly had gone, "you can find out whether Querk, Claudia and Ralph attach any importance to this Casa Flavia stuff."

Benscombe was at a loss.

"Sorry, I don't see how to set about that, sir?"

"You can attend that conference they're going to have at four—but you don't need to report present." Crisp pointed to the collection of house keys. "In that room, we heard Ralph brushing his hair. That means they will hear you if you try to take notes."

"Good Lord, sir, it's a fine assignment! I ought to get something out of it!"

"You mean you think you will get everything out of it. You won't. If the murderer is one of the party, that murderer will be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons—which equals two policemen."

#  Chapter Nine

The only physical difficulty in the assignment was to get in and out of the room unobserved and to manipulate the key without being heard by Ralph. Querk had gone out, but might return at any time. It was necessary to locate Claudia and each one of the servants.

By three fifteen, Benscombe was in the room, the door locked behind him. The window was a nuisance. The Victorian curtain pole, with its brackets of scrolled brass, was bare of curtains. The dressing table and washstand were set at an angle—which would not protect him from chance observation from the garden. There was nothing for it but to get down on the floor.

On the other side of the matchboarding, Ralph turned in his bed. To Benscombe the springs registered as if the bed were immediately behind him. From sundry small noises made by the other, he observed that audibility varied, part only of the matchboarding acting as a sounding board. While he was still groping for the best spot, he heard the door of Ralph's room open, then Claudia's voice:

"Would you like a wash and brush up before tea?"

"No, thanks! Are the police still nosing about?"

"Not up here. They've locked every unoccupied room above the ground floor."

There came the vague noises of a room being tidied before Claudia spoke again.

"I came up to tell you that Querk wants to have tea with us. I said he could. We mustn't snub him—he has been so helpful."

She was winding the clock on the mantelpiece. Benscombe heard her tilt it to start the pendulum.

"Ralph, dear, did you hear my little piece about Querk?"

"Yes! Who was that doctor man you forced on me?" Ralph's tone was that of a fractious child.

"Sir William Turvey. It's unkind to say I forced him on you."

"I've heard of him somewhere. Is he a mental specialist, Claudia?"

"Not in the ordinary sense." Her tone was placatory. "He's a physician specialising in psychiatry."

"And he's collected a knighthood for it. That means that if he says I have an hallucination, people will believe him. That might turn out all right. If the police were to believe I was merely lying they'd reason that I might know you had killed him."

Benscombe had not been in the Force long enough for the human being to be sunk in the policeman. He waited with painful anxiety for Claudia's reaction.

Instead, there came the squeak of castors and the thumping of a cushion. That confounded tidying process! Then Ralph's voice again:

"They haven't got anything definite against you, have they, Claudia?"

"Ralph, dear, _don't_! You're torturing yourself for nothing. I had another chat with the Chief Constable this morning. He did _not_ treat me as if he thought I might be guilty of murder. I am in no danger whatever."

"That doesn't mean a thing!"

"I know you think I'm merely trying to stop you from worrying. Talk it over with Querk and let him tell you what he thinks. I'll see if he has come back."

The sound of the door being opened and shut. The groan of Ralph's bed springs. Benscombe glared at the matchboarding as if it had betrayed him.

"That's absolutely consistent with her innocence," ran his thoughts. "And nearly as consistent with her guilt. And his! Oh, damn!"

Behind his exasperation was the conviction that Crisp would have little difficulty in interpreting the words of one or the other.

He set himself to memorise the words, discovered uncertainties at crucial points, mainly grammatical. The mood and tense of verbs were of paramount importance. The only positive thing Claudia had said was that she was not in danger.

In danger of being caught? Or only in danger of being unjustly suspected?

There had been no strain in her voice when she used the word 'murder.' Surely real murderers always dodged that word! He had not been a policeman long enough to know.

Absorbed, he failed to hear the stable clock strike four—did not know the tea party had started until he heard Querk's voice.

"And how is the patient? Ready to sit up and take nourishment, I hope. Miss Lofting, let me take that tray from you. It must be very heavy!"

Fussing with the tray was followed by Claudia asking Querk the irritating questions about sugar and milk. Then Ralph's nerve-racking voice crashing through the pretence.

"Querk! Why did you risk your own neck by lying to the police? If they find out the truth they'll charge you with being my accessory."

A spoon was laid precisely in a saucer—two clear cut clinks. Benscombe felt that in the next few minutes his own career in the Force would be made or marred.

"With those words, my dear Ralph, you have forced an issue I had hoped to avoid. I shall speak to you frankly, and, I fear harshly. But I shall be harsh, only, my dear boy, in order to be kind."

"It would be kind if you would co-operate and tell me what the devil you're aiming at."

"'Co-operate'! You have given me the very word I wanted. Let us co-operate in this awkward little problem of your—ah—alleged mental state. Hallucination or no hallucination. That, in the words of Hamlet, is the question."

Incredibly to Benscombe, Claudia interrupted with an offer of sandwiches. When the confusion had died down, Ralph demanded querulously:

"Go ahead, Querk. What's the best tale to tell 'em?"

"You cannot believe that I am suggesting the—er—telling of a tale! I myself enjoy, in no small measure, the confidence of the Chief Constable. I would not dream of lending myself to any abuse of that confidence in the form of an untrue or misleading statement. We must tell the truth, Ralph, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And what is the truth that we must tell? What is the only truth about yourself that your fellow man can perceive, and so believe?"

"That I am either a liar or a lunatic. And dammit, I'm beginning to believe they're about right!"

"Then you are beginning to believe—as I do—that there is only one way of telling your truth. A liar will not admit that his statement may be untrue. A lunatic is not conscious of his lunacy. But you—you know in your heart of hearts that your account of your—er—murderous exploit will not survive the test of cross-examination. Quite apart from my own direct evidence, you must already be harbouring some doubt as to whether things _could_ have happened as you believed last night they _had_ happened.

"Very well! All I am now advising is that you manfully admit your own doubt. Admit that the circumstances of your uncle's death were a supreme shock to you. Admit that, for emotional reasons on which we need not dwell, your emotional logic convinced you that it was you yourself who had murdered him. Admit that this emotional conviction remains firmly planted in your consciousness—that nothing that any of us can say will dislodge it. But admit, too, that your _intellect_ accepts the assurance of the Chief Constable that, in fact, you did _not_ murder your uncle."

In the pause that followed, Benscombe could sense the crushing effect of Querk's preposterous oratory. Through a mist of unctuousness, the fellow was talking horse sense.

Then Claudia's voice:

"It does seem to me that Mr. Querk has solved the problem. You can stick to everything you've said, if you want to, provided you don't fly out at the police when they show they think you're mistaken."

Benscombe felt that for once the Chief had failed him—had he not said that a murderer would be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons? Querk and Claudia were pulling together. The two innocent persons? And Ralph the guilty one?

But, in that case, the two innocent persons were trying to persuade the guilty person that he was an innocent person—which seemed wrong, somehow. Moreover, if Ralph was indeed the murderer, Querk's evidence that Watlington was alive after five fifteen must be false. This would tend to make Querk the murderer or accessory—which was absurd. Therefore Querk and Ralph must be the two innocent persons. Therefore—

"If you wangle Turvey into putting over the hallucination for you," Ralph was saying, "the police will be left free to concentrate on you and Claudia. You, no doubt, can look after yourself. What about Claudia?"

"And _what_ about Claudia—if Miss Lofting will pardon me! Let us face that problem with the same frankness. Within these four walls, Ralph, will you admit that you secretly suspect Miss Lofting of having killed your uncle?"

Benscombe unconsciously held his breath. But he had to let it out before Ralph answered:

"What I do suspect is that if I am dropped out of the case, the police will muck about with microscopes and cigarette ash and the rest of it until they've put her in the dock."

"But why," demanded Claudia, "should they want to put me in the dock? There's no reason why I should kill the poor old boy. When we were playing with that die stamp together, he was charming. He dropped all that nonsense about objecting to our marriage."

"You're talking like a kid, Claudia. How can you prove all that? If they ever get hold of the Casa Flavia story, they'll make a bee line for you."

"Oh, nonsense! They've got hold of it already. Your uncle had noted it on his blotting pad. Colonel Crisp was talking about it this morning. I told him I had stayed there and that Arthur Fenchurch was there too and had painted me."

"You told him that!" shrieked Ralph. "Oh Claudia, then they _have_ got something definite against you! At this moment Crisp and that grinning Yesman of his are probably shaking the whole story out of Fenchurch. Casa Flavia, my god! A motive the size of a haystack!"

So Casa Flavia was the key to the murder! Benscombe contemplated the fact that he had now completed his assignment.

Claudia and Ralph were both speaking at once, and Querk was trying to cut in.

"I must beg a moment's attention!" boomed Querk.

"Look here, Querk! Claudia never mentioned Casa Flavia. How could it have been written down by uncle?"

"We do not know. We are not interested!" Querk's words held the finality of a Royal dismissal. "We can safely leave such questions to be answered by the police—if indeed they are worth the answering. The intervention of amateur investigators can but hinder them in their task. I may claim without boasting that I myself am not wholly unversed in the principles of scientific detection. I can assure you that Miss Lofting is in no danger.

"In the first instance, a purely theoretical suspicion is directed against the three of us. Against two of us—Miss Lofting and yourself—suspicion is supported by an extremely strong motive—but by nothing else. You, Ralph, are known to have been out in your car at the essential time; Miss Lofting, it is true could conceivably have entered the study after I had left it. That truth does not place Miss Lofting in peril of arrest unless and until the police can prove that in fact she did so enter the study. This, I happen to know, they are not even attempting to prove.

"If you cannot restrain yourself, my dear fellow, from thinking of this tragedy in terms of innocent persons being accused—what about, I ask you, _myself_! I am known to have been alone with the deceased within a few minutes of his being killed. I am betraying no confidence when I tell you that the Chief Constable called upon me—in fun, of course!—to clear myself. I was compelled to admit, in effect, that I was unable to do so. In the spirit of the joke, I added that, if I were in his position, I would certainly regard myself with grave suspicion. I can safely say that I have never heard a man laugh more heartily."

Ralph was trying to speak, but was drowned in the tidal wave.

"And now, Ralph, old man, I feel sure you will give earnest thought to what I have said. We must have another little chat tomorrow. Little by little, step by step, we will together sweep away the cobwebs, eh, Miss Lofting? Thank you for a most enjoyable tea."

"I shan't play!" shouted Ralph. "The Casa Flavia business makes it too dangerous. Whenever the police come near me, I shall tell them what I told them last night."

The door was opened and shut behind Querk. Benscombe could hear him padding contentedly along the corridor to the staircase. Three stairs taken at leisure, to the long window at the landing. The footsteps died as Querk continued his descent.

"Isn't he ghastly!" This from Claudia. "And the most ghastly thing about him is that he's always right."

No answer from Ralph. The tinkle of crockery again. Claudia, Benscombe judged, was packing the tea things on the tray. He would slip out while she was taking the tray downstairs.

"Please stop fiddling with that tray!"

"I'll take it downstairs and out of the way."

"Wait a bit. Please wait."

The tray was set down.

"Claudia! The hallucination theory is nonsense. But it is true that I don't remember clearly all that happened. It's nothing to do with my particular brain. People who've been in accidents and air raids and the like very rarely remember exactly what happened. Part of it is vivid—but part is blurred. And there's a gap. It's the gap that's making me ill."

"Then let's talk about it, dear. We may be able to fill it in together."

"We've got to talk about it. But first I want to talk about you. There's something I've never told you." There was another long pause and then: "The night I first met you—when I got home, I tried to gas myself. I mugged it."

Inwardly Benscombe squirmed. This, apparently, was not going to have anything to do with the assignment. He had no taste for eavesdropping on a lover's confidences.

Ralph was explaining.

"It wasn't a thought-out act—it was a reaction. We danced, didn't we! Dancing always bored me, but it didn't that night. I remembered only a second or so of it, in which I was aware of your body close to mine. It didn't make me want to make love to you. I can only say that it made me feel I had suddenly become myself—and a jolly decent self too!

"I suppose we talked the usual tosh to each other that night. But the way you talked—linked on. I felt that, living with you, I could sort of take hold of life. And that I never could without you. I didn't want to go on rotting about in the old way. So I thought I might as well chuck living, as you obviously wouldn't want a one-sided arrangement like that."

"It wasn't a one-sided arrangement. And I did want it. And I do!"

"Soon you and I got together. In my mind, we went on from the point I had reached that first night while dancing. Meaning I didn't want to live without you. That's all!"

Silence. Benscombe supposed that Ralph was collecting his thoughts. But the silence continued until Claudia prompted:

"Well, dear? You were going to tell me about the gap."

"Uncle said that if I married you there would be no money. To me that didn't matter much, at first. But when you pointed out that poverty would change us both—that you wouldn't be you—I panicked. I don't remember much of what we talked about in the garden, but I do remember struggling all the time with a desire to go and smash Uncle Sam to bits. For killing you—the real you. You had changed already, and you weren't in love with me any more. Uncle had pushed me back where I was when I tried to gas myself. So I went berserk and killed him."

Another long silence.

"Yes, Ralph? We've agreed to label it 'the hallucination.' What about the gap?"

There was no answer. A minute or more passed. Then a sound that told Benscombe that Claudia must have been sitting on the bed.

"You're tired, old man. We'd better not go on talking. It's nearly time for your medicine. You might as well take it now."

A cork being drawn, a clink and a guggle. Then Ralph speaking as if there had been no interval.

"In my presence, that Chief Constable opened the Will. It was in an envelope exactly like the one Uncle used. It was sealed with his signet ring. The police gave me the envelope before they opened it. I held it in my hand. I thought it couldn't be the Will because the envelope didn't bulge. But it _was_ the Will."

Another stop. Another prompting from Claudia.

"Yes, Ralph? Colonel Crisp opened the envelope. There's no gap there, is there?"

"The gap is—I don't think I can go on with it, Claudia."

"Try, darling! It would be so much better for you to drag it all out into the light of day." Benscombe felt the tenderness in her voice, a strange tenderness that was yet hardly that of a lover. "The gap is—?"

"The gap is that I don't remember taking your letters out of that envelope. And destroying them. And putting the Will in another envelope. And sealing it with Uncle's ring after he was dead. As I see it, I wouldn't have had time. I was out of the library when that clock struck a quarter past."

"But why do you suppose you did all that? I mean, why do you want to 'remember' that you did it?"

"Because someone did it. That means there must be this gap in my memory. Although it seemed hours to me. I've worked out that I couldn't have been in that room for more than a minute or so."

"That's reasonable. I'll ask Colonel Crisp—"

"No- _no_!" A shrill shout that was almost a scream. "I don't want it proved. Leave it alone. D'you hear! I wish you hadn't made me tell you. I was a weak fool to tell you!"

"What are you afraid of?"

"Leave it alone! I want my medicine. You poured it out. Give it to me."

"Ralph, you must tell me what you're afraid of!"

"I can't talk any more," he whined. "You don't know how tired I am. My head aches."

"Dear, what are you afraid of?... Tell me... Tell me what you are afraid of."

The answer came as if gasped out under an anaesthetic.

"If I did not tamper with those envelopes— _you did_!"

"Oh Ralph! I come into the room, find him dead, take the letters and seal the Will up again with his seal, How could I get at the signet ring? And if I could—it's all rather tooth-and-clawish, isn't it? D'you really think I'm like that?"

"I don't know—I don't know anything about you! I don't know what you've done—or what you might do!"

The next moment, Benscombe felt acute discomfort. Never before had he heard an adult man crying like a forlorn child. He could not endure the sound of Claudia comforting him. Policeman or not, he thrust his hands over his ears.

Presently Claudia began to speak rationally and Benscombe listened.

"When we danced we were—like this—werent we! _Now_ —don't you feel you're becoming yourself again—'and a jolly decent self too!'"

"No—not any more. Everything's changed." His voice was tear laden. "You've been kind to me. But you don't feel as I thought you felt. I've no grievance against you. It was I who fooled myself."

"That's another hallucination, darling. Now listen. Tomorrow, I'm going to give notice at the registrar's and we'll be married to-morrow week. You'll find that I do love you and that it's worth while going on living." She repeated: "To-morrow week. That will be lovely, won't it?"

"Yes, Claudia." To Benscombe, the assent sounded mechanical and meaningless.

"And once we're married you won't be worried by those awful little thoughts about me. Murders and tamperings and not loving you and heaven knows what else, darling. Now you simply must rest... I'll get your medicine.

"Here it is. Shall I steady the glass, or can you manage by yourself?... Those letters that have upset you! I believe your uncle destroyed them himself and put the Will in a new envelope and sealed it up. He quite changed his mind about me, you know. But don't worry about that now. Try to go to sleep and think of tomorrow week."

She picked up the tray and left the room. Benscombe could hear her firm, clear-cut footsteps along the corridor. Three stairs down to the landing.

Through the long window at the landing, Claudia caught sight of Querk in the garden. She set the tray on the window sill and watched him, with profound mistrust. But his behaviour in the garden, she was compelled to admit, was merely that of an elderly man sunning himself.

She heard a faint movement in the corridor behind her. She turned and saw Benscombe coming out of the room next to Ralph's.

#  Chapter Ten

As Benscombe completed his elaborate precautions for silence, he caught sight of Claudia on the half-landing, watching him.

He felt like a village constable in a comedy—hoped she would have the tact to pick up the tray and move on. Instead, she waited for him—intending, he supposed, to find out how much he had overheard. Girls like that, with their nerve and their lucky appearance, tended to think that men were easily managed. She could try it on if she liked!

As he drew level with her on the landing, she gave him a half smile of recognition. Her first words outflanked his defences as an official.

"It must have been rotten for you!" she said.

"It was!" he agreed, too fervently. "And it's rotten being found out."

"I shan't tell anybody. In fact I hope it won't be necessary for you to let Ralph know the police were listening."

"That's a matter for the Chief Constable. I'll put your request before him." To himself he sounded stuffily formal, but she seemed not to notice.

"Thank you—I hoped you would! You see how obsessed Ralph is. In his poor, overwrought brain he thinks he's running a campaign to protect the police from themselves. Suppressing this bit and lying about that bit. If he feels he has given damaging evidence against me over that envelope business, I'm afraid he'll become very ill indeed."

"D'you mean insane?"

She smiled sadly.

"He is perfectly sane. But he's in a low state of nervous health—he was, before this dreadful thing happened. Like most people in that state, he is subject to the suicide impulse. That's why I'm going to marry him at once."

"A sticky job for you!" he ejaculated. "As to what I've overheard—well, I'm about as junior as it's possible to be and I can only promise to do my best."

"And I'll do my best for you—now! If there's anything we said which you didn't hear properly or didn't follow, I'll fill in the blank. Ask me anything you like."

Direct questioning of so important a witness was a job for the high-ups. But this was an opportunity too good to be missed.

"Did Watlington put those letters of yours in the envelope with his Will? You seemed to agree with Ralph that he did."

"He may have. All that time, my attention was on Ralph. I told Colonel Crisp all I could remember, except the name of the man to whom I had written. And now you know it, I expect?"

"No," lied Benscombe, and thought that she believed him.

"I wanted to keep him out of it for his sake, but I can't take care of two men at once. I must throw him to the lions to save Ralph... Arthur Fenchurch, the artist. But you knew it! You looked surprised because I didn't invent a name."

"We had a finger pointing that way," he admitted, "but we needed a check-up."

"Any more check-ups?"

"That hallucination! Why do you believe Querk's story? And not believe Ralph's?"

It was almost a chance question, but it fired a hidden charge. For an instant he saw her as Arthur Fenchurch had seen her—her body hard as armour, her eyes raking him with fierce contempt. ' _O madre mia!_ ' He was beginning to see what Fenchurch meant.

"The action taken by the Chief Constable convinced me." She had relaxed, which only meant that she was on guard. "I suppose that's not a fair answer. I would have felt the same, even if the police had believed that absurd confession. I know how ill Ralph is. He hasn't enough—well, moral pluck—to kill a man, however much he might want to."

And yet, reflected Benscombe, as he went on down the stairs, she wanted to marry him—a sub-murderer type, by her own analysis.

"If they get away with all this, she'll be the wife of a rich man, whom she can boss as if he were a kid," ran his thoughts.

But those thoughts did not fit in. That picture of Fenchurch's was nearer the mark. In the nude too—to make it all symbolic! After all, the very qualities that made a mother gentle would also make her fierce under provocation. And mothers who had never had any children—phew!

In the hall, he stopped for a friendly chat with the constable on guard, then returned to headquarters, to find the Chief Constable at work as on a week-day, his broad shoulders bent over the desk as if he were about to claw his way up to the pigeon-holes.

"Well, Benscombe?"

"I listened-in all right, sir, but I was caught by Claudia as I was coming out." Before the Chief could comment he hurried on. "Appreciation: Querk and Claudia believe in the hallucination, Ralph himself does not. Letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch, in Watlington's possession, were placed by Watlington in the envelope with the Will and sealed up. Ralph thinks that either he himself or Claudia removed the letters after the murder. He can't remember doing it—thinks that he couldn't have done it in the time—so he fears Claudia did. Claudia told Ralph she believed that Watlington removed them himself, having changed his mind about her suitability. Claudia is going to marry Ralph to-morrow week, because he has what she calls the suicide impulse."

He followed up with a detailed report, ending with his meeting with Claudia and her request regarding Ralph.

"Why she wants him is a mystery all to itself. She practically admitted to me that she thought him a poor fish."

"Clever girl!" remarked Crisp, but Benscombe missed the point.

"The funny thing is, sir, that when they thought they were alone together they talked very much as they talk to us—except for Ralph's raving about those envelopes."

"The other funny thing," said Crisp, "is that Querk and Claudia are contradicting each other on a substantial point." He opened the dossier. "Here's Claudia speaking of her interview in the study _before_ five-fifteen: ' _He became complimentary—quite definitely so—the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph_.'

Crisp turned a few pages, then continued:

"Querk, speaking of his interview _after_ five-fifteen, says he advised Watlington to withdraw his objection to the marriage and to tell Claudia so at once. But Watlington does not reply that he has already done so—some ten minutes previously. According to Querk, he refuses, yields to persuasion, then promises to tell Claudia—what he has already told her. If he did tell her!"

"Personally, I prefer Querk's version," put in Benscombe.

"Then you've changed your opinion of the girl. Why?"

Because a picture had awakened him to the potentialities for violence latent in a good woman. The Chief answered his own question.

"You're judging by character. Claudia, you think, would do anything to protect that lame dog of hers. Querk is comparatively disinterested. Hm! Over-simplification, boy! Character will sometimes give you a hunch on where to look for evidence. More often it leads you up a blind alley. Leave out what they all _might_ have done and let's see how much we know of what they _have_ done. Take the main items on that typewriter, while we run through them. Leave out corroborative matter."

Thus would Crisp clarify his own thought by explaining to his junior, a process valuable to both sides.

"Take the killing first. Of the murderer—who may be more than one person, by the way—we know that he did not strike through the wig—that he removed the signet ring after death. He knew that Watlington had been trepanned. He wanted to open the envelope containing the Will and seal it up again.

"How many persons knew about the trepanning? You can write down Querk, Ralph, Claudia, Mrs. Cornboise, Fenchurch. How many, in point of time and place, could certainly have committed the murder? All except Fenchurch. Put a query against him, because he can't prove his movements between three and seven o' clock, nor can we.

"The Will. There must have been a total of three envelopes printed with the address of the solicitors. Watlington used one—which was opened and taken away by the murderer. If Watlington had torn the envelope up himself, as Claudia suggested, we should have found the pieces.

"Assuming that envelope No. I contained nothing but the Will, who could have wanted to tamper with it? None of the three who were in the study after lunch—call them the Big Three—because they all knew its contents. Rule out Fenchurch. Leaves only Mrs. Cornboise.

"Assume that the envelope contained also love letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch—I'm going on what you found out this afternoon. That yields Claudia and Ralph, interested in destroying the letters and preserving the Will."

"And Fenchurch?" suggested Benscombe. "He might have heard Watlington had got those letters and determined to get 'em back. Especially if Glenda pinched them from him."

Grisp was doubtful.

" _Only_ if Glenda pinched them," he amended. "As soon as the bank is open to-morrow that girl will have a shot at getting her cash, in the hope that I'm wrong in saying the banks won't pay a dead man's cheque. Pick her up and squeeze out of her whether she did.

"Next item. Persons known to have gone to the library between, say, three and seven o'clock. The Big Three plus the person who telephoned us—who may be one of the Three. Anything I've missed there, Benscombe?"

"The person who gave Watlington the note of Casa Flavia and the two names and the date."

"Right! Go on!"

"The only one of the Big Three who could have given it is Claudia. And she could have lost nothing by admitting it to us."

"Agreed. But why do you exclude Ralph?"

"Time, sir. Querk and Mrs. Cornboise agree that Ralph was only in the library for a minute or so. Look at that note! A town in Italy: two local tradesmen: a date. Nobody hopped in there, hurled all that at him and then hopped out again. It must have been a fairly lengthy conversation, with question and answer: several minutes at least—allowing for the dictating of the note. We know that Fenchurch possessed the information contained in the note, and that it was given to Watlington after the Big Three left the library—that is after about two forty-five."

Crisp nodded with satisfaction as the other confirmed his own deduction.

"After the Big Three left the library at about two forty-five!" he repeated. "But before, or after, each of the three re-entered it separately?"

"No data, sir."

"And we shan't get any data by questioning Fenchurch. We'll leave him alone until we've managed to get a card or two to play.

"Now those letters. Give 'em a separate heading. In telling their separate tales to us, the Big Three all suppressed the fact that the letters were put in the envelope with the Will. Let yourself go on that."

"Claudia was telling the truth when she said she didn't notice," suggested Benscombe. "Querk shut up because he wants to smooth everything over and lead a quiet life. Ralph, knowing that he himself had not touched the envelopes, assumed that Claudia had. He assumed it the moment you opened the Will-envelope and he saw the letters weren't there. Assuming his confession is a fake, he became dead certain Claudia had scuppered the old boy and burnt the letters. I don't think he said: 'I will now nobly sacrifice myself for the woman I love.' I think he just lurched from one horror to the other. And I don't see that it matters to us whether he has an hallucination or is just lying. From his tone of voice, it struck me that he's more than a bit afraid of Claudia."

"But you said they're going to marry in a week."

"I said _she_ said it, sir. He didn't gurgle with delight when she—well, it wasn't love-making—thank heaven!—but a sort of crooning over a panicky child. He agreed obediently—I suspect because he was too exhausted to argue. I don't think he has much staying power."

Crisp rose from his desk, looked over Benscombe's shoulder while he completed his notes.

"Good! You've cut the character talk and taken the facts. Querk leaves the library at approximately five twenty-eight. At five thirty-four the telephone rings and Watlington does not answer. By the way, did you contact the caller?"

