"I thought the bungalow business would be best, sir. There’s a fair chance of establishing a motive in it; whereas in the Heatherfield affair there’s only conjecture as to what he was after; and in the Whalley case we simply haven’t got enough evidence apart from the jacket, unless we can prove that Silverdale was the bungalow murderer. And if we can prove that, then there’s no need to enter into the Whalley case at all."
Sir Clinton acquiesced with a nod.
"The bungalow affair is the key to the whole series," he admitted without qualification.
There was a knock at the door and a constable entered.
"A young lady wants to see you, sir," he announced as he crossed the room and handed a card to the Chief Constable. "She insisted that she must see you personally. There’s a woman with her."
"Send her up," Sir Clinton ordered, after a glance at the card.
When the constable had left the room, Sir Clinton flicked the tiny oblong of pasteboard across his desk to the Inspector who picked it up.
"Miss Avice Deepcar," he read. "What the deuce can she be wanting here?"
"Calm yourself, Inspector. The next instalment will be published in a moment or two. You’d better wait here while she interviews me."
When Avice Deepcar entered the office, Flamborough was puzzled by her manner. She seemed to be agitated, but it was not the sort of agitation he had expected. When she spoke, it sounded as if she were both indignant and perturbed.
"You’re Sir Clinton Driffield, aren’t you?" she demanded, scanning the Chief Constable closely.
The Chief Constable confessed to his identity.
"Then I’ll come straight to the point," Avice said. "What is the meaning of your visiting my house last night, terrorising my maid, and making a search through my private papers? I’m going to see my solicitor about it—I don’t believe it’s legal. But in the meantime, I want to know why you did it."
Flamborough was completely taken aback by this charge. He stared open-mouthed at his superior. Sir Clinton occasionally did things which mystified him; but this seemed something completely out of the common.
"He must have got a search-warrant without saying anything about it to me," the Inspector reflected. "But why on earth didn’t he take me with him, even if he wanted to go through her papers personally?"
Sir Clinton’s face had become an inscrutable mask.
"Perhaps you wouldn’t mind being a little more explicit, Miss Deepcar," he suggested. "I’m not quite sure that I understand your grievance."
Avice Deepcar’s face showed that she had nothing but contempt for this apparent quibbling.
"If you think it worth while, I’ll give you details," she said, disdainfully. "But you’re not thinking of denying it, are you? I’ve got a witness to prove the facts, you know."
With a gesture, Sir Clinton invited her to tell her story.
"I’ve been away from home for a day or two," Avice began. "This morning, I came back to Westerhaven by the eleven o’clock train and drove to my house in a taxi. I left my maid alone in the house while I was away; and when I got home again, I found her in a great state of excitement. It seems that last night you came to the door, showed her your card, and told her that you had come to search the house on some matter connected with these awful murders. Naturally she was greatly shocked; but there was nothing for it but to let you in. You went over the whole place, searched in every corner of the house, opened every drawer, poked your nose into all my private possessions—in fact, you behaved as if I were a criminal under suspicion."
She paused, as though to rein in her temper after this sudden outpouring. Indignation had brought a slight flush to her cheeks, and her quickened breathing betrayed the agitation she was trying to keep under control. Mechanically she changed the position of her feet and smoothed down her skirt; and Flamborough’s sharp eye noted a trembling in her hand as she did so. Sir Clinton maintained his silence and gazed at her as though he expected further information.
