' "Traces of blood in the handbasin and on the hand towel…"' Madden was reading from the chemist's report. ' "Blood group B…"'
'We were lucky there. Mrs Fletcher was the only one in the household with that group. It's quite rare.
He cut her throat and then washed and dried his hands.' Sinclair began to pace up and down the small room. 'He was in hell's own hurry coming in, but afterwards he had the leisure for a wash and brush-up.
Time for a smoke, even.'
Madden looked up. 'The robbery was a blind, wasn't it?'
'It's starting to look that way,' Sinclair agreed. 'Mrs Fletcher's jewellery case was lying open on the dressing-table.
He grabbed a few pieces. The same downstairs.
A brace of candlesticks, that clock off the mantelpiece in the study, Colonel Fletcher's shooting cups. Anything that shone or looked fancy. He should have thought a little while he was doing that. Put himself in our shoes.'
'What's he done with the stuff, I wonder?'
'Thrown it away?' Sinclair shrugged. 'I'll wager it won't turn up at the pawnbroker's. Not unless he's careless or greedy, and I've a nasty feeling he's neither.'
The chief inspector took out his pipe and pouch. He pointed with the pipestem at the file. 'And now comes the really interesting part. Read on, Macduff.'
Madden bent over the report again. Sinclair filled his pipe. From the taproom next door the sound of voices signalled the arrival of opening time.
'My God!' Madden looked up. 'Can we be certain of these times?'
'Reasonably so — Tanner's own words. I spoke to him on the telephone.' The chief inspector lit his pipe.
'It's a question of the moisture content of the tobacco.
Three of the cigarette stubs found by Wiggins's body were recent, no more than forty-eight hours old. Four had been lying there longer — up to three weeks.
Tanner's sure about those. It's the other six he won't commit himself on, except to say the condition of the tobacco suggests a longer period still. I tried to press him, but he wouldn't be pinned down. They could be many weeks old, he said, even months.'
'Months?' Madden grasped the implication at once.
'He must have sat there and watched them,' he said.
'Long before he did anything. There's a good view of the house and garden from where Wiggins was killed.
He must have come back to the same spot over and over…'
'And watched them… as you say.' Sinclair took his pipe from his mouth. 'I've no idea what we're dealing with here,' he admitted. 'But I know this much — we'll have to think again.'
Promptly at ten o'clock the following Monday morning, Sinclair and Madden were shown into the office of Deputy Assistant Commissioner Wilfred Bennett at Scotland Yard. Office space at the Yard was assigned on the basis of seniority, in ascending order.
The lowest ranks worked at the top of the building where they had the most stairs to climb. Bennett occupied a comfortable corner suite on the first floor with a view of the Thames and the tree-lined Embankment.
He was speaking on the telephone when they went in, and he motioned them to an oak table lined with chairs that stood by the open window. London was still in the grip of a heatwave and no breeze stirred the white net curtains. Coming to work that morning, Madden had sat on the upper deck of an omnibus, but even there he had found the air humid and stifling.
He thought with regret of the quiet upstairs room in the Rose and Crown, which he had occupied for the past week. Waking from tortured dreams he had sensed the countryside breathing silently around him, the woods and fields stretched out like a sleeping giant under the starry sky.
As Bennett hung up, the door opened and Sampson entered. The chief superintendent was in his mid fifties, a heavy-set man with brilliantined hair and a muddy complexion. He greeted Sinclair and Madden warmly. 'Another scorcher! And they say it's going to get worse.'
Madden had had few dealings with him, but he knew that the air of bonhomie was a front. Sampson's reputation at the Yard was that of a man whom it was wise not to cross.
Bennett seated himself at the table with his back to the window. His glance rested on Madden for a moment, taking in his hollow-eyed appearance. Sampson sat down beside him.
'Until this case is resolved, I intend that we should meet every Monday morning at this time to review the progress of inquiries and discuss whatever action needs to be taken.' Slight, no more than forty, with dark, thinning hair and a quick, decisive manner, Bennett was known to be one of the coming men at the Yard. 'Chief Inspector?'
'Since we last talked, sir, there have been some new developments. I'll run through them for you.'
Sinclair opened his file. Elegant in a dove-grey suit, he had the knack of looking cool on the hottest day.
'First, the footprint by the stream. Thanks to Inspector Boyce and the Surrey police, we've established that the boot that made it doesn't belong to anyone residing in Highfield. While we can't assume it was worn by the man we're seeking, there's a strong likelihood it was, and if it should prove to be his, it's almost as good as a fingerprint. You'll recall the sketch of the cast I showed you, with the wedge missing from the heel?'
Bennett nodded.
Sampson spoke. 'The "man"?' His small eyes, black as currants, were crinkled with puzzlement. 'I thought it was agreed at our last meeting that it's likely more than one person was involved.'
'Yes, sir, but as I said, there have been new developments.'
Sinclair regarded him blandly.
'Go on,' Bennett said.
'We've identified all the fingerprints lifted from Melling Lodge apart from three sets. One of them is a child's — we're assuming it belongs to the Fletchers' son, James, who was not in the house at the time of the attack. The other two have been sent to the Criminal Records Office. They're being checked now.
'On Friday I received from the government chemist, somewhat belatedly, the results of tests made on various items sent to him for analysis. In consequence, Inspector Madden and I have made certain deductions.
Qualified, of course. But disturbing none the less.'
He gave a brief summary of the chemist's report relating to the ash and blood traces found in the bathroom and the cigarette stubs retrieved from the woods.
'Sir, this man, and I say man,' he glanced at Sampson, 'because I cannot conceive that this crime was carried out by a gang or group of men, was in the neighbourhood of Melling Lodge many weeks beforehand.
He seems to have made repeated visits in order to observe the Fletcher residence. I'm increasingly inclined to view the robbery as a blind, an attempt to mislead us. I believe his sole intention was to murder the members of the household.'
Sampson spoke again. 'Pure supposition,' he said genially.
Bennett looked uneasy. 'There's a lot of theorizing in what you say, Chief Inspector-'
'And precious little evidence to back it up,' Sampson cut in. His tone was friendly, almost jocular.
'Come on, Angus, we don't know who smoked those cigarettes. We don't know whether one or more men broke into the house, and we don't know that they didn't panic in the middle of what started out as an ordinary robbery.'
'Strictly speaking, that's true, sir,' Sinclair agreed.
He seemed unruffled. 'And you're right. We lack hard facts. An eyewitness, for example. So far we've found no one who noticed anything amiss, or even out of the ordinary that day. I find it hard to believe that a gang of men could have moved in and out of the area without someone spotting them. But one man — now that's possible.'
Sampson pursed his lips, plainly unconvinced.
'Then, if it was a gang, shouldn't we have heard something by now?' Sinclair continued.
'Not necessarily. Not if they're professionals.'
'If they were professionals, sir, they would have done a better job of robbing the place.'