Well, it doesn't look such a whale of a case to me," said Sergeant Hemingway, handing the sheaf of typescript back to his superior. "No one in it but the one man, on the face of it."
"True," agreed Hannasyde. "Still, there are points."
"That's right, Superintendent," nodded Inspector True. "That's what I said myself. What about them footprints? They weren't made by the old lady: she doesn't wear that kind of shoe."
"Housemaid, saying good-night to her young man," said the experienced Hemingway.
"Hardly," said Hannasyde. "She wouldn't choose a bush just outside her master's study."
"No, nor there wasn't anything like that going on," said the Inspector. "The cook is a very respectable woman, married to Simmons, the butler, and the housemaid is her own niece, and this Mrs. Simmons swears to it both she and the kitchen-maid never stirred outside the house the whole evening."
"It's my belief those footprints'll be found to be highly irrelevant," said Hemingway obstinately. "All we want is this chap your man - what's-his-name? - Glass saw making off. Nothing to it."
Hannasyde cocked an eyebrow at him. "Liverish, Skipper?"
"I don't like the set-up. Ordinary, that's what it is. And I don't like the smashed skull. Just doesn't appeal to me. Give me something a bit recherche, and I'm right on to it. "
Hannasyde smiled a little. "I repeat, there are points. The murdered man seems to have been universally liked. No motive for killing him even hinted at."
"You wait till we've done half-an-hour's work on the case," said Hemingway. "I wouldn't mind betting we'll find scores of people all stiff with motives."
"I thought you said all we had to do was to find the man PC Glass saw?"
"I daresay I did, Chief, and what's more I was probably right, but you mark my words, we shall find a whole lot of stuff just confusing the main issue. I've been on this kind of case before."
"The way I look at it," said the Inspector slowly, "we want to find the instrument it was done with."
"Yes, that's another of the points," replied Hannasyde. "Your man Glass seems quite certain that the fellow he saw wasn't carrying anything. What sort of a chap is he? Reliable?"
"Yes, sir, he is, very reliable. That's his conscience. He's a very religious man, Glass. I never can remember what sect he belongs to, but it's one of those where they all wrestle with the devil, and get moved by the Lord to stand up and testify. Well, I'm Church of England myself, but what I say is, it takes all sorts to make a world. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of detailing Glass to you, to give you any assistance you may need, Superintendent. I reckon he's one of my best men - not quick, you know, but not one to lose his head, or go flying off at a tangent. Seems only right to put him on to this case, seeing as it was him discovered the body."
"All right," said Hannasyde absently, his eyes running down the typescript in his hand.
The Inspector coughed. "Only perhaps I'd better just warn you, sir, that he's got a tiresome habit of coming out with bits of the Bible. One of these blood-and-thunder merchants, if you know what I mean. You can't break him of it. He gets moved by the spirit."
"I daresay Hemingway will be able to deal with him," said Hannasyde, rather amused.
"I knew I wasn't going to like this case," said Hemingway gloomily.
Half-an-hour later, having made a tour of the grounds of Greystones, inspected the footprints behind the flowering currant bush, and cast a jaundiced eye over the stalwart, rigid form of PC Glass, he reiterated this statement.
"If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small," said Glass reprovingly.
The Sergeant surveyed him with acute dislike. "If you get fresh with me, my lad, we're going to fall out," he said.
"The words are none of mine, but set down in Holy Writ, Sergeant," explained Glass.
"There's a time and a place for everything," replied the Sergeant, "and this isn't the place nor the time for the Holy Writ. You attend to me, now! When you saw that chap sneaking out of this gate last night, it was just after ten o'clock, wasn't it?"
"It was, Sergeant."
"And getting dark?"
"As you say, Sergeant."
"Too dark for you to see him very clearly?"
"Too dark for me to distinguish his features, but not too dark for me to take note of his build and raiment."
"It's my belief it was too dark for you to see whether he was carrying anything or not," said the Sergeant.
"His hands were empty," replied Glass positively. "I will not bear false witness against my neighbour."
"All right, skip it!" said the Sergeant. "Now, you've been in this district some time, haven't you?"
"For three years, Sergeant."
"Well, what do you know about these Fletchers?"
"Their eyes stand out with fatness; they have more than heart could wish."
"Yes, that's a lot of use, isn't it? What about the nephew?"
"I know nothing of him, either good or ill."
"And the late Ernest?"
