“Can you come up to Ravensthorpe at once, Sir Clinton, or send Inspector Armadale? There’s a bad business here. Mr Foss has been murdered. I’ve taken care that no one has got off the premises; and I’ve seen to it that his body has been left as it was found.”
Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I’ll drive across as soon as possible. See that things are left undisturbed, please. And collect all the people who can give any evidence, so that we needn’t waste time hunting for them. Good-bye.”
He shifted the switch of his telephone and spoke again.
“Is Inspector Armadale here just now?” he asked the constable who answered his call. “Tell him I wish to see him in my room immediately.”
While waiting for Armadale, Sir Clinton had a few moments in which to consider the information he had just received.
“This looks like Part II of the Ravensthorpe affair,” he reflected. “Foss’s only connection with Ravensthorpe was the business of these Medusa Medallions. First one has the theft of the replicas; now comes the murder of this American agent. It’s highly improbable that two things like that could be completely independent.”
His cogitation was interrupted by the entry of Armadale, and in a few words Sir Clinton gave him the fresh information which had come to hand.
“We’ll go up there at once in my car, Inspector. Get the necessary things together, please. Don’t forget the big camera. We may need it. And the constable who does photography for us had better come along also.”
Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt to extract further information from him was a complete failure.
“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the land lies up yonder.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for them at the door.
“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?”
Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in, followed by Armadale.
A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by the show-cases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down, and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips.
“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time.
“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it, though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the valet.”
Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though nothing mattered but the end in view.
Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves.
“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?”
Joan shook her head.
“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.
Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend her his moral support.
After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story.
