“The rector himself,” said Nigel promptly, “taking a short cut to the hall.”
“He says that after Miss C. left him he remained a wreck by his fireside.”
“That may not be true.”
“It may be as false as hell.” agreed Alleyn. “There are one or two points about this business. I’ll describe the lay-out again and repeat the rector’s story.”
When he had done this he looked at Fox.
“Yes,” said Fox. “Yes, I think I get you there, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Obviously, I’m right,” said Nigel, flippantly. “It’s the reverend.”
“Mr. Copeland’s refusing the money. Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “I was telling the chief, just now. I got that bit of information this afternoon. Mr. Henry told the squire in front of the servants and it’s all round the village.”
“Well, to finish Friday,” said Alleyn. “Dr. Templett spent the best part of the night on a case. That can be checked. Mrs. Ross says she was at home. To-morrow, Foxkin, I’ll get you to use your glamour on Mrs. Ross’s maid.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now then. Some time before noon yesterday, the water-pistol disappeared, because at noon Miss P. strummed with her right hand and used the soft pedal. Nothing happened.”
“Perhaps George’s plan didn’t work,” suggested Nigel.
“We are going to see presently if Georgie’s plan works. Whether it works or not, the fact remains that somebody found the water-pistol, removed and hid it, and substituted the Colt.”
“That must have been later still.” said Nigel.
“I agree with you, but not, I imagine, for the same reason. Dr. Templett’s story seems to prove that the box was placed outside the window while he and Mrs. Ross were in the hall. He got the impression that someone dodged down behind the sill. Now this eavesdropper was not Miss Campanula because the servants agree that she didn’t go out yesterday afternoon. Miss Prentice, the squire, Dinah Copeland and her father were all in their respective houses, but any of them could have slipped out for an hour. Master Henry was again roving the countryside. None of them owns to the box outside the window. Fox has asked every soul in the place and not a soul professes to know anything about the box.”
“That’s right,” said Fox. “I reckon the murderer was hanging about with the Colt and had a look in to see who was there. He’d see the cars in the lane but he’d want to find out if the occupants were in the hall or had gone that way into the vicarage. On the far side of the hall he’d have been out of sight, and he’d have plenty of time to dodge if they sounded as if they were coming round that way. But they never would, of course, seeing it’s the far side. He’d be safe enough. Or she,” added Fox with a bland glance at Nigel.
“That’s how I read it,” agreed Alleyn. “Now, look here.”
He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and, using tweezers, took out four minute reddish-brown scraps, which he laid on a sheet of paper.
“Salvage from the box,” he said.
Nigel prodded at them with the tweezers.
“Rubber,” said Nigel.
“Convey anything?”
“Somebody wearing goloshes. Miss Prentice, by gosh. I bet she wears goloshes. Or Miss C. herself. Good Lord,” said Nigel, “perhaps the rector’s right. Perhaps it is a case of suicide.”
“These bits of rubber were caught on a projecting nail and some rough bits of wood inside the box.”
“Well, she might have trodden inside the box before she picked it up.”
“You have your moments,” said Alleyn. “I suppose she might.”
“Goloshes!” said Fox and chuckled deeply.
“Here!” said Nigel, angrily. “Have you got a case?”
“The makings of one,” said Alleyn. “We’re not going to tell you just yet, because we don’t want to lower our prestige.”
“We like to watch your struggles, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.
“We are, as it might be,” said Alleyn, “two experts on a watch-tower in the middle of a maze. ‘Look at the poor wretch,’ we say as we nudge each other, ‘there he goes into the same old blind alley. Jolly comical,’ we say, and then we laugh like anything. Don’t we, Fox?”
“So we do,” agreed Fox. “But never you mind, Mr. Bathgate, you’re doing very nicely.”
“Well, to hell with you anyway,” said Nigel. “And moreover what about Gladys Wright putting her splay foot on the soft pedal an hour and a half before the tragedy?”
“Perhaps she wore goloshes.” said Fox, and for the first time in these records he broke into a loud laugh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
According to Mr. Saul Tranter
i
Alleyn finished his report by nine o’clock. At a quarter-past nine they were back in the Biggins’s Ford, driving through pelting rain to the hall.
“I’ll have to go up to the Yard before this case is many hours older,” said Alleyn. “I telephoned the A.C. this morning but I think I ought to see him and there are a lot of odd things to be cleared up. Perhaps tomorrow night. I’d like to get to the bottom of that meeting between Master Henry, Dinah Copeland and Miss Prentice. I rather think Master Henry wishes to unburden himself and Miss Dinah won’t let him. Here we are.”
Once more they crunched up the gravel path to the front door. The shutters had been closed and they and the windows were all locked. P.C. Fife was on duty. He let them in and being an incurious fellow retired thankfully when Alleyn said he would not be wanted for two hours.
“I’ll ring up the Chipping station when we’re leaving,” said Alleyn.
The hall smelt of dying evergreens and varnish. It was extremely cold. The piano still stood in its old position against the stage. The hole in the faded silk gaped mournfully. The aspidistras drooped a little in their pots. A fine dust had settled over everything. The rain drove down steadily on the old building and the wind shook the shutters and howled desperately under the eaves.
“I’m going to light these heaters,” said Nigel.
“There’s a can of paraffin in one of the back rooms. This place smells of mortality.”
Alleyn opened his case and took out Georgie Biggins’s water-pistol. Fox wedged the butt between steel pegs in the iron casing. The nozzle fitted a hole in the fretwork front. They had left the cord and pulleys in position.
“On Friday,” said Alleyn, “there was only the long rent in the tucked silk. You see there are several of them. The material has rotted in the creases. No doubt Georgie arranged the silk tastefully behind the fretwork, so that the nozzle didn’t catch the light. We’ll have a practical demonstration from Mr. Bathgate, Fox. Now, if you fix the front pulley, I’ll tie the cord round the butt of the pistol. Hurry up. I hear him clanking in the background.”
They had just dropped a sheet of newspaper on the rack when Nigel reappeared with a large can.
“There’s some fairly good beer in that room,” said Nigel. He began to fill the tank of the heater from his can.
Alleyn sat down at the piano, struck two or three chords, and began to vamp “Il était une Bergère.”