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"Death Before Day," Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1942
"Death Before Day" is a vintage wartime murder mystery. Set during World War II, the story follows Major Shepton and his Home Guard platoon on a tense nocturnal patrol near a local factory. The night takes a sinister turn when a suspicious figure is shot—surprisingly, it's a woman, who survives with a flesh wound. The investigation unfolds through a mix of amateur sleuthing and official police work, with Inspector Bagehot and Superintendent Addison navigating a web of wartime paranoia, personal secrets, and misdirection.
IT might have been a man. A dozen yards from the corner of the lane which marked the end of his patrol, Colin Prescott came hesitantly to a halt, hitching the improvised rifle-sling more comfortably on his shoulder. It had been the merest fancy; a momentary glimpse of a paler patch which he could not at once explain in the black shadow of the hedge. Probably his nerves were on edge; and there was some excuse for that. Two and a half hours' sentry-go before dawn after an uncomfortable period spent dodging lumps on a palliasse was hardly the best cure for a week's overwork, and Prescott, in common with the rest of his squad, was feeling the strain.
"I wonder?" he murmured, half aloud. "Of course, it couldn't be—"
But an uncomfortable doubt persisted oddly. Calling himself a fool for doing so, he turned and started back. It would be easy enough to make sure. The moon had come from behind the clouds, and in the soft, greyish light it was possible to make out the more distinctive features two or three fields away. If any parachutist were rash enough to attempt a descent, he would be visible for miles. But there were no parachutists. In fact, there had been no 'planes; though flashes of light in the sky ahead, and a faint, distant popping sound punctuated by heavier thuds showed the raid in progress over the neighbouring big town. Now the searchlights focused to a point; now they swept in a wild arc across the night sky. As he plodded along, he watched them in a kind of fascination.
They were getting it badly over there. And yet, there in the lane it was hard to realise that anything terrible was happening. There was something grotesque and impossible in wandering round with a gun, looking for a possible enemy. Unless, like Chard and Biddulph, one could remain in a chronic state of apprehension, suspecting a fifth columnist behind every bush, it needed an effort to take the business seriously. That, he told himself, was the danger. They were thoroughly bored with guards, and the enemy, if he came, would have all the advantage. He would be on the alert, attacking; he would know he was in hostile country. He would have the initiative; while those watching for him might be dulled by the fact that nothing ever happened. In two months of Home Guard duty, Prescott himself had stopped five people and one car. Three of them, including the car-driver, had been policemen; the identity and dialect of the rest had been so unmistakable as to make the production of an identity card the merest formality. And yet one had to try to behave as though one might be jumped on at any moment.
But just then, strangely enough, it was not difficult. Though no believer in premonitions, he had a queer feeling that something was going to happen. The moonlight ought to have been reassuring; instead, there was something almost sinister in the half-light which it gave. It was with real caution that he rounded the bend, reached the road junction where the barriers stood ready, and crossed to the gateway over which he had looked a few minutes before.
There was nothing there. The white patch, if it had ever been there, had gone. The black, irregular shadow of the unkempt hedge stretched unbroken against the grey of the field, merging into it imperceptibly in the distance. And that proved precisely nothing. He frowned as he peered into the field. Of course, if it had been anyone, he could hardly expect that whoever it was would have stayed there. The mere fact that it had moved showed that it was not a stray piece of newspaper. But had he seen it at all? He told himself obstinately that he had. A trick of the light, perhaps? Even an owl? There were a dozen possible explanations, and none satisfactory. A cloud covered the moon, leaving him in darkness, and removing any hope of seeing anything there might be.
In any case, what was he to do? To climb the locked gate would be to make himself beautifully conspicuous to any watcher; to search the field single-handed would be mere idiocy. He could go back and report it. Somerton, the squad leader, who combined a bluff optimism with a great fear of appearing ridiculous, would certainly poohpooh the idea. He could dramatically blow his whistle, calling out the entire guard, and, incidentally, giving an excellent warning to anyone who was there to make himself scarce. He stood there in irritated indecision. Then the need to decide at all was taken from him. He jumped round with a muttered exclamation.
"What—?"
The sound was unmistakable. It came again as he listened. It was a whistle. And it certainly came from the main sentry post. He hesitated only for an instant. Then he was running back along the lane, regardless of the thunderous noise of his regulation boots on the tar macadam.
"What on earth—?"
He spoke the words aloud as he sprinted along the last hundred yards, towards the office buildings. So there had been something. What he had seen had been no mere imagination. Someone was shouting. He thought he recognised Chard's voice. Of course, that might be the explanation. Chard had been—
"Halt!"
He had just reached the gate leading to the factory when the sharp command brought him up all standing. For a moment it startled him. He had been so intent on getting to the post that he had no idea anyone was near. For a moment they faced each other in the darkness. Prescott realised who it must be. He took a step forward, feeling for his torch.
"Halt! Halt, or I fire—"
"You won't," Prescott rejoined with a certainty born of knowledge. "Don't be an ass. It's Prescott... That's you, Curry, isn't it?"
"Yes." The red glow of a torch flashed in the other's hand. "I heard you coming. Thought I'd better see—"
"What the devil's happening?"
"If you ask me"—Curry's voice had a note of grievance in it—"if you ask me, nothing at all. It's probably that fool Chard. Seen a bat, or something—"
"Let's get along and find out." Prescott pushed the gate open, and led the way. "You've noticed nothing?"
"Nothing at all. And damn it, if there was anything on a night like this you couldn't help but see or hear it... No, it's just Chard's nonsense. Pity he didn't chose another squad. He's too windy—"
That view was obviously being endorsed by Somerton and the seven or eight half-dressed men who constituted Chard's audience just inside the main doorway. There was justification for it. Chard's speech was incoherent with excitement, and the squad leader was painstakingly trying to extract a sensible story from him.
"Now, pull yourself together," he was saying soothingly. "Let's get this straight. You were on duty at the main entrance. You'd been there about a quarter of an hour while Curry and Prescott went on patrol. You thought you heard something—"
"I certainly did!" Chard protested indignantly. "I heard it quite distinctly! A sort of a click—or not exactly a click. Something a bit different—"
Somerton's expression was resigned. "All right. A sort of a click that wasn't a click... And then?"
"Well, I turned to look, of course. And then—and then—!" Chard's voice rose excitedly. "A bullet flew right past my ear! It missed me by inches—"
"A bullet?" There was scepticism in the squad leader's voice. "How d'you know?"
"It must have been a bullet! Of course it was!... I heard it hit the corrugated iron—"
"You heard a shot?"
"No," Chard admitted reluctantly. "But there might have been—"
Somerton turned to the others. "You hear a shot?" he demanded. "You hear anything at all?"
"I've an idea I did," Curry said a little dubiously. "Of course, I was half-way along my beat. It sounded a long way off—"
"A shot?"
"No. Like something hitting the corrugated iron. A sort of clang... I thought probably Chard had hit the porch with his rifle."
"You're sure you didn't?" Somerton demanded.
"But I felt it go past my ear!" Chard almost shrieked. "It was a bullet—"
Somerton turned to Prescott. "You didn't hear anything? Or see anything?"
"I didn't hear anything," Prescott admitted. "I was right up by the barrier... But I thought I saw something—"
"Something?" Somerton snapped the word irritably. "What?"
"I don't know... Just a sort of whitish patch in the hedge. I didn't think anything of it at the time. And then I thought it might be as well to have another look, so I went back—"
"Well? What was it?"
"I don't know. It wasn't there... And that was queer. I was just wondering what to do when the whistle blew."
"You don't know what it was, and it wasn't there—!" Words obviously failed the squad leader. He turned to the rest of the group. "Did any of you hear anything?"
"I heard Biddulph snoring," Falcon volunteered. "Unless it was Hatch?"
Biddulph was too used to the accusation to trouble to deny it.
"Well, of course, we were asleep," he said reasonably. "We shouldn't hear anything... But if there was a bullet—if they fired at us—"
Falcon intervened impatiently. Having seen some service in the last war, he had very little use for the squad leader, who had not. Somerton's self-important inefficiency irritated him.
"Hadn't we better have a look?" he suggested curtly. "Put out a sentry, anyhow. We're just wasting time here, and the whole place wide open—"
Somerton flushed. He knew himself to be at fault, but was not pleased to be corrected.
"I think perhaps two of you might have a look round," he said a little hesitantly. "I don't believe there's anything, really—"
"I'll go," Hatch volunteered, "with Falcon."
"Right." Somerton assented briefly. "The rest of you stand by. We don't know what may be happening—" He broke off. "I believe it's a lot of damned nonsense," he said irritably. "Still—You and Falcon have a patrol round."
"Cartridges?"
Somerton's hand went reluctantly to his pocket. He produced a couple of clips and held them out.
"For goodness' sake be careful," he pleaded. "Don't shoot anyone—I mean, unless—Perhaps you'd better load—under the circumstances—"
"I'm going to." Hatch suited the action to the word. "I'm out of frocks... Coming, Falcon?"
Somerton was obviously relieved to see the back of them As the door swung to behind them, he turned to the rest of the squad. With them he felt on firmer ground. He owed his position as squad leader mainly to the fact that he was chief draughtsman, and most of those remaining were directly subordinate to him.
"You'd better get dressed," he suggested. "Stand by for the present as I said... I don't think there's anything in it. Chard fancied he heard something—perhaps he did hear something. A rabbit. He was startled, and fancied—"
"Hadn't we better get on to the C.O., sir?" Middleton ventured with a certain diffidence. He was rather in awe of his immediate superior. "It says in the orders—"
"I don't like to bother him for nothing." Somerton was evidently in two minds. "Perhaps we'd better wait and see if the patrol finds anything."
Prescott made an obvious suggestion.
"If the bullet hit the corrugated iron, there'd be a mark?" he said. "We might even find the bullet, if there was a bullet."
A disbelief in the bullet was evidently fairly general. It was not the first time that Chard had created a sensation owing to nerves. He opened his mouth as if to protest; then lapsed into a sulky silence. Somerton nodded acceptance of the idea.
"We'll have a look," he suggested. "You come along, Prescott. And you, Willoughby."
"The warning's still on, sir," Middleton suggested. He was acting as telephonist. "Better be careful of the lights."
"Of course." Somerton was irritated. He had never had to deal with any similar crisis and was painfully aware of his inadequacy. His annoyance found vent as Biddulph made as if to follow them through the doorway. "I said, the rest stand by! I'm squad leader here... I don't know what your ideas of discipline may be—"
Willoughby grinned at Prescott as they went out. The thought in both of their minds was that Somerton's own ideas on the subject needed revision. He was a good chief draughtsman, but a poor officer. It was the squad's misfortune that he should have been put in charge of it. Still, with a little tact, they got along fairly well. Prescott himself was feeling a little ruffled. His own story had been disregarded as much as Chard's, and he felt disinclined to raise the matter again.
Somerton stood on the doorstep in the shelter of the porch looking round. The moon was hidden again, and after the light inside everything seemed very black. There was the distant sound of an aeroplane. Apart from that there was nothing but silence. Wherever Hatch and Falcon might have gone, they were making no noise about it.
"A Jerry," Willoughby volunteered. He belonged to that school of thought which is firmly convinced that one can tell the difference between enemy and R.A.F. 'planes. "Coming this way, too."
Somerton grunted. Half covering his shaded torch with his hand he began to examine the corrugated iron side of the porch.
"He'd be standing about here," he said half aloud. "If he heard the sound as he said, and turned. Ah!"
He directed the torch on a certain spot about the height of a man's head from the ground. Prescott and Willoughby peered over his shoulder.
"That?" Prescott said in surprise. "But that's not a bullet mark. It's hardly dinted the iron—just scratched the paint a little. A bullet would have gone right through."
Somerton laughed and switched off the torch. "I never thought we should find that bullet," he said with a note of contempt in his voice. "It's just one of Chard's scares. No, I don't think a bullet could have made that mark. But it's just what you'd expect if he knocked his rifle against it."
Perhaps it was partly a fellow-feeling for one who had also been a sufferer from the squad leader's incredulity which made Prescott reluctant to accept the explanation. He bent forward to examine the mark dubiously.
"I don't see how he could have hit his rifle against it without knowing," he objected. "And he said he felt the wind of the bullet."
"He was scared stiff." Somerton laughed shortly. "Probably he didn't know what he was doing. And naturally he wouldn't admit that."
"But how could he have been holding his rifle to make a mark at that level?"
"That's all right, old boy," Willoughby said soothingly. "No one ever knows just what Chard will do with a rifle. He nearly put my eye out to-night sloping arms."
Prescott made no answer. He had found his own torch, and directing its beam downwards was engaged in an examination of the ground at the foot of the wall. Willoughby looked up a little anxiously as the sound of engines came nearer.
"I say, old boy, better be careful with that light," he advised. "They're coming right over. More than one. Probably on their way home—but they might have an odd one left—"
"Got it!" Prescott's exclamation interrupted him. He stooped suddenly. As he straightened himself again, he was holding some small object between his finger and thumb. "Look here!"
Somerton shone his torch. "Why—it is a bullet!" There was surprised disappointment in his voice. "But it may not have anything to do with this business," he said after a brief pause. "There are lots of bullets on the range. Maybe someone dropped it there—"
"Rather a coincidence, wouldn't it be?" Prescott asked with mild sarcasm. "Chard says a bullet flew past his head and hit the iron. We find the mark on the iron. We find the bullet. You think there's no connection?"
Somerton was silenced but unconvinced. He took the bullet which Prescott offered him.
"I suppose I'd better keep it," he said dubiously. "And, of course, I'll make a report. Though I believe it's just Chard's nonsense. Better put that light out, Prescott. Those 'planes are pretty near."
He switched off his own as he spoke. Prescott followed his example. Certainly the 'planes were near, and flying uncomfortably low. For a moment the three of them stood listening to the droning of the engines above their heads.
"They're over," Willoughby whispered. "Jerries, all right—"
"You can't tell," Somerton snapped. "Well, there's no sense in hanging round out here. Where the devil have Hatch and Falcon got to?"
"You don't think you'd better ring Major Shepton?" Willoughby made the suggestion with a becoming diffidence, but it was precisely the one thing most calculated to annoy the squad leader, if only for the reason that he half suspected he should already have done so. "If there is anyone about—"
"Thanks. That's my business. Let's get in. Curse that fool—What's that?"
Even as they turned towards the door there was a shout from behind them. It was Hatch's voice. Feet pounded on the roadway, apparently making for the entrance. Then a torch flashed.
"Stop, there! Stop!"
Evidently the fugitive paid no attention. As Prescott started to run forward, a rifle cracked sharply. Someone cried out as if in pain. The red spot of the torch vanished. From just ahead came a confused sound of struggling. Behind him Somerton and Willoughby were hurrying up.
"Got you!" Hatch's voice came triumphantly, almost at his feet. He could make out a dark, moving mass on the ground. "Keep still, damn you, or—"
Apparently the unknown ceased struggling. There was a moment's pause. He could hear someone gasping for breath.
"Where's that blasted torch?" Falcon demanded. "Who's that?"
Prescott made out the silhouette of a rifle barrel pointing towards him. He answered hurriedly.
"It's me—Prescott. What is it?"
"We've got someone. Snooping round the factory. Bolted." Hatch was still a little breathless. "Knocked the torch from my hand. Where—"
"Here!" Prescott's hand went to his pocket. Somerton and Willoughby came to a halt beside him as he pressed the switch. "Let's have a look at him—"
He broke off abruptly. The unsatisfactory glow of the shaded light focused on the pale face of the person Falcon was gripping by the throat. But, feeble though it was it showed something more. Evidently the stranger's hat had been knocked off in the struggle, and the torch gleamed redly on a tumbled mass of fair hair. Falcon released his hold with a whistle of surprise, as Somerton started forward.
"Good God!" There was shocked amazement in his voice. "Why—it's a girl!"
THERE was a moment of stunned silence. Only overhead the drone of the aircraft sounded unnaturally loud, but they scarcely noticed it. Somerton was on his knees beside the unconscious girl, and the hand which held the torch trembled.
"She's not—she's not—?" He asked and broke off. "There was a shot... Who—who fired?"
"That was me," Hatch admitted. "I blazed away at his legs when he bolted. She, I mean. How the hell was I to know? She came from the factory. Probably I missed."
"No! There!" Prescott had extracted his own torch. He was directing its beam on the dark patch which was spreading on the grey flannels a little below the left knee. "She's wounded. It—it's bleeding pretty badly. We'd better—"
"Listen!"
Willoughby's urgent whisper interrupted him, but it was scarcely needed. From somewhere just ahead in the darkness came a dull, heavy sound which was unmistakable.
"Bombs!" Somerton announced unnecessarily. "The lights. Put out the lights. Those damned 'planes—"
Even as the lights vanished, the thud of another explosion came deafeningly. Right on its heels came another, and yet another.
"They're—they're not on to us," Willoughby said in a slightly shaken voice. "That's beyond the farm. Look!"
In the blackness beyond the entrance gateway a red glow was spreading. It grew as they watched, outlining with a startling distinctness the trees which edged the lane.
"Inside! Get her inside! Hurry!" Hatch snapped. "Something is alight. Grab her shoulders."
Prescott obeyed instinctively. They had started towards the office when the next one fell. This time it was quite near. The ground seemed to lift itself in a wave under their feet, and the muffled sound struck their ears like a blow. It was almost at a run they stumbled over the last few yards and gained the entrance.
"In here!" Somerton flung open the door of the porter's lodge on the right. There was a stretcher bed beneath the window; for it was there that the squad leader snatched what sleep he could in the intervals between posting guards. "On the mattress. Mind that light—"
The shelter of the building was more apparent than real. It was a flimsy, temporary affair of wood and corrugated iron, intended only to serve during the period of construction work. To a splinter, much less to a hit, it would offer about as much resistance as a sheet of paper to an air-gun pellet. But it gave the illusion of safety.
Somerton turned savagely to the group which was pressing round the doorway. Perhaps it was desperation which gave him an unusual decisiveness.
"Get out, there. Keep out!" he snapped. "Prescott, you're first aid, aren't you? Have a look at her. Middleton, 'phone the police and Major Shepton. Tell 'em—say someone's been shot. You lend a hand here, Hatch. Falcon, get a guard posted. And the rest, get out! Shut that door!"
Prescott stooped a little hesitantly over the unconscious figure. Certainly he had taken a first aid course, and had attended the necessary lectures and practices; but it was the first actual casualty he had ever dealt with. He felt horribly uncertain of himself as he struggled to remember what he had learnt. The bleeding... Of course, hæmorrhage came first. He rolled up the trouser leg gently to the knee. At the first sight the wound looked sufficiently alarming. It had bled considerably, and the red smears on the white skin stood out with a terrifying distinctness.
"Here!" Hatch had found the first aid equipment and had procured a bowl of water. "Swab it with this. It's nothing. Through the calf, and the bullet went out again. Missed everything. Thank Heaven!"
Prescott found himself gaining confidence. Once cleaned, the wound was not so bad, a clean puncture going through the fleshy part of the calf. The bleeding had already almost stopped. After all, there was nothing important there that could have been hit. He accepted the gauze and bandage which Hatch offered him and set to work. It was with an odd feeling of pride that he pinned the end of the bandage and looked up.
"Is it—is it bad?" Somerton wiped the sweat from his face. "She's still unconscious—"
"Of course, there's some shock," Prescott answered almost professionally. His lecture notes were coming back to him with a beautiful distinctness. "I don't think she's hurt anywhere else..."
There had been some excuse for Hatch's mistake regarding his victim's sex. Above the loosely-fitting flannels she was wearing a thick blue jersey, and over that a donkey-jacket, several sizes too large for her, the sleeves of which almost covered the white fingers. If she had had a hat, it had probably been lost in her fall, and an unruly mass of fair hair framed the pale, finely formed face. As he felt for her wrist, it occurred to him for the first time that she must be an extremely pretty girl.
"Pulse isn't bad," he announced. "We'd better make her comfortable. If you'd pass me those blankets—"
"Brandy?" Somerton suggested. "I've a flask in my coat—"
"A cup of tea's better—when she comes round. Or smelling salts."
"There aren't any," Hatch announced. "She'll be all right!" He frowned down at the stretcher. "But what the devil was she doing there? We found her coming away from the factory—"
"It's certainly queer," Somerton said dubiously. "I suppose she lost her way—"
"Did she?" Hatch demanded grimly. "Over a twelve-foot fence?"
Somerton disregarded the sarcasm. He frowned unhappily.
"There'll be a row about this," he said after a pause. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have—If you hadn't fired—"
"She'd have got away. Look here, you may be able to find a natural explanation for a girl of her age wandering about on a prohibited factory site at half-past three in the morning. I can't myself. And maybe it was just coincidence the 'planes bombed us?"
With a shock Prescott realised that he had forgotten all about the air raid in the excitement of the casualty. He noticed for the first time that the sound of the 'planes and bombs had ceased.
"You can't mean—" Somerton began in a shocked voice. "But they didn't hit it—"
"Not for want of trying. They were after it all right. Some of those were within a couple of hundred yards. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"
Prescott looked from one to the other. He had never seen Hatch's face looking so hard. Somerton was plainly a prey to indecision. He glanced suspiciously down at the girl like a man trying to make up his mind. Prescott turned to Hatch.
"Good heavens, you don't mean she's a spy?" he asked. "Why, that's absurd. A girl like that—"
"It certainly looks—queer," Somerton said, and there was no doubt which way his decision was tending. "Of course, perhaps she can explain. Shepton will be here soon. He'll know what to do. Or the police."
"But this is damned nonsense!" Prescott protested. He felt unaccountably annoyed at the suggestion. "There may be a dozen explanations—"
"Then she can give 'em," Hatch snapped, "to the police."
For a moment the two men faced each other angrily. Somerton intervened in haste.
"In any case, it's hardly a matter for us," he said. "No doubt she'll be able to say what she was doing. You think she'll be all right, Prescott?"
"She'll come round in a few minutes. It's just a question of keeping her warm—"
"Perhaps you'd see about some tea?" There was something elaborately casual in the squad leader's expression which added to Prescott's irritation. "And you might send Falcon along—"
Prescott hesitated only for a moment. Then he went out, closing the door behind him with elaborate gentleness. He had very nearly lost his temper. What was passing in Somerton's mind was sufficiently obvious to anyone who knew him. He had definitely come down on the side of Hatch's suggestion and, fearing trouble, had got rid of Prescott. It was utterly ridiculous. Hatch had always seemed quite sensible, but now—
He pushed open the door on the right at the far end of the corridor which led into the office used as a dining-room. In the excited buzz of conversation, his entrance moment passed unnoticed. Chard was holding forth to an audience which was paying very little attention.
"And that last one!"—he was saying—"why, the whole place shook. It couldn't have been fifty yards away—"
"No. It must have been quite three times that," Willoughby rejoined innocently. "You've missed death by inches twice in a night, Chard. First that bullet?"
But opinion had veered round in favour of the bullet.
"Well, you must admit it's queer," Curry suggested. "And what the devil was the girl doing here—"
Willoughby grinned. "You'd better ask Biddulph. He's our lady killer—and he's on guard next!" He shook his head reprovingly. "Biddulph, old boy, consider the honour of the Home Guard! These midnight meetings with your lady friends on sentry duty—"
Biddulph flushed, perhaps more from embarrassment than anger. He was notoriously shy. He stood for a moment obviously trying to think of some crushing retort. Curry saved him the trouble. He glanced round and noticed Prescott.
"Hullo, doctor! How's your patient?" he asked cheerfully. "Killed her off yet?"
"She's all right," Prescott said briefly. "Still unconscious." He glanced at Falcon. "Somerton asked if you'd go along," he said. "To the porter's lodge."
Falcon nodded and rose to his feet. "Who's on duty?" he asked, and glanced at the list. "Biddulph, Willoughby, and myself. There's another five minutes. The rest of you'd better get some sleep. There's overtime to-morrow."
"Listen to him!" Willoughby appealed as the door closed behind the deputy squad leader. "Sleep! As though we could sleep, with death and destruction all around us. Except Biddulph, of course. Biddulph, like Wellington and Napoleon, can sleep any time. Even in the drawing office. And snore... I say, Prescott, who is that girl?"
"How the devil should I know?" Prescott snapped. "She's still unconscious. Any tea going?"
"Biddulph's brewing it. Incidentally, why the naughty temper? 'Beautiful Blonde Spy Traps Budding Draughtsman.' 'Fifth Column at Factory.' 'Shot by Home Guard.' That's queer, too. Seeing Hatch was aiming at her she should have been safe enough!"
Prescott disregarded him. He crossed the room to where Biddulph had already taken refuge with the tea-pot and poured himself out a cup of tea. Normally he did not mind Willoughby; but he was feeling on edge. Momentarily he almost sympathised with Biddulph, who had subsided at the far end of the table with his tea and some dangerous-looking sandwiches, and was apparently reading a two-days-old morning paper. Prescott sipped his own tea and felt better. He began to feel that there was something to be said for Somerton's view. After all, it was queer. There was no possible reason for the girl being there at that time of night, except—He shied away from the idea, but it recurred. And it was odd that they had been raided for the first time that night. He could not blame Hatch for firing. He was inclined to think he would have done so himself if he had seen anything. But had he? Certainly it could not have been the girl. She had been running from entirely the other direction. The person who fired the shot? But had there been a shot? Why had no one heard it? He gave it up as a bad job, finished his tea, and moved back to the group round the stove.
"I say, Prescott, just what is happening?" Curry demanded. "I gather that Hatch plugged her. You've tied her up. What happens next?"
"Somerton's telephoned for Shepton, I believe. And the police. She's not badly hurt. Bullet went right through and missed everything."
"Sound." Willoughby nodded his head. "Very sound. 'What do you think, chums?' A very good solution. 'A, a respectable, married, but susceptible squad leader arrests B, a beautiful blonde on a forbidden factory in the small hours. What does A do?' Send for the police. A bit dull, though?"
"What else is there to do?" Chard demanded. "It's quite obvious that she had something to do with it. Perhaps it was she who fired at me—she must have had some reason—"
"That's what I say," Willoughby intervened. "Young ladies don't go about shooting people without a reason. I'm surprised at you, Chard—Hullo! What's bitten you, Biddulph?"
"I feel—funny!" Biddulph had risen to his feet. One hand was raised to his throat. His face was positively green and the perspiration on his forehead glistened in the lamplight. "I feel—"
"Well, of course, you are—" Willoughby began and broke off. "Good Lord, man! Are you ill?"
Biddulph did not answer by words. He made a sudden dive towards the bowl which stood on the table near the stove. The next moment the matter was beyond all doubt. He was violently sick!
"Those sandwiches—I thought—" Willoughby began, and then the violence of the other's paroxysms seemed to strike even him. "I say, old man, you're not really ill?"
Biddulph answered only by action, but his reply was clear enough. For the second time that night Prescott's nursing qualifications came into play. As Biddulph paused for a moment and stood weakly supporting himself by the table he hastily filled a cup with water and proffered it.
"Try a drink," he suggested. "Feeling better?"
Biddulph shook his head; then seemed to change his mind. He seized the cup with a hand which trembled so much that he spilt some of its contents as he raised it to his lips. He gulped greedily; paused for a moment to eye it dubiously; then drank again. He put down the cup, looked wildly round and spoke.
"Sa-salt!" he gasped unexpectedly. "Salt and water... Anything... Emetic!"
Willoughby's eyebrows rose. He looked at the sufferer compassionately.
"Good Lord, old boy, you don't need an emetic!" he rejoined. "That's the stuff that makes you sick!"
"Don't—be a—fool!" Biddulph said with weak anger, and coming from a man of such recognised meekness the words were sufficiently startling. "I feel bad. There's something—wrong!... I'm poisoned!"
"Poisoned?" Willoughby echoed the word incredulously. "But, really—"
"Poisoned! Don't touch that tea. I thought—tasted funny—"
There was a deadly earnestness about his manner. Prescott, who had already consumed two cups of it, experienced a momentary qualm; then reason reasserted itself.
"It's just something you've eaten—or a chill," he said firmly. "Sit down a minute. I'll see if there's anything—"
"Poison!" Biddulph reiterated; and suffered himself to be led to a chair. "I tell you I've been poisoned. It wouldn't have come on like that—"
Curry lifted the tea-pot, poured a very little into a cup and sipped it gingerly. He shook his head.
"Nothing wrong," he commented, and taking off the lid peered inside. "Besides, you had some too, didn't you, Prescott?"
Prescott nodded. King, whose strong suit was always silence, grimaced and jerked his head in the direction of the unfinished packet of sandwiches. Certainly they seemed to provide excuse enough. Biddulph, or his landlady, had evidently imaginative ideas about fillings. Prescott nodded assent, and turned to the sufferer.
"If I were you, I'd lie down," he suggested. "You can't go on guard like that. I'll tell Somerton—"
The door burst open suddenly. Middleton stood in the entrance. He gave a quick glance round the room.
"I say!" he said, and there was an unwonted excitement in his voice. "Where's Somerton? There's something funny—"
"Funny?" Curry snapped. "What d'you mean?"
"The telephone... I can't get through. To the police or to Shepton. I think—I think—It sort of seems to be dead—"
"You can't get through anywhere?" Curry demanded. "But—"
"I tell you the line's dead," Middleton interrupted with an unaccustomed impatience. "I've an idea it's been cut!"
SOMERTON eyed Hatch unhappily as the door closed behind Prescott. He glanced at the unconscious girl, and looked up again. Obviously his momentary decision had deserted him.
"There'll be a row about this," he observed. "There's been too much of this lately—the wrong people getting shot—"
Hatch shrugged his shoulders. He was not himself a person given to vacillation. The sight of it in his nominal commander inspired in him a feeling between irritation and contemptuous pity. His sole qualm was that it was a girl.
"Why?" he demanded. "She's not badly hurt. You heard what Prescott said. And any ass can see it. It isn't as if there'd be inquests and so on... I imagine she'd be only too glad to hush it up—if she can."
"Hush it up?"
Hatch ground out his cigarette end impatiently on the floor.
"The whole thing's fishy," he said. "We were in the right. If she'd been killed it would have been her own fault, and I fired low... What was she doing here? How did she get here? Why did she run? Why didn't she stop when challenged? Was it accident the 'planes came so close? It stands out a mile—"
"But—" Somerton began, and looked at the girl. "It's impossible. A girl like that—"
"Might be an enemy agent as well as anyone. We don't know anything about her. That's for the police to find out. We're in the right. She'd no business wandering about the factory in the small hours of the morning, even if she wasn't a spy. The orders are absolutely definite. And war isn't a game."
Somerton nodded assent, and his brow cleared a little. There was no doubt about their instructions. The factory which was being built was under Government supervision. It was sufficiently important from the munitions point of view for the authorities to run no risk of possible sabotage, and either by day or night admission was permitted only to those bearing passes. A thought struck him suddenly.
"How did she get in?" he demanded.
"They'll have to look into that... I suppose she might have slipped past our sentry. And those patrols are a farce, anyhow. What I say is, put two or three people in rubber shoes. Have a point with the other sections—otherwise let 'em keep under cover and watch. What the devil's the good of a sentry who perambulates like a bobby on a beat?"
"That's not my affair," Somerton said stiffy. Hatch had voiced the same views before. "The orders—"
The opening of the door interrupted him. Falcon advanced into the room with a curious glance towards the stretcher; but the squad leader's body hid the face of the unconscious figure from his view.
"You wanted me, sir?" he asked. He looked at Hatch, and at his expression repressed a smile. "She's still unconscious, then. Who is it?"
Somerton shook his head. "She hasn't come round yet," he said. "There's no indication—I mean, of course we haven't looked. I just wanted to talk things over. Sit down, won't you?"
Falcon obeyed, feeling for a cigarette. "It's a funny show, anyway," he said. "It might have been some kind of a lark, of course. There's no saying what some girls will do. Otherwise—"
"That's what Hatch says... I hope there won't be trouble."
Falcon shook his head. "They're too keen on the factory;" he said. "Even if there isn't anything wrong about her." He looked at the bed curiously. "What's she like?" he asked with distinct interest. He was at a stage of development when girls in general appealed to him. "Willoughby said she isn't bad looking."
Somerton frowned. It was not an aspect of the matter on which he wished to dwell. Though he could scarcely admit it, he felt the need of a chaperon. But he moved aside a little.
The result surprised him. Falcon jumped to his feet.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, and stepping forward gazed down with a look of utter incredulity. "It's—it's—"
"You know her?"
"Know her? Of course! It's—it's Prisc—it's Miss Seaton! But how—"
He broke off. A trace of disquiet showed in his face, as though the answer to his own question had suddenly occurred to him, and it was not one he could have wished. Somerton stared at him in bewilderment, and it was Hatch who spoke.
"Seaton?" he asked. "Seaton who was here? The Fifth Columnist chap they gaoled? You mean she's some relation to him?"
"Priscill—Miss Seaton—she's his cousin—"
"Oh!" Hatch said quite simply; but Falcon glanced at him with a frown. "Let's see. He was a Fascist, or something, wasn't he? That was before I came down—"
"Seaton?" Somerton intervened. "I believe I heard about it... His cousin?"
"She'd nothing to do with that," Falcon said irritably. "She's perfectly all right. And I think that was just nonsense—" He broke off. "She's not badly hurt?" he demanded. "A doctor—"
"I have no doubt the police will bring one," Somerton said quickly. It was a point which he had overlooked in his orders to Middleton. "No. The bullet went through the flesh of her leg without hitting anything much. Prescott says—"
"He doesn't know anything. She ought to have a doctor—"
"Don't be an ass," Hatch said bluntly. "You weren't worrying till you found out who it was."
Falcon coloured. It looked as though he was going to retort angrily; but Somerton intervened.
"You know her then?" he asked.
"Yes," Falcon said, and stopped. "Oh, yes," he continued after a pause. "Quite well... Naturally... Seaton was in our office. She came down to see him—"
"You say that she didn't share her cousin's—er—political views?"
"Nothing of the kind... And, anyway, I don't believe there was anything really wrong with Seaton. He just joined the Fascists like some other young fools who were a bit fed up with the way things were going, and liked to feel big. But she's all right. You're not going to suggest that—"
"Look here," Hatch said. "You may as well recognise that that's just what will be suggested. It's bound to be. What's she doing down here at all? Her cousin isn't here. Did you know she was in the neighbourhood?"
"No," Falcon admitted. "I didn't."
"Would she normally have told you?"
Falcon flared up. "I'll be damned if it's your business to cross-examine me! You can—"
"Leave it to the police? All right. But these are the questions they'll ask, and you may as well face it. Miss Seaton may not be a Fascist. But she comes down here—and there's no reason why anyone should come to a hole like this, except the factory. She doesn't tell you she's coming. She's got a cousin who's gaoled as a suspect. She's on the factory site in the small hours of the morning; she tries to rush a sentry; and just to cap things, the factory's raided for the first time to-night... I don't care a tinker's cuss what you think about me. You can just chew that over."
It seemed to be unpalatable. Somerton glanced at Falcon; then looked away.
"No doubt Miss Seaton will be able to give some quite simple explanation," he said with obvious insincerity. "We can only wait until—"
Middleton's abrupt entrance interrupted him. All three of them stared as he came towards them.
"Sir," he began, "the 'phone—"
"Well?" Somerton snapped. Middleton was a person he felt at ease with. "They're coming?"
Middleton shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't get through at all, sir. The line's dead."
Somerton looked at him incredulously. "Dead?" he asked. "You mean—?"
"Well, sir, I don't understand it at all. It was all right just before—I mean, before the raid, sir. We got the warning. And now it's off. There's obviously no connection at all. And I can only think, sir, that—well, the line's cut somehow."
"The bombs?" Falcon suggested.
"Of course. That's possible. Yes, perhaps the bombs." The squad leader's acceptance of the suggestion was rather too eager. He hesitated for a moment. "You'd better try again," he said. "See if you can trace the break. It's really important—"
Middleton looked as though he was going to protest the uselessness of doing anything of the kind; but he was naturally obedient. He nodded and went out. Somerton looked from one to the other.
"And now?"
"It seems to me we ought to be ready for anything at any moment, sir," Hatch said emphatically. "The cutting of the line—"
"Or the breakdown," Falcon amended.
"Or the convenient breakdown—if you like. It looks to me as though someone had a good reason for wanting us not to be able to communicate with the police or military. And the 'phone's practically our lifeline. You know that, sir."
Somerton knew it only too well. For a variety of excellent reasons the new factory was being built in a peculiarly desolate stretch of country, and communications with the adjacent town, five miles away, were normally bad, except for the special buses bringing the staff and workmen. At that time of night they were non-existent. Even Somerton had been driven by petrol shortage to come by bus that morning. He knew of no 'phones near. To walk the whole distance would take over an hour. He frowned for a minute over the problem.
"Your suggestion is—?" he asked.
"That we send a runner to the town, sir. There's a bicycle in the back passage. And in the meantime, that we sentries and patrols, issue ammunition all round, and keep the rest standing by."
He realised almost as soon as he had spoken that he would have done better not to mention the ammunition. Getting cartridges out of Somerton was like extracting teeth. He was horribly nervous that someone would be shot by accident; doled out the clips even to the guard reluctantly and at the last minute; and the thought of effectively arming the whole squad was evidently a shock to him. He looked at Falcon.
"What do you say?"
Falcon shrugged his shoulders. "I think we're in danger of making a mountain out of a molehill," he said, with contempt in his voice. "After all, what has happened? Chard thought someone shot at him. He's thought that kind of thing before. Last time a whole column of parachutists, complete with light tanks, was attacking the place, and it turned out to be a couple of cart-horses. There wasn't a shot, and there wasn't the mark of a bullet. Sheer nerves."
