The Case with Nine Solutions

by

J. J. Connington

Contents

Chapter I.
The Dying Man

Dr. Ringwood pushed his chair back from the dinner-table. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that on this evening he had been even later than usual in getting home for dinner. The expression in his eyes showed that he had gone short of sleep for some time past; and when he rose to his feet, every movement betrayed his over-tired condition.

“Bring my coffee to the study, please, Shenstone,” he ordered. “And you might take the telephone in there as well.”

He crossed the hall wearily, switched on the study lights, and stood for a moment on the threshold as if undecided what to do. A bright fire burned on the hearth; the heavy pile of the carpet was soft to his feet; and the big saddlebag armchairs spoke to him of pure physical comfort and relaxation after the strain of the day. He moved over to a table, hesitated again, and then picked up a copy of the B.M.J. in its postal wrapper. Taking a cigar from a box on the table, he clipped it mechanically and sat down in one of the chairs by the fire.

Shenstone drew a small table to Dr. Ringwood's elbow and placed the coffee on it; then, retiring for a moment, he returned with the telephone, which he plugged to a connection in the room.

“Bring it over here, Shenstone. I want to be sure that the bell will wake me if I happen to doze.”

Shenstone did as he was ordered and was about to leave the room when Dr. Ringwood spoke again.

“Fog clearing off, by any chance?”

Shenstone shook his head.

“No, sir. Worse now than when you came in. Very thick indeed, sir. One can't see even the nearest street lamp.”

Dr. Ringwood nodded gloomily.

“It's to be hoped no one wants me to go out this evening. Difficult enough to find one's way about a strange town in the daytime with a fog like this over everything. But in the daytime there are always people about who can give you some help. Nobody bar policemen will be out to-night, I should think.”

Shenstone's face showed his sympathy.

“Very difficult for you, sir. If there's a night call, perhaps you'd knock me up, sir, and I could go out with you and help you to find your way. I'd be quite glad to do it, sir, if I could be of any service. When Dr. Carew went into the nursing home he specially impressed on me that I was to give you every assistance I could.”

A tired smile crossed Dr. Ringwood's face.

“Doubtful if you can see any further through pea-soup than I can myself, Shenstone. Half the time, as I was coming back for dinner, I couldn't see even the pavement; so I'm afraid your local knowledge wouldn't give you much of a pull. Thanks all the same. I've got a map of the town and I'll try to find my way by it.”

He paused, and then, as Shenstone turned to go, he added:

“Put a decanter—Scotch—and some soda on the table over yonder. Then I shan't need to worry you again to-night.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Shenstone left the room, Dr. Ringwood tore open the wrapper of the B.M.J., threw the paper into the fire, and unfolded the journal. He scanned the contents while sipping his coffee; but in a few minutes the bulky magazine slipped down on to his knees and he resigned himself completely to the comfort of his surroundings.

“Thank the Lord I didn't need to become a G.P.” he reflected. “Specialism's a tough enough row to hoe, but general practice is a dog's life, if this is a sample of it.”

He picked up the B.M.J. again; but as he did so his sharp ear caught the sound of the front door bell. An expression of annoyance crossed his features and deepened as he heard Shenstone admit some visitor. In a few seconds the door of the study opened and Shenstone announced.

“Dr. Trevor Markfield, sir.”

Dr. Ringwood's face cleared as a clean-shaven man of about thirty entered the room; and he rose from his chair to greet the newcomer.

“Come in, Trevor. Try that pew beside the fire. I've been meaning to ring you up ever since I came last week, but I haven't had a moment. This 'flu epidemic has kept me on the run.”

Trevor Markfield nodded sympathetically as he moved towards the fire and extended his hands to the blaze.

“I'd have looked you up before, but it was only this morning I heard from someone that you were doing locum for old Carew. It's a bit out of your line, isn't it?”

“Carew's an old friend of ours; and when he went down with appendicitis he asked me in a hurry to look after his practice and I could hardly refuse. It's been an experience, of sorts. I haven't had two hours continuous sleep in the last five days, and I feel as if the next patient runs the risk of a free operation. I'm fit to bite him in the gizzard without anæsthetics.”

Markfield's stern features relaxed slightly.

“As bad as all that?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't mind real cases. But last night I was called out at two in the morning, when I'd just got back from a relapsed 'flu case. A small boy. ‘Dreadfully ill, doctor. Please come at once.’ When I got there, it was simply an acute case of over-stuffing. ‘It was his birthday, doctor, and of course we had to let him do as he liked on that day.’ By the time I'd got there, he'd dree'd his weird—quite empty and nothing whatever the matter with him. No apologies for dragging me out of bed, of course. A doctor isn't supposed to have a bed at all. I expect the next thing will be a fatal case of ingrowing toe-nails. It's a damned nuisance to have one's time frittered away on that sort of thing when one's at one's wits end to do what one can for people at the last gasp with something really dangerous.”

“Still got the notion that human life's valuable? The war knocked that on the head,” Markfield commented, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Human life's the cheapest thing there is. It's a blessing I went over to the scientific side, instead of going in for physicking. I'd never have acquired a good sympathetic bedside manner.”

Dr. Ringwood made a gesture towards the decanter on the table.

“Have a spot?” he invited. “It's a miserable night.”

Markfield accepted the offer at once, poured out half a tumblerful of whisky, splashed in a very little soda, and drank off his glass with evident satisfaction. Putting down the tumbler, he moved across and sat down by the fire.

“It's an infernal night,” he confirmed. “If I didn't know this end of the town like the palm of my hand, I'd have lost my way coming here. It's the thickest fog I've seen for long enough.”