"A socialite called Tremayne. Knows very little about Watlington. He was asked to the dinner party, but had to fly to Edinburgh because his wife was injured in a street accident. He was ringing Watlington to explain that he couldn't turn up."

"Hm! That buttons him up. Anyhow, the call came at five thirty-four. With the doctor's evidence, we may infer that by that time Watlington was dead. That gives the murderer a maximum of five minutes for the job."

"Which would take about five seconds, sir. Then he could lock the door and take his time over the signet ring."

"So at five twenty-eight the murderer enters the library. But he can't get on with the murder, because he wants to get that Casa Flavia conversation off his chest. And see that the man he's just going to kill makes a note about it. And gets the spelling right. In order to give us a headache. Hm! We may have got the facts, but we've got 'em in the wrong order, somehow."

He went on: "That means more spadework. And there's plenty of small stuff to be cleaned up. We want a note on that die-stamp. And remind Inspector Sanson to enquire at the post office about that registered package. That's disappeared."

Crisp checked the clock-times and then:

"Now try your hand at the Appreciation," he invited. "Take it that Querk and Ralph cancel each other out as principals."

"But is that logical, sir?"

"Logic only works when both sides know the rules and can be relied on to obey them. Most crimes are a jumble of intelligence and stupidity, of careful planning and hasty improvisation. When our facts are insufficient, we have to work on probability with what common sense we have.

"Now, Ralph asserts that he killed Watlington. But he mis-describes the method of killing, and protests that he did not notice the distortion of the body—which would be as striking to any non-medical man as it was to me.

"Querk's evidence is two-edged. If Watlington was dead when Querk entered the library, then Querk becomes compassionate accessory against the will of the principal. I don't think compassion is in Querk's line o' business—especially when it means taking such an enormous risk.

"The other edge touches Querk as hypothetical murderer. As he himself has pointed out—horrible chap, isn't he—as a murderer he is also an incredible fool, because he volunteers extremely damaging evidence against himself which we should not otherwise have possessed. I'm pretty sure Querk is not a fool. So you can leave those two out."

Benscombe inserted a fresh sheet and typed the word 'Appreciation.' Crisp was watching the paper. Benscombe typed on:

_'Opportunity: Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia Lofting and (?) Fenchurch._

_'Opportunity and Motive: Claudia Lofting.'_

Crisp grunted with approval.

"If you hadn't insisted otherwise, sir, I would have included Querk under 'opportunity.' Mrs. Cornboise and Fenchurch would have been awful fools to kill Watlington."

"Isn't that an argument for cutting them out," As Benscombe said nothing, Crisp added: "We'll leave them in, then, and see if we can collect enough evidence to eliminate them. That will isolate Claudia."

#  Chapter Eleven

By Monday morning the routine work on the murder of Lord Watlington had spread fanwise throughout county headquarters so that every constable on point or beat was checking some detail. A steady stream of reports filled the wire baskets, to be summarised and indexed for reference.

At half-past seven, Benscombe drove a police car from the garage at Watlington Lodge to the Three Witches, the road-house with the swimming pool. He filed a report that it had taken eleven minutes, and added a comment that Ralph's Reindert could probably cover the distance, under normal traffic conditions, in eight minutes.

At five minutes to ten he was hovering near the City branch of the National and Mutual Bank. Glenda was already waiting outside the locked doors. Watching her from a safe distance, he was amused to notice that no fewer than three business men stopped short on their way to the office in the hope of picking her up, averaging two minutes apiece to discover that there was nothing doing, Glenda's interest being concentrated on her hope of cashing Watlington's cheque for five hundred pounds.

When she came out, flushed after an ill-advised effort to persuade the manager that he was misinterpreting the law, she did not recognise Benscombe until he took her arm.

"Tough luck, Glenda! A cup of coffee will pull you round."

" _Oo!_ It's you! I didn't know you out of uniform. And I don't want any coffee, thanks."

"Don't be tactless, darling! When the police offer you coffee in that tone of voice, it means they're trying to keep you out of clink if you give ' em the chance. There's a place round the corner. Come along!"

The bank manager had done the ground work. In Glenda's life there were axioms for most emergencies, offshoots of the golden rule that a girl must look after herself. When your luck is out, don't start something. And Glenda's luck was indisputably out.

"Mother's diamonds and all that!" remarked Benscombe when they were seated. "All right when you want a gag for your friends. When you give _us_ a tale that isn't true—well, the first stage is a cup of coffee. The second is not."

The arrival of the waitress gave her time for reflection. Benscombe observed that she was quietly dressed in a tailormade, and looked like a business girl in difficulties.

"I don't see how I've broken the law."

"In strict confidence, Glenda, we don't care tuppence whether you've broken the law or not. For other reasons, we intend to have the whole story of that cheque." He added: "We shan't give you away to Fenchurch."

"Oh well, then!" On her lips the phrase meant that she would comply, but in her own way. "Arthur was as mean as they make 'em but he always expected me to be decently dressed and keep the housekeeping down.

"There was something going on between him and Watlington, and I don't know yet what it was, on Arthur's side. We used to live in Hampstead. As soon as he heard that Watlington was coming to the Lodge, Arthur took that flat so as to be near, had it all fitted up as if he meant to stay there for years.

"After we'd settled in, and only a few days before Watlington turned up at the Lodge, a man came to see me one night when Arthur was at a party. Not a gentleman—oily sort of man. It came out he wanted to know whether I knew anything about Arthur and a Miss Claudia Lofting. Well, I didn't. But I knew there'd been a Claudia because more than once, when he was sleepy and absent-minded and a bit drunk, he had called me Claudia. The oily man got that much out of me before he went.

"He turned up again about a week ago and said Lord Watlington wanted to see me privately. Well, I said I wouldn't go, and then I did, he was so pressing about it and saying it would be to my advantage.

"Watlington dragged out of me about Arthur calling me Claudia. It pleased him and he called me a good kid, which I thought common, coming from a real lord, as I understood he was. Then he got on to asking me whether there were any letters in the flat from the real Claudia, thinking I'd know. He was a very coarse man—asking that sort of question.

"As a matter of fact, I did happen to know there were some letters. Arthur kept them tied up in one of those tin boxes, like lawyers have. Only, the lock didn't work and I had a perfect right to look there one day when a man came to the door with a bill which Arthur'd given me no money to pay. There wasn't any money in the box—only these letters signed 'Claudia,' and some oddments.

"So Lord Watlington said he'd give me five hundred for the letters if they were any good to him, which of course I knew they would be. Come to that, I was surprised at a real lady writing like that to a man she wasn't married to. And Watlington said how he'd pay me and what was to be done, just as I told you the other night, only I said diamonds and it was really those letters. I daresay you think it was mean of me. But you don't know Arthur. And what I say is that a girl has to look after herself."

"Quite right, Glenda!" applauded Benscombe. "You're doing fine. Did you leave Arthur suddenly because he found out what you'd done?"

"He didn't find out I'd done it, but I was afraid he would," she admitted. "It seems luck was against me from the start. First thing, there came a letter from Miss Lofting on the very Saturday morning—day before yesterday—I could see it was from her though I didn't read it, as I knew the handwriting. He read the letter over breakfast, then put it in his pocket and went straight to that tin box. She must have asked him to burn her letters or something. Anyhow, he came back looking very ugly. 'Glenda,' he says, 'have you been to my deed box?'

"I made out that if he had lost anything it was probably when we moved, as the box wasn't locked, and he seemed to believe it. But he didn't do any work that morning, and after lunch he said, same as I told you, that he was going round to see Ralph Cornboise.

"I didn't see him again until about ten that night. When he came in he stared at me, almost as if he was trying to think who I was. Then he said: 'Watlington is dead. Puts us in a tight spot.' I thought he meant he'd lose the money for painting his lordship's portrait, as he didn't tell me about it being murder.

"Of course, I was worrying about my cheque. And when I thought Arthur had settled down to drink himself sleepy, I slipped round. That policeman in the hall told me I'd have to wait. I was a bit put out when Miss Lofting came up to me, all pleasant. She had heard me give the name of 'Mrs. Fenchurch' and she asked me if I'd mind taking Arthur's sketch book back, as he'd left it. It's a posh book in art leather covers, with his monogram. He carries it in a special pocket to make line-notes when he can borrow a pencil, as he never remembers to carry one himself. I said I didn't mind, but I did mind, because I didn't want Arthur to know where I'd been.

"When I got back to the flat I just had time to hide the sketch book when he popped out of the studio. He asked me where I'd been, but he didn't listen to the answer. He said: 'When I left here after lunch, did I tell you where I was going?' And I said: 'Yes, you told me you were going to Watlington Lodge.' He said: 'Forget it. I changed my mind and went for a walk by the river, because it was too hot to sleep.' I remembered how you'd wheedled the truth out of me on the phone, so I said: 'I wouldn't say that if I were you. Ralph might give you away.' And he got ugly again and he said: 'I wasn't asking you for advice.' And then—well, I think that's all that matters."

"No, it isn't," said Benscombe. "Keep going."

"I don't like to," she simpered. "He started talking about my face."

"Let's have it," prompted Benscombe. "It's waste to be shy of me when I'm on duty."

"Well, I'm only telling you what _he_ said, mind! 'Your saccharin prettiness,' he said, 'which you're so proud of, depends on the balance of your features.' Of course, being an artist he says things like that, and he knows all about women's dress, which is awkward sometimes. Only I'm sure nobody could call me proud."

While Benscombe was trying to fit it in, she continued:

"'A comparatively light blow with the open hand,' he says, 'would give you a cauliflower ear. Then you'd look like a prizefighter's auntie, and no one would notice your legs. And that's what you'll get if you tell anybody I was going to Watlington Lodge'."

Glenda broke off and tapped the table. "It's no use you looking as if you thought he'd committed the murder," she warned him, "because I happen to know he was counting on Lord Watlington's money for the picture. It's my belief the talk about Ralph was just a blind, and he was really going to see Miss Lofting and he didn't want it talked about."

That was one to Glenda. By an unguarded expression he had stopped her in mid-stream. He remembered Fenchurch's rot about admiring her vanity.

"I think you're right, Glenda. And it's obvious you can read that feller's mind like an open book. But why did you walk out on him?"

"That was your fault, getting me to say what I did on the telephone. I knew it would be sure to come out sooner or later, and Arthur would know. You see, artists know a lot about what the body is made of. And of course, I don't think I'm at all pretty and no one else does, and, besides, it's a silly word. But I've seen a girl with a cauliflower ear. So I quarrelled a bit and said I'd had enough and I was going to pack and I did pack, and I slipped away by an early train while he was sleeping it off."

Benscombe decided that her words rang true. She might be a spineless little cheat, but she was very unsubtle. He remembered how feeble had been her attempt to lie to the Chief.

"If you'll give me your address, we probably shan't trouble you again," he said. "And you needn't worry about Fenchurch. As a matter of fact, you don't know that he did go to Watlington Lodge until about dinner time."

"I may not know, but I'm sure, all the same," she retorted. "For one thing, there was all that fuss he made about telling me what to say about the river. And for another, while he was storming about at night and saying what he'd do to my face, I saw one of those funny pencils of Lord Watlington's, sticking out of his top pocket, which wasn't there when he left the flat."

That was a point, thought Benscombe. Not one of the dinner guests had been permitted to enter the house after the arrival of the police. Fenchurch had not entered until he had been escorted to the interview with Crisp.

But Glenda did not know this, and he was not going to tell her.

"But he might have picked that pencil up when he was there at dinner time. After all, he had his sketch book with him."

"I never thought of that," said Glenda indifferently.

In order to be ready for the Coroner's inquest at eleven, the Chief Constable had to start work at eight—beginning with the wire basket on his desk marked 'urgent,' now overflowing. True that all reports went into that basket, even those which merely confirmed earlier reports. But as a check-up by one man would sometimes affect the report of another, the sorting could only be undertaken by a principal.

Among the new reports was one—marked 'N,' meaning negative—which concerned the missing registered package delivered at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon. Beyond stating that the package had been dispatched at 10.30 a.m. on Saturday from the Western District Office, the officials could not help. There had been the usual queue at the counter, and the clerk was unable to remember even the sex of the sender.

That registered package, in short, promised to become a first class nuisance. It was but one of a score of trifles that had to be checked, on the minute chance of something important emerging.

"Probably somebody knocked it off the table in the hall and later one of the waiters spotted it and mopped it up—which means an expensive check-up," reflected Crisp. He was already using a lot of men on the case and would soon have to use more.

Another new report contained a duplicate copy of the ticket handed to every patron of the car park at the Three Witches, showing that a Reindert two-seater, registered number noted, had been parked by Mr. Cornboise at five forty-six. A covering note by the constable explained that the time stated could be taken as being within a minute of the actual time of arrival. Pinned to it was Benscombe's note estimating eight minutes for the journey. Given that Ralph had left Watlington Lodge not later than five-twenty, that left a margin of some sixteen minutes to be accounted for.

From a bulging pocket, Crisp brought out a wad of unused postcards, secured with a rubber band. On the topmost was his own private chart of the peak features of the case.

Querk was assumed to have left the library at five twenty-eight, some eight minutes after Mrs. Cornboise had seen Ralph depart in the Reindert.

Suppose Ralph had driven to a point, say, a couple of minutes walk from the house—and then come back? Assuming that he could have entered the house unobserved by Mrs. Cornboise, he would have had at least five minutes for the murder and two minutes in which to return to the car—leaving eight minutes for the journey to the Three Witches car park. He wrote a slip for Benscombe on the points to be checked.

At ten-thirty he was revising the notes of the evidence to be given at the inquest, when an orderly reported that the Registrar would like a word with the Chief Constable.

Crisp's guess as to the Registrar's business was proved correct.

"Young Cornboise, the old man's heir, and a Miss Lofting were in my office five minutes ago giving statutory notice. I'm to marry them to-day week. It seems a bit surprising in the circumstances, and I thought you might like to know before it gets about."

"Officially, of course, it's no affair of ours," said Crisp.

The Registrar nodded. "I came for my own sake as much as yours, Colonel. As you know, we're supposed to keep our eyes open. And I didn't quite like the look of those two! I wondered whether you'd give a tip, off the record. Is young Cornboise a sane man?"

"Difficult to give you a straight answer," replied Crisp. "He's neurotic. He did some funny business with us—though we're not taking any action about it. His friends called in Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist. He might give you some information. Anyhow, I think she is a bit frightened about his mental condition, and that's why she's marrying him at once."

"She's marrying him all right!" said the Registrar. "Practically led him in—it was like the music hall joke, except that she's not the man-chasing type. All the same, she pushed him and prompted him, told him his name and address—"

"Was he as bad as that!"

"Oh not really, I suppose. But when I asked him his name he glared at me. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Possibly Cornboise, possibly Watlington.' Then he laughed like a hyena. 'That's a knotty point of law, Mr. Registrar, with more in it than meets the eye,' he said. I explained the legal difference between a name and a title, and that they could leave the title out if they wanted to, and that seemed to please her. I suppose, as far as you know, she isn't 'dominating' him is she? Those cases always mean a lot of bother for us. Especially when there's a peerage and a good deal of money hanging to it."

"I don't think she is 'dominating' him within the meaning of the Act."

The interview satisfied the Registrar, but left Crisp uneasy.

"She ought to have seen the folly of rushing it like this!" ran his thoughts. "The newspapers will make a splash. Also, it throws the whole thing out of focus for us. And it's bound to upset the coroner's jury."

He snatched up the house telephone and rang the head of the legal department.

"There's been a new development," he announced. "I want you to stall the inquest. Go all out for formal evidence only, and a fortnight's adjournment."

A coroner rarely refuses a police request for adjournment. The actual hearing occupied but a few minutes. While Crisp was giving the formal evidence as to the finding of the body, his eye lit on the bench of witnesses—who would not be called. The Big Three and Bessie Walters. Ralph whispered to Claudia, then, at a nod from her, crept out of court.

After the court had risen, Crisp had an informal chat with the coroner then returned to the office, to find Benscombe waiting to report on his interview with Glenda.

"Good! The Glenda sequence is buttoned up and we can forget her," approved Crisp. "It adds up to corroboration of the existence of those letters."

"What about Fenchurch, sir?"

"Not much there about him, if you analyse it. He told her he was going to Watlington Lodge. He may or may not have gone there. Bullying her into denying what he'd said could be attributed to reasonable anxiety on his part."

"But the pencil, sir?"

"Yes—if you like. As it stands, it only means that she noticed the pencil at one time and not at another. He might have been carrying that pencil around since his last call on Watlington some ten days ago. Still, when you've time it wouldn't do any harm to drop in on him and, if you find the pencil, see what lies he tells you."

Benscombe felt that he had failed to put his case over. The Chief was talking about Ralph Cornboise.

"It might rattle him less if you were to see him without any formality. Find out why he took more than twenty minutes to get to the Three Witches. He's knocking about the town. You might spot him before he goes back."

"Very good, sir. Querk is in the waiting-room. He's in a bit of a lather. Says he fears he unconsciously misled you. I got two or three minutes of his fears. Shall I stall him?"

"No. Never stall Querk. Let him pour it all over you every time. Send him in as you go out to find Ralph Cornboise."

Querk came in, bringing, as ever, the sense of occasion.

"Ah, my dear Colonel, I am fortunate to catch you with a minute to spare. For my part, I have not been idle since our last meeting." He bowed himself into a chair. "I have, in fact, had an important—a most important—conversation with Mrs. Cornboise."

"Indeed!" Crisp was annoyed. If the infernal fellow was going to tamper with witnesses there would be trouble.

"Let me guess what is in your mind!" mouthed Querk. "You wish to remind me that a co-operator—if I may presume so to style myself—is by no means the same as a colleague. Had I the privilege of being your colleague you would have told me—as soon as I mentioned the existence of poor Lord Watlington's wife—that you had already encountered her and obtained from her what appeared to be important evidence."

Confound the fellow, what did he mean by 'appeared to be' important—when it _was_ important!

"It is perhaps not you but I, my dear Colonel, who should apologise. I had the presumption to examine that evidence somewhat more closely. Mrs. Cornboise—as she prefers to be called—was most helpful. She reacted to my little tests—particularly in regard to the movements of Ralph's car. The Reindert! With its highly tuned engine, if you remember."

"You don't tell me that Mrs. Cornboise knows anything about the tuning of engines?"

"Ah! I fear that I seriously misled you as to Mrs. Cornboise's nature. I represented her—I regret to say—as ungrateful and embittered. I have since discovered that she has a mature mind and a generous temperament. If she suffers the pangs of loneliness, that should have evoked my pity, not my criticism. I blame myself and shall do all in my power to make amends."

Crisp's curiosity overcame his impatience. He had grasped Querk's technique of throwing a net of platitudes over his opponent and striking through the net. And he had begun to suspect that Querk never wasted a platitude.

"I am all attention, Mr. Querk." Crisp scowled as he said it. Querk's manner was catching.

"You are most kind, Colonel. I have to remind myself that you have a great many calls on your time. So I must not weary you with the details of my amateur investigation. Instead, I will give you my conclusion. As my poor dear friend, Lord Watlington, used to say so often—'it's the totals that count.' My conclusion, Chief Constable, is that Ralph—in a state of dementia, of course, poor fellow!—in all probability killed his uncle at approximately five-thirty—that is, after I had left the library."

This, from Querk, was startling. In an intuitive flash there came to Crisp the conviction that opposite him, in the guise of a fatuous busybody, sat a formidable antagonist—the more dangerous because his objective was a complete mystery. In future, he would double his precautions in dealing with Querk.

"You have changed your opinion of Ralph, Mr. Querk?"

"Superficially, yes. Substantially, no. From the first, I suspected that the hallucination was too sharp in outline to be wholly without some foundation in fact. Both you and I were a little bemused, if I may say so, by the crushing weight of my own evidence. It made the poor boy seem to be raving like a madman. Yet the only impossible element in his self-accusation was the element of time. The position of the hands of the clock when he murdered his uncle."

Querk was wrong there, reflected Crisp. Ralph said he had struck through the wig. If he remembered the murder at all, he would remember removing the wig and replacing it— _if_ he committed the murder.

"Let's get it clear," said Crisp. "In the hallucination, he went once to the library—about five-fifteen. You are suggesting that, in fact, he went twice?"

"Tentatively suggesting!" amended Querk. "The unhappy conclusion to which I have been driven requires confirmation. 'Check-up' is, I believe, the technical term. Would it be possible for your staff to find out from the Three Witches—the road-house of that name—what time he arrived there in his car?"

Crisp nodded. He was willing to believe now that Querk had worked with his own county Chief Constable—willing to believe anything Querk said, because the man was too clever to tell any lie that could be exposed.

"You were going to say something about that car, weren't you—something about a test with Mrs. Cornboise?"

"You have again put your finger on the exact spot! Now, you will remember that I told you that I myself heard Ralph's car leaving the garage and passing down the drive while I was talking to Lord Watlington at, say, between five-fifteen and five-twenty. I stressed, I think, the high-pitched, whining note of the engine.

"Re-enacting those painful incidents in my mind as I lay seeking sleep, I became conscious of a break in the logical sequence of events. The whining note of that engine! It did not fade away. It _stopped_. I imagine, at the Lodge gates."

"Or your consciousness of it stopped?" put in Crisp.

" _And_ the consciousness of Mrs. Cornboise? Without revealing my purpose—without her being aware of what I was doing—I induced her to reconstruct her memory on that point. She came to precisely the same conclusion. She was able to go further than myself. She was able to remember that, some five minutes later, she again heard that very individual note of the engine and thought that the car must be coming back to the garage. In her quaint phrase she said the engine made a 'mingy sort of noise'."

The amateur investigator and the man who remembers things afterwards, twin nuisances to the police, were combined in the person of Querk—who obviously never forgot anything he intended to remember!

"If there is anything in your theory, Mr. Querk, it hardly leaves room for the hallucination, does it?"

"The hallucination—as I think Sir William Turvey will tell us—would lie in the fusing of the two mental images so that the poor fellow honestly believes that he went to the study only once."

And a separate hallucination that he had struck through the wig, thought Crisp to himself.

Aloud, he thanked Querk for his help, listened to Querk's protestations of his own pain in giving testimony against Ralph, and got rid of him.

When Crisp was leaving for lunch, Benscombe reported.

"I haven't contacted Ralph yet, sir. He's gone off by himself in his car. Claudia says she expects him back at the Lodge for lunch."

#  Chapter Twelve

Claudia's Expectation that Ralph would be back for lunch was falsified, as Benscombe found out by telephone. He spent the bulk of the afternoon on deskwork for the Chief Constable, and at about five drove over to Watlington Lodge. When the constable informed him that Ralph was still absent, he sent Bessie to find Claudia.

She came running down the stairs.

"If he's had an accident tell me quickly, please," she said.

"We've no information. I've come to ask you how I can get at him. The Chief wants me to check-up."

"There's no reason why he should have had an accident," said Claudia, half to herself. "He's a competent, steady driver. And he was in good fettle this morning after a long sleep. Can I give you the check-up you want?"

"Afraid not, thanks! It wasn't exactly urgent, but we'd like to know where he is."

"I wish I could tell you. This morning he said he would take the car to a garage to get the windscreen wiper adjusted, and that as he felt he wanted some air he would go and see a mutual friend, if there was time before lunch. I'll ring and see if he went there."

She turned the extension switch and spoke on the instrument under the staircase. From her half of the dialogue, Benscombe could tell that Ralph had not called on the friend.

"Don't worry," he said as she returned. "If he had a smash, we should know at headquarters. I expect he just felt he must have a bit of time away from this place. It must be rather depressing."

"It's certainly been grim since Saturday evening!" She added: "I've arranged with the trustees to stay on here until we are married."

At her last words, he caught her eye. He was thinking that she was marrying a man she thought a poor fish.

"You see him at a great disadvantage," she said, startling him by interpreting his thoughts.

"I was thinking it was rotten for you—for both of you—starting up in these conditions."

"Thank you!" she said. He was still in plain clothes, and looked like any young man of her acquaintance. "When we're married, I hope you'll come and see us. And it won't be in this nightmarish place."

She left him elated by her friendliness. The Chief Constable's belief that one sought an affair with every girl one liked the look of, was, he decided, old-fashioned and absurd. There were lots of ways of liking attractive women. Lots of ways of admiring them. It was character that fascinated you. When a girl possessed enormous potentialities of good and evil all mixed up together—

_'O madre mia!'_

He put the damper on his imagination and drove to Fenchurch's flat. He knocked and rang without result. He would have to go back to the Chief and say: 'I couldn't find Ralph, and I couldn't find Fenchurch either'—and grin like an imbecile.

After the third attempt on the door knocker, Benscombe was compelled to remind himself that Regulations were extremely clear on the subject of forcing an entry—equally clear in the matter of searching private premises without the owner's consent.

On the other hand, suppose one had a sort of open invitation from the owner? Suppose the owner had offered—as in fact Fenchurch had offered—to provide one with a latchkey. True, the offer had been in the nature of a bluff—but if the bluff had been called, Fenchurch would have handed over the latchkey, to save his face. It was, in a sense, a mere accident that the bluff had not been called, that the latchkey was not in his pocket—an accident whose effect could easily be neutralised.

The police college, strangely enough, had provided instruction covering the next step.

Inside the flat, Benscombe shut the front door and called Fenchurch by name. He repeated the call as he tapped on each door except the door of the owner's bedroom, which was open.

Having been brave enough to take the risk of a substantial setback to his career, he found that Fortune favoured him with almost suspicious alacrity. In a few minutes, evidence was positively shovelled upon him—evidence that was important enough to be unnerving. At the lowest assessment, it would save him from disciplinary action.

On Fenchurch's telephone he reported in detail to the Chief Constable.

"You've destroyed the value of the evidence by forcing an entry." Crisp's voice was wintry. "Stay where you are. Put everything back where it was. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

That, Benscombe thought, was a needless risk. He was wondering how to pass the twenty minutes, when Fenchurch himself walked into the studio.

"Hul-lo! How perfectly splendid!" exclaimed Fenchurch. "But why did you dump your uniform?"

"I had to go up to Town—"

"It won't really matter for the first sitting. It's frightfully good of you to come. The light's right for colour. If you'll hop on the dais and get comfortable, I'll have everything fixed in a few seconds."

Fenchurch flung off his coat, dropping it on the floor. There came a whirr and a rattle as the electric motor rolled and unrolled screens in the glass roof.

"Look straight at my finger, will you... Chin the tiniest bit up. Good!"

Benscombe had promised to sit for Fenchurch as lightly as Fenchurch had offered a latchkey. Yet the artist's urgency now impacted upon him—almost banished memory of the Chief's impending arrival.

Benscombe could even feel a sitter's self-consciousness.

"My dear fellow, please don't cook up an expression. Forget the easel and what I'm doing. Think of the murder. Finger prints! Clues! Flying Squad! Good! Hold the thought and the pose will hold itself. Keep as still as you can for a few minutes. Then we'll have a short rest, if you feel you want it."