Hatch grunted. It was what he had himself thought at first.
"That's what started us all off," continued Falcon. "As for Miss Seaton, any suspicion of her is merely absurd. I don't know what she was doing here. She may have thought it was a joke. Then, when she was challenged, probably she lost her head. Luckily, she's not much hurt, though the sooner we get a doctor the better. We ought to be doing that, instead of fooling about."
Hatch smiled sardonically. "The air raid?" he asked.
"I don't see what that has to do with it. We've been expecting to be raided for weeks. They must know perfectly well where this place is without any help. And, anyway, they missed by a good margin."
"I see," Hatch said with thinly veiled sarcasm. "All three incidents were quite separate and unconnected. And the telephone?"
"That's pretty obvious. The bombs fell along the road. It's not surprising if they cut the line. That's a nuisance, but it's nothing to get windy about."
"So your advice is—" Somerton prompted.
"That we shouldn't make asses of ourselves and spread a scare unnecessarily. Send off a runner by all means, and the sooner the better, to get a doctor and to tell Major Shepton. Let him decide if any further steps have to be taken. It's just as quick, as things are, and it safeguards you... As for double guards, and keeping everyone standing by—well, most of those chaps were up nearly all last night. They've worked more than a twelve-hour day to-day, and they've got to do it to-morrow." He looked at Hatch. "You may be able to survey without sleep. I'm hanged if you can draw."
Somerton slowly nodded assent. That was a matter which came within his own province.
"We've simply got to get that stuff done to-morrow," he said firmly. "It's hanging up the whole show. And there's no doubt they're played out."
"I think the whole thing's a lot of damn nonsense. I'd post the usual guard—that's Biddulph, Willoughby and myself. You and Hatch can reinforce us at the main post if you like. Send someone off—King or Stephens. And let the rest get a bit of sleep."
"Better be Stephens," Somerton decided. "He's only on heating. Must you have Willoughby?"
Even Falcon was surprised. "Well, I must have three," he said. "We can't very well actually reduce the patrol—"
"Although nothing important has happened," Hatch intervened.
"Oh, well," Somerton said with resignation. He turned to Hatch. "Yes, that would be best, I think, don't you?" he asked. "We don't want to make ourselves a laughing stock."
"Suit yourself." Hatch rose to his feet abruptly. "You're squad leader. I've said what I think—and I'd sooner be laughed at than rushed. I still say it can't all have happened by mere—"
The sound of a low moan from the bed interrupted him. In the heat of the argument, they had forgotten all about the girl. Her eyes were open, and she was struggling to raise herself. Falcon hurried forward.
"Priscilla..." he said. "You—you're better?"
For a moment the blue eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she tried to smile.
"Dick?" she said almost inaudibly. "But how—My leg—What happened?"
Before he could answer, her expression changed suddenly. It was as though she had suddenly remembered and there was fear in her face. Falcon hesitated.
"I shot you in the leg after you ignored my challenge," Hatch said bluntly. "Perhaps you can explain—"
Somerton intervened, only just in time to prevent an outburst from Falcon.
"I'm afraid, Miss Seaton, there's been a mistake," he said apologetically. As Willoughby had said, he was susceptible to feminine beauty. "A most regrettable mistake. Naturally, we could hardly expect that you would be here at this time of night, and, of course, we have to be very careful. Mr. Hatch was under the impression that you were—well, that perhaps some attempt was being made to sabotage the factory—"
Falcon cut him short. "You've got some brandy, haven't you?" he demanded.
"In my coat," Prescott said.
Falcon was already feeling in the pocket. He extracted the flask and poured a small measure of the spirit into the cap. Hatch looked on grimly as he offered it to the girl. She drank a sip or two, then coughed and handed it back. A little colour came into her cheeks.
"I'm sorry. Of course it was my own fault. I shouldn't have been here—" She smiled at Hatch forgivingly. "I know that. But—"
"Why were you here?" Hatch demanded.
"Really, I don't think Miss Seaton can answer questions yet," Falcon broke in, a little too hurriedly. "There will be plenty of time for that—"
"Plenty," Hatch agreed briefly, and there was an unpleasant note in his voice.
Somerton hastily intervened again. "I think, perhaps, it's time the guard was posted," he suggested. "If you wouldn't mind, Falcon—"
Falcon nodded reluctantly. He turned with a word of apology and went out. The girl glanced up at Hatch and dropped her eyes hastily.
"My leg—" she asked and looked at Somerton. "Is it—is it broken?"
"Oh, nothing like that," Somerton smiled. "Mr. Prescott, our first aid man, dressed it. He's sure it's not serious. We're trying to get a doctor. Unfortunately, the air raid seems to have broken our line—"
"I'm afraid I owe you an explanation." She paused for a moment. "I've been very silly. But, you see, I used to know Dick and some of the others quite well—before—before—"
Somerton nodded sympathetically. "I heard," he said. "I'm very sorry."
"You see, I had to come down here," she went on, a little hurriedly. "And I'd just arrived by car—we were held up on the way by fog—"
"You were alone?" Hatch asked.
"Oh no. A friend drove me down. I knew that Dick and Gerald would be on guard to-night—"
"Gerald?" Hatch prompted inflexibly.
"Oh—Mr. Biddulph. I thought it would be fun to see if I could get past them. And I did get in. But as I was getting out, I saw someone get up suddenly. I was frightened and ran. I collided with someone. There was a shout—and I felt a pain in my leg." She smiled. "That was Mr. Hatch, I suppose. I don't remember any more—"
"You had to come down here, you said, Miss Seaton?" Hatch asked.
The reappearance of Falcon saved her from the necessity of replying. He was carrying a rifle and bayonet, and there was a worried look on his face.
"All ready?" Somerton asked; then turned to the girl. "I'm afraid, Miss Seaton, we shall have to deprive you of Mr. Falcon's company. By bad luck, both he and Biddulph are just going on guard. Of course, you will understand—"
"Biddulph's sick," Falcon announced, refusing to look at Hatch. "He'd eaten some peculiar sandwiches he'd brought. They looked enough to knock out anyone. But he says he's poisoned, sir."
"Poisoned?" Momentarily Somerton was startled out of his party manner. He contrived to laugh. "But really—"
"Gerald is a little—imaginative, at times." Priscilla smiled. "And his digestion is more ambitious than strong! I do hope—"
"Another coincidence?" Hatch asked.
Falcon shot a furious glance at him. "Prescott's volunteered to take his place, sir," he said. "He seems pretty wide awake, anyhow—"
"That's very good of him," Somerton assented conventionally. "Very well, Falcon. You sent for the doctor?"
"Stephens is going as soon as we relieve him, sir. If you'll excuse me, Priscilla—"
He smiled, turned towards the door, and frowned a warning at Hatch. The surveyor looked at Somerton.
"Shall I go and see how he is?" he asked.
"If you think it necessary," Somerton assented. "And see that the others get to bed, please. They must rest."
He turned to the girl. "We're terribly busy here, you see, Miss Seaton. Otherwise we could have arranged a substitute for—"
"I quite understand. I ought to apologise for being such a nuisance. Of course, I should have known. A place like this is dreadfully well guarded these days, isn't it?"
"Well, you've just proved that it isn't, Miss Seaton." Somerton smiled ruefully. "You've shown that it is possible to get in—"
"But not out—intact." She smiled a little wearily; then a slight frown creased her brow. "I'm feeling—rather tired—"
Somerton nodded his sympathy. "You ought to rest, Miss Seaton. Until the doctor comes—" He himself wrinkled his brows, perhaps at the thought that the doctor would not come alone.
"I'll leave you. If you should want me, I shall be in call—just across the passage. I'll leave the door ajar—"
Priscilla Seaton closed her eyes as he went out. It was quite true that she was tired, and her leg throbbed painfully; but her distress was less physical than mental. It had been a difficult ten minutes. The hard-faced man evidently suspected something. The police? Would they be sent for? Could she explain to them as easily as to the squad leader?
All at once she started up on the improvised bed, throwing the blankets from her. For a moment she sat listening, and all at once her eyes were wide with fear. Then, with a great effort she raised herself and stood erect. Her left leg was useless. Every time she tried to move it, it seemed as though a knife was stabbing at her, and for a moment the whole room swam before her eyes. Then, helping herself with her hands along the wall, she moved slowly and painfully towards the half-open door.
IT was in anything but a good temper that Prescott joined his two fellow-sufferers for his second period of sentry duty. He had volunteered simply because he was the one person who was comparatively fresh, and there was no decent alternative; but as he shivered a little in the chill early morning air he mentally consigned Biddulph and his digestion to a region where cold would not be the trouble. Everyone load been irritating: Hatch with his ridiculous suspicions, Somerton with his inability to make up his mind; Chard's nerves... And what on earth had been happening? He had just reached the conclusion that, after all, they might have been magnifying a chapter of minor accidents; and, in any case, he had reached the state of mind when he did not greatly care.
Falcon seemed to share his ill-humour. Only Willoughby, to the exasperation of both, showed his usual talkativeness and good spirits. He had glanced curiously at the half-closed door of the lodge as they passed; once outside, with Stephens on his way to the town, his curiosity refused to be suppressed further.
"And how is our fair victim?" he asked. "Sitting up and taking nourishment? Being put through the third degree, or what?"
"She's come round," Falcon said briefly. "She's not badly hurt."
"Aha!" Willoughby rejoined dramatically. "But has she confessed? Is she to be shot at dawn, or what? Does she admit that she came here to vamp old Stephens to get the heating drawings for Block B?"
"Don't be a damned fool!" Falcon snapped with unnecessary heat. "There's nothing like that. Miss Seaton isn't a spy!"
"What?" Willoughby echoed, in genuine astonishment. "Seaton? No relation to—"
"His cousin. But that's not her fault. And it's a rotten thing to say—"
"Good Lord! Seaton's cousin. You know her, then?"
"Yes."
The monosyllable was not encouraging; but it was difficult to repress Willoughby.
"'In that case, Algernon,'" he quoted, "'pardon my absurd curiosity. But what brings her to this hell-hole?'"
It was a question to which Falcon himself would have been very glad to know the answer; consequently it annoyed him.
"That's her business!" he snapped. "And look here, Willoughby, it's a serious matter going about accusing people of things like this—"
"Me? I'm not accusing anyone." There was pained surprise in his voice. "I'm just interested. I suppose it seems natural enough to you that she should just pop up here for Hatch to take a pot shot at, but I confess to being puzzled. Of course, all this may be just in the day's work down here, but we never did it in London—"
"You can shut up!" Falcon exploded. "If you don't want me to knock your silly head off—"
Probably Willoughby was surprised at the storm he had aroused. There was a moment's silence.
"As for silly heads, and knocking—" he murmured, and then decided to make amends. "No offence meant, old boy... And now, how about a spot of sentry-go? 'Duty, duty must be done. The rule applies to everyone—' And though everything may be all serene and couleur de rose, hadn't we better earn our maintenance allowance by wearing out our regulation boots?"
"All right," Falcon said with an effort. "Prescott, you've had a dose already. Will you take the first spell on the door? Willoughby and I'll patrol."
Prescott was glad enough not to have to walk just then. The stiff uppers of the unaccustomed boots had made his ankles distinctly sore.
"Right," he assented.
"I'll take the cross-roads; you go the other way," Falcon continued. "And look here, keep your eyes skinned. Probably there's nothing in all this—"
"Right, general," Willoughby assented cheerfully. "See you round the back later... 'With cat-like tread upon our way we steal—'"
Falcon did not immediately follow him. The two of them stood listening to the footsteps dying away on the roadway.
"You thought you saw something?" Falcon said abruptly.
"Well, I did, and I didn't," Prescott answered. "If nothing had happened, I shouldn't have given it another thought. It was probably just some trick of the light—"
"Probably. And, of course, no one shot at Chard. That's just his nonsense. The telephone—that would be the bombs—"
He was evidently trying to convince himself. Prescott knew enough about his temper not to argue the point.
"Well, we can keep our eyes open," he said. "And I expect old Shepton will be along soon. He'll know what to do."
"Yes," Falcon said, and stopped. "My God, doesn't Somerton just dither? How he ever came to be—"
He broke off. "See you later."
He turned without another word and vanished into the darkness. Prescott turned up his coat collar. It was abominably cold. The moon was again hidden behind the clouds which were massing more thickly. Probably it was going to rain. And there would be another tough day to-morrow—or rather, to-day. What a perfectly fatuous business it was—
Falcon had given no instructions on the point, but Prescott slipped a clip of cartridges into the magazine of his rifle. He was by no means sure that there was nothing wrong, and he was fairly certain that Falcon wasn't satisfied either. But if any attack was intended, no one would go about it like that. The whole series of events was incomprehensible and ridiculous, and everyone had been making asses of themselves. Somerton, of course, had behaved true to form. He was all right on the parade ground, but he simply was not fitted for that kind of emergency. Falcon would have made a better leader; but the question of seniority had been involved. And Falcon had been unwontedly touchy. Presumably he was keen on the girl. For some reason the idea was not particularly welcome. Seaton's arrest had happened before he was transferred there, but he had heard about it. And by all accounts the authorities had been justified in detaining him as a precautionary measure. But the girl couldn't have anything to do with it. That was ridiculous. And yet—
His thoughts broke off abruptly as the sound of footsteps came to his ears. He stiffened, and brought his rifle to the ready. Then he smiled at his own nervousness... Of course it was Falcon returning. In the stillness, sound would carry quite a long way, and the beat went round the side of the building to meet Willoughby's behind the lavatories at the back. Undoubtedly those were regulation boots. His toes were feeling frozen. He would be quite glad to take a walk, if only to keep warm, and awake. He had found his eyes closing, and forced himself to a momentary alertness. The moon was emerging again. He could see quite a long way up the road, almost to the gate—if there had been anything to see. Then he jerked into sudden wakefulness.
"What—?"
He had almost been dozing, but there was no need to ask the question. In the still night air the sound had been unmistakable. It had been a shot. And even as he stood there, momentarily paralysed, he heard a second. For a single instant he hesitated, then dived for the door.
The lodge was empty. Even the girl seemed to have vanished. He stared for a second at the empty stretcher. Where was Somerton? And Hatch was to have been on guard too. Everyone was missing. He turned quickly towards the inner folding doors, and as he did so they opened.
It was the girl who stood there. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she swayed as she clutched at the door handle.
"Who—?" she began, and broke off. "The shot! The shot! You heard it—?"
He jumped forward just in time to catch her as she was on the point of falling. But just then he had no time to bother about fainting girls. He must give the alarm. He dumped her unceremoniously into one of the row of chairs, regardless of the fact that she subsided limply over the arm. Pushing the door open he put his whistle to his mouth and blew.
The response was unexpectedly prompt. A door right beside him opened. Hatch stepped out into the corridor.
"What—?" he demanded.
"Shots!" Prescott said briefly. "Rifles—you heard 'em?"
"No," Hatch answered. "Where—?"
"Somewhere at the back. Falcon or Willoughby—Where's Somerton?"
"I don't know—"
The sound of running footsteps came to them from up the darkened corridor on the left. The next moment the squad leader came into view hurrying towards them. "What was it?" he demanded almost tremulously. His face was as white as paper. "The shots—My God! What's happened?"
"Don't know... Falcon or Willoughby—at the back—"
Hatch took charge. "You'd better wake up the rest, sir," he said, with a trace of sympathy in his voice. "Prescott and I will have a look—"
Without waiting for assent, he turned and led the way through the inner doors. He gave a single curious glance at the limp figure of the girl; disappeared momentarily into the lodge to emerge carrying his rifle, and pushed the outer door open.
"Take the right. I'll go left," he ordered briefly. "If anyone's there, we'll get 'em... Be careful who you shoot—"
He did not wait for an answer. Before Prescott could move, he was doubling along the front of the building. The half-light swallowed him up as Prescott wheeled round in the opposite direction. The building seemed unnaturally long. Certainly the shots had come from the back, but there was the possibility that whoever had fired, or been fired at, would run back the way he was going. He went at a good rate, avoiding the tar macadamised path in favour of the lumpy earth at the side of it. There, even his heavy boots only thudded deadly, and he could listen. But no further sound came.
He reached the corner of the building. The need for caution came to him. If anyone were coming that way, they must run straight into his arms. It was odd that there was no sound. What were Falcon and Willoughby doing? Had they fired? The ghastly thought came to him that there had been two shots. Perhaps that was why there was no sound. They might both be dead. Was it an enemy attack? Very circumspectly he started to make his way along the wall, keeping in the thick band of shadow cast by the moonlight.
Someone was coming; and in a hurry. He crouched down in the shadow, waiting for the other to come abreast of him. The running feet were quite near. A shadow broke quickly from the gloom.
He pushed his safety-catch forward and stood up.
"Halt!"
"Who—?" It was Willoughby's voice. "I say. Who's that? Prescott? What's happened?"
"Quiet!" Prescott urged. "Was it you who fired?"
"I? No."
"Then, who—?"
"Falcon? It seemed to come from round there—"
"You ran this way?"
"I wasn't sure if you'd have heard... What—?"
"We'd better look... Come along—quietly. Crouch in the shadow."
Without waiting for an answer he started forward again. The back wing of the temporary building was even longer than that which he had just traversed. It seemed an enormous distance to the end. Behind him, Willoughby was making enough noise to wake the dead. Where was Falcon? Why was there no other sound? Why had Willoughby come back? It would have been natural, surely, to go forward and look—
They reached the corner at last. Here there was only the width of the building. In the moonlight the path showed like a pale ribbon against the dark earth. There was not a sound or sign of anyone as he turned again and started up the other side. The moonlight dimmed again. Hatch must be somewhere just ahead. What was he doing? Probably, like himself, Hatch had decided that silence was better than speed. But Willoughby wasn't being silent. Then, from just ahead came a cry.
Willoughby plunged past him. Prescott swore. Any hope of secrecy or surprise had vanished. He hesitated for a moment; then followed. If anyone were there wishing to escape, he would naturally run away from them. And, by now, the rest of the squad would have turned out. He would run right into their arms. If Somerton hurried—But Somerton probably wouldn't. Probably he would fidget about until it was too late—
A glow of light broke from the darkness ahead. It was low down, right on the ground. And then he saw what it was shining on. It came to him that he had better announce himself.
"Hatch!" he called out. "Hatch! That you?"
"Here?"
The torch was raised for a moment to point towards him. Hatch called again.
"Here, Prescott. Quick! It's—"
"Who?"
He had seen the white face upon which the torch had shone. Hatch was kneeling beside someone lying on the ground. Someone dead or wounded. Who?
Hatch did not trouble to shout in answer. He rose to his feet as Willoughby and Prescott came up.
"Falcon," he said, in a dull voice. "He's dead."
"Dead?"
"Shot... Right in the heart... You didn't see anyone?"
"I met Willoughby on the way... No, no one." As he spoke, it flashed through his mind that Willoughby was someone, and, quite unreasonably, a memory of the quarrel between the two men recurred to him. "I came quietly, hoping—"
"No one passed me... But whoever it was had probably gone before we got here. He'd have several minutes—and he'd hardly wait—"
He broke off. The sound of hurrying footsteps came to them from the direction of the front of the building. Hatch switched off his torch.
"Back!" he said. "Into the shadow—We don't know—"
But the very noise was reassuring. It sounded as though a small army was approaching. Then the glow of lights showed round the corner of the projecting wing. Hatch swore disgustedly beneath his breath.
"Look at 'em!" he said in a whisper. "It's like a blooming herd of elephants holding a torchlight procession. If there was anyone here—" He broke off. "Hullo! That you, Somerton?"
The advance stopped abruptly. There was a pause, then the squad leader's voice came a little anxiously.
"Hatch? Is that you? Where are you? What happened?"
"Here... Yes, Hatch and Prescott... Hurry."
Only then Hatch switched on his torch and stepped forward again. He felt distinctly distrustful about the nerves of Chard and Biddulph, if they were in the party; though, he reflected with a grim smile, Somerton had quite possibly taken the precaution of leading his troops into action without ammunition. It occurred to him to wonder whether a guard had been left on the building at all. But in this he did his superior officer an injustice. The reinforcing group consisted of only four persons. There must be two left behind.
Somerton was a little in advance of the others.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Something's happened?"
For answer, Hatch swung the beam of his torch downward. It lit up the still figure of the dead man. The squad leader caught his breath sharply.
"My God!" he said almost in a whisper. "Who—?"
"It's Falcon," Hatch said simply.
"He—he's dead."
"Yes. Shot—"
"But—but how—?" Somerton asked. "There were two shots. Did he—did he fire at someone—?"
Hatch had scarcely had time to think about that. He bent down and picked up the dead man's rifle. There was a cartridge in the breach, but it was unexploded; he removed the magazine, and spilled the cartridges into his hand. Then he sniffed at the muzzle.
"Falcon didn't fire," he said. "I don't suppose he'd a chance."
There was a moment's silence. Somerton flashed his torch on the body.
"This—this is awful," he said. "Falcon—!" He broke off as a thought struck him suddenly. "But—but we may be attacked! We'd better carry him in—"
Hatch's ideas of what had been happening had undergone considerable revision in the past few minutes. He did not believe for a minute that there was any imminent danger from the enemy. Otherwise he would have protested before against the squad standing in a group with lights offering a perfect target for anyone who might be lurking near.
"I don't think so," he said. "You left someone on guard?"
"Chard. Biddulph's there too, but he's pretty bad.... I hope to heaven that he—"
"We'd better leave things as they are," Hatch interrupted. "Until the police come... Shepton should be here soon. Perhaps he'll bring them... In the meantime, perhaps—" He hesitated. "I think we'd better post a guard here and go inside. Two men. Do you think Curry and King—?"
"Of course," Somerton assented eagerly. "You mean, to see that nothing's disturbed? Then, you believe—?"
"We don't know enough to believe anything yet. But we'd better find out what we can—make sure of a few things the police are likely to ask... Just lend me your rifle a moment, Willoughby, will you?"
"Why—?" Willoughby began reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall, but Hatch had already taken it. He slipped back the bolt gently, retrieving the cartridge as it was ejected, and as he did so he uttered a startled exclamation. His torch flashed up suddenly. It focused full on Willoughby's face, and for a moment he held it there. Willoughby frowned and blinked. "What the devil—?" he began angrily.
"Hurt your face, haven't you?" Hatch switched off the torch. "Just done it?"
"Why—?" Willoughby hesitated. "Collided with a telegraph post as I was coming back," he said after a slight pause. "I say, Hatch, what's eating you?"
Hatch did not answer immediately. Instead, he switched on his torch again. The glow revealed the exploded shell in his right palm; but even then for a moment the onlookers scarcely understood. At last Hatch spoke, and there was a queer tenseness in his voice.
"Willoughby," he said, and hesitated. "Willoughby, when did you fire your rifle?"
MAJOR SHEPTON was feeling both puzzled and annoyed. Roused from his bed by a breathless and rather incoherent Stephens, he had finally managed to extract some account of the night's events, and he could make neither head nor tail of it. Something seemed to be happening; just what, it was hard to decide. Presumably it was no attempted landing by parachutists. They would scarcely have fired at Chard from extreme range; they had no facilities for poisoning Biddulph; they would scarcely explain the presence of Miss Seaton; and would hardly advertise their arrival by dropping bombs on the spot.
The alternatives seemed to be three. It might be a chapter of accidents; an idiotic hoax; or an attempt at sabotage. In any case it seemed rather a matter for the police than the military; and though he had spoken with a sleepy and irritable local commander, and warned the neighbouring Warden and Home Guard services, it was with an inspector of police and a sergeant that he finally set off for the factory.
As the car skidded its way round the tortuous bends of the lanes which offered the shortest route to their destination, he swore once or twice beneath his breath. Almost certainly Somerton had justified his worst suspicions. Just what the squad leader should have done he could not exactly say, on the evidence before him; what was quite clear was that he had completely failed to lead. That was precisely what Shepton himself had always feared. But his position as chief draughtsman had made him a tempting candidate; he had a sufficient knowledge of drill derived from a School O.T.C.; and on the parade ground acquitted himself creditably. What he lacked was the ability to deal with an emergency, and it seemed particularly bad luck that the only emergency which had occurred should have come when he was in charge. There had been muddle and hesitation, and, jealous of the Home Guard's reputation in general, and his own section in particular, Shepton felt exasperated as well as anxious.
Perhaps it was his obvious irritation which for quite a long time prevented the inspector who sat beside him from interrupting his thoughts; for Inspector Bagehot was a mild, tactful man, at least in outward manner, and a firm believer in the saying that there were more ways of circumventing a brick wall than butting it down. They were nearly half-way there before he ventured to break the silence.
"What do you think has happened, sir?" he asked mildly.
"I wish to God I knew!" Shepton's pent-up feelings found vent. "The whole thing seems damned absurd. There's no reasonable explanation at all."
Bagehot hesitated only for a moment. "Perhaps not, sir," he agreed cautiously, and paused. "I believe you knew this Miss Seaton, sir?"
"Oh, yes," Shepton assented absently; and then seemed to detect a sinister significance in the words. He glanced sharply towards the dimly visible silhouette of his companion's face. "Of course. I'd seen her once or twice, that is. A very pleasant and attractive girl, I thought."
In the last sentence there was a vaguely defensive note which did not escape the inspector.
"Ah," he said non-committally. "And her cousin, sir?"
"Of course... He'd worked two years under me. And he was a pretty good worker, too."
Bagehot said nothing in answer to that, and to Shepton his very silence made the unspoken accusation the clearer.
"Look here," he demanded after a brief interval, "you're not suggesting that because her young fool of a cousin happens to have got mixed up with a lot of half-witted Fascists that Miss Seaton is responsible for all this?... That's nonsense."
"Well, sir—why?"
The question was diffident enough, almost hesitant; but the major found it none the easier to answer.
"She herself had nothing to do with that kind of silliness," he said at last. "Besides, she wasn't the kind of person to—I suppose you're suggesting sabotage—Fifth Column stuff?"
"I didn't, sir," Bagehot corrected. "But since you raise the point, isn't it the likeliest explanation?" He let that sink home for a moment. "Why was Miss Seaton there at all, sir?"
"She explained that... Stephens said she thought Falcon or Biddulph were on guard and meant it for a joke."
As he gave the explanation, it sounded horribly unconvincing. But the inspector expressed no disbelief.
"Then no doubt she can prove that," he said quite pleasantly. "Or at least, who she came down with; why she was so late; where she proposed to stop the night; how she got to the factory—She didn't explain just why she came down this way at all, sir?"
"No," Shepton admitted. "She didn't."
"Of course, sir, she can easily explain that... And how she got into the factory. And why, when challenged, she risked being shot rather than waiting to prove her identity—"
"I suppose she lost her head?" Shepton suggested.
"That's possible... She certainly went where she'd no business at an unusual time... And it's unfortunate for her that her cousin is in gaol."
"But not convicted," Shepton said quickly. "Detained on suspicion. I believe they're trying to get him out... He just happens to belong to a class of persons whom one can't at the moment quite trust. They've got to be locked up. But that doesn't say they're all traitors."
"He was a Fascist, and a pretty hot one. Did a good deal of wild talking. I've read the notes of some of it. All about all the good the dictators have done, and the democracies being soft and flabby—"
Bagehot almost snorted. Shepton ventured a mild defence.
"He was barely twenty-one, Inspector. Didn't you yourself have some pretty curious political views at that age?"
"No." Bagehot considered. "No I was a Conservative. My father was a Conservative. I've always been a Conservative—though, of course, being in the force, I've not let it influence me."
Shepton smiled in spite of everything. "Everyone isn't so stable, Inspector. Seaton was a good enough lad. But for this war, he'd have got over all that... And I still don't see what you think his cousin did. She hasn't blown the place up, or anything."
"I never said she had, sir. But, as it happens, it was nearly blown up. By the bombs. She could have shown a light for that."
"I suppose she could—if she felt strongly enough about it to be a target. But no one mentioned one."
"That doesn't prove there wasn't one."
"No," Shepton admitted. "But look here. If that had been a deliberate raid, guided by a signal, there'd have been more than one stick dropped wide of the mark. The Jerries don't do things like that... And how do you fit in the rest? The bullet at Chard—Biddulph's poisoning—the telephone—"
"I don't say it does fit, sir. It's too early for that... The bullet might have been a blind. She wanted the sentry off the door, and thought he'd go in to turn out the guard... She'd cut the telephone to prevent the alarm being given."
"And Biddulph?"
"That might have been just accident, sir. If he'd eaten something that disagreed with him." Perhaps Bagehot himself felt the admission rather lame. He went on a little hurriedly. "She knew Mr. Biddulph, I understand, sir? And some of the others?"
"Just Biddulph and Falcon," Shepton answered briefly.
"Only those, sir? How was that?"
"Well, we're a pretty scratch lot. We've acquired a mixed lot of new recruits, mostly out-of-work architects. And a good many of our original lot are on other jobs... Biddulph and Falcon were among a number who hovered round, you know. She's a pretty girl."
"If Biddulph were keen on her, he might be ready to help her."
"By being literally sick for love?" Shepton laughed. "I don't see that it does help... He might really have been poisoned. It's queer he thought so, isn't it?"
The inspector was perhaps indisposed to treat that seriously. He ignored it.
"You've no idea how she felt about them, sir?"
"Really, I don't know... I suppose her cousin was favourite. Or Falcon. Biddulph hadn't a chance, anyhow... She wasn't madly in love with any of 'em, if that's what you mean."
"Of course not, sir."
The agreement annoyed Shepton. "You keep harping on her cousin," he said irritably. "What can he have to do with it? He's locked up, at any rate."
"Her cousin? If she was fond of him, there's no saying what she might do. Women are funny that way—"
"Hullo! What's that?"
The major's exclamation broke in on his words. But the driver of the car had already seen what had attracted his attention. The car slowed to a stop in answer to the red light which was being waved just in front of them. Bagehot flung down the window a little crossly as the light revealed a khaki-clad figure standing by the roadside.
"Police," he said brusquely. "Inspector Bagehot. We're in a hurry—"
"Identity cards, please," a voice said with firm politeness, and the light gleamed on the dull metal of the rifle which enforced the request.
The inspector muttered something beneath his breath and fumbled in his pocket. But the formality was unnecessary. At that moment the guard flashed his light into the car and recognised Major Shepton.
"Oh, it's you, sir," he said apologetically. "I didn't see. What is it, sir?"
"We don't know yet. Just going to see... You'd better be ready for anything—and stop anyone who's in the least suspicious. See you later—"
The inspector grunted something impolite as the car started. He was inclined to be annoyed at being held up at the gun's point by an amateur. Shepton smiled in the darkness.
"I don't see who they're to stop," he growled.
"Well, on your theory, Miss Seaton might have had a confederate—in fact, I'm inclined to think she must have had. Besides, I doubt if the times agree—"
The inspector bent suddenly forward.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "We've hit him—"
In the limited glow of the sidelights Shepton had a momentary glimpse of a dark figure right in front. For a second he thought that Bagehot was right. The car was right on the man. They swerved sickeningly across the road; there was a bump, another lurch, and the car stopped, so suddenly as to fling them forward in their seats. Bagehot recovered first. He flung the door open.
"Hullo!" He jumped as he called out. "You hurt?"
There was no answer. Shepton, joining him, found him standing in bewilderment, peering round into the darkness. The front door opened. Quite unconcernedly the driver descended.
"It's quite all right, sir," he said reassuringly. "I missed him."
"The bump—?" Bagehot demanded.
"Mounting the verge, sir... And we're nearly in the ditch—"
"Damned fool!" Annoyance succeeded relief. "But where the devil is he?"
The inspector's question found no immediate answer. Shepton's torch was already stabbing the gloom behind the car. On the road surface, the skid marks of their sudden turn and halt were clearly visible; but there was no sign of the cause of it.
"Queer," Bagehot muttered to himself. "You'd have thought—" He raised his voice and shouted. "Hullo, there! You all right?"
There was no reply. Producing his own torch, the inspector moved slowly back along the road, searching the shallow trench beyond the grass edging. Shepton made as if to follow; changed his mind, and moved over to the hedge. Switching off the useless torch, he mounted the bank and stood listening.
It was a minute or two before Bagehot returned.
"He's gone," he announced flatly. "Not a sign of him—"
"Down the road?" Shepton descended from his perch.
"I'm not sure... Couldn't hear anything. There's a gate just below. He may have taken to the fields. Why the devil should he? If you've just been run down by a car, the natural thing is to give the driver a piece of your mind—even if it's your fault—"
"I believe you're right, though... Fancied I heard a splash over there... Why should he bolt?"
"Lord knows... It's no good chasing him."
"He might run into our chaps. There's a ring right round here by now."
Bagehot grunted. The sound suggested a lack of trust in any such barrier.
"Let's get on," he said. "We can't hang about here—"
The incident seemed effectively to have stopped the inspector's tongue. He made no attempt to voice the explanation which was in the minds of both of them. They were nearing the turn to the factory when the car stopped again.
"Damn it all—!" Bagehot exploded, feeling again in his pocket at the sight of the swinging light.
Shepton dropped the window. Secretly he was inclined to be proud of the efficiency the stoppages showed.
"Major Shepton," he anticipated the challenge. "And Inspector Bagehot... Seen anyone along here?"
The torch flashed upon him before its holder answered. "Messenger from the factory some time back, sir," the holder answered. "Then a runner from the mill, telling us to look out—"
"He's just gone back?"
"Still here, sir... You want him?"
"No one else?"
"No one, sir."
"Keep your eyes skinned... I'll be back."
Bagehot maintained a sulky silence as the car restarted. If he saw the point of the dialogue which had just taken place he said nothing. Shepton ventured to point it out.
"He didn't come by the road," he said, "and he didn't go along the road... Looks as though he crossed the fields from the factory."
There was no comment from the inspector. The car jolted into the temporary road to the gates. Even then they were not to reach their destination unchallenged. At the sandbagged post just inside another light signalled. This time it was Somerton himself who hurried forward.
"Good heavens, Major," he burst out. "Something terrible—"
Obviously there was more cause for his agitation than the mere wounding of a girl in the leg. He stopped uncertainly.
"Well?" Bagehot snapped. "She's not escaped?"
"She?" Somerton echoed bewilderedly. "It's Falcon. He's dead... Murdered... I've arrested Willoughby—"
"Willoughby?" Amazement almost deprived Shepton of words. "What—? Why on earth—?"
"Well, sir, he's said to have quarrelled with Falcon. He was on sentry duty with him and the only person who could have done it, and, when we looked, we found a spent cartridge in his rifle, and he denied firing at all."
Bagehot frowned. "Right. I'll see him. Don't disturb anything. I'm expecting the doctor soon—"
"That'll be him now, I expect?" suggested Shepton, as the dimmed lights of a car turned into the entrance.
In fact, it was more than the doctor. The car swept up to the front entrance and stopped. A constable jumped out and hurried over to the inspector.
"Doctor with you?" Bagehot demanded.
"Yes, sir. But there's a message come through. The superintendent said I was to give it you at once—"
"Well?" Bagehot demanded.
"That young chap, sir, Seaton, the Fascist. Well, sir, we've just heard. He's escaped."
A GREY, unpromising dawn was just breaking when Inspector Bagehot stepped out of the office doorway into a flurry of rain three-quarters of an hour later. He had just concluded a series of interviews which were notable chiefly for being thoroughly unsatisfactory and making what had been a puzzling situation before more mysterious than ever. And yet the most important interview he had had to postpone completely. The doctor, having finished his preliminary examination of the body, had taken the girl under his wing, and had strictly forbidden any questioning for the present.
That, Bagehot thought, was distinctly annoying. The girl had a lot to explain. What was she doing there at all? Was it mere coincidence that she should visit the factory on the particular night that her cousin should have escaped from prison? What had she been trying to do when Prescott found her in the passage? Even if Willoughby were guilty, Priscilla Seaton had certainly been up to something which would have to be looked into. But the unanswered questions about her made him dubious even about Willoughby's guilt.
Of course, there was circumstantial evidence—the quarrel with Falcon, if such it could be said to be, the exploded cartridge in the rifle, the fact that of all those on duty Willoughby had the best opportunity. But apart from that it did not fit in in the least. Willoughby was by no means a vindictive type. It might have been just possible for him to have killed Falcon by accident in a fight provoked by the dead man. But on that point the doctor's evidence was positive. The shot had been fired from a distance of some yards. Therefore it must have been fired with deliberate aim—though not necessarily at Falcon. Everyone's nerves had evidently been on edge. Willoughby might have fired at someone he thought was an intruder when it was in fact his fellow sentry. But Willoughby denied firing at all. He offered no explanation of the exploded cartridge whatsoever and his general attitude was one of shocked amazement.
And the idea of a sudden quarrel fitted in with nothing else that had happened. Until Willoughby's playfulness about the girl there had been no ill-feeling between the two men. It was a completely isolated incident, having no connection with the firing at Chard, the poisoning of Biddulph, the air raid, or the escape of Seaton. Bagehot wondered rather unhappily what he ought to do about Willoughby. So far he had been arrested only by the Home Guard. Bagehot had not charged him. In the present state of things he did not want to in the least; but the time was coming when be would have to do something one way or the other.
Pulling up his coat collar against the driving rain, he had turned along the front of the building towards the spot where the body had been found when the sound of hurrying footsteps behind made him look back. Major Shepton, having just seen his flock sitting down to a breakfast which no one wanted, was crossing the car-park towards him, obviously with the intention of saying something. Bagehot waited. He had an idea that he knew what it was, and Shepton's first words confirmed his fears.
"Excuse me, Inspector," he said in a tone which rather belied the words. "About Willoughby—I'm dismissing the squad—"
Bagehot frowned a little. He wished he had been able to make up his own mind before having to give a decision. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to throw himself upon the other's mercy.