“I'm in a worse box, for I don't know the town,” Dr. Ringwood pointed out. “And we're not near the peak of this 'flu epidemic yet, by a long way. You're lucky to be on the scientific side. Croft-Thornton Research Institute, isn't it?”

“Yes, I came here three years ago, in 1925. Silverdale beat me for the head post in the chemical department; they gave me the second place.”

“Silverdale?” Dr. Ringwood mused. “The fellow who works on alkaloids? Turned out a new condensate lately as side-line? I seem to know the name.”

“That's him. He doesn't worry me much. I dine at his house now and again; but beyond that we don't see much of each other outside the Institute.”

“I've a notion I ran across him once at a smoker in the old days. He played the banjo rather well. Clean-shaven, rather neatly turned out? He'll be about thirty-five or so. By the way, he's married now, isn't he?”

A faint expression of contempt crossed Markfield's face.

“Oh, yes, he's married. A French girl. I came across her in some amateur theatricals after they arrived here. Rather amusing at first, but a bit too exacting if one took her on as a permanency, I should think. I used to dance with her a lot at first, but the pace got a bit too hot for my taste. A man must have some evenings to himself, you know; and what she wanted was a permanent dancing-partner. She's taken on a cub at the Institute—young Hassendean—for the business.”

“Doesn't Silverdale do anything in that line himself?”

“Not a damn. Hates dancing except occasionally. They're a weird couple. Nothing whatever in common, that I can see; and they've apparently agreed that each takes a separate road. You never see 'em together. She's always around with this Hassendean brat—a proper young squib; and Silverdale's turned to fresh woods in the shape of Avice Deepcar, one of the girls at the Institute.”

“Serious?” Dr. Ringwood inquired indifferently.

“I expect he'd be glad of a divorce, if that's what you mean. But I doubt if he'll get it, in spite of all the scandal about Yvonne. If I can read the signs, she's just keeping the Hassendean cub on her string for her own amusement, though she certainly advertises her conquest all over the shop. He's not much to boast about: one of these young pseudo-romantic live-your-own-lifer's with about as much real backbone as a filleted sole.”

“A bit rough on Silverdale,” commented Dr. Ringwood apathetically.

Trevor Markfield's short laugh betrayed his scorn.

“A man's an ass to get tied up to a woman. Silverdale got caught by one side of her—oh, she's very attractive on that side, undoubtedly. But it didn't last, apparently, for either of them—and there you are! Outside their own line, women are no use to a man. They want too much of one's time if one marries them, and they're the very devil, generally. I've no sympathy with Silverdale's troubles.”

Dr. Ringwood, obviously bored, was seeking for a fresh subject.

“Comfortable place, the Institute?” he inquired.

Markfield nodded with obvious approval.

“First-rate. They're prepared to spend money like water on equipment. I've just come in from the new Research Station they've put up for agricultural experiments. It's a few miles out of town. I've got a room or two in it for some work I'm doing in that line.”

Before Dr. Ringwood could reply, the telephone bell trilled and with a stifled malediction he stepped over to the instrument.

“Dr. Ringwood speaking.”

As the message came through, his face darkened.

“Very well. I'll be round to see her shortly. The address is 26 Lauderdale Avenue, you say? . . . I'll come as soon as I can.”

He put down the telephone and turned to his guest.

“I've got to go out, Trevor.”

Markfield looked up.

“You said 26 Lauderdale Avenue, didn't you?” he asked. “Talk of the Devil! That's Silverdale's house. Nothing wrong with Yvonne, is there? Sprained her ankle, or what not, by any chance?”

“No. One of the maids turned sick, it seems; and the other maid's a bit worried because all the family are out to-night and she doesn't know what to do with her invalid. I'll have to go. But how I'll find my way in a fog like this, is beyond me. Where is the place?”

“About a couple of miles away.”

“That'll take a bit of finding,” Dr. Ringwood grumbled, as he thought of the fog and his own sketchy knowledge of the local geography.

Markfield seemed to reflect for a moment or two before answering.

“Tell you what,” he said at last, “I've got my car at the door—I'm just down from the Research Station. If you like, I'll pilot you to Silverdale's. I'll manage it better than you possibly could, on a night like this. You can drive behind me and keep your eye on my tail-light. You could get home again all right, I expect; it's easier, since you've only got to find your way to a main street and stick to it.”

Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to dissemble his relief at this solution of his difficulties.

“That's decent of you, Trevor. Just let me have a look at the map before we start. I'll take it with me, and I expect I'll manage to get home again somehow or other.”

He glanced ruefully round the comfortable room and then went to the window to examine the night.

“Thicker than ever,” he reported. “You'll need to crawl through that fog.”

In a few minutes, Dr. Ringwood had put on his boots, warned Shenstone to attend to the telephone in his absence, and got his car out of the garage. Meanwhile Markfield had started his own engine and was awaiting the doctor at the gate.

“Hoot like blazes the moment you lose sight of me,” he recommended. “If I hear your horn I'll stop and hoot back. That should keep us in touch if the worst comes to the worst.”

He climbed into his driving-seat and started slowly down the road. Dr. Ringwood fell in behind. The fog was denser than ever, and the headlights of the cars merely illuminated its wreaths without piercing them. As soon as his car had started, Dr. Ringwood felt that he had lost touch with all the world except the tail-light ahead of him, and a few square feet of roadway immediately under his eyes. The kerb of the pavement had vanished; no house-window showed through the mist. From time to time the pale beacon of a street-lamp shone high in the air without shedding any illumination upon the ground.

Once the guiding tail-lamp almost disappeared from view. After that, he crept up closer to the leading car, shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake, and drove on the hand-throttle. His eyes began to smart with the nip of the fog and his throat was rasped as he drew his breath. Even in the saloon the air had a lung-catching tang, and he could see shadows in it, thrown by the nimbus of the headlights in the fog.