A sombre look came into Glass's face. "He that pursueth evil pursueth it to his own death."
The Sergeant pricked up his ears. "What evil?"
Glass looked sternly down at him. "I believe him to have been wholly given up to vain show, double of heart, a fornicator, a -"
"Here, that'll do!" said the Sergeant, startled. "We're none of us saints. I understand the late Ernest was pretty well liked?"
"It is true. It is said that he was a man of pleasing manners, filled with loving kindness. But the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?"
"Yes, that's all very well, but where do you get that fornication idea? From those footprints, eh?"
"No. Joseph Simmons, who is in the way of light, though a foolish man, knew some of the secrets of his master's life."
"He did, did he? We'll see!" said the Sergeant briskly, and turned towards the house.
He entered it through the study window, and found his superior there, with Ernest Fletcher's solicitor, and Neville Fletcher, who was lounging bonelessly in an armchair, the inevitable cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
"Then, if that is all, Superintendent," the solicitor was saying, "I will take my leave. Should you require my further services, there is my card."
"Thank you," said Hannasyde.
The solicitor picked up Ernest Fletcher's Will, and replaced it in his brief-case. He glanced rather severely over the top of his pince-nez at Neville, and said: "You are a very fortunate young man, Neville. I hope you will prove yourself worthy of the benefits your poor uncle has conferred on you."
Neville looked up with his fleeting smile. "Oh, so do I! I shall try hard not to let all this vulgar wealth corrupt my soul."
"It's a great responsibility," said the lawyer gravely.
"I know, that's what depresses me. People will expect me to wear a hat, and look at tape-machines."
"I hope you will do more than that," replied the lawyer.
"Now, if you please, I should like to have a word with your aunt. Perhaps you could take me to her."
Neville obligingly rose, and opened the door for him. They passed out of the room together, and Sergeant Hemingway, who had been standing silent in the window, said: "Who's the bit of chewed string, Chief?"
"The heir," answered Hannasyde. "Neville Fletcher."
"Oh! well, I don't grudge it him. He looks as though he hasn't got tuppence to rub together, let alone hardly having the strength to stand up without holding on to something."
"You shouldn't go by appearances, Sergeant," said Hannasyde, a twinkle in his eye. "That weary young man holds the record for the high jump. Got a half-blue at Oxford, so the solicitor informed me."
"You don't say! Well, I wouldn't have thought it, that's all. And he's the heir? What did I tell you? Motive Number One."
"I'll remember it if I draw a blank on that unknown visitor," promised Hannasyde. "Meanwhile, we've found this little lot."
The Sergeant came to the desk, and looked over Hannasyde's shoulder at three slips of paper, all signed by Helen North. "IOUs," he said. "Well, well, well, she did splash money about, didn't she? Know what I think, Super? There's a nasty smell of blackmail hanging round these bits of paper. I believe friend Ichabod wasn't so far off the mark after all, with his pursuit-of-evil stuff."
"My name is not Ichabod, Sergeant, but Malachi," said Glass stiffly, from the window.
"It had to be," said the Sergeant. "What price those footprints, Chief?"
"The medical evidence goes to show that it is in the highest degree improbable that a woman could have struck the blow which killed Ernest Fletcher. Still, I agree that these notes will bear looking into."
"Young Neville know anything about this Helen North?"
"I haven't asked him. In the event of those IOUs having no bearing on the case, I'm not anxious to stir up any mud." He glanced up to see Glass staring at him with knit brows. "Well? Does the name convey anything to you?"
"There's a man of that name living with his wife not five minutes' walk from this house," replied Glass slowly.
The Sergeant pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hannasyde said: "Know anything about them?"
"No, sir."
"Address?"
"You will find the house in the road which runs parallel to Maple Grove. It is called the Chestnuts."
Hannasyde jotted it down. The Sergeant, meanwhile, was turning over a collection of photographs and snapshots laid on the desk. "Looks like you weren't so far out, Glass," he remarked. "I have to hand it to the late Ernest. He certainly knew how to pick 'em. Regular harem!" He picked up a large portrait of a dazzling blonde, dressed, apparently, in an ostrich-feather fan, and regarded it admiringly. That's Lily Logan, the dancer. What a figure!"
Glass averted his eyes with a shudder. "Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion!"
