I passed on, and considering the matter impartially, found myself faced by the questions— Whose was the shadow which Harley had seen upon the blind? And with what purpose did Colonel Menendez leave the house at midnight?
Somnambulism might solve the second riddle, but to the first I could find no answer acceptable to my reason. And now, pursuing my aimless way, I presently came in sight of a gable of the Guest House. I could obtain a glimpse of the hut which had once been Colin Camber’s workroom. The window, through which Paul Harley had stared so intently, possessed sliding panes. These were closed, and a ray of sunlight, striking upon the glass, produced, because of an over-leaning branch which crossed the top of the window, an effect like that of a giant eye glittering evilly through the trees. I could see a constable moving about in the garden. Ever and anon the sun shone upon the buttons of his tunic.
By such steps my thoughts led me on to the pathetic figure of Ysola Camber. Save for the faithful Ah Tsong she was alone in that house to which tragedy had come unbidden, unforeseen. I doubted if she had a woman friend in all the countryside. Doubtless, I reflected, the old housekeeper, to whom she had referred, would return as speedily as possible, but pending the arrival of someone to whom she could confide all her sorrows, I found it almost impossible to contemplate the loneliness of the tragic little figure.
Such was my mental state, and my thoughts were all of compassion, when suddenly, like a lurid light, an inspiration came to me.
I had passed out from the shadow of the tower and was walking in the direction of the sentinel yews when this idea, dreadfully complete, leapt to my mind. I pulled up short, as though hindered by a palpable barrier. Vague musings, evanescent theories, vanished like smoke, and a ghastly, consistent theory of the crime unrolled itself before me, with all the cold logic of truth.
“My God!” I groaned aloud, “I see it all. I see it all.”
Chapter 28 MY THEORY OF THE CRIME
The afternoon was well advanced before Paul Harley returned.
So deep was my conviction that I had hit upon the truth, and so well did my theory stand every test which I could apply to it, that I felt disinclined for conversation with any one concerned in the tragedy until I should have submitted the matter to the keen analysis of Harley. Upon the sorrow of Madame de Stämer I naturally did not intrude, nor did I seek to learn if she had carried out her project of looking upon the dead man.
About mid-day the body was removed, after which an oppressive and awesome stillness seemed to descend upon Cray’s Folly.
Inspector Aylesbury had not returned from his investigations at the Guest House, and learning that Miss Beverley was remaining with Madame de Stämer, I declined to face the ordeal of a solitary luncheon in the dining room, and merely ate a few sandwiches, walking over to the Lavender Arms for a glass of Mrs. Wootton’s excellent ale.
Here I found the bar-parlour full of local customers, and although a heated discussion was in progress as I opened the door, silence fell upon my appearance. Mrs. Wootton greeted me sadly.
“Ah, sir,” she said, as she placed a mug before me; “of course you’ve heard?”
“I have, madam,” I replied, perceiving that she did not know me to be a guest at Cray’s Folly.
“Well, well!” She shook her head. “It had to come, with all these foreign folk about.”
She retired to some sanctum at the rear of the bar, and I drank my beer amid one of those silences which sometimes descend upon such a gathering when a stranger appears in its midst. Not until I moved to depart was this silence broken, then:
“Ah, well,” said an old fellow, evidently a farm-hand, “we know now why he was priming of hisself with the drink, we do.”
“Aye!” came a growling chorus.
I came out of the Lavender Arms full of a knowledge that so far as Mid-Hatton was concerned, Colin Camber was already found guilty.
I had hoped to see something of Val Beverley on my return, but she remained closeted with Madame de Stämer, and I was left in loneliness to pursue my own reflections, and to perfect that theory which had presented itself to my mind.
In Harley’s absence I had taken it upon myself to give an order to Pedro to the effect that no reporters were to be admitted; and in this I had done well. So quickly does evil news fly that, between mid-day and the hour of Harley’s return, no fewer than five reporters, I believe, presented themselves at Cray’s Folly. Some of the more persistent continued to haunt the neighbourhood, and I had withdrawn to the deserted library, in order to avoid observation, when I heard a car draw up in the courtyard, and a moment later heard Harley asking for me.
I hurried out to meet him, and as I appeared at the door of the library:
“Hullo, Knox,” he called, running up the steps. “Any developments?”
“No actual development?” I replied, “except that several members of the Press have been here.”
“You told them nothing?” he asked, eagerly.
“No; they were not admitted.”
“Good, good,” he muttered.
“I had expected you long before this, Harley.”
“Naturally,” he said, with a sort of irritation. “I have been all the way to Whitehall and back.”
“To Whitehall! What, you have been to London?”
“I had half anticipated it, Knox. The Chief Constable, although quite a decent fellow, is a stickler for routine. On the strength of those facts which I thought fit to place before him he could see no reason for superseding Aylesbury. Accordingly, without further waste of time, I headed straight for Whitehall. You may remember a somewhat elaborate report which I completed upon the eve of our departure from Chancery Lane?”
I nodded.
“A very thankless job for the Home Office, Knox. But I received my reward to-day. Inspector Wessex has been placed in charge of the case and I hope he will be down here within the hour. Pending his arrival I am tied hand and foot.”
We had walked into the library, and, stopping, suddenly, Harley stared me very hard in the face.
“You are bottling something up, Knox,” he declared. “Out with it. Has Aylesbury distinguished himself again?”
“No,” I replied; “on the contrary. He interviewed Madame de Stämer, and came out with a flea in his ear.”
“Good,” said Harley, smiling. “A clever woman, and a woman of spirit, Knox.”
“You are right,” I replied, “and you are also right in supposing that I have a communication to make to you.”
“Ah, I thought so. What is it?”
“It is a theory, Harley, which appears to me to cover the facts of the case.”
“Indeed?” said he, continuing to stare at me. “And what inspired it?”
“I was staring up at the window of the smoke-room to-day, and I remembered the shadow which you had seen upon the blind.”
“Yes?” he cried, eagerly; “and does your theory explain that, too?”
“It does, Harley.”
“Then I am all anxiety to hear it.”
“Very well, then, I will endeavour to be brief. Do you recollect Miss Beverley’s story of the unfamiliar footsteps which passed her door on several occasions?”
“Perfectly.”
“You recollect that you, yourself, heard someone crossing the hall, and that both of us heard a door close?”
“We did.”
“And finally you saw the shadow of a woman upon the blind of the Colonel’s private study. Very well. Excluding the preposterous theory of Inspector Aylesbury, there is no woman in Cray’s Folly whose footsteps could possibly have been heard in that corridor, and whose shadow could possibly have been seen upon the blind of Colonel Menendez’s room.”