Almost from the start he had lost his bearings and now he pinned his whole attention on Markfield's tail-lamp. Once or twice he caught sight of tram-lines beside his wheels and knew that they were in a main thoroughfare; but this gave him only the vaguest information of their position. The sound-deadening quality of the vapour about him completed the sense of isolation. Except for the faint beat of his own engine, he seemed to be in a silent world.

Suddenly Markfield's horn surprised him, and he had to jam on his brakes to avoid colliding with the car in front of him. A shadowy figure, hardly to be recognised as human, moved past him to the rear and vanished in the fog-wreaths. Then once more he had to concentrate his attention on the dim lamp ahead.

At last Markfield's car slid softly alongside a pavement and came slowly to rest. Dr. Ringwood pulled up and waited until his guide got down from his seat and came back to him.

“We're just at the turn into Lauderdale Avenue.”

Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to conceal his admiration.

“That's a pretty good bit of navigation,” he said. “I didn't notice you hesitate once in the whole trip.”

“I've a fairly good head for locality,” Markfield returned carelessly. “Now all you have to do is to turn to the left about ten yards further on. The numbering starts from this end of the road, and the even numbers are on the left-hand side. The houses are villas with big gardens, so you've only got to keep count of the gates as you pass them. Stick by the pavement and you'll see the motor-entrances easily enough.”

“Thanks. I doubt if I'd have got here without you, Trevor. Now what about the road home?”

“Come straight back along here. Cross three roads—counting this as No. 1. Then turn to the right and keep straight on till you cross tram-lines. That'll be Park Road. Keep along it to the left till you've crossed two more sets of tram-lines and then turn to the right. That'll be Aldingham Street, at the Blue Boar pub. You'll find your way from there simply enough, I think. That's the easiest way home. I brought you by a shorter route, but you'd never find it on a night like this. See you again soon. 'Night!”

Without waiting for more, Markfield strode off to his car and soon Dr. Ringwood saw the red star, his only point of contact with the real world, slip away from him and vanish in the fog. When it had gone, he let his clutch in and began to grope his way laboriously along the pavement-edge and into Lauderdale Avenue.

The fog was as thick as ever, and he had some difficulty in detecting even the breaks at the edge of the pavement which indicated the positions of house-gates. The walls of the gardens were concealed behind the climbing curtain of vapour. He counted seven entrances and was well on the way to the next when suddenly the roar of a horn made him lift his eyes to the spaces ahead; two golden discs shone almost upon him and only a wild wrench at the wheel saved him from a collision as the strange car swept past on the wrong side.

“Damn their eyes!” he grumbled to himself. “People like that should be hanged. No one has a right to go barging along at twenty miles an hour on a night like this, hustling everyone out of their way. And on the wrong side of the road, too.”

In his swerve he had lost touch with the pavement and he now crept back to the left, steering in gently for fear of rubbing his tyres on the kerb. Then he began counting the gates once more.

“Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve. It's the next one.”

He passed the next gate and drew up just beyond it. Then reflecting that it was hardly safe to leave a car on the street in a night like this, he got down from his seat and went across the pavement to open the gate of the short drive leading up to the house. The entrance was clear, however, and he was about to return to his car when a thought struck him and he lit a match to examine the pillar of the gate.

“No number, of course!” he commented in annoyance. “Ivy Lodge. This must be the place, anyhow.”

Returning to his car, he backed it past the gate and then drove in and up the carriage-way. Just in time, as he came near the front door, the lights of a standing car warned him and he pulled up short to avoid a collision. Shutting off his engine, he got out and approached the house, passing a lighted window as he did so. The standing car was empty, and he climbed the steps to the front door, from which a light was shining. After some searching he discovered the press-button and rang the bell. The fog seemed thicker than ever; and as he stood on the steps and gazed out into it, he could see no lights except those of the empty motor and his own headlamps. The house seemed completely isolated from the world.

Growing impatient, as no one came to open the door, he rang again; and then, after a shorter interval, he held his finger down on the button until it seemed impossible that anyone in the house could fail to hear the sound of the bell. But still no one appeared. The lighted rooms and the waiting car convinced him that there must be someone on the premises; and once more he set the bell in action.

As its notes died away again, he bent towards the door and strained his ears to catch any sound of movement within the building. At first he heard nothing; but all at once something attracted his attention: a noise like a muffled cough. Dr. Ringwood hesitated for only a moment or two.

“Something damned queer about this house, it seems to me,” he commented inwardly. “Technically it's burglary, I suppose; but if the door's unlocked, I think I'd better go in and look round.”

The door opened as he turned the handle, and he stepped softly into the hall. Everything seemed normal in the house. He could hear the ticking of a grandfather's clock further back on the stairs; but the noise which had first attracted his attention was not repeated. Gently closing the door to shut out the fog, he stood for a moment listening intently.

“Anybody here?” he demanded in a carrying voice.

There was no answer; but after a short time he heard again the sound which had puzzled him, evidently coming from the lighted room on the ground floor. Half a dozen swift steps took him to the door which he flung open.

“Good God! What's wrong with you?” he ejaculated, as his glance caught the only occupant of the smoke-room into which he had come.

On a chesterfield, a fair-haired young man was lying helpless. From the red stain on the lips, Dr. Ringwood guessed at a hæmorrhage of the lungs; and the quantity of blood on the boy's shirt-front and the dark pool on the carpet pointed to the severity of the attack. The youth's eyes caught the newcomer, and he beckoned feebly to the doctor. Ringwood crossed to the chesterfield and bent down. It hardly needed an expert to see that assistance had come too late. The sufferer made an effort, and the doctor stooped to catch the words.

“. . . Caught me . . . pistol . . . shot . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . .”

