Ormond, who had the gift of being able to add three columns of figures at once in his head, waited. respectfully.
‘I make it about twenty-six minutes,’ said Glaisher.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That means!’—Glaisher gazed at the face of the stationclock with working lips. ‘Fifteen minutes from two o’clock, 1.43; twenty-six minutes from that again that’s 1.19.
‘Yes, sir; and we can allow him four minutes to tie the mare up; 1.15 I make it he’d have to start out from Darley.’
‘Just so; I was only verifying your figures. In that case he’d have had to be in the village at 1.10 or thereabouts.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And how and when did he pick the mare up again, Ormond?’
‘He didn’t, sir, not as I make it out.’
‘Then what became of it?’
‘Well, sir, I look at it like’ this. Where we’ve been making the mistake is in thinking as the whole job was done by one person. Supposing now as this Perkins commits his murder at two o’clock and then hides under the Flat-Iron, same as we thought. He can’t get away till 2.30; we know that, because Miss. Vane was there till that time. Well, then, at 2.30 she clears and he clears, and starts to walk back.’
‘Why should he walk back? Why not go on? Oh, of course — he’s got to fix up his time to fit in with Weldon’s 1.55 alibi.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, if he was to walk straight back to Pollock’s cottage, which is two miles from the Flat-Iron, doing a steady three miles an hour, he’d be there at 3.10, but Susie Moggeridge says she didn’t see him till between 3.30 and four o’clock, and I don’t see that she’s got any call to lie about it.’
‘She may be in it too; we’ve got our doubts about old Pollock’
‘Yes, sir; ‘but if she was lying she’d lie the other way
wouldn’t give him more time than he needed to come from the Flat-iron.-No, sir, it’s my belief Perkins had to stop on.the way for something, and I fancy I know what that was. It’s all right for the doctor to say that the man who cut chap’s throat may not have got blood on himself, but that’s not to say he didn’t get it — not by a long chalk. I think Perkins had to stop all that time to get his togs changed. He could easily take an extra shirt and, pair of shorts in his kit. He may have given the one he was wearing a, bit of a wash, too. Say he did that, and then got to Pollock’s place
about 3.45. He comes up by the lane, where Susie Moggeridge sees him: and he goes along another half-mile or so, and he meets Miss Vane at four o’clock — as he did.’
‘H’m!’ Glaisher revolved this idea in his — mind. It had its attractive points, but it left a great deal open to question.
‘But the mare, Ormond?’
‘Well, sir, there’s only one person could have brought back the mare that we know; of, and that’s Weldon; and only one time he could’ have done — it, and that’s between four o’clock, when. Polwhistle and Tom said good-bye to him, and 5.20, when Miss Vane saw him in Darley. Let’s see how that works out, sir. It’s three and a half miles from Hink’s Lane to the place where the mare was left; he could start at four, walk there in an hour or a bit less, ride back quick, and just be back at 5.20 in time to be seen by them two. It all fits in, sir, doesn’t it?’
‘It fits, as you say, Ormond, but it’s what I’d call a tight fit. Why do you suppose Perkins came back with Miss Vane instead of going on to Lesston Hoe?’
‘It might be to find out what she was going to do, sir, or it might be just to look innocent-like. He’d be surprised to see her there, I expect not knowing about her going up to Brennerton — and-it’s not wonderful he should have seemed a’ bit put about when she spoke to him.’ He might think going back with her was the boldest and best thing to do. Or he may have felt anxious-and wanted to see for himself whether Weldon had got back with the nag all right. He was very careful not to speak to Weldon when they did meet went out of his way to have nothing to do with him, as you might say. And as for his clearing off the way he did, that’s natural if you come to think of it, supposing he had those pants and things — all soiled with blood in his knapsack.’
‘You’ve got an answer for everything, Ormond. Here’s another for you. Why in the name of goodness, if all this is true, didn’t Perkins ride the ruddy horse right up to the rock, while he was about it? He could have taken her back and tethered her up just the same.’
‘Yes, sir, and I fancy, judging from the ring-bolt, that must have been the first idea. But I was looking at those cliffs today and I noticed that it’s just about a mile from the Flat-Iron that the road comes so close to the edge of the cliff as to give you a proper view down on to the beach. When they came to think it over they may have said to themselves that a man riding along that open bit of beach would be conspicuous-like. So Perkins cached the gee where the cover ended and paddled the rest of the way thinking would be less noticable.’
‘Yes; there’s something in that. But all this depends on the time that Perkins passed through Darley. We’ll have to get that looked into. Mind, Ormond, I’m not saying you haven’t done a good bit of thinking over this, and I like to see you having initiative and striking out a line for yourself; but we can’t go behind facts when all’s said and done.’
‘No, sir; certainly not, sir. But of course, sir, even if it wasn’t Perkins, that’s not to say it wasn’t somebody else.’
‘Who wasn’t somebody else?’
‘The accomplice, sir.’
‘That’s beginning all over again, Ormond.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, cut along and see what you can make of it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Glaisher rubbed his chin thoughtfully when Ormond was gone. This business was worrying him. The Chief Constable had been chivvying him that morning and making things unpleasant. The Chief Constable, a military gentleman of the old school, thought that Glaisher was making too much fuss. To him it was obvious that the rather contemptible foreign dancing-fellow had cut his own throat, and he thought that sleeping dogs. should be left alone. Glaisher only wished he could leave the thing alone, but he felt a sincere conviction that there was more to it than that. He was not comfortable in his mind — never had been. There were too many odd circumstances. The razor, the gloves, Weldon’s incomprehensible movements, the taciturnity of Mr Pollock, the horseshoe, the ring-bolt, Bright’s mistake about the tides and, above all, the cipher letters and the photograph of the mysterious Feodora each one of these might, separately, have some ordinary, and trivial explanation, but not all of them surely, not all of them. He had put these points to the Chief Constable, and had received a grudging kind of permission to go on with his inquiries. But he was not happy.