They had a rest of one minute. Benscombe was feeling that another was about due when he heard the door bell, followed by a knock that was indubitably Crisp's.

Fenchurch took not the slightest notice. The knocking was repeated.

"I say, Fenchurch, there's someone at your door."

"Never mind that!" snapped Fenchurch. Remembering that a measure of politeness was due to a voluntary model, he added: "I've trained myself not to hear when people knock. They soon go away."

The knocking stopped; but the Chief Constable did not go away. A couple of minutes later he opened the door of the studio.

"Shut the door, please, and sit down somewhere," said Fenchurch without looking from his easel. "We're going to rest in a minute."

Crisp obeyed as if he were a social acquaintance who had dropped in for a chat. He sat behind Fenchurch where he could see the canvas—satisfied himself that here was an artist absorbed in his work.

"You can talk to Benscombe if you like. It won't disturb me."

"Thank you," said Crisp. "Benscombe, I've got a warrant to search Mr. Fenchurch's flat."

"Oh damn!" exclaimed Fenchurch, and stopped painting. He blinked as if trying to get his caller into mental focus. "I thought Benscombe searched it yesterday. I don't suppose Glenda left any traces."

"That was informal," said Crisp. "This will be formal. If it isn't interrupting you, I'd be obliged if you would take us over the flat."

"Right-ho!" It was a barely concealed groan. "But I shan't be the slightest use. I can never find anything in this flat."

He followed them sulkily into the corridor.

"You'll get a shock in the kitchen," he warned them. "No one has come today to clear up the mess I made yesterday, and my bedroom's no use for clues. As I think I mentioned she and I—"

"We want to see everything, please," said Crisp.

In pursuance of his policy of always letting a man take his own line, Crisp accepted Fenchurch's view of himself as an artist who had been interrupted in his work. He made a superficial examination of the kitchen, then turned to the bedroom, which was furnished in modern style, and, unlike the studio, was clean and tidy.

On the top of a revolving bookcase at the bedside was a litter of pencils and fountain pens. Benscombe nodded to his Chief.

"You've already confessed that these belong to other people, Mr. Fenchurch," said Crisp amiably. He picked up a pencil which had a white enamelled barrel and the name of a South African maker embossed in red.

"Where did this one come from?"

"That's an easy one. It's Watlington's. I hope you aren't going through the lot like that. I don't suppose I know any of the others."

"When did Watlington give it to you?"

"You can't give a man a penny pencil! He didn't know I'd got it, any more than I did."

Crisp contrived to look as if he had asked a foolish question. In the room that had been Glenda's, Crisp's eye was caught by the cardboard dress box under the bed, in which Benscombe had discovered the paintings of Claudia Lofting.

As Fenchurch followed his gaze, the thick, curving eyebrows lifted.

"I wonder what that is!" exclaimed Fenchurch. He pulled the box out, tried the weight of it. "It feels like canvases. But I don't remember packing anything in a box like this. D'you mind if I just see what it is? Can either of you lend me a knife?"

"The string is loose," said Benscombe hastily, remembering that he had cut it himself.

Fenchurch removed the lid of the box.

"Oh— _yes_!" Oblivious to the others, Fenchurch gazed at one after another of the pictures, emitting grunts of self-approbation.

"Yes! God, yes!" He put the canvases back and was about to replace the lid.

"Mayn't we see them?" asked Crisp.

"Certainly, if you're interested in pictures."

Fenchurch passed them, one by one, to Crisp. The last was the nude of Claudia. _'O madre mia.'_

Crisp looked long at the picture and then:

"You know Miss Lofting very well, I see!"

"Good lord!" Fenchurch, who had been kneeling by the box, sprang up. His eyes sparkled like the eyes of a happy child. "D' you know, that's the first time I've ever had a genuine, honest-to-God thrill out of someone's comment on my work! My dear fellow, you've no idea what we put up with! They say: 'Oh that's very clever—I recognised him at once'—as if one were very nearly as good as a beach photographer."

He clutched Crisp's arm and overwhelmed him.

"Make no mistake, Colonel! When I take a fee from a philistine, I deliberately compete with the photographer—and beat him hollow, because I make 'em look pretty, when they're damned ugly—all of 'em! But when I'm allowed to do a bit of honest work—look at this pose on the bench in the cemetery at Casa Flavia—! I don't paint the flesh. I paint the spirit."

"This nude study!" ejaculated Crisp, dodging a technical comment.

"Hah! It flashed on me when we were coming back from the cemetery! A peasant started walloping his small son, making the kid scream. For a millionth of a second I saw Claudia's soul—her gentleness, her sophistication turned to blue murder like that!"

To Fenchurch, the Chief Constable's presence had suddenly become interesting.

"Look here, we've finished with all this clueage, haven't we! I don't suppose anybody will ever hear of Glenda again. Let's have a drink. If you're interested in these, I've got some other stuff you might like to see."

A search warrant, thought Benscombe, was evidently a meaningless term to the artist. They returned to the studio, where Fenchurch scrabbled in a cupboard for canvases to show Crisp.

Benscombe indicated a litter in the far corner, made up of shopping bags, corrugated cardboard and brown wrapping paper.

In a few seconds, Crisp found what he was looking for.

"Mr. Fenchurch!"

"Hullo! Found something?"

"Yes!" When he had secured the other's attention: "This."

Crisp handed him a piece of brown paper, about eighteen inches square, too crinkled to yield a finger print.

"What d' you want me to do with it?"

"Look on the other side."

Fenchurch turned it over.

"Addressed to Watlington. Came by registered post," announced Fenchurch. He turned it over again. "Can't see anything about Glenda."

Crisp persuaded him to leave the cupboard, to sit down and to concentrate on the matter in hand.

"For the moment, we must put aside our enjoyable conversation about pictures," said Crisp. "Fix your mind on the fact that we are investigating the murder of Lord Watlington. This piece of brown paper is what you contemptuously call 'clueage.' Now—please make every effort to tell me how it came into your flat."

"A piece of brown paper!" echoed Fenchurch. "I don't know how to start making the effort. Pieces of brown paper are always coming into the flat. They accumulate. Some theory of Glenda's that the stuff is rare. Why, there must be millions of pieces of brown paper in the corner over there!"

"Look at the postmark on this piece."

Fenchurch sulkily complied.

"It was posted in West London on Saturday at 10.30 a.m. That doesn't tell me how it got here."

"The housemaid at Watlington Lodge signed for it at about four on Saturday afternoon. The parcel, of which that was the wrapper, lay on the table in the hall until five. Watlington was dead by five thirty."

Fenchurch stared at the Chief Constable. His quick receptivity had failed him. Very slowly, he absorbed the Chief Constable's words.

"This is devilishly awkward for me!" he muttered.

"That's an understatement," remarked Crisp.

"The irritating part is that I have no recollection whatever of picking up a piece of brown paper. I never do pick up pieces of brown paper. The stuff crackles and creaks, and what the hell should I want it for!"

Crisp let him blow off his own steam, and presently asked:

"You were at Watlington Lodge, then, on Saturday afternoon?"

"This fantastic piece of paper apparently proves I was. And I particularly did not want you to know I had been there. I say, what else does this brown paper prove? Does it prove that I killed Watlington? You might just as well tell me. Everything is running your way. There's surely no need for you to play Brer Rabbit?"

The man's genuine absorption in art, reflected Crisp, and his exaggerated egotism, together made him less able than other men to appreciate his position. His active intelligence operated only in the sphere of his own interests. He had an infantile conception of the police and their functions.

"You told us you went for a walk by the river," Crisp reminded him.

"Oh, that was a purely social lie!" protested Fenchurch. "I didn't want to drag Claudia Lofting into it. I expect she's told you by now that we were lovers? She said this morning that the pace was getting pretty hot."

"I wouldn't tell any more lies if I were you, Mr. Fenchurch," evaded Crisp, "social or otherwise."

"In future, we must weigh every word," agreed Fenchurch. "Everything I tell you will be true. But I'm damned well not going to tell you everything."

"Then suppose I damned well put you in clink?" grinned Crisp.

"That would only be detention, wouldn't it—I'd wear my own clothes, and so on? It's penal servitude I'm afraid of. But not for murdering Watlington. A nice, fat philistine like that! After all the trouble I'd taken to nobble him! Besides, he didn't annoy me. I rather liked him. A cad, invariably coarse, never vulgar. That aristocratic stuff of his was charming. But we can't talk about that sort of thing now. I've got tangled up in your clues, and it's not a nice feeling, I can tell you!"

Crisp let him collect his thoughts and take his own line.

"We'll start the truth-telling from zero," announced Fenchurch. "On Saturday morning I received a letter from Claudia asking me to destroy any letters of hers I might have kept, as it wasn't fair to her or Ralph to run that kind of risk. I couldn't find those letters. I thought at first Glenda had pinched them—then that she hadn't, because I reminded myself that she was never jealous. When Benscombe told me yesterday that she had collected five hundred quid from Watlington, I realised that she had sold him my letters. Rotten little rat! I wish you could find her and run her in."

"Hi! You're jumping ahead," warned Crisp. "Keep your mind on Saturday morning."

"On Saturday morning I had a conviction that those letters were lying about somewhere, making trouble. In the course of the afternoon, it seemed to boil down to Watlington as the trouble maker. I hopped over to the Lodge. I went in by that gate in the west wall—"

"Was it unlocked?" put in Benscombe.

"It was locked. But if you kick it, it opens. Don't interrupt, old man—it cramps the word-weighing. I had got as far as those yews when I spotted an elderly woman, obviously a lunatic, sitting on a bench. So I skirted round behind the stables and burgled the house through the open window of the dining-room. If I had walked on to the front door, she would have seen me."

"Why were you so anxious not to be seen entering the house?" asked Crisp.

"Because I've had some experience of lunatics. She might have come in with me. Some of them hang on to your arm and tell you the story of their lives. I'd worked out how to tackle Watlington—"

"But why on earth did you assume she was a lunatic?"

"In your own jargon, there was _prima facie_ evidence. A very large, elderly woman playing a childish game with a stocking. She had stuffed a ball or something into the toe. She was swinging it to and fro and goggling at it, as if she were afraid of it. To her disordered brain it was probably a symbol of something definitely nasty."

Benscombe glanced at the Chief, but learnt nothing from his expression. Fenchurch resumed:

"In the hall, I could hear Watlington snoring. He was one of those heavy sleepers who keep saying: 'What's that?' when you wake them. I had to poke him. Fortunately, he had a coughing fit, which woke him up enough to attend. When we'd got each other into a good temper—a bit of schoolboy smut would always make him laugh—"

"What time was this?"

"I don't know. I taxed him with having procured those letters—"

"Didn't you hear that stable clock? It chimes every fifteen minutes."

"Yes. Horrible, isn't it! I didn't count the strokes, because I didn't care what time it was. I couldn't foresee that someone would want this extraordinary kind of information about garden gates and lunatics and stable clocks."

There was something besides the clock which could tell the time.

"Did you notice a die-stamp on the writing table?"

" _And now a die-stamp_!" His voice rose to a shrill, exasperated whine. "I did not notice a die-stamp. But pray do not conclude that there was therefore no die-stamp there. There may have been a dozen die-stamps—a hundred—I would still not have noticed even one of them. I don't know what a die-stamp is, and I have not the very smallest curiosity. Forgive me—I am feeling the heat! Do you still want to know whether I murdered Watlington, or have we left all that behind?"

For the nervous outburst, Crisp was magnanimous enough to blame himself. To give the other time to pull himself together he asked for a match.

"So Watlington admitted being in possession of your letters?"

"Not at once. I had to blackguard him a bit first."

"By talking about Casa Flavia and Tarranio and Fabroli?" suggested Crisp.

"However did you manage to guess that?" Fenchurch's astonishment was soon dissipated. "I know. You must have been reading the private notes Watlington made on his blotting pad. No doubt, you have to do that sort of thing in your profession."

"We do," said Crisp. "What does the note mean?"

"Casa Flavia is a town in Italy. I met Claudia there and we fell in love, after I had painted her. There's no need for any secrecy about it, now that Watlington has been eliminated. But I cannot see how it concerns you in your official capacity."

"And what about Tarranio and Fabroli?"

"I can't tell you anything about them without incriminating myself in another direction. You will not ask me to do that." He paused: "I can give you this information. They are Italian wine merchants." Again he paused. "And I can tell you definitely that at no stage in my conversation with Watlington did either of us produce a piece of brown paper."

"As a result of that conversation," said Crisp patiently, "Watlington admitted that he had letters written to you by Miss Lofting?"

"Certainly not. That was merely preparing the ground. I told him what I can't tell you—to show I wasn't afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of you, because of your unfortunate duty. I had to kick him hard and show him what a fool he was, outside finance, before I got my letters out of him."

Benscombe appeared to sneeze. Crisp leant forward in his chair.

"Are you telling me, Mr. Fenchurch, that Watlington _gave you those letters_?"

Fenchurch took a deep breath: his mouth twitched: he began with laboured patience:

"I told you, my dear sir, that I suspected Watlington had those letters. Clear? I told you that in the course of the afternoon I went to Watlington Lodge with that suspicion in my mind. Clear?" The shrill, exasperated whine returned. "I did not go to Watlington Lodge in the course of the afternoon in order to congratulate Watlington on stealing my letters! I did not go in order to tell him he could keep them as long as he wanted them! I went there to get my letters back or burn the house down! If Watlington had not cowered under my blackguarding and given me the letters, I see now that I would have murdered him _and_ burnt the house down."

This time, Crisp ignored the artistic temperament.

"Where were the letters—before he gave them to you?"

"In the safe behind him. I know what you're going to ask next. The answer is No—they were not wrapped in brown paper. They were in a long white envelope with a printed address and sealed with wax. He ripped the sealed envelope with his thumb. Claudia's letters were inside, in a separate and smaller envelope. When he gave me the letters I put them in my pocket. I thought he was keeping one back, but he explained that it was only his Will—"

"What did he do with the Will?"

"Put it in another envelope of the same kind and locked it in the safe."

"Did he seal the envelope?"

"No. He wanted to, but I camouflaged the sealing wax—it takes a long time to seal things and I wanted to keep his attention on me. When you interrupted, I was going to tell you—"

"What did he do with the envelope he had ripped up with his thumb?"

"Oh, my God!" Fenchurch dropped his head in his hands. "I do not know what he did with the old envelope. What do people do with old envelopes? I have never given proper thought to that problem. I am ready to believe that he wrapped it in that piece of brown paper and put it in my pocket, if you say so. Let us look for it without delay. The two clues may cancel out, and I shall be a free man... I'm being damnably rude again, Colonel. For heaven's sake, let's have a drink and hang on to our sanity."

He rushed from the room. In his absence, Crisp did not speak. Benscombe became aware that his Chief was preparing one of those pivotal questions, like the question that had driven Ralph to his abortive confession.

"Sorry I've no soda," said Fenchurch returning with whisky and glasses. "The fair Glenda had her uses."

"On the distinct understanding that I may have to run you in, I'll be glad to drink your whisky," said Crisp.

"I don't suppose you'll really run me in," said Fenchurch. " _The Times_ said the other day that it's virtually impossible to hang the wrong man—though it didn't explain whether that's thanks to the police or the lawyers. After all, you can't say to me: 'If you didn't murder Watlington, who the hell did'!"

"True! But I can say—what did you do with the letters after you left Watlington?" Crisp added: "You'll find, Mr. Fenchurch, that it's much the same question."

"Thanks! Better get back to the word-weighing!"

"While you're weighing your words, I'll tell you that you left the house by the way you entered it."

"Skirting the lunatic woman," agreed Fenchurch. "And then I really did go down to the river. And I really did go to sleep under that tree near the lock. You see, getting those letters back was a great load off my mind."

"What did you do with those letters, Mr. Fenchurch?" repeated Crisp.

"Burnt 'em, as she asked me to."

Crisp pondered the answer. Fenchurch anticipated the next question.

"You're going to say—'where are the 'ashes?' The answer is that I've burnt love letters before, and I know that you can often read quite a lot from the ashes. That's why I went down to the river. I burnt them on those landing steps, and I dropped the ashes into the river. I told you it would be impossible to prove anything. I suppose my whole yarn is trumped by that piece of brown paper?"

"I wouldn't worry my head about 'clueage' if I were you," said Crisp, rising. "I want to take away those studies of Miss Lofting under the bed in the other room."

"They're not for sale."

"If they were, I couldn't afford them. I'm taking them officially. You'll get them back before long. Benscombe, write out a receipt."

#  Chapter Thirteen

"I want you to drive," said Crisp, when they were outside. "I don't know the road to Kilburn. We're calling on Mrs. Cornboise to find out whether Querk prompted her about Ralph's car."

Benscombe stowed the box containing the pictures of Claudia, too full of Fenchurch to feel interest in Mrs. Cornboise.

"If you had been on your own," said Crisp, as they drew clear of the neighbourhood, "you would have detained Fenchurch on suspicion, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir. The weak link was where he pretended to think Mrs. Cornboise was a lunatic."

"Wrong, boy! He may or may not have thought her a lunatic. But he couldn't have faked the story of her swinging the stocking with a weight in it. There was an earthenware duck's egg in her bag and three stockings, none of which needed darning. I took them. But as the report on them was negative, I returned them to her."

The traffic demanded Benscombe's full attention. In the next clear stretch Crisp resumed:

"Your line on the pencil is washed out by his admission that he saw Watlington on Saturday afternoon. That's bad luck on you—you were right to follow it up."

"Doesn't the registered wrapper tie down the time, sir?"

"Not by itself. You must always distinguish clearly between evidence, corroborative evidence, and what he calls 'clueage.' His statement to Glenda that he was going to the Lodge was a clue—it wasn't evidence of anything. The pencil was a second clue. Both point to a truth without establishing it. The brown paper would be corroborative evidence if there were any direct evidence that he was in Watlington Lodge after five o'clock. It is not itself direct evidence, because there are many possible ways in which it might have reached his flat between five on Saturday and six today, when you found it—nearly forty-eight hours later. By itself, the brown paper is little more than a clue."

When the Chief became academic, Benscombe knew that it was better to pipe down.

"Aylesbury Mansions, Marydale Road," Crisp told him as they reached Kilburn.

Turning the corner of Marydale Road, Benscombe braked hard.

"That's Querk's car, sir—parked about eighty yards ahead on the left there."

"Get back around the corner."

Crisp drew a macintosh from the boot to conceal his uniform, then himself kept unobtrusive watch on Querk's car.

Within five minutes he was back in his car.

"Going that way! Catch him and hang on to him. Mrs. Cornboise got in with him."

The chase was short. A double turn brought Querk's car into the high road. A quarter of a mile on, he turned into a garage.

"Get out and tail them," ordered Crisp, glad that Benscombe was still in plain clothes.

Crisp waited. Obviously they were going to some local address, or Querk would not have garaged. In less than ten minutes, Benscombe re-appeared, wearing a grin.

"Charlie Chaplin, sir. Two three-and-sixpenny seats. In the foyer, I heard the lady giggle. I gather the gentleman had said something arch."

"Well, I'm damned!" exploded Crisp. "Boy meets girl, eh! You drive back while I think this out."

The Chief Constable thought it out all the way back. There was the fantastic hypothesis that Querk was spontaneously attracted to a rather formidable woman in advanced middle age. Alternatively, he was seeking some material advantage. Not her money, because she would not benefit under her husband's Will: her annuity, to him, would be negligible.

Was he flattering her in order to suborn her as a witness? If so, where did his material interest lie? Again, Querk's objective was indiscernible.

"We'll have those pictures in my room," said Crisp as they reached headquarters. When the cardboard dress box had been placed on the table, he asked:

"Do you know anything about art, Benscombe?"

"Not a thing, sir."

"Nor do I. So we can't tell whether Fenchurch is only a glib scoundrel, who is clever with paint brushes. Or whether he's a born artist, who sees life mainly in terms of line and colour—who is genuinely puzzled and exasperated when I ask him what the time was and what became of an old envelope. I shall get some men who understand art to come and look at these pictures."

"As to the head-in-the-clouds stuff, sir—did you notice that he knew we could deal with ashes? He had his feet firmly planted, that time."

Crisp grunted and took out a canvas. Claudia sitting on the bench in the cemetery. He set it on a long empty shelf, upright against the wall, and looked at it.

"That bears out what he said about his not being a photographer," remarked Benscombe. "By the outline it might be almost any girl of that type. But if you look at it as a whole, it's Claudia and no one else in the world."

Claudia gazing at her lover came out of the box and was set up, leaning against the wall, beside the other.

"That one certainly has a quality of its own you can't miss," muttered Crisp.

Both men were paying unconscious tribute to the artist. At police headquarters, at an anxious stage in a murder investigation, they were pre-occupied with the problem of his art.

"If Fenchurch is lying, he may be the murderer." Grisp was thinking aloud. "The strongest indication that he is lying is that he accounts for too much. He states that Watlington retained his Will. Now, whatever Watlington did with the old envelope, he would have sealed up the Will himself in a new one—or left the Will unsealed. Then why should someone remove his signet ring after death—and put it back?

"If Fenchurch is telling the truth, the only value of his account is that it may affect Ralph Cornboise."

"Even if we can't fix the time, sir?"

"Nothing to do with the time! Ralph's hallucinations—or his lying confession, if you like—is inspired by the fear that Claudia removed the letters. If Ralph is convinced that she did not, the hallucination ought to be scuppered. Ring up and ask if he has come back, will you?"

While Benscombe was telephoning, Crisp brought out the remainder of the pictures, set them in a long row on the shelf, glancing from one to another, trying to form his own opinion.

"Not back yet, sir."

"A pity. He's hanging us up."

Crisp, mentally reviewing the details in Fenchurch's account, presently added:

"We must check the statement that those fellows are wine merchants in Casa Flavia. If you don't get a letter from the consulate tomorrow, answering your query, go and see them."

Benscombe failed to acknowledge the order. His attention was concentrated on the nude study. When he spoke, it was not as a disciplined junior to his Chief.

"When you and I looked out of that window on Saturday night, we saw Fenchurch and Claudia talking. Why didn't he tell her he had rescued the letters? Because he hadn't? He was lying to us. Look at those five gorgeous pictures. All true! And look at this horrible one! It's as true as the others. That man can see into her mind. And he saw that she had killed Watlington. He's not such a cissie as he looks. He's still in love with her, and he's going to save her if he can. So he put on an act for us!"

"That makes two of 'em anxious to be hanged instead of the lady!" Crisp's tone was discouraging.

"I can't help it, sir. If you hadn't arranged those pictures I wouldn't have seen it like that. But I do see it like that, even if I'm talking through my hat."

Crisp looked from the pictures to Benscombe.

"I'm beginning to believe that fellow must be a big artist. I admit that I get a reaction from that work which I've never had from pictures before. Now, look here, Benscombe. What you're saying may turn out to be true, for all I know at present. But when you make a wild guess like that—in this office—on the strength of your reaction to a picture, it means that you should have a meal and get a good night's rest."

Benscombe flushed. Crisp went on:

"I'll see Ralph Cornboise myself when he gets back. I shall be here until midnight anyway, but I shan't need you. You've done a good day's work and you can take delivery of a pat on the back. But go home now, my boy. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir. I'm sorry I said too much."

After a modest meal at a nearby hotel, Crisp returned to his desk to cope with a fresh pile of reports.

Shortly after nine, the house telephone rang from the charge-room on the ground floor.

"Miss Lofting is here, sir, and asks to see you."

"Show her up right away."

Not until Claudia was being shown in did Crisp remember that Fenchurch's pictures were still on the shelf, upright against the wall.

From the doorway her eyes sought him. She came directly to his desk, not noticing the pictures, a letter in her hand. She was in a state of tension: if she had been any other woman he would have suspected that she had been crying.

"This came by the evening post. It's from Ralph. Will you read it, please?"

He placed a chair for her, so that her back was towards the pictures. From the envelope he took a single sheet.

_'Goodbye, Claudia. You were wonderful while you were alive and I loved you with all my strength. As you are dead, I cannot live with you. And it is still true that I cannot live without you. Ralph.'_

There was no address. The letter had been posted in West Central London early that afternoon.

"I must ask you to let me keep this," said Crisp. "The handwriting is steady, though the words are maniacal."

"The words are self-conscious and slushy. But the meaning is unpleasantly clear. He is not insane, Colonel. But I don't think he is well enough to be roaming about by himself. That threat of suicide—"

"Such threats are very common."

"But he did try to kill himself once. And he may try again."

"The meaning doesn't seem very sensible to me—that was written within three hours of his going with you to the Registrar."

"That was my fault. I practically dragged him along. Because I was afraid of his suicidal impulse."

"Is he sane enough to realise that if he doesn't tell us where he is by to-morrow morning, we shall have to take measures?"

"He is perfectly sane!" she asserted doggedly. "But everything to do with the murder is out of proportion in his mind. It's as if he felt that, after offering a confession and having it rejected, you and he washed your hands of each other. That's stupid, but it isn't insane, when you remember how the hallucination distorts everything."

While she was speaking he was watching her face—unconsciously trying to see it as the artist saw it. 'I paint the spirit, not the flesh.' Studio jargon, meaning one must not be misled by appearances. The disturbing thing about this girl was that her appearance always bore out whatever she was putting over. Her voice, her muscles, her very features seemed to dress the part. At the moment, she looked almost plain, hard-up, stranded through no fault of her own, but courageously determined to ask nothing for herself.

"When someone makes a statement to us," said Crisp, "we try to prove that the statement must be true—or must be false. Sometimes a statement, proved to be false, has been made in good faith—you can call such a statement an hallucination if you like—we don't care." He dropped the dogmatic tone as he continued: "I wish you would tell me—does Ralph honestly believe he killed his uncle—as and when he says he did?"

"I think there are moments when he doubts it," she answered thoughtfully. "When you say something you're sure of and everyone says you're mistaken, you begin to have doubt of yourself. But, of course, he wobbles between the two extremes. That letter to me is a wobble."

Crisp glanced down at the letter. The moment he took his eyes off her he felt that she was leading him. Let her go on leading him until she tripped!

"Why does he pretend in this letter that you are dead?"

"Dead to him, he means. It's a wobble over the hallucination. The sense of it is—if he didn't kill his uncle, I did, and he doesn't want to see me again."

"But we don't take that line. Why should he?"

"Because he believes I stole those wretched letters from the safe. If you could only prove that I didn't, I believe we could dispel the hallucination."

Crisp held his breath as she put to him the very case he had intended to put to her. There came to him, too, the reflection that the two men who had loved this woman both believed her capable of murder.

"Couldn't you have settled his doubts about those letters?"

"No, because my own good faith was in question. To begin with, Ralph thought I was lying when I said I didn't notice that Watlington put them in the envelope with the Will. I made it worse when I said later that I did remember it—after Querk had reminded me of exactly what happened."