Dr. Ringwood bent closer.

“Who was it?” he demanded.

But that broken and gasped-out message had been the victim's last effort. With the final word, a cough shook him; blood poured from his mouth; and he fell back among the cushions in the terminal convulsion.

Dr. Ringwood saw the jaw drop and realised that he could be of no further service. Suddenly his weariness, accentuated by the strain of the drive through the fog, descended upon him once more. He straightened himself with something of an effort and gazed down at the body, feeling himself curiously detached from this suddenly-emergent mystery, as though it were no direct concern of his. Then, in his own despite, his cool medical brain began to work as though by some volition independent of his own. He drew out his notebook and jotted down the few disjointed words which he had caught, lest he should forget them later on.

Still held by the rigour of his training, he stooped once more and made a close examination of the body, discovering in the course of it two tiny tears in the dress shirt which evidently marked the entries of the bullets which had pierced the lungs. Then, his inspection completed, he left the body undisturbed, noted the time on his wrist-watch, and made a further jotting in his pocket-book.

As he did so, a fresh idea crossed his mind. Had there been more murders? What about the maids in the house? The one who had rung him up must have been somewhere on the premises, dead or alive. Possibly the murderer himself was still lurking in the villa.

Too tired to think of risk, Dr. Ringwood set himself to explore the house; but to his amazement he discovered that it was empty. Nowhere did he see the slightest sign of anything which suggested a divergence from normal routine. The cloak-room showed that two men lived on the premises, since he noted hats of two different sizes on the pegs; and there appeared to be three bedrooms in use, apart from the servants’ rooms on the upper floor.

The next step was obviously to ring up the police, he reflected. The sooner this affair was off his shoulders, the better. But at this point there flashed across his mind the picture of a methodical and possibly slow detective who might even be suspicious of Ringwood himself and wish to detain him till the whole affair was cleared up. That would be a nuisance. Then a way out of the difficulty opened up before him. He remembered paying a visit on the previous night to a butler down with 'flu. When he had seen the patient, the man's master had come and made inquiries about the case; and Ringwood had been able to reassure him as to the man's condition.

“What was that chap's name?” Ringwood questioned his memory. “Sir Clinton Something-or-other. He's Chief Constable or some such big bug. When in doubt, go to headquarters. He'll remember me, I expect; he didn't look as if much slipped past him. And that'll save me from a lot of bother at the hands of underlings. What the devil was his name? Sir Clinton . . . Driffield, that's it. I'll ring him up.”

He glanced round the hall in which he was standing but saw no telephone.

“It's probably in the smoke-room where the body is,” he suggested to himself.

But though he searched all the likely places in the house he was unable to find any instrument.

“They haven't a 'phone, evidently,” he was driven to admit. “But in that case, I can't be in Silverdale's house at all. This must be the wrong shop.”

Then he remembered the moment when the other car had swept down upon him out of the fog.

“That probably explains it,” he said aloud. “When I had to swerve out of his way, I must have missed one of the entrance gates before I got back in touch with the pavement again. If that's so, then obviously I'm in the wrong house. But whose house is it?”

He re-entered the smoke-room and looked round in search of some clue. A writing-desk stood over against one of the walls, and he crossed to it and took up a sheet of paper from a note-paper case. The heading was what he wanted: “Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue, Westerhaven.”

“That's what happened,” he reflected, with a faint satisfaction at having cleared the point up so simply. “I'm next door to Silverdale's place, evidently, I can 'phone from there.”

It occurred to him that he had better be on the safe side and make sure of his information by adding the name of the householder when he rang up the Chief Constable. A fresh search among the pigeon-holes of the desk produced a letter in its original envelope addressed to “Edward Hassendean, Esq.” Dr. Ringwood put it down again and racked his memory for an association with the name. He had paid only the most perfunctory attention to Markfield's talk, earlier in the evening, and it was some seconds before his mind could track down the elusive data.

“Hassendean! That was the name of the cub who was hanging round the skirts of Silverdale's wife, I believe.”

He glanced at the body on the chesterfield.

“It might be that youngster. The police will soon find out from the contents of his pockets, I expect. Besides, the rest of the family will be home soon. They must be out for the evening, and the maids too. That accounts for the house being empty.”

He pulled out his pocket-book and scanned the note he had made of the boy's disjointed utterance.

“Caught me . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . .”

A flash of illumination seemed to pass across Dr. Ringwood's mind as he re-read the words. In it he saw a frivolous wife, a dissolute boy, and a husband exasperated by the sudden discovery of an intrigue; a sordid little tragedy of three characters. That seemed to be a plain enough explanation of the miserable affair. Markfield's suspicions had clearly been fairly near the truth; if anything, they had fallen short of the real state of affairs. Something had precipitated the explosion; and Dr. Ringwood idly speculated for a moment or two upon what could have led to the husband's enlightenment.

Then he awoke to a fresh aspect of the affair. The Hassendean family would be coming home again shortly, or else the maids would put in an appearance. The sooner the police were on the premises, the better. In the meanwhile, it seemed advisable to prevent any disturbance of things, if possible.

Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room, locked the door after him, and removed the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Then, making sure that the front door could be opened from the outside when he returned, he went down the steps and out into the fog once more.

Chapter II.
The House Next Door

The box edging of the drive gave Dr. Ringwood sufficient guidance through the darkness down to the gate; and by following the garden wall thereafter, he had little difficulty in making his way to the entrance of No. 26. By the light of a match he read the name Heatherfield on the gate-pillar, but here also there was no distinguishing number. This time, however, there could be no mistake and he groped his way cautiously up the drive until the light over the front door shone faintly through the fog.