"That's what you think," said Hemingway, laying Lily Logan down, and looking critically at another smiling beauty. "Went the pace a bit, didn't he? Hullo!" His eyes had alighted on the portrait of a curly-headed brunette. He picked it up. "Seems to me I've seen this dame before."
"As his female acquaintance seems to have consisted largely of chorus girls, that's not surprising," said Hannasyde dryly.
"Yours lovingly, Angela," read out the Sergeant. "Angela…' He scratched his chin meditatively. "Got something at the back of my mind. Do you seem to know that face, Chief?"
Hannasyde studied the photograph for a moment. "It does look a little familiar," he admitted. "Some actress, I daresay. We'll check up on them presently."
Hemingway held the photograph at arm's length. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't connect her with the stage. No use asking you, Glass, I suppose?"
"I do not wish to look upon the face of a lewd woman," Glass said harshly. "Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."
"Look here, what's the matter with you?" demanded the Sergeant. "Some actress given you the air, or what?"
"I have no dealings with actresses."
"Well, then, stopp panning them. How do you know anything about this poor girl's end, anyway?" He laid the portrait down.
"Anything else, Chief?"
"Nothing so far."
At this moment the door opened and Miss Fletcher came in. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her plump cheeks were rather pale, but she smiled sweetly at Hannasyde. "Oh, Superintendent - you are a Superintendent, aren't you?"
He had risen to his feet, and unobtrusively slid the big blotter over the heap of photographs. "Yes, that's right, madam."
She looked at the mass of papers on the desk. "Oh dear, what a lot you must have to do! Now, tell me, would you like a little refreshment?"
He declined it, which seemed to disappoint her, and asked her civilly if she wished to speak to him.
"Well, yes," she admitted. "Only any time will do. You're busy now, and I mustn't disturb you."
"I'm quite at your disposal, Miss Fletcher. Won't you sit down? All right, Glass: you can wait outside."
"You have such a kind face," Miss Fletcher told him. "Quite unlike what one expected. I feel I can talk to you. Are you sure you won't have something? A little coffee and a sandwich?"
"No, really, thank you. What was it you wanted to say to me, Miss Fletcher?"
"I'm afraid you'll say I'm wasting your time. So silly of me not to have asked dear Mr. Lawrence while he was here! We have known him for so many years that I always say he is more like a friend than a solicitor, though of course there is no reason why he shouldn't be both, as indeed I hope he feels he is. It was particularly foolish of me, because it is just the sort of thing he would know."
"What is it, Miss Fletcher?" asked Hannasyde, breaking into the gentle flow of words.
"Well, it's the reporters," she confided. "Poor things, one knows they have their living to earn, and it must be very disagreeable work, when one comes to think of it, and one doesn't want to be unkind -'
"Are they worrying you?" interrupted Hannasyde. "All you have to do is to tell your butler to say that you have no statement to make."
"It seems so very disobliging," she said doubtfully. "And one of them looks dreadfully under-nourished. At the same time, I should very much dislike to see my photograph in the papers."
"Of course. The less you say to them the better, Miss Fletcher."
"Well, that's what I thought," she said. "Only my nephew is so naughty about it. It's only his fun, but you never know how much people will believe, do you? I suppose you wouldn't just hint to him that he oughtn't to do it? I feel that what you said would carry more weight than what I say."
"What's he been up to?" asked Hannasyde.
"Well, he's told one of the reporters that he's employed here as the Boots, and when the man asked him his name he said it was Crippen, only he didn't want it to be known."
Hannasyde chuckled. "I don't think I should worry very much about that, Miss Fletcher."
"Yes, but he told another of them that he came from Yugoslavia, and was here on very secret business. In fact, he's in the front garden now, telling three of them a ridiculous story about international intrigue, and my brother at the back of it. And they're taking it down in their notebooks. Neville's such a marvellous actor, and of course he speaks Serbian, from having travelled in the Balkans. But I don't think he ought to deceive those poor men, do you?"
"No, I don't," said Hannasyde. "It's most unwise to play jokes on the gentlemen of the Press. Hemingway, go and ask Mr. Fletcher if I can have a word with him, will you?"
"Thank you so much!" said Miss Fletcher gratefully. "Poor Neville, one always has to remember that he hasn't known a mother's love. I feel that accounts for so much, don't you? Not that he isn't a dear boy, of course, and I'm very fond of him, but he is like so many of the young people nowadays, so strangely heartless! Nothing seems to matter to him, not even a thing like this." Her lips trembled; she groped for her handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes with it. "You must forgive me: I was very much attached to my dear brother. It doesn't seem to me as though any of this can really have happened."
