"So that we can take measures to prevent the bird from being scared," Moresby corrected reproachfully. "That's all, Mr. Sheringham."
"Is it?" said Roger, with unconcealed scepticism. "But you don't think it very likely that your protecting hand will be required, eh, Moresby?"
"Frankly, sir, I don't. We're not in the habit of giving up a case so long as we think there's the least chance of finding the criminal; and Detective - Inspector Farrar, who's been in charge of this one, is a capable man."
"And that's his theory, that it's the work of some criminal lunatic, quite untraceable?"
"That's the opinion he's been led to form, Mr. Sheringham, sir. But there's no harm in your Circle amusing themselves," added Moresby magnanimously, "if they want to and they've got the time to waste."
"Well, well," said Roger, refusing to be drawn.
They smoked their pipes in silence for a few minutes. "Come along, Moresby," Roger said gently.
The chief inspector looked at him with an expression that indicated nothing but bland surprise. "Sir?"
Roger shook his head. "It won't wash, Moresby; it won't wash. Come along, now; out with it."
"Out with what, Mr. Sheringham?" queried Moresby, the picture of innocent bewilderment.
"Your real reason for coming round here," Roger said nastily. "Wanted to pump me, for the benefit of that effete institution you represent, I suppose? Well, I warn you, there's nothing doing this time. I know you better than I did eighteen months ago at Ludmouth, remember."
"Well, what can have put such an idea as that into your head, Mr. Sheringham, sir?" positively gasped that much misunderstood man, Chief Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard. "I came round because I thought you might like to ask me a few questions, to give you a leg up in finding the murderer before any of your friends could. That's all."
Roger laughed. "Moresby, I like you. You're a bright spot in a dull world. I expect you try to persuade the very criminals you arrest that it hurts you more than it does them. And I shouldn't be at all surprised if you don't somehow make them believe it. Very well, if that's all you came round for I'll ask you some questions, and thank you very much. Tell me this, then. Who do you think was trying to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather?"
Moresby sipped delicately at his whisky - and - soda. "You know what I think, Mr. Sheringham, sir."
"Indeed I don't," Roger retorted. "I only know what you've told me you think."
"I haven't been in charge of the case at all, Mr. Sheringham," Moresby hedged.
"Who do you really think was trying to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather?" Roger repeated patiently. "Is it your own opinion that the official police theory is right or wrong?"
Driven into a corner, Moresby allowed himself the novelty of speaking his unofficial mind. He smiled covertly, as if at a secret thought. "Well, Mr. Sheringham, sir," he said with deliberation, "our theory is a useful one, isn't it? I mean, it gives us every excuse for not finding the murderer. We can hardly be expected to be in touch with every half - baked creature in the country who may have homicidal impulses.
"Our theory will be put forward at the conclusion of the adjourned inquest, in about a fortnight's time, with reason and evidence to support it, and any evidence to the contrary not mentioned, and you'll see that the coroner will agree with it, and the jury will agree with it, and the papers will agree with it, and every one will say that really, the police can't be blamed for not catching the murderer this time, and everybody will be happy."
"Except Mr. Bendix, who doesn't get his wife's murder avenged," added Roger. "Moresby, you're being positively sarcastic. And from all this I deduce that you personally will stand aside from this general and amicable agreement. Do you think the case has been badly handled by your people?"
Roger's last question followed so closely on the heels of his previous remarks that Moresby had answered it almost before he had time to reflect on the possible indiscretion of doing so. "No, Mr. Sheringham, I don't think that. Farrar's a capable man, and he'd leave no stone unturned - no stone, I mean, that he could turn." Moresby paused significantly.
"Ah!" said Roger.
Having committed himself to this lamb, Moresby seemed disposed to look about for a sheep. He re - settled himself in his chair and recklessly drank a gill from his tumbler. Roger, scarcely daring to breathe too audibly for fear of scaring the sheep, studiously examined the fire.
"You see, this is a very difficult case, Mr. Sheringham," Moresby pronounced. "Farrar had an open mind, of course, when he took it up, and he kept an open mind even after he'd found out that Sir Eustace was even a bit more of a daisy than he'd imagined at first. That is to say, he never lost sight of the fact that it might have been some outside lunatic who sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace, just out of a general socialistic or religious feeling that he'd be doing a favour to society, or Heaven by putting him out of the world. A fanatic, you might say."
"Murder from conviction," Roger murmured. "Yes?"
"But naturally what Farrar was concentrating on was Sir Eustace's private life. And that's where we police - officers are handicapped. It's not easy for us to make enquiries into the private life of a baronet. Nobody wants to be helpful; everybody seems anxious to put a spoke in our wheel. Every line that looked hopeful to Farrar led to a dead end. Sir Eustace himself told him to go to the devil, and made no bones about it."
"Naturally, from his point of view," Roger said thoughtfully. "The last thing he'd want would be a sheaf of his peccadilloes laid out for a harvest festival in court."
"Yes, and Mrs. Bendix lying in her grave on account of them," retorted Moresby with asperity. "No, he was responsible for her death, though indirectly enough I'll admit, and it was up to him to be as helpful as he could to the police - officer investigating the case. But there Farrar was; couldn't get any further. He unearthed a scandal or two, it's true, but they led to nothing. So - well, he hasn't admitted this, Mr. Sheringham, and you'll realise I ought not to be telling you; it's to go no further than this room, mind."
"Good heavens, no," Roger said eagerly.
"Well, then, it's my private opinion that Farrar was driven to the other conclusion in self - defence. And the chief had to agree with it in self - defence too. But if you want to get to the bottom of the business, Mr. Sheringham (and nobody would be more pleased if you did than Farrar himself) my advice to you is to concentrate on Sir Eustace's private life. You've a better chance than any of us there: you're on his level, you'll know members of his club, you'll know his friends personally, and the friends of his friends. And that," concluded Moresby, "is the tip I really came round to give you."
"That's very decent of you, Moresby," Roger said with warmth. "Very decent indeed. Have another spot."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Sheringham, sir," said Chief Inspector Moresby. "I don't mind if I do."
Roger was meditating as he mixed the drinks. "I believe you're right, Moresby," he said slowly. "In fact, I've been thinking along those lines ever since I read the first full account. The truth lies in Sir Eustace's private life, I feel sure. And if I were superstitious, which I'm not, do you know what I should believe? That the murderer's aim misfired and Sir Eustace escaped death for an express purpose of Providence: so that he, the destined victim, should be the ironical instrument of bringing his own intended murderer to justice."
"Well, Mr. Sheringham, would you really?" said the sarcastic Chief Inspector, who was not superstitious either.
Roger seemed rather taken with the idea. "Chance, the Avenger. Make a good film title, wouldn't it? But there's a terrible lot of truth in it.
" How often don't you people at the Yard stumble on some vital piece of evidence out of pure chance? How often isn't it that you're led to the right solution by what seems a series of mere coincidences? I'm not belittling your detective work; but just think how often a piece of brilliant detective - work which has led you most of the way but not the last vital few inches, meets with some remarkable stroke of sheer luck (thoroughly well - deserved luck, no doubt, but luck}, which just makes the case complete for you. I can think of scores of instances. The Milsom and Fowler murder, for example. Don't you see what I mean? Is it chance every time, or is it Providence avenging the victim?"