"Well, sir, what do you think about it yourself?" he asked. "I suppose we can hardly avoid arresting him, but—"
"Well, obviously we can't keep him under arrest ourselves. And we can't very well let him go. Our business is to hand him over to you, and the sooner the better."
Bagehot sympathised with Shepton's feelings. It was hardly pleasant for the squad to have to mount guard over one of its own members, even when it was a prisoner who gave so little trouble as Willoughby.
"I mean, sir, do you think he did it?" he persisted. "That's my trouble just now. He's the obvious person in a way... And yet it doesn't fit in—"
"I think the idea of Willoughby deliberately murdering anyone at all is damned nonsense. And he'd no real cause. If it had been the other way round... Falcon had a nasty temper. Willoughby might have said something playful that got home, and Falcon might have popped off at him... It's your responsibility, not mine."
"But what explanation could there be, sir?" Bagehot was almost pathetic. "The rifle had been fired."
There was a moment's pause before Shepton answered.
"Of course, I've been trying to work that out," he said. "I think it was planted on him."
"Planted, sir?"
"By the real murderer. Look here, it's pretty plain that someone has been trying to complicate things here to-night—deliberately. The murder of Falcon might be an accident—I mean, it might have been forced on whoever it was during the course of what happened. But it's possible that all that's happened was merely intended to lead up to the killing of Falcon. Now, if anyone meant to kill Falcon while he was on guard to-night, it would be obvious to plant a gun which had been fired on some member of the squad."
Bagehot reflected for a moment. "You mean it needn't have been a member of the squad who killed him at all?" he asked. "Is that possible? When could the rifle have been planted on him?"
"It must have been some time after nine o'clock last night. The squad paraded then, and, as usual, Somerton inspected it. No one had a rifle which had been fired then. But, if anyone had a rifle handy, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have substituted it. It's merely a matter of putting it in the arms rack under Willoughby's number."
Bagehot nodded. He had noted the position of the rack, conveniently placed between the two doors which led to the dining-room and dormitory.
"That's true—if the person was inside the building," he said. "But that points to a member of the squad. I'd like to know a bit more about this rifle business. Was that Willoughby's own gun?"
"That's the point. They haven't got guns of their own yet. The supply doesn't quite go round—though we're expecting some along this week. All I can tell you is that that rifle comes from the armoury."
"And the armoury? That's locked?"
"It is—generally. The squad leader should open it when the squad parades, see to the issue of equipment, then lock it again. But I'm bound to say it isn't always done so officially as that. The squad leader doesn't always stay all the time. On occasion he may hand the key to a member of the squad. There are really lots of loopholes, I'm afraid."
Bagehot inclined his head rather disapprovingly. He had been in the army himself in the last war. It struck him that things were done rather casually. Obviously he would have to go to a good deal of trouble to find out what precisely had been done about the armoury on that particular occasion. Another point occurred to him.
"Then, sir, you think the rifle was planted on Willoughby before he went on sentry duty? That it wasn't the rifle that fired the shot?"
"Obviously."
"Then, there ought to be another rifle which has been fired?"
Shepton hesitated. "Well, of course, there is," he said rather hesitantly. "There's Hatch's. He fired at Miss Seaton."
Bagehot's lips pursed into a whistle. "And, of course, you couldn't tell if a rifle had been fired once—or three times," he said. "If the murderer had got hold of Hatch's gun—"
"I don't see how he could," Shepton objected. "Hatch was on duty most of the time. He'd be carrying it with him—"
"Which leads us to the obvious point. Where exactly was Hatch when the shots were fired? He didn't hear them, I gather. Prescott says not."
"That's absurd!" Shepton said emphatically. "Hatch had no earthly reason for wanting to kill Falcon."
The inspector did not argue the point. It was plain enough that Shepton's line was that no one in the squad had done it. That was quite possible. But, all things considered, the odds were all the other way. There was a moment's silence.
"As a matter of fact, sir, it's hardly worth while arguing about what rifle could have fired the shot," Bagehot said at last, "because we can prove what rifle did fire the shot. As soon as we recover the bullet from the body and submit it to the ballistic experts."
Shepton looked at him quickly. "Is that a fact?" he demanded. "I seem to have read about it—in a detective story. You can really be sure?"
"Positive—in the case of a rifle or revolver. Even when they are new, no two guns make precisely the same marks on the bullet. The more they are used, the more difference there is. And that applies not only to the bullet, but also the cartridge case. If we recover the bullet, it's just a question of testing."
"Even that may be a job—if you have to test all the rifles in the armoury. But, of course, you wouldn't. There's no other gun there that's been fired—"
"You've gone into that, sir?" Bagehot asked quickly.
"Of course. The first thing I did—as soon as I got time. They're all clean enough."
Bagehot was not too well pleased. He told himself that no doubt he should have been grateful to the section commander; but he was not. There was the possibility that the well-meant examination had actually destroyed evidence. There was another, and more sinister possibility. Could Shepton himself be involved? He tried to work out the times between the camp and Shepton's house. Hardly, he decided.
"I'd better have the armoury key, sir," he said. "You've got it?"
"Here." Shepton produced it from his coat pocket. "I'm not sure whether I ought to hand it over, actually—"
Bagehot settled the question by taking it. Then he changed the subject.
"I was just going to take a look round, sir," he said. "We couldn't do much before, in the dark. Maybe you'd come along? You know the place better than I do—"
Shepton nodded and fell into step beside him. Round the corner of the building they came in sight of the improvised tent which had been made from a tarpaulin over the place where the body had lain. It looked impressive. That, Bagehot reflected, was about all it was useful for. The tar macadam had retained very few traces of anything which had happened. All the covering preserved was a few red stains which had run messily in the rain. Shepton looked at it curiously, and obviously expected that they were going to enter it. Bagehot disappointed him. They walked past it, down towards the back of the office building.
"There's not much hope of anything here," Shepton suggested.
"Not much, sir. But, of course, we have to look—"
He was, in fact, looking most religiously on each side of the narrow path where the soft earth offered at least a possibility of some definite information, but he had seen nothing so far. Shepton was obviously by no means optimistic.
"You think the shot came from down here?" he demanded. "How far away would the murderer be—"
It was a point which Bagehot had already attempted to settle with the doctor. He had not had much success.
"Well, sir, we know that it wasn't fired actually at close quarters," he said a little dubiously. "And it obviously hadn't been fired from long range—"
"Obviously," Shepton said with a trace of sarcasm. "One couldn't have seen to fire at a thousand yards' range. I should have thought you could say pretty definitely."
"Not very, sir. You see, at close range there might be scorching or traces of the explosion. At long range, the bullet would begin to wobble, and would make a different wound. In between the two, there's the penetrative power of the bullet, of course, but—"
"But, so far as you know, the shot might have been fired at anything from twenty yards to five hundred."
"Yes. Or you can allow a bit more in each direction. But last night, you see, he couldn't have seen him. Also, he couldn't have fired from anywhere much beyond here."
They had almost reached the end of the path. The office buildings were shaped as much like an aeroplane as anything; two big wings in front, with the slight projection of the porch to form a nose; a longish body; two small wings behind, and the lavatories which had been built on, forming a rather inadequate tail. They had stopped at the corner of the rear wing which, as Shepton knew, formed the dining-room used by the guard. Only a yard or two beyond, the path ended abruptly; or rather, turned in the form of a muddy track along the back of the building, to meet the tar-macadam path on the other side. Shepton looked back towards the tarpaulin.
"Your idea is that Willoughby came round the corner, saw Falcon in the moonlight and shot him?" he asked. "Who couldn't have got much further than this in the time—if so far. And why should he?"
Bagehot shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Just then he was far from sure that Willoughby had had anything to do with it.
"On the other hand, if Willoughby didn't do it, there was no reason why he should have been shot from this direction at all," Shepton pursued relentlessly. "We may be looking in the wrong place entirely."
"Falcon was walking this way, and he was shot in the front."
"Yes... But he needn't have been facing this way when the shot was fired. He might easily have spun round from the impact. It seems to me the shot might have been fired from almost anywhere."
Bagehot admitted that; but it was not a comforting reflection. They would have to search all round the factory for a radius corresponding to the distance at which Falcon could have been seen in the limited moonlight. And how far was that? Perhaps a hundred yards? Bagehot confessed to himself that he had very little idea. Certainly it could be no great distance, even if the murderer was a good shot. And to hit at all he must have been. That opened up another line of inquiry. He was tempted to ask Shepton about the marksmanship of the persons concerned; but decided against it.
"Let's just look round here, sir," he suggested. "There might be tracks in the earth."
There were. There was an embarrassing plenty of them, most of them evidently recent, but hopelessly intermingled. Bagehot stopped opposite a particularly soft patch, trying to sort them out.
"I believe those are Prescott's," he said dubiously; "and those Willoughby's... They came round here together—"
"But, if Willoughby had been round here before, wouldn't his tracks occur twice? I can't see any sign of that."
"You can't tell," Bagehot rejoined uneasily. "They're too muddled."
"Besides, you know, I don't see how Willoughby could possibly have had the time... He only set off a minute or two before Falcon. According to you, he came here, fired two shots, and got back to where Prescott met him. But, actually, his beat's longer than Falcon's. There's a sort of alleyway to take in on that side—"
"He mayn't have done that. He wouldn't, obviously, if he meant shooting Falcon... Let's get on."
The muddled tracks continued until they encountered the tar macadam again; though without providing any fresh light on the problem.
"Who were the others?" Shepton asked as they turned up the path. He jerked his head back towards the tracks. "There seem to have been about half a dozen of 'em."
"Home Guard and police," Bagehot said disgustedly. "They were patrolling all round the building.... My own fault, partly. I never thought."
Half-way up the path, Shepton indicated a turning on the left between outhouses. Like the path at the back, it was unmetalled, and the rain had converted the heavy earth into a thick, clayey surface.
"If Willoughby stuck to the beat laid down, he should have gone up there," he said. "Hullo—"
He pointed towards the line of tracks which led rather raggedly up the path. It was a double set, of someone going and returning. Bagehot stooped and scrutinised them.
"He did," he said heavily. "He went walking, and came back running... That corresponds with what he said to Prescott. Well—"
Neither of the two men spoke until they emerged again at the front of the building.
"It seems to me that that pretty well knocks Willoughby out of it," Shepton ventured. "I don't see how he could have done it in the time."
Neither did Bagehot. In a way it was a relief. It gave him the necessary excuse for not taking any precipitate step. On the other hand, with any other murderer, the possibilities were uncomfortably wide. He hesitated near the main entrance; then continued along the front of the building.
"Just a minute," he apologised, "I'd like to see—"
He broke off, but Shepton guessed what he meant. Thinking that the shot had certainly come from down the path, they had scarcely gone into the possibilities of other directions; but when they finally reached the tarpaulin, a glance was enough to show that the possibilities were only too numerous.
"He might have been facing in any direction," Shepton pointed out needlessly. "If you're on guard, you don't always look straight to your front. You stop sometimes, turn round, go a step or two towards anything you notice... Besides, the air raid was on. It's very likely he'd look once or twice in that direction, anyhow—" He pointed as he spoke; then started forward. "What's that?"
Before Bagehot could stop him he had left the path. The ground in the immediate neighbourhood of the office had been levelled with the earth taken from the foundations; presumably with some future idea of cultivation. Beyond the path stretched a dozen yards or more of bare brown earth, unmarked by footprints, yet, as Bagehot noted following the section leader, peculiarly fitted for receiving them. Shepton's own boots made the most perfect moulds; looking back, he could see that his own were as good.
The major was stooping with his hand outstretched before Bagehot saw what it was which had excited his attention. He jumped forward with a warning.
"Don't touch it, sir! Leave it!"
Shepton straightened himself. For a moment they stood staring down together at the cartridge case which glistened in the watery sunshine which had succeeded the storm.
"It may not be the one, of course," Shepton said without conviction. "There ought to be two, anyway."
Bagehot was eyeing the ground round the cartridge. There was not a trace of footprint or mark of any kind. He looked up and down as far as any reasonable ejector could have thrown it. There was no sign that anyone had stood for a distance of yards around.
"The shot couldn't have been fired from here," he said at last. "He might have thrown it?"
"Not from any place Willoughby could have reached." Shepton measured the distance with his eyes. "It looks to me as though whoever fired was standing somewhere on the grass beyond here."
It looked uncomfortably like that to Bagehot too. And, if he had, after the rain there was precious little chance of finding any tracks whatever. He bent down and picked up the cartridge case very gingerly on the end of a pencil, taking great care not to touch the sides.
"There might be prints," he said half to himself. "In any case, how the devil does one prove that this cartridge case was the one the bullet came from?"
On the point of answering, Shepton turned his head.
"What's that?" he said. "Someone wanting you?"
Bagehot was already hurrying to meet the sergeant who had just rounded the corner of the building. He had nodded a brief dismissal to the man by the time Shepton rejoined him.
"It's the Chief Constable," the inspector explained in a tone devoid of enthusiasm. "He's just arrived. And the doctor says Miss Seaton can talk."
Shepton guessed that the sting of the message lay in the latter part of it. Probably Bagehot would have liked to finish the interview with the girl before meeting his superior. Certainly, as it was, the brief time at his disposal had produced only the most negative results. He fell into step beside the inspector without comment. They had nearly reached the door before Bagehot broke the silence.
"You must have remarkably good eyesight, sir," he said, "to have spotted this, I mean." He held up the cartridge case. "I looked pretty well all round—"
"The sun just caught it," Shepton explained. "I saw something shining... Of course, it was cloudy before."
Bagehot answered with something very like a grunt and led the way indoors.
IT was a positive assemblage of dignitaries which met Bagehot's eyes as he pushed open the office door, trying to sort his ideas into some kind of order. He had been prepared only for the Chief Constable; but that officer had not come unsupported. There was the local superintendent. There was a tall, thin, melancholy man very precisely dressed, whom he recognised as Hollingworth, the resident engineer in charge of the factory. And there was the very rubicund face, and fine walrus moustache of Colonel Thealey, the local C.O. of the Home Guard.
They formed an impressive group; but Bagehot could have done with fewer of them. At that stage he had no wish to face a committee, and least of all one which included outsiders. The Chief Constable would probably be troublesome enough by himself. Hollingworth had a name, he had heard, for a fussy and inconvenient curiosity; and Bagehot distrusted military minds generally.
"Sit down, Inspector, sit down." The Chief Constable waved him to a chair facing the inquisitors. "We'd like a brief outline of your investigations so far... I understand you haven't arrested Willoughby. Why was that?"
Luckily Bagehot had an orderly mind. Stray facts had a way of falling into their places almost automatically, and in spite of his unpreparedness, he achieved quite a coherent account of the very meagre results which had attended his efforts. The expressions of his hearers varied. Hollingworth yawned more than once and seemed thoroughly bored; Thealey expanded gradually, and the Chief Constable frowned. Only the superintendent, whose opinion Bagehot would have been glad to have, showed no trace of emotion whatever; but then, he hardly ever did in moments of stress.
"So Willoughby's innocent, ha?" Thealey put the question as he finished. "No one in the squad at all, eh?"
Obviously that was what he wanted. But Bagehot could hardly go so far with him.
"I wouldn't say that, sir," he deprecated. "I only said that there seemed to be a sufficient element of doubt to warrant my postponing any arrest of Willoughby. He may be guilty—"
"Nonsense!" Thealey said firmly. "A good lad. Knew his uncle. Wouldn't hurt a fly."
Whether it was the uncle or the nephew who was so represented as the acme of harmlessness he left in doubt. To his mind the matter was quite settled. Bagehot looked at the Chief Constable.
"You see the trouble, sir," he said. "No adequate motive; so far as we can check up his movements no real opportunity; and it doesn't fit in with anything else. Of course, we're bound to know when the experts get to work on the bullet. The question is if we can take the risk of letting him go free until then."
The Chief Constable nodded portentously. "He might escape," he observed. "He might kill himself... There was a case the other day—six months ago. The police had their hands on the man—practically. I think it might be safer to arrest him? After all, there is the gun. That takes a good deal of getting over, I think."
He glanced round for support, but failed to find it. The colonel snorted. Hollingworth raised a languid head, and for the first time seemed to take an interest in the proceedings.
"The point is that we can't possibly spare him," he said in the tired voice of one who points out the obvious to the wilfully blind. "The factory is work of national importance. We are short enough of draughtsmen as it is. Now Falcon's gone, we can't spare him."
The faintest trace of a smile dawned on the superintendent's lips and faded away again. The Chief Constable was moved to a protest.
"But if the man's a murderer?" he demanded.
"He's one of our best draughtsmen," Hollingworth was explaining with the air of a man who is not prepared to worry himself over irrelevant details, but Thealey interrupted him.
"Nonsense," he repeated firmly. "I don't believe it... His mother was a dashed pretty girl."
Bagehot himself smiled at that. The Chief Constable looked appealingly at the superintendent, who permitted his features to relax just enough to emit a reply.
"No real case, sir—yet," he said. "Tail him. He'll not get far."
The Chief Constable nodded with relief. "That's settled, then," he said. "And now, Bagehot, about the motive for all this? You think—"
Bagehot had no opportunity to explain his absence of opinion about that. Languidly but decisively, Hollingworth broke in again.
"The point is," he said, "is there any reason to suppose that any danger to the factory exists? That's the important thing. We mustn't lose sight of the main issues."
It seemed as though Bagehot was expected to answer.
"Well, sir," he said, "it's hard to say. My personal opinion is that there's no danger of anything of the kind."
"Your personal opinion is hardly sufficient, Inspector. You may have some reasons?"
Bagehot flushed a little. The other's tone was insufferable.
"There's no real evidence of an attempt on the factory, sir," he pointed out. "Of course, there was the air raid. But we've no proof that anyone signalled or anything."
"Ha, we can tell you something about that, Inspector," Thealey broke in. "The reports from the observers indicate that that was the merest chance. Two or three 'planes being chased ran this way. Had to unload somewhere, of course."
Bagehot nodded. "That's what I thought, sir. In that case, the only reason for supposing that there's any sabotage or anything of the kind is the presence of Miss Seaton. And I might point out that she herself has never been accused of any Fifth Columnist activities—"
"As for that young scoundrel, I'd have shot him," Thealey said firmly. "Shoot the lot, I say."
"So you suggest that Miss Seaton is perfectly innocent too?" Hollingworth inquired with a mild interest.
"I didn't say so, sir. She's obviously got a good deal to explain. But, I might say, I've not been able to question her at all, yet. I understand that now—"
"Quite, Inspector, quite," the Chief Constable agreed. He glanced at the superintendent. "But I think we've something to tell you about that, eh, Superintendent?"
If the superintendent's expression conveyed anything, it was a desire not to tell quite so many people at once; but the Chief Constable was not to be denied.
"You had our message about young Seaton?" He spoke with some relish. "We've had full details since. There's not the smallest doubt that he was helped to escape by someone outside." He paused significantly to let the statement sink in. "It seems fairly certain that someone was waiting with a car. And a car containing someone who might have been Seaton was noticed about thirty miles away, heading in this direction. It was being driven by a woman."
"You mean that Miss Seaton—?" Bagehot exclaimed. In his interest he momentarily forgot the dignified tribunal which faced him. "But why should they come here?"
"We are not in a position to name any names yet—" the Chief Constable was beginning; but Hollingworth's mild voice again intervened in his momentary pause.
"Exactly, Inspector," he said smoothly. "Why should they—unless, of course, there is some design against the factory?"
Bagehot did not worry very much about him. There had suddenly flashed across his mind the picture of the dark figure seen momentarily in the car's headlights—the man they had so narrowly missed. Suppose it was Seaton? That would alter everything. He had never been inclined to regard the girl very seriously as a murderess. It was not that he was sentimental about women. It was hard to see how she could have had the chance. She had contrived to get herself shot some time before the actual shooting of Falcon. And, even if she had been physically capable of firing a rifle after that it was hard to see how she could have had the opportunity. But if she were helping someone else it was a different matter. Someone had said—was it Somerton?—that she had been fond of her cousin. Suppose—He was suddenly aware that the Chief Constable was speaking.
"I think you'll agree that that alters everything, Bagehot," he was saying. "Mayn't that explain a good deal?"
"It may, sir," Bagehot admitted, and thought for a moment. "But the question is, just how much?... Suppose Miss Seaton did help her cousin to escape. Why should they come down here? To do some sabotage at the factory? Yes, but none was done. And Miss Seaton, at any rate, seems to have been in the factory. We've no proof of Seaton's presence here at all... All one can say, sir, is that it opens up a new line of inquiry."
"In my opinion it settles everything," Thealey observed. "It's Fifth Columnist work. I'd shoot the lot. Obviously Falcon interrupted them. They shot him."
Bagehot repressed a sigh. "With what, sir?" he asked simply.
"What's that?" The colonel looked at him in amazement. "Why, with a gun, of course, Inspector."
"Yes. But, where did he get it, sir? He didn't escape with a gun. Unless the watch here was very careless, he didn't get it from the factory. Even if he came here to do sabotage, he'd hardly encumber himself with a rifle." He gave up argument, and looked at the Chief Constable. "It seems to me the best thing would be to see Miss Seaton and ask her a few questions."
For the first time the stolid superintendent made a decided move.
"I think we should have Miss Seaton up at once, sir," he said. "The sooner the better."
The Chief Constable stood distinctly in awe of his taciturn subordinate. It was not often that Superintendent Addison said anything at all. When he did, it received the more attention.
"I quite agree, Addison," his superior concurred almost hurriedly. "If you would send for her—"
"She can't walk, sir. A stretcher—"
"I mean, we had better go to her—"
"If the mountain won't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain, eh?" Thealey asked genially. With the probability that the entire Home Guard might be exonerated, his spirits had distinctly revived. "It's the obvious thing—"
Bagehot was vaguely aware of something ludicrous about the comparison. Certainly the colonel was no Mahomet; and to call the girl a mountain was a gross libel. But what primarily concerned him was to get rid of their amateur helpers. He was on the point of voicing a different suggestion when Addison bent forward and whispered. The Chief Constable looked unhappy; but he did as he was told.
"I think, for this preliminary inquiry, perhaps we had better be alone?" he appealed. "I mean, the police—This is an official interview, and the regulations—"
Perhaps the word regulations won over the colonel. Hollingworth merely shrugged his shoulders. To Bagehot's great relief, without any further trouble they were outside the room and making their way up the corridor to the room where Priscilla Seaton was lying. Addison had found time to whisper another word to the Chief Constable as they went. Outside the door, the latter turned to Bagehot.
"Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind conducting the inquiry, Inspector?" he said winningly. "After all, you are in charge of the case."
Bagehot preferred the Chief Constable in a more aggressive mood. But he did want to do the questioning. He nodded as the superintendent opened the door and stood aside.
Priscilla Seaton was seated in what was actually the resident engineer's special chair. Her bandaged leg was supported on a stool, and she was still pale. But she smiled up at them as they entered.
It was a charming smile, but it annoyed Bagehot. For one thing, he did not know what it meant. She might be trying to put a good face on things. All women were born actors. That was his official view. Actually he had a daughter of about Priscilla's age whom he idolised thoroughly, and who could turn him round her finger. He suspected that fact, but he never let it interfere with business. If anything his expression was sterner than usual as he faced her.
"With the doctor's permission, Miss Seaton, we wish to ask you a few questions," he began very stiffly. "This is the Chief Constable, and this is Superintendent Addison... You will understand that your unauthorised presence here would in any case have required some explanation. The issue is now very much graver. With Mr. Falcon's death, it has become a matter of—murder."
"I—I understand." Priscilla's voice trembled only a little. She still smiled. That was a mistake, and Bagehot noticed it. A girl in any normal frame of mind does not smile at the mention of murder, more especially if she has been friendly with the murdered man. Priscilla realised it herself a minute too late. The smile faded as though it had been wiped off. "It's—it's terrible," she said, and drew a deep breath. "Of course, I want to do anything—"
"Naturally, Miss Seaton," Bagehot said dryly. "You understand, no doubt, that a member of this squad lies under suspicion. We can rely on you not to conceal anything that you know, or do anything that might lead to a miscarriage of justice... I need hardly say that anything of that kind might lead not only to the escape of the real murderer, but perhaps to the death of an innocent man."
The Chief Constable was obviously on the point of intervening. Bagehot admitted that it was not entirely orthodox, but he knew what he was doing. There was no denying that the last sentence had got home. For a moment every scrap of colour left her face.
"Mr.—Mr. Willoughby?" she said in a voice which was barely audible. "Of course he had nothing to do with it—"
"That's what we're trying to establish, Miss Seaton," Bagehot said quite briskly. "Now, you made a statement, I believe, to the members of the Home Guard who apprehended you in the first instance. To save time, I should just like to run through the main points of that. If you would please tell me if there is anything wrong—"
He had had the full story from Somerton. Now he recited it in a precise, mathematical way, and his eyes did not leave the girl's face. Some of it, he felt almost sure, was untrue, but no one could have told so from his tone. Once or twice the trace of a worried frown gathered on her face; but her self-control was excellent. Bagehot felt a certain unwilling admiration.
"Those facts are correct, Miss Seaton?" he asked suavely as he finished.
Priscilla drew a deep breath. "Yes," she said with an effort.
"But not very adequate." Bagehot produced a sheaf of papers, and glanced at them. Actually, the top one was a war-time recipe for jam which his wife had asked him to collect for her; but the girl was not to know that. "A friend brought you down," he repeated. "A man or a woman?"
"A—a girl friend... Naturally."
The hesitation had been perceptible. "Her name?" Bagehot asked quite casually. "Her address?"
There was a distinct pause. "I—I don't want to bring her into this," Priscilla said very slowly. "Her parents—her position—"
"I'm afraid I must insist, Miss Seaton."
Priscilla faced him defiantly. "I'm not going to answer that," she said quite clearly. "Of course it's nothing to do with what happened here—"
"As you wish... Though, from your own point of view, I would point out that this friend might be an important witness... You travelled down by car?"
Priscilla nodded. "Yes," she assented.
"Whose car was that? Your own?"
"I haven't one... It—it was my friend's—"
"Whose name you won't mention. And its number?"
"Of—of course I can't tell you that... In any case, I don't remember."
"And you left it—just where?"
"My friend went on with it."
"And your coming here was just a joke? You knew your friends would be on duty. You wished to play a trick on them? Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Miss Seaton, how did you know? The guard was fixed only the day before yesterday. With whom were you in communication?"
Priscilla only shook her head. The inspector changed his ground with some abruptness.
"You've seen your cousin since his imprisonment, Miss Seaton?" he demanded. "Recently, I think?"
"Yes." She only just managed the word. "Why—why—"
"Naturally anything of this kind inevitably involves him in a certain amount of suspicion... It is a pity you cannot see your way to be a little more frank, Miss Seaton—"
"But—but he had no grudge against Mr.—Mr. Falcon. He would never have killed anyone—"
It was a small point, but Bagehot thought he had gained it. Her natural reaction must surely have been to say that it was impossible for her cousin to have committed the crime because he was locked up. She had not done so, because she was perfectly aware he had escaped. He risked a bolder shot.
"In view of your cousin's opinions, and of his escape, isn't it inevitable that he should be regarded with suspicion? In view of your presence here—"
"But you can't think—" she began, and only then saw the trap. "His—his escape?" she asked. "Has he—has he escaped?"
Bagehot shrugged his shoulders. "I must remind you again, Miss Seaton, that evasions on your part may mean not only the escape of a murderer, but perhaps the conviction of an innocent man. You are not acquainted with Mr. Willoughby, I think?"
She shook her head. "I—I had nothing to do with it," she faltered. "My cousin—he is innocent—"
Unexpectedly the superintendent took a hand. He pushed a slip of paper across to the girl.
"That was the number of the car you came down in," he said.
It was a statement rather than a question. She stared at it for a moment in terror; then nodded automatically.
"You hired it from a garage," Addison went on relentlessly. "You left it about a mile from here... Your cousin travelled down with you. You lost him... Miss Seaton, where is he now?"
For a moment she stared at him with wild eyes; then her head dropped forward suddenly. Bagehot was just in time to catch her as she fell.
INSPECTOR BAGEHOT was not particularly surprised at the rabbit which his superior had produced out of the hat. It was an irritating habit of Addison's to let you go on talking when he knew far more than you did already. But the inspector felt a little resentful. He thought that if he had been put on to examine the girl he might have been given the vital information which had apparently been available all the time. And besides, its dramatic production had done no earthly good. Certainly the girl had collapsed under it, but not in such a way as to provide anything helpful to the inquiry. He left the superintendent to deal with the indignant doctor; the Chief Constable had resumed his conference with Hollingworth and Thealey. Rather at a loose end he wandered out into the main corridor.
Shepton was waiting there. For the moment, Bagehot had forgotten his existence. Now, it might have been ill-temper which made him remember that there was a certain amount about the activities of the section leader that might be suspicious. His story about the cartridge might be true. On the other hand, Bagehot had not seen the cartridge right up to the moment when the major was apparently picking it up. He had been insistent that the shot need not have come from down the path. He could just as easily have planted the cartridge there as discovered it. He decided to treat Shepton with caution, and greeted him with considerable affability.
"You were waiting for me, sir?" he asked. "I'm afraid I've kept you rather a long time."
"Oh, it was just that something occurred to me Miss Seaton? You've seen her?"
Bagehot's suspicions were increased. Shepton was trying to pump him. He permitted himself a slight frown.
"She's hardly well enough to say much yet, sir," he said. "The doctor's with her again... You said you thought of something."
"Yes... Two or three things, to be precise. The first is about the cartridge. You were asking how we could decide if the bullet came from that cartridge. It seems to me that that's easy enough."
"Easy, sir?"
"Easy, if we find the rifle, that is. You said that a rifle leaves distinctive marks on the bullet—and on the cartridge?"
"Yes."
"Just what do you mean?"
"Well, sir, on the bullet, besides the ordinary marks of the rifling, there are generally some scratches made by irregularities in the barrel. The odds are enormously against those being the same. Similarly, on the cartridge, there may be small scratches from the chamber. But almost certainly the marks of the firing-pin and the ejector will be different. You see, it's fairly certain."
"Yes. Then, if you find the rifle, all you've got to do is to fire a cartridge in it, compare the bullet with the one you get from the body, and the cartridge with this one. That's simple."
It was. Bagehot would have thought of it himself, if he had had two minutes to think at all.
"Yes—if we find the rifle," he admitted. "At least, it wouldn't actually prove that that bullet came from that cartridge. There were two shots fired."
"That's immaterial." Shepton brushed it aside. "Here's another point. If anyone planted the rifle on Willoughby, he must have had a rifle ready which had fired ball ammunition. When did he fire it?"
Bagehot thought. "I think I see what you mean, sir. That first shot—the one that missed Chard. You think that that was just luck—a spent shot fired up into the air from somewhere which just came down there, when the real purpose was to foul the rifle."
"No. I hadn't thought of that... Besides, no shot was heard then. And, remember, it was night, and everything was quiet. Is that a time you'd choose to let off a rifle you didn't want noticed?"
"Perhaps not, sir. But the murderer might not have had any choice."
"The point is, there was a very much better time."
Shepton hesitated. "If the murderer was a member of the factory Home Guard, that is, which, of course, we don't know."
Bagehot waited. Shepton's reluctance might be real or assumed. There was no doubt that Shepton seemed to be eager to put across certain views regarding the rifle.
"I mean yesterday afternoon," Shepton said after a pause. "We were shooting at the butts. About thirty of us... Don't you see? All any member of that party had to do was to see that one of those rifles wasn't cleaned. That wouldn't have been hard."
"Surely they'd be inspected?"
"Of course. But, naturally, they're more or less trusted to do it themselves. You just look at the rifle someone brings you. It would be perfectly easy to have put the dirty one in the rack and got another one. Don't you see?"
Bagehot did. He saw, he thought, more than the major did about that particular dodge. From the same source it might have been fairly easy to acquire a spent cartridge, a bullet, and two live cartridges—all of which had had to come from somewhere.
"I don't think it's much use our speculating about it until we know definitely whether or not Willoughby's was the rifle which fired the shot, sir," he said. "After all, it may be."
"It may," Shepton admitted, and there was something in his voice which made Bagehot look at him sharply. "That's what's worrying me. It may be, even if Willoughby's innocent."
"What?" Bagehot was startled. "How's that, sir? It would pretty well clinch the case against him. After all, we can't be sure of the exact times—"
"Do you remember what Hatch said? No... I'm pretty sure it was something like this: 'I picked up Willoughby's rifle, and found that it had recently been fired.' Wasn't that it?"
"I believe so, sir." Bagehot did not understand. "But still—"
"He picked it up! In other words, Willoughby had put it down somewhere. Imagine the situation. It's dark. Everyone is thoroughly excited. Everyone is looking at the body. Wouldn't it have been perfectly easy for the murderer, if he was a member of the squad, to have made the substitution then? With the actual rifle? Even Hatch could have done it. Almost anyone could."
Bagehot drew a deep breath. He stood for a moment thinking. The issues surrounding the rifles, and the amount of work that seemed likely to be involved, were increasing to an alarming extent. Perhaps Shepton meant to be helpful. Perhaps he had been. Just at that moment the inspector did not feel equal to deciding.
"Well, sir, we must get the experts on to it at once," he said. "And, of course, I should like a list of those who were on the butts. And of anyone who could have obtained keys. And of those who were in the armoury at any time—"
He realised as he was speaking that the lists he needed threatened to include the whole factory. But he was interrupted. The door of the room in which he had faced the tribunal burst open suddenly. It was the languid resident engineer who emerged, but he was transformed. There was a grim scowl on his face which made him look quite another man. He dashed down the corridor towards them with a speed which no one would have credited.
Bagehot nearly grabbed him. He had a hazy idea that perhaps by some remarkable means the Chief Constable or Addison had contrived to fix the murder upon Hollingworth, and that Hollingworth was making a bolt for it. But natural respect made him just too late. He actually made a futile clutch at the runner's coat-tails, and missed. Then Hollingworth was through the door.
"Bagehot! Bagehot!"
The Chief Constable's voice came just in time to prevent his dashing in pursuit. Followed by Thealey, he was also running down the passage.
"We—we've just heard," he said breathlessly. "A bomb—on the site... Workmen... found it. Heard it ticking——"
Bagehot himself did not wait for more. He was outside the door and running after the engineer. Just what he meant to do he was not quite clear. His acquaintance with unexploded bombs had up to that moment been happily limited. Perhaps it was merely that haste was infectious, and the fascination of the chase. The engineer was some twenty or thirty yards ahead, running strongly. Bagehot sprinted.
They were the only two in the race. Neither the Chief Constable nor the colonel showed much of a turn for speed. It was actually Shepton who, though a late starter, got the third place. They dashed through the factory gate. It seemed for a minute as though the watchman was going to stop them; but the sight of the engineer probably unnerved him. They were through; running up the rough road which led to the middle of the site.
Bagehot was beginning to feel the pace. He had not gained an inch on the engineer; but behind him he could hear feet pounding closer. Just ahead a small knot of men beside a half-finished building promised their goal. Hollingworth reached it an easy first, and with more breath than the inspector. He was questioning the group as Bagehot panted to a halt.
The group replied unintelligibly, in unison. Everyone seemed to be explaining different things at once, and the result was chaotic. There was the briefest lull, but Hollingworth took advantage of it. He said a few brief words. Bagehot had already had to admit that the engineer was quick enough on his legs when he wanted to be. There was nothing languid about his language either, in an emergency. Bagehot had arrested that much maligned class, bargees. He had heard nothing like it. At least the admonitions produced a proper effect. In the silence which followed, Hollingworth selected one of the bystanders.
"Where is it?" he snapped. "You!"
"It—it's up there, sir—in Number Ten." The man in overalls pointed. "Right among the mains, sir. I heard it ticking—I nearly touched it, sir—"
Hollingworth did not wait to listen. He left the road, bounding across the lumpy ground in the direction indicated. Shepton came up as Bagehot started after him. They seemed to be making for a partly filled-in trench on the crest of the slight rise they were mounting. All round there was merely the bare pasture field which had existed before the desecration of the countryside by the factory.
"What—what is it?" Shepton gasped. "Hollingworth—"
"Bomb!" Bagehot had just about breath enough to say it. "Lord knows—"
At the point where Hollingworth had stopped the trench was joined by another at right angles. Here the earth had been replaced. He was bending down over the open manhole in the centre of the junction. For the first time it came to Bagehot that it probably was a bomb, and that at any minute they might be blown sky-high. He put out a hand to restrain Hollingworth.
"For God's sake, sir!" he begged. "Be careful—"
"Don't be a damned fool!" Hollingworth rejoined crisply. "It's there... See?"
Oddly enough, Bagehot was not very frightened for himself. He peered into the half darkness. There seemed to be a chaos of pipes and cables snaking along the tunnel walls. Otherwise he could distinguish nothing. Then he saw it—a moderate-sized, square black box, right against the point where the two lines of cables joined. Hollingworth pulled him back unceremoniously.
"Right at the junction," he snapped. "Knew where to put it."
The Chief Constable puffed up to where they stood. Hollingworth made a motion towards the hole.
"For Heaven's sake, Hollingworth—" The Chief Constable almost pleaded. "It may go up at any moment. Stop him!"
Even if Bagehot had tried, the injunction came too late. The resident engineer was already in the hole. Peering over the edge, Bagehot saw him grip the box and start back. Instinctively the little group, now swollen by later arrivals, recoiled as Hollingworth's head emerged. Probably everyone's eyes were fixed on the bomb; but it scarcely justified their attention. It was simply a square black box, about whose shape there seemed something vaguely familiar to Bagehot.