"It must have been a terrible shock to you," said Hannasyde sympathetically.
"Yes. You see, my brother was such a charming man. Everyone liked him!"
"So I understand, Miss Fletcher. Yet it seems that he had one enemy at least. Have you no idea who that might be?"
"Oh, no, no! I can't think of anyone. But - I didn't know all his - friends, Superintendent." She looked up anxiously, but Hannasyde said nothing. "That was one of the things I came to talk to you about," she ventured. "I'm afraid you will think it rather odd of me to mention such things, but I have made up my mind that I ought to."
"You may be perfectly frank with me, Miss Fletcher," he said encouragingly.
She fixed her eyes upon a point beyond his shoulder. My brother," she said in a faint voice, "had affairs with - with women."
Hannasyde nodded.
"I never inquired into them, and of course he never spoke of them to me, but naturally I knew. In my young days, Superintendent, ladies did not discuss such matters. Nowadays things are different, and young people seem to talk of everything, which I can't help feeling is a pity. It is much better to shut one's eyes to some things, don't you agree? But it has occurred to me - I thought it all over during the night - that whoever killed my brother may - may have done so from jealousy."
"Yes, that is a possibility," Hannasyde said.
"Yes. Of course, if it was so, it will have to come out. I quite realise that. But if you find it wasn't, or - or fail to discover the man who did it - do you think my brother's - private affairs - need be known?"
"Certainly not," Hannasyde replied. "I quite understand your feelings in the matter, Miss Fletcher, and I can assure you that I shall respect them as much as I possibly can."
"So kind!" she sighed. "I have such a dread of the papers printing horrid things about my poor brother - perhaps getting hold of letters. You know the sort of thing I mean, I expect."
"You need not be afraid of that," he assured her. "There are no such letters as you refer to."
"Oh, how thankful I am!" she breathed. "You have taken a load off my mind!"
She got up, as Sergeant Hemingway ushered her nephew into the room, and bestowed a tremulous smile upon the Superintendent. Neville came in talking in his soft, rapid way, and it was plain from Hemingway's strained, appreciative expression that his discourse was of an entertaining nature. When he saw his aunt he broke off in mid-sentence, and recommended her to make no statement to the police except in the presence of her lawyer. Miss Fletcher explained to Hannasyde that this was only his fun, and made her way to the door.
Neville closed it behind her, saying plaintively: "Of course, I know one has to obey the summons of the Law, but you interrupted me at a most delicate moment, Superintendent."
"I'm sorry," replied Hannasyde, adding with a gleam of humour in his eye: "International complications?"
"Yes, I had just worked in a Montenegrin patriot with a knife. The whole story was unfolding itself beautifully, but I've lost the thread now."
"Take my advice, and don't try to fool the Press. Suppose - though it's improbable - that your International story did get published?"
"Oh, but I do hope it will!" Neville said. "Really, it's a lovely story, and I've taken pains with it. I don't usually, but old Lawrence seems to think I ought to try to become more earnest. Did you want me for anything in particular? Because if not I'm in the middle of telling your Sergeant about an experience which befell me in Skopje. It isn't exactly a polite story, but I find he has a lovely dirty mind. In fact, we're practically affinities."
The reminiscent grin which still lingered on the Sergeant's face vanished. A dusky blush mounted into his cheeks, and he gave an imploring cough.
"I daresay," replied Hannasyde. "But this is hardly the time to indulge in smutty anecdotes, do you think?"
"Oh, I don't agree with you!" said Neville engagingly.
"Given the right company, there's no real close season for dirty stories."
"Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, did you know your uncle well?"
"I expect it'll save time if I say no," answered Neville. "I can see we are on the verge of talking at cross-purposes."
"Why?" Hannasyde asked bluntly.
"Oh, one doesn't know people. Mothers say they know their children through and through. Fallacy. Rather disgusting, too. Indecency inherent in over-probing, and results misleading, and probably disquieting."
"Oh!" said Hannasyde, who had followed this rapid and telegraphic speech with some difficulty. "I see what you mean, but it doesn't answer my question. As well as one person may know another, did you know your uncle?"
"No. Interest being the natural forerunner to understanding."
"You'd none in him?"
