"Well," the Chief Constable pointed out deliberately, "the date on that scrap from the torn envelope we found in the drawer was 1925, and the figures on that mysterious signet-ring were 5.11.25. It just happened to strike me."
His manner suggested that he had no desire to furnish any further information. Dr. Ringwood changed the subject.
"By the way, you didn’t examine the lever handle of the window for finger-prints," he said, with a note of interrogation in his voice.
"The Inspector will do that. He’s very thorough. In any case, I don’t expect to find much on the lever."
For a few moments Sir Clinton concentrated his attention on his driving, as they were now within the outskirts of Westerhaven. When he spoke again, his remark struck the doctor as obscure.
"I wish that poor girl who was done in at Heatherfield last night hadn’t been such a tidy creature."
Dr. Ringwood stared.
"Why?" he inquired.
"Because if she’d shirked her job and left those coffee-cups unwashed, it might have saved us a lot of bother. But when I looked over the scullery, everything had been washed and put away."
"Well . . . you don’t seem to miss much," the doctor confessed. "I suppose it was what I repeated to you about Mrs. Silverdale looking queer when she came out of the drawing-room – that put you on the track? You were thinking of drugs, even then?"
"That was it," Sir Clinton answered. Then, after a moment he added: "And I’ve got a fair notion of what drug was used, too."
The police machinery under Sir Clinton’s control always worked smoothly, even when its routine was disturbed by such unpredictable events as murders. Almost automatically, it seemed, that big, flexible engine had readjusted itself to the abnormal; the bodies of Hassendean and the maid at Heatherfield had been taken into its charge and all arrangements had been made for dealing with them; Heatherfield itself had been occupied by a constabulary picket; the photographic department had been called in to take "metric photographs" showing the exact positions of the bodies in the two houses; inquiries had ramified through the whole district as to the motor-traffic during the previous night; and a wide-flung intelligence system was unobtrusively collecting every scrap of information which might have a bearing on this suddenly presented problem. Finally, the organism had projected a tentacle to the relief of Inspector Flamborough, marooned at the bungalow, and had replaced him by a police picket while arrangements were being made to remove Mrs. Silverdale’s body and to map the premises.
"Anything fresh, Inspector?" Sir Clinton demanded, glancing up from his papers as his subordinate entered the room.
"One or two more points cleared up, sir," Flamborough announced, with a certain satisfaction showing on his good-humoured face. "First of all, I tried the lever of the window-hasp for finger-prints. There weren’t any. So that’s done with. I could see you didn’t lay much stress on that part of the business, sir."
The Chief Constable’s nod gave acquiescence to this, and he waited for Flamborough to continue.
"I’ve hunted for more blood-traces about the house; and I’ve found two or three small ones—a track leading from the room to the front door. There was less blood than I expected, though."
He produced a blood-soaked handkerchief.
"This was picked up near the corner of Lauderdale Avenue, sir, this morning after the fog cleared away. It has an H in one corner. You remember we found no handkerchief on Hassendean’s body. Evidently he was using this one to staunch his wounds, and he probably let it drop out of the car at the place where it was found. The doctor said there might be very little external bleeding, you remember; and the handkerchief’s mopped up a fair amount of what happened to ooze out."
Sir Clinton again acquiesced, and the Inspector proceeded.
"I’ve taken the finger-prints from all three bodies, sir. They’re filed for reference, if need be. And I’ve had a good look at that side-window at the bungalow. There’s no doubt that someone must have been standing there; but the traces are so poor that nothing can be done in the way of a permanent record.
"One can’t even see the shape of the man’s boot, let alone any fine details."
"Anything more?" Sir Clinton inquired. "You seem to have been fairly putting your back into it."
Flamborough’s face showed his appreciation of the compliment implied in the words.
"I’ve drafted an advertisement—worded it very cautiously of course—asking Mr. Justice to favour us with some further information, if he has any in stock. That’s been sent off already; it’ll be in the Evening Observer to-night, and in both the morning papers tomorrow."
"Good! Though I shouldn’t get too optimistic over the results, if I were you, Inspector."
Flamborough assented to this. Putting his hand into his breast pocket he produced a paper.
