"He's a small-time criminal. Done time and came out of gaol about a year ago. We found his finger-prints on the late Ernest's desk."
Glass frowned. "How is such an one concerned in the case? Truly, the way is dark."
"Not as dark as you think," replied the Sergeant. "Carpenter was mixed up with one of the late Ernest's little bits of fluff. That crack of yours about the girl in the photograph having an end as bitter as wormwood was one of your luckier shots. That was Angela Angel, the same that committed suicide sixteen months ago. It looks as though she didn't want to go on living when the late Ernest shook her off - supposing he was the boy-friend, which it's pretty certain he was. Silly little fool, of course, but you can't help feeling sorry for the kid."
"The soul that sinneth, it shall die," Glass said harshly. "Is it thought that Carpenter slew Ernest Fletcher?"
"That's what we can't make out. We shan't till we lay our hands on him. It looks a cinch, on the face of it, but somehow it doesn't fit with what we know of him. My own idea is that Charlie thought he saw his way to putting the black on the late Ernest, over Angela's death."
"It is possible. But he would not then kill Fletcher."
"You wouldn't think so, but when you've seen as much crime as I have, my lad, you'll know that the more improbable a thing seems to be the more likely it is it'll turn out to be a fact. But I won't deny you've made a point. What the Chief thinks is that Carpenter may have seen the real murderer."
Glass turned his arctic gaze upon the Sergeant. "How should that be? Why should he remain silent if it were so?"
"That's easy. He's not the sort to go running to the police. He'd have to explain why he was at Greystones, for one thing."
"True. Is his habitation known to you?"
"If you'd talk plain English, we'd get on better," remarked the Sergeant. "No, it isn't known to me, but I'm hoping it soon will be. Meanwhile, we've got to see what we can find out about friend North." He saw the question in Glass's eyes, and added: "Oh, you don't know about that little problem play, do you? According to the Chief, Mrs. North thinks North was the man she saw in the garden. So what must she do but alter her evidence to suit this new development? Lying lips about hits her off."
"Why should she think it?"
"Because it turns out that he was sculling around without an alibi at the time. The Chief's working on him now. Then there's Budd. He's been up to no good, or I'm a Dutchman."
They had by this time reached Greystones. As they turned in at the front gate, Glass suddenly said: "The day cometh that shall burn them as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall be stubble!"
"You may be right, but it won't be in your time, my lad, so don't you think it!" replied the Sergeant tartly. "Now you can go and make yourself useful. The butler's a friend of yours, isn't he?"
"I know him. I do not call him a friend, for I have few friends."
"You surprise me!" said the Sergeant. "Still, if you're acquainted with him, that ought to be good enough. You go and have a chat with him -just a nice, casual chat."
"An idle soul shall suffer hunger," said Glass austerely.
"Not when it's idling with a butler. Or thirst either, if it comes to that," retorted the Sergeant.
"Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs, like a sharp razor working deceitfully," Glass told him. "Simmons is an honest man, in the way of Light."
"Yes, that's why I'm handing him over to you," said the Sergeant. "And I don't want any more backchat! You'll get that butler talking, and see what you can pick up."
Half-an-hour later the Sergeant, standing before the wall at the end of the garden, and gazing thoughtfully at one of the espaliers growing against it, was interrupted in his cogitations by the arrival on the scene of Neville Fletcher and Miss Drew.
"Oh, here's the Sergeant!" said Neville. "He's a nice man, Sally: you'll like him."
The Sergeant turned, foreboding in his breast. The monocle in Miss Drew's eye confirmed his fears. He regarded her with misgiving, but, being a polite man, bade her good-morning.
"You're looking for the weapon," said Miss Drew. "I've given a good deal of thought to that myself."
"So have I. I was even constructive," said Neville. "But Malachi told me to stand in awe, and sin not."
The Sergeant's lips twitched, but he said dryly: "Well, from all I hear, sir, that was about what you were asking for."
"Yes, but he also advised me to commune with my own heart upon my bed, and be still, which I maintain was unreasonable at three in the afternoon."
"I rather think of making a study of Malachi," announced Miss Drew. "He's probably a very interesting case - psychologically speaking. He ought to be psychoanalysed, I think."
"You're right, miss; he ought," agreed the Sergeant, regarding her with a kindlier light in his eye. "Ten to one, it would come out that he had something happen to him when he was an infant that would account for the kink he's got now."
"Dropped on his head?" inquired Neville.
"Oh no, it was probably some seemingly trivial episode which affected his subconscious," said Sally.
"My precious!" said Neville, with spurious fondness.
"He hasn't got one."
The Sergeant could not allow this assertion to pass. "That's where you're wrong, sir. Everyone's got a subconscious."
Neville's interest was at once aroused: "Let us sit down, and talk this over. I can see you're going to support Miss Drew, but though I know little, if anything, about the subject I have a very agile brain, and I'm practically certain to refute all your statements. We will have a lovely argument, shall we?"
"Very nice, I'm sure, sir," said the Sergeant, "but I'm not here to argue with you. It would be a waste of my time."
"It wouldn't be half such a waste of time as staring at that broken branch," said Neville. "Argument with me is very stimulating to the brain, and as a matter of fact that branch, which looks like a clue, is a snare for the unwary."
The Sergeant looked at him rather narrowly. "Is it, sir? Perhaps you can tell me how it comes to be broken?"
"I can, of course, but it isn't awfully interesting. Are you sure you wouldn't rather -'
"It might be very interesting to me," interposed the Sergeant.
"You're wrong," Neville said. "It looks to you as though someone climbed over the wall, using the espalier as a foothold, doesn't it?"
"Yes," replied the Sergeant. "It looks remarkably like that to me."
"You're jolly clever," said Neville, "because that's exactly what did happen."
"It did, did it?" The Sergeant eyed him with acute suspicion. "Are you trying to get funny with me, sir?"
"No, I wouldn't dare. You mightn't think it, but I'm frightened of you. Don't be misled by my carefree manner: it's a mask assumed to hide my inward perturbation."
"That I might believe," said the Sergeant grimly. "But I'd like to hear a little more about this branch. Who climbed over the wall?"
"Oh, I did!" replied Neville, with his seraphic smile. "When?"
"The night my uncle was murdered." He observed the Sergeant's expression, and said: "I can see you think there's a catch coming, and, of course, if your mind is running on the murder, there is. I climbed over the wall when everyone, including the policeman parked in the hall, thought I'd gone to bed. Oh, and I climbed out of my bedroom window as well. I'll show you."
"Why?" demanded the Sergeant.
Neville blinked at him. "Policeman in the hall. I didn't want him to know I was going out. It would have put unsuitable ideas into his head - same sort of ideas that you're toying with now, which all goes to show that policemen have very dirty minds. Because I'm innocent. In fact, I had to go and confer with an accomplice."
"You… Now, look here, sir!"
Sally interrupted to say: "I hand it to you; you're as clever as stink, Neville."