"Nor anyone, "cept objectively. An' I'm not sure of that either. Do you like people?"
"Don't you?"
Neville spread his hands out, slightly hunching his thin shoulders. "Oh, some - a little - at a distance."
"You seem to be an ascetic," said Hannasyde dryly.
"Hedonist. Personal contacts pleasant at first, but leading to discomfort."
Hannasyde regarded him frowningly. "You have peculiar ideas, Mr. Fletcher. They're not getting us anywhere."
A smile flickered in Neville's eyes. "Eschew my company. You see, I don't want to get anywhere. Prolonged intercourse with me is bad for your temper."
"You are probably right," returned Hannasyde with a touch of asperity: "I won't detain you any longer."
"Oh, can I go back to my entrancing reporters?"
"If you think it wise - or desirable."
"Like feeding goldfish," said Neville, drifting out by way of the window.
The Sergeant watched him go, and drew a long breath. "What I call a turn in himself," he said. "He's certainly a new one on me."
Hannasyde grunted. The Sergeant cocked an intelligent eye at him. "You didn't take to him, did you, Chief?"
"No. Or believe him."
"I'm bound to say I don't entirely follow his talk - what I can hear of it, which isn't much."
"I think he knows more than he pretends, and doesn't want to be questioned. However, he'll keep. I've nothing on him - so far." He looked at his wrist-watch, and got up. "Take charge of those papers, and the photographs, will you? I'm going now to call on Mrs. North. I'll leave Abraham Budd to you. Find out from Headquarters, while you're in town, if they've got anything out of the finger-prints."
He had no difficulty in finding his way to the Chestnuts, and, upon sending in his card, was ushered presently into a pleasant morning-room at the back of the house. There he found not only Helen North, but Miss Drew also, who was seated at a table in the window with a portable typewriter in front of her.
Helen came forward a few steps, saying nervously: 'Good-morning. I'm Mrs. North. I understand you want to see me?"
"Yes," Hannasyde replied. He glanced towards the window, and added: "Perhaps if I might have a word with you alone it would be best."
"Oh no! I mean, I would like my sister to remain. Won't you sit down? I - I've never entertained a detective before!"
"I should explain, Mrs. North, that I am investigating the murder of Ernest Fletcher, who I believe was an acquaintance of yours."
"Yes. Yes, I quite understand. Please go on!"
"You knew that Mr. Fletcher had been murdered?" he asked.
Before she could answer, Sally cut in. "In common with the butcher, the baker, the milkman, all the servants, the postman, and the paper-boy."
He looked at her appraisingly, but did not answer, merely inclining his head slightly.
"News gets round so frightfully quickly in the suburbs," Helen said, again with her uneasy, artificial laugh.
"Yes," he agreed. "I expect it does. When did you last see Mr. Fletcher, Mrs. North?"
"What's your reason for asking that question?" demanded Sally.
"I am investigating a murder, Miss -'
"I'm Sally Drew. You can hardly think that my sister knows anything about a murder."
"I'm quite ready to believe that she doesn't," he replied, with a good-humoured inflexion in his voice which surprised her. "But I have a reason for asking Mrs. North certain questions, and a right to do so."
"Oh, of course!" Helen said quickly. "Only it's rather difficult to say when I saw Ernie Fletcher last. Let me see now… it was probably in town. Oh yes, we were both at a party last week!"
"Are you quite sure that you haven't seen him since then?"
He kept his eyes on her face, taking note of the fluctuating colour in her cheeks, the frightened, wary look in her eyes that told plainly of indecision.
"Why, no, I - I don't think so!"
"You did not, by any chance, see him last night?"
"Last night?" Helen repeated. "Of course not! Whatever made you think I might have?"
"I have reason to think that some woman visited him yesterday evening."
"Good gracious, why should it be me, I wonder!"
He said in his quiet way: "Please don't misunderstand me, Mrs. North. I am quite prepared to find that the woman was not you. Indeed, I'm sorry to be obliged to worry you with these questions. But I'm sure you'll realise that the presence of a woman at Greystones last night must be investigated, for it is just possible that she, whoever she is, may be able to throw a little light on the murder."
"How?" she said quickly.
"She may, quite unwittingly, have seen the murderer."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, shuddering. "But it's preposterous to suppose that I-'
He interrupted, saying in a matter-of-fact way: "Well, Mrs. North, the question can be settled quite easily. What size in shoes do you wear?"