As he went, a fresh complication in the situation presented itself to his mind. What would be the effect if he blurted out the news of the tragedy at Ivy Lodge? If the maid at Silverdale's happened to be of a nervous type, she might take fright when she heard of the murder and might refuse to be left alone in the house with only a sick companion. That would be very awkward. Dr. Ringwood decided that his best course would be to say nothing about the affair next door, and merely make some simple excuse for going to the telephone. If he could shut himself up while he telephoned, she would learn nothing; if not, then he would need to invent some pretext for getting her out of the way while he communicated with the police.

He climbed the steps and pressed the bell-button. This time he was not kept waiting, for almost immediately the door opened and a middle-aged woman, apparently a cook, peered nervously out at his figure framed in the fog. Seeing a stranger before her, she kept the door almost closed.

“Is that Dr. Ringwood?” she asked.

Then, as he nodded assent, she broke into a torrent of tremulous explanation:

“I thought you were never coming, doctor. It's such a responsibility being left with Ina upstairs ill and no one else in the house. First of all, she was headachy; then she was sick; and her skin's hot and she looks all flushed. I think she's real ill, doctor.”

“We'll see about it,” Dr. Ringwood assured her. “But first of all, I have to ring up about another patient. You've a 'phone, of course? It won't take me a minute; and it's important.”

The maid seemed put out that he did not go straight to his patient; but she led the way to the cloakroom where the telephone was fixed. Dr. Ringwood paused before going to the instrument. He bethought himself of a pretext to get this nervous creature out of earshot.

“Let's see,” he said. “I may need some boiling water—a small jug of it. Can you go and put on a kettle now, so that it'll be ready if I want it?”

The maid went off towards the kitchen, whereupon he closed the door behind him and rang up. To his relief, Sir Clinton Driffield was at home; and in less than a couple of minutes Dr. Ringwood was able to tell his story.

“This is Dr. Ringwood speaking, Sir Clinton. You may remember me; I'm attending your butler.”

“Nothing wrong in the case, I hope?” the Chief Constable demanded.

“No, it's not that. I was called here—Heatherfield, 26 Lauderdale Avenue, this evening. I'm Dr. Carew's locum and a stranger in Westerhaven; and in this fog I went to the wrong house—the one next door to here: Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue. Mr. Hassendean's house. The place was lit up and a car was at the door; but I got no answer when I rang the bell. Something roused my suspicions and I went inside. The house was empty: no maids or anyone on the premises. In a smoke-room on the ground floor I found a youngster of about twenty-two or so, dying. He'd been shot twice in the lung and he died on my hands almost as I went in.”

He paused; but as Sir Clinton made no comment, Dr. Ringwood continued:

“The house hadn't a telephone. I came in here, after locking the smoke-room door. I've a patient to see in this house. How long will it take your people to get to Ivy Lodge and take charge?”

“I'll be over myself in twenty minutes,” Sir Clinton replied. “Probably the local police will be there about the same time. I'll ring them up now.”

“Very well. I'll see to my patient here; and then I'll go back to Ivy Lodge to wait for you. Someone ought to be on the premises in case the maids or the family come home again.”

“Right. I'll be with you shortly. Good-bye.”

Dr. Ringwood, glancing at his watch, saw that it was twenty minutes past ten.

“They ought to be here about a quarter to eleven, if they can find their way in that fog,” he reflected.

Leaving the cloakroom, he made his way to the nearest sitting-room and rang the bell for the maid.

“The water will be boiling in a minute or two, doctor,” she announced, coming from the back premises. “Will you need it before you go up to see Ina, or shall I bring it up to you?”

“I may not need it at all. Show me the way, please.”

She led him up to the patient's room and waited while he made his examination.

“What is it, doctor?” she demanded when he came out again.

“She's got scarlatina, I'm afraid. Rather a bad attack. She ought to be taken to hospital now, but on a night like this I doubt if the hospital van could get here easily. Have you had scarlet yourself, by any chance?”

“Yes, doctor. I had it when I was a child.”

Dr. Ringwood nodded, as though contented by the information.

“Then you don't run much risk of taking it from her. That simplifies things. I'd rather not shift her to-night, just in case the van lost its way. But if you can look after her for a few hours, it will be all right.”

The maid did not seem altogether overjoyed at this suggestion. Dr. Ringwood sought for some way out of the difficulty.

“There's nobody at home to-night, is there?”

“No, sir. Mr. Silverdale hasn't been home since lunch-time, and Mrs. Silverdale went out immediately after dinner.”

“When will she be back?”

“Not till late, sir, I expect. Young Mr. Hassendean came to dinner, and they went off in his car. I expect they've gone to the Alhambra to dance, sir.”

Dr. Ringwood repressed his involuntary movement at the name Hassendean.

“When in doubt, play the medicine-man card,” he concluded swiftly in his mind, without betraying anything outwardly. It seemed possible that he might get some evidence out of the maid before she became confused by any police visit. He assumed an air of doubt as he turned again to the woman.

“Did Mrs. Silverdale come much in contact with the housemaid during the day?”

“No, sir. Hardly at all.”

“H'm! When did Mrs. Silverdale have dinner?”

“At half-past seven, sir.”

“Was this Mr. Hassendean here long before dinner?”

“No, sir. He came in a few minutes before the half-hour.”

“Where were they before dinner?”

“In the drawing-room, sir.”

“The maid had been in that room during the day, I suppose?”

“Only just doing some dusting, sir. She had been complaining of a sore throat and being out of sorts, and she didn't do anything she could avoid bothering with.”

Dr. Ringwood shook his head as though he were not very easy in his mind.

“Then Mrs. Silverdale and Mr. Hassendean went in to dinner? Did the housemaid wait at dinner?”

“No, sir. By that time she was feeling very bad, so I sent her to bed and looked after the dinner myself.”

“She hadn't touched the dishes, or anything of that sort?”