The group made way hurriedly. Perhaps it was a not unnatural fear which made Bagehot think that the engineer's indolence seemed to have returned to him. He seemed to be going quite unnecessarily slowly. At a steady, unhurried pace he started down the far side of the slope. Some little distance away in the bottom there were signs of a recent excavation at the base of an old tree stump.
They stood watching in a kind of fascination. It came to Bagehot with a feeling very like panic that it must explode very soon. He wanted to call out. He had an undignified impulse to throw himself on his face. Hollingworth reached the tree stump, placed the box in the hole, and started back, a little more quickly. He was quite calm, but Bagehot saw his face glistening. All at once he was aware that his own face was wet. Of course, they had been running—
The Chief Constable started forward as Hollingworth rejoined them. Until that moment the half-dozen spectators had stood as if spellbound. From somewhere below came a ragged cheer, a curiously ineffective sort of noise.
"Good God, man!" the Chief Constable burst out. "You scared me stiff... You shouldn't have done it. The risk—"
"My dear fellow"—Hollingworth was his mild, tired self again—"it had to be done. If it had gone off there, it might have held us up for a week. There—" A melancholy smile showed itself fleetingly on his face. "If it should go off there, it will merely save us a little digging!"
Thealey had somehow managed to get in at the death; though his face was the colour of a particularly healthy beetroot, offering a fine contrast to his white moustache.
"My dear fellow!" he said with some emotion, and to the engineer's obvious embarrassment, insisted on shaking hands. Then a shade of doubt seemed to cross his mind. "But—was that—was that a bomb? It looked like—well, just a sort of tin?"
"Possibly an amateur effort," Hollingworth suggested gravely. "I admit, I did not stop to investigate it so fully as I could have wished. But, as the workman said, it was certainly ticking." He turned to the Chief Constable. "No doubt there are experts available?" he inquired. "And, incidentally, Sir Henry, I believe I owe you an apology at least. It is a punishable offence, I think, for an unauthorised person to tamper with a bomb?"
The Chief Constable disregarded the more flippant part of his speech.
"Of course," he said. "I'll get in touch with the authorities." He glanced a little nervously across towards the stump. "Hadn't we better move?" he suggested. "Even here—"
"The hole is fairly deep. It is not a large bomb. I am inclined to think that the force of the explosion would expend itself—" He broke off. "But still, there's no reason for standing here."
He had the air of one making a minor concession. Quite unashamedly, the Chief Constable led the retreat. Thealey had regained his breath.
"Then, damn it! It was sabotage?" he demanded. "Fifth Columnists, you think?"
"It's hard to imagine anyone else who might have a motive for placing a bomb there," Hollingworth assented. "Though, no doubt, there might be other reasons—"
Bagehot ventured a question. "You said that whoever put it there knew what he was about, sir," he said. "You mean that a stranger couldn't have picked a place where it would do so much damage."
Hollingworth raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Of course, there's the main power house. But that is fairly effectively guarded—I believe, Shepton?"
Shepton nodded assent. "I don't think anyone would have had much chance there," he said. "Though after last night—"
"What would have been the effect of a bomb there, sir?" Bagehot pursued.
"The immediate effect would have been to cut off power from three-quarters of the site. Also the water. Of course, we could have made temporary repairs. But it would have delayed—"
Impolitely, Bagehot suddenly swooped right in front of him, so suddenly that Thealey, on the other side, stumbled and almost fell. He recovered himself wrathfully.
"Damn it, Inspector!" he began, but Bagehot was paying no attention. His eyes were all for the woman's handbag which he had just retrieved from a tall clump of grass. He held it up in explanation. It was a dainty, trifling affair, made more for ornament than use.
"Do women often visit the site, sir?" he demanded.
"Women?" Hollingworth looked shocked. "Of course, we have some female typists in the offices—"
"They'd hardly be likely to come here?"
"They would not be permitted to come here," the engineer assured him coldly.
The Chief Constable had turned. He stood eyeing the bag in astonishment. Then something occurred to him suddenly.
"By Jove!" he said. "Miss Seaton—She was asking for her bag. She thought she'd dropped it when—"
"It looks as though she might have done," Bagehot said rather dryly, and opened the catch.
There was not much inside. Some money, a powder puff, a pencil, two handkerchiefs and an odd letter or two, with two old tram-tickets, and a receipt. Bagehot smoothed out the last of these. It was an illegible pencil scrawl, but he could just make it out.
"Received of Miss P. Seaton," he read, "the sum of—"
"Miss Seaton?" It was Major Shepton who interrupted him and there was a note of incredulity in his voice. "You can't mean that she—The bomb——"
Bagehot had been pursuing his investigations. "The letters say the same, sir," he commented. "It looks as though this is the bag that she lost all right."
"That girl?" Thealey exploded. "Why, good God—!"
"But—how could she have got here?" the Chief Constable asked helplessly. "The fence—"
"That's one thing we have to find out, sir. In the meantime, I think we shall be warranted in holding her. Not necessarily for the murder, but as a suspected person."
The Chief Constable looked a little crestfallen. "As a matter of fact, I'd told her that she could go home," he said. "After the interview. She seemed—Not home, that is. But to the place she's staying. Of course, she can't escape."
Bagehot did not share his optimism. A young lady who carried bombs, climbed twelve-foot fences, and rushed armed sentries seemed to him to need watching.
"All the same, to make sure, sir—" he began.
Then it seemed to him as though someone had hit him violently. He found himself lying on the ground. Something hard struck him a sharp tap on the head. All at once it seemed to be raining a remarkable variety of objects, sods, earth, small stones. As he struggled to a sitting position to look round on the rest of the group in various attitudes, it came to him what had happened.
"The bomb—" he said. "The bomb—"
His voice sounded even in his own ears ridiculously small. He realised that he was deafened by the noise of the explosion, though he had hardly heard it.
"It was a near thing," Shepton said a little shakily. "It must—it must have been pretty powerful! If we'd been standing there—"
Hollingworth had risen to his feet and had retraced his steps towards the top of the rise. He seemed to be beckoning to them. Bagehot scrambled up and, rather awkwardly, started to stumble towards him.
And as he topped the hill he understood. The stump was quite undisturbed. The hole where the engineer had placed the bomb was exactly as they had left it. Only in the field next to them, a rough, overgrown place half pasture and half undisturbed moorland, a great hole had suddenly yawned among the gorse bushes.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Another! There were two—"
"Apparently," Hollingworth assented.
"But—but what were they trying to blow up?" Bagehot demanded. "There's nothing there!"
"Nothing whatever, Inspector. Unless"—he paused solemnly—"they may have killed some rabbits!" he said.
IT was one of the most unpleasant mornings that Colin Prescott remembered spending in all his life. For one thing, he was tired, dead tired. So was everyone in the office, and in the face of it they had to deal with an unusually heavy pressure of work. Murder or no murder, they had to get on with it; as Somerton, who, now on his own ground, explained bitingly to the one or two people who did not happen to be feeling their best, and whose work showed it. Somerton himself, no matter how he might have acted the night before, seemed completely unaffected. And, oddly enough, the next person in order of efficiency was Biddulph. He was certainly an ass, Prescott reflected, as he watched his hand tracing the fine curved lines of a highly intricate wiring drawing; but he was a draughtsman. Then he caught Somerton's eye, and resumed the struggle with his own work.
Besides, the whole atmosphere of the drawing office was oppressive. Falcon's death had thrown a shadow over most of them; though somehow it seemed hard to realise that the events of the night before had not been some preposterous dream. Willoughby, in particular, had changed completely. All that mornings Prescott did not hear him utter a syllable. He smoked innumerable cigarettes, and seemed to be working very hard; though no special advance was perceptible.
That morning, besides, there were an unusual number of visitors. Practically every sectional engineer with the least excuse seemed to stroll in to ask for some drawing or other, and old Rigson, the plan clerk, was having a hot time. Curiosity certainly swelled the number of these visitors, though they received little encouragement from Somerton, and less information from anyone. On that subject the fiat had gone forth; no one was to talk inside or outside the factory, and perhaps a natural distaste helped them to observe it.
The explosion of the bomb, while they were still trying to settle down to work, had caused a fresh crop of rumours. Hollingworth's hurried exit had not gone unnoticed. Explanations filtered through with the morning tea at about eleven o'clock. Apparently a time bomb had exploded somewhere on the site. There was another which had not yet gone off. Part of No. 4 section was cordoned off; and no one was allowed on it. No damage had been done. The police were still investigating, and a search was being made.
There was no doubt that the police were still investigating. Several times that morning Inspector Bagehot had been visible passing from one office to another; twice he had spoken to Somerton, to the vast irritation of the chief draughtsman. And there was a general air of excitement, of coming and going. Even old Rigson seemed to have been affected by it. As he sipped his second cup of tea, Prescott watched with some amusement a dialogue which was taking place between him and Somerton. In fact, it was more of a monologue. Rigson was talking at great length, and with some heat. Somerton was replying in monosyllables and, eventually, obviously tired even of those, he administered an unmistakable dismissal. Even then Rigson seemed unwilling to go. It was only the summoning of the chief draughtsman to the engineer's office that prevented something like a scene.
Returning to his own table, Rigson caught Prescott's eye and stopped.
"He won't listen to me," he said darkly, "and I was in a drawing office before he was born."
Prescott always humoured Rigson. It was policy, as well as charity. It was, of course, Rigson's duty to issue plans and drawings to whoever needed them; but there were occasions when his goodwill or otherwise affected the promptitude with which a drawing became obtainable. Supposing, for example, the supply of a given drawing was limited, it was always possible for Rigson to issue all available copies to senior people who, though perhaps entitled to them, and certainly reluctant to give them up, had very little use for them. Prescott believed in a conciliation policy. He smiled.
"What's the matter, Rigson?" he asked. "Another drawing missing?"
Rigson looked a little disappointed. He nodded with profound significance.
"Another!" he said dramatically. "And I'll swear that it was in the file drawer last night. And what drawing d'you think it is? It's a 'specially secret'! It's the most important drawing of the lot. ZNO 26512 c—that's what's missing!"
Prescott raised his eyebrows, largely because he felt it was expected of him. The title-number conveyed practically nothing to him, except that the drawing was presumably a general lay-out. In that type of drawing he was sublimely uninterested.
"I thought that would surprise you," Rigson said triumphantly. "And after what happened last night! Poor Mr. Willoughby and everything. And that bomb"—his voice sank to a whisper—"I heard from the messenger. It wasn't a time bomb. It was one of these infernal machines—put there on purpose!"
"What?" Prescott asked sharply. For the first time it occurred to him that the drawings in the office really might be valuable to an intending saboteur. "But there was no damage!"
"They must have made a mistake, somehow. Anyhow, I told him. And what d'you think he said? He said: 'Don't bother me. I suppose it's been put away wrongly. Look through the drawers.'"
"And did you?" Prescott asked innocently. There were, he knew, several thousand plans of various sorts in the office. To find one which had got out of place was a work, not of minutes, but of hours.
"It wasn't there?"
"I know it's not here," Rigson evaded. "But it was here, only last night. And now, sir, it's missing! ZNO 26512 c. It's missing—"
He broke off sharply as a hand slapped him playfully between the shoulders, and with a comical indignation turned to meet the grin of Belsey.
"What's that, Mr. Rigson? Another drawing missing?" the newcomer said cheerfully. "Oh, I wouldn't worry! You're used to that by now, aren't you? Why, if you could one day find one when it's needed it'd be different. How about those structurals you were getting me?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait, Mr. Belsey," Rigson replied stiffy. "I let Mr. Hollingworth have the last copies the day before yesterday, and he's not returned them. 'Only for a few minutes,' he said, and they're not back yet."
"Anyway, I asked you four days ago," Belsey pointed out. "I could have finished with 'em before they went out—if you could have found 'em. I believe you work on a system, that's what it is. Ah, well, I mustn't keep a busy man."
Rigson scowled after him as he moved away up the road. The word system had touched him upon a tender spot. For the filing of plans he had a pet system of his own, which he had struggled manfully to have put into practice. Since, whatever its ultimate results, it must have meant at least a week of utter chaos, Somerton had refused. At the moment they worked on a combination of some three methods; the scheme introduced by the previous engineer haunted, as it were, by those of his predecessors. To most people it was magnificently incomprehensible; by the aid of a good memory, Rigson worked it somehow.
"It's all very well for him to talk," the plan clerk said bitterly, "he's one of these stuck-up young nobodies who think you've nothing to do but run about for them. I could tell you a thing or two about him, too. Where d'you think I saw him coming out of? Ginney's! Only last Friday—"
"That's his own business," Prescott said rather sharply, all the more so because the news genuinely surprised him. Of course there might be dozens of innocent reasons for the call; but the firm the plan clerk had named specialised as money-lenders; and had a poor name at that. It might be a serious thing for Belsey if anyone in authority heard about it; for the firm was strict about such things. He did not like Belsey, but he decided to warn him. "If you really think there's anything wrong, Rigson, you should go to the engineer, or the police. Now, I must get along."
Rigson took his leave reluctantly, and a moment later was engaged in a wild paper-chase as Somerton, entering with Hollingworth, called out some cryptic symbols which presumably referred to drawings. But he left Prescott even less inclined to work than he had been before. After all, there might be something in the idea. No one seemed to have thought of robbery as a possible motive for what had happened the previous night. And yet, it might explain all the curious incidents of their watch. The one thing they all shared in common, except for the killing of Falcon, was that they were likely to keep people occupied elsewhere, giving anyone who wished a free hand in the drawing office. Of course, the drawers were locked. But it would be by no means impossible to deal with those locks, given a few minutes undisturbed. He thought it over. They were supposed to do a round inside the building every now and again; but last night there had certainly been no such patrol after midnight. Perhaps that was precisely what had been intended. And perhaps Falcon had somehow intercepted the criminal while he was trying to get away.
He was aware of Somerton's eye upon him. His speculations broke off. By concentrating on the drawing-board to the exclusion of everything else he had really managed to get something done by lunch-time. The office began to empty. If one was very hungry or very wealthy, one patronised the canteen which had been specially provided to give cheap but wholesome meals to the office staff. There, by waiting for a quarter of an hour or so, it really was possible to get quite an adequate meal. But Prescott was not feeling hungry. He decided to make do with the sandwiches which remained of an over-generous supper ration, and perhaps go across for a drink later. He had nearly finished and had gathered the more depressing items from a newspaper someone had left behind, when it struck him that the office was remarkably quiet. He looked round. Except for himself, it contained only one other occupant. It was Willoughby.
Prescott finished his sandwiches. He was not a person who liked thrusting himself in where he was not wanted; but he felt a certain sympathy. After a momentary hesitation, he produced a cigarette, placed it unlit between his lips and crossed the room.
"Got a match?" he asked.
Willoughby extended a box without a word. It was nearly empty, in fact, because of his own smoking efforts that morning. Prescott's was full, but he took one and lit up.
"Thanks," he said. "Coming for a walk?"
"No," Willoughby said briefly; then seemed to think better of it. "Good of you to ask me, of course, as a social pariah and suspected murderer—but I think not. You see—"
"Don't be an ass. I see what?"
"'Two's company, three's none,'" Willoughby quoted with something like a return to his old self, but his smile was not pleasant.
Prescott stared. "Three?" he echoed hazily. "Who—"
"'I have a little shadow, that follows me about,'" Willoughby rejoined. "Didn't you know? I spotted him when I went to the lavatory a couple of hours ago. A big, suspicious, furtive-looking lad—probably local talent. I don't feel I could enjoy the beauties of nature with those thundering hoofs following behind."
"You mean they're having you followed? The police?"
"Obviously. To see if I'll incriminate myself still further. Everyone's wondering why I've not been arrested already. You have yourself. Well, they know I'm quite safe, and they're hoping for the worst. That's all."
Prescott eyed him unhappily. He had never suspected Willoughby of being subject to depression. He seemed to have collapsed completely.
"Of course, it's some mistake," he said awkwardly. "How the dickens could that gun have been fired?"
"How the hell should I know?" Willoughby flared up suddenly. "Damn you, go away, and leave me alone!"
Prescott went, not without some hesitation. Willoughby's mood was desperate, and he did not entirely like leaving him alone. And somehow another thought struck him, though he put it indignantly away from him. Willoughby was also being left alone with the drawings. If there should be anything in Rigson's story... He called himself a cur for thinking it, and went outside.
Besides, evidently Willoughby was not to be unsupervised. There was certainly a large gentleman in the corridor outside who seemed to have no special business, and in whose curious, unobtrusive glance he seemed to recognise the detective. No doubt the police had posted watchers. It might be just as well, even from the point of view of Willoughby's own safety. A depressed optimist whose world is in ruins may go to extremes. Prescott tried to dismiss the matter from his mind. Turning to the left, he passed through the small ante-room and gained the open air by the side door.
Perhaps it was the action of doing so which set his thoughts upon another track. Everyone last night had thought of the place as a sort of closed shop, with only the main entrance to be watched. But had it been? There were several other doors—two, for example, in each of the main wings; two in the general office near the dining-room and dormitory, though he had never seen these open. Then there were the windows. After all, they had never really searched the place. If anyone had got inside, he could easily have dodged such stray members of the guard as were not asleep. What he could have done when he got inside was less plain, or when, precisely, he had entered. Perhaps the incident with Chard had been intended to draw them all to the front, and whoever it was had made his entrance then. He could, no doubt, by watching his chance, have poisoned Biddulph's tea. But why on earth should he? He could have stolen the missing plan—if it had really been taken at all. He might have taken a rifle—if there was one missing.
It was all so conjectural that he finally gave it up as a bad job, realising that the way of an amateur detective is even harder than it is commonly represented, because he so rarely knows what exactly needs detecting. In the meantime, he was feeling better. The weather, after a certain amount of indecision, seemed to have decided in favour of "Set Fair," and though it was still chilly, there was bright sunshine with only occasional white clouds. So far he had been walking aimlessly, or with the one intention of avoiding the other groups, intent on gossip, flirtation, or exercise, which the office had emitted. All at once he found himself nearing the lane which had marked the end of his beat the night before.
The impulse came to him quite suddenly. Here was something he could do, and something which no one else was likely to have troubled about. Everyone had ignored his story of the white patch he had seen in the hedge, and until that moment he had almost done so himself. But there might have been someone. And there might be traces. The coast was clear for the moment. He was over the gate before he properly considered just how unlikely it was that he would find anything at all.
Even in the moonlight he had been able to mark the spot with some accuracy. The hedge was a ragged one, large, overgrown hawthorns which should have received attention years before, and served mainly the purpose of providing shade for cattle. The actual barrier was composed of the blackberries and wild bushes that had crept up around its base, interspersed with a few pieces of barbed wire, and an occasional piece of fencing or iron bedstead. The result was a fence of sorts, but not one which would offer any real obstacle if anyone wished to get through it. Mindful of the eyes which might be watching from the direction of the factory, Prescott gained the corner of the field quickly, and pushed through himself.
There was no difficulty in finding the place. He had noted the particularly tall bush which stood just before it, and even from the other side he could identify it with certainty. And, in this field, a second hedge shielded him from anyone who might be disposed to take an interest in his operations from the lane. Parting the bramble stems gingerly, he forced his way in. Evidently no one had gone that way before. Then, all at once he found his legs clear. Ducking, he understood why. Under the thicker shade of the bushes no brambles had grown. There was a kind of tunnel, and all at once he realised that it ended almost precisely near the tall hawthorn.
There was quite a practicable gap. Prescott peered cautiously through. Perhaps that was precisely what the unknown had done last night, and the moonlight had shown white on his face. Unfortunately, there was no positive trace that anyone had been there. He bent down to look more closely. Someone had been there—sometime. There were marks of sorts in the thick covering of leaves, but they were not plain enough to convey anything definite. But whoever had made them had probably come down the tunnel. After a moment's hesitation he started to creep along it away from the gap. Perhaps a bare piece of ground, or a patch of mud might show something unmistakable. He had gone some distance before it occurred to him that, besides the possibility that he was obliterating tracks which might have been read by a more expert eye, he was certainly leaving his own. But he had gone too far to turn back. The tunnel seemed to come to an end just ahead. There was a patch of light, this time on the other side, which indicated a gap. He reached it, and looked out.
To his surprise, he had emerged into a different field entirely. He was still uncertain whether anyone had used the tunnel; but one thing was plain. If anyone had wanted a covered approach to the neighbourhood of the site, it would have been almost perfect. And, at the entrance here, someone had certainly gone through. The bramble vines were parted and crushed. There were traces of footprints. He pushed his way out into the open and stood up to look round.
Next minute, he had dived down again, crouching in the shelter of the bush. Someone was coming towards him, skirting the hedge in the opposite direction. It came to him that in any case it was awkward. He had a perfectly good explanation, but it was not one he was anxious to give. It would be better to dodge the farmer, labourer, or whoever it might be. He parted the leaves carefully and stole another glance. Then he started with surprise. The figure was not twenty yards away, and it was a girl. Conviction grew to certainty as he watched. She was limping obviously. It was Priscilla Seaton.
FOR a moment Prescott felt completely taken aback. The girl was the very last person he had expected it to be. He had understood vaguely that she had been sent to hospital or somewhere. He had heard the opinion that she had been very lucky not to be arrested and, but for the idiocy of the Chief Constable, probably would have been. But the last thing that he expected was to find her wandering about the fields in the neighbourhood of the factory.
She was coming straight towards him, and in her bearing there was nothing of the attitude of a person taking a casual stroll; even if the very idea had not been ridiculous. She kept giving little, furtive glances round, and her whole attitude had something stealthy about it. He noticed that she had changed into a tweed costume, and carried a stick to help her wounded leg. But for the limp, he might not have recognised her immediately.
Only a short distance separated them. Abruptly Prescott realised his own position. There might be some excuse for spying, but there was nothing pleasant about being caught. There seemed nothing else for it. His only way of retreat, and his sole hiding-place, was the tunnel. But quite possibly she herself intended to use it. Why else was she there? If he attempted to go back that way, she was quite certain to see him as soon as she entered the mouth, and in the alarmingly incongruous form of a back and a pair of boot heels. To be found hiding was as bad. He had almost made up his mind to stand up and walk brazenly out into the open when the problem was solved for him. He had glanced away for a moment down the tunnel, estimating his chances. When he looked back, she had vanished as though the earth had swallowed her.
Prescott's hunting instincts revived suddenly. The girl could not have seen him. He was sure of that. For some reason or other, she must have dived through some gap in the hedge. The question was, where had she gone? His scruples vanished completely in the excitement of the chase. Throwing caution to the winds, he emerged into the open and started noiselessly towards the place where he had last seen her.
He had gone a dozen yards before it even occurred to him that she might have stopped to look back. Then it was too late to worry about it. If she had, she had certainly seen him. There was a gap in the bushes at last. He peered through, and saw her.
She had not seen him. She was stealing along a hedge at right angles to the first. At the end of a rather long, narrow field, he had a glimpse of some farmhouse buildings, partly obscured by a tumbledown barn which stood about half-way towards them. She must be making for that, and she must have wanted to get to it without being seen. The entrance to that farm was on the road, almost opposite to the track leading to the factory. In view of possible police watchers, she could hardly go that way. Another road led, at right angles, along the far side of the farm. That was the main road, and, in the daytime, was generally busy with traffic going to and from the factory. She could hardly have used that and, so far as his memory served him, the fields between the farm and the road were large, and their hedges well-kept, giving very inadequate cover. He knew the map of the district fairly well. Three-quarters of a mile away, in the direction from which she had approached, ran a little-used lane. Obviously she had decided on that as her line of approach. But, under the circumstances, that she should have come at all in broad daylight argued that her need was desperate.
For a moment he stood and watched her. The barn hid her, and he waited for her to emerge from behind it. He himself could hardly advance in plain view along the hedge. It seemed to him that she was taking a long time. The conviction began to grow upon him that she was not going to reappear. Perhaps the barn itself, and not the farm, had been the place she was going to. He was tired of waiting. Besides, he could wait no longer. He made up his mind and started boldly.
On the side facing him, there were no windows in the barn. He kept his eyes fixed upon it, half expecting a face to peer round. He saw nothing. She evidently felt secure in the thought that no one was watching. He felt a momentary wave of compunction. After all, what business of his was it to watch her at all, whatever she might be doing there? It was the thought of Willoughby's desperation which made him go forward. He felt almost grimly vindictive. Either she had been playing the fool or she had been shielding someone whom she knew was guilty. In either case he was going on. He would settle it one way or the other. Keeping in the shelter of the hedge as much as possible he started to cross the intervening distance which separated him from the barn.
It was a derelict old place. Whatever it might have been built for originally, its present owner seemed to have very little use for it; for it was half in ruins. The thatch was overgrown and half stripped; the walls, as he drew nearer, revealed holes which suggested that his confidence in the absence of windows on that side had been misplaced. But there was no sign of life. He cautiously rounded the corner of the building. A large pair of double doors gave access to the ground floor; there were two small windows, both high up and both barred. To the first floor a ramshackle wooden ladder placed like a staircase along the wall, led to a staging in front of a smaller door. Advancing cautiously, he tried the big doors first. Evidently they had not been used. A large, rusty padlock which might have been there for years had been slipped through the chain which secured them. Inside, he could just make out a large, empty room, with a few wisps of hay about and what looked like a heap of turnips. To one side a ladder led up to a trap-door in the roof.
His view of the interior was limited by the narrowness of the crack, and one wall was almost completely out of view; but so far as he could see there was no one there. He turned towards the ladder, then hesitated, eyeing it dubiously. It did not look particularly safe. And then, why should the girl have come to a place like that? It was just possible that, after all, she had seen him, and, while he had been approaching; had gone off quickly, keeping the building between them. Eyeing the far hedge, he decided that it might just have been done. But then, her whole presence and behaviour were completely extraordinary. There was just a chance that for some unknown reason she had come to the barn, and in that case she was still there. He started up the ladder.
The door at the top was unlocked, though a padlock hung on a nail beside it. He pushed it open suddenly, barring the opening with his body, and half expecting an attack. But nothing happened. He peered into the half-darkness, dimly lit by a few chinks in the stonework, and the cracks of a shuttered window at the far end. A dim oblong showed the trap-door a little to one side; but otherwise there was nothing there at all.
Or so he had thought at the first glance. Then, almost at the edge of the trap-door he saw something white. He hurried across the loft, regardless of the threatening cracks which attended his progress over the rotten boards. It was a woman's handkerchief.
Evidently she had been there. Equally obviously, she could not have left. The one possibility was the room below. He peered down the trap. Like the doors, it was at one side of the building, and he was as far off as ever from seeing the other part of the room. Then the slight sound of creaking woodwork decided him. Certainly there was someone down there. Without a thought of danger, he felt for the top rungs of the ladder and started down. He was waist-deep in the hole when it happened. Something struck him blindingly in the face. For a moment he could neither see nor breathe; but only cling to the ladder choking. Behind him he was aware of a thud on the floorboards. Then something cold touched the back of his neck.
"Stick 'em up!" said a voice. "Don't turn!"
Prescott hesitated only for a moment. Half-way up the ladder and half-way down, unable to see for the dust which had blinded his eyes, he was utterly helpless. There was something ridiculously theatrical about the business, but last night had shown that the people he had to deal with would not stick at trifles. He obeyed, not without difficulty, in view of his position perched on the ladder. It was only by jamming his knees against the rung above that he maintained a precarious balance. The least push would have sent him down.
"Hands behind you!" the voice commanded. The cold pressure increased to emphasise the order. "Quick!"
Prescott obeyed gingerly; he was afraid of going headlong. It was a queer voice, it came to him, not exactly harsh, and yet—Was it an old0 man? Tears were still streaming down his face, but he was beginning to be able to blink a little. A hand for a moment touched his own; then he felt the roughness of a rope. It was pulled tight suddenly, with a vigour which nearly overthrew him. Annoyance more than courage forced a protest.
"Look here!" he began. "You'll suffer for this—"
"Shut up! So will you!" the queer voice replied. "Stand up and keep still!"
It was as much as he could do. Suddenly something descended over his head. It was accompanied by another blinding cloud of dust. To Prescott it was the last straw, and he fell. Luckily even in that moment he had presence of mind enough to throw himself sideways. Instead of going backwards down the ladder, he caught the edge of the floorboards with his body, and for an instant hung there doubtfully, one foot on the ladder, and one waving in the air. Then by a great effort he half threw, half wriggled himself up and fell forward on to the boards.
For a moment he lay there unable to move. He realised dimly that someone had thrown a sack over his head; and that the sack had at some recent date held potatoes. He wriggled to a sitting position, choking for breath, but expecting at any moment to hear his captor's voice raised in a command. A second later came the click of the padlock being fastened. He had been locked in.
Normally Prescott's temper was slow enough; but suddenly he felt utterly savage. He had been tricked. Regardless of the smart of the ropes, he tore at the bonds which secured his hands like a madman. His task was unexpectedly easy. Whoever had tied him had made a very poor job of it. In a moment he was free and, tugging at the sack, was at least able to breathe again. His eyes were smarting and bleary with the dust, but he stumbled across towards the door. As he had thought, it was fastened on the outside. In his anger he shook it furiously; but it was more solid than its appearance suggested. Another thought came to him. He might at least see who it was who had bound him. There was a chink between the stone and the doorpost. He put his eye to it and peeped through.
For a moment the bright light almost blinded him, and he had to close his eyes again. After a moment, he managed to get a cloudy, watery view of the field. At first he thought it was deserted. Then, right by the gate leading to the farm at the far end he caught a moving patch of brown and recognised the girl's tweed costume. At least, he was almost sure of it. Then he had to blink, and when he looked again it was gone.
Under his breath he swore fervently. Had it been the girl who had caught him? Hardly. He had only been a minute getting free, and she could never have got so far away. He must get out. That door seemed hopeless, but he remembered the creak of wood he had heard downstairs. Whoever had been there could never have passed him on the ladder. In all probability there was some other way out through that invisible wall. Without even considering whether anyone might be waiting for him, he started down the ladder again.
He was a little puzzled as to what had happened. The loft had been empty. Then, as he descended, he chanced to look up. Just above the hole a thick, old-fashioned joist spanned the walls. That had been it. The man who had literally and figuratively thrown dust into his eyes had been perched upon it waiting for the moment when he made for the ladder.
There was no one in the room below. He had not expected there would be. But there was what he sought. In the wall which he had not seen, a window had been boarded up, like the one above, but less effectively. Or else someone had recently tampered with it. A big streak of white daylight down one side gave hope of opening it. He was across the room in a moment, tugging at the edge of the wood.
It gave unexpectedly easily, the whole thing opening like a door. He staggered back, recovered, then clambered up on to the high sill and dropped outside.
The fall was further than he had expected; but he regained his feet in a moment. Then something behind made him turn sharply.
"Gosh!" said an astonished treble voice
A small boy who had just come round the corner of the building was standing eyeing him in open-mouthed astonishment. Then he broke into a broad grin, which threatened to become an overwhelming fit of laughter. At another time, Prescott might have resented this reception. He had no time to bother about it now.
"Seen anyone come out of there?" he snapped, jerking back his head towards the barn. "Just now?"
"Out of there? You're barmy!" the boy rejoined rudely, and backed a little, perhaps at the expression his comment had evoked on Prescott's face. "Ow, yes, I have, mister. A big man with a dirty face! I'm talking to him now!"
Prescott made a pace forward to grab him; but he dodged away.
"Yah! Loony!" he called out with emphasis, and took to his heels.
Prescott had no time to give chase. There was still a chance of overtaking the girl. He started to sprint up the field in the direction of the farm. At the most, he reckoned, she might have about five minutes' start. She would hardly take the road to the factory, with the police on the look-out, and in broad daylight. But in the other direction the road ran bare and without a turning for some distance. Unless she had a car waiting, he might get a glimpse of her. Suddenly he remembered the time. Feeling for his watch as he ran, he glanced at it. It was five minutes to two, and by a quarter past he should be back in the office. He could barely manage it. Certainly he could not carry the pursuit very far. By the time he reached the gate, he was half inclined to give up. He was swinging himself over the bars when a voice hailed him.
"Hey! My bull chase you?"
He turned as he let himself down to face a large, red-faced man in riding breeches who was leaning against the wall just inside the farmyard, smoking a pipe.
"No," he rejoined lamely. "I—I was in a hurry."
"Thought you might be," the farmer agreed. "'Tis trespassing there. Ben't no path."
"Sorry." For a single instant Prescott thought that the man was furiously angry. Then he realised that he was struggling nobly with laughter. Prescott's irritation rose. "I'd no idea... Seen a young lady go this way?"
"A young lady?" the farmer echoed, and stared at him. "Nothing of that sort here, mister... unless you mean my old woman, and she's fifty-eight next Easter!"
"A young lady—she came this way. You must have seen her."
"Can't say as I have," the farmer answered, and seemed to ponder for a moment. "A young lady?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Ben't courtin', be 'ee? Because, if you be, take my advice... You go home, and spruce up a bit. 'Tisn't no sense running after the young women with your muck on like that."
Prescott was certain the man was laughing at him. No doubt he was in the wrong, but he was in no mood to stand that. He took a step forward.
"Look here—" he began angrily, and broke off.
The step he had taken forward had been just sufficient to enable him to look round the large bulk of his tormentor. The man was leaning on the corner of the wall beside the little gate which led into the cottage garden, and Prescott had had a glimpse up the path. It was what he had seen there that made him pause. Outlined against the white flagstones was the wet print of a woman's shoe.
"Well, I be looking," the farmer observed. "Something bitten 'ee?"
Prescott hurriedly averted his eyes from the tell-tale print. Certainly no farmer's wife of fifty-eight had made that. The farmer was lying. Priscilla Seaton had actually gone inside the farm, while the farmer remained, presumably to intercept anyone who might be following.
"Then you haven't seen a young lady?" he demanded.
"Ay—several. In my time... Getting a bit old for that, now." He eyed Prescott with veiled curiosity. "You'll be working at the factory?" he asked. "Navvying, maybe?"
Prescott disdained any retort. Probably in any case the slight on his personal appearance was justified. A potato sack over the head is not the best form of beauty treatment.
"I'm sorry I trespassed," he said briefly. "I lost my way... How do I get out of here? Back to the factory office?"
The farmer ruminated. "If you've given up your courting," he said archly. "Try the second on the left. First gate leads to the pigsties."
"Thank you," Prescott said insincerely. "Good day."
"Not at all, young feller. Been like it myself afore now. You take a pint less, an' you'll be all right... Good day to 'ee."
Prescott hardly noticed this final slight. As he turned along the muddy track which led to the lane, his mind was too busy trying to work things out. The girl had gone into the farm. Probably that had been her destination all along. She had only gone into the barn, if she had been there at all, with a view to tricking him. He blushed at the thought that she had perhaps been an interested audience to his recent dialogue from one of the farm windows, and it occurred to him that he must have cut a queer figure. The thought annoyed him unaccountably. At the same time it raised another problem. He could never return to the factory looking like that. The sight of a cattle trough just before the gate into the lane seemed to provide a solution. Dipping his handkerchief in the water, he started to remove the evidence of his adventures, surprised to observe the deepness of the brown tint which the linen acquired at the first dab or two. The worst of it seemed to have gone. He finished matters by plunging his head in, and had just raised a dripping face when a voice at his shoulder greeted him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott. Been in the wars?"
He turned hastily to meet the curious gaze of Inspector Bagehot.
THOUGH Prescott was not to know it, only the merest accident had brought Bagehot to the spot in time to be a witness to his ablutions. A thoroughly unsatisfactory, and even depressing, trip to town had brought his car back by way of the spot where he, and Shepton had so narrowly avoided an accident the previous night; and in the light of his fuller knowledge, Bagehot had found his interest in that incident steadily increasing. It seemed highly unlikely that, in view of all that was happening, the bolting of the man who had just escaped being run down should have any innocent interpretation. What Bagehot had been trying to ascertain was exactly where he had probably bolted to after he disappeared into the night, and the merest luck had brought him, following the most likely route for the fugitive, to that particular point at that moment.
Prescott had to do some very quick thinking. He had no idea how long the inspector had been watching his rather unusual manoeuvres or how much he had seen. Willoughby had a man to follow him; perhaps he had himself been similarly favoured. But that was hardly likely. They could not shadow everyone, and, of all the squad, as little suspicion attached to himself as anyone. Bagehot could not know what had been happening; but with the keen eyes upon him, Prescott had the feeling that he would be hard to deceive. And yet, unless the whole story was to come out, he must tell him some kind of a lie. The one thing he was determined not to do was to mention his encounter with the girl, or her probable refuge at that moment. He meant to settle that himself; it was quite another matter telling it to the police.
"Well, Mr. Prescott?" Bagehot said at last, and he realised that the pause had lasted too long. Inspiration, and one of the taunts of his late antagonist came to his aid.
"Got chased by a bull," he explained, and jerked his thumb vaguely back over the fields. "I came rather a cropper and was trying to clean up a bit."
Bagehot eyed him; then smiled faintly. If anything was needed to confirm Prescott's decision not to tell the truth it was that smile. He had had quite enough people laughing at him in the past quarter of an hour.
"I didn't know there was a path that way," Bagehot rejoined. "You were out for a walk?"
"There isn't," Prescott assented, but Bagehot's first sentence worried him. It seemed to show that the inspector had been on the scene at least in time to know which way he had come. "I must confess that I was trespassing. Hence the bull."
Bagehot eyed him for a moment. "Scouting round a bit on your own, sir?" he asked. "I saw you came from the direction of the lane end—"
"Well?" Prescott parried.
"I thought you might have been looking for any traces of what you saw last night, sir... I'd been meaning to ask you about that."
Prescott had found his second handkerchief and had been rubbing his face. He looked his surprise.
"I thought no one treated it seriously," he said. "They didn't pay much attention last night. Everyone thought it was imagination."