A quiver ran over her face; she threw a glance towards her sister, who stepped promptly into the breach. "Five-and-a-half, don't you, like me?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Yes, I do. I think most women of our height do."
"Thank you," said Hannasyde. "I wondered if you would lend me the shoes you were wearing last night?"
"Lend you my shoes! Really, Superintcüdrut, that is quite impossible!"
"Why, Mrs. North?"
"Well, you must see - Oh, this is idiotic! I had nothing to do with Ernie Fletcher's death!"
"Then you can have no possible objection to lending me your shoes for half-an-hour," said Hannasyde.
"Of course she hasn't," said Sally. "What's more, you shall have mine as well. I knew Ernest Fletcher too, so presumably there is just as much reason to suspect me of having been at Greystones last night as my sister."
"Not quite," he replied.
Helen sat down suddenly on the sofa. "I can't stand this!" she said in a choking voice. "There's no reason why you should come and badger me! Simply because I happened to know Ernie Fletcher -'
"Not entirely," he said. "Are not these yours, Mrs. North?"
She looked at the slips of paper which he had taken from his pocket-book. The colour rushed into her face, but some of her strained rigidity left her. "Yes. They're mine," she answered. "What of it?"
"They call for some kind of explanation, as I think you'll agree," he said. "Did you owe these various sums of money to Mr. Fletcher?"
"No. That is, not in the way you seem to think. He bought up those debts, to get me out of a - a hole, and I was - I was repaying him bit by bit." She glanced up fleetingly, and added, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers: "I did not wish my - my husband to know. He - I - oh, this is impossible!"
"I quite appreciate your reluctance to discuss your affairs, Mrs. North. It may make it easier for you to be frank with me if you can bring yourself to believe that except in so far as they may relate to the case I am at work on I have no interest in them, and certainly no desire to create any unnecessary - er - scandal."
"There's nothing to make a scandal about!" she said. "Mr. Fletcher was just a friend. The whole arrangement was perfectly amicable. I don't know what you are imagining, but -'
"You can put an end to any imaginings of mine by being open with me, Mrs. North. I have told you that I appreciate your point of view, but you must see that the discovery of these notes of yours in Ernest Fletcher's safe is a circumstance which must be fully inquired into. If you can satisfy me that you did not visit Greystones last night I shall have no further need to worry you with interrogations which you must naturally find unpleasant. But if you can bring no proof forward in support of your denial, and persist in refusing to let me compare your shoes with the footprints we have found in the garden at Greystones, I can have no alternative to pursuing my inquiries further. In which event, I fear there will be little hope of your evading the sort of publicity you must wish to avoid."
Sally got up from her seat by the table, and walked forward. "That," she said, "sounds remarkably like a threat, Superintendent."
"I expect it does," he agreed equably. "It isn't, though. I am only trying to point out to your sister that her wisest course is to be entirely frank with me. If I have to question her servants as to her whereabouts last night -'
"I get it," said Sally, grimacing. She took a cigarette from the box on the table, and fitted it into her holder. She glanced speculatively at Hannasyde, and took a lighter from her pocket. The little flame spurted up; she lit her cigarette, once more looked at Hannasyde, and then said tersely: "He's right, Helen. And what he says about having no interest in your affairs is true. He's got nothing on you, but obviously you've got to be eliminated."
Helen looked frightened, but after a pause said: "I did call on Ernie Fletcher last night. I've explained that he was a - a great friend, though years older than me. I looked on him as a sort of uncle."
"Quite," said Hannasyde. "Had you any particular purpose in paying this call?"
"No, not exactly. My sister was busy, and I was bored. It was quite early, and I thought I'd just look in on Ernie."
In spite of herself she coloured, but Hannasyde merely asked: "At what hour did you arrive at Greystones?"
"It must have been at about five-and-twenty to ten. I know I left this house at half-past nine."
"Just tell me everything that happened, Mrs. North."
"Really, there's so little to tell. I went by way of the Arden Road, because for one thing it's quicker than going all the way up this road, and along Vale Avenue, andd for another - I expect this seems odd to you, but it isn't really - I didn't much want to see Miss Fletcher, so I thought I'd go in by the garden-entrance, on the chance of finding Ern - Mr. Fletcher in his study." She broke off, and exclaimed wretchedly: "Oh, this is too impossible! It sounds as though I had some horrid assignation! But I hadn't, I hadn't!"
