'No, of course not. It was just about Liz-about Miss Garrowby. It was an extremely silly conversation.
Grant smiled heartlessly. 'Mr Whitmore, a policeman has experienced the absolute in silliness before he has finished his third year in the force. If you are merely reluctant to put silliness on record, take heart. To me it will probably sound like something near wisdom.
'There was no wisdom about it. Searle had been in a very odd mood all the evening.
'Odd? Depressed? Surely, thought Grant, we aren't going to have to consider suicide at this late stage.
'No. He seemed to be invaded by an unwonted levity. And on the way from the river he began to twit me about-well, about my not being good enough for Liz. For my fiancee. I tried to change the subject, but he kept at it. Until I grew annoyed. He began enumerating all the things he knew about her that I didn't. He would trot out something and say: "I bet you didn't know that about her."
'Nice things?
'Oh, yes, Walter said instantly. 'Yes, of course. Charming things. But it was all so needless and so provocative.
'Did he suggest that he would be more appreciative in your place?
'He did more. He said quite frankly that if he put his mind to it he could cut me out. He could cut me out in a fortnight, he said.
'He didn't offer to bet on it, I suppose? Grant couldn't help asking.
'No, Walter said, looking a little surprised.
Grant thought that some day he must tell Marta that she had slipped up in one particular.
'It was when he said that, Walter said, 'about cutting me out, that I felt I couldn't stand him any more that night. It wasn't the suggestion of my not being his equal that I resented, I hope you understand, Inspector; it was the implied reflection on Liz. On Miss Garrowby. The implication that she would succumb to anyone who used his charms on her.
'I understand, said Grant gravely. 'Thank you very much for telling me. Do you think, then, that Searle was deliberately provoking a quarrel?
'I hadn't thought of it. I just thought he was in a provocative mood. That he was a little above himself.
'I see. Thank you. Could I speak to Miss Fitch for just one moment. I won't keep her.
Walter took him to the morning-room where Miss Fitch, with a yellow and a red pencil stuck in her ginger bird's-nest and another in her mouth, was prowling up and down like an enraged kitten. She relaxed when she saw Grant, and looked tired and a little sad.
'Have you come with news, Inspector? she asked, and Grant, looking past her, saw the fright in Liz's eyes.
'No, I've come to ask you one question, Miss Fitch, and then I shan't bother you again. I apologise for bothering you as it is. On Wednesday night you were waiting for the evening call from your nephew with an account of their progress.
'Yes.
'So that you talked to him first. I mean first of the people at Trimmings. Will you go on from there?
'Tell you what we talked about, you mean?
'No; who talked to whom.
'Oh. Well, they were at Pett's Hatch-I suppose you know-and I talked to Walter and then to Leslie. They were both very happy.
Her voice wavered. 'Then I called Emma-my sister-and she spoke to them both.
'Did you wait while she spoke to them?
'No, I went up to my room to see Susie Sclanders's imitations. She does ten minutes on a Wednesday once a month, and she is wonderful, and of course I couldn't listen to her properly with Em talking.
'I see. And Miss Garrowby?
'Liz arrived back from the village just too late to talk to them.
'What time was this, do you remember?
'I don't remember the exact time, but it must have been about twenty minutes before dinner. We had dinner early that night because my sister was going out to a W.R.I. meeting. Dinner at Trimmings is always being put either back or forwards because someone is either going somewhere or coming from some place.
'Thank you very much, Miss Fitch. And now, if I might see Searle's room once more I won't bother you again.
'Yes, of course.
'I'll take the Inspector up, Liz said, ignoring the fact that Walter, who was still hovering, was the normal person to escort him.
She got up from the typewriter before Miss Fitch could intervene with any alternative proposal, and led the Inspector out.
'Are you going away because you have come to a conclusion, Inspector, or because you haven't; or shouldn't I ask that? she said as they went upstairs.
'I am going as a matter of routine. To do what every officer is expected to do; to present his report to his seniors and let them decide what the facts add up to.
'But you do some adding first, surely.
'A lot of subtraction, too, he said, dryly.
The dryness was not lost on her. 'Nothing makes sense in this case, does it, she agreed. 'Walter says he couldn't have fallen into the river accidentally. And yet he did fall in. Somehow.
She paused on the landing outside the tower room. There was a roof-light there and her face was clear in every detail as she turned to him and said: 'The one certain thing in this mess is that Walter had nothing to do with Leslie's death. Please believe that, Inspector. I'm not defending Walter because he is Walter and I am going to marry him. I've known him all my life, and I know what he is capable of and what he is not capable of. And he is not capable of using physical violence to anyone. Do please believe me. He-he just hasn't the guts.
Even his future wife thought him a pushee, Grant observed.
'Don't be misled by that glove, either. Inspector. Do please believe that the most probable explanation is that Leslie picked it up and put it into his pocket meaning to give it back to me. I have looked for the other one of the pair in the car pocket and it isn't there, so the most likely explanation is that they fell out, and Leslie found one and picked it up.
'Why didn't he put it back in the car pocket?
'I don't know. Why does one do anything? Putting something in one's pocket is almost a reflex. The point is that he wouldn't have kept it for the sake of keeping it. Leslie didn't feel about me like that at all.
The point, Grant thought to himself, wasn't whether Leslie was in love with Liz, but whether Walter believed Liz to be in love with Leslie.
He longed to ask Liz what happens to a girl when she is engaged to a pushee and along comes a left-over from Eden, an escapee from Atlantis, a demon in plain clothes. But the question, though pertinent, would certainly be unproductive. Instead, he asked her if Searle had ever received letters during his stay at Trimmings and she said that as far as she knew he had had none. Then she went away downstairs, and he went into the tower room. The tidy room where Searle had left everything except his personality.
He had not seen it in daylight before, and he spent a few moments having a look at the garden and the valley from the three huge windows. There was one advantage in not caring what your house looked like when it was finished; you could have your windows where they were likely to do most good. Then he turned once more to the task of going through Searle's belongings. Patiently, garment by garment, article by article, he went through them, vainly hoping for some sign, some revelation. He sat in a low chair with the photographic box open on the floor between his feet, and accounted for everything that a photographer might conceivably use. He could think of nothing-neither chemical nor gadget-that was missing from the collection. The box had not been moved since last he saw it, and the empty space still held the outline of what had been abstracted.
It was an innocent space. Articles are abstracted every day from packed cases, leaving the outline of their presence. There was no reason whatever to suppose that what had been taken out was of any significance. But why, in heaven's name, couldn't anyone suggest what that thing might have been?