Had dinner out, but arrived back in time to get message
8.10-9.40. Further questioning and search of house. Answell collapses.
9.42. Answell's cousin Reginald telephoned to.
Reginald had just arrived at flat, motoring from Rochester. Known to have left Rochester about 5.15; says he had early dinner at hotel along way, and took a long time about it; was rather drunk on arriving back. Cannot remember name of hotel or village.
9.55. Reginald Answell arrives in Grosvenor Street.
10.10. Answell removed to police-station, Reginald going along.
10.35. Mary Hume, taking first train, arrives back.
10.50. Body removed to mortuary; at this time two letters formerly in dead man's pocket are discovered missing.
Mary had pinched them: why?
12. 15. Answell's final statement taken at police-station.
Conclusions: From times and facts given above, there is no doubt as to identity of real murderer. Gobble gobble gobble.
'That's fairly sweeping,' I commented, and looked hard at him. 'Is this supposed to tell us anything? And, by the way, what is the reason for the persistent recurrence of this "gobble-gobble" business?'
'Oh, I dunno. That's how I felt at the time,' said H.M. apologetically. 'It showed I was touchin' the fringes of the truth.'
Evelyn glanced down the list again. 'Well, unless this is a bit of faking on your part, there's something else you can practically eliminate — I mean Reginald. You say he's proved to have left Rochester at 5.15. Rochester's about thirty-three miles from London, isn't it? Yes. So, while it's theoretically possible to drive thirty-three miles in an hour, with all the traffic - and central traffic at that - I don't see how he could have got to Grosvenor Street in time to commit the murder. And you've already eliminated Dr Hume.'
'Eliminated Spencer?' demanded H.M. 'Oh, no, my wench. Not a bit of it.'
'But you yourself admit he's got a water-tight alibi.'
'Oh, alibis!' roared H.M., shaking his fist. He got up and began to waddle about the room, growling. 'The Red Widow murderer had a fine alibi, didn't he? The feller who did the dirty in that ten tea-cups business also had a pretty good one. But that's not what's really botherin' me. What bothers me is that infernal letter Uncle Spencer wrote to the Hume gal last night - swearin' he actually saw the murder done, and that Answell did it after all. Why did he write that? If he lied, why the blazes should he lie? The most insidious bit in it is the suggestion that Answell might be quite sincere about swearin' he's innocent: that he killed Hume and simply doesn't remember it. Oh, my eye! Did you ever hear anyone advance the theory that that was the way Dickens intended to finish Edwin Drood? - Jasper bein' the murderer, but not re-memberin' it: hence the opium-smoking? It's the same idea Wilkie Collins used in The Moonstone for pinchin' the jewel, so I shouldn't be surprised. If my whole great big beautiful theory cracks up on a point like that... but it can't! Burn me, it's not reasonable; or what about the feather. The first person I suspected was Uncle Spencer -'
'You suspected him just because he had an alibi?' I asked.
'It's no good talkin' to you,' said H.M. wearily. ‘You won't see the difficulties. I thought that if he didn't actually commit the murder, he arranged it -'
A new possibility appeared.
‘I remember reading about another of these cases,' I said; 'but it's so long ago that I can't remember whether it was a real happening or a story. A man was found apparently murdered in a room high up in a tower by the edge of the sea. His chest had been blown in with a shotgun, and the weapon was missing. The only clue was a fishing-rod in the room. Unfortunately, the door of the tower had been under observation, and no one was seen to go in or out. The only window was a small one up a smooth wall above the sea. Who killed him, and what had happened to the weapon? ... The secret was fairly simple. It was suicide. He had propped up the shot-gun, facing him, in the window. He stood some feet away and touched the hair-trigger with the fishing-rod. The kick of the gun when it exploded carried it backwards off the window-ledge into the sea: hence it was supposed to be murder and his family collected the insurance. Do you mean that there might have been some device in Avory Hume's study, which he accidentally touched, and it discharged the arrow at him? Or what die devil do you mean?'
'It can't be that,' Evelyn protested. 'If this isn't more mystification, we're to believe that the murderer was actually talking to Hume at the time.'
'That's right,' admitted H.M.
'All the same,' I said, 'it seems that we're straying away from the most important point. No matter who committed the murder, what was the motive? You can't tell me, for instance, that Answell would grab an arrow and stab Hume simply because he believed his future father-in-law had put knock-out drops in a glass of whisky. Unless, of course, he's as mad as they wanted to make out Reginald was. But there's been remarkably little talk about motive in this case. Who else had a shadow of a motive to kill Hume?’
'Ain't you forgettin' the will?' asked H.M., lifting dull eyes. 'What will?'
‘You heard all about it in court. Avory Hume was mad to have a grandson, like most self-made men. Perpetuate the line, and so on. He was goin' to make a will leaving everything in trust - everything, mind - for that hypothetical grandson.'
'Did he make the will?'
'No. He didn't have time. So I thought it might be interestin' to go to Somerset House and put down my shilling and get a look at the original will, the one that's been admitted to probate now. Well, the girl is the chief legatee, of course; but everybody else gets a neat slice of the old man's money; he wasn't even cautious over things like that. Even poor old Dyer got a cut, and there was a sizable bequest of £3,500 to build a new ward-house for the Woodmen of Kent, to be delivered to the Secretary and used at his own discretion ...'
'So the Woodmen of Kent got together and marched up to London, and skewered him with an arrow? Rubbish, H.M.! That's not worthy of you.'
'I was only throwin' out suggestions,' returned H.M. with surprising meekness. He peered up from under wrinkled brows. 'Just to see if anything could possibly stir up your grey matter. You'd never be able to construct a defence, Ken: you can't take a hint out of the evidence, and go straight to where you'd probably find a witness. For instance! Suppose I thought it was pretty vital to get hold of Uncle Spencer? Even if I didn't shove him into the witness-box, suppose I thought it was very necessary to have a little talk with him? How would I go about puttin' .. my hands on him?'
'God knows. That's one of Masters's favourite jobs of routine. If the police can't find him, I don't see how you can. He got a good head-start, remember. He could be in Palestine by now.'
A knock at the door roused H.M. out of his apparent torpor. He dropped the stump of his cigar into the plate, and squared himself.
'Come in,' said H.M. 'He could be,' H.M. added, 'but he's not.'
The door was opened with some caution. And Dr Spencer Hume, impeccably dressed, with a bowler hat in one hand and a rolled umbrella hanging from the crook of his arm, came into the room.
XV
'The Shape of the Judas Window'
IF the gilded figure of Justice on the dome of the Old Bailey had slid down from the cupola and appeared here, it could have caused no more pronounced effect. But Dr Hume did not to-day seem so bland and banal. He looked ill. Though his dark hair was as neatly brushed into place as before, his high colour had gone and his little, sensitive eyes were uneasy. When he saw Evelyn and me sitting in the firelight, he shied badly.
'It's all right, son,' H.M. assured him. H.M. was sitting back at the table, one hand shading his eyes. The doctor's glance had gone instinctively towards the window, in the direction of the great building where he was wanted. 'These are friends of mine. One of 'em I think you met yesterday. Just sit down and smoke a cigar. There's a very old artillery proverb: "The closer the target, the safer you are." Bein' right smack up against the eye of Balmy Rankin, you're all right. You could get in the queue outside the public gallery entrance, and go up in the gallery among the spectators, and you could sit right up over Balmy's head without his knowin' you were anywhere closer than China.'