"Your name?" asked the Sergeant briskly.
Joseph Simmons, Sergeant."
"Occupation?"
"I am - I was employed as Mr. Fletcher's butler."
"How long have you been with him?"
"Six-and-a-half years, Sergeant."
"And you state," pursued the Sergeant, consulting Glass's notes, "that you last saw your master alive at about 9 p.m., when you showed a Mr. Abraham Budd into this room. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Sergeant. I have the person's card here," said Simmons, holding out a piece of pasteboard.
The Sergeant took it, and read aloud: "Mr. Abraham Budd, 333c Bishopsgate, EC. Well, we know where he's to be found, that's one thing. You state that he wasn't known to you, I see."
"I never laid eyes on the individual before in my life, Sergeant. He was not the type of person I have been in the habit of admitting to the house," said Simmons haughtily.
Glass dispelled this pharisaical attitude with one devastating pronouncement. "Though the Lord be high, yet hath he respect unto the lowly," he said in minatory accents, "but the proud he knoweth afar off."
"My soul is humbled in me," apologised Simmons.
"Never mind about your soul!" said the Sergeant impatiently. "And don't take any notice of Glass! You listen to me! Can you describe this Budd's appearance?"
"Oh yes, Sergeant! A short, stout person in a suit which I should designate as on the loud side, and a bowler hat. I fancy he is of the Jewish persuasion."
"Short and stout!" said the Sergeant, disappointed. "Sounds to me like a tout. Did the deceased expect a visit from him?"
"I hardly think so. Mr. Budd stated that his business was urgent, and I was constrained to take his card to Mr. Fletcher. My impression was that Mr. Fletcher was considerably annoyed."
"Do you mean scared?"
"Oh no, Sergeant! Mr. Fletcher spoke of "damned impertinence", but after a moment he told me to show Mr. Budd in, which I did."
"And that was at 9 p.m., or thereabouts? Did you hear any sounds of altercation?"
The butler hesitated. "I wouldn't say altercation, Sergeant. The master's voice was upraised once or twice, but I didn't hear what he said, me being in the dining-room, across the hall, until I withdrew to my pantry."
"You wouldn't say that a quarrel took place between them?"
"No, Sergeant. Mr. Budd did not strike me as a quarrelsome person. In fact, the reverse. I got the impression he was afraid of the master."
"Afraid of him, eh? Was Mr. Fletcher a bad-tempered man?"
"Dear me, no, Sergeant! A very pleasant-spoken gentleman, usually. It was very seldom I saw him putout."
"But was he put-out tonight? By Mr. Budd's call?"
The butler hesitated. "Before that, I fancy, Sergeant. I believe Mr. Fletcher had a - a slight difference with Mr. Neville, just before dinner."
"Mr. Neville? That's the nephew? Does he live here?"
"No. Mr. Neville arrived this afternoon to stay with his uncle for a few days, I understand."
"Was he expected?"
"If he was, I was not apprised of it. I should mention, in fairness to Mr. Neville, that he is - if I may say so - a somewhat eccentric young gentleman. It is by no means an unusual occurrence for him to arrive here without warning."
"And this difference with his uncle: was that usual?"
"I should not like to give a false impression, Sergeant: there wasn't any quarrel, if you understand me. All I know is that when I took sherry and cocktails to the drawing-room before dinner it seemed to me that I had interrupted an altercation. The master looked to be distinctly annoyed, which was a rare thing, in my experience, and I did hear him say, just as I came in, that he wanted to hear no more about it, and Mr. Neville could go to hell."
"Oh! And what about Mr. Neville? Was he annoyed?"
"I shouldn't like to say, Sergeant. Mr. Neville is a peculiar young gentleman, not given to showing what he feels, if he feels anything, which I sometimes doubt."
"Well I do, frequently," said Neville, who had come into the room in time to hear this remark.
The Sergeant, unaccustomed to young Mr. Fletcher's noiseless way of entering rooms, was momentarily startled. Neville smiled in his deprecating fashion, and said softly: 'Good-evening. Isn't it shocking? I do hope you've arrived at something? My aunt would like to see you before you go. Do you know who killed my uncle?"
"It's early days to ask me that, sir," replied the Sergeant guardedly.
"Your words hint at a prolonged period of suspense, which I find peculiarly depressing."
"Very unpleasant for all concerned, sir," agreed the Sergeant. He turned to Simmons. "That'll be all for the present," he said.
Simmons withdrew, and the Sergeant, who had been eyeing Neville with a good deal of curiosity, invited him to sit down. Neville obligingly complied with this request, choosing a deep armchair by the fireplace. The Sergeant said politely: "I'm hoping you may be able to help me, sir. I take it you were pretty intimate with the deceased?"
"Oh no!" said Neville, shocked. "I shouldn't have liked that at all."
"No, sir? Am I to understand you were not on good terms with Mr. Fletcher?"
"But I was. I'm on good terms with everyone. Only I'm not intimate."
"Well, but, what I mean, sir, is -'
"Yes, yes, I know what you mean. Did I know the secrets of my uncle's life? No, Sergeant: I hate secrets, and other people's troubles."
He said this with an air of sweet affability. The Sergeant was a little taken aback, but rallied, and said: "At all events, you knew him fairly well, sir?"
"We won't argue the point," murmured Neville.
"Do you know if he had any enemies?"
"Well, obviously he had, hadn't he?"
"Yes, sir, but what I'm trying to establish -'
"I know, but you see I'm just as much at a loss as you are. You weren't acquainted with my uncle?"
"I can't say as I was, sir."
Neville blew one smoke ring through another, and watched it dreamily. "Everybody called him Ernie," he sighed. "Or Ernie dear, according to sex. You see?"
The Sergeant stared for a moment, and then said slowly: "I think I get you, sir. I've always heard him well spoken of, I'm bound to say. I take it you don't know of any person with a grudge against him?"
Neville shook his head. The Sergeant looked at him rather discontentedly, and consulted Glass's notebook. "I see you state that after you left the dining-room you went into the billiard-room, where you remained until Miss Fletcher came to find you. At what hour would that have been?"
Neville smiled apologetically.
"You don't know, sir? No idea at all? Try and think!"
"Alas, time has hitherto meant practically nothing to me. Does it help if I say that my aunt mentioned that a most peculiar visitor was with my uncle? A fat little man, who carried his hat in his hand. She had seen him in the hall."
"Did you see this man?" asked the Sergeant quickly.
"No."
"You don't know whether he was still with your uncle when you went up to your room?"
"Sergeant, Sergeant, do you think I listen at keyholes?"
"Of course not, sir, but -'
"At least, not when I'm wholly incurious," explained Neville, temporising.
"Well, sir, we'll say that some time between 9.00 and 10.00 you went up to your room."
"At half-past nine," said Neville.
"At - A moment ago, sir, you said you had no idea what time it was!"
"Oh, I hadn't, but I remember now one solitary cuckoo."
The Sergeant shot a startled look towards Glass, standing motionless and disapproving by the door. A suspicion that the eccentric Neville Fletcher was of unsound mind had darted into his brain. "What might you mean by that, sir?"
"Only the clock on the landing," said Neville.