Celia and Margaret were both awake, and no sooner had the two men entered the house than Margaret leaned over the banisters, and asked them to come up at once and tell them what had happened.
Celia was sitting up in bed with a shawl round her shoulders. "Thank goodness you're back!" she sighed. "You've been away such ages we've imagined all sorts of horrors. Did you discover anything?"
Charles and Peter exchanged glances. "They're bound to know when the inquest comes on," Peter said. "Tell them."
"Inquest?" Margaret said sharply. "Who's dead? You haven't - no, of course you haven't."
"It's Duval," Charles explained. "We didn't find him in our grounds, so Peter suggested we should go down to his cottage. And we found him there, dead."
"Murdered?" Celia quavered, gripping her shawl with both hands.
"We don't know," Charles answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Apparently he hanged himself, but we shan't know definitely whether it was suicide or not till the inquest, I imagine."
"But what a ghastly thing!" Margaret said. "Who can - oh, surely it wasn't murder? Why should anyone think so?"
"Well, perhaps it isn't," Charles said consolingly. "Peter and I have got to go over to the police-station to-morrow, and we may hear something fresh then. At present we only know that the doctor wasn't satisfied, and is going to conduct a post mortem."
"Please tell us just what happened!" Margaret begged.
Charles made the story as short as possible, and he did not mention the doctor's discovery. At the end of his tale Celia said: "If anyone killed him it was the Monk, and now we know for certain he's not a ghost. Well, I always said I wasn't scared of flesh and blood, but do you think it's safe for us here?"
"Yes, I think so," her brother replied. "If the Monk did murder Duval it's fairly certain he did it because Duval had discovered his identity. Or even because he knew Duval had been talking to us. He isn't likely to try to do any of us in. Too risky, for one thing, and for another, no motive."
"How could he have known that Duval had talked to us?" Margaret asked. "Do you think he followed him here this evening?"
"Duval undoubtedly thought that possible. It would be easy for him to find out that we'd had dealings with Duval without that, though. I never made any secret of the fact that I visited him, and all sorts of people have seen me talking to him at various times," Charles said. "Wilkes, Ackerley, the Rootes - they all knew, not to mention various locals who've seen Duval and me together at the Bell."
"And, from what you told us to-day, Mr. Strange as well," Margaret said, meeting her brother's eye.
"Yes, Strange, too." Charles glanced at his watch. "Well, I don't know how the rest of you feel, but I'm all for bed."
Margaret got up rather reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose we'd better try and get some sleep," she agreed. "But I do wish we weren't so much in the dark still. Well, good night, you two. Coming, Peter?"
Brother and sister went out together, and soon quiet descended on the house.
The two men drove over to Manfield on the following morning. It was a Sunday, and the market-town had a forlorn appearance. Even the police-station seemed rather deserted, and the constable in charge ushered them immediately into the inspector's office. Here in a short time the inspector joined them.
He bade them good morning, thanked them for coming over in such good time, and sat down behind his desk.
"Discovered anything fresh?" Charles asked, drawing up his chair.
The inspector shook his head. "Looks like a nasty case against someone, sir," he said. "The inquest will be held on Tuesday, and I'm afraid both you gentlemen will have to give evidence."
"Of course," Charles said. "We were quite prepared for that. Can you tell us anything more?"
"Well, sir, strictly speaking I ought not to, but seeing how much you know already, I don't. mind telling you that the Divisional Surgeon has just finished his post mortem, and there doesn't seem to be much doubt that it's murder. I needn't ask you not to repeat this, sir, I know."
"Of course not. What did he discover?"
"It's that piece of cotton wool, sir. Looks as though Duval was chloroformed, and then strung up. Dr Puttock found traces of chloroform still lingering. And during his examination he found various abrasions on the deceased's body as though there had been a bit of a struggle, and in it Duval had knocked against things - the table, maybe, or something like that. Then, sir, the doctor found a bit of skin in one of his finger-nails, as though he might have clawed at someone's face, or hand, or whatever it may have been."
"Any finger-prints?" Charles asked.
"No, Sir. Only the deceased's on that plate you saw, and the glass, and such-like. Whoever did this job took care to wear gloves." He unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out an envelope. From this he shook a black bone button. "After you'd gone, I had a good look round and I found this lying under the coal-box. Must have rolled there."
Charles and Peter inspected it. It was about the size of a farthing, a cheap-looking button with a pattern stamped on it. "Looks like an ordinary glove-button," Peter said.
Just so, sir. Made in France, too, but that doesn't tell us much. But I went through all the deceased's belongings, and there wasn't a single pair of gloves in the house, let alone one lacking a button. It doesn't prove anything, but it's something to go on." He put it back into the envelope.
"You're not producing that at the inquest, are you?" Charles asked.
"Oh no, sir," the inspector replied, smiling. "The police aren't as thick-headed as that, you know. Our course is to ask for an adjournment. You've never seen anyone wearing gloves with this type of button, I suppose?" They shook their heads. "No, well, I didn't expect you would have, but there was just a chance of it." He locked it away again. "You won't mention that to anyone, if you please, sir."
"Certainly not." Charles looked round as the door opened. A man came in with a typewritten document, which he laid before the inspector.
"That's right, Jenkins," the inspector said. "That'll be all. Now, sir, would you please read through what you said last night, and see that we've got it down right? And if you'd just tell me your part of the story, Mr. Fortescue, I'll take it down, and we shall have everything shipshape."
Peter briefly recounted his share in the night's happenings. When he had done Charles put down the typewritten sheets. "Yes, that's right," he said. "Want me to sign it?" He drew out his fountain pen, and scrawled his name at the bottom of the statement. As he screwed the cap on again, he said: "I don't think, inspector, that when we came to see you the other day you set much store by our tale, but has it occurred to you just where all this points?"
"Yes, sir, it has," the inspector replied at once. "And you'll pardon me, but I did set considerable store by what you told me. If I hadn't I wouldn't have been quite so open with you this morning. But you see, what you told me wasn't the first thing I'd heard about the Priory Monk. I've been remarkably interested in him for some time."
"No good asking you what your previous information was, I suppose?" Charles asked.
"No, Sir, I'm afraid it's not. But you can be quite sure I'm not taking the matter lightly. I know what you think. You think that it was the Monk who murdered Duval. Well, it's not for me to give my opinion, lacking any proof, but I would like you, if you will, sir, to try and remember just what Duval said to you about the Monk."
As well as he could Charles gave the gist of Duval's remarks, but as he warned the inspector, Duval had made so many vague references to that mysterious figure that he found it hard to recollect them all. But on one point his memory was perfectly clear: Duval believed that the only man who had ever seen the Monk's face had been murdered, and he knew that in trying to discover the Monk's identity he was running a great risk. "So much so," Charles said, "that he had taken to carrying a businesslike looking knife about with him."