She was putting up a smoke screen, he decided. If Fenchurch's story was true, he must surely have told Claudia he had destroyed the letters.

"Leave Ralph's mentality for a moment. Haven't you yourself any theory as to how those letters vanished?"

"I still think Watlington destroyed them himself. Otherwise, he would have given them back to me when he told me he had dropped his objection to our marrying—even though I didn't ask for them."

Crisp could afford to ignore that explanation. If Watlington had destroyed them he could only have burnt them. And there were no ashes in the library. She was losing ground, letting him work her into a corner.

"I can tell you definitely that Watlington did not destroy those letters."

"Oh?" She registered eager surprise. "I am glad you have found out something about them. I know I mustn't ask you who did destroy them."

"I am asking you, Miss Lofting."

"But I can't even begin to guess. As I see it, only Ralph and I would have cared whether the letters were there or not."

"What about the man to whom the letters were written?"

"Arthur? Oh no! He would have told me. Apart from a telephone chat this morning, I had a long talk with him in the garden on Saturday night. That was before you interviewed us and brought the murder into the family, as it were. I told him Watlington had got the letters, that they were in his safe, and that, now that he had been murdered, they would probably be read by all sorts of people. He was very apologetic, and said he didn't think they would be read, and that he'd see you and ask you to keep them out."

Crisp had the sensation of falling over himself. With it he became aware of an unreasonable resentment. Fenchurch's infernal cleverness with a paint brush was making this girl seem larger than life size—a spiritual chameleon, able to colour her personality from the colour of those about her. For young Benscombe a straight sex appeal, the more potent for being screened with modesty and good manners. For himself a naif defencelessness, a subtle flattery of his powers by treating him as a kind, clever uncle who would make everything turn out nicely for her, provided she trusted him without reserve.

"Suppose he did recover those letters? And didn't want to tell you for fear of alarming you?"

"That isn't Arthur's style!" She laughed. "He never wonders what others think. He doesn't take any notice of persons as persons. Even when he was in love with me he hadn't the least idea what kind of person I was."

"Hadn't he?" Without intention, Crisp's eyes were drawn to the picture. Claudia followed his glance.

She looked back at Crisp, revealing her astonishment. He was prepared for the obvious question. Instead, she found her own explanation of the presence of those pictures at police headquarters.

"So Watlington got hold of those, too?" Crisp did not correct her assumption. "That explains a lot!"

"Not to me!" Crisp was puzzled.

"He must have assumed that I sat in the nude. That would set a man like that sniggering and telling dirty stories. That kind always thinks that artist's models are immoral. I wish he had mentioned it—we'd have had none of that dreadful bother with Ralph."

"But it _is_ you, isn't it?" Crisp got up and went over to the shelf. Claudia followed.

"The head is mine. And I'm the inspiration, in a left-handed sort of way. One day, I saw an Italian beating a child, and I felt sick. Arthur raved about my expression and made several charcoal sketches. They weren't very successful. But he couldn't leave the idea alone. Months later, back in London, he 'saw' it as an allegorical study, and set to work in the ordinary way with a professional model. He actually used two. So there are three of us in that picture."

"I don't believe you looked sick."

She turned sharply, surprised and resentful of his tone.

His eyes met hers.

"Fenchurch admitted this evening that he was at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon and that he recovered those letters."

At last! With profound satisfaction, he watched her crumple under the blow, watched bewilderment give way to fear. She was making no attempt to conceal her distress. Her colour had gone. She moved one foot unsteadily.

He took her by the arm, led her back to her chair.

"When you feel well enough, perhaps you will tell me what really happened."

"I am trying to think." Crisp would not prompt her. "Why didn't he tell me? Because of the murder, of course! He didn't want anybody to know he had been there. I expect he only told you because you frightened him."

"I never frighten anybody!" bellowed Crisp.

She ignored him, continued to utter her thoughts aloud.

"He got my letter in the morning, and felt ashamed of himself. He guessed what had happened to the letters. _Oh!_ "

The exclamation was so sharp that Crisp jumped.

"I see what must have happened!" she cried.

"I don't want to know what you think must have happened. I want to know what _did_ happen."

She looked at him with mild reproof. Her confidence had come back and gaiety had been added.

"What did happen was that at about half-past two I was the kind of hussy who will sit about in the nude to oblige her male friends. And at about five past five I had become a thoroughly nice girl, in every way suitable to be the ancestress of a long line of barons Watlington. That's what _did_ happen.

"If I were allowed to tell what _must_ have happened, I would point out that Arthur must have left Watlington a few minutes before I turned up. He explained about the nude, and made Watlington see that it is not a social crime to fall in love twice—consecutively, of course—nor even to write the sort of letters that sound appalling when read out in court."

Crisp drew down the corners of his mouth.

"Preceded or followed by a discussion of rival wine merchants in Casa Flavia?"

"Arthur will tell you when you've made him see there's nothing to be afraid of. This is splendid, Colonel. When Ralph sends you his address, I hope you will let me go to him at once. Then we can try to clear that up, too!"

"We have cleared nothing up."

Crisp let the silence lengthen. The only evidence that Watlington had changed his mind about her by five o'clock was her own statement—virtually contradicted by Querk's statement. For the rest, it was certain that she would talk to Fenchurch, and that he would tell her that his flat had been searched.

"Miss Lofting!" He swivelled in his chair so that he faced her, directly. "You stated that, when you picked up that die-stamp from the hall table, there was a registered package beside it. Do you confirm that statement?"

"Yes." Her voice held apprehension.

"That was at a few minutes past five?"

"Yes. Please hurry on."

"This piece of brown paper—as you will see if you care to examine it—was the wrapping of that registered package." He paused for emphasis. "This piece of brown paper was found in Fenchurch's flat."

Again, her reaction startled him.

"How perfectly ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "As if Arthur would steal somebody's parcel! He never steals anything. When he's hard up, he borrows money. And he isn't particularly hard up now."

"I didn't suggest that he stole the package. I said only that this piece of brown paper—"

"Did he tell you what he wanted a piece of brown paper for?"

"He did not," said Crisp. "That is beside the point—"

"Not with Arthur Fenchurch! He never wraps anything up. He'll walk through the streets with the most blush-making things in his hand, if you let him."

"Will you kindly fix your mind on the time at which—"

"I can't, Colonel! If you were to tell me that you thought Arthur had murdered Watlington, I should be horribly afraid you might be right, even if you were wrong. But if the whole thing begins with Arthur picking up a piece of brown paper, I just laugh until you stop."

"You are very rude!" grunted Crisp. He was having no luck with that brown paper clue.

She gave him an apology that was very nearly demure. It was she who ended the interview, and it was he who got up and bowed her out, not having intended to do anything of the kind.

When she had gone, he took stock.

Following the formula, he had let himself be impressed and must now rub out the impression. Not too easy! His impression of honesty on her part might turn out to be justified. To reject a good impression blindly would be as unreasonable as to accept it blindly. On the other hand, if Fenchurch had phoned her that the police had been quizzing him about a piece of brown paper—

"Pure guesswork!" ejaculated Crisp. He turned to the basket of nominally urgent reports. "Better have another dip in the fact box!"

Presently, he was studying a report marked with the code number of Ralph Cornboise, with a cross reference to the Three Witches.

' _Statement by John Elderman, 16, cycle delivery boy_ —' There were details of the boy's parents and employers. _'I was passing the gates of Watlington Lodge in company with my friend, Albert Saunders, who was also delivering, when we saw a large two-seater car with gold and red bodywork standing just inside the gates. I recognised it as a Reindert which is a rare car which my friend did not know about. We stopped and looked at it from our cycles. I did not see anybody in the car nor standing near. When it struck half past five my friend said he must be getting on and I said I must, too.'_

_'Confirmatory statement, independent, by Albert Saunders attached._

Querk, reflected Crisp, could hardly have suborned two local errand boys. Therefore his statement and that of Mrs. Cornboise were true. Therefore Querk's cultivation of the society of Mrs. Cornboise must be because he was attracted to Mrs. Cornboise. Which, as Claudia Lofting would say, was perfectly ridiculous.

#  Chapter Fourteen

On the following morning, as no communication was received from Ralph Cornboise, a description was sent to the _Gazette_ for circulation to all stations.

The report from Watlington Lodge stated that it was possible to walk from the gates to the west side of the house without being observed from the terrace.

"Possible!" said Crisp. "But that doesn't prove that Ralph did in fact go back to the house. Still less does it prove that he killed Watlington by striking through that wig."

"No, sir," said Benscombe obediently. "Shall I prepare a message for broadcast?"

"Yes. But ask the B.B. C. not to say 'the police are anxious to get in touch with'—just 'missing from his home,' with that bit about losing his memory."

The police message was broadcast at six and at nine, yielding no result. Next day, through the _Gazette_ , information reached Scotland Yard, which was telephoned to the Chief Constable.

"At two o'clock on Monday, Ralph Cornboise sold his Reindert car for seven hundred pounds, paid in notes, after Cornboise had been identified by his branch bank manager. There is reason to believe that Cornboise at the same time drew some three hundred pounds in cash from his account."

"That young fool is forcing our hands again," grumbled Crisp, after dictating a note of the message to Benscombe. "By the book of the rules, I have to apply for a warrant now. Get statements signed and witnessed from those two boys and from Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. And if you _can't_ contact Mrs. Cornboise today, it'll leave our hands free for another twenty-four hours."

Benscombe loyally failed to contact Mrs. Cornboise. That night the evening papers took up the chase, and on the following morning two of the dailies carried a photo of Ralph, which the police had been unable to obtain.

"We can't hold up that warrant any longer," said Crisp. "Come with me and take a statement from Mrs. Cornboise."

They were at the flat in Kilburn by half past nine. The front door was open, while a teen-age maid polished the brasswork.

"Missis hasn't only jest started dressin' herself," she explained. "P'raps you'd step back later."

Benscombe bent down and spoke confidentially:

"Don't you think Mrs. Cornboise would like to ask the Colonel to wait in the sitting-room?" he suggested.

"I didn't know he was a Colonel!" Crisp, who was in plain clothes of doubtful fit, was subjected to a sceptical scrutiny. "P'raps it'll be all right. Pass right down the hall, please. I'll tell her, so's she can hurry up."

It was a trim, modern block of lower middle class flats. In the sitting-room, Crisp had expected a certain physical fustiness, in line with the personality of the tenant. Instead, he found a mental fustiness which startled his imagination.

Facing him was a kitchen range, such as he had not seen since he was a small boy, with iron-doored ovens on either side of a fireplace. Along the opposite wall was a dresser, laden with willow pattern chinaware, with teacups hanging on hooks. In the centre was a white kitchen table with a wooden wheel-backed armchair at its head. A rocking chair, an upholstered wicker easy chair and three corner cabinets, crowded with photographs and knick-knacks, completed the compromise between kitchen and sitting-room of the late nineteenth century.

"Look at this, sir!" whispered Benscombe. A red fire glowed and flickered in the fireplace until he switched it off. "You couldn't so much as boil a kettle on that plant. The whole room is a stage set."

"I've heard of a cook pretending to be a baroness," muttered Crisp. "But I've never heard of it the other way round."

"Pictures! An oleograph of Queen Victoria!" Benscombe passed on to the next. "This one strikes a new note." Set in a large picture frame were some forty or fifty photographs of different shapes and sizes cut from newspapers.

"All of Watlington! In the pre-baronial era! Telling 'em the tale at Board meetings, banquets, flower shows!"

Crisp's attention was on one of the upright cabinets where a buxom wench sat hand in hand with a flamboyant young man against a Johannesburg photographer's back-cloth. On a lower deck of the cabinet was another framed cutting, with the fragment of a letter pasted beside it.

The photograph was of a public house: the printed underline read: _'The Goat-in-Flames Tavern, North London, now offered for sale after passing from father to son for five generations.'_

With difficulty Crisp deciphered the faded handwriting: _'We lived in a slum behind this. My brother became head potman. Makes you think.'_

It made Crisp think that, if ever a woman lived in her past, that woman was Mrs. Cornboise. As a cook she had met and been loved by Cornboise. The kitchen became a psychological bridge to the happiness she had lost. After thirty years of it, she still wanted him enough to go uninvited to his garden—

"Good morning! I'm sorry you've had to wait. Mr. Querk told me you might call, but I must say I didn't expect you as early as this!"

Mrs. Cornboise had adorned herself in a dress of black satin. While Crisp assured her that he had not been inconvenienced, she sat in the wheelback chair.

"Please be seated, both," she invited. From her manner it was plain that she had lost any sense she might have had of the room being unusual. "Mr. Querk said you'd want to talk about what I told him about Mr. Ralph's motor car. Only, I can't see why you've bothered if he's told you already."

Thus she shattered Crisp's plan for approaching the subject. "He didn't tell me much, Mrs. Cornboise, but it seemed to be not quite the same as you told me."

"Well, I didn't tell you I _thought_ I heard the car coming back, because it didn't come back. If I'd told you all I thought we'd never have finished. I wish now I'd never mentioned it. No one is sorrier than Mr. Querk that it's kicked up all this dust. It all came of him saying to me: 'Now, Mrs. Cornboise, I want you to close your eyes and listen to that car again.' Then I remembered how it had stopped instead of fading away. It makes a mingy sort of noise, that car—sets your teeth on edge. So I noticed it when it started up again. And now you know as much as I do."

"How long afterwards did you hear it start up again?"

"That's what Mr. Querk wanted to know and I couldn't tell him. It may have been ten minutes or it may have been a bit more. But you won't be able to make bother out of that," she added. "It's my belief that, when he got to the gate, he remembered he was short of petrol and took some out of his spare can."

"Ten minutes or more would be a very long time for a job like that," suggested Crisp.

"Not if he'd never done it before and didn't know how the screws worked that held the spare can. I know. Because it happened once with a gentleman who was giving me a lift. In the end, I could have done better in a bus."

"Let's see if I've got it right," said Crisp. "Shortly after five fifteen, you saw Ralph Cornboise drive out of the garage. The car stopped—as you suppose—at the end of the drive. Did you see Ralph Cornboise again?"

"No—else I'd have told you in the first place. Wait a minute! Mr. Querk told me something to say if you talked like that. Oh yes! 'I have nothing to add to my previous statement covering the events observed by me!' That's right—I haven't!"

Unaware of any inconsistency, she went on:

"And there's something else I'll tell you—with you hounding that poor boy when he's innocent! He's not run away for what you think he has—asking me questions about his petrol can taking too long! If you want to know, he's running away from that Miss Whatsername. She'd got her claws in, so's she was going to marry him next Monday. P'raps you didn't know that. And what's more, it's no use that young man you've brought with you looking as if he didn't believe me. You ask at the district registrar's and they'll tell you."

"Really?". Crisp was treading carefully. "Have you seen the notice on the registrar's board. then?"

"I don't say that I've seen it with my own eyes, but you'll find it's true, all the same."

Someone had told her. Not Querk. There was only one other likely source.

He waited while Benscombe finished typing the statement about Ralph Cornboise's car. Mrs. Cornboise, forewarned by Querk that this would be required of her, signed without protest.

"Now, Mrs. Cornboise. You have seen Ralph Cornboise since he disappeared from Watlington Lodge."

Mrs. Cornboise showed neither surprise nor alarm.

"Why shouldn't I!" she challenged. "It's a free country, who you speak to. Or it would be if it wasn't for the police."

"It's no use talking to us like that, Mrs. Cornboise." Crisp was in some doubt as to how to proceed. "You don't seem to understand that if Ralph Cornboise were charged with the murder of Lord Watlington—as he well may be—you would be in a very awkward and humiliating position. What you have done is called harbouring and succouring—"

"Well, it didn't ought to be! I never did any such thing! And I'm surprised at your saying it!" She glared at him, scandalised and indignant.

"It's only law language," cut in Benscombe. "It means you might be put in prison for being friendly with a man who is hiding from the police."

"Oh well! It's a pity that wasn't made clear in the first place." Mrs. Cornboise was mollified. "He isn't hiding from the police. He's hiding from that girl. And I promised I wouldn't do anything to help her find him."

"If he is not hiding from us, there is no harm in our knowing where he is," pleaded Crisp.

"That girl would worm it out of you and I'd never forgive myself." Mrs. Cornboise was weakening. "Besides, you're bound to find him as soon as they listen to the wireless. And with his photo in the papers and all. If you hadn't said that about his wandering and losing his memory they'd have seen it was him before now."

"If you feel you can't tell us," said Crisp, "we shall have to see whether Mr. Querk will."

"I don't want him dragged into it. Apart from that, he doesn't know." The threat was effective—Mrs. Cornboise betrayed anxiety. "If I tell you, I don't suppose you'll believe me unless I tell you how I found him. Well, if you must know, it was like this. I asked myself what you do when you're worried and unhappy." She paused and looked round her own room. "You go back to where you started from! I reckoned, if he was like me, he'd go back to where he was before Samuel started him on all that nonsense of being gentry. I happened to know where his father used to work and where the family lived. His father was potman at the Goat-in-Flames—"

"And Ralph Cornboise is there?" interrupted Crisp.

"He's got the best bedroom in the hotel where his father used to be potman. There's only four bedrooms, it being a commercial connection. And if you're going there to see him, you might mention that it's as well to be careful with the drink, though he wouldn't have told me about the girl if he hadn't had a drop too much."

The lift was out of order. As they walked down the stairs Crisp said informally:

"Funny old girl. What did you think of her?"

"All on the surface, I should say, sir."

"Hm! P'raps you're right. Remember Fenchurch's little yarn about a lunatic woman swinging a stocking? Here, put this in your pocket, will you. Can't get it into mine—they're full."

Benscombe received from the Chief Constable a large earthenware duck's egg.

"If you charge her with murder," said Benscombe, "she'll only say: 'Why shouldn't I? He did me wrong!'"

"A jest that contains a truth, boy." Crisp blinked. "Is that a bit of Shakespeare?"

"No, sir. A bit of Querk."

"So it is! Hm! Dangerous man, Querk. If we find young Cornboise waiting for us, we'll have a smack at that hallucination of his before we do anything drastic."

#  Chapter Fifteen

They arrived at the Goat-in-Flames substantially before opening time. At an apologetic side door labelled 'Hotel Entrance,' Crisp spoke to a potman in shirt-sleeves, disturbed at his work of cleaning the bar.

"There's a young man staying here—I've forgotten his name—"

"That'll be Mr. Carr. There's only one room booked."

"Take me to him, please."

"I'll have to ask—" The potman took another look at Crisp. "This way, sir." On the first floor he thumped a door and shouted:

"Couple o' gentlemen to see you, Mr. Carr."

The potman hurried back to his work. Crisp was about to try the door when it was opened by Ralph Cornboise.

"I guessed it must be you."

With something approaching pride, Ralph invited them into a large bed-sitting room. He fussed them, like a houseproud host, until Crisp was settled in a saddlebag armchair and Benscombe on a horsehair sofa.

"Would you fellers like a drink?"

"A bit too early, thanks!" answered Crisp. "We've brought a spot of news. About those letters!"

Crisp went through the business of lighting a cigarette while he watched the effect of the last words. Ralph sat down very slowly on the edge of the bed and waited. Crisp waited the longer.

"You were about to tell me something about some letters?" prompted Ralph. "What letters?"

"Much better talk straight to us, Cornboise, and then we may get somewhere," said Crisp. "The letters written by Miss Lofting to Fenchurch. The letters enclosed with your uncle's Will. The letters which you're afraid Miss Lofting took out of the safe, after jiggering about with the envelope."

Again there was a long silence. Benscombe noted the titles of three heavy volumes on the sofa beside him. All three were medical works on insanity.

"I'm afraid I'm not rising, Colonel. You're waiting for me to ask questions about the letters. But I'm not frightfully interested."

"The police are satisfied that Miss Lofting did not take those letters. We are satisfied that someone else did. Now you're waking up, aren't you?"

"Thank you for giving me that information," he said ironically. "You might just as well have said that Fenchurch himself took them!"

So the revelation was a flop, thought Crisp. Ralph, obviously, regarded it as a police trap. Crisp ploughed on:

"Fenchurch has admitted doing so."

"He would!" Ralph laughed as if with genuine amusement. "And he'd enjoy every minute of admitting it. But I bet your microscopes and whatnots don't bear it out. I don't suppose you believe it any more than I do."

That was unanswerable. Ralph was warming to his theme.

"I'm not running Fenchurch down. In spite of what you may think, I've no grievance against him. He's a good chap, but he simply can't keep out of the limelight. If there were a fire in his neighbourhood he'd pretend he had caused it or that he had rescued everybody. I might have guessed that he world horn in on this horror."

Ralph's restrained tone carried the conviction that at least he believed what he was saying. Crisp observed that he was steadier than he had been at Watlington Lodge. There were fewer obvious symptoms of neurasthenia.

"So you brush us aside and stick to your belief that Miss Lofting took those letters?"

"I don't stick to any belief about it, because I don't care whether she took them or not. At one time, I thought she must have taken them, and that it was terribly important to know. But that was because she and Querk were persuading me that I had hallucinations—that I was more or less insane, which I was not."

"Then why have you bolted away and used a false name, after raising all the cash you could?"

"Because I no longer wished to marry Miss Lofting, but found it impossible to give any reason she would accept."

As Crisp shrugged, Ralph explained: "Oh, I could give a reason _you_ would accept—if you'll try to stop believing I'm a lunatic. On Saturday, when I signed that confession, I reckoned that my life was at an end. I was content. I did not wish to go on living. All the same, I had to screw myself up a bit to—well, to face the gallows. Next, you reject my confession because it seems to conflict with your evidence. You compel me to go on living, I dare not destroy myself lest some innocent person be involved in the murder. That meant that I had to screw myself up all over again—on a different screw. At any time, you may find out something that will make you believe my confession—you may not. Would any sane man want to get married in such circumstances?"

"That's understandable," admitted Crisp. "But I still don't see why you had to bolt?"

"I tried to put that understandable point of view to Miss Lofting. She did not find it understandable. She said, in effect, 'My poor boy, marry me and you will soon be cured of your various obsessions.' Now, Miss Lofting has been extremely kind to me—literally too kind! I see now that she has always treated me as a poor creature who needs mothering. It may be true, but it's not attractive. Since Saturday it became clear that she thought me practically insane and believed that she alone could restore me to sanity.

"When someone honestly and sympathetically believes you're insane, it shakes you up, even if you know you're not. To put it crudely, I could not endure another moment of her society—or I might indeed go mad. You'll say that's unreasonable. I don't claim to be any more reasonable than anyone else whose feelings for a woman have taken the wrong turning.

"It was not enough to run away. I had to change my whole background. That's why I came to this particular spot. I was born within a hundred yards of this place. My father used to work here as potman. I felt I must get back to it, to clear my head. In the last few days I've not only read a bit about my psychological condition. I've also consulted three doctors independently. They agreed that I'm not insane, but that I have inherited certain nervous disabilities, and that I must avoid any special excitement for a bit. They did not explain how I'm to avoid special excitement. I just have to do my best."

That accounted for his new steadiness. He spoke with such clarity that Crisp accepted his words at their face value.

"Didn't it strike you as foolish to hide when you knew the police were searching for you?"

"It may have been. But making an ass of yourself has nothing to do with being insane. Anyway, with what I'm going through, I claim a bit of discount."

"You're quite right there, Cornboise," agreed Crisp. "You have enough on your plate to upset most men. But you seem to me sane and steady. So you will realise that the next questions are very important indeed. Benscombe, give me that note of those times." He glanced at the note and continued: "Carry your mind back to five fifteen on Saturday afternoon, when you left the library by the window, got into your car and drove yourself out of the garage."

"As I told you, I went to the swimming pool at the Three Witches."

"Did you go straight from the garage to the Three Witches?"

"Yes."

Crisp glanced at Benscombe. That answer would mean an arrest on the charge of murder. He tried again.

"Did you stop at all on the way?"

"Not on the way out. I had a clear run, with very little traffic. I stopped on the way back, for petrol."

One more effort.

"When did you discover you were short of petrol?"

"When I brought Miss Lofting up from Wiltshire in the morning. I was running on my reserve for the last few miles. As I started for the Three Witches I remembered. So I stopped in the drive and filled up from the can, if that's what you mean."

"So you did stop!" ejaculated Crisp. "At what point in the drive?"

"Close to the gates."

"That would have been, at latest, about five twenty?" As Ralph nodded, Crisp added: "How long did it take you to fill up?"

"I don't know. Rather a long time. I'd never used the can before, and I got bogged with the anchorage."

That was what Mrs. Corboise had suggested. Why didn't she say that Ralph had given her that explanation—if he had.

"Did you, at any point, walk away from the car?"

"No."

"Your car was seen by two witnesses who were loitering by the gates of the Lodge for some minutes, ending at five thirty. You yourself were not seen. Can you explain why you were not seen by those witnesses?"

"No—unless I was bending down over the tank, or sitting on the near-side running board, resting. I can't see why it's important."

"This is why it's important! Querk was talking to your uncle at five twenty-eight. By five thirty-four your uncle was dead. How do you combat the suggestion that, around five-thirty—entering through the dining-room window on the east side—you went back to the house and killed him? Take time over your answer, Cornboise."

"I don't need time. Because I don't combat the suggestion."

Crisp turned to Benscombe.

"See if you can make him understand what he's saying."

"Rather lost my way over 'combatting suggestions'!" said Benscombe, with forced breeziness. "The point is, Cornboise, did you leave that car and go back to the house?"

"As a matter of fact, I didn't. But if it's suggested that I did, I'm not going to deny it."

"Now look here, old man. A few minutes ago you convinced us you're sane. Don't go and spoil the good work. I mean—you put up a confession the other day that you killed Watlington before five fifteen. You aren't offering another confession that you killed him all over again a quarter of an hour later?"

"You choose to joke about my sanity!" Ralph essayed the grand manner. "Is it so very difficult for you to understand my position? Insane or not, I killed my uncle. Insane or not, I did not wish to escape the penalty. After a short period of animal fear, I confessed. By some freak of circumstance, my confession was disbelieved. By a counteracting freak of circumstance, you are now ready to believe that I did kill him. Can it make any difference to me that you fix the time some fifteen minutes later?"

Benscombe wanted to carry on, but Crisp intervened.

"I was wrong, Benscombe—he does understand what he's saying. Cornboise! I'll put my question in another form, and it'll be my last attempt. Can you give me a simple explanation of what you were doing between five fifteen and five thirty-five?"

"So, it has to be simple!" Ralph laughed, but the laugh was free from the high-pitched note of hysteria. "Right-ho! My belief that I spent all that time putting two gallons into the tank is hallucination, the fact being, no doubt, that I was murdering my uncle. You can't have anything simpler than an hallucination—it always explains away everything."

"Only a man who is insane would make childish jokes when he knows he is about to be charged with murder!" snapped Crisp.

