The Inspector, followed by Dr. Ringwood, climbed through the open casement and stared in astonishment at the sight before them. The place they had entered was evidently one of the sitting-rooms of the bungalow, and the dust-sheets which covered the furniture indicated that the building had been shut up for the winter. In a big arm-chair, facing them as they entered, sat the body of a girl in evening dress with a cloak around her shoulders. A slight trail of blood had oozed from a wound in her head and marked her shoulder on the right side. On the floor at her feet lay an automatic pistol. One or two small chairs seemed to have been displaced roughly in the room, as though some struggle had taken place; but the attitude of the girl in the chair was perfectly natural. It seemed as though she had sat down merely to rest and death had come upon her without any warning, for her face had no tinge of fear in its expression.
"I wasn’t far out in putting my money on Mr. Justice, Inspector," Sir Clinton said thoughtfully, as he gazed at the dead girl. "It might have been days before we came across this affair without his help."
He glanced round the room for a moment, biting his lip as though perplexed by some problem.
"We’d better have a general look round before touching the details," he suggested, at last; and he led the way out of the room into the hall of the bungalow. "We’ll try the rooms as we come to them."
Suiting the action to the word, he opened the first door that came to hand. It proved to be that of a dismantled bedroom. The dressing-table was bare and everything had been removed from the bed expect a wire mattress. The second door led into what was obviously the dining-room of the bungalow; and here again the appearance of the room showed that the house had been shut up for the season. A third trial revealed a lavatory.
"H’m! Clean towels hanging on the rail?" Sir Clinton pointed out. "That’s unusual in an empty house, isn’t it?"
Without waiting for a minuter examination, he turned to the next door.
"Some sort of store-room, apparently. These mattresses belong to the beds, obviously."
Along one side of the little room were curtained shelves. Sir Clinton slid back the curtains and revealed the stacked house-napery, towels, and sheets.
"Somebody seems to have been helping themselves here," he indicated, drawing his companions’ attention to one or two places where the orderly piling of the materials had been disturbed by careless withdrawals. "We’ll try again."
The next room provided a complete contrast to the rest of the house. It was a bedroom with all its fittings in place. The bed, fully made up, had obviously not been slept in. The dressing-table was covered with the usual trifles which a girl uses in her toilette. Vases, which obviously did not belong to the normal equipment of the room, had been collected here and filled with a profusion of expensive flowers. Most surprising of all, an electric stove, turned on at half power, kept the room warm.
"She’s been living here!" the Inspector exclaimed in a tone which revealed his astonishment.
Sir Clinton made a gesture of dissent. He crossed the room, and threw open the door of a cupboard wardrobe, revealing empty hooks and shelves.
"She’d hardly be living here with nothing but an evening frock in the way of clothes, would she?" he asked. "You can look round if you like, Inspector; but I’m prepared to bet that she never set foot in this room. You won’t find much."
He stepped over to the dressing-table and examined one by one the knick-knacks placed upon it.
"These things are all split-new, Inspector. Look at this face-powder box not been opened, the band’s still intact on it. And the lip-stick’s unused. You can see that at a glance."
Flamborough had to admit the truth of his superior’s statements.
"H’m!" he reflected. "Of course it’s Mrs. Silverdale, I suppose, sir?"
"I should think so, but we can make sure about it very soon. In the meantime, let’s finish going round the premises."
The rest of the survey revealed very little. The remainder of the house was obviously dismantled for the winter. Only once did Sir Clinton halt for any time, and that was in the pantry. Here he examined the cups suspended from hooks on the wall and pointed out to Flamborough the faint film of accumulated dust on each of them.
"None of that crockery has been used for weeks, Inspector. One can’t live in a house without eating and drinking, you know."
"A port of call, then?" the Inspector persisted. "She and young Hassendean could drop in here without rousing any suspicion."
"Perhaps," Sir Clinton conceded abstractedly. "Now we’ll get Dr. Ringwood to give his assistance."
He led the way back to the room through which they had entered the house.
"She was dead before that shot was fired, of course," he said as they crossed the threshold. "But beyond that there ought to be something to be seen."
"What makes you so sure that the shot didn’t kill her, sir?" the Inspector demanded.