"Perhaps, sir. But in the circumstances we have to look into every possibility... What do you think yourself, Mr. Prescott?"
Prescott hesitated. The fact was that he did not know in the least, and still less after his recent adventures.
"Well, I thought I saw something," he admitted. "But I was never sure. And now—"
He broke off. Bagehot took him up quickly.
"And now, sir? Then you did go to see?"
"I had a look at the place... And found a hole in the hedge. Of course, the light shining through would show white... And then I thought I'd better scout round a bit to make sure, and"—he laughed—"this happened!"
"You found nothing then, sir?"
"Only the bull," Prescott said, and laughed again. He thought his dissimulation was rather good. If he had been more practised in the art, he would not have laughed; for laughter is one of the more difficult things to assume. "I must be getting back to the office," he said a little too quickly. "We're working full speed."
"I'm going that way myself, sir, if you don't mind." Bagehot fell into step beside him. "You heard about the bomb, I suppose, sir?"
"Heard something, of course... I suppose it was a time bomb?" His mind had suddenly recurred to Rigson's story. "Dropped from a 'plane, I mean—not sabotage?"
"Why should you think that, sir?" Bagehot countered. His real interest was to know the reason for the young man's sudden anxiety. "Has anyone suggested it wasn't?"
"Not exactly. But—" Abruptly Prescott made up his mind to tell the inspector Rigson's suspicions about the missing plan. His great aim at the moment was to get over the walk to the factory without being trapped into saying anything he did not want to say. Telling about Rigson could do no harm and would fill the gap. "It's like this—" he began, a little hesitantly.
Bagehot heard him without interruption. So far from having been deceived by Prescott's efforts, almost every word the young man had spoken had convinced him that he was hiding something. Now for the first time he was speaking at his ease. The inspector could even have made a guess at why he was being favoured with the information, but he absorbed it nevertheless.
"That's interesting, sir," he commented. "But I saw Mr. Somerton this morning. He said nothing about it."
"Well, you see, Rigson's rather an old ass," Prescott explained. "He's generally got some bee in his bonnet... But there might be something in it. If sabotage is suspected, I mean—"
"You may as well know, sir." Bagehot in turn affected to be giving a confidence. Actually, in view of the number of witnesses, there was no earthly way of suppressing the story. He had arranged to distribute a censored version to the newspapers. It was very much the same that he gave Prescott, but obviously it produced an impression.
"It was deliberate, then?" Prescott said, and frowned. "And it must have been put there last night?" He paused for a moment, and changed the subject. "I shouldn't have thought Hollingworth had it in him," he said.
"Well, it's hard to say, sir, what the right circumstances will bring out in a man.... Take this murder, for example. It's queer to think you've probably talked to the man dozens of times, and thought him as mild as milk."
"Perhaps—" Prescott began and broke off. "Look here," he said, "you're wrong about Willoughby, anyhow. I'll take my oath he didn't do it. And this business of following him—"
"Is the only alternative to arresting him," Bagehot countered. "Personally, I'm inclined to agree, but we have to consider the evidence, sir. I'm hoping we may be able to prove him innocent before long. If not—"
He left the possibility uncomfortably open. Prescott's face wore a worried frown.
"There must be some way," he said. "It's driving the poor chap off his head."
"Of course, if we get the real criminal—" Bagehot broke off. There was quite a long pause. "You didn't know Miss Seaton before, sir?" he asked without warning.
The unexpectedness of it took Prescott aback. He was off his guard, and for a moment his face showed that he did not welcome the question.
"Of course not," he said quickly. "That was before my time... Only Shepton and Biddulph—and Falcon, of course... Some of the older ones—" He laughed nervously. "I can't really say I know her now—unless you can found an acquaintance on bandaging someone's leg when she's unconscious."
"I'd forgotten that, sir," Bagehot assented. "You haven't seen her since?"
"Isn't she in hospital or somewhere?" Prescott evaded. "You haven't locked her up?"
"Not yet, sir," Bagehot agreed without emotion.
"You don't think she had anything to do with—with the murder?" Prescott asked uneasily. "Surely a girl like that—"
"That's what I was saying, sir. One can't tell with people. Now, just supposing Miss Seaton were fond of someone and that person was threatened. I can imagine her going to considerable lengths to help him."
Prescott looked up quickly. "You mean her cousin?" he demanded.
"Him or her, I should have said," Bagehot corrected himself equably. "I was speaking generally."
Prescott had nothing to say to that. They were nearly at the office building, and the inspector decided to leave well alone. He did not seriously suspect the young man of anything directly connected with the murder; but he objected to concealment of any kind, and in this particular instance, he had at least some ground for guessing what the reason was for Prescott's lying. Between the reminder of Willoughby's position, and the remarks he had made about the girl, he flattered himself that he had created a proper state of mind, and when Prescott took his leave with a very brief word of excuse, he let him go.
The detective sergeant stationed by the door looked after the young man curiously. Prescott's efforts at the horse trough had improved matters, but he was still no model of neatness.
"What's he been up to, sir?" he asked as Bagehot stood looking after the disappearing figure.
"Him? Oh, he's just been for a walk," Bagehot assured him gravely. "Got a spare man here, Sergeant?"
"Williams will be back in a minute or two, sir."
"Send him round to all the farms in the immediate neighbourhood, asking which have bulls; whether the bulls have been out to-day and which fields they have been out in."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant assented, staring a little.
"He might also inquire if anyone has seen Miss Seaton," Bagehot went on almost absently. "He'd better not ask at the farms themselves about her. Labourers and so on. Needn't mention her name."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant assented again.
"You've got that?" Bagehot said quite briskly. "Bulls and Miss Seaton? Right—"
"The superintendent inquired for you, sir. He's in Room 4."
"I'll go there at once.... Oh, there's one other thing. You'd better make arrangements to have someone followed. Warn the necessary men and get 'em here."
"Shadow someone, sir?" the sergeant asked. "Yes, sir. Who?"
"I'll tell you later," rejoined Bagehot, and went up the corridor.
He found Addison seated at the table waiting for him, and for once the superintendent's face registered a positive emotion. He was distinctly depressed. It was quite true that it was in his absence that the Chief Constable had airily given Miss Seaton his leave to depart. If he had been there, either the girl would have been arrested, or she would have left only under strict supervision. Whether or not she was guilty of the murder, she had undoubtedly been up to something, and he was not a man to take risks. Now she had vanished, and though the blame was in no way his, he felt indirectly responsible. He looked a question at the inspector as he entered.
"Not a sign of her, sir," Bagehot said wearily. "I went to that address. They weren't expecting her, and she hadn't been there. No replies so far to the calls sent out. No news at hotels, garages and so on. She's simply disappeared."
"Bolted," said Addison gloomily.
"Well, if she has, we're almost bound to get her sooner or later. It's easier now than in peace time in some ways. People have got to account for themselves. And she can't get out of the country... Besides—" He broke off and hesitated. "Besides, I think there's a chance, sir—only a chance—she mayn't have gone so far as we think. That she may be quite near, in fact."
The superintendent frowned. "Where? Why?" he asked succinctly.
"I don't know, sir. It's only an idea—"
Addison nodded assent. He believed in letting people have a free hand as far as possible.
"You think it's them?" he asked ungrammatically. "Not Willoughby?"
"Well, you know the objections to him, sir. And, if the rifle was planted on him, there's a possibility we may be able to prove it—when the experts come. You see—"
He outlined briefly his conversation with Shepton. Addison frowned slightly.
"Shepton seems interested," he commented. "As for the ballistic sharps, they'll be along about four. That may dispose of him. Of course, if the real gun has been planted on him—" He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.
"Not that we'd have a really good case—in view of what's happened," Bagehot suggested. "A jury would think we had to explain all the rest. Willoughby doesn't in the least."
Addison nodded. "The Seatons?" he asked.
"Nearly everything—except the rifle. We can't theorise until we know about that. But young Seaton has a motive, either for sabotage or murder. He's been jailed as a suspect. He probably feels bitter about that whether he was innocent or guilty. Falcon gave evidence against him—"
The superintendent raised his eyebrows.
"It's a fact, sir. So, incidentally, did Biddulph. But, in Falcon's case, I don't think there was much doubt that jealousy of Priscilla Seaton was a reason for his coming forward. There might be a special grudge."
"Well?" prompted the superintendent.
"Seaton escapes at the psychological moment. I don't think there's much doubt that his cousin helped him. After what you proved about the car—"
"Guessed," Addison corrected. "Had the number given me as a car found abandoned. Still trying to prove it."
"Now, Seaton has a double motive—perhaps three. If he is a Fifth Columnist, he wants to sabotage the factory. He's jealous of Falcon, and he wants revenge. He comes down to plant the bomb, and to kill Falcon—and was lucky in finding him alone on guard."
"And Priscilla Seaton came down to help him?" The superintendent looked dubious. "To kill Falcon?"
"I don't think so. I believe she helped him to escape. Then he got out of hand. She knows that he's going to do it. First of all she tries to stop him planting the bomb and fails. That's when she lost her bag. She also loses sight of her cousin. So she tries to get out, and Hatch shoots her. So far that's plain enough."
He wrinkled his brows a little. He was still standing, and Addison motioned him to a chair, pushing across his tobacco pouch.
"Clear so far," he said. "Wait, though. The bomb?"
"If he ever meant to do sabotage, he probably knew where to get that. On the way. Well, after this point, I confess I'm not clear at all. The only thing that's certain is that Miss Seaton is inside the building—where an accomplice ought to be. She's left alone for a bit—which she ought not to have been. When Prescott goes in, she's somehow managed to get up. She comes out from the inner doors. What was she doing there—just when Falcon was getting shot?"
"What?" Addison demanded with interest.
"All this is rather far-fetched, of course. But what may have happened is this. Seaton himself may have come along earlier, got into the building, and stolen a rifle and ammunition. He went outside again waiting for his chance to use it. At last he shoots Falcon. His cousin guesses what has happened, gets up and goes in the direction of the shots. They seem to her to have come from the right wing of the building—"
"They did, but outside," Addison agreed. "Well?"
"She meets her cousin, coming in—"
"Why?"
"To put back the rifle—perhaps. At least he's got the rifle with him. He hands it to her, and gets away. She somehow manages to plant it on Willoughby—"
"Which is precisely what she couldn't have done," Addison said finally. "Otherwise, I admit it hangs together—but it's all supposition. And it doesn't account for two facts at all. First, the Chard business. Second, the poisoning of Biddulph."
"I believe Seaton threw that bullet at Chard. He wanted to cause an alarm—to get the squad away from where the rifles were. That was when he stole it."
"Biddulph?"
"I don't believe Biddulph was poisoned at all. Miss Seaton couldn't have done it. Seaton couldn't have done it, so as to choose one rather than another. He ate something that didn't agree with him and was beastly sick. That's all."
Addison smiled a singular smile. "Very nice," he said softly. "But there's one snag. Biddulph was poisoned!"
"What—"
"Biddulph was poisoned, just as well and truly as Falcon was shot. Only, it happened the poisoner had bad luck. We can prove it."
Bagehot sank back in his chair. "Prove it?" he said. "How?"
"Analysis of the ex-contents of Biddulph's stomach. Apparently when Biddulph was sick, he bolted across the room. He might have chosen the sink, but he didn't. He chose a basin. Hatch, who seems to have been in a pretty suspicious mood, and to have been one of the few people who had their wits about them, annexes the basin, and locks it up. That's what he was doing when the shots sounded."
"He says that, sir?" Bagehot asked, with the faintest emphasis on the "He."
"Yes. But there's no reason to doubt it... I had a preliminary report from the doctor at lunch-time. He's not analysed it thoroughly—but one thing he'll swear to. There's enough arsenic there to kill a couple of men with any luck."
"It didn't kill Biddulph."
"No. Because Biddulph has notoriously a weak digestion, which he had just been abusing with some highly indigestible sandwiches. I suppose an overdose of arsenic was the last straw. Before it had time to take effect, he'd got rid of it—and damned lucky for him!"
Bagehot sat without speaking for a moment, biting at the mouthpiece of a pipe which had been out for some minutes. Undoubtedly it was a considerable blow to him. He had just begun to think he was seeing daylight through a horribly intricate case, and the fact that Biddulph had really been an attempted victim had scattered the whole edifice like a house of cards. By no conceivable means could he see how either Seaton or his cousin could have done it.
"You see the difficulty?" Addison pointed out unnecessarily. "With Biddulph, the sabotage motive hardly exists. The revenge motive—"
"Hardly exists either, sir. Most of his evidence was on Seaton's side."
"And no one could possibly be jealous of Biddulph!" Addison smiled. "So, for the attempted murder of Biddulph, Seaton had neither motive nor opportunity."
Bagehot frowned over it for a moment; then looked at his superior.
"And you suggest, sir—?" he asked.
"Don't put all your eggs in one basket. Cast your net a bit wider. Find out about some of the others, and go into things generally. That's all we can do. It's disappointing, of course, but—"
The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He lifted the receiver and listened.
"Right," he said at last. "Coming at once." He looked at the inspector. "Our other gang of experts," he explained, "the bomb disposal people. Damned if I don't think there's something odd about this show. Everyone's so beastly prompt—"
He had risen to his feet, and was already moving towards the door. Bagehot rose to follow him a little reluctantly. He was no coward but he would not have minded admitting to anyone who had asked him his lack of eagerness. He had had enough of bombs for one morning.
But Addison was already in the corridor. A cheerful whistle floated back as Bagehot closed the door behind him. He recognised it as from Gilbert and Sullivan—the only music the superintendent seemed to know. There seemed something unpleasantly prophetic about it as the words passed through his mind:
"Is life a boon?
Why then, it must befall
That death, whene'er he call,
Must come too soon!"
ADDISON was already engaged in conversation when Bagehot reached the entrance hall. Apparently it was not with any of the bomb disposal squad. They were standing a little nearer the door, looking almost objectionably cheerful. Obviously the superintendent was making efforts to get rid of the man who had accosted him. He succeeded just as the inspector came up.
"Another crime wave, Bagehot," he said with rather a forced jocularity. "That's the proprietor of the canteen. The place was burgled in the night."
"Last night?" Bagehot asked quickly. "Anything taken?"
"Pretty serious," the superintendent said and paused; then he added with a grin: "Two pounds of sugar!"
Bagehot stared at him. It seemed a trifle, but anything which had happened on the site out of the ordinary last night might have some bearing on the murder. Just what the theft of sugar could have he could not for a moment imagine. Neither a murderer nor a saboteur was likely to have any time to waste in supplementing his supply of rationed foodstuffs. But could it be a casual thief? That was absurd. The whole place must have been thick with various intruders at that rate. He must certainly look into it. In the meantime—
Addison was already talking to the leader of the bomb disposal squad.
"An amateur effort? Hmm!" The young man thought for a moment. "And there was another which went off?"
"It did," Addison admitted.
"Well, if you'll lead us to the little fellow," the young man suggested. "Or indicate its whereabouts—"
It seemed to Bagehot that there was the faintest possible trace of doubt in the cheerful face. The superintendent nodded and led the way towards the door. Somehow or other he found himself bringing up the rear with the sergeant. It was something of a comfort to the inspector that, though no veteran, he was less aggressively young than the rest. In the obvious youth of the commander there seemed something sinister.
"What sort of a bomb is it, sir?" the sergeant asked curiously. "Not one of the ordinary Jerry kind?"
Bagehot explained to the best of his ability. There was not much he could say, except that it looked like a specimen case, apparently contained a clockwork mechanism of some kind, and had been easily carried by the engineer.
"If it's clockwork, there's quite a possibility it's a dud—all the more if it's home-made," the sergeant suggested comfortably. "It's surprising how often the clock stops, or something. Of course, it may always start again when you're working on it."
"It was going when the engineer carried it," Bagehot pointed out.
"Then, probably, the sooner it's tackled the better. We'd better get a move on, or it'll go off before we get to it."
Bagehot could see no real objection to allowing it to do so. He said as much; but it was obvious that the remark was regarded as the pardonable lapse of an amateur.
"Don't you want to know what's inside, who made it, and so on?" the sergeant demanded. "It's all the more interesting in a way, being a Fifth Columnist one. Like the Sinn Fein... Unreliable brutes, those were."
"You mean they didn't go off?" Bagehot suggested.
"I really mean they did... You see, when you're dealing with a normal, official bomb, you know pretty well how it's made and what it's made of. The only thing that you don't quite know is how long the fuse will take—"
Bagehot was not listening very attentively. The sergeant seemed to be giving a general lecture on "Bombs, and how to make them"; but he did not take it in. The superintendent was taking them by a different, and shorter route from that which the engineer had followed. He, of course, had not known the exact position of the bomb. They were cutting across the fields which had once occupied the site. Here and there the ground was gashed by trenches or excavations; on each side gaunt, skeletons of steel rose grimly, with an occasional finished concrete structure which reminded Bagehot oddly of Wembley exhibition.
"And so, you see," the sergeant was saying, "the homemade ones are a bit more awkward in certain respects—"
From a slight twinkle in the speaker's eye, Bagehot guessed that the other had noticed a certain amount of nervousness in his manner. Probably he was trying a mild leg-pull. The inspector was not going to be drawn.
"Bit of luck for me getting such a good one the first go," he said with well-simulated enthusiasm. "Why, one might wait years for a chance like this!"
The sergeant grinned, and gave up the attempt. Just ahead, the commander of the squad had stopped and was talking to Addison. The superintendent turned to them as they came up.
"We think we'd better have a look at the hole the other made," he explained. "It's just over here—"
"It won't take a minute," the young man apologised. "Generally, of course, the sooner one gets down to them the better. But, since this is a new one on us, it might be as well to have a look first. If you don't mind—"
Bagehot, personally, did not mind. That bomb had gone off. He had no special objection to looking at the hole, which seemed to be what the young man was wanting. Actually, he did not even do that. Addison came over to him, as the squad scattered over the gorse and bracken.
"This robbery from the canteen," he began. "What d'you make of it?"
So far, Bagehot had not had much opportunity of making anything of it. He conveyed as much in a very brief reply. The superintendent realised that his subordinate had had no real information at all about the affair. He offered an explanation.
"What happened was, apparently," he said, "that a window was forced. That's what put them on to it—though they have only just noticed it. So the manager, an active lad, checked up, and found that two pounds of sugar was missing.... The point is, who did the breaking in? Miss Seaton? Hardly, I should think. There wasn't any sugar found on her. Seaton? You wouldn't think, on the programme he had before him, if you're right, that he'd have much time to pinch sugar... The possibility seems to be that it was a stray case of larceny, which somehow managed to get into this business."
"Or that the manager has made a mistake," Bagehot suggested. His brain was feeling thoroughly wearied, but to some extent it still reacted upon the lines of its training. "There's not much evidence of a robbery at all."
"Exactly," Addison admitted, and then, for once, allowed his own feelings an outlet. "I wonder," he said casually, "whether it's best to go to a bomb at once, and hope you get there before the time fuse goes off, or to wait, and hope it goes off before you get there?"
That remark did not seem to Bagehot to need any answer, and he looked towards the bomb disposal squad. They were being extraordinarily busy about something. Just what, he could not quite determine. They seemed to be looking for something in the debris which had been thrown up in the neighbourhood of the hole. All at once one of them seemed to be successful. He advanced towards the commander, holding something in his hands. The two conferred for a moment together; then the commander motioned to the sergeant, who also advanced and looked at the specimen, whatever it might be.
"They've found something," Bagehot said unnecessarily. "But what could they find?"
A minute later he was enlightened. The youthful commander advanced, bearing in his hands an irregularly shaped piece of metal.
"I say," he said. "I thought your bomb was obviously a home-made effort, and had been placed deliberately where it could do most damage? In a hole or something, wasn't it?"
Addison nodded. "Well?" he demanded.
"Well, this one wasn't. This is just an ordinary Luftwaffe time effort. We've dealt with dozens of 'em. And, from the position, I'd say this one was just dropped. There's nothing it could hurt here?"
The superintendent shook his head.
"Obviously, then, we've to deal with two different bombs. One is this one which dropped quite by chance in a place where it couldn't do anything. The other was placed where it could certainly do some damage... We'd better get on to it. Maybe it won't keep."
Again Bagehot was conscious of a slight qualm. No matter how philosophic one might be feeling, the idea of going up to a bomb which might not keep was none too pleasant. But a sort of recklessness possessed him. He began to understand something of the optimistic outlook of the bomb squad. If a bomb had not gone off in the few hours it took you to get to it; if it might go off ten hours later—why, it was mere perversity if it happened to go off at the precise minute you arrived at it. Somehow the thought was cheering.
Without a word the superintendent led the way towards the stump. This time there was no airy conversation of any kind whatever. Perhaps everyone realised that, if the bomb had been put there in the small hours of the morning, with any ordinary clock, its bursting time must be unpleasantly near. The squad commander turned towards them as they approached the hole.
"I say," he said a little anxiously, "you can't do anything, you know. Of course, I expect it's quite safe, but—"
Neither Bagehot nor Addison made any move to retire. The young man waited only just long enough to make sure, nodded approval and advanced to the hole. A minute later the black box emerged again into view. The leader bent down for a moment and listened.
"Still ticking," he commented. "Now, let's see what you've got inside you!"
He pulled gingerly at the lid. It resisted him. There was no outside hasp or anything which could be keeping it in position. In all probability it was locked. The sergeant was holding out a tool; and the young man accepted it. Bagehot felt a sudden recurrence of nerves. Quite probably the bomb had been made so as to explode when any attempt was made to open it. He had read about such things. But the tool was under the lid. There was a wrench—and Bagehot heaved a sigh of relief. Without any untoward happening whatever the lid fell back.
Bagehot, with the rest, craned his neck to see. There was very little worth seeing, He had a glimpse of a cheap alarm clock and a small bottle. The squad leader was peering down into it, studying it with a certain interest which seemed almost academic. Then his hand went down. It emerged holding the clock. And now Bagehot saw clearly that a small bottle had been attached to the alarm hammer. When the alarm went off, it would be spilt or broken. And then—?
"We'd plenty of time, after all," the young man commented, squinting at the pointer on the clock face. "Another quarter of an hour!"
All at once Bagehot felt that his face was damp. It was ridiculous. The danger was all over. And he found himself thinking of his wife and children, and was sincerely grateful that he had not had time to do so before. The superintendent blew his nose vigorously, and Bagehot derived a certain satisfaction from it.
"You see," the young man was explaining, "the apparatus is perfectly simple. Most of these home-made ones are. You just get some explosive and a cheap clock. You set the alarm to a certain time, and fasten a small bottle of acid to the hammer. When it goes, the acid is spilt on to the explosive and—"
His gesture was expressive. Rather more than Bagehot liked, seeing that they had missed such a result by just fifteen minutes.
"It's quite an ordinary type then?" Addison asked.
"Oh, yes. Well-known. But not very satisfactory in certain ways, you know—"
He was detaching the acid bottle from the hammer. The wire parted, and he raised it gently to his nose. A slight frown came on his face; then his eyebrows rose. He put his finger on the uncorked neck of the bottle. For the first time Bagehot got a glimpse of the brown fluid inside. Then the young man gingerly tasted the liquid on his finger.
His expression of surprise increased. He put the bottle down carefully beside the clock, and turned his attention towards the box. Inside, Bagehot could see an inch or two of some white crystalline substance. The expert was eyeing it attentively. He took a pinch between his fingers, smelled at it, and finally applied that too to his tongue. Something like a spasm passed over his face. He rose to his feet, tucking the box under one arm, and with the other hand reaching for the clock.
"That's all right," he said. "There's no more danger. I'll just take this away for analysis. If you've no objection?"
"Fingerprints?" Addison suggested tersely.
"Oh, I'll let you have the box as soon as I can get rid of this stuff. In the meantime, I'll treat it tenderly... You can have the clock now, if you like?"
Bagehot accepted it. He had been looking at the clock—now that his thoughts were once more able to concentrate. It was not a new clock, as one might have expected. It had been in use for several years. In that case, it had been somewhere for several years, and a number of people might have seen it. There was the possibility of identification.
By common consent they seemed to have started back to the office. Bagehot was aware of a certain feeling of anti-climax. They had set off, or he had, prepared for any perils. Nothing whatever had happened, and they were trotting back home with the bomb under the young man's arm.
"I suppose," he said, "that making a bomb like that would require a certain amount of expert knowledge?"
The young man looked at him curiously. "It would require some knowledge of a sort," he said with quite unwonted caution, "knowledge of how to make a bomb, I mean. But I wouldn't say that this particular bomb required expert knowledge, exactly... It's more a matter of cookery than chemistry, if you know what I mean."
Bagehot was far from sure he did. "But only a limited number of people would have that knowledge?" he suggested.
"A limited number—but I don't know how limited." The squad leader seemed to be enjoying himself considerably. "Personally, I learnt how to make the kind of bang this bomb seems—seems—er—to be based on when I was at school. I expect lots of other people did too."
"And the materials?"
The young man grinned. "I've not analysed them yet," he said. "But they're simple enough, I should think. No, I don't think they'll give you much help."
Bagehot nodded a little gloomily. It was just in accordance with the luck they seemed to be having in this case. And yet, it was hardly necessary to prove much about the bomb. Priscilla Seaton had been there. The presence of her bag showed that. The more simple the type of bomb the more likely it was that she or her cousin should have been able to make it, or to acquire it at short notice.
"I suppose you'll let us have a report?" he suggested. They were drawing near the office buildings. The car which had brought the bomb disposal squad was standing outside; but there was another one with it. For a minute Bagehot wondered who it could be. The superintendent's voice enlightened him.
"Hullo, there are your ballistic people, Bagehot," he said. "Now you can spend a happy hour or two among the rifles. How many did you say there were? Two hundred?"
Mentally, Bagehot groaned. He was beginning to feel thoroughly done up. Since he had been hauled out of his bed, he had not had one minute's peace, and hardly a decent meal, during the whole day. And, as the superintendent had intimated, the testing of the rifles seemed likely to be a long job. He was quite determined that, so far as was possible, he would leave them to do their own work, and merely enjoy the benefits of the result. The sergeant accosted him as he entered.
"There's some people come for you, sir, from—" he began.
"Oh, yes," Bagehot interrupted. "Where are they?"
"Room 4, sir. I told them to wait... Oh, and, sir—"
Bagehot had been on the point of going down the corridor. He turned again.
"Williams has come back, sir... He's been all round about the place. There doesn't seem to be anyone who's seen Miss Seaton, sir."
The sergeant's tone conveyed that that was no more than any sensible man might have expected. Bagehot did not notice it; or, if he did, paid no attention. He frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"He didn't ask at the farms?" he demanded.
"No, sir. You said not—"
"Yes... About the bulls?"
"The bulls?... Well, he didn't quite understand that, sir. He asked about bulls, of course—"
"And—?"
"There isn't one within a mile, sir. Not that was out."
To his surprise, Bagehot grinned. "That's fine," he said, and glanced at the clock. "You warned those men to shadow someone?"
"Yes, sir." The sergeant's disapproval was manifest. He disliked being mystified. "They're here now, sir—"
"Tell 'em to shadow young what's-his-name?—Prescott. Don't let him out of sight, and keep it up all night."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant assented gloomily. He might have said more, but the outer door opened to admit the superintendent.
For once, there was no doubt what Addison's face showed. He was completely puzzled. He entered, seemed on the point of speaking, then stood there frowning.
Bagehot began to grow impatient. "You want me, sir?" he asked.
"No—yes... What d'you make of this? I asked that lad if he couldn't give me a rough idea about the bomb—a sort of interim report. Well, he didn't seem to want to, and we argued about it pretty well until he'd got into the car and was driving off. Then he leant out of the window and said: 'Of course, there's no saying, but'—he emphasised it just like that—'if you want my private opinion, old boy, you've been done in the eye.' I just stared at him. He let in the clutch, and called as the car started: 'About the bomb, there wouldn't be a bang in a barrelful—but you might make some toffee.' And then he drove off, laughing like a fool."
Bagehot frowned. A light broke on him suddenly.
"The explosive?" he said. "He took that—er, to analyse it?"
"Yes."
In his turn the inspector grinned. "Then," he said, "I'll bet he's got two pounds of the canteen's sugar... It's a damned hoax."
COLIN PRESCOTT was simply waiting for the dusk. Over a good tea he had made up his mind, and had roughed out a general scheme of operations. The girl had certainly been at the farm when he had called there. The farmer had known it. Obviously she was deliberately hiding and a piece of rumour recounted to him with some gusto by his landlady supplied another bit of the puzzle. On her story, Priscilla Seaton had run away. The police had been making inquiries all over the town in search of her. She was to be charged with sabotage and Falcon's murder. Up to date no one knew where she was.
Prescott was pretty certain that he did. The obvious thing was that she was hiding at the farm, and had somehow bribed or won over the farmer to keep the secret. Of course, it was risky to go so near to the factory; but there was safety in the very boldness of it. No one would expect that she would return there. No one was likely to get a search-warrant. As long as she kept out of sight, she would be as safe there as anywhere. Prescott was absolutely determined at any rate to make sure. And afterwards? He admitted to himself that he was by no means clear about that. A good deal would depend on what he discovered there.
The attack upon him in the barn had gone a long way towards abolishing any chivalrous scruples he might have had. The thing that annoyed him most was that he had been made a fool of. All other considerations apart, that would have been enough to make him go on with the business. But there were other things to think about. It was a practical impossibility for Priscilla Seaton herself to have fired the shot, whatever else she might have done. But the probability was very strong that she knew who had. He had very little doubt that she was shielding her cousin, and that was a different matter. There was Willoughby to be considered. It seemed it was either a matter of his being charged with murder or finding the real criminal, and Seaton, even if he had not been suspected of Fifth Column activities, had no special claims on Prescott's sympathies. If it was between him and Willoughby, there was no doubt in his mind that he would give up Seaton to the police.
And yet he shrank from it. There might be some other way. The first thing to do was to find out whether he had been right in his guess, and the farm was the hiding-place. That should be possible. The girl herself had shown him an excellent covered way of approach to the farm. It was more cunning than he had imagined, as he had already found by an exploration of the other end of it, and the use of an ordnance map. From a road the other side of the farm from the factory, an almost unused occupation lane provided perfect concealment for the first half-mile or so. From the point where it petered out, it was merely a matter of crossing a few fields, none of them overlooked from the road or any point where one could normally expect to find a watcher at that time of night,
Of course, there were difficulties. After what had happened, the chance of any unauthorised person being able to get to the factory would be considerably lessened. It was fairly certain that there would be police and guards everywhere. But in all probability the farm itself lay just outside the area in which any very vigilant watch would be kept; while the way by which he proposed to reach it would almost certainly be. The only real risk seemed to be a chance meeting with some stray labourer or farmer, and there was not much danger in that. He proposed to cycle as far as the lane, and, if he started fairly early, had little doubt that he would be able to avoid any questioning upon the road.
Besides, he was doing nothing wrong. What could the police do if they found him? There was no charge they could bring—or so he told himself. But the thought of Inspector Bagehot was somehow a little disquieting, and he admitted to himself that, if one is involved in a murder in any way, the more normal one's conduct is the better. Anyway, he refused to worry about that. He was just on the point of starting when a knock sounded at the door.
"There's a gentleman to see you, sir," his landlady announced with some gloom.
"A gentleman?" Perhaps, it was a guilty conscience which made his thoughts turn automatically to the police. "Who is it?"
"I don't know, sir. It's a stranger to me. He didn't give his name, but he says he knows you, sir."
"You'd better show him in," Prescott said reluctantly.
"Yes, sir."
Whoever it was, it was a nuisance, Prescott decided. If he left his start until too late, he would have to use his cycle lamp, and the chances of being pulled up by some patrol, or being seen would be increased. He would have to get rid of his visitor as soon as possible. Even the police could have no reason for a lengthy call. Perhaps Bagehot had not believed the explanation of the plight in which he had found him that afternoon; but it would be impossible for him to disprove the story. As the door opened, he steeled himself for the inquisition which he half expected.
It was not the inspector who answered. Indeed, it was impossible to see who it was. The lower part of the visitor's face was hidden completely by a muffler and an upturned collar; the upper was heavily shaded by a soft felt hat, theatrically pulled down in a way which suggested the American film gangster.
"Good evening," Prescott said a little hesitantly. "You wanted me?"
The visitor did not answer at once. He closed the door with elaborate care, listened for a moment to the receding steps of the landlady, and only then turned to face Prescott, pushing back his hat as he did so.
"Good Lord!" For a moment Prescott stared in amazement. "Biddulph!"
"Quiet!" Biddulph almost hissed.
It was too much for Prescott's gravity. In spite of himself, he burst into a roar of laughter. Biddulph was so very much the melodramatic conspirator. Everything in his attitude suggested that he might at any moment say "Hist!" The stealthy entrance, the refusal of his name, the ridiculous disguise—Prescott threw himself into a chair and laughed his fill.
His reaction seemed to take Biddulph aback. He looked a little offended. He crossed the room, almost on tiptoe, put a hand on Prescott's shoulder and glanced towards the door in a way which nearly set Prescott off again.
"I say, don't be an ass," he pleaded. "It's important."
"Sorry." With an effort Prescott regained his self-control. "Beastly rude of me, Biddulph. You took me rather by surprise, you know."
His apology was quite sincere. Though one of the best draughtsmen in the office, Biddulph was a man who naturally made people laugh. He got more than his share of leg-pulling in the office, and stood up to it very well. On the whole Prescott was inclined to sympathise with him, and he had obviously injured his feelings.
"That's all right," Biddulph said awkwardly, and hesitated.
"Sit down, won't you? But what is the idea?" Prescott pulled forward a chair. "I mean, not giving your name and so on?"
Biddulph seated himself gingerly; but he seemed to have some difficulty in beginning.
"I say," he said at last, "you won't go letting it out to your landlady, will you? You see, it might be better if it wasn't known I'd been here at all "
Prescott stared. "Of course not," he said, "if you'd rather not."
"You see, the fact is I've come to warn you. Perhaps I ought not to have done. I suppose it is interfering with the course of justice and there might be trouble. But I felt I had to come—"
Prescott had lost all desire to laugh. "Warn me?" he echoed. "But what—"
"I say, you won't mention it at all, will you?" Biddulph pleaded. "But I thought it was only fair—"
Prescott shook his head. "Go on," he suggested as the other paused. "What is it?"
Biddulph looked round the room as though its mid-Victorian furniture might somehow help him. Apparently it did. He looked again at Prescott.
"You were going out?" he said.
Prescott's hat and coat lay where he had placed them preparatory to putting them on. His cycle clips were on his trousers. He decided he had better admit it.
"Why, yes," he said. "That is to say—"
"I shouldn't," Biddulph interrupted significantly. "Or at any rate, I should be careful where I went."
"What on earth—" Prescott asked. He was beginning to think his visitor had lost his senses completely. A lie came to his tongue, and he used it. "I was only going to the pictures."
"I suppose that would be all right," Biddulph assented dubiously. "Only, I didn't want you to do anything that might be thought suspicious. You see, you—well, you're being watched!"
That time he really succeeded in startling Prescott.
"Watched?" he demanded. "You mean—"
"By the police, I think. I'm pretty sure, really. I saw one of them speaking to the inspector this afternoon. Really, it's quite true, Prescott. You were followed home from the factory and there's a man outside now. Just by that pillar-box across the street. You can see him yourself."
More to gain time than anything else, Prescott crossed the room and peered cautiously through the crack at the side of the curtains. Certainly there was a man there. And, undoubtedly, he looked as if he might be a plainclothes detective. But why on earth... An uncomfortable reflection came to him. If he had been followed, they had presumably seen his explorations of the afternoon. Luckily he had not gone up the lane. He had been content to locate the bottom end of it, and follow its course on the ordnance map. He cast his mind back over what he had done. Unless the watcher was very close, and he could hardly have been in view of the nature of the road, he did not think he could have learnt much.
Still, it was a nuisance. It seemed to put an end to his proposed expedition that night. He could not go to the farm with a plain-clothes man hanging on his tail all the time. Abruptly he decided he was going anyhow. He would shake the man off. Probably it would not be too difficult, for he would not know that Prescott was aware of his existence. The only thing was that he must make quite sure and yet do it somehow in a way which would suggest that it was accidental. An idea came to him, prompted by his own lie to Biddulph. The pictures... Life when one was not working was sufficiently dull there to have made him a fairly keen cinema-goer, and he thought he knew of one which would suit his purpose.
"I say, can't you see him?" Biddulph came over to his side. "Just over there—"
Prescott turned from the window. "It certainly looks like it?" he admitted. "But why watch me?"
Biddulph looked thoroughly uncomfortable. "Well, I suppose they might have thought that you were the only person who could have done it—if Willoughby didn't," he said surprisingly.
"What? That's absurd. I was never near there at all."
"No," Biddulph agreed quickly and hesitated. "But, you see, you were outside. No one else could have passed you to get out. And you might just have had time to dash along to the corner and—and do it. And, of course, get back to give the alarm."
This time Prescott was really staggered. He himself had been so sure of what he had been doing at the time of the shots and immediately afterwards that it had never occurred to him that anyone else should doubt it. And the police had seemed to accept his statement as the truth. Perhaps they had, at the time. But if any serious doubts had occurred about Willoughby's guilt it might be a different matter. He had a horrible feeling that, of course, he could not prove anything at all from the time Falcon left him until the time he saw the girl. No, even the girl was missing, and her evidence might not be available. Falcon could not speak. The limits were wider than that. His only witnesses were Willoughby, who could say he had left him with Falcon, and Hatch, whom he had met afterwards.
"But—but why on earth should I kill Falcon?" he demanded.