"You mean only a foolish man—not an insane man!" corrected Ralph. "And am I so foolish? What happens to murderers who try to lie their way out, once the police have got hold of them? One lie is no good. You have to cook up a hundred in support, ninety-nine of which are knocked down by the police and the lawyers. For weeks, you cling to that one little lie, hoping that it will do the trick with the jury—then that it may have a technical twist that will get you off on appeal. Hoping and despairing a dozen times a day for weeks on end! Am I a fool to cut out all that?"

"You'll be a fool if you don't shut your mouth," said Crisp. "I'm going to arrest you and give you the official warning." Crisp gave it with dramatic emphasis.

Ralph listened with every sign of satisfaction.

"That's a great relief—no innocent person will suffer. Do you think I'm mad to say that?" Receiving no answer he went on:

"I shall be sorry to leave this place! Have I to be handcuffed, or may I pack? I have only one suitcase here."

Crisp himself went over to the chest of drawers, opened each one, to satisfy himself that there was no gun hidden in the clothing, then returned to his chair.

Ralph Cornboise emptied the drawers on to the bed. From under the bed he pulled his suitcase. From the suitcase he took a revolver.

Crisp, who was nearer than Benscombe, was some dozen feet away. Ralph, aware that the police do not carry firearms, calculated that he had plenty of time.

"Cheerio!" he called. He had turned the muzzle on himself—his mouth was half open to receive it before pressing the trigger—when Mrs. Cornboise's earthenware duck's egg whistled across the room, landing full in his face.

As Ralph fell, the revolver went off. The bullet brought a shower of plaster from the ceiling, most of which fell on the Chief Constable, who was on the spot before Benscombe.

"Good boy!" muttered Crisp. "Take the gun while I mop him up. And don't forget that egg. It's rolled under the bed."

Presently, Ralph sat up, bleeding and dishevelled but in full possession of his faculties. He turned his head to Benscombe.

"No ill feeling!' he said, with a wan grin. "But you'll wish you hadn't been such a good shot!"

Within a few minutes, Ralph was able to clean himself up and walk downstairs to the car.

Arrived at police headquarters, Crisp drove straight into the courtyard, to avoid giving the arrest premature publicity. Then he went to his room, leaving Benscombe to make the formal charge.

He had completed his own notes of the interview with Ralph Cornboise before Benscombe appeared.

"You did a thundering good job with that duck's egg, Benscombe. I'm putting it in the record."

"Thank you, sir."

"I've some notes here which you can work up into a report. Personally I'm convinced that Cornboise was telling the truth when he said he did not leave the car. After fiddling about with the can, I expect he sat on the running board and mooned about until something reminded him that he meant to go to that swimming pool. Remember the finger prints on that die-stamp? Querk's. Very clear too. Made _after_ Cornboise handled the die-stamp—if he did handle it."

"Yes, sir."

"His lawyers will find their way through that, even if we don't produce something concrete. But, of course, we shall produce something before he goes for trial."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll borrow that Reindert from the people who've bought it and have an on-the-spot test of visibility from the road."

"Yes, sir."

Crisp scowled. What was the matter with young Benscombe saying 'yes, sir' like a parrot? The next moment, he knew.

"When I made the formal charge, sir, Cornboise said he intended to plead guilty."

Crisp swung round in his swivel chair.

"Sergeant Willocks went through the routine. When he asked whether Cornboise wished to make any statement, I jumped in and splashed about, but it was no good. Cornboise said: 'To save time I will state now that I killed Lord Watlington. The Chief Constable has a signed confession in which I made a mistake about the time. If you will produce a corrected copy, I will sign it."

"So there'll be no trial!" Perhaps for the first time in his life Crisp looked afraid.

"I put in a bit of propaganda," added Benscombe. "But he was very firm."

"Very firm, was he!" Crisp echoed the words savagely. "Now, look here, Benscombe! Police work in a murder case is based on the assumption of a competent defence. The defence protects us as well as the accused. By the time counsel has finished with our witnesses, the public knows there's been no dirty work on our part. To insist on a plea of guilty against the wishes of the police, in order to gratify a suicidal impulse, is a form of cheating."

"Yes, sir."

"If that young blackguard is going to cheat us, I'm going to cheat him."

"By pressing the attempted suicide charge instead, sir?"

"Can't do that, unfortunately, in the face of those statements by the errand boys and Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. No, I shall make use of the woman."

"But how will Mrs. Cornboise—"

"Mrs. Cornboise, you young fathead! I mean Claudia Lofting. He's frightened sick of her. Remember the picture of Fenchurch's. Tooth and claw stuff! If I drop a tactful hint to her she'll make blue hell for everybody until there's a team of lawyers lined up behind her pet lunatic. Get her on the phone and say I'm on my way."

#  Chapter Sixteen

First of all, reflected Crisp, Claudia would have to be told that Ralph had been arrested and charged with murder. He would tread carefully—give her just enough time to absorb the shock, then catch her on the rebound and harness her energy.

At Watlington Lodge, to his annoyance, he was 'received' by Andrew Querk. After gracious patronage of the weather, Querk lowered his voice.

"I don't think we need anticipate any trouble." He spoke as one slightly superior medical man to another. "She is taking it very bravely—very bravely indeed."

"Taking what?" demanded Crisp.

"I refer, of course, to the arrest." Querk's tone was touched with severity. "I do not pretend, Chief Constable, that the task of breaking the news to her was a light one. I explained, as was only just, that you had been driven to that course by the poor fellow's own action in running away. When I described our suspicions, centring on the movements of the car, she became, I think, resigned."

Crisp did not want her resigned. He wanted her furious. Querk was graduating from a nuisance to a menace. Incidentally, he could only have known about the arrest through Mrs. Cornboise.

"Thank you," said Crisp drily. "You have been most helpful. And now—"

"I ventured to tell her that it would be better for her to go home to-morrow, as we would not be likely to need her again until the trial—if then. Ah, here is Miss Lofting!"

Claudia was coming down the stairs—Claudia, thought Crisp, in another facet of herself. He could not have sworn that her clothes were different from those she had worn at their last meeting. They certainly were not black, yet they contrived to indicate bereavement. Or was it nothing to do with her clothes?

"Shall we use the morning-room?" she said with a formal brightness which forbade condolence.

Querk opened the door and bowed them in. Crisp thanked him and took unequivocal possession of the door.

"If I should be wanted," Querk whispered, "you will find me in the drawing-room."

By the time Claudia was seated, Crisp had abandoned the idea of a tactful approach.

"When we arrest a man we have to make a formal charge against him. Generally, we advise him to say nothing. The next step is that the accused man sees his lawyers and prepares his defence. Ralph has cut all that out. He has made a statement incriminating himself, and says he intends to plead guilty to the charge—against our advice."

She was sitting like a schoolgirl, her hands folded in her lap. Not the hands of a schoolgirl, though. She didn't even move—just inclined her head a little to indicate that she had heard. He supposed that she had not grasped the actualities.

"That means," he continued, "that there can be no trial in the ordinary sense of the word. No sifting of the evidence against him. He will shortly go before a judge who will sentence him to death after formalities taking only a few minutes. Are you following me, Miss Lofting?"

"Yes. I quite understand."

That was all! A dead calm, with no wind for his sails. He waited until she looked up at him.

"I want you to persuade him to withdraw the plea of guilty."

She shook her head.

"I couldn't do that. It would be no use trying. He doesn't even want to see me, does he?"

"I don't think he does,' admitted Crisp. "Nevertheless—"

"You could force him to see me? Then I should jib. Sorry!"

"I never force anybody!" snapped Crisp. "There is a routine which enables you to be in the same room with him, with myself and others present. That would at least give you a chance to persuade him to apply for a personal interview with you. Then you could talk to him."

"But I've nothing to say to him."

For the moment, Crisp was beaten. He paced the little room, while her words echoed in his brain. She had nothing to say to Ralph! Then what the devil had been happening?

"I seem to have got the wrong end of this stick!" he exclaimed. "The other night at headquarters you were in a hurry to find him. To tell him that it was Fenchurch who had reclaimed those letters. You said you thought it might dispel the hallucination—"

"That was before I knew that Ralph had stopped his car in the drive."

Crisp broke his stride, to stand by her chair.

"You are not telling me that the evidence about the car has suddenly made you think him guilty?"

"N-no." The hesitation vanished as she went on: "It has made me see that it was possible for him to be guilty. It seemed impossible before."

Suspicions were crowding upon Crisp. She was changing sides! She could not gain a penny by Ralph's conviction. But she could punish him for jilting her. Oh nonsense!— that was gun-moll morality!

"Admitting that it is physically possible for him to be guilty—do you therefore believe that he _is_ guilty?"

He read the answer in her face before her words drove it home.

"Yes." She added: "Nothing that I say can harm him now."

Then she _had_ changed sides! But whose side had she taken instead?

"Questions and answers can make anything look lopsided," she was saying. "By Monday I had the moral certainty that he was guilty. But I clung to Querk's evidence to prove that I must be wrong. I simply had to squash the moral certainty—to try to pretend it wasn't nagging away at the back of my mind."

"But why did you have that moral certainty?" demanded Crisp. "I have a moral certainty that he's innocent—backed up by something just short of proof." He dared not tell her about the wig, but he was ready to go a long way. "Listen to this! Suppose Querk had not been in the house. Without any Querk, I would still not believe Ralph guilty, because I have certain objective information about that murder which only the police possess."

He seemed to be holding her attention. With all the force he could muster, he went on:

"That information would be given to the defence. Able lawyers on both sides, umpired by the judge, would extract the truth from that evidence. They would convince not only the jury but also you and me—convince us of his innocence or his guilt. To me it does not matter which. Without that process, what guarantee have I, as a policeman, that I am not procuring the conviction of an innocent man? I—I'm asking you to help me."

He had revealed his secret dread, had said more than he intended. No doubt she would laugh at him for his indiscretion. Not that he cared, provided she would help.

"I can understand how you feel!" There was no laugh. She was looking at him with quickened interest. "If it makes you feel any better, I am in a worse position. I ought not to have left him for a moment that afternoon. If I had gone with him to the Three Witches, as he asked me, it wouldn't have happened."

_"It!"_ The word was rapped out in a shouted whisper. "How can you permit yourself to speak like that! I tell you that I have strong reasons for believing he may not be guilty. You continue to take his guilt for granted." Perceiving that his indignation was wasted, he shifted ground. "Do you know something that the police do not know?"

"Of course I do!"

He glared at her, challenging her to justify her words.

"It isn't what you would accept as evidence," she said. "I've told you everything that can be of any use to you in your official capacity. Have you forgotten that you made a rather personal appeal to me to help you?"

That was true enough, confound her! His whole handling of her had been spoilt by Querk's interference.

"I doubt whether I can help you. But I will try." She paused. "Won't you sit down, Colonel?"

Yes, he would sit down, because she told him to. She had the air of not knowing she had scored off him, of not caring whether she scored or not. Her eyes were preoccupied. There was gentleness in the set of her mouth. One could never be unaware of her physicality, which could create the illusion of speaking to the mind.

"On Saturday I went to bed, shortly after midnight. I was then convinced by Querk's evidence that Ralph's brain had played him some trick, though I didn't fully adopt the hallucination theory until after Turvey had seen him the next morning.

"I had left my door open. I had been in bed a few minutes when I heard Ralph in the corridor. I caught him at the top of the stairs. I don't know whether he was sleep-walking or half awake, resisting the sleeping draught. He knew who I was, but in a muddled sort of way—as if he were very drunk.

"I piloted him back to bed. I didn't return to my room. I sat in the chair in the dark and dozed. When it was beginning to get light, Ralph got up again. He was in much the same condition, though the drug was wearing off.

"While I was coping with him he said: 'I must go and see if he is dead.' I begged him not to. In the same drunken sort of way, he agreed not to go downstairs. He said: 'Tell you what! We'll work it out together. You be uncle, and I'll be me.'

"It was a bit thick for me, but we went through with it. The awful part was that it was convincing. It made me certain that he was describing what had actually happened. Absolutely certain!

"Eventually, I'd got him back to bed and he fell asleep. I'm afraid I blubbered like a child. Then I stopped crying and nearly laughed out loud. Absurd though it sounds, Ralph had made me forget Querk's evidence. But now I told myself, that, however certain I might be that Ralph had killed his uncle, the fact remained that he hadn't. I was so relieved that I went to sleep in the chair. But I woke up suddenly with a new fear. Suppose the whole thing had happened at a different time and Ralph had simply muddled the times? Suppose he had gone back to the library?

"Fortunately, Querk gets up early. I button-holed him at the bathroom door. Then he told me that Ralph was known to have left in the Reindert a few minutes after Querk entered the library. So that put me at ease again. But the ease did not last long. The feeling that Ralph had been reconstructing a reality remained just as strong. With all that talk about hallucination, I was beginning to suspect myself. Part of me was believing something which had been proved to be impossible.

"And now it has been proved possible," she concluded. "So I believe it."

Once again Crisp found himself unwillingly impressed with her honesty. Yet the fact remained that she was trying to convince him of Ralph's guilt. Out of kindness to himself?

"But you wish you didn't feel obliged to believe in Ralph's guilt?" he asked.

"My attitude to him is unchanged. I don't feel any horror of him for what he did. I only feel that I've failed him—as I have. If I could save him from the consequences I would. But I can't. If I were to ask him to plead not guilty it would make him the more determined to refuse.

"You see, he used to jump at the chance of doing anything to please me. I made use of that—to get him to steady up in his habits. But he stopped wanting me, quite suddenly, and rather to my surprise. For a few minutes at a time—when he momentarily accepted the hallucination theory—he may have suspected me of murder, though I doubt it. But he did suspect me of what I had actually done—that is, of using whatever appeal I had for him to get him to do things for his own good. And I believe men hate that, more than they hate being fooled and cheated by a woman."

That was fairly close to what Ralph himself had said about her. She had observed Ralph very thoroughly, almost clinically. Obviously, she had never been romantically in love with him.

With something of a shock he realised that she was convincing him—pushing him into the fallacy that, because she was reasonable, she must be right.

"I don't see how you could have taken a different line," he conceded. "The weak spot is that you cannot check whether Ralph was telling you the truth in that bedroom.

Your belief in his guilt pre-supposes that he was reporting and not imagining."

"He was reporting," she replied. "I can remember everything he said and did—I shall never be able to forget."

Urged by Crisp, she told him—reproducing the substance of the statement made by Ralph in his original confession. Crisp let her words slide through his consciousness, waiting for the essential item.

"Then he showed me how the wig was cut and knocked out of shape. At the sides. Sticking out behind like bat's wings, he said. He lifted my hair behind my ears—like this—to show me."

But the wig had _not_ been cut and had _not_ stuck out at the sides like a bat's wings, nor like anything else. Ralph was inventing. Or Claudia was lying—a pointless lie, unless she knew the significance of that wig.

He let her continue with details of Ralph dropping the die-stamp on the floor—after striking through the wig!—and going out by the window.

"So you believe he did all that, not at five-fifteen, as he stated, but about five-thirty—after slipping back to the house from the car?"

"Yes—but he believes he only went once to the library."

"Wait! After killing his uncle, he left the library by the window, according to your present version. We know that he did not go out by that window at five-thirty. Further, we found the library door locked on the inside."

"There are probably lots of discrepancies besides the discrepancy of time," she said. "I wish I could believe that they added up to something."

Ralph's finger prints had not been found on the die-stamp. But he must not tell her so, any more than he must tell her about the wig. She had changed sides. Only her personality—only the impression of honesty she made upon him—prevented him from assuming that she was shielding the real murderer. Who might be herself. He thought of Benscombe's 'appreciation': _'Motive and Opportunity: Claudia Lofting.'_ He did not know that he was scowling.

"You don't agree with me about Ralph," she was saying. "I wish you could make me agree with you."

Crisp blinked. What was she driving at now?

"So much depends," she continued, "on whether you feel in your bones that a person is telling the literal truth. That's the way I felt that Ralph was neither lying nor building a fantasy."

He sensed that she was edging up to something—kept silent so that she should take her own way.

"Facts are stronger than feelings-in-your-bones," she went on. "Not little facts about locked doors and the times you went out by doors and windows. Big facts. Did Ralph really make that dreadful swing of his arm with the die-stamp? Was he building a fantasy when he lifted my hair at the back—to show how the wig had stuck out?"

Crisp was certain only that he must get away from her. Whatever answer he might make, she would extract from it what she wanted.

"We've tried to help each other—and we haven't been very lucky." He was forcing a breeziness of manner which could hardly have deceived her. "I'm sorry you don't want to try to get Ralph to alter his plea, but there it is!"

Back in the office, Benscombe was waiting with a report from the Italian Consulate.

"Tarranio and Fabroli, sir. Wine merchants in Casa Flavia, as stated. Nothing is known to the detriment of either. Tarranio has a branch in London—Soho—and comes over several times a year. I've found out that he's expected at any time."

"We can tick them off, then," said Crisp indifferently. "That Casa Flavia sequence never promised very much."

"I thought we were going to quarry it for a motive against Fenchurch."

"Too late to worry about motives!" ejaculated Crisp. "Unless motive puts you on the right line within a few hours it will probably mislead you. Work it out yourself. As soon as something goes wrong with the original plan—as soon as we start working on a line unforeseen by the criminal, his motive changes into that of cutting his loss and saving his skin. Neither Ralph's confession nor Querk's refutation of it can have been planned. You may take it that, at this stage, everybody's motive is to get clear.

"Look where motivation landed you with Claudia. You gape at Fenchurch's picture and kid yourself that she's a saint and a devil and a nice girl and an arch humbug all done up in one parcel. You then assume that she scuppered Watlington in order to make sure of being able to nurse the young man for life. True or not, that motivation has petered out. At this moment she says she believes Ralph is guilty—because he described to her so vividly how he struck Watlington through his wig!"

Benscombe had been waiting to get a word in edgeways.

"Yes, sir. Because the part of the original plan that did _not_ go wrong is the bit where the two innocent persons—Ralph and Querk—let us know that the Fenchurch letters were enclosed with the Will. The murderer had an answer ready for that one."

As Crisp made no comment, Benscombe continued:

"The murderer's answer was given by Claudia, when she said that Watlington had changed his mind about the marriage—with the inference that he destroyed the letters himself. Querk's evidence comes very close to a denial of that. When Claudia tells Fenchurch that 'the pace is getting hot'—Fenchurch's own words—we find a piece of brown paper which leads to Fenchurch counteracting Querk's statement and himself coming very close to confirming Claudia's statement. And now we find that Claudia believes in Ralph's guilt! Does she believe it, sir, or is she 'cutting her loss and getting clear'?"

"I don't know. But one can be too clever at this game of guessing what people are thinking. Because a person appears to be transparently honest, it doesn't follow that that person is a crook. Unless we can unearth some solid fact about Fenchurch—"

He broke off as the telephone rang.

"Take that call, will you," he ordered.

Benscombe picked up the receiver. A couple of seconds later he caught his breath.

"Yes, hold on a minute, please. I'll put you through to the Chief Constable."

He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and then:

"Sir! Have this call traced while I stall him," he whispered.

Crisp slid noiselessly to the instrument on Benscombe's desk, while the latter embarked on the stalling process.

"Hullo? I'm afraid I shall have to keep you waiting a minute or so. The Chief Constable is himself speaking on the telephone. I'm his aide—his secretary, you know. Is there anything I can do for you?"

The answer was a still greater surprise to Benscombe.

"D'you mean you're the young man who was with him in my flat this morning?"

"Yes," gasped Benscombe. "Who are you, please?"

"I'm Mrs. Cornboise, of course. Now, you know what you did at the Goat-in-Flames this morning!"

"Yes, _Mrs. Cornboise!_ " Benscombe had passed the news to Crisp.

"Well, I've been round there and they wouldn't let me into his room. They didn't mind for themselves, but they said you'd sealed the room up."

"Quite correct, Mrs. Cornboise."

"I'm not so sure it's all that correct. You've sealed up something of mine I left there when I went to see him. I want it."

"I'll see what can be done if you'll tell me what it is... Hullo! Are you there?"

"Of course I'm there! I was only collecting my thoughts. It's a bag, not my ordinary one, because I brought that back. Now I come to remember, it must be the small handbag with a handle."

With soothing remarks, Benscombe cut off.

Crisp looked up.

"Are you sure it's the same voice, Benscombe?"

"Yes, sir. It's two tones lower on the telephone. I thought it was a man at first."

"As you are sure—come along."

The way to Kilburn lay past Watlington Lodge. Ahead of them as they approached, a car came through the Lodge gates and turned on to the London road.

"That's Querk's car, sir. He may be going there too. Shall we race him?"

"No. You could only beat him by a few minutes. Trail him."

#  Chapter Seventeen

Led by Querk's car, they took the main London Road. Benscombe closed up to within fifty yards.

"There's someone beside him sir." Benscombe drew out, to get an angle on his view through the back window of Querk's car. "A girl!"

"Claudia?"

"Can't tell. I don't think they're Claudia's shoulders."

In time, Querk turned north to Kilburn. Near the corner of Acacia Road, Benscombe stopped. Crisp took out his watch.

"They've had two minutes—that's long enough. We'll join the party."

Having rounded the corner, Benscombe suddenly put on speed.

"He's left the girl in the car." A moment later: "It's Glenda Parsons—Fenchurch's girl. And she didn't look up—hasn't seen us."

A couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a side street.

"You stay in the car," ordered Crisp. "Trail Querk when he comes out. I'll take a taxi back."

Crisp walked along. About to enter the building, he turned to Querk's car.

"Good afternoon, Miss Parsons."

" _Oo!_ " wailed Glenda. "Good afternoon."

"Is this your car?"

"No—it belongs to a gentleman friend who's giving me a lift." She added: "If we oughtn't to have parked here, I'm ever so sorry, and I'm sure he won't be long."

So she thought that a Chief Constable would go on the prowl for parking offences! Anyhow, she had given him an idea.

"I shall have to send your gentleman friend a caution. What's his name and address?"

"Well, he's a Mr. Harris, as a matter of fact," said Glenda. "I'm not sure of his address, as he moved the other day. If it's only a caution, you can send it care of me and I'll see that he gets it and tells you he's sorry. My address—"

"We have your address," said Crisp. Under her eye, he turned into the building, having learnt that she was up to some little racket with Querk in which his name was not to be mentioned.

After some delay, Crisp's knock was answered, not by the teen aged maid, but by Mrs. Cornboise herself.

"What _again!_ " she exclaimed. "I expect it's my fault for bothering you about that bag. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure."

She held out her hand as if she expected him to produce the bag from his person. She was still wearing the black satin dress, but her appearance had changed. With something approaching awe, Crisp became aware that her face had been made up—apparently by her own inexpert hand. There were uneven smears of rouge on her cheeks: incredibly, too, she had toyed with lipstick. With her incongruously youthful-looking eyes, the total effect was one of rather gross disreputability.

"You'll excuse me not asking you to step in, as I have company," she added. She was waiting for that bag.

"You shall have your bag, Mrs. Cornboise, as soon as we've found it—and examined the contents."

Crisp had pitched his voice to carry into the flat. As he expected, the door of the sitting-room was opened by Querk.

"My dear Mrs. Cornboise! Colonel Crisp and I are already acquainted. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of inconveniencing either yourself or the Chief Constable. Won't you ask the Colonel to join us?"

Behind the gush, Crisp perceived the challenge. Querk had taken charge of this witness and intended to keep charge. That meant he was running a little racket with Mrs. Cornboise, as well as with Glenda.

"Well of course he can come in, if he wants to!" said Mrs. Cornboise in manifest disappointment. She was not good at taking a lead. He did not envy Querk his task.

"It is most fortunate that you happened to call at this time," Querk was intoning as they drifted into the stage-property kitchen. "Mrs. Cornboise was saying only yesterday that her position as a most reluctant witness is a somewhat unenviable one—even, in certain contingencies, an ambiguous one. For that reason, we agreed that, in any future interview desired by the police, it would be in the interests of—er—both sides, if Mrs. Cornboise were represented by—ah—myself."

" _Did_ we!" Mrs. Cornboise, sitting upright in the wheel-backed chair, looked so astonished that Querk was forced to add:

"Not in those words, perhaps. But I think that was the burden of our little talk. As the Chief Constable is doubtless aware, I happen to be a qualified solicitor, though I have not sought regular practice. So if you feel you have sufficient confidence in my poor abilities, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—"

"You don't need to ask me that, Mr. Querk. You know I have all the confidence in you anybody could possibly have in anybody else!"

The harsh, deep-toned voice had softened to a simper. The mis-decorated face puckered into a smile. In fact, the suspicion entertained by Benscombe was justified. Boy meets girl. Or, at least, Girl Meets Boy! But what the devil was Querk up to, he wondered.

"As you please," said Crisp. "You gave me certain information, Mrs. Cornboise, as to what you observed from that seat in the garden. This morning you added information about the car. Have you any other information to give us which you, for your own reasons, have held back?"

"I think, Chief Constable," cut in Querk, "that we are entitled to ask that questions should be of a specific nature."

Querk, of course, knew that the power of the police was limited to the power of arrest on suspicion, which had to be justified—that in no circumstances could he demand an answer to his questions. Crisp perceived that he would find out nothing about Mrs. Cornboise that Querk wished to be concealed. The point of interest was—what did Querk wish to conceal?

"Specifically, Mrs. Cornboise, did you leave the garden at any time and enter the house?"

"Do not answer that question!"

Querk had almost shouted. Crisp grinned.

"Mr. Querk, I'm wondering what an innocent person could possibly lose by answering that question?"

"Innocent!" Querk registered surprise. "My dear Colonel, can you believe that I am concerned with the _innocence_ of Mrs. Cornboise in the matter of the _murder?_ Surely that is too obvious to merit our attention! I am concerned with the difficult question of molestation. If Mrs. Cornboise had entered that house uninvited, her entry might well be construed by the trustees as an act of molestation. Under the terms of the Trust she would then be in danger of losing her income."

Crisp, amused, wondered what the next excuse would be.

"On that afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise, did you see Lord Watlington—whether alive or dead, did you see him?"

"By connotation," cut in Querk, "that is the same question, since it would have been impossible to see my poor friend—living or dead—from the garden."

"My next question is not the same," said Crisp. He noted that Mrs. Cornboise was looking aggressive. Querk maintained the outward serenity of a cat at a mousehole. "At about seven o'clock on that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise—" Crisp dragged out the question, then finished with a rush—"did you telephone the police that Lord Watlington had been murdered?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

Mrs. Cornboise had spoken before Querk could stop her.

" _Ex_ -cellent!" ejaculated Querk. "If she did, why should she not have done so? A rhetorical question which, for our purposes, Chief Constable, is tantamount to saying that Mrs. Cornboise will neither deny nor affirm that she gave that information to the police."

