So Jonathan really had been burning something himself. Frank went on.
“Just take a look at the grate now, Stokes. How does it compare with the state it was in when you saw it at ten o’clock last night?”
“There’s one more log been put on-that one on the right with the knot in it. It was lying right on top of the wood-basket, and I wouldn’t have picked it out to put on myself with the fire having got a bit low and knots being as you might say on the tricky side when it comes to burning. No, the one I should have taken was that little one that’s on top now-a nice dry faggot that would have got the flame up quick.”
“I see you’re an expert. I’m rather good at fires myself, and I’m with you all the way. Now, leaving the wood on one side, what about the papers that Mr. Field had been burning? Would you say he had added any more afterwards, or as far as the burnt paper goes is the grate in about the same state as it was last night?”
Stokes was a pleasant little man with a ruddy russet skin and very thick grey hair which he wore a little longer than a younger man might have done. He said in his soft agreeable voice,
“It’s difficult to say, sir, but I should think everything is pretty much as it was-a little more smouldered away, as it were, but no more than you would expect.”
Frank was reflecting that a will usually covered several sheets of extremely tough and intractable paper. It wouldn’t be easy to tear and it wouldn’t be easy to burn. If Jonathan had burned it himself whilst the fire was medium hot, the grate might be expected to look very much as it did now. If Georgina had burned it at round about one in the morning, it was probable that she would have had to use more wood. According to Stokes no more wood had been used except the awkward piece with the knot in it, which remained as to about three-quarters of it unburned and could very easily have been added by Jonathan. He went over and lifted it gingerly by the knotted end. Under it there was a bed of cold ash. There was also a sizable piece of that tough paper. It was about a couple of inches long by an inch wide and only the edges were scorched. The words “the said Miriam Field” were plainly visible. He couldn’t imagine such a phrase occurring in anything except a will, and as Mirrie’s name would certainly not have appeared in any but Jonathan’s latest, it confirmed Georgina ’s statement that it was this will which had been burned, whilst leaving undecided the question of who had burned it. If, as Georgina had said, it was Jonathan himself, the presence of the knotted log could be accounted for.
The room would have been losing heat and he had obviously had no immediate intention of going to bed, since up to ten-o’clock the album subsequently found upon his desk was, according to Stokes, still on its shelf at the time he came in with the tray of drinks. If Jonathan intended to sit up he might restrain Stokes from touching the fire-he wouldn’t want any talk about the burned will, fragments of which were probably still in evidence, and yet once the butler was out of the way he could have pitched a log on the fire himself.
But if Georgina had burned the will at some time just short of one o’clock, what motive could she possibly have had for putting that particular log upon a fire which must have been very near to being burned out by then? Looking at what remained in the grate, he doubted very much if there would have been enough heat there to burn as much of the thing as had been burned. He stood there looking down at the grey ash, the scrap of paper, the knotted log. If it was Georgina who had shot Jonathan Field and destroyed the will which would cut her out of a fortune, what must her mental state have been? The man stood to her in the relation of a father. She had shot him because he was cutting her out of his will. With his dead body slumped across the writing-table, she had to get his fingerprints upon the revolver, to find and destroy the will, and be ready with a story which would explain its destruction. All this with the vibration of the shot still trembling on the air, and with the possibility that at any moment the door might open and let an accusing witness in.
Was she one of those people upon whom in moments of emergency an icy control descends, coordinating thought and action to an unimaginable degree? Or would it have been an affair of shaking hands and a pounding heart, a desperate search, and a blind fury of destruction? Or was she speaking the truth when she said that it was Jonathan who had torn up the will and put it on the fire?
He turned round to see Stokes watching him in a sad, patient manner which reminded him of an old dog waiting to be noticed. He went back to the table and asked him, as he had asked everyone else in the household,
“Did you know that Mr. Field had a revolver?”
He got the same answer as all the others had given him.
“Oh, no, sir, I didn’t.”
Frank stood with a hand on the table.
“Did he keep any of these drawers locked?”
“The bottom two on the right-hand side, sir.”
He sat down in the writing-chair and found both drawers fast.
Jonathan’s keys, handed over by Inspector Smith, were to hand. The upper of the two drawers contained bundles of letters, and lying on the top of them a closed miniature case. There would have been no room for a revolver.
In the bottom drawer there were a couple of notebooks with lists of securities and details of investments, and under the notebooks a long envelope endorsed “My will. J.F.” and a date two years back.
Then it was certainly the new will that had been burned as Georgina had said. What he found hard to swallow was the reason she gave for Jonathan having burned it, or even the bare fact that it had been burned by him. This older will would have been made when Georgina was twenty-one. He put it back in the drawer and returned to the question of whether Jonathan had kept a revolver there as well as his will. There would have been plenty of room for it. But if Jonathan was going to shoot himself, or if Georgina was going to shoot Jonathan, what was the point in locking the drawer again? Yet someone had locked it.
It simply didn’t make sense.
He let Stokes go and turned to the telephone. He had the number of Mr. Maudsley’s office on a slip of paper tucked into the blotting-pad. Two previous attempts to get in touch having failed, it behoved him to try again. This time he got through and was answered by a clerk.
“I would like to speak to Mr. Maudsley.”
The voice at the other end said, “Well-I’m afraid-”
“Is he in his office?”
“Well, no, he isn’t. As a matter of fact he won’t be here today.”
“Then perhaps I could speak to the head clerk.”
There was a delay during which a number of irritating small sounds buzzed in the receiver-a rustling of papers, footsteps, an inaudible whispering. And then a woman on the line, quiet and efficient.
“Miss Cummins speaking. I am afraid Mr. Maudsley will not be in today. Do you wish to make an appointment?”
Frank said, “No. This is police business. I am Inspector Abbott from the Yard, and I am down at Field End in connection with the murder of one of Mr. Maudsley’s clients, Mr. Jonathan Field.”
Miss Cummins became unofficially shocked.
“Mr. Field? You can’t mean it, Inspector! He was here with us only yesterday afternoon. Good gracious me!”
“He was murdered last night. It is important for me to get into touch with Mr. Maudsley as soon as possible.”
“Well now-I hardly know what to say. The fact is, Mr. Maudsley has been ordered to take a short holiday. He has been rather run down, and his doctor-”
“Can you give me his private address?”
“Well, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be any use to you. He was taking an early train to Scotland this morning. He had not really made up his mind as to where he would stay, but there are one or two hotels in Edinburgh -”
Frank took down a couple of names.
“Don’t ring off! You say Mr. Field was with you yesterday afternoon. You had been preparing a new will for him?”