“I’d been counting on their going back to bed again. Then we could have got Marden’s body away quietly—if he’s been murdered, as I think he has. There’s no use upsetting people if you can avoid it. Ravensthorpe’s had its fill of sensations lately and there’s no need to add another to-night.”
He reflected as he walked on, and at last he seemed to hit on an expedient to suit the circumstances.
“The bottom’s out of this case now,” he said, at last. “There’ll be no trial; so there’s no need for any more secrecy, so far as I can see. I’ll be giving nothing away that I shouldn’t, at this stage of the game.”
He threw away the end of his cigarette and looked up at the bulk of Ravensthorpe before them. Here and there on the dark front the yellow oblong of a window shone out in the night.
“Suppose I spin them a yarn,” Sir Clinton went on. “I can keep them up until dawn with it. After that, they’ll sleep sound enough; and while they’re asleep, we’ll get Marden’s body away in peace and comfort. It’ll spare them the shock of finding another corpse on the premises; and that’s always something gained.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.
“You’d better go and close the safe in the museum. No use leaving things like that open any longer than’s necessary. I must go up to Marden’s room now. I’ll be back again in a minute or two.”
Ascending the servants’ staircase, Sir Clinton made his way to the valet’s room. The door was locked; but when Sir Clinton tapped gently, a constable opened it and looked out. At the sight of the Chief Constable, he stood aside.
“He’s been murdered, sir,” the man explained in a whisper.
“I guessed it might be that,” Sir Clinton returned.
“Whoever did it must have chloroformed him first,” the constable went on. “There was a pad of cotton-wool over his face; and his throat’s cut.”
The Chief Constable nodded in comprehension.
“That would prevent any sounds,” he said. “Brackley was a first-class planner, there’s no doubt.”
The constable continued his explanation.
“We came up here as you told us, sir; and when we heard your whistle we slipped into the room, expecting to arrest him according to your orders. But he was dead by that time. It was quite clear that he’d been murdered only a short time before. Your orders didn’t cover the case, so we thought the best thing to do was to lock the door and wait till you came back. You’d said we were to keep him here till your return, anyhow; so that seemed to be the best course.”
“Quite correct,” Sir Clinton commended them. “You couldn’t have done better. Now you’ll need to wait here till morning. Keep the door locked, and don’t let any word of this affair get abroad. I’ll see about removing the body in due course. Until then, I don’t want any alarm on the subject.”
He stepped across the room, examined the body on the bed, and then, with a nod to the constables, he went downstairs once more.
“IT’S a pleasure to meet Sir Clinton again,” Joan observed when they had finished their coffee. “For the last ten days or so, I’ve been dealing with a man they call the Chief Constable. I don’t much care for him. These beetle-browed officials are not my sort. Too stiff and overbearing for me, altogether.”
Sir Clinton laughed at the hit.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve invited one of your aversions to join us. In fact, I think I hear him at the door now.”
“Inspector Armadale?” Joan demanded. “Well, I’ve nothing against him. You never let him get a word in edgeways at our interviews. Grasping, I call it.”
The door opened and the Inspector was ushered in. As he entered, a glance passed between him and Sir Clinton. In reply, Armadale made a furtive gesture which escaped the rest of the company.
“Passed in his checks,” Sir Clinton interpreted it to himself. “That clears the road.”
Joan poured out coffee for the Inspector and then turned to the Chief Constable.
“Cecil promised that you’d tell us all about everything. Don’t linger over it. We’re all in quite good listening form and we look to you not to be boring. Proceed.”
Sir Clinton refused to be disconcerted.
“Inspector Armadale’s the last authority on the subject,” he remarked. “He’s got the confession of the master mind in his pocket. I haven’t seen it yet. Suppose I give you my account of things, and the Inspector will check it for us where necessary? That seems a fair division of labour.”
“Very fair,” Una Rainhill put in. “Now, Joan, be quiet and let’s get on with the tale.”
“Before the curtain goes up,” Sir Clinton suggested, “you’d better read your programmes. First of all you find the name of Thomas Pailton, alias Cocoa Tom, alias J. B. Foss, alias The Wizard of Woz: a retired conjuror, gaolbird, confidence-trick sharp, etc. As I read his psychology, he was rather a weak character and not over straight even in dealing with his equals. In the present play, he was acting under the orders of a gentleman of much tougher fibre.