“No, sir.”

“And immediately after dinner, Mrs. Silverdale and Mr. Hassendean went out?”

The maid hesitated for a moment.

“Yes, sir. At least——”

Dr. Ringwood made his face grave.

“Tell me exactly what happened. One never can tell with these scarlet cases.”

“Well, sir, I was just going to bring in coffee when Mr. Hassendean said: ‘Let's have our coffee in the drawing-room, Yvonne. This room's a bit cold.’ Or something like that. I remember he didn't want the coffee in the dining-room, at any rate. So I went to get it; and when I came back with it they were sitting beside the fire in the drawing-room. I was going to take the tray over to them, when Mr. Hassendean said: ‘Put it down on the table over there.’ So I put it down and went away to clear the dining-room table.”

“And the housemaid had dusted the drawing-room this morning,” Dr. Ringwood said thoughtfully. “Mr. Hassendean wasn't long in the drawing-room after dinner, was he?”

“No, sir. They didn't take very long over their coffee.”

Dr. Ringwood looked judicial and seemed to consider some abstruse point before speaking again.

“Mrs. Silverdale didn't look ill during the day, did she?”

“No, sir. But now you mention it, I did think she seemed rather strange just before she went out.”

“Indeed? I was afraid of something of the sort. What do you mean, exactly?” Dr. Ringwood demanded, concealing his interest as well as he could.

“Well, sir, it's hard to say exactly. She came out of the drawing-room and went upstairs to get her cloak; and as she came down again, I passed her in the hall, taking some dishes to the kitchen. She seemed dazed-like, now you mention it.”

“Dazed?”

“Funny sort of look in her eyes, sir. I can't describe it well. Seemed as if she wasn't taking notice of me as I passed.”

Dr. Ringwood's face showed an increase in gravity.

“I'm afraid Mrs. Silverdale may have got infected too. What about Mr. Hassendean?”

The maid considered for a moment before answering.

“I didn't notice anything strange about Mr. Hassendean, sir. Unless, perhaps, he did seem a bit nervous—high-strung like, I thought. But I'd never have paid attention to it if you hadn't asked me the question.”

Dr. Ringwood made a gesture of approval, inwardly thanking his stars for the lay public's ignorance of diseases.

“And then they went off together?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Hassendean took the cloak from Mrs. Silverdale and put it over her shoulders. Then he took her arm and they went out to his car. It was waiting in front of the door.”

“H'm! I suppose the housemaid hadn't touched the cloak to-day?”

“Oh, no, sir. She'd been in Mrs. Silverdale's room, of course; but she wouldn't have any reason to go near the cloak.”

Dr. Ringwood feigned a difficulty in recollection.

“Hassendean! I surely know him. Isn't he about my height, fair, with a small moustache?”

“Yes, sir. That's him.”

Dr. Ringwood had confirmed his guess. It was young Hassendean's body that lay next door.

“Let's see,” he said. “I may have to come back here in an hour or so. I'd like to have another look at my patient upstairs. Will Mrs. Silverdale be back by that time, do you think?”

“That would be about half-past eleven, sir? No, I don't think she'd be back as soon as that. She's usually out until after midnight, most nights.”

“Well, you might sit up and wait for me, please. Go to bed if I'm not here by twelve. But—— No, if you can manage it, I think you ought to keep awake till Mrs. Silverdale comes home. That patient shouldn't be left with no one to look after her. I'm just afraid she may get a little light-headed in the night. It's hard lines on you; but you must do your best for her.”

“Very well, sir, if you say so.”

“Perhaps Mr. Silverdale will turn up. Is he usually late?”

“One never can tell with him, sir. Some days he comes home to dinner and works late in his study. Other times he's out of the house from breakfast-time and doesn't get back till all hours. He might be here in five minutes now, or he mightn't come home till two in the morning.”

Dr. Ringwood felt that he had extracted all the information he could reasonable expect to get. He gave the maid some directions as to what she should do in possible emergencies; then, glancing at his watch, he took his departure.

As he went down the steps of the house, he found no signs of the fog lifting; and he had to exercise as much care as ever in making his way through it. He was not unsatisfied with the results of his interrogation. Young Hassendean had met Silverdale's wife by appointment, evidently. They had dined together; and then they had gone away in the fog. Clearly enough, from what the maid said, both of them were in a somewhat abnormal state when they left the house. ‘Dazed-like,’ ‘a bit nervous—high strung.’ He recalled the expressions with a faint annoyance at the vagueness of the descriptions.

It seemed quite likely that, instead of going to a dance-hall, they had simply driven round to Ivy Lodge, which young Hassendean must have known to be empty at that time. And there, something had happened. The girl had gone away or been taken away, and the youngster had been left to die. But where had Yvonne Silverdale gone?

Dr. Ringwood opened the door of Ivy Lodge and took the key of the smoke-room from his pocket. The house was silent as when he left it. Evidently no one had come home.

Chapter III.
Sir Clinton at Ivy Lodge

Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room door open to ensure that he would hear anyone who entered the house. He made a second cursory inspection of young Hassendean's body; but as he took care not to alter the position of anything, he discovered no more than he had done when he inspected it originally. There seemed to be nothing further for him to do until the police came upon the scene; so he picked out a comfortable chair and let himself relax whilst he had the chance.

The patient next door worried him a little. Perhaps he ought to have got the girl off to hospital at once, fog or no fog. It would be awkward if she turned delirious in the night. And from that, his mind drifted to other cases which were giving him anxiety. With this 'flu epidemic, Carew's practice had been anything but the nice, quiet, jog-trot business he had imagined it to be when he promised to come as locum.

