"That's about the size of it," said Hemingway. "One thing's certain: he didn't leave it there himself."
"Then it pretty well clears him," said. Colwall regretfully. "I must say, I thought all along it was him. A bit disheartening, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't say that," replied Hemingway, who seemed to have recovered his cheerfulness. "In fact, I regard it as a highly promising development."
"I don't see how you make that out," said Colwall, staring at him.
"I was beginning to think that this was going to be the one case where the guilty party didn't once slip up. Well, he did slip up," said Hemingway, pointing an accusing finger at the cigarette-case. Just like a lot of others before him, trying to be too clever. The way I see it, planting this case was an unrehearsed effect. If he'd thought of it when he worked out the rest of his details, I daresay he'd have arranged for us to have found Stephen's finger-prints on the case. We can take it that Miss Dean's testimony was correct: she put the case down on the table at her elbow. Our unknown friend saw it there, and thought it would make a nice piece of evidence against Stephen. He picked it up, and probably slipped it into his pocket, either forgetting not to touch it with his bare hand, or not having the time to handle it through his handkerchief. But when it came to planting it, he wasn't the man to forget that he mustn't leave any prints on it, so he polished it good and hard. Well, it's restored my belief in the fundamental stupidity of murderers. They all slip up sooner or later, though I admit this one's sharper than most."
"That's all very well, but I don't see how it's going to help you."
"You never know," said Hemingway, lifting the cigarette-case out of the crutch, and regarding it with a loving eye.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked Colwall.
"Give it back to young Stephen," replied Hemingway coolly.
"Give it back to him?"
"That's right. Then I'll sit back to watch results."
"What results do you expect?" asked Colwall, out of his depth.
"I haven't the least idea, but I hope they'll be helpful, because this case is beginning to get on my nerves."
"Yes, but I don't see -"
"Up to now," interrupted Hemingway, "it must have been obvious to one and all that the hot favourite for the nine-o'clock-in-the-morning stakes was young Herriard, which was a highly satisfactory state of affairs for the real murderer, not calling for any exertion on his part. All he had to do was to lie low, and act natural. Well, now I'm going to let it be deduced that I don't fancy Stephen after all. Throwing the lead, so to speak. If I know anything about the minds of murderers, I ought to get some interesting reactions."
Chapter Fourteen
The Sergeant, returning from his visit to Galloway's cottage, came in with a face of settled gloom, and told his chief that it was just as they had feared. Galloway had taken the key home with him, and it was even now hanging up on one of the hooks of his kitchen-dresser.
"So it doesn't look as though our man got in through the window at all," he said. "I suppose you haven't discovered anything fresh, have you, sir?"
When he learned what the Inspector had, in fact, discovered, he was interested, but inclined to agree with Colwall's view, that beyond eliminating one of the suspects it was not likely to prove to be of much use. "If you ask me, sir, the man who did this job isn't the sort to lose his head," he said.
"I didn't ask you, but you're quite at liberty to have your own opinions," said Hemingway tartly. "I've already had the satisfaction of proving that he can make a silly mistake: well, now we'll see if he can't be rattled a bit. So far he's had it all his own way: he shall have it my way, and see how he likes it."
"Are you going up there again this evening, sir?"
"No," said Hemingway, "I'm not. This is where I put in a bit of quiet thinking, while that lot up at the Manor wonders what I'm up to. There's nothing like suspense for shaking a man's nerve."
The Sergeant grinned. "You wouldn't, I suppose, be thinking of the turkey they've got roasting at the Blue Dog, would you, Chief?" he ventured.
"If I have any insubordinate talk from you," said Hemingway severely, "I'll give you a job to do up at the Manor that'll keep you there till midnight. It wasn't the turkey I was thinking of at all."
"I'm sorry!" apologised the Sergeant.
"So I should think. It was the ham," said Hemingway.
The inmates of the Manor were, accordingly, left to their own devices, if not to peace. Peace did not flourish under the same roof as Mrs. Dean, and by the time she had bullied Joseph, Mottisfont, Roydon, and her own daughter into playing paper-games, and had driven both the young Herriards and Mathilda into taking refuge in the billiard-room, an atmosphere of even greater unrest pervaded the household.
Christmas dinner, with all the associations which turkey and plum-pudding conjured up, inspired Maud to remark that she wished Nathaniel had not been murdered at such an awkward time, because although it seemed almost heartless to eat Christmas fare there was nothing else to be done, since there it was, and would only go bad if left. She added that they had better not set light to the pudding this year; and Sturry, approving this decree, added his mite towards the drive for sobriety by removing the sprig of holly from the pudding.
Everyone went to bed early, but no one looked next morning as though the long night's rest had been of much benefit. Mottisfont said several times that he could not think what the police were hanging fire for, by which observation he was understood to mean that he thought Stephen ought by this time to have been in the County gaol. Valerie said that she had hardly closed her eyes all night, on account of the ghastly dreams which had haunted her. Roydon looked pale, and wondered audibly when the police would allow them all to go home.
Breakfast was not served until nine o'clock, and before anyone had reached the toast-and-marmalade stage, Sturry entered, rather in the manner of a Greek chorus, to announce the arrival of doom in the person of Inspector Hemingway. The Inspector, he said with relish, would like to have a Word with Mr. Stephen.
The inside of Mathilda's mouth felt dry suddenly and the muscles of her throat unpleasantly constricted. Joseph drew in his breath sharply.
"He might have let me finish my breakfast," said Stephen, laying down his napkin. "Where is he?"
"I showed the Inspector into the library, sir."
"All right," Stephen said, and got up.
Paula thrust back her chair, and rose, in one of her jerky, impetuous movements. "I'm coming with you!" she said abruptly.
"Get on with your breakfast: I don't want you," Stephen said.
"I don't care a damn what you want!" she said. "I'm your sister, aren't I?"
He took her by the shoulders, and thrust her into her chair again. "Get this, and get it good!" he said roughly. "You're to keep out of this!"
"There's no more reason for him to suspect you than me! Uncle accused me of wanting to murder him, not you!"
"You keep your misguided trap shut," said Stephen. "You're a good kid, but boneheaded." His sardonic gaze flickered over the other members of the house-party, taking in Joseph's look of misery, Mathilda's white rigidity, the thinly-veiled satisfaction in Mottisfont's eyes, the relief in Roydon's. He gave a short laugh, and went out.
The Inspector was looking out of the window when Stephen entered the room, but he turned at the sound of the opening door, and said: 'Good-morning, sir. Looks like the thaw has set in properly."
Stephen eyed him in some surprise. "How true!" he said. "Shall we cut the cackle?"
"Just as you like, sir," Hemingway replied, "What I came for was to give you back your cigarette-case."
He held it out as he spoke, and had the satisfaction of seeing that he had succeeded in startling this uncomfortably brusque young man.