“Having one with the boys?” Smith suggested.
“’Possibly. That can be checked. Now, we have discovered nothing to contradict my theory of a put-up job. On the other hand we’ve narrowed down the margin for murder. If the clod was dislodged with the idea of Questing putting his foot into the gap and falling over, this fictitious murderer must have dodged out after you, Edward, had gone by. He must have danced and stamped about, revealing himself on the sky-line if you’d happened to glance back, and, having completed his work, come on here or returned to the pa. During this period Gaunt had quarrelled with Questing, and gone up to the main road; Simon and Smith were drinking in somebody’s car after consorting for a time with certain Maoris; while Bell, Agnes, and Barbara had gone to Gaunt’s car.“ Dr. Ackrington looked triumphantly round the table. ”We are completely covered for the crucial time. What’s the matter, Agnes?”
Mrs. Claire was weaving her small plump hands. “Nothing really, dear,” she said gently. “It’s only — I know nothing about such things, of course, nothing. But I do read some of Edward’s thrillers, and it always seems to me that in the stories they make everything rather more elaborate than it would be in real life.”
“This is not a discussion on the dubious realism of detective fiction, Agnes.”
“No, dear. But I was wondering if perhaps we were not a little inclined to be too elaborate ourselves? I mean, it’s very clever of you to think of all the other things, and I don’t pretend I can follow them; but mightn’t it be simpler if somebody had just hit poor Mr. Questing?”
Dikon broke a dead silence by saying: “Mrs. Claire, you make me want to stand up and cheer.”
Chapter XII
Skull
Dikon’s was the only voice lifted in praise of Mrs. Claire’s unexpected theory. Her brother, after looking at her in blank astonishment, told her roundly that she was talking nonsense. He explained, as if to a child, that a blow from a hidden assailant would not account for the displaced clod of mud and that even in a struggle, which could scarcely have taken place without Falls hearing it, the path was altogether too firm for any portion of it to give way. The Colonel supported him, saying that when the iron standards for the flags were driven in the Maoris had used a sledge-hammer. Mrs. Claire said that of course they were right, and they looked uneasily at her.
Barbara said: “Even if the police do think someone attacked him, haven’t we proved that none of us could have been there at the time?”
“Bravo!” cried Gaunt. “Of course we have.”
“As far as that goes,” said Simon, “there is one of us who could have knocked him over.” He looked at Falls.
“I?” said Falls. “Dear me, yes. So I could. So I could.”
“After all,” said Simon, “they’ll only have your word for it that you didn’t know what happened. Bell heard Questing scream and went out there. And what did he find? You. Alone.”
“I was not wearing hobnail boots, however.”
“Lucky for you, I reckon. And talking about these boots, there’s something else I’ve got to tell you. Questing owned a pair of boots with sprigs. I can prove it.”
Dikon had seen enough of Simon by this time to know that a piece of portentous information burnt holes in the pockets of his reticence. He frowned at Simon. He even tried to stave him off by an effort of the will but it was no good. Out came the story of their climb up Rangi’s Peak, out came a description of the hobnailed footprints.
“And if the police show me this clod of mud I reckon I can tell if it’s the same print. Anyway they can go up the Peak and look for themselves. With any luck the prints’ll still be there.”
With this recital he bounded into popular favour. Dr. Ackrington, after a comparatively mild blast on the danger of withholding information, declared that Simon, by his vigil on the rock, had gone far towards proving that Questing was the signaller. If Questing was the signaller it was almost certain, said Dr. Ackrington, that the prints on the ledge were his prints. If these corresponded with the impression on the detached clod then they might well prove to be a determining factor.
“You may depend upon it,” cried Dr. Ackrington, “the damned blackguard’s a hundred miles away if he hasn’t got clean out to sea, and wherever he is, he’s wearing these blasted boots.”
Steps sounded outside, followed by a muffled grumble of voices. Dikon turned to look. Through the wide windows of the dining-room the men at the table watched Webley’s three assistants cross the pumice and come towards the verandah. Dikon was visited by a sensation of unreality, a feeling that the mental and physical experiences of this interminable morning were repeating themselves exactly. For the men walked in the same order that they had adopted when he last saw them. They carried again their muddy rakes and poles, and one of them held away from him a heavy sack from which a globule of mud formed and dropped. And just as, before, his heart had jolted against his ribs, so it jolted again. As the men drew near the verandah they saw the party in the dining-room. They paused and the two groups looked at each other through the open windows. A car came down the drive. Webley and an elderly man got out. The men with the sack moved towards them and again there was a huddled inspection.
Mrs. Claire and Barbara, who sat with their backs to the windows, followed the direction of their companions’ gaze, and half turned.
“Wait a moment, Agnes,” said Dr. Ackrington loudly. “Will you attend to me? Never mind the windows now. Mind what I say. Barbara, will you listen!”
“Yes, James.”
“Yes, Uncle James.”
They turned back dutifully. Dikon, sharing Dr. Ackrington’s desire that Barbara should not see the men outside, got to his feet and moved behind her chair. Dr. Ackrington spoke loudly and rapidly. Colonel Claire and his wife and daughter looked at him. The others made no pretence of doing so, and Dikon tried to read in their faces the progress of the men beyond the window.
“… I repeat,” Dr. Ackrington was saying, “that it’s as clear as daylight. Questing, having changed into workmen’s clothes and heavy boots, stamped away the clod from the path, threw his evening clothes into the cauldron and bolted. We were meant to presume accidental death.”
“I still think it was incredibly stupid of him to forget that he would leave prints,” said Dikon. He saw Simon’s eyes widen as he watched the men beyond the windows.
“He thought the clod would fall into the cauldron, Bell. If must be by the merest fluke that it did not do so.”
Simon’s hands were clenched. Falls raised an eyebrow. Dr. Ackrington himself, looking, as they did, beyond the windows, paused and then added rapidly: “If Questing is found before he gets clean away, he will be wearing hobnail boots. I’ll stake my oath on it.”
Simon was on his feet pointing. “Look!”
Now they all turned.
The group of men outside the window parted. Webley had taken something from the sack. He held it up. It was a heavy boot and it dripped mud.
They were all shown the boot. Webley brought it into the dining-room and displayed it, standing on a sheet of newspaper in the middle of the table, and exuding a strong smell of sulphur. He wiped away most of the mud. The surface of the leather was pulpy and greatly disfigured, some of the metal eyelets had fallen out and the upper had become detached in places from the sole. There were, however, still two hobnails in the heel, though the others had fallen out.
Webley wiped his large flat hands on a piece of rag and looked woodenly at his trophy.
“I’d be obliged,” he said, “if any of you ladies or gentlemen could put an owner on this. We’ve got its mate outside.”