"I don't say there is any reason, really," Biddulph said apologetically. "But they might think—you know, that Fifth Column stuff and all that—"
"I don't understand."
"Well, there might have been someone in the office. Rigson's been saying something about a drawing which is missing. You know, a general plan of the factory, showing the lines of the cables, and mains and all that. It might have been someone in the office who had stolen it. It might have been—that is, they might think it was you."
"Go on," Prescott said grimly. "Tell me more."
"I say, Prescott, you don't think that I believe all this? I don't, of course. But it's what the police might think. I've always wanted to be a detective," he added a little wistfully. "And I think I can work things out."
"You ought to write books," Prescott assured him. His good humour was returning. "I stole the plan, did I? And supplied it to the chap who planted the bomb? All right. But why kill Falcon?"
"Well, just in those few minutes you were talking to Falcon, he might have revealed the fact that he was on your trail." In spite of his apologetic tone, there was a certain gusto in Biddulph's voice. "You might have decided that you had to silence him for ever."
"Good Lord!" Prescott said and stood for a moment thinking. "Nothing else?"
"Well, your coming back as you did at lunch-time," Biddulph said diffidently. "I can't help thinking the inspector noticed that. You see, you were a little untidy. As though you'd been engaged in some desperate struggle for life."
That took Prescott aback a little. It was amazing how near crude fancy might get to actual fact. Not that there had been much struggle about it. He glanced at the clock.
"Well, I don't care if they follow me or not," he said. "I'm going to the flicks. The detective can come with me and hold my hand if he likes." He took up his hat and coat. "Thanks awfully, though, Biddulph. It was decent of you to warn me. I suppose they won't follow you? As the mysterious stranger and all that?"
The idea seemed to disquieten Biddulph. Prescott was sorry he had mentioned it.
"No, they can't very well, can they?" Biddulph said after a pause. "There's only one. He'd have to leave you unguarded. And I shall take the greatest precautions."
He hesitated. "I say, couldn't I come with you to the pictures? Then it would look as though that was why I came."
Undoubtedly it was a brilliant piece of reasoning. Prescott began to feel an added respect for Biddulph. If he ever failed as a draughtsman, there was probably a future before him writing the more melodramatic type of detective novels. Unfortunately it was also a most inconvenient suggestion. He decided ruthlessly to take advantage of one of the points at which Biddulph was weakest.
"Sorry," he said, "I would like to have asked you, and all that, but"—he grinned meaningly—"when I said the detective could hold my hand," he said brazenly, "I should have said 'my free hand'!"
There is an art in giving a meaning smile, not achieved by the innocent without practice. Prescott had actually achieved a most horrible leer, suggestive of all kinds of immorality. Biddulph stared at him for a moment, then blushed.
"Oh!" he said in a pained way. "Of course. I'd no idea you were going with—with anyone. I'd better get along. Good night."
"Thanks awfully," Prescott said, not without a certain amount of compunction. Biddulph was notoriously shy, and it had been a shame to take advantage of it. "I'm really grateful to you for telling me. Good night."
He rather wanted to see what effect the reappearance of Biddulph with hat pulled down and face thoroughly obscured would produce on the detective, and for that reason crossed again to the window. There was no doubt that Biddulph worried the plain-clothes man. Simplicity was speaking to simplicity. Biddulph's idea of how one ought to disguise oneself was obviously almost exactly in accordance with the detective's idea of how a person ought to disguise oneself. He hesitated visibly, glanced towards the house, looked after Biddulph's retreating figure, and then decided that the path of duty was the way to glory. He stayed where he was and, producing a note-book, scribbled what was apparently a complete account by an eyewitness.
Prescott grinned. Now came the problem of his own evasion. He was going to the pictures, of course; but he wanted his cycle. Luckily, the particular cinema he had chosen was at a distance which might make it plausible for a lazy man to prefer some other means of locomotion than walking. It occurred to him that the cycle itself might prove the simplest means of shaking off his pursuer—if the detective did not happen to have one. At any rate, he must have the cycle.
Just five minutes later he wheeled it out of the gate, stealing a glance at his guardian angel on the other side of the street. The man was almost obtrusively uninterested in him. No one would have dreamed that he was aware such an object as Prescott existed in the universe. And yet, when Prescott looked back two streets later, a cyclist was certainly following him, at a distance of some thirty yards. And equally certainly, it was the uninterested man by the letter-box.
That was one point up to Bagehot. He had had the sense to see that a cyclist was watched by a man who had a cycle available. Prescott grinned. It would not save him. He had worked out a neat little trap, into which the detective could hardly help but fall. He did not venture another glance back until he reached the cinema.
In London one arrives at a cinema on foot, by car, or in a hired vehicle. Provincial managers have to cater for other eccentricities on the part of patrons. This particular manager was of a go-ahead, service-to-the-public type. Observing that some of his audience arrived by horse and trap, he had toyed with the idea of stables. That had proved prohibitive economically. But, besides the car-park, he had installed rests for bicycles. They were at the side of the building, near the emergency exits.
Prescott duly parked his cycle. His shadow did not seem to like making himself so much at home. He clung to his, or rather, he propped it by the side of the pavement. Prescott was pleased to see that he had exchanged his soft felt hat for a cap. That showed that he was a man of tact and judgment, well read, perhaps in A Hundred and One Things a Detective Ought to Know and similar literature. But he had not time to think about that. He waited on the steps for a moment, studying the lurid placards of forthcoming attractions. People were going in fairly freely, for the next house was just beginning; but he had to let several pass before he got what he wanted. A large woman, a lady who might have been her sister, a small, reluctant husband and three children were coming up the steps. Disregarding finer points of courtesy, Prescott reached the box-office first and booked.
He had worked it all out. If the detective really wanted to keep him in view, he had no choice but to come inside. Besides the main entrance, exits gave on to two other streets, and no one man could hope to watch them. But the detective would have to wait until the large woman and her party had finished booking. As he entered, he was pleased to observe that they seemed to be having a friendly argument of the "No, don't you pay, dear, I will" kind which so endears more generous people to box-office clerks. Behind, the detective was squinting under his cap with a sort of hungry look.
Inside, the attendant had her hands fairly full. She duly tore Prescott's ticket in half, murmured "Anywhere down on the left," and abandoned him to his own devices. That suited Prescott. Luck was with him too. They were just nearing the end of one of those films in which everyone is chasing everyone at lightning speed. An unsophisticated country audience was applauding the efforts of the villain to catch the heroine, of the heroine to catch the villain, and of the sheriff to catch the whole bagful. Everyone was looking at the screen; no one at Prescott. He reached an emergency exit, pushed through, and emerged into the open air hardly two yards from his bicycle.
He had not troubled to padlock it. In a minute he was riding down the back street on to which the exit gave. It joined the main road at the front of the cinema and, to Prescott's delight, he was just in time to see his watcher push rudely past the large woman and hurry inside.
A sort of wildness possessed him. The sensible thing was to make the most of his start; but, just along the road stood his opponent's cycle. The chance seemed too good to miss. Opposite to it, he swerved awkwardly and managed to knock it over. He got off, readjusted it against the kerb and rode on. But a good draughtsman is never without drawing-pins. When he remounted, three which had been in his waistcoat pocket were in the tyres of the other cycle.
There was no more time to be lost. It was already getting dark, and he wanted to reach the lane end before lighting-up time. He settled himself comfortably in the saddle, and began to pedal rhythmically.
IT seemed to Bagehot that the learned experts whom the superintendent had irreverently described as "ballistic sharps" were hardly taking the simple problem he had set them in the right spirit. He had arranged all the major exhibits for them handily in room No. 4. He handed over the keys of the armoury and gave a brief explanation of what was wanted.
"This bullet," he said, "was the one found by the side of Chard. We want to know, of course, what rifle fired it, and, if you can, whether it had been fired immediately before, or whether it was a dud they'd picked up somewhere and just threw at him. That's the first point."
Willis, the chief of the ballistic sharps, nodded. "We might do that," he said. "But, of course, we can't tell what rifle it's come from, unless it happens to be among these."
He nodded to the rifles used by the squad which had been stacked along the wall.
"Oh, it may not be one of those," Bagehot admitted.
"Quite probably it isn't. But there are about a hundred and fifty more in the armoury. It might have come from one of them."
Willis said nothing; but he gazed at him darkly from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows.
"Now, the next," Bagehot went on cheerfully, "is this bullet. This is most important, because it's the one recovered from the body. We want to know, of course, what rifle fired it. That one"—he pointed to the first rifle—"that's the one which ought to have fired it, on the evidence; but, probably it didn't. That one"—he pointed to Hatch's gun—"well, it's just possible that that one did it. If it was neither of those, we'd like to know what rifle did fire it—I mean from those in the armoury. It may not be one of them at all, though."
"I see," Willis said with some restraint. "There are a hundred and fifty there, I think you said?"
"About that. A few more or less. Well, then there's this cartridge. We'd like to know if it was fired by the rifle from which the second bullet came; or if not, from what rifle it came. I'm hoping to find another like this for you to have a go at later. And then, I suppose, it would be just as well to make sure whether the spent cartridge in that first gun was actually fired by that gun. Also, if you can tell, when that gun was fired—I mean, whether it was done in the early hours of the morning or the previous afternoon. I think that's the lot about the rifles—unless you can tell how many shots had been fired from the second one?"
Undoubtedly there was a lack-lustre look in Willis's eye.
"Davus sum, non Oedipus," he said cryptically. He had once studied the classics. "And that's all."
"Well, here's a photograph of how the body was lying, a plan, and the doctor's report. You can see the actual place any time. Of course, you know how far into things bullets go, and so on. We'd like any information you can give us about the range at which the bullet was fired, the direction of the shot, and all that. If I get the other bullet and cartridge, I'll let you have it."
"Don't strain yourself," Willis begged him. "I suppose I can use the 'phone?"
"Oh yes, why?"
"Just to ring my wife, and tell her I may not be home for a couple of days; and to book a room at the hotel. Ah, Thanks."
Bagehot watched them for a time. Their proceedings were sufficiently interesting. The two cartridges seemed to be occupying their attention first. By covering them with some black substance and rolling them on clean paper Willis achieved two diagrams suggestive of those charts of frogs' heart-beats beloved of medical laboratories. He seemed to be studying those intently. Bagehot grasped the idea.
"Pretty neat," he admitted. "Like a fingerprint, eh? But how if the bullet's bent?"
"I will say, that's the one complication you haven't produced," Willis said generously. "Then, you have to bore out the inside, flatten out the casing and so on."
"I see... About those two. Are they the same?"
Willis eyed him murderously. "I'll let you have a report soon," he said. "I suppose you're very busy, aren't you? Don't let me keep you. I can get along quite well by myself."
Bagehot took the hint. He was, or ought to have been, very busy, but he had reached that state of mind in which he could not tell quite what he ought to be busy at. From the sergeant at the door, he managed to acquire a cup of tea. He chose the first empty room he came upon, settled himself down on a high stool at a drawing-table, and set himself to work things out.
The theory that Seaton had been responsible for the murder, with Priscilla as an unwilling accomplice, had split on the rock of Biddulph's poisoning. Or at least, that was the most serious snag. Quite certainly the girl could never have got into the dining-room at all. It might have been just possible for Seaton to get in, at enormous risk, and put poison where it might poison someone or other, though why he should do so was a mystery. But he could not have chosen any definite person, and would have stood a good chance of being caught. If Seaton had tried to poison Biddulph, it was entirely a haphazard affair, and completely inexplicable.
There was the fact, which Addison had pointed out, that Priscilla Seaton could not have planted the rifle actually used on Willoughby. If it turned out that the rifle he carried was the one used by the murderer, it could have been substituted only when he laid it down on the discovery of the body—or, in other words, it could have been done only by one of the members of the squad on the spot. But if it was not the rifle, Seaton himself might have got to the rifle rack and pushed it in at random; he could not have known that its recipient was the man on guard with Falcon.
Finally, there was the bomb. And it had not been a bomb at all. Just a little sugar, some vinegar—both from the canteen—and a cheap clock. It had not exploded, because it never could have exploded; although it was put in the one place where an explosion could be relied upon to cause damage and inconvenience.
To Bagehot that seemed merely silly. Was it a hoax? Or had the man who placed it there been hoaxed? Did he think that it was full of deadly explosive, or not? He could not see how the criminal could have been imposed upon; nor why any sane person should have put the bomb there as a hoax—least of all Seaton.
He decided that Addison had probably been right. He would have to consider other possibilities, and above all, members of the squad. For, so far as both the poisoning and the rifle were concerned, it was plain enough that one of them would have by far the best chance. Indeed, it had still to be shown that anyone else had a chance at all. He must somehow make certain whether or not any other means of entrance had been possible on the night in question, and if so, when it would have been practicable.
It might have added to Prescott's discomfort considerably if he had known that his own name came first on Bagehot's new list. As a murderer, there was a good deal to be said for him. He was alone at the time, with no one to vouch for him. He could, in all probability, just have reached the corner in time to do the killing and return. He could have poisoned Biddulph's tea; but, so far as Bagehot could tell, he could not have fired or thrown the bullet at Chard.
There was a lot of supposition about any case against him. No one, for example, knew whether his rifle had been fired or not when he ran back to give the alarm. No one had looked. He could certainly have changed it with Willoughby's; if it turned out that Willoughby had been given the real weapon. If not, he had as much chance as anyone of planting a gun which he had fired the previous day.
The trouble was the complete absence of motive. No one, so far as Bagehot had been able to discover, had ever heard of any bad blood between Falcon and Prescott; much less between Prescott and Biddulph. But here, Bagehot thought, there was a ray of hope. Prescott's manner had convinced him during their interview that lunch-time that the young man was somehow interested in the girl. It was true that there was no proof that he had ever seen her before he bandaged her leg; but it was quite possible that he had. That might provide a motive both for the attempt on Biddulph and the killing of Falcon; even for some attempt to get the cousin caught for sabotage. And Bagehot felt that somehow there must be a link between all of them.
The others were not promising. Hatch, again, had no earthly motive. He could hardly have had the opportunity—unless there had been some way out. He could not have poisoned Biddulph. He could have substituted the rifle—or could he? Bagehot was inclined to think that he could not. Alone among the squad, if they came to facing the music, he had to show up a rifle which had been fired, and a double substitution seemed both difficult and pointless.
Middleton, Curry, Chard—he reviewed them all, but they seemed equally hopeless. He found his thoughts recurring oddly to Major Shepton. There might be a motive of which they were not fully aware. Shepton had known the girl and her cousin. It was quite true that the section leader was getting to an age when passions are generally considered less violent and more equable; but Bagehot knew that it was not always the case. If jealousy of rivals were to be thought of as the motive, Shepton, an older man against young ones, might have as much reason as anyone.
And yet, could he have done it at all? Stephens had set off to fetch Shepton just as soon as the guard had been posted. It was probably five or ten minutes afterwards that Falcon was shot. If he had to be back in his home in time to be aroused out of bed, Shepton would actually have had to pass Stephens on the way. It would have been just possible, if he had had a car. He made a mental note to ask Stephens whether in actual fact he had been passed; though, owing to the alternative routes even if he had not, it proved nothing.
And could he have obtained entrance to get a rifle? Or had he had it before? Certainly he had had ample opportunity to put the rifles however he wished. Bagehot finished his tea. The whole business seemed to hinge on two facts which should be ascertainable. What rifle was used? Could anyone have got in? He decided to make an effort to settle those at once, and set off in search of Willis.
There was no sign of the experts in Room 4. The main exhibits were also missing. Perhaps, Bagehot thought, they had gone to the armoury. He was on his way there when he met the sergeant, returning apparently, from the very place; for he carried the armoury key.
"Have you seen—?" Bagehot began.
"Those chaps, sir?" the sergeant burst out, like a man who has a good deal on his mind. "I was looking for you, sir, but I couldn't find you. They went out half an hour ago, sir—"
Bagehot realised that he must have been longer over his tea than he had thought. It was the first chance he had had to relax since the early morning.
"Why, they've not finished?" he asked in some surprise. Willis's attitude had prepared him for an all-night sitting. "I thought—"
"They've not finished," the sergeant said with emphasis. "They've hardly begun, sir.... They're outside. Listen!"
The window just beside them was open. Through it came a scattered volley of shots which reminded Bagehot of a field day.
"What on earth—?" he demanded.
"They said it would be all right, sir," the sergeant said aggrievedly. "They wanted some place where they could fire a few of the guns—at least, Mr. Willis said a few. I think they've got pretty well the lot, sir. And I had to give 'em a hand carrying them out, and get sacks and Lord knows what—"
A light broke upon Bagehot. "That's quite all right," he agreed. "They'd have to fire the rifles to see what kind of marks they made on the bullets and cartridges. Fire them into a sandbag or something like that... Is that what they're doing?"
"I suppose so, sir," the sergeant conceded. "Well, sir, if it is all right—"
"Don't go, Sergeant." Bagehot stopped him. "I've another job for you... Nothing very strenuous. But I'll just have a word with the experts first. They're out behind?"
"On the butts, sir. You can't miss 'em... But be careful, sir."
There was something in his voice which suggested a doubt that they might not be able to miss him; but Bagehot disregarded him. As the sergeant had said, the butts were easy enough to find. The need for extensive excavations on certain parts of the site, and for defensive works against a possible invasion had made the building of a bank a simple matter, and the factory could boast its own private shooting range. In any case, the popping of rifles would have guided him. It was proceeding intermittently, sometimes in single shots, sometimes two or three together. Bagehot grinned. Willis was having plenty to keep him interested at any rate.
Oddly enough, Willis seemed to have improved in temper when Bagehot found him at last. The sergeant's guess about the number of rifles they had taken had been fairly correct, and there was quite a little pile of bullets and cartridge-cases by the side of Willis who, with one assistant, was continuing his task of making little diagrams. So far from objecting to Bagehot's reappearance, he actually waved to him to advance.
"Look here," he said quite triumphantly. "Take a squint at those. Pretty neat, eh?"
Bagehot accepted the two sheets he held out and studied them uncomprehendingly. They were two more examples of the kind he had seen Willis making in the office; but just what he was intended to understand from them he was not quite sure.
"Jolly good prints," he agreed. "But what—"
"Don't you see? Look at 'em! Notice any difference between 'em?"
Bagehot looked obediently. "One's darker than the other," he said at last.
"Damn it, that doesn't matter. The lines. Look at 'em!"
Bagehot looked for a long time. "I'm afraid they look exactly the same to me," he said apologetically.
"You ass! Of course they are!" Willis snapped. "And one was made from the bullet taken from the body—the other from a bullet I fired myself twenty minutes ago—out of that gun!"
"You mean that's the actual weapon?" Bagehot asked eagerly. "And is it—? Which is it?"
"Neither... I tried the first rifle. It certainly didn't fire that bullet. And there's another queer thing. It didn't fire the exploded cartridge you found inside it... Funny, eh?"
"I'm not so sure," Bagehot said. "If it wasn't the gun used, I'd almost expected that."
Willis looked his disappointment. "The cartridge was fired by Number 23—over there," he said. "That wasn't one of the guns issued to the squad at all. But it was one of those in use on the butts yesterday."
"That's right. He picked that up on the butts somehow. Yes?"
"Well, the second one didn't work either. Neither the bullet nor the cartridge fitted. So we worked through the squad's rifles. No luck at all. It looked to me as though we were in for a long job. I tried to work out if there was any way of shortening things a bit. The first thing to do was to squint down 'em all. It might have been put away dirty: But that didn't seem any good. So it seemed to me that, if the gun was in this lot, it had been cleaned after it was fired."
"Cleaned?" Bagehot stared. "But how on earth could anyone have cleaned and put it back?"
"That's your business. I'm merely telling you what must have happened somehow. You can work out the how for yourself... When I say cleaned, I don't mean to say properly cleaned. Of course, after firing ball, you ought to wash 'em out thoroughly with hot water. It wasn't to be expected the murderer would have a kettle handy. But, if he'd got down to it pretty soon and pulled it through, he might very well get it looking fairly clean for the moment. And that's what he did."
"For the moment?" Bagehot echoed, more because he felt he was expected to say something than for any very good reason.
"Yes. But only for the moment. The stuff has been forced into the pores of the hot metal, and those aren't clean. So it'll show dirty again, and in the end damage the barrel... So I picked out half a dozen which had been oiled up all right, but looked dirtyish, and tried them out. I got it the third go."
Bagehot wrinkled his brows. "Then it wasn't one of the squad's rifles at all?" he said. "It was one of those in the armoury?"
"Yes. Any good to you?"
"I don't know," Bagehot admitted. "It's a complication in some ways.... But what are you after now?"
"Your first bullet. I gather that that's rather a detail, really. It isn't the same as the one that killed Falcon, of course. But just because we had good luck with the first, this one is giving us a run for our money.... We're getting to the end now."
His assistants were at that moment retrieving another lot of cartridges from the bags into which they had been fired. As Willis set to work upon them, Bagehot lit his pipe and tried to sort out this latest development.
Willoughby was out of it. That was a comfort in a way. The rifle with the exploded cartridge was a plant, and not even a very careful plant. The cartridge was not the right one for the rifle. A minor point occurred to him.
"By the way, I suppose you couldn't tell just when those rifles were fired?" he asked. "I mean, the main two. By my reckoning the first ought to have been fired several hours before the other."
Willis hesitated. "It's hard to say positively," he admitted. "Because, you see, I didn't see either of them until a considerable time after the shots were fired. I should think you were probably right, though."
Bagehot nodded. Shepton had been right, then, as to how the dirty rifle had been provided. In fact, Shepton had been right a good deal. Whether or not that was in his favour was quite another matter.
Yes, Willoughby seemed out of it—unless one credited him with the unbelievable cunning of planting a rifle upon himself which could not have fired the shot. It was a beautiful idea, but Bagehot rejected it. Besides, Willoughby had certainly not had a chance to clean the actual rifle and put it back. The question was, who had? and the obvious answer seemed to be Major Shepton.
"Here's your other," Willis announced suddenly. "Number 97... Hmm." He glanced at a list. "Not one of those that seems to have been used yesterday... I'm not surprised. I thought it looked a bit weathered.... Might have been fired weeks ago. Certainly wasn't last night.
"Well, that's the lot, I think," Willis announced. "There'll be some rifle-cleaning for someone to do... I'll get back to-night, after all—though it means driving in the dark."
The sun, in fact, was actually setting. Bagehot remembered another little job which he had intended to do, and one which could only be done in the daylight with any great efficiency.
"Well, I'm awfully grateful," he said. "You've no idea how those things were holding me up. At any rate, I know what didn't happen now—"
"About those other points," Willis proceeded as they retraced their steps. "I don't believe I can help you much. You see, since you don't know the direction, or the distance or anything—"
The conversation assumed a highly technical turn, which Bagehot tried in vain to follow. At any rate, he had plenty to go on with. He was going over things in his mind rather than listening to Willis when a sentence caught his ear.
"...superintendent. Wonder what he wants?"
Bagehot looked up. Addison was certainly coming to meet them and from his absence of expression the inspector rather argued the worst. His fears were justified.
"I say, Bagehot, why is Prescott like Peter Pan?" his superior demanded irritatingly.
Bagehot was beyond riddles. He shook his head, and the look on his face was so pathetic that Addison did not press the joke.
"Because he's lost his shadow," he said heavily. "Or his shadow's lost him... He threw our man off by a trick that wouldn't have kidded a two-year-old child and is now at large."
Bagehot swore, briefly but expressively.
"Sorry, sir," he apologised, "but—How long ago was this, sir?"
"Hardly twenty minutes, I should think. At least, there's a chance he may be in the cinema. I wouldn't bank on it."
Bagehot stood frowning for a minute; then he looked up.
"I'm not sure it matters, sir," he said. "It may be all to the good. There's just something I want to do, and then—"
Addison hated people who left sentences at "and then."
"And then what?" he snapped.
"And then I think I'll pick him up when he least expects it, sir," Bagehot said grimly.
BETWEEN Biddulph and the detective, Prescott had certainly left it rather late. And yet, in some ways it was all to the good. He struck just that precise period of the evening when cyclists sweep silently along the roads in a condition of almost complete invisibility without the formality of even a glimmering lamp. He was pretty sure that no one had seen him to recognise him by the time he dismounted at the end of the lane, found a suitable patch of bushes to conceal his cycle, and started the vital part of his journey on foot.
From the map, and from his view of the first part of the lane, he had thought that the first half-mile would be simplicity itself. Twenty years before it might have been. But occupation lanes have a habit of being subject to changes not recognised by ordnance departments. Farms change hands; land is sold or bought; gates blocked, and new gates opened. A lane which may have seen a brisk traffic between the fields for years may suddenly become almost disused, and then its deterioration is rapid.
For the first hundred yards it was easy. Then he rounded a corner which had hidden the next bit from the road, passed a newish gate which was obviously a good deal used, and entered a less frequented part. At first the cart-tracks had been grown over, nettles and brambles had encroached on the space between the high banks, and for horse traffic, even, the lane was almost hopeless. For a foot passenger, there was still a sort of path. It wound snakily between the various obstacles, now on one side and now on the other, but still maintaining a precarious existence. The bushes were getting bigger. Wild rose and sloe had reinforced the brambles, with here and there even a small tree. He had splashed through a bog which in his hurry he had not noticed when the last obstacle came. Across the track from side to side lay a fallen tree completely blocking the road.
It looked like a case of going back. There was no getting through those hedges. And yet, time was short enough already. He was by no means sure that he could find his way across completely unknown fields in the light that remained. He stood there for a moment almost in desperation; then, without much hope, advanced to examine the barrier.
After all, there was still a way. It was no longer a path, but a tunnel, winding along actually covered by the brambles, and so low that he could not stand upright. Heaven alone knew who used it. Children, perhaps, or animals. It was too small for a full-grown man except bent double and, in places, on all fours. He went about twenty yards; then stopped. Under the trees it was almost as dark as pitch. Even now it might be better to go back. He tried to reckon how far he had come. It could not be much further. He was on the point of pushing forward when a sound from behind made him turn with a start.
Someone was coming up the lane. Someone, or something. He waited for a moment listening. Like himself, whoever or whatever it was found the bog unexpectedly. He heard the splashing. Then the faint sounds of crackling twigs and rustling leaves came again. He realised abruptly that the other must actually be in the tunnel.
He must get on. There was no place to hide; nowhere where he could wait to allow the other to pass him. Either he must confront whoever was behind, or he must try to distance him. And in the evening stillness the faint sounds were getting startlingly near. Prescott made up his mind. He started forward again, with infinite care to make as little noise as was consistent with speed.
Had the other heard him? Probably not. It had only been the accident of his stopping that had put him on his guard. While one was moving, the noise of one's own progress drowned other sounds. Was the unknown following him? How could he be? Prescott had been absolutely certain that he had thrown off the detective. There was no possible way in which the man could have found him again. And no one else could know he was there. The presence of the other man must be quite accidental—or else someone was going the same way as himself, to the same destination. It might be the girl. But it might also be the man who had attacked him in the barn. He himself was unarmed. He could hardly turn round to face any attack. He could only go forward and hope for the best.
There was something very demoralising about it. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the fact that he could not stand upright. Perhaps it was the mere fact that he was fleeing from whatever was behind. He found himself fancying things. Once the sweat stood out on his forehead, and he stopped, half turning round to face an assailant whom he thought was actually upon him. But there was nothing there. Only at about the same distance still behind him came the faint snapping of sticks. He began to imagine that there was something actually in front; but when he stopped to listen there was only the whispering approach from behind. He took a grip on himself and went forward again, conscious of the wild beating of his heart, and aware that for two pins he would have jumped to his feet and run, if it had been possible.
Fear made him careless. The path was widening. It should have been easy enough to pick his way, and the thinning of the trees overhead made it lighter. And yet he overlooked the obstacle. The dead branch of a tree pushed between his legs, cracking like a pistol, and sending him headlong.
He was on his feet in a moment. No one could have missed that. And it seemed as if the stranger had not. For the sounds behind had ceased completely. There was a dead, terrifying silence.
Crouching there in the tunnel, he waited for what seemed an age. There was no sound whatever. If the other had gone back he must have made some noise. But there was nothing. And, somehow, that seemed more frightening than anything positive could have been.
There was no good waiting. Whatever had been behind him had taken the alarm. Somehow it must have crept away without his hearing. Or it was still lying there in the darkness, peering ahead, waiting. He realised suddenly that he had ceased to think of it as human, and the shock brought him to his senses. He must get on. With a mighty effort he turned his back and started to crawl on again.
He had not much further to go. Unexpectedly the bushes vanished. He found himself facing a walled-up gap, the stones of which formed a natural stile. Then he was over and out in the open fields. He drew a deep breath.
"Thank God!" he said with genuine feeling.
There was still no sound from behind. But now, his terror seemed ridiculous. Probably it was some animal—a dog, a fox perhaps which had been more frightened than himself. At least it had gone. And now, though it was getting dark, the way was plain enough. Straight ahead for three fields, then turn right, through the gap he had tried at lunch-time, and past the barn. He set out with a good heart again.
Short cuts over fields at night are a snare for the unwary, unless one knows the gaps. Prescott found it so. By the time he had reached the barn it occurred to him that he scarcely needed a potato sack to spoil his appearance. The mud from crawling in the lane, the scars from bramble thorns, and hands which were one large throb from the nettles could hardly make him a beautiful object. He had the feeling that he had wiped the sweat from his face with a hand which had had mud on it.
Not that it mattered. It was odd that it should even have occurred to him. He was not paying a social call. His business was, in fact, not to be seen at all if that could possibly be avoided; or not until he had seen how the land lay, But what did he mean to do? If Seaton was there, it might be possible to wring from him some kind of a confession which would clear Willoughby, perhaps at the price of allowing him to make a bolt for it. His more vindictive feelings about giving the murderer up to justice had waned curiously. Now he felt that the great thing was to acquit Willoughby, rather than punish Seaton.
But supposing Seaton was not there? The only thing he could think of was to see the girl and try to get some kind of an explanation. After all, she must explain. Even to save her cousin, she could not endanger an innocent man's life. But if she had been an accomplice? The thought flashed through his mind; but he put it away almost angrily. That was impossible. And for the rest, he could only wait and see what happened.
He was near the farm now, and there were more immediate problems confronting him. In the daylight he had had no real opportunity of studying the lay-out of the buildings. From his recollection of the front, that was obviously impracticable, and he had never seen the back at all. It was nearly dark now, and the moon would not be up for some hours. And the black-out was going to make things more difficult. Normally, he could have counted on a few odd chinks of light to guide him to the rooms which were actually occupied; perhaps he might have been able to look in through an uncurtained window. Now, from where he stood, the whole place looked equally black. To find out anything at all, he would have to go right up to it.
The back was the obvious place to try; for there the house probably descended by steps to those outhouses and kitchens which always seem to be found attached to older farms as though by afterthought. There was a gate by the side of the garden, leading into the field which ran beside the house. With the feeling that his dangerous time was just beginning, he climbed it silently, and started up the field.
That side of the farm seemed to be blank; but behind he could make out the irregular agglomeration of buildings which he had hoped to find. One could guess the history of the place. The grander, more modern frontage had simply been added to the old farm. Probably it contained the various best rooms, unused except on special occasions. But, if the girl and her cousin were there, this would be a special occasion. The place in which they were most likely to be accommodated would be in those unused rooms. And one place which would certainly be occupied would be the large farm kitchen, probably at the back and opening on the yard.
In any case, the first thing to do was to get his bearings. He cautiously turned the corner of the house to gain the rear; then he stopped abruptly. From the wall straight ahead came a beam of light. For a moment it had startled him, then he realised it might be a piece of luck. The light came from a small window set fairly high in the wall; too high, and too small for an ordinary living-room. Probably it was a passage; perhaps a cupboard or pantry. In fact, it was little more than a glow. It was an obvious case of a window not being blacked out because the light in the actual room had not been lit; what was visible was in all likelihood the reflection through an open door. But it might give him a chance to see the general plan of the place. He crept forward cautiously, and raising himself on tiptoe, just managed to peer through.
Luck was certainly with him. Inside, the window was covered with a fine net curtain which did little or nothing to interrupt his view of the interior. On the other hand, for anyone looking at it from the lighted side, it would practically prevent all vision outwards. If anyone stared straight at the window he would still be invisible. And, as he had hoped, the window lighted one end of a passage, or rather the main hall of the house, obviously extending from wall to wall.
Just on his left there was a staircase. A dim glow came down it, sufficient to indicate the lamp which must be burning above; but the bulk of the illumination came from a door at the far end, which was partly open. He guessed that that was the kitchen or living-room. On the right, an unlighted passage presumably led to the front door, and two doors, both open, and both in darkness, probably led to rooms in the newer block.
Up to a point the position was now clear. There was someone upstairs; the rest of the occupants of the house were probably in the lighted room ahead. Perhaps, after all, his best plan would be to try and get in through the front; but, now that it came to the point, he rather shrank from the idea of burglarious entrance. If he could only find out somehow if the people he sought were there, there might be some other way. He had decided to continue his tour, and was on the point of leaving the window when he was aware of someone descending the staircase. Next minute, one of his questions was answered. It was Priscilla Seaton.
In the light of the candle which she carried in her left hand her face showed deadly pale, and she had evidently been crying. In her other hand she held a small tray on which were a tumbler and a jug. Somehow at the sight of her Prescott's heart smote him. He had no right to be there spying upon her. For a moment he had almost decided to go back home and leave the whole business alone. And then the significance of the tumbler and jug came to him, and he hardened his heart. She had evidently brought it from someone who was still upstairs, and that must be her cousin. He decided grimly that he would see it through; that he would have a word with Seaton at least.
She came down the stairs very slowly, and her whole attitude suggested utter weariness. As she reached the bottom, she seemed to be looking right at him, and for a second he thought that he must have been seen. But she turned past the window along the passage, and in her eyes as she went Prescott seemed to see something very like fear.
The door at the passage end opened before she reached it. An elderly woman looked out, and seemed to speak, though the words were inaudible; and beyond, seated in a chair by the fire, he could see the large man to whom he had spoken in the afternoon. Probably that accounted for everyone who lived there. Seaton was upstairs—alone. Somehow he must get to him.
The elderly woman was advancing right along the passage. It seemed as though she had just noticed the uncovered window at the far end. She lifted an improvised shutter which stood against the wall and came forward. Prescott had to dive down hurriedly just as Priscilla disappeared from view inside the kitchen.
He hesitated only for a moment; then started along the back of the house. On this side, what little light remained just enabled him to make out the outlines of the windows, showing dimly on the glass. He scrutinised them carefully. In the furthest window from him he could just make out a mere pin-point of light. Otherwise the window was as dark as the others, but that was enough. Seaton must be in that room. The question was how to reach it.
A long, low penthouse place, with a sloping roof leading up the wall had been built on here; but to the window where the light showed it offered no direct approach. Even from the extreme end one could never reach the sill; but there were other windows above it. He strained his eyes through the gloom. In the second of them the ghostly outline of the glass was missing over half the upper part of it. That one must be open, and from it it should be easy enough to find the lighted room.
He had reached a state of mind when he was concentrating only on the task he had set himself, and as he sought for some means of gaining the roof hardly a doubt troubled him. From the gauze-covered windows, he guessed that this must be a dairy. That was all to the good. No one was likely to be inside to hear any sound his feet might make on the slates. A water-butt at the far end provided what he sought. With infinite caution he set himself to creep along towards the point he had marked.
The slates creaked abominably, and they were slippery with dew. Once his shoe slid on the wet surface, and he nearly fell. He was half-way up when from somewhere just below a dog began to bark. And then, in the yard immediately below him a heavy boot sounded on the flagstones.
Prescott froze to a sudden immobility. Down below the dog's barking redoubled in vigour. The footsteps drew nearer. He tried to convince himself that, lying on the roof it would be almost impossible for anyone to see him from below. But if the dog was loosed? It did not need to see; it could smell him, and in all probability it would succeed in calling the attention of its owners to the fact that there was some object of especial interest on the top of the dairy. He waited because it was the only thing to do. To jump down from the roof would be to invite capture before he could recover himself.
A door below opened unexpectedly, letting out a stream of light which certainly would not have had the approval of the local A.R.P. authorities. It shone straight on to the whitewashed wall of a barn opposite, and by the sudden glistening of the slates Prescott realised that the danger was worse than he had thought. The reflection from the whitened surface was quite enough to show him up quite plainly to anyone who might look up. True, it also showed him the open window which was his objective, and thereby removed his last doubt about the practicability of entering. But he had hardly time to think of that.
Against the white background of the barn an odd shadow leaped into startling prominence. It was huge and distorted, but even so there seemed to be something odd about the pointed outline of the head. For a moment it seemed to him that it had a weapon upraised to strike. The light dimmed. Another shadow obliterated the first. From right underneath he heard the farmer's voice.
"Hey, who's that?"
Prescott fancied that there was an undertone of fear, at least of nervousness, in the words. With the silhouette of the upraised stick in his mind, he gathered his muscles to rise, half expecting to hear the sound of a struggle from below. Instead, there came only a cultured voice, speaking, as it seemed to him in apology, though too indistinct to be heard properly.
"Every hour?" the farmer burst out. "And wake that blasted dog and the whole house every time? It's sheer foolery!"
The other voice came again, and again it was indistinct. Its owner seemed to be making some kind of an explanation. It failed completely to appease the farmer.
"I'll be along in the morning... A man wants his rest... Get along, then, and a good night to 'ee! 'Tis more than I'll have."
The light vanished as the door slammed. Prescott could hardly believe his good fortune. Blinded by the light, there was no chance of whoever stood below seeing him now. What the visit meant he could not quite understand. The dog's barking ended in a kind of yelp. The boots were receding towards the gate. He was on the point of starting up the roof again when there was a faint click below. He realised that the farm door had been opened again.
