Amberley's story, shorn of all decorative detail, did not take long to recount. A silence followed it which was at length broken by Corkran. He proposed cheerfully that he and Fountain and Amberley should play a three-ball game of golf next afternoon to get rid of the taste of the inquest.
Fountain did not want to play; so much was apparent in his quick headshake. "You two play. I shall have to go to town."
"Will you? What for?" asked his step-sister.
"I must see about engaging a new butler," he answered shortly. "I spoke to Finch's Registry Office on the telephone today. I'm afraid it may be a bit of a job. Servants don't like coming to such an isolated place. And then there's this dreadful business. Puts them off, you know. Bound to."
"Oh, my godfathers, does that mean we've got to have Collins gliding about the place indefinitely?" groaned Corkran.
"I must get someone. It isn't Collins' work and he doesn't like doing it." Fountain saw that his cigar had gone out and threw it away. He made an effort to shake off his evident depression and got up, suggesting a game of snooker.
He marshalled them all into the billiard room, quite in his usual manner, nor was any further reference made to the murder. Yet for all his laughter, for all Corkran's airy persiflage, Amberley was conscious of that vague sensation of discomfort which seemed to brood over the house and which Anthony had tried ineffectively to describe.
He was not sorry when the evening came to an end, but the visit, little though he might have enjoyed it, had given him something to think about. Silently he cursed himself for his rash, unaccustomed quixotry in shielding by his silence the girl he had found beside the murdered man's car.
It was not she who had fired the shot; of that he was convinced. But her presence had not been accidental, nor had her agitation (he was convinced) been entirely due to finding the butler's body. She had given him the impression that she was suffering less from shock, or from horror, than from bitter disappointment.
It looked like being an interesting case. There was the girl, a lady, who had so evidently gone to meet the butler; there was Fountain, shaken by the news, plainly aghast; there was Joan, frightened, nervous of the house, nervous of the valet; there was Collins himself, impassive yet oddly sinister, listening at doors, as anxious as his master to hear all that Amberley had to tell.
Nothing in that, Amberley reminded himself. Why should they not want to know every detail? Yet he could swear that something lay behind, something obscure that would not readily be disclosed.
He determined to look into the butler's record. He had little expectation that anything would come out at the inquest. Whatever the butler's secret was and whoever held the key to it, were mysteries which would need a deal of solving.
Nor was he mistaken. The inquest next morning provided the sensation hunters who flocked to it with very little to interest them. The doctor and the gun expert were dull witnesses, and the most hopeful witness, Amberley himself, disappointed everyone by giving his evidence in a dry and exceedingly succinct manner. No one came forward with a startling disclosure; no one seemed to know of any secret in Dawson's life, and no one knew of anybody who might be supposed to wish the butler out of the way. The jury returned a verdict of murder against person or persons unknown, and the case ended.
"In fact, sir," said Sergeant Gubbins afterwards, "it's a queer case, and do you know why, Mr. Amberley?"
"I can think of several reasons, but by all means tell me."
"It's because there ain't nothing queer about it, sir," said the sergeant darkly.
Mr. Amberley regarded him enigmatically. "You ought to go a long way, Sergeant - if you're lucky."
"Well, sir, it isn't for me to say so, but I won't say you're wrong," said the sergeant, much gratified.
"But you will have to be very lucky," said Mr. Amberley gently.
The sergeant looked at him suspiciously and pondered the remark for a while in silence. Having considered it carefully he said with some indignation: "It don't surprise me to hear you make a lot of enemies, sir. Not that I'd be one to take offence, because I know you will have your joke. But there's a lot of people mightn't like the way you have of saying things. Now if I didn't know you like I do, I wouldn't tell you what I'm going to. But you gave us a tip or two over that robbery case we had when you were down here, and freely I admit it."
"Yes, you made a bit of a mess of that, didn't you?" said Mr. Amberley. "Still got that chuckle-headed inspector at Carchester, I notice."
The sergeant grinned. "He'll be getting promotion soon. Maybe I will too."
"What for?" asked Mr. Amberley, interested.
"Solving this murder case, sir."
"Oh!" said Mr. Amberley. "Well, don't let me waste your time. You run along and solve it."
"That's just it, sir. I thought that you, having a bit of a knack of hitting on things, in a manner of speaking, and making a sort of hobby of it - well, what I thought was, I might do worse than tell you what's puzzling us."
"You might, but if you imagine that I'm setting up as an amateur detective…'
"Oh no, sir, nothing like that. Though when you spotted it was Bilton had those diamonds I must say that I did think to myself that you were fair thrown away in your profession. Of course, you happened to be present when the theft took place, which was an advantage we hadn't got. Still, I will say it was a very neat bit of work, Mr. Amberley, and we were all very grateful to you, because it was touch and go whether we called in the Yard or not."
"Just like this case," nodded Mr. Amberley.
"You've hit it, sir," said the sergeant. "It's the chief constable. He's what you might call - well, a bit timid. Now when I said that there wasn't anything queer about this case, what I meant was, it's all straight on the surface. Nothing known against Dawson, no enemies, no women, been in service at the manor for years, everything above board. Well, that ain't natural. Take it from, me, Mr. Amberley, when a man gets himself murdered there's always something behind, and ten to one he's a wrong 'un. Setting aside women, that is. Now in this case there's only one thing that looks a bit fishy."
"Do you wear glasses?" asked Mr. Amberley suddenly.
"Me, sir? No, I do not."
"You should."
"Not me, Mr. Amberley. I see as well as I did when l was a two-year-old."
"That's what I meant. Go on."
"Blessed if I know what you're driving at, sir," said the sergeant candidly. "Well, this fishy thing is the money Dawson had put by. It all goes to his sister. She's a widow, living in London. He hadn't made a will, so she gets it. And there's a tidy sum by what one can make out."
"I always imagined butlers made a bit on the side."
"Some do and some don't. But I never heard of one who made as much as Dawson did. As far as we can make out he's got a matter of a couple of thousand laid by. Spread about, too. Make anything of that, sir?"
"Spread where?"
"Post Office Savings Bank here, them War Loan Certificates, and a bank at Carchester. Looks funny to me. The inspector doesn't make much of it. Of course, people do get ideas into their heads about spreading their money about, but what I'd like to know is how did he come by so much? Always paying in money he seems to have been."
"How much at a time?"
"Well, not a great deal, sir, but steady. I could let you have the figures."
"Yes. Or rather, no. You'd better not."
"Colonel Watson wouldn't object, sir, if that's what you're thinking. Not as it's you, if you understand me."
Mr. Amberley's saturnine smile appeared. "The question is, Sergeant, am I on your side?"
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"I'm not sure that I am," said Mr. Amberley. "I'll let you know when I've thought it over. Meanwhile, I want some lunch. Good hunting!"