"Tantamount," echoed Crisp, "to a refusal to answer. The negatives are mounting up, Mr. Querk. Did she enter the house? Did she see Watlington? Alive or dead? Was she aware of the fact of murder at seven—before anybody else? Answers refused on all points, each of which closely touches the murder."

"Each point closely touches the murder!" repeated Querk. "And. you wonder why I object to a palpably innocent woman giving you a simple, straightforward yes or no on each point. Have you forgotten, Chief Constable, that the defence will be entitled to treat Mrs. Cornboise as a hostile witness? Imagine depositions containing those straightforward answers—that simple yes or that equally simple no. It would not matter which. On any statement made by Mrs. Cornboise, counsel would subject her to a devastating cross-examination, barbed with innuendo. You and I both know how an innocent person can suffer in health through the suggestion of guilt, dishonesty, evasion, reiterated endlessly in open court. Moreover—"

"If they said all that about me, I'd answer them back."

"Moreover—"

"You're ignoring that she can be cross-examined on the statements already made to us."

" _Moreover_ , Mrs. Cornboise is anxious to observe the wish of her late husband—unwarranted and even cruel though it may be—to avoid courting publicity for the circumstances of her marriage."

"That will come out on her identity," Crisp reminded him.

"The fact of marriage will come out, but not the circumstances of their separation," asserted Querk. "Cross-examination on an assertion—or a denial—that she had entered the house would drag out the full story of their relationship—a story which is necessarily painful to a lady of sensitiveness, who—if I may say so, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—has a very proper pride in her own womanhood."

He was orating exclusively at Mrs. Cornboise, and Crisp noted that the oratory was effective. She had been frightened enough to keep her mouth shut and flattered enough to make her glad to obey Querk and refuse to talk to the police in future.

Before Crisp reached the corner of the road, Querk drove past him, Glenda turning her back to the pathway. A couple of hundred yards behind came Benscombe, on Querk's trail.

Crisp walked on to the High Road, where he took a taxi to the Goat-in-Flames. In the room that had been occupied by Ralph, the only personal belongings were the books on insanity. He found Mrs. Cornboise's bag in one of the drawers—a small brief bag of the kind commonly carried by business men forty years ago.

Back in his own headquarters, after fumbling with the complicated catches, he opened the bag. Inside was a package of plain white paper.

"That woman must have a starvation phobia," he mused. "A fifteen minute bus ride—and she carries sandwiches." There was a litter of picture postcards, a hymn book and a pencil and pencil-sharpener.

Protruding from a slit in the lining was a limp card, of the kind used in an index.

"Here we are!" he ejaculated. On the card, which served as a memo slip, had been typed five questions, numbered:

'(1) _Where did the car stop?_ (2) _For how long?_ (3) _Did R. leave the car?_ (4) _Any witnesses while car was stationary?_ (5) _Did R. proceed straight to Three Witches?_ '

When Benscombe came in he was invited to inspect the card.

"I don't think Mrs. Cornboise can use a typewriter," he remarked.

"And I don't think she would use the word 'stationary'," supplemented Crisp. "In fact, our Mr. Querk is running his own private C.I.D. With your passion for motivation, you can get your teeth into that one. What did he do with Glenda?"

"Took her to a block in Westminster, where he has a small office. He kept her there for half an hour. She came out without him. I didn't trail her."

"What's the office like?"

"Two rooms in an expensive block. Very small nameplate—just 'Mr. A. Querk.' The porter told me it's unoccupied most of the year. Querk turns up for two or three days at a time, bringing his typist with him. That's all I got, sir. I went up and listened outside the door, but couldn't hear anything except the typewriter—sounded as if the typist were taking direct dictation."

"He was probably taking a statement from Glenda. Can't do much with him until he shows his hand. If he has a hand! He's certainly running Mrs. Cornboise. Advised her not to answer my questions."

Benscombe went to his desk, surveyed the arrears with dismay.

"D'you think, sir, he's working with Claudia?"

"Working for what?"

"I'm thinking of what you said about motivation changing once we get on the trail. To start with, both of 'em seemed to be working overtime to get Ralph out of it. Now they both seem to be helping to push him in."

"Ingenious, except that we aren't on the trail, but clean off it," grunted Crisp. "We're where we were when Ralph dished out his confession." He added, meditatively: "We haven't dug out a single fact of major importance. The tracks have been confused, so that they all lead back to the starting point."

The house telephone buzzed on Benscombe's desk. As he picked up the receiver, he said: "And who confused the tracks, sir?... Hullo."

"Mr. Fenchurch," said Sergeant Willocks, "is in the waiting-room asking for the Chief."

"Tell them to send him up, Benscombe," ordered Crisp. "If he hands out any lies, I shall see if I can frighten him. The experts who looked at those pictures agreed that he is an artist. That may explain his manner, but it doesn't explain his tale—which you think is a plant to prop up Claudia, don't you?"

"Well, sir, we have to take his word that Watlington himself opened that envelope and gave him the letters. Whenever we ask for a spot of proof, all we get is some more artistic temperament."

Fenchurch at police headquarters was something without precedent. Suspicion was excited by his too imaginative sports coat, the dun coloured glove on his left hand, his air of not understanding the nature of a police force. His escort showed a tendency to hover.

"Well, Mr. Fenchurch!" Crisp's tone was frigid. "You've brought me some information, I hope?"

"About the murder? Why, I thought that was all over! Claudia told me that you had arrested Ralph and that he accepted full responsibility, poor devil! Doesn't that wash out the brown paper and all those other things we got gummed up with?"

"If you thought that, why have you come to police headquarters?"

"There's the difficult problem of Benscombe." Fenchurch realised with a shock that Benscombe himself was behind the other roll top desk. "I say, old man, I hope you don't resent my going over your head to the higher authority, but I honestly don't see any other way."

"I don't resent it," said Benscombe, "because I don't know what it's about."

Fenchurch turned back to the Chief Constable: he spoke as one resolved to state a grievance in moderate terms. "I have rung Benscombe no fewer than five times to ask him for another sitting. Four times he was out: when I caught him, he said he had urgent duty. I don't doubt he was speaking the literal truth. In the conception of the modern policeman, which I am trying to paint, the idea of lying or any kind of counter-criminality is excluded. But how can we get anything done if he's always on urgent duty!"

"So you want me to release him from his duties here so that he can sit in your studio?" asked Crisp.

"That's exactly what I was going to suggest," beamed Fenchurch. "With reasonable luck, another three sittings ought to be enough."

Benscombe was waiting for the explosion which did not come.

"I'd be very pleased to do that for you, Mr. Fenchurch. Benscombe, hold yourself ready to go to the studio when required." It seemed mere irony until Crisp added, with significance: "You will be on duty."

"Thanks most awf'ly!" The long face was illumined with boyish pleasure. "I suppose I'd better buzz off now. You chaps look awf'ly busy. Cheerio and thanks again! I'm sorry about poor old Ralph. Could I have a word with him before I go?"

"Yes—if he's willing to see you," answered Crisp. "But you realise that a police officer will have to be present?"

"Really? I'm afraid that kills it stone dead. You see, I wanted to say something terrifically private." As if that were not sufficiently ingenuous, he added: "And it's rather tied up with the murder."

"Then why not write to him—I'll see that he gets it," offered Crisp, who had grasped the wisdom of taking the artist's point of view, since the artist seemed incapable of taking that of the police.

"Thanks, I will. I want him to get it before they salt him away in Broadmoor. Of course, you've spotted that he's stark mad, like Watlington. A good chap, though! Very decent of him to own up. I'll admit now that I was horribly scared when you were asking me all those questions about clocks and things. I don't suppose you believed a word of what I told you about those letters!"

Fenchurch laughed at a danger passed.

"Remember how hot-and-bothered we got over what people do with their old envelopes?" He spoke on his way to the door. "Funnily enough, I found that particular old envelope. Cheerio!"

Benscombe got to the door first. He held the handle as if he feared the other might slither away.

"Do you mean," asked the Chief Constable, "that you have found the envelope in which Watlington sealed up your letters with his Will?"

"That's it! I knew it was the same, because it had his seal on it, more or less intact. I thought you'd be amused!"

He had the air of being pleased that he had amused the Chief Constable—a little acknowledgment of his kindness in the matter of Benscombe's duty.

"I am amused," said Crisp. "Where is that envelope now?"

"Oh I say, Colonel!" Fenchurch was disappointed.

"I must have an answer, Mr. Fenchurch."

"But don't you see it's the same question that upset us all last time? 'What Becomes of Old Envelopes?' We don't want to start that again!"

"I want to," said Crisp. "But let's both be amiable about it this time, shall we! To begin with, where did you find that envelope?"

"In my pocket." Fenchurch added brightly: "The one place we never thought of searching!"

Crisp remembered that they had not searched for it at all, because he had not believed Fenchurch's story of Watlington ripping up the envelope himself and handing over the letters. He was no readier to believe the present statement that it had been found.

"We shall have to begin at the beginning," sighed Crisp. "The first step is to ask yourself when and where you put it in your pocket." As Fenchurch looked blank and miserable: "Come now, you must have put it in your pocket yourself."

"That's the devil of it! If someone else were to put something in my pocket I'd notice and remember. But surely it must have been when I was talking to Watlington!"

That, of course, was what he wanted the police to believe. Crisp was determined to find that envelope or compel Fenchurch to admit that he was inventing the whole incident to support Claudia.

"Start at the other end, then. Visualise the moment when you surprised yourself by finding this very important envelope in your own pocket. Where were you?"

"In the flat. After breakfast this morning, I pulled it out—noticed how bad the design of the seal was. Then I noticed the other end where Watlington had ripped it open. I immediately thought of you!"

Crisp turned on him fiercely.

"Are you going to tell me that you thereupon burnt that envelope?"

"Oh no! I remember trying to work out whether it proved me innocent or guilty. I knew you had woven that envelope into your fantasy on that piece of brown paper. So I thought I'd better not burn it, in case it turned out to be on my side. Of course, I didn't know then that poor old Ralph was carrying the baby. As it is, I can't remember what I did with it."

For twenty years, Crisp had schooled himself in keeping his temper.

"But you remember that you decided not to burn it but to keep it," he said.

"There's nowhere to keep anything in that flat," muttered Fenchurch.

"Then perhaps you remember wishing you had a safe place in which to keep it?"

Fenchurch clutched his hair excitedly.

"You've _got_ something there, Colonel! Keep it up, if you can. Ask me some more questions, quickly!"

"You locked it in a drawer?... You took it to your bank?... You stuffed it at the back of one of your pictures?"

Exasperated by the other shaking his head at each question, Crisp cried: "Dammit, Fenchurch, did you put it back in your pocket?"

Fenchurch's hand shot to his side pocket. The child-like smile dawned again and spread over his face.

He drew out and unfolded the long envelope, sealed at one end, ripped at the other, bearing the printed address of a firm of solicitors.

"Absolutely amazing!" he exclaimed, as he handed it to Crisp. "I never thought you'd pull it off!"

Crisp was examining the back of the envelope on which was a pencilled note in a round, immature handwriting.

' _Tarranio: "Casa Flavia," Caversham Street, Soho, W.'_

Fenchurch seemed to be expecting congratulation of some sort.

"I say, Colonel, would it have proved anything about me if poor old Ralph hadn't spoilt all the clueage?"

"I don't know yet. Would you mind sitting at that other desk for a moment. Give him a pencil, Benscombe. Now, Mr. Fenchurch, will you please write the following: 'Tarranio, Casa Flavia, Caversham Street—"

"Caversham Street! That's what I couldn't remember. He must be in the telephone book as a limited company or something. I couldn't find him. That address is written on the envelope, isn't it?"

Crisp made no answer. Fenchurch, with a touch of unease, chattered on:

"Tarranio is the Italian wine merchant who fascinated you. I didn't know until the other day that he has a restaurant in Town."

Benscombe removed the sheet on which Fenchurch had written part of the address, in his bold, ornate script.

"That address, as you surmise, was pencilled on this envelope," said Crisp. "Did Watlington give you the information?"

"You're losing touch, Colonel! Watlington had never heard of Tarranio until I mentioned him on Saturday afternoon. Don't you remember sleuthing his blotting pad?"

"Then who wrote this address for you on the back of this envelope? You didn't write it yourself."

"Didn't I? Then Ralph must have written it for me. It was he who mentioned Tarranio's restaurant. That was while we were loafing about on the terrace on Saturday night, waiting to hear which of us would drop in for the murder."

"Take time before you answer the next question, Fenchurch," warned Crisp. "Here's this envelope. Look at it, Watlington's envelope. Watlington's seal. Who produced this envelope on the terrace for note-taking purposes? You —or Ralph?"

"Presumably, I did."

"Did you indeed! May I take it that, when you were interviewing Watlington, you picked up this—old envelope —and put it in your pocket? While you're pondering your answer, let me remind you that you have been very sarcastic about old envelopes and old pieces of brown paper. In effect, you refused to account for the piece of brown paper. You'll have to account for this envelope, Fenchurch."

"This is rapidly becoming horrible!" moaned Fenchurch.

"Look at the size—feel the thickness of this envelope," pressed Crisp. "Did you say to yourself, 'at some future time I might want to make a note, so I will take this very awkward envelope, fold it up and put it in my pocket'?"

Benscombe expected an outburst. But Fenchurch controlled himself—answered with strained amiability.

"Aren't we rather losing our sense of proportion? I don't know how, or when, I first became possessed of that envelope. Moreover—if you don't think me unsympathetic —I don't care."

Crisp, about to invite Benscombe to intervene, decided to make one more effort.

"I seem to have failed to make you understand, Fenchurch, that you yourself are under grave suspicion and that I am doing my utmost to help you clear yourself."

"And why the devil should I bother to clear myself!" exploded Fenchurch. "With all respect to your official position, Colonel, I warn you that you've let this unfortunate murder get on your nerves. You're beginning to see life as a tapestry of clues to the murder of Watlington. Suspect me as much as you like, if you find it restful. But when you come down to earth, you'll realise that Ralph's confession will prevent the court from listening to your feverish little discoveries."

"The trouble is," said Crisp, when Fenchurch had gone, "that fellow is right. We're hamstrung by that confession."

"A bit o' law sandwiched in with the artistic temperament, sir?" As Benscombe received no discouragement, he went on: "And the net result of that bid of comedy-business-with-pocket is that we're left to conclude that Ralph handed it to him. Mrs. Cornboise, Querk, Claudia, Fenchurch—all contributing little items in support of Ralph's confession!"

#  Chapter Eighteen

The Plea of guilty came into formal existence on the following morning when Ralph Cornboise was brought befor the local magistrates. After evidence of arrest, he was committed for trial, to be lodged in the meantime in the county gaol.

"The dates are against us, Benscombe," remarked Crisp when they were back at their desks. "He'll be up at the Old Bailey in a fortnight. Gives us very little time-"

Information and reports continued to pile up, though the torrent was spent. Ralph's bachelor flat in the West End had been combed, yielding a couple of diaries and a drawer full of bills and receipts, which Benscombe was sorting.

Half an hour later, as if there had been no break, Crisp added:

"I don't know whether Comboise is innocent or guilty. But if he's hanged it will be because he's a liar—or because he's had an hallucination."

"Or because he can't get Claudia out of his system?" suggested Benscombe.

Crisp's attention had drifted. But he remembered the words when the afternoon post brought a letter to Ralph from Fenchurch, addressed care of the Chief Constable.

"This must go straight to the prison governor," said Crisp. "And we shall have to wait for a typed copy."

Benscombe took the letter and placed it in the appropriate basket on his own desk.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said a minute later. "I've opened Fenchurch's letter by mistake."

"Extremely careless of you!" grinned Crisp. "Bring it here."

"Do you think, sir, that Fenchurch has too much artistic temperament to know that we read prisoners' letters?"

"That's the kind of thing you'll have to find out while you're sitting for him."

Crisp opened out the letter. The texture of the paper— the handwriting, the spacing, the phrasing—were those of a man who has his own scale of values.

'Dear Ralph,

I tried to see you yesterday, but there's some ghastly ritual involving a policeman as chaperone. I think it's going to be all right about Claudia. She definitely changed in her attitude to me after your departure. But obviously nothing can happen until you have settled down in Broadmoor. This sounds callous. But you know that I am not so, where my friends are concerned. While feeling a little tragic about you, I admire you tremendously for facing the music. Also, I am personally grateful, as I have been virtually arrested myself more than once. My peril seemed to distress Querk—I was civil to the oily bounder for your sake.

I still fear complications over Tarranio. If he and that nervously energetic Chief Constable get together, I shall probably have to go formally mad, too. And join you in Broadmoor! I know a very good sort who has been there for a long time and likes it—I'll write him to look out for you. You can have quite a decentish time there if you can do without women. I'll keep in touch with you as long as I'm at large.

Yours ever, Arthur Fenchurch.
P.S.—I believe my policeman's head is going to be good, though
conventional—anyhow, it's time I placated the critics.'

Crisp passed the letter to Benscombe.

"I was being too clever again, sir. He might want to feed us that he means to marry Claudia and provide for her future. But he wouldn't give us the tip to tackle Tarranio."

"When will Tarranio be in London?"

"Scheduled to arrive last night."

"Come along then!" Crisp delayed only to take from the dossier the relevant note: ' _Tarranio, Fabroli: Casa Flavia: May 2nd'_ copied from the pencilled scrawl on Watlington's blotting pad.

An hour later they were outside the Casa Flavia, a large restaurant for Soho, with some forty tables. Tacked on was a wine shop and a staircase leading to the wholesale department, which they ascended. They were received by a Cockney typist, who presently showed them into the proprietor's room.

Except for his colouring, Tarranio would have passed for a London stockbroker of the old school. He wore a morning coat: a silk hat graced the top of a filing cabinet. His accent was good, though his idiom wavered.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Seat yourselves, please. If the law has been broken by my business the mistake is mine I'm sure."

"We have come to ask your help, Mr. Tarranio. I believe you are acquainted with a British subject who has spent some time in Casa Flavia—a Mr. Fenchurch?"

"Arthur Fenchurch—artist, painter and artist?" Mr. Tarranio made it sound like a firm of solicitors. "Oh yes, I know him backwards and forwards. If you desire recognisances—or is it bail?—you count me in for a reasonable sum, please."

There came a faraway look in his eyes, then a reminiscent smile. "Assuredly, it is not a grave matter but only of a scandalous nature, eh? He is no criminal, though he owes me a little money."

"He is no criminal," agreed Crisp. "But we have to find out what he has been doing—for his own sake, perhaps.

I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell us all you know about his life at Casa Flavia."

"All I know? You will ask me to stop! He comes first to Casa Flavia when he is fourteen, with his father, who is also artist, sculptor and artist. The boy comes alone to my restaurant and becomes very drunk. Because he is so young and because he is so drunk, he brings me into public disgrace. That was the beginning of our friendship.

"He comes often to Casa Flavia for his holiday. What is a holiday? For him a holiday is an extensive matter, you understand. He becomes one of the attractions to the tourists, because he is so rude to them, but to the Italians he is always polite. He eats at my restaurant and drinks much wine. At that of my neighbour Fabroli also, but that is Fabroli's affair. At one time, he owes me what-is-in-sterling thirty-five pounds. For the debt, he paints a portrait of me. The portrait is scandalous and would seem to be intended for insult. I break our friendship. But a tourist sees the picture and offers me what-is-in-sterling fifty guineas. So our friendship is renewed and he again owes me what-is-in-sterling forty-two pounds. But I do not mind, for he does not understand business."

Here was an indulgent friend and admirer of Fenchurch, a fact which was not in itself helpful. Why should Fenchurch be afraid of him? Further probings produced only stories of ribald and riotous behaviour—of dreadful pictures painted on restaurant tablecloths with mustard and lipstick.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Tarranio," said Crisp, concealing his disappointment. "His life seems to be blameless, as far as my profession is concerned."

"Ah yes! Crime is not for him. He would think it a game with the police, and he would tell you first how clever he was going to be. Before you go, Colonel Crisp, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me, may I ask, how is the health of Madame—Mrs. Fenchurch?" For Crisp, this was a trial in tact. Did Tarranio mean Glenda? Benscombe came to his rescue.

"When I went to Fenchurch's flat, sir, he was living alone."

"That is bad. But we feared it would be so!" sighed Tarranio. "The lady, I hope is not too distressed. She also is much admired in Casa Flavia. Courtesy. Charm. Even beauty also.

That, thought Crisp, was not the impression which Glenda would make on an Italian.

"Perhaps we are not talking about the same lady," he said.

"So already there are others! The boy is a fool!" exclaimed Tarranio. "And he calls them all 'Mrs. Fenchurch,' for insult. The lady, before her unfortunate marriage to him, is called Miss Lofting. 'Miss Claudia' they called her, because that is an Italian name also and is easy for the tongue. Fabroli, for instance, would find himself unable to say 'Lofting.'"

"I don't imagine Fenchurch is a faithful sort of man." Crisp had risen and was offering his hand. Tarranio grasped it and in his agitation kept hold of it.

"Even the mayor, who was also a friend of Arthur Fenchurch, says to her, before he put on his robe of office, that marriage with such a man is a hazardous matter."

"The _mayor_!" echoed Crisp.

"Assuredly! In Italy, if one is not of the Holy Church, it is the mayor only who performs the marriage. Myself, I heard him give the warning, which, alas, Miss Claudia did not heed! I am a witness of the ceremony. My neighbour, Fabroli, also. Arthur Fenchurch asked him because he owed Fabroli money and wished to flatter him. But me he did not ask because of what-is-in-sterling only forty-two pounds."

Absently, Crisp reclaimed his hand.

"Was there a legal marriage ceremony?" he asked.

"Do I not say so, Colonel! On the certificate is the name of the mayor and that of myself and, unavoidably, that of my neighbour Fabroli also. Did I not myself kiss the bride in the English fashion, with sadness, and upon the cheek only. But Fabroli, who cannot speak English—"

"When did this marriage take place?" asked Crisp.

"On the second day of May last year. Is it in your mind, Colonel Crisp, that I delude myself?"

"Not at all, Mr. Tarranio., But I must have that certificate. If I cable the mayor—"

"He has retired. It would be a pleasure to cable for you to the proper quarter and send you the certificate, because I am angry. If Arthur Fenchurch has treated such a wife with insult, that is again the end of our friendship."

Benscombe was delayed for handshaking, then followed his Chief down the stairs.

"I say, sir! We've got something there, haven't we?"

"Yes." Crisp was gloomy. "But I can't see yet how to make use of it."

"Legally married!" enthused Benscombe. "Claudia to marry Ralph, pop him in the asylum, administer the million and share the loot with secret husband Fenchurch!"

"Fine!" said Crisp. "Except for Watlington's blotting pad! Why did Fenchurch give him the name of those two witnesses?"

The silence lasted until they were within a few minutes of headquarters.

"When you're sitting in that studio, confine research to his movements on Saturday afternoon." Presently Crisp added: "That confession flops on us like a wet blanket. The D.P.P. will take no notice until we have followed up the marriage certificate with proof of some act on the spot. Whatever Claudia and Fenchurch were planning to do— unless we can prove that one of 'em was in that library around five thirty, we can't upset the confession."

Three days later, Crisp received a copy of the certificate of marriage between Arthur Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting.

By the same post came a private letter from the Director of Public Prosecutions, who was a personal friend.

'My dear Crisp,

By this post you will receive an official intimation that your recommendation that Ralph Cornboise be medically examined will not be implemented.

In view of your letter to me, in which you revealed anxiety, I will give you the reasons.

Accepting the (apparently rather provisional) opinion of Sir Wm. Turvey that accused suffers an hallucination, the latter is, on your own showing, a _post factum_ hallucination. It came into existence after the crime had been committed and is therefore irrelevant to the state of mind of the accused at the moment of committing the crime. This disposes of the possibility of a verdict of guilty but insane, should the accused withdraw the plea of guilty.

The only line upon which the (assumed) hallucination can become relevant is the following, viz: Does the hallucination render the accused incapable of understanding the nature of the charge against him and the nature of his confession? If the answer is 'yes' he could be so certified and would then be declared 'unfit to plead.'

But it is so obvious that the answer would be 'no' that the Department would have no justification for ordering an examination at the public expense.

As you are aware, the governor of the prison has the duty to order medical examination if he has reason to suspect the sanity of a prisoner.

I will pass to the points of evidence which seem to have raised doubt in your own mind as to the guilt of the accused. The mis-statement as to the time at which he says he committed the murder was subsequently corrected by the accused himself and can therefore be ignored. The other points, viz: the absence of accused's finger prints on the die-stamp and the mis-statement that he struck through the wig seem to me nugatory. Substantially truthful confessions often contain such inaccuracies of detail. Your own point that he could not have left the library by the window about five thirty without being observed by Mrs. Cornboise and that he could not have left by the door—as that was found locked on the inside —is answered by an item in your report which describes how you turned the key with a pair of pliers. The accused could have turned the key in the opposite direction by the same means and has not denied having done so.

True that in the hands of a brilliant counsel, able to play on the superstitious fears of the jury, these points might conceivably procure an acquittal. But, of course, unless the accused withdraws the confession and pleads not guilty this possibility will not arise.

As prosecuting counsel is required to 'act in a semi-judicial capacity' he may decide to put these two points to the judge. But I must admit that it will be _pro forma_ only. Faced with a plea of guilty, the judge would have no power to take cognisance.

In general, the only counter to a plea of guilty is the production by the police or other agency of an incontrovertible alibi, which might take the form of a very strong _prima facie_ case against another person not associated with the accused.'

"That shows us where we get off, Benscombe," said Crisp. "Note that bit about public expense. It's very doubtful whether I have the right to give any further orders in the case."

"Try calling for volunteers, sir, and see what happens. I'm volunteering to do a spot of work on that lock. Fenchurch blew off a long-winded yarn yesterday, the burden of which is that he has quarrelled with the lock people." Crisp nodded approval and returned his attention to the letter.

"I don't fancy myself on principles of law. But there's the principle that a jury is entitled to draw inferences from the demeanour of a witness or a prisoner. From Ralph's demeanour when he was telling me how he struck with the die-stamp and the effect of the blow on the wig, I drew the inference that he was describing something he was seeing in his mind's eye. Something which did _not_ happen, but which nevertheless he was convinced _did_ happen. And there are other, smaller points. That's why I'm ready to accept the hallucination theory. The D.P.P., of course, is bound by the rules of evidence. And there we are!"

He got up.

"I'm going to the prison with this certificate. I'll get the governor to let me see Cornboise. If he's still chivalrously inclined towards Claudia—this may change his mind about pleading guilty."

The governor disliked a plea of guilty as much as the police, and was anxious to give every assistance. Ralph was brought to his private office. The escort was instructed to wait in the corridor.

Ralph's appearance had undergone perceptible change. The nervous restlessness had vanished. He had gained poise and the outward signs of serenity. His eyes were steady, his lips set in a half smile. His calm, thought Crisp, might be the false calm of the higher hysteric, but he certainly looked amenable.