This time there was no burst of light; hardly the faintest glow. Whoever was there had taken the precaution of turning off the light or shutting an inner door. Someone moved stealthily out a few paces into the yard and stopped. Then the footsteps returned, and the door closed quietly.
Prescott was not worrying about the solution of the mystery. The coast seemed to be clear, and he was going to take his chance while it offered. He started up the roof again, and in a minute was pulling himself up by the irregularities of the stonework towards the window-sill.
He listened for a moment. Everything was quiet. At least one room was between him and where the light showed, and unless the window proved unexpectedly obstinate there was no reason why anyone should hear him. He tried it cautiously with one hand, and to his relief it slid smoothly up. With hardly a sound he gained the ledge and lowered himself inside.
In the room the blackness was complete. He had had no time to provide himself with a torch, and he dare not strike a match. He blundered into what proved to be a large, Old-fashioned bedstead; found the head of it, and at last made his way round the foot. Then ahead, the faintest glimmer showed the doorway.
Opening it was a nervous business. He had no means of telling if anyone were on the landing outside. As he listened, it seemed to him that he could hear faint sounds. They were not directly outside. In all probability they came from the occupied room at the end of the house. He took his courage in both hands, lifted the latch and looked out.
On the narrow landing a faint illumination was provided by a candle-lamp, turned to a mere point, which burnt at the top of the stairs. It gave just enough light to show that the coast was clear, and that his guess about the general plan of the upper floor had been remarkably accurate. There was nothing to be gained by loitering. Every second increased the danger. The door at the far end should be the one he sought. He slipped outside, and started towards it.
Certainly there was someone there. Even before he saw the crack of light beneath the door he could hear the sound of a voice or voices. Even at that distance there seemed something strange about it. He felt a prickling down the back of his scalp. The voice went on, in a high, unnatural tone. There seemed to be only one speaker. For a moment he recalled the queer voice in the barn. But it was not the same. There was something unpleasantly creepy about it, and he had to summon all his resolution to go forward at all. He gained the door and put his ear almost to the woodwork.
For a moment the voice had stopped. He could hear his own heart thumping, and he seemed to be breathing in gasps. Then it came again, disjointed and without meaning, as though in the middle of a sentence, and there was a horrible note in it which seemed to chill his blood.
"Till you are dead!" it said, and repeated: "Till you are dead!"
A babble of unintelligible nonsense followed. Prescott listened with a mounting horror. It seemed to be a man who was speaking; in all probability it was Seaton. But his first intention of an interview was no longer practicable. If the man inside were the murderer, he would never hang for his crime. For it was the voice of a maniac.
The door below opened without warning. Quick footsteps started up the stairs. Prescott hesitated. He had just time to regain the doorway of the room by which he had come when they reached the stairhead.
SUPERINTENDENT ADDISON listened with interest to the brief summary Bagehot gave him of the proceedings of Willis and his assistants. The faintest trace of a frown showed on his face as he listened.
"And that means," he said, "almost certainly a member of the squad?"
"Perhaps, sir," Bagehot said quickly. "That's a point I'm going to settle. Was it possible for anyone familiar with the arrangements to get in and get out again?"
Addison raised one eyebrow. "'Familiar with the arrangements'?" he repeated. "Meaning a member of the Home Guard? But I don't see how even that would allow him to clean the rifle."
"In most cases, it wouldn't, sir," Bagehot admitted.
The eyebrow went up a bit further. "Meaning Shepton?" Addison asked. "Why should he?"
"He might have been keen on the girl, sir." Bagehot hesitated. "As a matter of fact, I rather thought the first time I spoke to him when we were driving here that he was—well, inclined to take her part."
"Natural chivalry... But 'there's no fool like an old fool.'" He considered for a moment. "One thing, Bagehot. I'm wondering if we are still putting the emphasis in this case on the wrong thing."
"I don't quite understand, sir."
"Well, first of all it was the Fifth Column stuff. Seaton, and so on. Now, it seems as if that bomb is a dud. If Seaton or anyone else put it there it was just a poorish joke—"
"Not definitely, sir... Suppose Seaton did mean to put a real bomb there. Suppose the girl somehow substituted the sugar and vinegar?"
Addison grinned. "Who's doing the chivalrous stuff now?" he asked. "Your idea is 'the girl heroine saves the factory?' Well, maybe. There's no evidence." He paused. "We'll rule that out for the moment. Does it occur to you that the central point of this business may not be the murder of Falcon at all?"
Bagehot's expression suggested that it had not.
"I mean," Addison went on, "that that murder may have been just an accident to something else—or a consequence. The real point might be the murder of Biddulph."
"Biddulph wasn't murdered, sir."
"No. But there was an attempt. Now, suppose you have poisoned Biddulph's beer—or tea. You don't know that he has such a rotten tummy that it can't stand a little arsenic. You think you've pulled the job off, and are making your getaway. Mind you, it will be fatal if you're found there, because you've no business. Then Falcon challenges you. You naturally think that you've killed Biddulph, instead of just having put him out of the way for the evening. You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so you pot Falcon."
It was a long speech for the superintendent. Bagehot seemed to be considering it for a long time.
"But, how do you happen to have a gun, sir?" he asked. "And why had you taken the precaution of having planted the gun on Willoughby?"
"That was your second line of attack. It was possible you might not be able to get into the room to use the poison; or that he might not take it. You meant to make sure."
"And why carry the rifle away when you had succeeded with the poison, sir?"
Addison hesitated for a moment. "Because," he said with some uncertainty, "until Biddulph failed to come out on guard, you couldn't be quite sure you had succeeded. You were going to do it somehow." He paused. "Mind you, I'm not saying that this is so. But it's a new angle."
Bagehot nodded slowly. "Biddulph's poisoning," he repeated half to himself. "I suppose I have rather neglected that."
"Naturally. Biddulph wasn't poisoned, in fact. Falcon was shot. The second seems the important one."
"I think there's something in what you suggest, sir," Bagehot said quite briskly, so that Addison looked at him with curiosity. "As you say, it's a new angle. I'll certainly look into it... And now, sir, I'll just go round the building, before—"
He left the sentence unfinished, but for once Addison did not insist on a completion. It seemed as though his conversational powers were exhausted, for during their tour of he building he hardly said a word. The caretaker whom the sergeant unearthed from some dim recess in the building, more than made up for it. He explained with some volubility that he locked up at night; that he always locked up with extreme care; that if a cat wanted to get into the office after it was locked up, it would have to break a window.
They made the whole round religiously, door by door and window by window. Admittedly, Bagehot reflected, it was highly unlikely that any intruder should try to get in by the front windows in view of the armed sentry on the door. And further inspection seemed to show that it was actually impossible. The windows were of the kind that have a large central pane swinging on a horizontal hinge. Bagehot eyed them thoughtfully.
"All the windows like this?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"If one of them was left open—unlatched, I mean, it would be easy enough to push it from outside," Bagehot suggested. "I suppose there were no catches broken?"
"No, sir. And there were no catches left undone when I locked up last night, sir," the caretaker rejoined indignantly. "Besides, sir—"
"When you locked up," Bagehot repeated. "Just when was that?"
"About half-past five, sir."
"Was the building empty then? No one here?"
"Well, of course, there were a few working overtime, sir. And the Home Guard people and the engineer and his assistant and maybe one or two more."
"You didn't look again?"
"That would be the night watchman's job, sir."
"But, in fact, so far as you know, any one of those who were left here in the office might have opened a window and forgotten to put the catch on again?"
"Of course they might, sir. But if you mean that anyone could get through—"
"Well?"
"They couldn't, sir... Look here."
Bagehot had been concentrating on the catches. Now for the first time he noticed that on each side of the movable part of the window a piece of wood had been screwed. Obviously it had been done after the rest of the work. The wood was not even painted.
"Look, sir," the caretaker said, and demonstrated. "That don't let 'em open more 'an so far. You see? No one could get through there."
Bagehot did see. He also verified the fact that, if the window was open so far, it was still impossible to reach the wood to remove it. He nodded his head slowly.
"And they're all like that?" he said. "What's the idea?"
"All the same, sir... You see, it was the black-out. Sometimes they'd be working late, and if they'd got the windows too far open, the blinds bulged back. We had quite a few complaints. So the engineer had those fixed, sir."
That seemed to settle the question of the windows; though Bagehot made a mental note to send a constable round to test each piece of wood in turn. The doors seemed even more certain. There were admittedly several other doors besides the main entrance; two at the end of each wing, and two down near the tail of the building; but quite a short inspection of the locks and keys of these convinced him that, if they had been locked at all, it would take an expert burglar some time to deal with them. He paid particular attention to the two by the "tail" but it was obvious they were rarely if ever used, and had certainly not been opened inside the past day or two. He finished up by personally testing, and finding secure, all the windows in the dining-room, dormitory, and lavatories.
"What's the idea?" Addison asked, breaking his silence for the first time. "Surely this is the one place no one would break in? There was someone here all the time."
"Obviously, if the rooms were empty at any time, sir, it would be the handiest place," Bagehot suggested. "I mean, for the poison, the gun, the armoury—the whole lot."
"Maybe," Addison suggested. "I don't see anyone taking the risk, though. Finished?"
Bagehot assented. He seemed to be thinking hard about something or other, and as they returned it was the superintendent who was finally forced to break the silence.
"Looks as though it was someone in the squad," he said thoughtfully. "And, except for Willoughby, there's no one it could have been but—" He broke off. "Are we right in saying except Willoughby?" he demanded. "He isn't really let out by this rifle business."
"I don't know," Bagehot admitted. "I've a sort of an idea—No, sir. I don't think it's Prescott, if that's what you meant... He's behaving like an ass, but that's probably all."
"You said you could find him?"
"I'm hoping to—in about a quarter of an hour or so," Bagehot said. "You see—"
The sergeant on the door hurried forward as they emerged into view. He looked at Addison.
"There's a call to you, sir," he said. "From the Chief Constable... He's holding on."
"Right, Sergeant.... In a minute, Inspector."
Left alone at the door, Bagehot stood looking out over the darkening fields. From the canteen the Home Guard squad which was to perform that night's watch was just making its way across. Shepton himself was in charge and was going to remain all night. And they were not going to watch alone. Bagehot had detailed every man whom he could possibly spare to help them. His one hope was that the two lots of watchers did not in some way come into conflict.
It struck him suddenly that two of the party were behaving oddly. They had cut across the rough ground in preference to following the more circuitous route of the road as the others had done. Half-way between the canteen and office they had both stopped, looking down at the ground. One of them bent down, and seemed to examine something closely. Then he stood up, and shouted towards the main party on the road nearly at the curve.
Bagehot himself started forward; then broke into a run. It was hard to see what could have been found there, but it looked as though there was something out of the ordinary, and just at that particular time no one was more interested than himself in anything unusual in the neighbourhood of the office.
The Home Guard had the start of him. By the time he came up, they were already gathered in a curious circle round the spot, with Major Shepton in the middle beseeching them to stand back. Bagehot pushed his way forward none too politely.
"What is it, sir?" he demanded. "You've found something."
"I'm not sure, Inspector," Shepton admitted. "See what you think about it yourself. Jones here thought it might be blood."
"Get back, there! Keep back!" Bagehot said savagely to the onlookers as he bent down to examine the stain. He felt inclined to blame himself. No doubt he should have made a complete search of the whole surroundings of the office. But he had thought that this particular bit was both far enough away, and in the wrong direction. "Would you get them back, sir?" he appealed to Shepton. "If you please—"
There was no doubt that it was blood. There had been quite a lot. The showers of the night before had not been enough to wash it away. Somebody had bled considerably; and probably lain fainting at that spot. But who? Not Falcon. He had died instantly. Not Miss Seaton. She had been shot actually on the roadway. Then who?
Shepton had removed the members of the squad. Addison, seeing that something had happened, was hurrying up with a constable. They scrutinised the surroundings of the stain together.
Probably there never had been any marks. If there had, the interest of the Home Guard had obliterated them. There was simply the discoloured patch on the earth, with some still clinging to the grass blades.
Addison was as puzzled as his inspector. He stood frowning down at it.
"Of course, it might have nothing to do with it," he said. "It might not be human at all."
"It might not, sir," Bagehot admitted. "But is it likely?"
"The murderer?" Addison suggested. "There were two shots. Someone got him?"
"Not Falcon, sir. Not any member of the squad—judging by the guns. Unless Hatch fired."
"And Hatch was inside. You've just proved he couldn't have got out, except past Prescott. You're not suggesting the whole damned lot was in it?"
"It needn't have been a gunshot wound, sir," Bagehot said almost absently.
"It might have been a knife, or anything—or a simple accident. The murderer, say, might have hurt himself in getting away."
"And pretty badly... But no one fits that bill, eh? No one's wounded to notice."
Bagehot had nothing to say. A little while before, he had really felt that he was beginning to see—not exactly daylight, but something that might turn out to be. This fresh complication upset everything. The one hope seemed to be that, after all, the blood had nothing to do with what had happened at all; and that he did not believe for a moment.
"We'd better have it covered, and arrange for a sample to be tested, sir," he suggested heavily. "I don't see how it fits in, I'll admit. Perhaps it doesn't. .... If the doctors could tell us that, I don't mind admitting it'd be a relief.... We'd better have a word with the two lads that found it, I suppose."
Leaving the constable on guard, they retraced their steps. Shepton had paraded the squad; perhaps as the best way of restraining undesirable curiosity. The two privates fell out obediently. But they had nothing illuminating to say. They had simply crossed that particular bit of ground by chance. One of them had noticed the stain, and had called the other's attention to it. Seeing what had happened the night before, it had occurred to them that it might be blood, and they had called to Major Shepton.
Bagehot cast doubt on the whole idea of a bloodstain, to the best of his ability; but his words obviously carried no conviction and still less when a couple of policemen began to busy themselves with a tarpaulin over the spot. Shepton had a difficult time controlling the eyes of his squad. He was being distinctly rude to them. Bagehot went in search of the superintendent, and found him telephoning again. He finished and replaced the receiver.
"Come along," he said. "I've something else to tell you. That business drove it out of my head. It's queer enough, but I don't know how it affects things."
They adjourned to room No 4. It was already blacked out, and Addison switched on the light; then shut the door.
"What's the position of someone who believes he's helping a prisoner to escape illegally, and does so; when the person isn't legally a prisoner at all?" he asked.
"I beg pardon, sir?" Bagehot said wearily. He was in no mood for legal problems. From the very fact that the superintendent had lost his normal taciturnity and was descending to facetiousness, he guessed that his superior was feeling in much the same state of mind; but it made it no easier to bear. "Who do you mean, sir?"
"Well, it seems to be Miss Seaton's position," the superintendent said dubiously. "Of course, we can still get her for trespassing on the factory, if we want. But I'm inclined to think the charge of harbouring an escaped prisoner won't stand."
Bagehot suddenly grasped it. "You mean that Seaton—?"
"I mean that Seaton, at the time he escaped from the concentration camp had already, in a manner of speaking, been released from it... I don't know any details, of course, but it looks to me as though someone fairly influential had been pulling a few strings behind the scenes. At any rate, Seaton's case had been reviewed, and the verdict was favourable. The order for release was sent, and actually received at the camp. Then there was some muddle—for which no doubt someone is going to be hauled over the coals pretty badly. At any rate, the night Seaton escaped, he had technically been at liberty for about six hours!"
"He didn't know it, sir?" Bagehot said.
"No one seems to have known anything anywhere. Bad staff work, I suppose. Or maybe air raids. But theoretically he's free."
"Hardly, sir," Bagehot said doubtfully. "Unless he'd been properly released. In the absence of special instructions, we ought to return him to the concentration camp, I should say. That is, unless he's charged with something more serious."
"The bomb?" Addison shrugged. "But that's hardly serious at all. I've my own idea about that business, and though it proves him an ass, it isn't very criminal... And then, you see, by signing the order for his release, they've practically admitted that a mistake was made in the first instance. Unless he's done something pretty serious, they're hardly likely to be vindictive."
Bagehot thought for a moment. "It's a queer position," he admitted. "I'd like to know a good bit more, sir. Who got the case reviewed again? At whose instance? And anything about the escape... I can only think of one person who might have wanted him out so badly—"
"His cousin?" Addison asked; but his subordinate did not answer. Instead, he glanced at the clock.
"I think I'll try to pick up young Prescott, sir," he said. "It's just about time. And if we've any luck—"
"For God's sake, don't get into that habit of leaving your sentences unfinished!" Addison snapped. "What?"
"With any luck, we'll solve your problem and some others, sir," Bagehot said cautiously.
IT was only when the bedroom door had closed behind him that Prescott realised who it must have been who had run upstairs. In all probability the girl had heard her cousin talking, and had hurried to him. For a moment he hesitated, with his hand on the latch. Now, it was all the more urgent that he should see her; but the occasion was hardly opportune. Even if she did not scream or cry for help at the sight of him, he could do nothing in the presence of the madman, with the possibility of the farmer's wife coming up at any moment. He felt that it was very necessary that he should see her alone. In his mind the shadowy outline of a scheme of action was beginning to take shape, but he wanted time to think.
He stood for a moment listening. More footsteps were ascending the stairs, this time heavier ones. Abruptly he realised the risk he was running by waiting there. At any time someone might come to the room. Discovery would be at least awkward and undignified, if nothing worse. He could see the faint oblong of the window at the other side of the room. Dodging the bedstead he gained it and slipped outside, pulling the sash gently down after him.
Crouching on the roof he hesitated again. He could dimly hear sounds coming from the lighted room. What was happening there? Seaton must not only be mad; he was a homicidal maniac... He remembered reading somewhere that lunatics often turned upon those whom they were most fond of. Suppose Seaton attacked his cousin? For two or three minutes he crouched there listening. He tried to derive what comfort he could from the presence of the farmer and his wife, but what could all three do against a madman?
The sounds from the room had stopped. Presumably the paroxysm had exhausted itself. For the moment all was well, and he had time to work out his next step; but he still waited, reluctant to leave the roof while there was any chance that his intervention might still be needed. Of course, Seaton's madness explained everything. He might have attacked Chard, murdered Falcon, even poisoned Biddulph—if Biddulph had really been poisoned. If his mind had previously been at all unbalanced—and Prescott personally found it hard to imagine any sane person being a Fascist—his ordeal in prison might easily have been too much for him. He had come out determined to be revenged on the factory and everyone who worked there, and in his attempts he had shown the traditional cunning of a madman.
It was natural that the girl should try to shield him. It had troubled him before that anyone should help a man who was even slightly disposed to sympathise with the enemy. But his insanity altered everything. Prescott himself had a great horror of madness, and sincerely pitied any sufferer from it. Seaton's condition made all the difference to his attitude both to him and to the girl. But, in a way it was a complication. As a Fifth Columnist, much more as a murderer, Seaton deserved what was coming to him, and Prescott would have had no scruple about giving him up to be hanged. Only the thought of the girl had inspired a certain feeling of compunction.
Sitting there in the darkness, he found himself thinking that it was odd how important the girl seemed to have become in his scheme of things. He had hardly seen her; had never spoken to her at all, unless one could call the few broken words she had said a conversation. And yet his whole course of action seemed to be guided by considerations of how she would be affected. He was not falling in love with her or anything of that kind. That was absurd. He told himself that he admired her courage, and even the mistaken loyalty to her cousin that she had shown. And, of course, she was pretty....
He must decide what to do. It came to him quite suddenly that, so far from being a complication, Seaton's condition simplified things enormously. Before, however much it might be his duty, it would have been an awkward and unpleasant business being responsible for getting him hanged. His insanity changed all that. He would not be hanged. In all probability he would be detained in an asylum, and that was obviously the best place for him. Whatever Priscilla might think, one could not have a homicidal maniac roaming about at large. Even for the girl's sake.
He made up his mind suddenly. He must go to the house and insist on seeing the girl. The threat of going to the police should be enough to secure that. Probably she did not understand either that her cousin's madness protected him; or the danger her concealment might be bringing on Willoughby or some innocent person. The best thing was that she should go to the police herself and tell what she knew. No doubt she was an accessory in a sense; but under the circumstances they were not likely to be vindictive. But, of course, he must go down, and knock properly at the door. He need not reveal his unauthorised entry at all. With the thought he started to descend the sloping roof, making for the water-butt which had helped him to mount.
He had almost reached the edge of the roof before he was aware of danger. It had hardly occurred to him that anyone might be down below. Now that he intended to make his presence known his discovery might not be so important; but it would mean awkward explanations at least. And someone certainly was below. He was walking so silently that Prescott might have jumped right on top of him without knowing he was there, if he had not happened to see the movement of a deeper shadow in the blackness. He felt puzzled. Who could the unknown be? Why was he creeping round the house in a way which suggested a desire to keep his presence secret? It might be the police. It might be someone on guard. Whoever it might be, he must not be found there. The trouble was to avoid it.
His best chance, he thought, was to wait where he was and let the man below go past. But he showed no disposition to do so. He had stopped, Prescott judged, almost beside the water-butt, as though guarding it. Did he guess that anyone was there? Prescott tried to tell himself that he could not be seen, but he felt horribly exposed. Perhaps, if he were careful, he might be able to make his way along the roof to the far end. He remembered the ledge of the little window through which he had looked. That would serve him as a foothold and aid his descent, if he could only gain it unobserved. With infinite caution he began to sidle along the slates, glancing back at intervals towards where the watcher stood. There was no sign that he had been heard or noticed. He reached the edge of the roof in safety. Below, a crack of light enabled him to place the window. Not without an effort, his foot found the sill, and he lowered himself silently to the ground.
He was safe, but for a moment the temptation came to him to go back. The mystery of the shadowy figure he had seen, the complete silence and the motionless watching excited his curiosity. He half turned towards the corner of the dairy to retrace his steps; then common sense reasserted itself. What could he do? To turn the corner would be to risk being seen at once. He had no way of finding out anything, except to go right up to the watcher and ask him—and that was simple idiocy. Another thought came to him. The man standing there in the dark might be some watcher posted by the girl. But it might also be someone on the other side. Perhaps the police had already their suspicions about the farm, and had taken precautions. In that case, the sooner he proceeded with his original plan the better. It was all important that the girl should come forward with her story of her own accord. Not without a lingering hesitation, he started back down the side of the farm making for the front door.
There was now no special need for caution so far as the occupants of the farm were concerned; for he was going openly. But the mysterious watcher troubled him. He relaxed none of his precautions as he turned into the lane, and practice was making him more adept at walking noiselessly. Even so he was not prepared for what happened as he reached the gate. Just ahead of him there was the sound of a quick movement. He saw the outline of a figure right beside him. Someone had been waiting in the shadow of the archway which covered the gate itself. It was too late to draw back. Perhaps his nerves were rather overstrained. Without waiting to see what would happen he flung himself bodily forward, hoping to take the other unprepared.
He had judged his distance well. His fingers found the other's throat. With surprisingly little resistance, his adversary went down, with Prescott on top, and still retaining his hold. Perhaps the fall had stunned the other. There was no effort at a struggle. Prescott relaxed his hold a little.
"Keep quiet, or—" He tried to make the threat as bloodthirsty as possible, speaking in an unrecognisable voice. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Even as he asked the question, it occurred to him that he was hardly the person to ask it. The answer surprised him. It came as a low moan of pain.
"Oh... Please—please—"
Prescott jumped back as if he had been shot. For the speaker was certainly a woman, and though he had only heard the voice once before he recognised it immediately.
"Good God!" he exclaimed in blank amazement. "Miss—Miss Seaton!"
For a moment the girl said nothing. With an effort she sat up weakly, and he saw a shadowy white hand raised towards her throat.
"Who—who are you?" she whispered at last. "What—what do—you want?"
Consternation made Prescott almost incoherent. "I—I'm sorry," he said feebly. "I didn't know—I never imagined—"
"But—but who are you?" There was bewilderment in her voice, but there was fear too. "Why—?"
"It's a little difficult to explain," he said hesitantly. "You see, I was actually coming to see you... My nerves are a bit on edge, I think. When I came upon someone suddenly in the dark like that, I'm afraid I didn't wait to see who it was... My name's Prescott."
Even to himself the explanation sounded ludicrously inadequate. To the girl it must have been quite incomprehensible.
"Prescott?" she echoed, and her voice conveyed only utter mystification. "To see me—"
"Yes," Prescott said hastily. "I don't expect you know the name. I was on guard last night. In fact, I tied up your leg... Miss Seaton, I've got to talk to you. I know all that has happened... It's very important—"
"But how—how did you know? That I was here?"
Prescott was glad of the darkness. He found himself flushing.
"I saw you this afternoon," he admitted. "I followed you—"
"Then it was you—you in the barn? The man my brother—"
"I'm afraid it was," Prescott admitted shamefacedly. Even at that moment he felt a certain interest in the revelation of his attacker's identity. "I asked the farmer. He denied all knowledge of you. But I saw your footprints on the path... I came back to-night to make sure, and saw you through the window—"
"You—you have been spying on me?" There was contempt in her voice. "Why?"
The word irritated Prescott. And somehow there flashed across his mind the memory of the ridiculous figure he had cut that afternoon.
"Miss Seaton," he said almost harshly. "I'll explain that later. There are certain things I've got to talk over with you. Otherwise, you must see there's only one alternative."
She was silent for quite a long time. Without a word she started to struggle to her feet. A smothered cry of pain escaped her as her wounded leg touched the ground. She swayed. Prescott jumped forward and grasped her arm. She shook him off almost fiercely.
"You'd better come inside," she said bitterly. "In view of the alternative—"
There was a sting in the last words. Prescott regretted the threat, but he felt his temper rising. He had only intended to help her... Without a word he followed her up the path towards the front door of the farm.
Apparently she had her own key. He waited for a moment while she fumbled in her pocket; then the lock clicked. She stood aside for him to enter the dimly lighted passage; then locked the door carefully behind them. In spite of himself Prescott felt a momentary qualm at this- precaution. Of course, it was absurd to think that she could actually be involved with a gang of spies. But the brother had intervened once, and might do so again. The elimination, or at least the detention, of the one person who knew where they were might commend itself to them as a solution he had not thought of. He told himself that the idea was ridiculous, and followed her into the room on the left. A match flared. She lit the lamp and turned towards him. The pallor of her face, and her obvious exhaustion moved him to a sudden pity; but the expression in her eyes was something very like hatred.
"Wait," she commanded briefly, and went out.
Prescott could only obey. It was an ordinary farmhouse sitting-room in which he found himself, and there was nothing to suggest any sinister possibilities. But somehow his doubts returned. Of course he was unarmed. He moved across to the fireplace, into a position in convenient proximity to the poker, and took up his position facing the door. All the same, the poker would stand a poor chance against firearms. He found himself inventing the lie of a letter left in safe hands, to be delivered if—But it was nonsense. Priscilla Seaton could not be mixed up with anything like that.
Someone was coming back. His muscles tensed involuntarily, ready for the antagonist whom he half expected to appear. But the girl entered alone. She closed the door and advanced a few paces into the room, eyeing him stonily.
"Now," she said coldly. "What is it?... Blackmail?"
The last word stung Prescott like the lash of a whip. He felt the hot colour come into his cheeks; but he controlled his temper.
"Miss Seaton," he said, "I can understand how you feel... But, believe me, I have come here only to help you—"
"And with the threat of the police!" she broke in hotly. "What have you to do with it? Why had you to interfere?"
Prescott had to struggle with his feelings. "I might say it was my duty," he said, and felt the words somehow sounded stilted, "and the duty of anyone—to apprehend a murderer."
The girl stared at him for a moment. All at once, she seemed to collapse, and sank weakly into a chair. But Prescott was beyond any mere appeal to pity.
"Even so, if it had been a matter which only concerned me, I don't know what I should have done," he went on in an even voice. "You needn't think I like—that I like playing the spy, as you call it, upon a woman... But there are other people to be considered."
"Other people?" The words were hardly audible. "Who—?"
"Well, there's Willoughby. The police suspect him. He's within an ace of arrest. And he's innocent, I know he is, and so do you. But the evidence is strong... I wonder how far you would go—for your cousin. Would you see an innocent man hanged?"
"But that—" Her voice faltered. "It—it's impossible!"
"It isn't. It's what will probably happen, unless—Don't you see that he was apparently caught almost red-handed? You can clear him. Your cousin can clear him.... That's why I'm here."
The girl covered her face with her hands. There was a long pause. Prescott felt a brute. Besides, it was all so horribly melodramatic. But what else was he to do? Somehow the situation had got to be driven home to her. His thoughts recurred to the watcher at the back of the house. Perhaps it was the brother, but if it had been the police, there was no time to lose.
"Miss Seaton—" he began.
She looked up suddenly. "You said you knew?" she asked. "What do you know?"
Prescott hesitated. All at once he realised how very little it was that he actually knew, and how much he had guessed. He decided to put a good face on it.
"Everything," he said firmly. "About your cousin... I know that he is here—that he was at the factory last night. I have a pretty good idea what happened. It's quite true I want to help you. But Willoughby must be cleared. I think there's a way out...You'll probably think it's horrible, but it's the only thing. As it is, there's danger for everyone... You see, if your cousin was not responsible—"
"But—but I don't understand." There was hopeless bewilderment in her voice. "If you know that—that he's innocent—"
"Innocent?" Prescott echoed, and stared at her. "You mean—"
"He is innocent... Don't you see, that even if I did go to the police—even if I told them, it would be just as bad for him? Don't you see that he hasn't a chance of escape?... Are you going to force me to—to get him hanged for something he didn't do?"
Prescott hesitated. Of course it was natural that she should still protest his innocence. But that was absurd on the face of it. He caught at the other point.
"But, don't you see?" he asked. "Your cousin isn't in any danger. He couldn't be hanged. All that would happen would be that he would be—would be detained for treatment. In view of his state of mind at the time, no jury would—"
He broke off. There was blank incomprehension in her face. He felt somehow that things were going wrong.
"What—what do you know?" she asked after a pause. "Or what do you think you know?"
Prescott hesitated. "I heard your cousin—upstairs," he said at last. "I know that he is—that he isn't sane. If he did kill Falcon, no jury would ever convict. He would be found guilty but insane... He wouldn't—wouldn't be hanged—"
"The—then you don't know?" she burst out. "You think my cousin is mad? That he was mad when it happened... You don't understand anything. He wasn't. When he came here—"
There was a thunderous knocking at the front door. Both of them turned towards the sound. The girl had sprung to her feet. She stood there as if turned to stone. Someone was going along the passage. From the heaviness of the tread, Prescott guessed that it was the farmer. The lock clicked. A confused sound of voices reached them. Then someone spoke. There was an official, commanding ring in the words that, inaudible though they were, left no doubt. The girl put her hand to her heart.
"The—the police!" she said in a hopeless whisper. "The police!"
Several people were coming along the passage. Priscilla swayed, and would have fallen, but Prescott jumped forward, and his arm went round her just in time. Then the door opened.
It was the superintendent who entered, with Inspector Bagehot at his heels. For a moment they stood contemplating the tableau. It seemed to Prescott that in the inspector's eye there was something like a sardonic amusement.
"Good evening, Miss Seaton." Bagehot broke a silence which was becoming oppressive. "Good evening, sir... Been in the wars again?"
WITH a great effort Priscilla Seaton raised herself erect, facing them defiantly. Prescott was conscious of a hot wave of anger. Of course the police had to come. But when a man's life was at stake, even a murderer's, there was no place for that ill-timed facetiousness. He stepped forward angrily.
"Inspector—!" he began.
The superintendent interposed soothingly. "Just a moment, if you please, sir. We'll hear anything you want to say in good time. At the moment, I think I should warn you that, if any charge is preferred, what you say may be used as evidence. Miss Seaton, we have reason to believe—"
Priscilla interrupted him. "How—how did you know?" she asked suddenly. "How did you guess we were here?"
"Mr. Prescott was good enough to show us the way." It was Bagehot who answered. "Unintentionally. His interest in this place was a bit too obvious, and there seemed to be only one possible reason."
"Look here, Inspector," Prescott burst in. "You'd better hear me first, Miss Seaton's on the point of collapse. I can explain everything."
Superintendent Addison turned a sleepy eye on him.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's perhaps as well you've come—though your arrival was rather unexpected. Miss Seaton was coming to you herself. I came here to—to explain things to her. I think when you understand you'll see that she was hardly to blame for anything she did... I suppose you think that Seaton is the murderer; that the motive was sabotage at the factory—"
Priscilla Seaton interrupted him with a sudden cry.
"No! No! He didn't... He's innocent! You don't understand—"
"All I want to say is this," Prescott persisted. "If he was guilty, you'll never hang him. He wasn't responsible for what he did. He's mad!"
"Since when, sir?" Addison asked emotionlessly, after the long pause which followed. "He was sane enough when he broke gaol—or as sane as he usually was."
"You can see for yourself." Prescott ignored the question and went on doggedly: "As you said, he's here. You've only got to listen to him, or look at him. He's off his head."
Priscilla Seaton had collapsed into the chair again, and her face was buried in her arm.
"Miss Seaton," Addison said quite gently. "Is that true? Your cousin is here?"
She raised a white face and looked at him.
"Yes," she said in a low voice.
"And what Mr. Prescott says? Is that the case?"
She hesitated for a full half-minute. "No," she said almost inaudibly. "He isn't—he wasn't mad—"
"But—" Prescott began. Her look of appeal stopped him.
"Please!" she begged, and turned to the superintendent. "Mr. Prescott doesn't quite understand. My cousin isn't mad—wasn't mad when he came here. He's very ill—delirious. He was shot—last night."
In spite of himself Bagehot started. Suddenly he remembered the latest of their discoveries, the patch of blood on the grass. "You mean, miss, that—"
"I'd better tell you everything," the girl said dully. "Then perhaps you'll understand—why I lied to you, and why I ran away to-day. It's quite true what Mr. Prescott said—about his coming here. He was trying to make me go to the police. I—I didn't know what to do."
There was a trace of sympathy in the superintendent's face as he looked from one to the other.
"You'll understand, Miss Seaton, that you need not make a statement unless you wish," he said with some reluctance. "If that is quite clear—"
"I want to... I must speak. I had better tell you everything."
The superintendent nodded. "It might be best," he admitted. "If you don't mind, we'll sit down."
He caught Bagehot's eye. From somewhere the inspector produced a note-book and pencil. Shorthand was among his accomplishments. Prescott ventured a protest.
"You're taking this down—as an official statement?" he asked pointedly.
The superintendent turned a steady eye on him. "Miss Seaton has been warned," he said. "You have no objection, Miss Seaton?"
The girl shook her head wearily. Bagehot and Addison had already seated themselves. Prescott dropped unwillingly into a chair. Perhaps unreasonably, he felt that there was something unfair in the odds of two policemen to one girl.
"I—I suppose I had better begin at the beginning," Priscilla Seaton said hesitantly. "You probably think that I helped my cousin to escape. Actually, that isn't so—at least, not at first. Someone else got him out of the camp. I don't know how it was done. I don't know who it was?"
Addison's eyebrows rose a little. "You don't know?" he asked.
"I have no idea at all. It was only the day before yesterday I received a telephone message telling me that he was going to escape, and that I must take a car to a certain point to pick him up. I hardly knew what to do. I knew that he would suffer if he was caught; but there was some suggestion made that, if he were at liberty, he might be able to prove his innocence. In the end I did it."
"The voice—you didn't recognise the voice?" Addison prompted.
"It was very indistinct. Besides, I thought the less I knew about that the better. We'd sold our car. Eventually I managed to hire one—at a price. That was the one you found in the lane... I went to the place which had been agreed upon and my cousin was waiting there. We drove down here."
"Why was that?" Addison asked. "I should have thought it was a place where your cousin was certain to be recognised."
"At first, I didn't know we were coming here. My cousin wouldn't tell me anything. He simply gave the directions... Of course, there were no signposts or anything. I couldn't tell where we were going. He was talking rather wildly about showing people whether he was a Fascist or not, but I didn't think he meant anything by it. I had no idea where we were, until we had practically got here. Then I recognised one of the villages. I asked my cousin about it. He said that he had arranged to lie hidden at the farm here."
"Why here?" the superintendent interposed. "Didn't that suggest to you that he might—well, have some designs against the factory?"
"Not at first. You see, it was the one place in the country where he would probably be safe—where no one would give him away. He once saved the farmer's life here... They never believed he was a Fascist."
Addison nodded. That point, in view of the news he had just received, was less important than it might otherwise have been.
"But later, you thought—?" he prompted.
"He was in such a queer mood that I began to feel that he might be going to do something desperate. So I stopped the car. But by that time we were quite close. There was a quarrel. He said that he was going whatever happened. He jumped out of the car and started across the fields. He said he would be back at the farm later... I—I—guessed that he—might be going to—"
"He was carrying something at the time?" Addison suggested. "A black box?"
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "I thought—I didn't know what it was. I left the car and ran after him. He went on to the factory site, and I followed—"
Bagehot caught the superintendent's eye. "Just a minute, Miss Seaton," he said. "You say you followed. How did you pass the gates? You hardly made your way over a twelve-foot wire mesh fence?"
"There wasn't a way over it, but there was one under it. There's a culvert which ought to have been blocked, but wasn't. My cousin had seen it just before he was arrested, and had been going to call attention to it. I could easily show it to you. It was just behind here—beyond the office block."
"Later, we should like to see it, Miss Seaton... Yes."
"I couldn't run so quickly as my cousin. I lost sight of him once we were inside. There was nothing for it at last but to get out again and go to the farm. I was trying to do that when I was challenged. I thought that I could get away. That was when I was shot."
"Then, you have no knowledge of your cousin's movements from the time you lost him?"
