The Superintendent’s eyebrows shot up. “Ho ho!”
“Yes, sir. All we know at present about who did it was that they were wearing a size six and a half lady’s shoe.”
“A woman, eh?”
“Someone wearing a lady’s shoe,” said Sloan more precisely. “There are three ladies in the house who take that size in footwear. Mrs. Laura Cremond, Miss Gertrude Cremond, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Morley.” He paused. “It’s a popular size.”
The Superintendent stroked his chin. “So there was something that mattered in the Muniments Room.”
“Something they thought mattered,” Sloan corrected him obliquely.
“Motive?”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Sloan, and told him about the threatened earldom.
“Ah, Sloan, kind hearts may be more than coronets, but when it comes to the crunch…”
“Quite so, sir. If it… er… should turn out to be that sort of crunch then there are a fair number of people with a vested interest in the status quo, I agree, but…”
“But what?”
“That particular discovery was relatively old hat by last Friday.”
“How relatively?”
“The immediate family and the Steward had known all about it for nearly a week.”
“Stewards,” interrupted the Superintendent didactically, “are notoriously untrustworthy.”
“Unjust,” murmured Sloan, whose Sunday schooling had been impeccable. “I don’t know if this one is or not yet. Anyway, if the Ornums and their Steward had known about it for so long, what I don’t quite see is why the deceased should suddenly get excited on Friday afternoon. If it’s the same discovery, that is.”
“How soon did the nephews get to hear about it?” The Superintendent’s own Theory of Relativity was more simply stated than Einstein’s.
The nearer the degree of relationship, the greater the likelihood of murder.
“Miles Cremond and his wife were told when they arrived on Thursday for the weekend.”
“The weekend?” echoed Leeyes. “Thursday?” Police weekends began at noon on Saturdays.
“Yes, sir. He works in London.”
“That explains it. What at?”
“For a shipping company,” said Sloan carefully, “as a figure head, I should imagine.”
“No head for figures though?”
“I shouldn’t think he would go much beyond a batting average, sir. He’s with the Pedes Line.”
“They’re in deep water,” said Leeyes, unconsciously apposite. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the other nephew? The artist one.”
“I don’t know when he found out, sir.” Sloan paused. “He’s a bit of a puzzle.”
“I’m tired of crazy mixed-up kids, Sloan.”
“I don’t quite know what to make of him, sir,” he said seriously. “I think he could well be one of those. I’ve put in some enquiries about both nephews to London.”
“Good. The deceased’s sister,” went on Leeyes. “Has she turned up yet?”
Sloan shook his head. “There’s no sign of her. The postmistress thinks she’s visiting a friend, but doesn’t know for sure. Crosby’s been round the outside of the house to make certain she’s not hanging in the woodshed or anything like that, but I hardly like to ask for a warrant to break in for a better look.”
Superintendent Leeyes’ grunt indicated that he wouldn’t get one if he asked.
“What now, Sloan? I can’t keep Headquarters out of the case forever.”
“I’m just waiting for the post-mortem report on the deceased from Dr. Dabbe, and then I’m going back to Ornum House.”
“Gadzooks,” observed the Superintendent sardonically, “strapping his vitals, is he?”
Detective Constable Crosby was in Sloan’s office struggling with the small print in the Peerage. “A telephone message from London, sir. Just come through.”
“The nephews?”
Crosby shook his head. “Firm of solicitors, name of Oaten. Oaten and Cossington—representing the Earl of Ornum. The senior partner is on his way down now.”
Sloan was not surprised. He pointed to the book. “Have you got the succession sorted out?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, did you know that once everyone was either an earl or a churl?” Crosby had obviously begun at the very beginning. “They were all divided into those two groups.”
“People have always been divided into two groups, Constable, and the sooner you get that into your head the better.” At school he had learnt about patricians and plebeians, as a young man about proletarians and… proletarians and… Sloan couldn’t think now who the others had been, but he could still remember getting very excited about it at the time. It had seemed so important. Now that he was older he knew the grouping was simpler than that.
Oneself versus The Rest.
“And,” went on Crosby industriously, “they made men Earls when they didn’t want to make them Marquesses or Dukes.”
“You don’t say,” remarked Sloan. “Status rearing its ugly head again.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. The Ornums…”
“Yes, sir. It’s all down here.” He paused. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well, sir, they don’t half say what they mean.”
Sloan regarded the heavy tome with respect. That wasn’t always the case with big books. “Good.”
“Very clear,” said Crosby primly.
“Oh?”
The constable squinted down at the page and read aloud, “ ‘The succession is limited to heirs of the body male,’ sir, that’s what it says here.”
“Indeed,” said Sloan gravely.
“And something about Lords of Creation.”
“Are you sure?”
Crosby took another look. “Lords of the First Creation.”
“Ornum isn’t one of those, surely?” Not with a Norman Keep and a Tudor Great Hall.
“No, sir, I don’t think so. Henry the Eighth gave them extra land after some battle or other…”
“England, Home, and Booty,” murmured Sloan.
“And they seem to have been Hereditary Beacon Keepers to the Crown for the County of Calleshire since the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First.”
“Very useful thing to know,” agreed Sloan, “but what about now?”
“Lord Henry inherits.”
“And if anything happens to Lord Henry?”
“The Honourable Miles Cremond, eldest son of the younger brother of the twelfth Earl, is next in succession.”
“I thought he might be,” said Sloan.
“I can’t find Miss Gertrude Cremond anywhere…”
“Too far from the main line.”
“But the two old ladies are here. Daughters of the eleventh Earl.”
“That’s going back a bit.”
“And I’ve found William Murton. At least”—Crosby put a large forefinger on a tiny line of print—“I think so. It says here after Lady Elizabeth… ‘married W. Murton of Ornum, one s.’ ”
“That,” said Sloan solemnly, “is what happens when you run away with your groom. We will make a point of seeing William Murton again very soon. Now, this business of the Earl not being the Earl…”
Crosby slapped the book. “Not here… There’s just a bit about their escutcheon…”
“No blot?” Deadpan.
“Not yet, sir.” Crosby grinned. “There’s quite a long piece about their coat of arms, but I didn’t think you’d want to go into that.”
“You never can tell,” said Sloan. “The Bordens had a lion, rampant, on their crest, bearing a battle-axe, proper. Let me have a look.”
Whatever doubts existed about the title to the Earldom of Ornum there would be none about the parentage of Lord Henry Cremond.