"We can relax the formalities, Cornboise," said the Governor. "The Chief Constable has brought something for you."

"This will do my talking for me," said Crisp. He unfolded the certificate and offered it.

Ralph took the certificate and read it. The half smile did not falter as he folded it and returned it to Crisp.

"Thank you, Chief Constable." Ralph glanced at the Governor as if to suggest that the interview was over.

"Did you read it?" cried Crisp. "Did you realise that it's a certificate of marriage between Fenchurch and Miss Lofting?"

"Of course!" Ralph's calm was unshaken. "I hope it will not get into the papers. It would involve them in scandal. People would remember that she was engaged to me."

"Does it mean nothing to you? Did you know she was married?" demanded Crisp.

"I think I told you that Miss Lofting had been wholly frank with me about Fenchurch, and so had he," answered Ralph with the first hint of impatience. "I did not inquire into the material conditions of their association. If they went through a form of marriage, and if it was a legal marriage, I have no doubt that Miss Lofting made the necessary arrangements for the divorce. She would not cheat me—in that way."

"Divorce could not take effect for another couple of years," snapped Crisp. "She meant to marry you three weeks ago."

"It hardly matters now," answered Ralph. The patient half smile returned—the same expression of saintly resignation which Crisp had seen more than once on the faces, of men serving a life sentence. "You were very forbearing with me, Colonel, before I came to terms with myself. I hope you will add to your kindness now by leaving me alone. I have everything settled in my mind in preparation for what is before me. It is not helpful to be disturbed." He turned to the Governor. "May I go now, sir?"

Crestfallen, the Chief Constable returned to H.Q. He had barely recorded the prison interview in his official diary when Benscombe turned up, ushering into the room a man whose appearance suggested an unskilled labourer.

"This is Albert Jenkins, sir, who has something to tell us. He is employed at the lock, mainly in keeping the sluices clear of obstruction. A few minutes ago he identified—Mr. Tarranio's English friend—as a person he knows by sight but not by name."

Crisp gave Jenkins a chair and a cigarette.

"I say, Jenkins," said Benscombe, " will you tell the Chief Constable your little tale. Don't bother to put it into posh language. Talk as if you were talking to me."

"Righto! It's like this, sir. This gent here asked me to go along with him and dodge round a pillar-box while the other gent come out of his flat. I reckernised him as a gent I'd had trouble with, because he likes to walk along the platform over the sluices, which isn't allowed. He never gave no trouble, except that he'd come back again. All he ever did was look at the water. Seemed a bit loopy to me, the way he talked. That's all, sir."

"There's a bit more, Jenkins," chirped Benscombe. "When did you last see this gent before you saw him this afternoon?"

"In the afternoon last Saturday week, day o' the murder. Saw him standin' on the landin' steps jest below the lock. I was up on the sluices, clear in' up the better part of a sack of straw that had drifted down. When I was taking a breather, I looked round and saw the gent. That's how it was, sir."

"What was he doing on the steps, Jenkins?"

"Makin' a sort o' bonfire, to amuse some kids. He'd light some paper and wave it about until it burnt his fingers and then drop it in the river. Like a kid himself."

"Could you see what sort of paper it was that he was burning?" asked Crisp.

"No, sir. The steps must be close on a hundred yards from where I was muckin' up that straw."

"Had he got a bundle of newspapers under his arm?"

"No, sir. It was small bits o' paper—took the bits o' paper out of his pocket. Lit each bit with a match."

"What time in the afternoon was this?"

"Must've been close on six o'clock, which is my knock-in' off time. After I'd finished my breather, I took my time over packin' that straw in the basket. When I got back and was dumping it in the bin the lockkeeper says: 'You must be feelin' unwell,' he says. 'You've done nigh on five minutes' overtime by mistake,' he says."

"Good work, Benscombe!" said Crisp when Jenkins had gone.

"Thank you, sir! But is it any _good_?"

"In the face of that confession, I don't know that anything is any good unless it turns the whole layout upside down," grumbled Crisp. "As that confounded artist told me to my face, the judge won't take any notice of that sort of thing."

"If there had not been a confession," persisted Benscombe, "there'd be more now against Fenchurch than against Cornboise."

"Hardly! All we've got is that Fenchurch was with Watlington at some time during the afternoon, and that he obtained his letters and destroyed them. Where do we go from there?"

"Destroyed 'em about six o'clock. It's some five minutes walk to the river from Watlington Lodge. Add that brown paper—which was wrapped round a parcel in the hall as late as nearly five fifteen—"

"Huh! You're roping in a clue as evidence, in spite of my little homily. Besides, I don't like that brown paper any more than Fenchurch does."

Crisp went to a cabinet and produced it.

"And what the devil was in the parcel? You'd think that anybody who had sent Watlington a registered parcel would be personally, interested enough to read the Press stuff about the murder. All the papers emphasised that we wanted to get in touch with the sender." He turned the paper over and contemplated the typewritten address. "Not even handwriting to help us!"

He added: "All the same, I'm glad you dragged it up again. If the worst comes to the worst, I'm going to spring that brown paper on Querk and see what happens. There may be something in your idea that he is anxious that the confession should not be upset."

"I've sheered off that idea, sir," confessed Benscombe. "Querk is going to lose a packet—according to those two diaries of Ralph's. Checking the diaries on the correspondence and bills and random notes, I reckon he owes Querk about fifteen thousand pounds, possibly a bit more."

"So Querk gains nothing by Ralph's conviction— definitely loses. Claudia and Fenchurch gain nothing. Art for art's sake, eh?"

"Cutting their loss and getting clear, sir."

The worst came, at leisurely gait during the next ten days, to the worst. The investigation continued, as it were, of its own weight. The test with the Reindert yielded the negative result that it would have been possible for a man sitting on the near side running board to escape observation by the boys standing in the roadway outside the gates.

The prison governor, acting on informal pressure from Crisp, ordered a medical examination by Sir William Turvey and another eminent alienist, who reported that Ralph Cornboise was not insane.

On the last day of the month, which was a Wednesday, Ralph would be brought before the judge for sentence.

On the Monday, Querk returned to Watlington Lodge, after spending a week in the provinces in discharge of his mayoral duties.

#  Chapter Nineteen

It was nearly nine and pleasantly cool when Crisp turned into the drive of Watlington Lodge. Querk had dined and was awaiting coffee on the terrace. At sight of Crisp he exhibited delight.

"On such a perfect evening, it would be positively ungrateful to stay indoors," he gushed. "Bessie has seen you and will bring us coffee. Do sit down."

"That would be very pleasant!" Crisp was resolutely genial. "When I heard you had returned, I thought it would be only civil to see you informally and tell you about the next move."

Querk would know that this sort of thing was mere sparring for position. But the last words had caused a flicker of his eyelids. He was not expecting a 'move.'

"I cannot tell you why I have come back to this house of tears," gushed Querk. "There is nothing I can do for the poor boy. I am steeling myself to the fact that, in little more than thirty-six hours, he will come before the judge. I felt I must be near at hand in case he should express some wish."

"You were something of an uncle to him." Crisp caught sight of Bessie with a tray. "I may be able to tell you that you are making yourself needlessly unhappy."

That would play up his nerves while Bessie was footling with the coffee, thought Crisp. He delayed the girl with polite enquiries, while he watched Querk. The watery eyes were fixed on the distance.

With a start, Querk realised that Bessie had left them.

"I am so sorry, Colonel! Do please help yourself. I fear I am a sadly inattentive host. It is hard to tear one's thoughts away from Wednesday morning."

"Speaking off the record, Mr. Querk—there is a chance that, on Wednesday, nothing at all will happen of any importance."

Querk helped himself to coffee.

"I dare not allow myself to entertain the faintest hope unless it is your kindly intention to give me specific grounds." He was talking to steady his own nerve. "Surely the proceedings could only be stayed by a writ of _nolle prosequi_ —legally a very complicated matter."

"No writ will be ready by Wednesday," admitted Crisp. "But you know, doubtless better than I do, the circumstances in which the D.P.P. can delay proceedings."

"If a somewhat rusty memory serves—" Querk stirred his coffee with concentration—"it is essential that there should be a strong _prima facie_ case against a person not associated with the accused."

Querk, Crisp noted, had thoroughly primed himself on the law of Ralph's position—it was as if he had quoted the D. P.P.'s letter.

"Quite so!" Crisp waited until Querk raised the coffee cup to his lips. "Did you know that Fenchurch and Miss Lofting were married last year by the Mayor of Casa Flavia?"

So he did not know! A good teaspoonful of coffee had slopped on to his tie. He put down the cup, mopped himself up in silence. He was, Crisp noted, taking an unnecessarily long time over the mopping up.

"You would not say that, Colonel, unless you had proof. I can only confess that comment is utterly beyond me."

Crisp gazed over the rambling bedraggled garden, leaving Querk to take the initiative.

"But how, may I ask, does this affect poor Ralph's position?" Querk's assurance was creeping back. "Such a fact, astounding and shocking though it is, would hardly seem to bear on the confession."

"We're both speaking confidentially, Mr. Querk, and there are no witnesses, so we can let ourselves go. I know you are aware that Fenchurch visited Watlington on Saturday afternoon and that he obtained those letters which he subsequently destroyed.

"Very well! What Fenchurch did not tell you is that, at that interview, Watlington dragged out of him particulars of that marriage, including the date, place and witnesses of the ceremony. Of that we have incontrovertible proof— I have personally interviewed one of the witnesses."

"My dear Colonel, you take my breath away!" It had some literal truth. Querk was panting. With satisfaction, Crisp observed the false move—he had revealed consternation when he ought to have jubilated at the suggestion that someone other than Ralph might be guilty.

"If Watlington had lived another few minutes he would have confronted Claudia— _Mrs. Fenchurch_ —with the facts. The Fenchurchs' attempt to grab the Watlington money with a fake marriage would have failed. But he did not live another few minutes. And when Cornboise learns that Claudia was deceiving him, I think he'll withdraw that fake confession."

Crisp had the instant impression that he had himself blundered. Querk perceptibly relaxed. Moreover when he spoke, the rich, unctuous tone had come back.

"A truly amazing sequence of events! If I may say so without impertinence, my dear Colonel, few men in your position would have striven, as you have striven, to save an accused man from the consequences of his own confession. But before I can relate these facts to poor Ralph's position, I have to remind myself that you have not yet arrested Fenchurch. He was here a couple of hours ago, with Miss Lofting. May I surmise that the weak spot in the case is that, although all this might have happened, there is no proof that it _did_ happen?"

"That's for the jury to decide," countered Crisp. "When you say there is 'no' proof I don't follow you. There is very strong circumstantial evidence. There is, for instance, the matter of time."

"Pre-cisely! The matter of time!" mouthed Querk.

"Now I do hope you are not going to produce—from your sleeve, as it were—a piece of brown paper?"

Another flop, reflected Crisp. Every time he tried to use that piece of paper, it crackled back at him.

"That's what I'm doing," said Crisp stolidly. "And I'm showing it to a jury."

Querk shook his head with profound sadness.

"I fear that no jury will ever inspect that piece of brown paper. Fenchurch, of course, told me about it with—er—a certain regrettable ribaldy. Miss Lofting confirmed that you attached an importance to it which she found hard to credit. So I took it upon myself to investigate the peregrinations of that piece of brown paper."

Querk bent down for the attache case which was always within his arm's reach. When he lifted the lid, the interior opened like a concertina—a portable file.

"You will find in this document, signed and witnessed by Miss Glenda Parsons, that she herself introduced a piece of brown paper which had wrapped a parcel registered to Lord Watlington—into Fenchurch's flat. On Saturday night, Miss Lofting had asked her to take back Fenchurch's sketch book, which he had left lying about here. So she wrapped the sketch book in a piece of brown paper which she found here and furtively unwrapped it at the flat, leaving the sketch book to be discovered in the flat in a manner calculated to deceive her—er—protector."

Crisp glanced through the typed statement, noted that no mention was made of where the brown paper had been found by Glenda, but did not indicate the omission to Querk. He remembered, too, that when he had been interviewing Glenda, she had irritated him by crackling brown paper. Doubtless, it had been this half-memory which had given him his initial mistrust of the clue.

His purpose had been partly achieved. He had now not the least doubt that Querk had been shoring up the case against Ralph. His motive was at present an insoluble riddle —unless he was playing for safety only.

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Querk. I'll keep this, if you don't mind."

"By all means. Does that destroy the case against Fenchurch?"

"It only shortens the chain by one link." Crisp put on his unsatisfactory little act of lighting a cigarette. "Mr. Querk, you are convinced of Ralph's guilt. I wish you could convince me. If the case against Fenchurch should fail— you can imagine the feelings of a policeman who believes he has procured the conviction of an innocent man."

"I could imagine your feelings if I could imagine your reasons for believing in his innocence."

Querk believed that he had gained the upper hand. His tone was nearly patronising.

"When we came on the scene," said Crisp, "we found that door locked on the inside. We know from Mrs. Comboise that Ralph did not go out by the window at five thirty, How did he get out of the library?"

Querk contrived to look disappointed.

"That, surely, is unimportant in itself. If you are inviting me to speculate—is there not some mechanical means of locking a door on the outside while the key remains inside? The object being, of course, to throw dust in the eyes of the police."

Crisp made no answer. Querk was unruffled. He was sitting with his fingers arched like the traditional consultant, unaware of his danger.

"Our experts agree that the die-stamp was the weapon that shattered the plate in Watlington's skull and that the assailant was standing in front of his victim when he struck. The die-stamp was found on the mantelpiece, where you placed it shortly after five fifteen. You remember telling us why you removed it from the table and put it there?"

"Perfectly. Pray continue, Colonel, I am all attention."

"At about five twenty eight— _if_ Ralph came back after you had gone upstairs—he must have walked round the writing table to pick up the die-stamp, walked round to the other side of Watlington to strike him, and then walked back again to replace the die-stamp on the mantelpiece before making his escape."

"Indeed! I had not realised that it was as complicated as that. In moments of such febrile excitement man will behave strangely and even irrationally."

"The remarkable thing is this!" Crisp spoke as if in deep perplexity. "In spite of the febrile excitement and the rest of it, Ralph left no finger prints on that die-stamp."

"Remarkable, but not unprecedented, I think!" said Querk. "At moments of emotional storm, a part of the brain often remains cool enough to take protective action. Presumably he wiped off his finger prints with his handkerchief."

"On that metal, the prints would be invisible to the naked eye."

"Obviously, he would wipe the whole thing, not merely the part that he believed he had touched."

"Hm! Yes! Of course he would!" Crisp put his empty cup on the tray and rose, creaking, from the wicker chair.

"Your finger prints were found on that die-stamp!"

Their eyes met and for an instant the barriers were down —but only for an instant.

"That Ralph failed to wipe the part of the die-stamp which I had touched," beamed Querk, "is a vagary of chance I cannot hope to explain. You speak almost as if it were _necessary_ that I should be able to explain that—er— vagary of chance."

"Mr. Querk, you don't believe any more than I do that he came back at five thirty and murdered his uncle!"

The smile broadened until it threatened to engulf the entire expanse of face.

"In the spirit of your little joke, my dear Colonel—what does it matter what I believe, since Ralph's confession—"

"What if the plea of guilty is withdrawn and the confession negatived?"

"Let me see, now!" Querk spoke as one consenting to play make-believe with a child. "Mrs. Cornboise, I think, would be safe. Not so, Fenchurch, Miss Lofting, and myself. Possibly it would be a joint charge—wouldn't it, Chief Constable?—for the guilt of one would rivet the guilt of the two others as accessories.

"But I think you will find," continued Querk, "that the confession will not be negatived. Tell poor Ralph that Miss Lofting was deceiving him—that she is really the wife of that excessively exuberant young man—and I doubt whether he will be as shocked as I am. I even doubt whether he will express surprise. He will certainly not withdraw the plea of guilty."

#  Chapter Twenty

After leaving Querk, Crisp returned to headquarters to clear up a few oddments of desk work.

He dropped Glenda's statement into the basket for Benscombe to file in the morning. Not until he was leaving did he suddenly snatch up the statement and stare at it—at the typescript itself.

He held it up to the light and looked through it, then examined the back of it.

"The full stops cut the paper. But that's fairly common."

From a cabinet, he brought out the piece of brown paper that had made Claudia laugh and Querk chortle. The blue pencil, marking registration, crossed the gummed label on which the address had been typed, blurring one or two letters. The face of the type was the same. In itself, that meant only that the same make of typewriter had been used for both. Was it the same typewriter? The full stop had cut the label also.

In ten minutes he had established four additional points of resemblance. The spacing after capital 'W'—the blurred curl of the small 'r'—a 'g' blind in the lower loop but not in the upper—most valuable of all, the uneven impression of the capital 'L,' the horizontal stroke barely registering, though the vertical stroke showed but little wear.

"Short of evidence, but invaluable as a clue!" he said aloud, as if Benscombe were present. "If we do want it for evidence, Scotland Yard will see us through."

The next morning he rang Benscombe from his flat.

"I shan't be at the office until the end of the morning. I want you to go to Querk at Watlington Lodge and delay him until I've had time to go to his office and get clear. Talk any poppycock you like—or crock his car."

At a quarter to ten he was in Querk's office. Miss Randle was of the type that likes being a secretary and will obviously remain one all her life, at very slight periodic increases of salary.

"Miss Randle, have you read any of the Press reports of the murder of Lord Watlington?'

"No!" Miss Randle shuddered. "I never read that kind of thing. I can find better employment for my limited leisure."

Crisp believed her.

"On the morning of Saturday, the fifth, you sent a registered parcel to Lord Watlington, I believe?"

"Wait a minute, please." Miss Randle consulted a diary, opened a drawer and produced a registered receipt slip, which she handed to Crisp.

"Thank you, Miss Randle. What did the parcel contain?"

"I have no knowledge. I collected it at Mr. Querk's instruction and forwarded it unopened."

"Where did you collect it?"

"Wait a minute, please." There was the same business with the diary. This time the methodical Miss Randle copied an entry on a memo slip.

' _Brieux et Cie, 318 Turl Street, W.1_ ,' read Crisp.

"What are Brieux et Cie?" he asked.

"I have no knowledge," answered Miss Randle.

Crisp 'derived no knowledge' from contemplating a discreet brass plate in Turl Street. On the first floor, in a small but expensively furnished office, an expensively dressed girl with a Cockney intonation astonished him by saying:

"What-is-your-pleasure-please?" Crisp, who was in plain clothes, produced his official card and asked for the manager.

In a still more expensively furnished office, which still gave no clue, an expensively tailored man bowed and begged him to be seated.

"On Saturday, the fifth, Mr. Querk's secretary called here for a package. Will you tell me, please, what that package contained?"

"Why, a wig, Colonel!" He added: "We are posticheurs."

"I couldn't tell that from the outside," remarked Crisp.

"Three men out of four are as sensitive as women about their wigs. They would never come here if we were to hang out a sign," the manager explained. "The wig was made for Lord Watlington. Mr. Querk originally ordered a wig for him many years ago, when he was 'Mr. Cornboise.' He was not content with the service he received in Africa. We moulded the original from the measurements of a wig made in Johannesburg."

The registered package on the table in the hall had contained a wig! A fact known to Querk—almost certainly known to Querk alone.

Crisp knew next to nothing about wigs. With half a dozen questions he obtained more knowledge than is possessed by most wearers. The manager, flattered by the intelligent interest of a Chief Constable, offered to show him the workrooms. He was taken through an outer workroom where two men and five girls were treating hair in the crude form in which it was received from the factory : thence to the room, part workshop part studio, where three highly skilled operatives were engaged upon the final stages.

Each man was sitting at his own bench, before him a wooden head, faceless, like the head of an artist's lay figure. The walls of the room were lined with tiers of numbered lockers, each containing the dummy of a client's head.

At one of the benches an operative was leaning over his dummy, stroking the wig with an instrument looking very like a domestic flat-iron. He stopped working, to explain to Crisp what he was doing.

But Crisp was not listening. He was staring at the wig. The colour was iron grey, but the shape and the set of it reminded him vividly of Watlington's wig.

Suddenly he picked up the flat iron, swung it with moderate force and crashed it onto the crown of the wig, cracking the crown of the dummy.

"Hold him—he's mad!" cried the operative.

The manager gaped with horror, convinced that he had been entertaining a man with a perverted mania.

"I'm quite safe. I'm a police officer investigating the murder of one of your clients in one of your wigs. I'm sorry I've spoilt your careful work. Before long you'll know why I did it, and perhaps you won't mind."

Crisp studied the dummy. The sides of the wig jutted out over the temples of the dummy.

"Why does it stick out like that over the temples?" he asked.

The operative explained how the plectyt mounting for the hair is shaped. Crisp asked a few questions and made another experiment with the remains of the wig.

Having made satisfactory arrangements covering the cost of the damage Crisp departed in a state of mind not far removed from jubilation.

The next item on his programme was Glenda Parsons. He drove to the flatlet in Brondesbury, which she was sharing with another girl who was in employment. Glenda was 'resting' and was found at home, unglamorous in a cotton house frock,, which served as a dressing gown.

" _Oo_! Has anything gone wrong?" Taller than Crisp, she looked down at him with stupidly frightened eyes.

"I don't know yet." This woman had been the indirect cause of the murder—a non-moral creature, the prey of ansemic fear and an equally anaemic greed, too vacillating to exploit her physical beauty with any consistency. He ascertained that there was no one else in the flatlet.

"I have seen the statement you signed for Mr. Querk!"

"There now! He promised faithfully he wouldn't show it to anyone!"

"He lied to you. As you lied to me when you told me you were waiting in that car for an imaginary Mr. Harris."

"I was only being tactful."

"Well, don't be tactful again or you may have reason to be very sorry for yourself. Was that statement you signed true?"

"Yes. He questioned me again and again about it, and all over again when we got to his office,"

"Where did you pick up that piece of brown paper?"

"In that awful little room where you were going on at me. It was in the chair. I pulled the chair out from the table and sat down without looking. There was something hard, and that paper. And as I wanted the paper—"

"What was the something hard?"

"I don't know. I pushed it down behind me while you were talking. It's one of those carpetty chairs, if you remember—brocade—and I suppose it slid down into the fold at the back. Don't you remember you told me not to crackle with the paper?"

That was all Crisp wanted.

"It's safer to lie to Querk than to lie to the police," he remarked. "If he asks you whether I've seen you, you'd better deny it. Just say 'no.' Don't try and prove it, or he won't believe you."

On his way back to headquarters, Crisp turned into Watlington Lodge. Querk had gone to his office and the servants were in sole possession. Claudia, he knew, was staying at the Red Lion.

He went into the morning-room, pulled one of the upright chairs from the table—a brocaded chair, with the tail of the back folded under the seat.

He worked his fingers under the fold and produced a pair of pliers. He wrapped the pliers for microscopic examination and placed them carefully in his pocket.

"Bessie, I want a pair of pliers. Can you help?"

"Yes, sir." Bessie went to the hall table, pulled out a rather ill-fitted drawer.

"There _was_ a pair here, sir, but it's gone. Now I come to think of it, one of those Harridge's men's probably borrowed it for keeps. I'll ask cook if she knows of another pair."

"Dont bother, thanks," said Crisp. "I'll manage without."

That, Crisp reflected, clicked into place.

On the telephone, he spoke to headquarters.

"Chief Constable speaking from Watlington Lodge. Ring me back here in two minutes, and keep ringing until I answer."

He switched the extension so that the bell would ring in the library. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom occupied by Querk.

In case Bessie might be roving, he locked himself in. The imprint of Querk's personality was immediately obvious. On the dressing table a stolidly liberal toilet equipment, including an eau-de-cologne spray and a bottle of smelling salts. A framed photograph of Watlington, to which a crepe surround had been fastened—a fashion that was disappearing in the 1890's. On a bedside table, leather bound editions of _Simple Thoughts_ and _Alice in Wonderland_.

In five minutes he had satisfied himself that the room had been deliberately prepared for his inspection—that he would find nothing he was not meant to find.

On the way back to the hall, he chuckled with profound satisfaction. He was so well pleased with himself that he evolved a boyish riddle: 'I searched your room and found nothing. But in your room I found what I sought.'

He sobered up in the hall when he heard faintly the regular burr of the telephone bell.

No sign of Bessie.

Crisp went into the library, lifted the receiver and announced himself.

"You told me to ring you back, sir."

"Oh yes! How long have you been ringing?"

"Six-and-a-half-minutes from the first ring, sir."

"All right. I don't want anything, now. You can hang up."

Six-and-a-half minutes. That clicked into place, too. But nothing could now prevent Ralph from appearing before the Judge tomorrow morning.

#  Chapter Twenty-One

The Half smile remained unshattered during the time Ralph Cornboise was in court. The serenity with which he received sentence of death had nothing in common with the sullen, unimaginative courage of the tough. It impressed the Judge. It deceived the warders.

In a room off the court sat potential members of a jury, to be empanelled should the plea of guilty be withdrawn at the last moment. The potential witnesses waited in another room—Claudia Lofting, Fenchurch, Mrs. Cornboise, Querk and Bessie, together with medical and police personnel. Crisp, with Benscombe, was in the well of the court, to give formal evidence of the murder, of the arrest and of the confession.

There are forms to be observed, even when there is no trial. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Treasury counsel laid down his papers and directly addressed the Judge.

"As your lordship is aware, a plea of guilty to the charge of murder is sometimes an embarrassment to the Prosecution. I would like to acknowledge that both the police and the governor of the prison have made unremitting efforts to persuade the prisoner to plead not guilty.

"In case your lordship should feel inclined to add your own persuasion—and what I have to say is relevant to that possibility only—I would point out that, apart from several inaccuracies, there are two major mis-statements in the revised confession signed by the prisoner. One is that the prisoner struck deceased through his wig. There is incontrovertible evidence that the wig was undamaged, from which we may infer that the wig must have been removed and replaced after the blow. The other concerns the die-stamp—undoubtedly the weapon used. There is evidence that the die-stamp was not handled in the manner described by the prisoner.

"There is the further fact—extraneous to the prisoner's statement but strikingly inconsistent with his account of the crime—that, by means of a pen-knife, a signet ring was removed from deceased's finger after death, and replaced. In short, my lord, there is enough debatable material to provide a basis for a feasible defence in the hands of learned counsel. Thank you, my lord."

The Judge turned to the prisoner.

"You have heard what learned counsel said to me. Do you understand that you can make, at this moment if you wish, a technical plea of not guilty, which would enable you to have a fair trial?"

"Yes, my lord. But I do not wish to be tried."

"Do you further understand that a trial would enable me to take notice of any mitigating circumstances and possibly to reduce the charge from one of murder to one of manslaughter?"

"Thank you, my lord, but there are no mitigating circumstances."

The judge seemed to be considering a further appeal to the prisoner and to decide that it would be futile.