By some incongruous linking, his thoughts came back to the events through which he had just passed. Death was all in the day's work for a medical man, but he had hardly bargained for murder. At least, he had hitherto assumed that this was a case of murder, but possibly it was suicide. He recalled that he had not seen any pistol; and he felt a momentary inclination to search the room for the weapon; but his fatigue was greater than his interest, and he abandoned the project. After all, it was an affair for the police, when they came to take charge; it was no business of his.

Nevertheless, he could not shake off the subject of the tragedy; and, despite himself, he began to speculate on the possibilities of the situation. Suppose that, after dinner, young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale had simply driven round to Ivy Lodge. That would account for the empty car at the door. Then they must have come into the house. He had found the door unlocked, so that anyone could enter. That seemed rather a peculiar point. Surely, if they had come here for the only purpose which seemed covered by the case, they would have taken the obvious precaution of closing the front door against intruders. But if they had done that, how could Silverdale have got in? He could hardly have had a latch-key for his neighbours’ house.

It occurred to Dr. Ringwood that possibly Silverdale might have gained admittance through some unlatched window. He might have seen something through the smoke-room window and got into the house like a burglar. But all the curtains were tightly drawn. No one could see in from the outside, even if they had wished to do so. Obviously, then, it could not have been a chance discovery of his wife's guilt that had roused Silverdale to the pitch of murder. He must have had his suspicions and deliberately tracked down the guilty couple.

Almost against his will, Dr. Ringwood's mind persisted in an attempt to reconstruct the happenings of the night. Suppose Silverdale got in—no matter how—then evidently he must have surprised the two; and the end of that business had been the shooting of young Hassendean. But that left Yvonne Silverdale and her husband still unaccounted for. Had she fled into the night before Silverdale could shoot her in her turn. Or had her husband forced her to go with him—whither? And if this were the truth of the matter, why had Silverdale not locked the door? There seemed to be many things needing explanation before one could feel that the case was clear. Well, that was the business of the police.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sound of feet at the front door, and he pulled himself together with a start and rose from his chair. He was just moving towards the door when it opened and Sir Clinton Driffield, accompanied by another man, entered the room.

“Good evening, Dr. Ringwood,” the Chief Constable greeted him. “I think we've managed to get here at the time I promised, though it was a difficult business with all this fog about.”

He turned to introduce his companion.

“This is Inspector Flamborough, doctor. He's in charge of the case. I'm merely here as an onlooker. I've given him the facts, so far as I know them from you; but I expect that he may wish further information if you have any.”

At Sir Clinton's words, the mouth under Inspector Flamborough's tooth-brush moustache curved in a smile, half-friendly and half-inscrutable. Simultaneously, he seemed to be establishing good relations with the doctor and appreciating some obscure joke in the Chief Constable's remarks.

“It's very lucky you're a medical man, sir. Death's all in the day's work with you and me; neither of us is likely to be put off our balance by it. Most witnesses in cases of this sort get so confused by the shock that it's difficult to squeeze any clear story out of them. A doctor's different.”

Dr. Ringwood was not particularly susceptible to flattery, but he recognised that the Inspector probably was voicing his real sentiments. All three of them were experts in death, and among them there was no need to waste time in polite lamentations. None of them had ever set eyes on the victim before that night, and there was no object in becoming sentimental over him.

“Sit down, doctor,” Sir Clinton broke in, after a glance at the medical man's face. “You look as if you were about tired out. This 'flu epidemic must be taking it out of you.”

Dr. Ringwood did not wait to be asked twice. Sir Clinton followed his example, but the Inspector, pulling a notebook from his pocket, prepared to open his investigation.

“Let's see, now, doctor,” he began pleasantly. “I'd like to start from the beginning. You might tell us just how you happened to come into the business; and if you can give us some definite times, it'll be a great help.”

Dr. Ringwood nodded, but seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying:

“I think I could give you it clearest if I were sure of one thing first. I believe that's the body of young Hassendean who lived in this house, but I haven't examined it closely—didn't wish to disturb it in any way before you turned up. If it is young Hassendean's body, then I can fit some other things into my evidence. Perhaps you'll have a look for yourselves and see if you can identify him.”

The Inspector exchanged a glance with his superior.

“Just as you please, sir,” he answered.

He crossed the room, knelt beside the chesterfield, and began to search the pockets in the body's clothes. The first two yielded nothing in the way of identification, but from one of the pockets of the evening waistcoat the Inspector fished out a small card.

“Season ticket for the Alhambra,” he reported, after glancing over it. “You're right, doctor. The signature's here: Ronald Hassendean.”

“I was pretty sure of it,” Dr. Ringwood answered. “But I like to be certain.”

The Inspector rose to his feet and came back to the hearthrug.

“Now, perhaps, sir, you'll tell us the story in your own way. Only let's have it clear. I mean, tell us what you saw yourself and let's know when you're bringing anything else in.”

Dr. Ringwood had a clear mind and could put his facts together in proper order. In spite of his physical weariness, he was able to take each incident of the evening in its proper turn and make it fit neatly into its place in his narrative. When he had finished, he had brought the story up to the point when the police arrived. As he closed his tale, the Inspector shut his notebook with a nod of approval.

“There's a lot of useful information there, doctor. We're lucky in having your help. Some of what you've told us would have cost a lot of bother to fish out of different people.”

Sir Clinton rose to his feet with a gesture which invited the doctor to remain in his chair.

“Of course, doctor,” he pointed out, “a good deal of your story is like What the Soldier Said—it isn't first-hand evidence. We'll have to get it for ourselves, again, from the people who gave it to you: Dr. Markfield and this maid next door. That's only routine; and doesn't imply that we disbelieve it in the slightest, naturally.”

Dr. Ringwood agreed with a faint smile.

