He ended on an uncertain laugh; it was plain that under his flippancy he was shaken. The butler looked at him curiously, and then at Glass, who, after staring at Neville Fletcher for a moment, licked his pencil-point, and asked: "When did you see Mr. Fletcher last, if you please, sir?"
"At dinner. In the dining-room, I mean. No, let us be exact; not the dining-room; the hall."
"Make up your mind, sir," recommended Glass stolidly.
"Yes, that's all right. After dinner he came here, and I wandered off to the billiard-room. We parted in the hall."
"At what hour would that have been, sir?" Neville shook his head. "I don't know. After dinner. Do you know, Simmons?"
"I couldn't say, sir, not precisely. The master was usually out of the dining-room by ten to nine." "And after that you didn't see Mr. Fletcher again?"
"No. Not till now. Anything you'd like to know, or can I withdraw?"
"It'll save time, sir, if you'll give an account of your movements between the time you and the deceased left the dining-room, and 10.05 p.m."
"Well, I went to the billiard-room, and knocked the balls about a bit."
"Alone, sir?"
"Yes, but my aunt came to find me, so I left."
"Your aunt?"
"Miss Fletcher," interpolated the butler. "The master's sister, Mr. Glass."
"You left the billiard-room with your aunt, sir? Did you remain with her?"
"No. Which all goes to show that politeness always pays. I silently faded away, and now I'm sorry, because if I'd accompanied her to the drawing-room I should have had an alibi, which I haven't got. I went upstairs to my own room, and read a book. I wonder if I can have fallen asleep over it?" He looked doubtfully towards his uncle's chair, and gave a faint shudder. "No, my God, I couldn't dream anything like this! It's fantastic."
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Glass, I fancy that was the front-door bell," interrupted Simmons, moving towards the door.
A few moments later a police-sergeant, with several satellites, was ushered into the study, and in the hall outside the voice of Miss Fletcher, urgently desiring to be told the meaning of this invasion, was upraised in some agitation. Neville slid out of the study, and took his aunt by the arm. "I'll tell you. Come into the drawingroom."
"But who are all those men?" demanded Miss Fletcher. "They looked to me exactly like policemen!"
"Well they are," said Neville. "Most of them, anyway. Look here, Aunt Lucy -'
"We've been burgled!"
"No -' He stopped. "I don't know. Yes, perhaps that was it. Sorry, aunt, but it's worse than that. Ernie has met with an accident."
He stumbled a little over the words, looking anxiously at his aunt.
"Try not to mumble so, Neville dear. What did you say?"
"I said an accident, but I didn't mean it. Ernie's dead."
"Dead? Ernie?" faltered Miss Fletcher. "Oh no! You can't mean that! How could he be dead? Neville, you know I don't like that sort of joke. It isn't kind, dear, to say nothing of its being in very questionable taste."
"It isn't a joke."
She gave a gasp. "Not. Oh, Neville! Oh, let me go to him at once!"
"No use. Besides, you mustn't. Terribly sorry, but there it is. I'm a trifle knocked-up myself."
"Neville, you're keeping something back!"
"Yes. He's been murdered."
Her pale, rather prominent blue eyes stared at him. She opened her mouth, but no words passed her lips. Neville, acutely uncomfortable, made a vague gesture with his hands. "Can I do anything? I should like to, only I don't know what. Do you feel faint? Yes, I know I'm being incompetent, but this isn't civilised, any of it. One has lost one's balance."
She said: 'Ernie murdered? I don't believe it!"
"Oh, don't be silly," he said, betraying ragged nerves. "A man doesn't bash his own skull in."
She gave a whimper, and groped her way to the nearest chair, and sank into it. Neville lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled, and said: "Sorry, but you had to know sooner or later."
She seemed to be trying to collect her wits. After a pause she exclaimed: "But who would want to murder dear Ernie?"
"Search me."
"There has been some dreadful mistake! Oh, Ernie, Ernie!"
She burst into tears. Neville, attempting no consolation, sat down in a large armchair opposite to her, and smoked.
Meanwhile, in the study, PC Glass was making his painstaking report to his superior. The doctor had gone; the cameramen had taken their photographs; and the body of Ernest Fletcher had been removed.
"I was on my beat, Sergeant, walking along Vale Avenue, the time being 10.02 p.m. When I came to the corner of Maple Grove, which, as you know, sir, is the lane running between Vale Avenue and the Arden Road, at the back of the house, my attention was attracted by a man coming out of the side gate of this house in what seemed to me a suspicious manner. He set off, walking very fast, towards the Arden Road."
"Would you know him again?"
"No, Sergeant. It was nearly dark, and I never saw his face. He had turned the corner into Arden Road before I had time to do more than wonder what he was up to." He hesitated, frowning a little. "As near as I could make out, he was a man of average height, wearing a lightcoloured soft hat. I don't know what gave me the idea there was something wrong about his coming out of Mr. Fletcher's garden-gate, unless it was the hurry he seemed to be in. The Lord led my footsteps."
"Yes, never mind about that!" said the Sergeant hastily. "What did you do then?"
"I called out to him to stop, but he paid no heed, and the next instant had rounded the corner into the Arden Road. That circumstance led me to inspect these premises. I found the garden-gate standing open, and, seeing the light from this window, I came up the path with the intention. of discovering whether anything was wrong. I saw the deceased, like you found him, Sergeant. The time, as verified by my watch and the clock there, was 10.05 p.m. My first action was to ascertain that Mr. Fletcher was dead. Having assured myself that he was past mortal help, I effected a search of the room, and made sure no one was hiding in the bushes in the garden. I then called up the station on the telephone, the time being 10.10 p.m. While I was waiting to be connected, the butler, Joseph Simmons, entered the room, bearing the tray you see upon that table. I detained him, for interrogation. He states that at about 9 p.m. a person of the name of Abraham Budd came to see the deceased. He ushered same into this room. He states that he does not know when Abraham Budd left the house."
"Description?"
"I hadn't got to that, sir. Mr. Neville Fletcher came in at that moment. He states that he saw the deceased last at about 8.50 p.m., when they left the dining-room together."
"All right; we'll see him in a minute. Anything else?"
"Nothing that I saw," replied Glass, after a moment's scrupulous thought.
"We'll look around. Looks like an open-and-shut case against this man you saw making off. Friend Abraham Budd, eh?"
"Not to my way of thinking, Sergeant," said Glass.
The Sergeant stared. "Oh, it isn't, isn't it? Why not? The Lord been guiding you again?"
A flash of anger brought Glass's cold eyes to life. "The scorner is an abomination to men!" he said.
"That's enough!" said the Sergeant. "You remember you're speaking to your superior officer, if you please, my lad!"
"A scorner," pursued Glass inexorably, "loveth not one that reproveth him: neither will he go unto the wise. The man Budd came openly to the front door, making no secret of his name."
The Sergeant grunted. "It's a point, I grant you. May not have been a premeditated murder, though. Fetch the butler in."
"Joseph Simmons is well known to me for a godly member," said Glass, on his way to the door.
"All right, all right! Fetch him!"
The butler was discovered in the hall, still looking rather pale. When he entered the study he cast a nervous look towards the desk, and drew an audible sigh of relief when he saw the chair behind it unoccupied.