"I see that your purpose is fixed. I have before me the statement of two eminent alienists that you are of sound mind and capable of understanding your position. It is therefore my duty to pass sentence upon you..."

"I know that there can be no question of appeal or commutation. But I've still got more than a fortnight in which to correct one or two mistakes." Crisp had been detained in the corridor by the D.P.P. himself, who had been conducting a case in another court.

"Correcting mistakes will get you nowhere." The eminent lawyer raised his wig to take advantage of the welcome draught. "A confession, followed by sentence, takes the effect of a jury's verdict. That is to say, there can be no re-examination of fact."

"'No re-examination of fact!'" snorted Crisp. "That's a bit of law I shall never understand!"

"There are other bits, old man, if you don't think me rude," laughed his friend. "Don't cut my birthday party next Thursday, or you'll never get any more help from me."

Crisp strode gloomily out of the building. On the steps he stopped.

"Benscombe! Nip back inside and see if you can scrounge a pair of handcuffs from one of those warders. Sign for it and pledge your word and mine that he shall have them back this afternoon. I'll wait for you in the car."

Within five minutes, Benscombe rejoined the Chief.

"I got 'em from Hendricks," he explained. "They don't expect any trouble from Ralph."

After removing a number of articles to make room, Crisp stowed the handcuffs in his hip pocket.

"Dump me at Watlington Lodge—I'll get a taxi back," he ordered. "I got it from Bessie that Querk is going back there."

Arrived at the Lodge, Crisp learned that Querk had not yet returned. He found this out by walking through the open front door to the kitchen and asking the cook. In turn she asked when the servants would be paid their board wages and from whom they were supposed to take orders. Was she herself standing, if he would pardon the question, upon her head or her heels? The house had acquired a quality of ownerlessness.

He drifted into the dining-room, idly surveyed the window by which Ralph was deemed to have entered the house around five twenty-eight. The window had told them nothing. The long spell of fine weather had made the soil hard and dusty. If there had been a heavy shower on Saturday morning, he reflected, Ralph Cornboise might not have been where in fact he was.

Behind him the door was opened. He turned and faced Fenchurch. Claudia was behind him.

"Hullo!" said Fenchurch amiably. "We're looking for Querk."

"So am I."

They both came into the room. Crisp felt himself shrinking from Claudia's presence. If she had made any parade of grief, he would have had the satisfaction of telling himself that she was humbugging. She was self-possessed as ever, looking slightly pre-occupied, as if with troublesome business. That she should be in Fenchurch's company at such a time was outrageous.

"If Colonel Crisp wants to see Querk officially, Arthur," said Claudia, "we'd better wait elsewhere."

"He can't want to see him officially. It's all over, isn't it, Colonel?"

"Not altogether!" said Crisp. He felt an overpowering desire to shatter the composure of these two. "I think you may— _both_ —be interested to know that I have had an illuminating conversation with Tarranio."

"Good Lord, have you!" Fenchurch made no attempt to conceal his dismay. "What a fool I was to show you that envelope with his London address on it!"

"You were!" agreed Crisp.

"I say, when you saw Tarranio—"

"Arthur! You'll make a fool of yourself all over again if you talk about it."

"Excellent advice— _Mrs. Fenchurch!"_ snapped Crisp.

"He had better keep his mouth shut until his solicitor tells him how far to open it."

"By all the gods, Colonel, you've pulled it off again!" cried Fenchurch with boyish delight. "That's almost exactly what Watlington said!"

"Arthur! _Don't talk!"_

"I must tell him this bit, dear. He was so frightfully sarcastic about my picking up an old envelope in case I might want to make a note on it. 'Solicitor' is the key, Colonel. I don't possess a solicitor. I told Watlington I needed one who wasn't squeamish, and he gave me his own. The envelope had the name and address printed on it—yards of it. So I bagged the envelope."

To Crisp, the explanation was no longer important. Everything would now depend upon how much he could frighten out of Querk. In the meantime, Fenchurch might conceivably provide another weapon, since he could never resist answering a question.

"It's stuffy in the house, Arthur. Let's wait in the garden."

"One question before you go!" Crisp found himself addressing Claudia. "Were you two working with Querk in this scheme for a fake marriage to Ralph Cornboise?"

Fenchurch spun round, virile and aggressive.

"What the blue hell d' you mean, Colonel Crisp!"

"Arthur! Be quiet!" Claudia dragged at his arm. "There's no need to say anything. Come into the garden."

"Garden my foot! Chief Constable or Lord Chief Justice, he's going to explain that offensive question—oh lord, darling, I see the explanation myself! He thinks—"

Claudia had thrust her hand over his mouth—the hand that was unexpectedly large and strong.

"Arthur, you _must not!_ It's madness! What does it matter what he thinks!"

Fenchurch removed her hand, which was actually suffocating him—held her by both wrists as if he expected further assault.

"Sorry, darling, but I must!" he exclaimed. "It's no good my trying not to be a fool. I could never paint again if I let that pass. Rank sentimentalist, I know. Goodbye!" He kissed her violently. "Now get out!"

"No," said Claudia. "I want to see whether he'll arrest you."

"You want to cry over him. It's no good with his kind."

Fenchurch turned his back on Claudia.

"Sorry I lost my temper, Colonel! Stand by for a spot of exhibitionism. Manly confession. I married Claudia bigamously. I lied to her. She didn't know my wife was alive, until she died. Then the ass of a doctor—who knew we'd been separated for years—sent a cable to Casa Flavia marked 'urgent.' It was so phrased that I couldn't possibly explain it away to poor Claudia. Then she felt that, because I had pulled her leg, she couldn't stay with me. Tarranio doesn't know that. If you don't mind, don't tell him. Because after I've been to quod for bigamy, we shall probably get married and we might want to go back to Casa Flavia."

"Listen to me—" began Crisp.

"No, you listen to me, Colonel! Watlington gave me some errand-boy stuff about her being a 'kept woman'— the sort of thing you said just now in all innocence. I lost my temper and showed him the marriage certificate. I also showed him—dammit Claudia, I wish you had cleared out when I told you to—I showed him the letter Claudia wrote when she left me, because it carried complete conviction to any sane man, even Watlington, that she hadn't known it was bigamy."

"But why did you tell Watlington?" demanded Crisp. "Did you _want_ her to marry Ralph?"

"Don't be absurd, my dear fellow! I didn't _want_ it. But I was naturally distressed that Claudia had found out I'd swindled her. She told me she was through with men like me, and that she was dedicating herself to this poor devil who needed her—which I thought rather ridiculous. But it was a wealthy marriage. And I felt I owed it to her to co-operate! So I made Watlington understand that she had thought herself legally married to me.

"By Watlington's odd code, she was promptly transformed from a trollop to an Innocent Girl. My hat, Claudia! Then he gave me fatherly advice on how not to go to quod for the bigamy—which, unfortunately, I've forgotten. Anyhow, part of the advice was not to tell anybody else."

Claudia moved from behind Fenchurch and faced Crisp.

"That was why Watlington changed his attitude to me so suddenly and so completely," she said. "Poor Ralph knew, because Arthur had told him. Ralph wanted me to tell his uncle when we were having that scene in the library. But I was afraid Arthur might go to prison."

"So am I!" said Crisp.

He had got a weapon from Fenchurch—that Querk had lied in describing his conversation with Watlington about Claudia.

"What's the next move, Colonel? Can I have bail, or something? It would be a pity not to finish Benscombe's head before we start the quod programme."

Crisp turned to Claudia.

"I understand that the mayor of Casa Flavia warned you against marrying this man," he said. "I echo that warning. Why, he hasn't even the sense to tell me that he thought his legal wife was dead, so as to give me a colourable excuse for not running him in! Take him into the garden—take him anywhere—before I remember my duty."

"By the window—before you say another word!" cried Claudia. She pushed him out and shut the window after him. When she turned round and faced Crisp, he had the illusion that she had grown older.

"Thank you," she said. "And—and I congratulate you. Prison would turn him into a very dangerous criminal."

He looked at her with detachment, his mind on Querk. In all his encounters with her she had never lost her dignity.

"You are a very strange woman," he said.

"Because I can love two men?"

"Lots of women can do that. But you manage to make it seem decent. Anyway, love doesn't interest me."

"But it often explains people's queer behaviour!"

A car purred in the drive, presumably Querk's. Crisp looked out of the window, saw Fenchurch sitting on his haunches, sketch-book in hand.

"Fenchurch may have genius. But he's a lame dog, like the other one."

"Yes. But he has the charm of not knowing it. He's too conceited ever to find me out, as Ralph did. Here's Mr. Querk!"

Querk paused in the doorway, the more effectively to confer his presence.

"Ah! Chief Constable. At last I've run you to earth. I tried to find you at headquarters. Don't go, I beg, Miss Lofting—stay and hear me abase myself. On the telephone this morning, Chief Constable, my secretary informed me of your call at my office yesterday. How can I ever apologise for giving you all that trouble! The matter had passed completely out of my mind. I'm talking about that registered parcel, Miss Lofting. Can you believe that it was dispatched by my secretary acting on my instructions! And it contained—" he finished in an arch whisper "—a new wig for poor Lord Watlington!"

Querk, Crisp reminded himself, had not been present in court, and so had not heard counsel's reference to the wig and the signet ring—he could have no suspicion of their importance.

Claudia was slipping past Querk to the door.

"And now," said Querk, "if the Chief Constable will accept my heartfelt apology, I must fly to keep a personal appointment before lunch—"

"Mr. Querk!" said Crisp. "I came here to see you."

"Indeed? Of course, if it is important—?"

"It is." Because Querk looked elaborately surprised, Crisp added: "I am investigating the murder of Lord Watlington."

Querk sighed heavily. He removed his glasses and polished them. His response was interrupted by the appearance of Bessie.

"Can you gentlemen let me have the room now, so's I can lay for lunch?"

Following Querk to the morning-room, Crisp was halfway across the hall when for an instant he stopped. In that instant he grasped the full significance of Fenchurch's statement a few minutes ago. It came to him that the statement was true in every detail.

Fenchurch had become a background against which Crisp could see the movements of every person in the orbit of the murder.

"I think the library would be better, Mr. Querk," said Crisp.

#  Chapter Twenty-Two

Normally Querk would have waited, bowing in the doorway for Crisp to precede him. Instead, he walked abstractedly into the library and sat in an upright chair at the table, facing the wall safe and the empty swivel chair.

Crisp shut the door, then locked it noisily.

"Would you like me to begin, Mr. Querk?"

"If you please!" Querk inclined his head in a bow. "I am so glad you locked the door. Perhaps it would even be wise to shut the window."

Crisp went to the window. While he was shutting it, his eye strayed over the border of lawn to the yew trees. He stared with a sense of shock. At the intersection, under the green octopus and the preposterous fowl, Mrs. Cornboise was sitting, as she had been sitting when he and Benscombe had first seen her through the adjacent window of the morning-room. It was as if she had never moved. But now she was not knitting, and the voluminous bag was missing. He knew it was his own fancy that gave her the appearance of mocking him.

He strode from the window, dropped into the swivel chair, in which Watlington had sat. His confidence was at an ebb as he faced Querk. He rallied, decided that his best chance lay in surprise.

"When you removed the signet ring with Claudia's penknife, you cut the skin. Did you know that?"

"I did not know it. But now that you mention it, I am not wholly surprised. Throughout this very unhappy business I have had to combat a certain physical clumsiness. Let me see now! The absence of blood enables you to infer that the ring was moved after death."

Querk had the air of a man lost in his own thoughts. Crisp waited. Presently the other looked up at him with a little start of surprise.

"Forgive me! I was wool gathering, I fear. Well now, as you are obviously inclined to discuss this in a friendly manner, you will not, my dear Chief Constable, find me lacking in responsiveness. Tell me what else you have discovered, and then we will see if we can jointly put two and two together."

Crisp felt a grudging respect for the man who could sustain his technique when he knew he was in deadly peril. The sword might yet be caught in the net of platitudes.

"Your conversation with Watlington in which you persuaded him to approve of Claudia did not take place. You invented it on the supposition that Ralph Cornboise had taken the letters from the safe. You did not find out until too late that Watlington had given them to Fenchurch."

"Correct!" said Querk encouragingly. "Pray continue."

The frankness of the avowal disconcerted Crisp. He was lolling in the swivel chair. The handcuffs in his hip pocket hurt him and he sat upright.

"Before I go any further," said Crisp. "I intend to guard myself against the accusation of tricking you into making admissions. You are well aware that on this conversation will depend whether a charge is made. I will therefore warn you well in advance that anything you say may be used in evidence."

"My dear Colonel! Your intention is most friendly and, believe me, I appreciate it. But—come now!—what charge do you think you could possibly make? That of being accessory to the murder of my poor old friend?"

Crisp evaded the question.

"In dealing with persons like yourself, Cornboise, Fenchurch," he said, "it would be absurd to adopt the procedure followed with the uneducated criminal. I am going to tell you what I know about your actions, and how I know it. As you are aware, I don't know everything, or I would have arrested you without talking about it.

"My starting point is the moment in which Watlington handed those letters to Fenchurch. That fact was unknown to the murderer and his associate, if any. Their ignorance of that fact vitally affects the logic of the murder. The murderer enters, strikes, and goes to the safe intending to destroy the letters. But the letters have already gone.

"Now, Ralph confessed to the murder. Whether he had an hallucination or not about the murder, he certainly had no hallucination about the letters. He was surprised when I handed him the sealed envelope containing the Will, because he detected that the letters were not inside. Further, in a conversation which we eavesdropped, he revealed that he was himself hopelessly puzzled as to what had become of the letters, fearing at that time that Claudia had taken them. So I was able to infer that Ralph was not the one who removed the seal from the dead man. If Ralph did not, I asked myself, who did?

"Now, removing that seal and re-sealing the Will had one purpose only—to convey to an innocent person, present in the library with Watlington after lunch, that Watlington had re-sealed the Will himself after destroying the letters.

"Claudia did not remove the seal. It would have been a senseless action on her part, because Watlington had already given her his blessing. That meant that only you could have removed the seal. From which it is a safe inference that you are either the murderer or an accessory of the murderer."

"Not the murderer, my dear Colonel! Are you not forgetting the wig? That surely was the device of an accessory, not a principal!"

Crisp was momentarily immobilised. He was groping for the technique concealed in this apparently foolish tactic of making unnecessary admissions.

"The wig must have given you the clue to much that originally mystified you," continued Querk, his tone suggesting that he was encouraging a promising youngster. "Now, _I_ will tell you what I actually did and _you_ shall tell me how near you came to solving the puzzle without my help! Well, when I reached the library, I saw Lord Watlington crumpled up in his chair, the sides of his wig protruding from behind his ears, like—like a bat's wings. I mustn't pass off that very expressive phrase as my own. I am plagiarising Miss Lofting. Ralph, in one of his semi-delirious moods had, by lifting her hair behind her ears, shown exactly how the wig appeared. The outline was very vividly impressed on the poor boy's memory and I confirm that his recollection is correct.

"I feel no shame in confessing, Chief Constable, that my first thought was that Ralph owed me a considerable sum—seventeen thousand three hundred, to be precise—which I could not then afford to lose. His running from the room suggested that he hoped to escape the consequences of his act. But I knew well that he would quickly break down under the police questioning and blurt out the truth. So I proceeded _to make his truth untrue_. He would say that he used the die-stamp, then lying on the floor. I wiped it and put in on the mantelpiece, leaving my own finger prints upon it. He would say that he struck through the wig. I remembered that package on the table in the hall. I unwrapped it in the morning-room—accidentally leaving the wrapping on a chair, a piece of carelessness, which, I fear, put you to some further trouble. I removed—and subsequently destroyed—the old wig, putting the new one in place—a little awry, to suggest haste on the part of the murderer who, I thought, would never be found.

"You have already described my actions with the Will—and with an accuracy which has certainly earned full marks. I have only to add that when I left the room I turned the key on the outside with a pair of pliers which I found in the drawer of the hall table, knowing that Ralph would deny that he had locked the door. I think you have found those pliers?"

As Crisp made no answer, Querk resumed:

"I was, of course, wholly unprepared for his repudiation of the alibi which I had so laboriously provided. Laboriously—and at no small personal risk! 'The best laid schemes of mice and men,' my dear Colonel. And if any of my own calculations had 'ganged agley,' I might well have found myself in a highly unenviable position. Fortunately, nothing did go wrong! Indeed, I had 'builded better than I knew.' The alibi remained unshaken by the repudiation. My plans, as we know, carried everything by its own impetus. Sir William Turvey was led to provide a convenient formula for saving everyone's _amour propre_ by—er—discovering an hallucination."

"Then you admit the whole bag o' tricks?" cried Crisp in amazement. "You admit being an accessory? And _you_ are going to plead guilty too?"

"I admit the—er—whole bag o' tricks, as you choose to express it—but, of course, in confidence."

"Confidence be damned! I'm on duty!"

"I must point out, if you will not think me impertinent—that you have neglected to provide yourself with witnesses. Do not blame yourself, Chief Constable. I assure you that the question of my pleading to anything at all will not arise."

As Crisp glared at him, Querk continued:

"Remember, poor Ralph repudiated the alibi which I provided, nor was he aware that I had deliberately performed a single act to protect him."

"That won't get you off!" snapped Crisp.

"It will not be required to do so. I mention it merely to emphasise that I am not quite the social type that conspires with another to break the criminal law."

"I can prove that wig sequence," said Crisp.

"If you will pardon me, you can prove a great deal more than that. My clumsiness with the penknife, my absentmindedness with the pliers and the brown paper, my forgetfulness that typescript can be identified—all can be welded into a formidable chain of circumstantial evidence, forged by my amateur efforts to deceive the police. Altogether, a vindication of the old adage that the cobbler, my dear Chief Constable, should stick to his last.

"Now, my own last is, as it were, a twin-last. Law and finance! Finance and the law!" He waited for Crisp's assent, which was not forthcoming. He continued, with a touch of asperity: "Your wig, your penknife, your die-stamp are merely corroborative evidence. Your charge would have to be that I gave Ralph a false alibi by stating that Watlington was alive at five fifteen when, in fact, he was dead."

"You're pushing my barrow," grunted Crisp.

"But in the opposite direction! As you will find when you consult your legal department. They will tell you that a confession followed by sentence is the equivalent of a verdict returned by a jury. There can be no re-examination of fact."

Again Querk had unconsciously echoed the words of Treasury counsel.

"The proceedings in court this morning, my dear Colonel, have established that the murder was committed at approximately five thirty. In law, my statement that Lord Watlington was alive at five fifteen is therefore unassailable."

Crisp got up and paced the room. He had begun by manoeuvring for position and had so far failed. And now Querk had tripped him with a legal conundrum.

"You've been successful all along the line, Querk. You've crowned your success by admitting to me that you are an accessory, by snapping your fingers at the police and strangling the law in its own red tape. It must be the most elaborate monkey-trick in the history of crime. Yes, I said monkey-trick! By faking that alibi you saved Ralph—and your own seventeen thousand. By trotting up that car evidence you destroyed Ralph—and your own chance of collecting the seventeen thousand. It doesn't make sense!"

"Must we always look to money, my dear Colonel, to rationalise human behaviour. Should we not sometimes look to—love?"

Crisp gaped at the preposterous echo of Claudia's words in the mouth of Querk.

"Remember, I did not know that Miss Lofting was already a married woman, herself contemplating a bigamous marriage with fraudulent intent. I saw only a sweet English rose cruelly jilted by a selfish young man—who would probably marry a woman of no position and so fail to benefit under his uncle's Will. On the other hand, I thought of the lady who had every right to call herself Lady Watlington, who had also been cruelly treated—er—having regard to the special circumstances, of course."

"How on earth does Mrs. Cornboise come into it?" demanded Crisp.

"A man, as you know, may not profit by his own crime," explained Querk. "When the Judge pronounced sentence this morning, poor Lord Watlington's Will became null and void—he is deemed to have died intestate. His property will pass to his widow. After deduction of Crown dues, she will receive about a million and a quarter."

Crisp looked out of the window. Mrs. Cornboise was still sitting on the bench. So that funny old baggage was now a very rich woman!

"Does she know that?"

"Not yet." Querk picked up his attache case, preparing to leave. On his way to the door, he joined Crisp by the window. "She has suffered much from loneliness—but that, I hope, is at an end. We were married this morning."

Crisp did not conceal his astonishment.

"At the registrar's close to the Old Bailey," added Querk. "After sentence had been pronounced."

"A million and a quarter!" Crisp relaxed as if with personal relief. "And you will take care of her fortune and see she is not robbed. Magnificent!"

"Your congratulations, my dear fellow, are extremely acceptable. During the short time we have worked together—"

"I was congratulating myself!" interrupted Crisp. "You've taken a load off my mind. Frankly, the Ralph Cornboise business shook my nerve. I never actually believed in his innocence, but I was not convinced of his guilt. The same applied to you until a moment ago. I had built up a very strong case against you, but I needed a motive for my own satisfaction. I could see no reason why you should want to hound that boy to the gallows. Now I've got a million and a quarter reasons. You're under arrest, Querk."

"I am intrigued," said Querk. "You must have discovered loopholes in the rules of evidence which have eluded me."

Crisp grinned, and in the grin there was no pity.

"Querk!" There was a perceptible pause. "You've admitted to me that the conversation with Watlington at five fifteen did not take place, because Watlington was dead. In that imaginary conversation—which figured in your depositions—Watlington told you he was expecting a telephone call at five thirty. The conversation did not take place. But the telephone call _did_ take place—at five thirty-four. How did you know Watlington was going to be called round about five thirty?"

Querk's benevolent smile was undisturbed but his hands betrayed distress. Both hands were gripping the attache case as if he could barely sustain the weight.

"No doubt, he mentioned it to me earlier in the day."

"He did not. We contacted that caller. His name is Tremayne. He was coming to the dinner party. On Saturday morning he flew to Edinburgh because his wife had been seriously injured in a street accident. Shortly after five, he remembered the dinner. He tried to ring Watlington to explain why he couldn't turn up. So neither Tremayne nor Watlington knew that the call would be made."

"Then let us say, my dear Colonel, that it was a little—er—constructive retrospection. From my bedroom, I heard the telephone ring—"

A second and a half later, there came a double click, as the handcuffs snapped into position. The attache case thudded mildly on the carpet.

"Our depositions will describe a test proving that you can't hear that telephone in your bedroom. You knew about that telephone because you were in this room when it rang—at the time when Ralph was supposed to have left his car and come back here to commit the murder. It must have taken you a good twenty minutes to get that signet ring off and back again and change the wigs. The Home Secretary will dish out a Royal Pardon for Ralph on that telephone call alone. That will leave the field clear for your trial!"

"My trial as accessory—to a principal whom the Royal Pardon will have declared to be factually innocent?"

"Your trial for the murder of Watlington."

With one eye on Querk, Crisp dialled headquarters.

"Chief Contable, speaking from Watlington Lodge. Send an escort here to take away a prisoner!"

Querk had listened in pained silence.

"I had hoped, Chief Constable, to preserve your dignity no less than my own. Whatever the charges you may prefer against me—conscientiously if mistakenly—can you honestly say that you believe I would attempt to run away? Escort! Prisoner! Handcuffs! I will not allow myself to suspect that you are animated by a malicious desire to inflict personal humiliation."

It had been the soldier in Crisp rather than the policeman that had whipped out the handcuffs—an intuitive sense of danger to come, of the exact moment at which to avert that danger.

"You're such a tough customer, Querk, that I'm not risking anything."

"Yet you seem to my ignorance to be risking your whole career. For instance—if I may ask—what proof have you that I killed Watlington?"

"Bat's wings!" ejaculated Crisp.

As Querk registered only anxious bewilderment, Crisp went on:

"You accused yourself of physical clumsiness. You are not particularly clumsy. But you are physically uneducated. A man wears a wig. Hit him on the head, you think, and the sides of the wig will stick out like a bat's wings—and that's the end of your speculations about the wig!"

"But I described what I saw with my own eyes! I do not press the simile of the bat's wings—"

"Bat's wings is good enough. Only you put 'em in the wrong place. Plectyt, the canvas stuff on which the wig is mounted, is cut on a double cross. If you hit a man on the crown of the head—where the silver plate is, and smash the plate—the wig juts out at the temples. If you hit him on the back of the head—the occiput—the wig juts out _behind the ears_ —which is what you saw when you entered the library after Ralph had left it."

The sword had cut through the net. Crisp drove it home:

"It's what Ralph saw when he thought he had killed his uncle. He will be convicted of attempting grievous bodily harm, but he'll get off lightly. He will tell _your_ jury all about the bat's wings."

Querk had lost awareness of the handcuffs. His hands were folded on his chest. He was nodding his head as if in agreement.

"We've taped out the sequence of events pretty closely, Querk. First, Ralph probably did not know where the plate was located. In a fit of hysteria, he swung blindly at the head and struck the occiput. The wig muffled the blow, which did no injury to that very strong bone. It was as if he had punched it with a boxing glove. But concussion followed.

"You came in, saw the bat's-wing effect, but you also saw that Watlington was breathing. You reckoned that, when Watlington recovered consciousness, his first act would be to disinherit the nephew who had tried to kill him. Bang would go your seventeen thousand. So you struck the unconscious Watlington where you knew the plate was—and killed him within a couple of minutes of Ralph's dud blow.

"You unlocked the wall safe with Watlington's key, The sealed envelope—bulging with Claudia's letters enclosed with the Will—had gone. In its place was another of those same printed envelopes. But it was gummed, not sealed. You could feel that it contained a single folded sheet—obviously the Will.

"You drew the reasonable conclusion that Ralph had taken the letters and forgotten the significance of the seal. So you tackled the job of sealing it yourself, with Watlington's signet ring—what've you got in that waistcoat pocket, Querk? Keep your hands still!"

Crisp swooped—had time to spare, for Querk was slow-moving, even when unencumbered with handcuffs.

Crisp captured a tiny phial—held it to the light for inspection.

"Cyanide!" explained Querk. "How can I ever thank you, my dear Colonel! At this very moment, as we stand looking at each other, it has broken upon me that I have a priceless asset in the person of Miss Lofting. Every essential act of the murder _might_ have been committed by her. When _'my'_ jury learn that she was about to contract a bigamous and fraudulent marriage with Ralph—that she had equal opportunity with myself—you will find that they will give me the benefit of the doubt."

Claudia's fraudulent intent! So that was the straw at which the drowning man clutched! The task of snatching it away could be left to Querk's lawyers. For the moment, it would be only decent to allow him to save his face.

"I think I hear my escort." Querk, beaming with resurgent self-satisfaction, had placed himself in charge of the proceedings. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to unlock the door for them. We must not keep them waiting. Mrs. Querk can join us at the police station, where I feel sure you will give me an opportunity to allay her anxiety on my behalf."

#  Copyright

First published in 1949 by Faber & Faber

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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Copyright © Roy Vickers, 1949

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