“He pocketed the replicas and stuck the real things under the case with plasticine. Then he continued the false trail by bolting out of the house. He was the man in white. When he got clear of the people who were chasing him, he came back to the house again, ready to play his part as an innocent practical joker. And he had his tale ready, of how someone was beside him at the case, wearing a Pierrot costume. That stamped the notion of an outside gang on everybody’s mind. Both sets of medallions had gone. He—the innocent practical joker—could have produced the replicas from his pocket and sworn they were all that the gang had left in the case by the time he got to it.”
“And . . .?”
“And then, a few days later, he’d have managed to get into the museum on some excuse—he’s a friend of the family—and he’d have had no difficulty in taking the real medallions from under the case where he’d left them. He’d have to take the chance that they’d been overlooked. The false trail would help in that. He’d hardly expect a close search of the museum after the man in white had got clear away. And by running the business on these lines, he’d avoid any chance of being caught with the stuff actually in his pocket at any time.”
“But in that case, why did he hand over the real things to me like a lamb as soon as I challenged him?”
The inspector was ready for this.
“Because as soon as he came into the museum last night, he found that you apparently knew everything—or a good deal more than he’d counted on. Anyhow, he didn’t know how much you knew; and he felt he’d got into a tight corner. He just let the whole thing slide and made up his mind to get out before things got too hot. So he pretended that so far as he was concerned, the practical joke was the thing; and he gave up the real medallions and kept the replicas in his pocket.”
“Why? He might as well have given up the lot.”
“No,” the Inspector contradicted. “He’d got to keep the false trail going, for otherwise there would have been awkward questions as to why he diverged from the prearranged programme. I mean the shooting out of the light, the lies about the man in white, and so forth. So he stuck to the replicas and made out that there was an outsider mixed up in the affair. But thanks to the practical joke, the outsider had missed the real stuff; and Polegate was really the saviour of the Leonardo set.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be pondering over Armadale’s version of the affair. At last he gave his own view.
“A jury wouldn’t look at that evidence,” he pointed out.
“I don’t suppose they would,” Armadale admitted. “But there may be more to come yet.”
“I expect so,” Sir Clinton agreed.
He rose as he spoke, and, followed by the Inspector, went down to the edge of the lakelet.
“No luck yet?” he inquired.
“None, sir. It’s a very difficult bottom to work a grapnel over. It sticks three times out of four.”
Sir Clinton watched the line of the drag which they were making.
“It’ll take a while to cover the ground at this rate,” he commented, noting the smallness of the area they had searched up to that moment.
As he turned away from the water-side, he noticed Cecil Chacewater approaching round the edge of the lakelet, and leaving the Inspector to superintend the dragging, he walked over to meet the newcomer. As he came near, he could see that Cecil’s face was sullen and downcast.
“’Morning, Sir Clinton. I heard you were here, so I came across to say good-bye before I clear out.”
Sir Clinton could hardly pretend astonishment in view of what he knew about the state of affairs at Ravensthorpe; but he did not conceal his regret at the news.
“There was a row-royal between Maurice and me this morning,” Cecil explained, gloomily. “Of course this medallion business gave him his chance, and he jumped in with both feet, you know. He abused me like a fish-wife and finally gave me permission to do anything except stay at Ravensthorpe after to-night. So I’m off.”
“I wish you hadn’t got mixed up with that silly practical joke,” Sir Clinton said in some concern. “I can’t forgive that young blighter for luring you into it.”
Cecil’s resentment against his brother was evidently too deep to let him look on the matter from this point of view.
“If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Any excuse would have served his turn, you know. He’d have flung me out sooner or later—probably sooner. I’ve felt for long enough that he was itching to clear me off the premises. Foxy’s little show only precipitated things. The root of the trouble was there long before.”
“Well, it’s a sad business.” Sir Clinton saw that it was useless to dwell on the subject. “You’re going up to town? Any address you can give me?”
“I’ll probably put up with a man for a day or two. He’s been inviting me to his place once or twice lately, but I’ve never been able to fit it in; so I may as well take him at his word now. I’ve got to look round for something to do, you know.”