"Don't go over at the knees," recommended her sister. "It's obvious you hadn't, or you'd have thought up some convincing reason for calling on Ernie."
"Oh, don't! Do you suppose I can't see what a false impression anyone must get, not - not knowing the terms I was on with Ernie?"
"The only impression the Superintendent's got is that you're a paralytic ass," responded Sally cheerfully. "Why you chose to enter by the garden-gate has got nothing to do with him, so get on with your story!"
"I don't know where I was. Oh yes! Well, Mr. Fletcher was in his study - oh, I forgot to tell you that I saw a man coming out of the gate, just as I turned up into Maple Grove. I - I don't know whether that's any use to you?"
"Can you describe him, Mrs. North?"
"No, except that he was rather stout and short. You see, it was dusk, and I didn't see his face. He walked off towards Vale Avenue. Well, I found Mr. Fletcher in his study, as I said."
"Was he alone?"
"Oh yes!"
"And then?"
"Well - well, nothing, really. We had a - a talk, and then I said I mustn't be late, and - and just left."
"Do you know what the time was then?"
"Yes, it was a quarter to ten."
"A quarter to ten?" he repeated, raising his head from his notebook.
"Yes. There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and I happened to notice the time."
"Then you were only with Mr. Fletcher for ten minutes?"
"I suppose so. Yes, it must have been about that."
"A very short call, Mrs. North, was it not?"
"I don't see why - What do you mean?"
"Merely that it strikes me as odd that having, as you yourself state, gone to see Mr. Fletcher because you were bored, you stayed so short a time with him. Did anything happen to make you anxious to leave at once?"
"No. No, of course not. Only I could see he was busy, and I didn't want to be a nuisance."
He made a note in his book. "I see. So you left the study at 9.45. Did you return home by the way you had come?"
"Yes. But not immediately. I heard the garden-gate open, and - and it occurred to me that it would look rather odd - my being there at that hour. I didn't want anyone to see me, so I hid behind a bush."
"Mr. Fletcher, then, did not accompany you to the gate?"
"No," she faltered. "There was no reason why he should."
"Oh!" said Hannasyde. "Very well, Mrs. North: you hid behind a bush. Did you see who it was that entered the garden?"
"No, I didn't. I mean, in the dusk, and - and only being able to peer through the bush, I couldn't get a clear view. I only know it was a man. He looked quite ordinary, but he had a hat on, and I didn't see his face."
"What sort of hat, Mrs. North?"
"A Homburg, I think."
"Light or dark?"
She hesitated. "I think it was a light one."
"Did you happen to notice whether he carried a walking-stick?"
"No. No, I'm sure he didn't."
"Did he go up to the house?"
"Yes, he went into Mr. Fletcher's study."
"Did you hear what happened then?"
"No. As soon as it was safe to do so I went away, of course. I don't know anything more."
Hannasyde shut his notebook, and, looking straight across at Helen, said bluntly: "Mrs. North, are you prepared to state that your visit to Mr. Fletcher was not in connection with these notes of yours?"
"I don't understand. I've told you -'
"I don't think you've told me the whole truth."
"I don't know why you should say that, or what you may choose to suspect, but -'
"I suspect that Mr. Fletcher was threatening to use these notes against you, Mrs. North."
"That's absurd! I tell you he was a friend of mine!"
"Yes, you have told me that, but I find it difficult to reconcile that statement with the presence of the IOUs in his safe. If his motives in obtaining possession of them were as chivalrous as you say they were, it would surely have been more natural for him either to have destroyed them, or to have given them back to you?"
"Are you suggesting that he was trying to blackmail me? It isn't true! Good heavens, what could he possibly want to blackmail me for?"
"Perhaps he wanted something from you which you were unwilling to give, Mrs. North."
She flushed. "Oh - ! You've no right to say that! Besides, how could he blackmail me? It isn't a sin to get into debt!"
"He might have threatened to lay your IOUs before your husband, might he not?"
"He wouldn't - he wasn't like that!" she said faintly.
"Where is your husband, Mrs. North?"
"He's in Berlin. He went last week, and won't be back till next Wednesday."
Even as the words left her lips he saw her face change. The click of an opening door had sounded. Hannasyde turned quickly. A man had entered the room, and was standing on the threshold, his hand resting on the doorknob, his cool, rather stern grey eyes surveying the group in the middle of the room.