“I prefer getting a patient's symptoms at first-hand myself,” he said. “Things do get distorted a bit in the re-telling. And some of what I gave you is quite possibly just gossip. I thought you ought to hear it; but most certainly I don't guarantee its accuracy.”

The Inspector beamed his approval of the doctor's views.

“And now, sir,” he said, glancing at Sir Clinton, “I think I'd better go over the ground here and see if there's anything worth picking up.”

He suited the action to the word, and began a systematic search of the room, commenting aloud from time to time for his companions’ benefit.

“There's no pistol here, unless it's hidden away somewhere,” he reported after a while. “The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

Sir Clinton's face took on a quizzical expression.

“Just one suggestion, Inspector. Let's keep the facts and the inferences in separate boxes, if you please. What we really do know is that you haven't found any pistol up to the present.”

Flamborough's grin showed that the Chief Constable's shot had gone home without wounding his feelings.

“Very good, sir. ‘Pistol or pistols, not found.’ I'll note that down.”

He went down on hands and knees to examine the carpet.

“Here's something fresh, sir,” he announced. “The carpet's so dark that I didn't notice it before. The pattern concealed it, too. But here it is, all right.”

He drew his fore-finger over the fabric at a spot near the door, and then held it for their inspection, stained with an ominous red.

“A blood-spot, and a fair-sized one, too! There may be more of them about.”

“Yes,” said Sir Clinton mildly. “I noticed some on the hall-carpet as I came in. There's a trail of them from the front door into this room. Perhaps you didn't see them; they're not conspicuous.”

The Inspector looked a trifle crestfallen.

“I know you've a sharp eye, sir. I didn't spot them myself.”

“Suppose we finish up this room before going elsewhere. All the windows are fast, are they?” the Chief Constable asked.

Flamborough examined them and reported that all the catches were on. Then he gazed up and down the room inquisitively.

“Looking for bullet-holes?” Sir Clinton questioned. “Quite right. But you won't find any.”

“I like to be certain about things, sir.”

“So do I, Inspector. So does Dr. Ringwood, if you remember. Well, you can be certain of one thing. If two shots had been fired in here this evening, and if all the windows had been left closed as they are now, then I'd have smelt the tang of the powder in the air when we came in. I didn't. Ergo, no shots were fired in this room. Whence it follows that it's no use hunting for bullet-holes. Does that chain of reasoning satisfy you, Inspector?”

Flamborough made a gesture of vexation.

“That's true enough,” he confessed. “I ought to have thought of it.”

“I think we've got the main points, now, so far as this room itself goes,” Sir Clinton observed, without paying any heed to the Inspector's annoyance. “Would you mind examining the body, doctor, just to confirm your view that he was shot in the lung?”

Dr. Ringwood assented and, crossing over, he subjected young Hassendean's body to a careful scrutiny. A few minutes sufficed to prove that the only wounds were those in the chest; and when the doctor had satisfied himself that his earlier diagnosis was correct, he turned to the Chief Constable.

“There's no certainty without a P.M., of course, but from the way the bullets have gone in, it's pretty obvious that the shots took effect on the left lung. There's very little external bleeding, apparently; and that rather looks as if one of the intercostal arteries may be involved. He must have bled a lot internally, I suspect. Probably the P.M. will confirm that.”

Sir Clinton accepted the verdict without demur.

“And what do you make out of things, Inspector?” he demanded, turning to Flamborough.

“Well, sir, with these small-calibre pistols, it's difficult to give more than a guess. So far as I can see, it looks as if the pistol had been quite close-up when it was fired. I think I can see something that looks like scorching or discoloration on his dress shirt round about the wound, though the blood makes it hard to be sure. That's really as far as I'd like to go until I've had a better chance of examining the thing.”

Sir Clinton turned back to the doctor.

“I suppose a wound in the lung may produce death at almost any length of time after the shot's actually fired. I mean that a man may live for quite a long while even with a wound like this and might be able to move about to some extent after being shot?”

Dr. Ringwood had no hesitation in agreeing with this.

“He might have lived for an hour or two—even for days. Or else, of course, he might have collapsed almost at once. You never can tell what will happen in lung wounds.”

Sir Clinton seemed to give this a certain consideration. Then he moved towards the door.

“We'll take up the blood-trail now. You'd better switch off the light and lock the door, Inspector. We don't want anyone blundering in here and getting a fright by any mischance.”

They went out into the hall, where Sir Clinton drew the attention of the Inspector to the traces of blood which he had noticed on the carpet.

“Now we'd better have a look at that car outside,” he suggested.

As they descended the steps from the front door, the Inspector took a flash-lamp from his pocket and switched it on. Its rays merely served to light up the fog; and it was not until they came almost to the side of the car that they could see much. The Inspector bent across, rubbed his finger over the driving-seat, and then examined his hand in the light of the lamp.

“Some more blood there, sir,” he reported.

He cleaned away the marks on his finger-tip and proceeded to explore the other seats in the same manner. The results were negative. Apart from one or two spots on the running-board at the driving-seat door, the car seemed otherwise clean. Inspector Flamborough straightened himself up and turned to Sir Clinton.

“It seems that he must have driven the car back himself, sir. If someone else had done the driving, the blood would have been on some of the other seats instead of this one.”

Sir Clinton acquiesced with a gesture.

“I suppose that's possible, doctor? A wound in the lung wouldn't incapacitate him completely?”

Dr. Ringwood shook his head.

“It would depend entirely on the sort of wound it was. I see nothing against it, prima facie. Driving a car isn't really much strain on the body muscles.”

Sir Clinton ran his eye over the lines of the car in the light of the side-lamps.

“It's an Austin, so he'd be able to get the engine going with the self-starter, probably, even on a night like this. He wouldn't need to crank up the car. There would be no exertion on his part.”