"None. Except what he told me afterwards, and that wasn't much... When I heard the shots, of course I thought that someone was firing at him. Then—then heard who it was. I didn't know what had happened. I thought that somehow my cousin might have been fired at, and have fired back—"
"So far as you knew, had he a gun? A rifle?"
"No. How could he have?... I was fearfully worried. But there was nothing I could do. At last I was allowed to leave. I went back into town, so as not to be seen going to the farm. I got a bicycle, and came the other way—from the back. My brother showed me—"
"Your brother?" Addison said quickly. "He is here—"
"My brother Jack. But he has nothing to do with it. He was staying at the farm as an evacuee—he's only eleven."
A light broke on Prescott all at once. The idea was so amazing that he could not restrain his interruption.
"You mean—" he burst out. "That was him—a boy of ten?"
He found himself colouring violently at the thought of the potato sack and the way the bluff had worked. Addison raised his eyebrows.
"Perhaps you'd explain that later, Mr. Prescott?" he suggested. "Yes, Miss Seaton?"
"My cousin was already here when I arrived. He was badly wounded—in the chest. He hardly knew what had happened. Apparently when he was passing the office block someone fired at him without warning. He heard another shot just afterwards. Then he thinks he fainted for a little. He managed to crawl here in the end... We dressed the wound as well as we could—"
"As he was passing the office, Miss Seaton?" Bagehot looked up quickly. "Can you give me any idea of exactly where he was?"
"He said he had nearly reached the corner. He thought he heard something behind him, and turned. It was then he was hit."
"Heard something? What?"
"He didn't say... I think that's everything... I went out at lunch-time. I wanted to hide the bicycle. Mr. Prescott saw me and followed me back. That's how he knew I was here—"
A very faint smile showed for an instant on Bagehot's face. "And, I gather that your ten-year-old brother tried to stop him?"
"Yes.. He's very clever for his age.... And he's a Boy Scout, you see—"
Bagehot could not resist it. "And that was his good deed," he murmured almost to himself. Addison frowned "Your cousin said nothing else, Miss Seaton?"
"Nothing that I could really understand. He was talking a lot about re-establishing himself, and showing what he could have done if he had liked. I didn't understand him. And he was hardly sensible."
"His condition? You think it is serious?"
"I—I'm afraid... He seemed so much better. We hardly knew what to do. You see, if we sent for a doctor, he was bound to associate the shooting with the murder. He would have gone to the police—" She broke off, and looked at the superintendent with a passionate appeal in her eyes. "Can't you see? If he was guilty, he was better dead. And afterwards, though he wasn't, how could we have made anyone believe it? Wasn't he the obvious person to be the murderer?"
Addison glanced at Prescott. "You say you heard him?" he asked. "That was why you thought he was mad."
Prescott hesitated perceptibly, and the fact rather puzzled his questioner.
"Yes," he said. "I was round at the back. There was a window open—" He broke off. As things were there was no sense in confessing at the moment to his unauthorised entrance. "He seemed to be talking very wildly. Of course, if he was delirious—"
The reply seemed to satisfy the superintendent; but he was aware of the girl's eyes fixed upon him with a puzzled look. He looked away hurriedly. Apparently Bagehot had been going through his notes. He glanced up. "From the beginning, then, you had no idea who was responsible for your cousin's escape?" he asked. "Think carefully, Miss Seaton. It may be very important. For your cousin."
"I don't understand." Priscilla Seaton looked from one to the other of them doubtfully. "My cousin didn't say. How could it be important to him?"
Bagehot glanced at his superior, who nodded.
"Miss Seaton." The inspector leant forward earnestly. "I may as well tell you that there is certain evidence which confirms part of your story... Of course, that doesn't prove your cousin's innocence, from a legal point of view. It's going to be very difficult to prove that, short of the catching of the actual murderer. You can see for yourself that he had a motive; that he was in the neighbourhood at the time the shot was fired, and so on. But there are certain difficulties which make me inclined to believe him innocent—if I may say so unofficially. But this point is very important. Who was the friend who helped him to escape?"
"But—but I don't quite understand—"
"Miss Seaton, doesn't it strike you as odd, assuming that your cousin didn't do the murder, that he was brought down here on the particular night that all this happened? Assuming that he was responsible only for what you've told us and no more, wasn't it odd that he should be here on that night?"
"I—I suppose it was."
"There's another point, which you may not have heard. But for an incredible accident, your cousin should have been released—the day before he escaped—"
"You mean—you mean—?"
Bagehot nodded. "Yes," said soberly. "It's a bad business, I know. But the point I wanted to make is this. Apparently some friend or other has been pretty active in working for his release. Who was the friend?"
The girl only shook her head miserably. The news about her cousin's release seemed to have unnerved her.
"There's another thing," Bagehot went on. "Someone must have made the arrangements for him to come here. I suppose the people were warned? Who made them?"
"My cousin wrote himself... The farmer told me."
Bagehot sighed. "That hardly answers the question. I need hardly say, miss, that prisoners in concentration camps aren't allowed to write letters arranging for a hiding-place in the event of their escaping... Who smuggled out that letter?"
A light seemed to break upon her. "You mean, that whoever did all this?" she asked. "That he was the murderer?"
"It's at least possible," Bagehot assented. "Your cousin is brought down here just in time for the murder—and he is the one person who might have had a motive for all that has happened.... Now, can you help us at all?"
She shook her head. "I don't know anyone," she said slowly. "Of course, my cousin used to have lots of friends... But when he was arrested—People are easily led to believe the worst, especially in war-time, in a case of that kind. He was complaining only the other day that no one came near him. He was feeling rather bitter about it. I can't think of anyone at all."
"But your cousin must know?" Bagehot suggested. "And, you see, as things are, it's only sensible for him to tell us. If it was the murderer who did it, the whole thing was just a trap—to throw the suspicion of it on him. If it wasn't—well, under the circumstances, it isn't likely the authorities would be too hard on him. You see, under the circumstances, your cousin must tell us."
"But—but he can't speak—he can't understand." She glanced at the clock and rose to her feet a little wildly. "I sent my brother for the doctor. I had to. I thought he was dying—He must come soon—"
"There's someone with him?"
"The farmer's wife... While I went out she was up there. He's fallen asleep again.... I must go to him—"
Addison rose, and opened the door. "If you've no objection, Miss Seaton, I'll have a look at him myself," he suggested. "I know a bit about gunshot wounds—"
"Oh, if you would... Let me come with you—"
Addison inclined his head in assent; then looked dubiously at Prescott. "You know something of first aid, don't you?" he asked. "You'd better come... But come quietly."
The girl led the way up the stairs. Rather to Prescott's surprise, Bagehot seemed also to have elected to follow and was bringing up the rear. It seemed a large party for a sick man's bedside, but presumably the police knew their own business best. Priscilla was going very slowly, almost pulling herself up by the banisters. At the top she reeled, and would have fallen, but Prescott, who was immediately behind, caught her just in time.
"Take it easy, Miss Seaton," Addison advised. "Let me just go and have a look at him first.... Which room?"
The girl struggled to speak, but she was nearly fainting.
"That one," Prescott said, and jerked his head. Next minute he could have bitten his tongue out. The inspector glanced at him curiously, opened his mouth to speak, and thought better of it. It seemed as though Addison had noticed nothing. He turned the handle gently, and went inside.
"Put your head down, miss," Bagehot suggested with quite a new note of sympathy in his voice. "Sit down on that chair... You'll be better in a minute—"
He pointed to the solitary chair which the landing boasted, beside the small table on which the candle-lamp stood, still casting a ghostly sort of glow upon them. Prescott guided her across, and lowered her gently into it.
"You've been doing too much, miss, that's what it is," Bagehot said, and the words sounded oddly prosaic. "With that leg—You want to rest up a bit."
The girl shook her head. "I—I'm better... I must see him."
"He's all right," Bagehot assured her. "He's quite quiet now. Of course, delirium's always a bit frightening, miss, to an ordinary person. But doctors don't make much of it—"
It occurred to Prescott suddenly that the superintendent had been in the room for a long time. Longer, certainly, than it would have needed just to look at the sleeping man. Presumably he was looking round, trying to find some incriminating evidence. One could never trust the police. What had been said might very well have been a trap to get the girl's confidence. He was moved to a protest.
"Look here," he began. "I suppose you think—"
The reappearance of Addison in the doorway interrupted him. He came forward slowly, and there was something in his manner which startled Prescott. He felt a horrible foreboding.
"Miss Seaton," the superintendent said slowly, "I think you had better go downstairs."
The girl would have risen; but she sank back again into her chair.
"You mean—oh, you can't mean—?" she burst out. "He—he's not dead?"
The superintendent bowed his head. "You'd have to know soon," he said after a pause. "Miss Seaton, you must prepare yourself for a shock. Your cousin has been murdered—stabbed."
For a moment the girl looked at him in wide-eyed horror; then with a queer, shuddering cry she fell back unconscious.
OBVIOUSLY the scene at the stairhead had not been without an audience. The farmer and his wife were running upstairs almost on the instant, the former obviously prepared to give them a piece of his mind. The superintendent turned a cold eye on them.
"You, ma'am," he commanded, "would you look after Miss Seaton? She's had a shock—as no doubt you heard." He turned to the farmer. "There are a couple of bobbies outside," he said briefly, "by the farmyard gate. Send them in at once... There's been murder done."
Either the last consideration or his air of authority had its effect. The farmer thundered downstairs, as his wife, a motherly-looking woman, bent over the girl sympathetically.
"You'd better take her into one of the other rooms," Addison suggested. "Which is hers? Right.... You can give a hand, Mr. Prescott."
It was not along the passage that led to the room with the open window that they supported the fainting girl, but another at right angles to it. For a moment Prescott had to hold her, while the woman blacked-out and lit the lamp, and as he felt her limp weight in his arms Prescott cursed the superintendent for a clumsy fool. He could easily have seen that the girl was absolutely at the end of her tether. He might have known that such a shock would be too much. And in his own mind the amazement of the announcement still almost overwhelmed him. How could anyone have murdered Seaton? And why, when he was already almost dying? The farmer's wife broke in on his thoughts.
"Here, sir," she said. "On the bed."
Prescott lifted her gently, and laid her on the coverlet. She seemed ridiculously light. For a moment he stood looking down at the pale face framed in the tangled hair.
"Can I—can I do anything?" he asked diffidently. "If you—"
"I think you're better away, sir." The woman faced him fiercely. "Haven't you done enough for to-night? It was you that brought them here."
The injustice of the accusation stung him, but he turned without a word and went out, closing the door gently behind him. Outside the door at the passage end, the superintendent and Bagehot were in low-voiced conversation. They stopped as he came up. Somehow he did not like the way in which they were looking at him. Addison came forward.
"I think, perhaps, it would be better if you waited downstairs, sir," he suggested. "In the dining-room... We might want to ask you a few things later."
Prescott went without a word. The full horror of his position had suddenly come home to him. In the dining-room he found the farmer already seated. The man gave him a hostile look, and turned away, puffing at a pipe furiously. But the room had another occupant. Prescott recognised him with a start. It was the plain-clothes man whose attentions he had succeeded in evading at the cinema.
So they were to be kept under supervision. Presumably that was nothing very surprising under the circumstances; but somehow it struck a chill into him. As he seated himself and lit a cigarette, he could not help remembering what Biddulph had said. After all, they had a case against him, even for Falcon's murder. Except for Willoughby, he had had by far the best opportunity. In fact, it was hard to see how anyone else could possibly have done it. And, now that Seaton was out of it, he seemed to be the only alternative. So far as he could tell, they had accepted the girl's story. That, of course, might have been intended as a deep move to induce her to say more, but, thinking it over, he thought not. As Bagehot had said, there were difficulties in the way of Seaton's having done it. Where could he have got the gun? How could he have poisoned Biddulph, or cut the telephone wire? And, if he had been the victim of the first shot—Of course, there was no way of proving that. But still—
If his position was bad with regard to Falcon's murder, it was much worse in this. There was his presence on the farm at all; there was his failure to go to the police. As he looked back over the events of the evening everything he had done seemed to shout his guilt. Of course, they could not know that he had actually been upstairs; that he had as near as possible entered the room. Seaton had been alive when he left. But could he prove that? The girl must have gone up to see her cousin; but she could not say that it was at a time after he had left the house; for she did not know he had ever been in it.
It was ghastly to wait there, expecting the inquisition which must inevitably come. He had left no traces upstairs. No one need ever know that he had been there. So far as he could see, to tell the police would merely be to ensure his own arrest, and to put them on a false scent. But if he did not tell, and they found out? He thought it over. There was no way in which they could find out. The sole fact which might lead them in that direction was his momentary indiscretion in answer to the superintendent's question. Probably in the excitement of the moment Bagehot had forgotten that. But no. There was something in the inspector's manner that suggested he was not in the habit of forgetting anything which conceivably might be material. Could he explain it in any way? He remembered his brilliant forecast of the plan of the house before he had been in it. He had placed the room with the light accurately enough then. In fact, he had known where it was before he went there. If he decided to say nothing, that would explain what he had said.
The superintendent and Bagehot were being a long time upstairs. He had smoked or jabbed out nearly all his remaining cigarettes before he reached a decision. For the moment, no good purpose could be served by telling about his burglarious escapade. But he must get his mind off the subject. By sheer force, he compelled himself to turn his attention to other things. Who was the murderer, and how had he got there? From the very time he left the room, the police watcher had been stationed by the water-butt. It was unlikely that anyone could have repeated his own trick in reverse, ascending by the window and making his way along. But it was just possible...
The truth came to him blindingly. It had been no police watcher. The man whom he had seen at the back had been the murderer. He had been within a few yards of him. He had gone away and left him, only a few minutes before he actually entered the house to commit the crime. If he had only mentioned it to the police, or to the girl—But he had never thought. Previously, he had supposed that it was a watcher posted by the people at the farm to guard against intruders, in case the sick man's ravings became too loud; then he had thought of a policeman. Now there was not the slightest scruple of doubt that it had been neither.
He must say something about that. He could say that he had been going round the back way to reach the kitchen door when he had seen him. Something else occurred to him. Suppose the farmer's wife had been right? Suppose he had brought there, not only the police, but the murderer as well? He remembered the mysterious follower in the tunnel. Was it possible that that had been the man? How had he come? And, above all, who could it be?
He puzzled for some time over that question. It was getting late. He looked up at the clock, and caught the plain-clothes man's eyes fixed on his curiously, not without a trace of vindictiveness. He wondered if he had given away anything on his face. His emotions during the time he had been waiting had been mixed. His expression might easily have shown something. He glanced furtively across at the farmer. Beneath a pair of shaggy brows, and above the bowl of his pipe, the farmer too was eyeing him intently. Under their combined gaze, he began to feel uneasy. He felt for another cigarette, but his case was empty. The array of half-smoked stubs on the ash-tray explained that simply enough. He realised that his nerves must be in a bad way. He felt horribly tired. Somehow he must pull the door himself together, before—Just at that minute the door opened.
It was a uniformed constable who entered. He jerked a thumb towards the plain-clothes man, exchanged a whispered word, and seated himself in a commanding position by the door as the other guard went out. About the window there was no need to take any special precaution. It was heavily shuttered. Prescott had an uncomfortable feeling that he was trapped. They would have to send for him soon.
From above there came a sound of shouting. Prescott jumped to his feet and made two steps towards the door before the cold eye of the constable stopped him. He sat down again.
"What is it?" he demanded. "What's happening?"
"I don't know, sir," the constable said stolidly, with a sort of distant politeness. "I think it's the inspector, sir."
The shouting continued. Unless Bagehot had quite gone off his head, he would never go on like that. Perhaps they had caught the murderer? He might never have left the house. He might have been hiding there. Surely he could not have attacked anyone else. The girl—but the woman was with her. He felt the perspiration on his face.
"Hadn't you better go and see?" he demanded. "They might need you."
He realised the next minute that it had been a foolish thing to say. A look of cold suspicion gathered on the constable's face; but his respect was unwavering.
"My orders are to wait here, sir," he said.
Whatever it might have been, the noise had ceased. With his eyes on the clock, Prescott settled himself to wait again. He had never known time pass so slowly. Was the girl all right? They ought to have a doctor. But a doctor had already been sent for. By now he should have arrived. His landlady would be wondering what had happened and fearing the worst. Surely he could send word, somehow—
The door opened again. The plain-clothes man re-entered, and this time he walked straight over to Prescott.
"The superintendent would like to see you, sir," he said almost with deference. "In the drawing-room."
He held the door open and allowed Prescott to precede him. That might have been either politeness or precaution. Apparently the drawing-room was the room on the other side of the passage. A light showed through the half-open door. He entered.
The superintendent was standing by the mantelpiece, having apparently just risen from his easy chair. Bagehot was seated on the other side, with his note-book on his knee. At a small card-table which had been pulled out he saw another middle-aged man, also obviously a policeman in plain clothes.
Addison motioned to the man who accompanied him. He went out, closing the door after him.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, sir," the superintendent apologised with an immovable face. "Sit down, won't you?"
Prescott obeyed. Now that the time had actually come, he felt almost relieved.
"First of all, sir," Addison said quite pleasantly, "if you don't mind, we'll take your fingerprints. You see, sir. You were upstairs with us. You may have touched the banisters or something, and we shall need yours to sort them out from the others. You've no objection?"
"No." Prescott felt his throat had suddenly gone dry. He was wondering where he could have left fingerprints. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to tell the truth. He would see how the examination went.
"Right. Sergeant—"
The plain-clothes man at the table came forward. At another time the process would have interested Prescott. As it was, he allowed his inked fingers to be rolled on the paper almost listlessly.
"A very distinctive print, sir," the sergeant commented, and there seemed to be a certain relish in his tone. Prescott tried to smile; but he felt that his effort was not a success. He looked towards the superintendent.
"Now, Mr. Prescott." Addison remained standing. In the low room his head seemed ridiculously near the ceiling. "This is a bad business... And I need hardly point out that if you'd come to us in the first place and told us what you knew, it wouldn't have happened."
Prescott shook his head. "I didn't know anything," he said. "It's true I had seen Miss Seaton near here at lunch-time. I had an idea, on thinking it over, that she might have been here hiding. But I didn't know until I actually saw her through the window."
"Then, why did you lie to the inspector, sir?" Addison asked bluntly.
Prescott flushed. "Lie to him?" he echoed.
"With that bull story—not to say cock-and-bull story." The superintendent smiled grimly. "How did you think we knew where to look for you, sir? Once we knew that there weren't any bulls out for a mile round, it was obvious you were hiding something."
On another occasion Prescott might have admired the inspector's thoroughness. He felt his face must be scarlet.
"Well—" he began, and stopped.
"And then, apparently, there was some incident with the young brother," Addison pursued. "You suppressed that, too, sir."
"I didn't know what to make of it," Prescott admitted. "It happened like this—"
He told his story without interruption.
"And, sir, though you appear to have thought yourself the victim of an armed attack—for you admit that at the time you were taken in completely—it never occurred to you that that might be of interest to the police?"
"I suppose it did," Prescott admitted.
"Now, Mr. Prescott, you see what's happened. We're dealing with at least two murders, and murder is the most serious crime there is. So far, I warn you, your attitude has been dangerously unsatisfactory, I'd like to hear the whole story of what happened to-night." There was distinct emphasis on the word 'whole.' "You've no objection to its being taken down and copied for you to sign?"
Prescott felt a little taken aback. "Do I understand you're warning me?" he demanded.
"I hadn't. If that's your attitude, perhaps I'd better." There was something very intimidating in his face as he solemnly did so. "And now, sir?"
Prescott began. He included his journey there, with the deliberate shaking off of the detective, and the passage through the tunnel. Only when he mentioned the person whom he had heard behind him he saw Bagehot look quickly at the superintendent. Otherwise the superintendent stood there motionless; Bagehot was writing an occasional note in his book; and the sergeant scribbled busily.
It was when he came to the farm that the trouble began. He admitted looking through the window, and made a good deal of the fact that it was only then that he had seen the girl. He mentioned the lighted window, missed out the roof completely, but spoke of the delirious man's voice. The superintendent took him up at that.
"I suppose, sir, you didn't hear anything that he said?" he asked mildly. "That might be important. Even if he were delirious, it shows what was on his mind."
"Well—" Prescott hesitated. The thought came to him that he had better tell the truth as far as possible. "I thought I caught a few words," he admitted. "Most of it was complete nonsense, and I couldn't make head or tail of it. It was the voice that struck me most... The bit I heard was repeated twice. 'Until you are dead; until you are dead.' Like that."
"You recognised it, Mr. Prescott?"
"Hardly?" Prescott stared. "I suppose at the time he was referring to the murder."
"Not the murder—the trial," Addison answered, and his voice was very grim. "You shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead... And may God have mercy on your soul!"
In spite of his rigid self-control, Prescott recoiled a little. It was a mere theatrical trick, but it was unnerving.
"And then?" the superintendent prompted.
All at once, Prescott remembered the first man, the one to whom the farmer had spoken. Of course he must mention that. He described it as it had happened, except that his view-point was round the corner of the dairy. But that brought another difficulty. He had to get to the other end of the dairy, in order to see the mysterious watcher by the water-butt from there—otherwise he could hardly have met the girl in the right place. Somehow he skated over that. A slight sound had made him look round—and there the man was. From then on he told the truth, with a feeling of relief at having reached solid ground at last. They waited until he had finished.
This time it was Bagehot who asked the question.
"You'd never been in the house before, I understand, sir?" he asked.
"No." Prescott knew what was coming, and his answer was ready.
"Yet, when we went upstairs, you were able to tell us which room the murdered man was in, sir?"
"I'd seen the lighted window from outside." The reply came quite glibly. "It was easy enough to tell what position the room was inside."
Bagehot nodded slowly. The superintendent seemed to be waiting for something, scowling down at his boot toe. He looked up at last.
"And that's all you've got to tell us?" he said almost casually. "You're sure there's nothing else?"
"Nothing that I can remember." Prescott wrinkled his brows. "I might have overlooked some detail—"
"Then, Mr. Prescott"—Addison's face changed suddenly—"you will be detained in custody as a suspected person. Sergeant! Let Williams look after him. Send him to the station as soon as a car comes."
"But—" Prescott began. He felt he had gone very white.
"Any charge, sir?"
"For the present, he is merely to be detained. If there is any difficulty, charge him with being an accessory to both murders."
Prescott was on the point of speaking; but a look at the superintendent's face warned him of the uselessness of further protest. Besides, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had deserved what he got. There would be a row at the office. Another thought struck him. The sergeant was at his elbow, shepherding him out, but he turned.
"Miss Seaton—" he began. "She—she's—?"
"I'll see that she's informed of your arrest as soon as the doctor gives leave.... Right, Sergeant."
That took the wind out of Prescott's sails completely. Perhaps it was intended to. The superintendent waited until the door had closed behind them before he exploded.
"The damned young fool! Does he think we've time to listen to that nonsense? He'll have time to think up a few more funny stories before I'm through with him."
Bagehot held his peace. The rages of the superintendent were sufficiently rare for him to enjoy the reputation of having an imperturbable temper; but they were none the less violent for that. For several minutes he divided his attention between his pipe and his note-book, only occasionally nodding in answer to the remarks Addison jerked at him. Personally, he thought, though Prescott had asked for it, he would have preferred some milder action, as likely to lead to less trouble. The engineer, for example, was quite likely to register a protest about the imprisonment of one of his best draughtsmen. Prescott would presumably get a lawyer and then—
The superintendent was finishing another explosive sentence.
"—and we can prove the story's nonsense on three separate points!" he finished.
"I make it five, sir," Bagehot said mildly, looking up from his note-book.
Addison's wrath had expended itself. He grinned.
"Anyway, a night in the cells will do him good," he said. "And he can't bolt, whoever else can."
"But you don't think he's guilty, sir?"
"We've the best case against him of anyone, in a way," Addison said. "But, damn it, I don't... Though he seems to be doing his best to show he has a motive, which was our one weakest spot."
"A motive, sir?"
"That blasted girl... Come in!"
It was the sergeant who reappeared, but his face and manner showed that he had more on his mind than the arrest of Prescott and his delivery to the gaol. He crossed the room in a curious sort of trot, and whispered into the superintendent's ear so that Bagehot hardly caught a word.
"What?" Addison rapped out abruptly. "More of 'em? Now?... Has everyone gone mad!... Right, Sergeant. Stay here. We'll have a look."
He beckoned to Bagehot, who followed him meekly.
"What is it, sir?" he asked as they turned towards the kitchen.
"The damned fool on duty on the back swears there's someone prowling round. Behind the dairy. Again! I believe they've all gone mad!"
The superintendent at that moment was in too hot-headed a mood for cool judgment. His scheme seemed to be to dash straight out of the back door, giving ample time for whoever might be outside to escape into the darkness. Fortunately, Bagehot's strategy prevailed. In the end, the superintendent and a constable were to wait by the back door for an agreed time, another constable was to take the yard entrance, leaving by the front door, and Bagehot himself, by the same route, was to circle the building to take the intruder in the rear. Even so, the inspector had little hope of success. If there had been anyone there at all, in all probability he had now finished prowling, and had gone his way. As he started round the side of the farm, he proceeded with due caution, but with very little hope.
The moon was just rising. It was visible as a greyish light in the sky, but the clouds were too thick for it to give much help. Bagehot kept his eyes on the field ahead. Limited though the visibility was, there was just the chance that there he might see anyone who tried to get away, and on the whole it seemed to be the likeliest way. To leave by the farmyard meant actually passing the occupied kitchen and, though the unknown presumably did not know that the police were there in force, he would surely avoid that. But he reached the corner without seeing a sign of anyone and, bending down close to the ground to offer no silhouette peered cautiously round.
As he had thought, the path between the buildings was empty. From the yard had come no sound. The only conclusion he could draw was that the person, if there had really been anyone there, had already gone his way. It was darker in the passage, but, bending down as he was, he could just make out the black outline of the water-butt which he had already decided was the way both Prescott and the murderer—if the two were not identical—had made their way into the house.
He knelt there, waiting for the appearance of Addison and the constable. There was just the chance that someone might be round the corner out of sight. In that case, he would be caught by the kitchen door party, or failing that by the man at the gate. It must be nearly time now. Then, all at once, he noticed an odd thing.
The black outline of the roof by the water-butt seemed to bulge. The water-butt itself developed a sort of hump. And then, for a second or two, against the sky, he had a momentary glimpse of a head and shoulders. Someone was coming down off the roof by the very way which had already been used twice that evening.
What was happening to the superintendent? Bagehot began to creep cautiously forward. And as he did so, the charge came from the other end. It seemed as though Addison was in no mood for half-measures. He came at a run. Bagehot heard something like a gasp from ahead.
"Who's that?" There was something familiar about the voice that came from the darkness ahead. "Halt, or——"
The crack of a rifle punctuated the sentence. Bagehot had not reckoned on that. He himself started to run forward; collided heavily with someone, and gripped him as they both went headlong.
Someone else joined the heap. As the top of a helmet caught his eye, Bagehot guessed it was the constable. Then a beam of light stabbed the darkness. It shone on the pistol which the superintendent's hand pointed unwaveringly at the group in general; but it showed Bagehot something more.
In the shock he relaxed his hold for an instant; then, on second thoughts, tightened it again.
"Give up, you murdering devil, or I'll blow your head off!"
The superintendent's picturesque speech seemed to have its effect; for their captive ceased struggling.
"Let me get up!" There was more indignation than fear in the voice. "What the devil's this?"
Addison advanced a pace or two. "Who's that?" he asked uneasily.
Bagehot rose to his feet, though still blocking the backward route.
"I think it's Major Shepton, sir," he said.
HEATED explanations on both sides had done little to ease a strained situation when Major Shepton took his leave half an hour later. On the police side, it had been pointed out quite reasonably that they were investigating a murder; that the murderer had entered by that window, and might have returned; that there was every reason for supposing that anyone in the precincts of the farm was a possible criminal, since the Home Guard had failed to notify the Civil force of their intention to take a new outpost under their wing.
For the Home Guard, Major Shepton pointed out acidly that the police had not notified them of their intention to occupy the farm in force; that the factory company was responsible for patrolling all that district, and that the farmer at least had been informed earlier in the evening of their purpose. Having been informed by the last patrol that a window was open in the rear, Major Shepton had verified it as a matter of civic duty; he was on the point of informing the farmer when he was attacked without warning. He had challenged, and fired, having no time to repeat the formula.
When all was said, the matter was left in an unsatisfactory state. Bagehot could see that for two pins Addison would have arrested the major, and that might be unwise. He concentrated his efforts so effectively in the direction of peace, that it was only after Shepton had gone that the superintendent remembered that the most vital question of all had not been dealt with—who was to pay for his new hat? In the one he had been wearing a neatly drilled hole testified alike to Addison's good fortune, and a tendency on the major's part to fire high.
Perhaps it was reaction after this spirited scene which led to a corresponding depression on the part of Superintendent Addison when he again settled down in the drawing-room to wrestle with the case. The farmer and his wife had been easily got out of the way. What they said agreed in every point with what the girl had already told them, and there was no shaking their story. While their conduct might be in one way reprehensible, in view of the peculiar circumstances it was probably unwise to press things too far. Addison and Bagehot sat down to puzzle out such clues as they had got, and to await the reports of a variety of messages the superintendent had sent out.
Addison was distinctly gloomy. "It's no damned good," he said wearily. "He's got away with it under our noses... They'll say we ought to have called in Scotland Yard at once."
Bagehot frowned. It was what he was afraid of himself.
"As for to-night," he said consolingly, "I don't see how we could really prevent it. We couldn't dream it was going to happen... But I think the fact that it has happened may give us an indication in a way.... There's the question of motive."
"Which is?" Addison asked.
"I can think of two, sir. Fear on the part of the murderer that Seaton, if he were allowed to talk, would give the game away somehow; or jealousy of the girl."
"The girl?" Addison echoed, and shook his head. "She's good-looking enough, of course, but she's no excuse for any sensible man to go about murdering people."
"The murderer probably isn't a sensible man, sir. He's probably pretty near mad on this one point... Look at the whole affair. Three people have had attempts made on their lives; two are dead. But the point is, that all three seem to have been more or less fond of Priscilla Seaton."
"Not Biddulph?" Addison demanded.
"In his own way, I think, sir. Not that he's demonstrative, or that he stood much chance. But that is the one thing linking up the three. Now that the Fifth Column stuff seems to have petered out, it's the only thing... That's why, though it may be safer for him, it's almost a pity we locked up Prescott."
"Why?" The superintendent looked at him blankly. "He doesn't know the girl."
"Their acquaintance is progressing—at least in a sort of medical way," Bagehot said dryly. "He tied her leg up, dumped her in a chair once or twice when she fainted, nearly knocked her silly outside the farm and put her to bed."
Addison's eyebrows rose. "I thought the farmer's wife—" he said.
"Carried her there, I mean. Well, now he's gone to gaol, quite largely owing to his efforts on her behalf—"
"And still more for emulating Ananias... You think that that kind of thing would appeal to a girl?"
Addison was a hardened bachelor. As a married man, Bagehot could claim to speak with authority; but in this case the superintendent felt dubious.
"It doesn't matter whether it does or not, sir. The point is, I'm pretty sure he's attracted. All he's got to do if my view is correct, is to go about showing it. Which, if we let him loose, he will. Then the murderer will have a go at him."
"Unless he is the murderer."
"No. I believe the murderer's acquaintance dates from the time the cousin was at large. He must have known the cousin. That's how he could pose as a friend trying to get him out. We want a list of anyone who's been in communication with Seaton in the camp; and a list of anyone who showed any signs of admiring Priscilla Seaton when they were here together."
"I thought we'd gone into that?"
"Hardly. We got some of the obvious ones. That's all. The list could almost certainly be extended a good deal. For example, it didn't include Shepton."
Addison looked up quickly. "We've mentioned him before," he said.
"Yes. He's one of two people who could have dealt with the rifle problem successfully. In fact, he's one of two people I'm after... Now, in his case, his being fond of her is only supposition. But he gave me that impression."
"And he was here to-night," the superintendent said softly, and paused. "You heard what he said about the window. That he went to see if it was open?"
"Yes." Bagehot nodded. "And he may have done."
"Or, he may have gone there to get something he'd forgotten. The knife, say... Anyway, it wasn't open. I'd already shut it myself."
"He may have expressed himself carelessly, sir. We can find out if the guard who came before reported it."
"And then, his being there when we found him would mean it was quite impossible to say whether he left any traces on the roof then or at some other time. There may be traces."
"There are marks. I doubt if they're identifiable. Except for our young friend's fingerprints on the sill, the bed, the bedroom door, the banister, and the side of Seaton's door. He fairly scattered them round... I don't think the murderer left any. He didn't on the knife."
Addison brooded for a little while. "Suppose it was the other motive?" he said.
"In that case, sir, we've still got a good chance. You see, he's stopped Seaton's mouth, but we must be able to find somehow who helped him out of gaol; and perhaps, who secured his release. It may take time, but we can hardly help doing it in the end." He paused. "I think, sir, that if we follow those up, we shall get him one way or the other."
"Yes—just about the time the Chief calls Scotland Yard in above our heads. I'll have the devil of a job stopping him from doing it to-morrow... You think letting out Prescott might expedite things? The murderer surely wouldn't take the risk."
"As I say, sir, I don't think he's sane on this point. I think it would. But there's the risk—"
"That he might kill Prescott?"
Bagehot nodded. "We ought to be able to guard against that," he said.
"Then, out he comes at dawn to-morrow... And in the meantime, if I get a chance, I'll pitch the girl a yarn that'll make her think he's a modern knight-errant."
Bagehot concurred by his silence; though he objected to the metaphor. Knights-errant, in his experience, rescued too many different young ladies to be really satisfactory for a girl of Priscilla's temperament. Although she seemed to have had plenty of suitors herself, she would probably prefer the "only girl in the world" stuff. He sat thinking for a minute.
"And in the meantime?" Addison demanded.
"We'd better go on with what we've got." Bagehot yawned. He was beginning to feel the effect of his disturbed early morning. "What clues have we?"
"If you don't like Prescott's fingerprints," the superintendent said gloomily, "there's nothing but those marks on the roof. And the knife. Now, that is rather interesting. For one thing, it's a queer sort of knife. For another, why did the murderer leave it there? He was careful about everything else."
"He may have forgotten it. It's odd how they do. Or he may have left it deliberately; because it doesn't point to him, and does point to someone else... But I wasn't thinking of the material clues so much. I was trying to think what this latest business has told us about the murderer. What, in fact, the murders taken together tell us about him."
"Um!" Addison rejoined unencouragingly.
"We've good reason to think that he's connected with that drawing office—as it existed in Seaton's time. Which, of course, isn't the same as saying as it is now. Changes have been pretty brisk, owing to the war... He was probably fond of Priscilla Seaton—perhaps in a suppressed sort of way. He knew her cousin fairly well, and may have helped in the first instance to get him gaoled. I think we should try to get reports on that. He almost certainly helped to get him out. He knew he was coming down here and made all the arrangements. He knew a certain amount about poison—but not much. He could fire a rifle moderately well—but he didn't know a great deal about rifles. I mean, the marks they make on bullets and so on."
"I don't myself," Addison admitted.
"He was either in that squad, or was one of a very limited number of people who either had means of entry, or could make them. The same applies to the armoury, of course."
"A very limited number?" Addison quoted. "You mean there are people who could have got in?"
"Oh, yes. I gather that Hollingworth, for example, as engineer, has keys to most places there. He's certainly got a latch-key to the side door. The porter told me. I think there are one or two others. Senior people, of course."
Addison seemed interested in this point. "Shepton?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. We'd better get a full list of keys issued. Then—"
"Somerton?" the superintendent pursued unexpectedly.
Bagehot stared at him. "Why, you don't think he—"
"I don't know. He seems to have been very nice and polite to the girl. He had the keys of the armoury. He could have got the ammunition and all that—"
"He didn't know the girl before?" Bagehot wrinkled his brows. "I don't think he fits the bill with regard to the cousin, either—"
"This is nonsense," Addison said impatiently. "One thing we can settle is, who was free to do the murder at the time?"
"Not in the first case, sir," Bagehot corrected. "There are too many. And some of those you've just mentioned are people we've never inquired about at all. Hollingworth, for example... As for to-night, we shall have to hope for the best. But I'm doubtful. Too many of 'em may have gone to bed, or to the pictures or something. I mean, they may only have ordinary alibis, which won't stand proving, and can't be disproved."
Addison gave up the less tangible considerations. He reached forward and pulled the plate on which the knife had been deposited towards him.
"Well, there is this, anyway," he said. "And it ought to lead us somewhere."
Bagehot eyed it carefully. It brought back some memory or other of his early youth, but he could not place it.
"It's an old-fashioned thing, sir," he said. "I should think it was quite expensive too."
"Yes. But the thing I'm trying to get at is that it's so obviously what you might call an 'occupational' knife. I mean, it's the kind of tool which is probably used quite commonly in certain trades or professions, but not in others. And for that reason it might help us."
Bagehot frowned at it. Whatever it had been intended for, he decided, it was not the work it had done. A more unsuitable knife for a murder it would have been hard to find. The blade was fairly short; sharp pointed, but going in a kind of rounded edge on both sides. And it was very thin. The handle was long, and was also too weak to make it a reliable tool for delivering a thrust.
"It looks as though the murderer knew in what sort of condition he'd find Seaton," he said slowly, still haunted by the half-recollection that eluded him. "He'd hardly have taken that knife if he hadn't known his victim couldn't resist."
"I don't know." Addison also seemed troubled by the knife. "That's why it's important to know what kind of a knife it is. He might have done the murder on the spur of the moment, and that was the only knife he had with him—"
"Or he might have planned a carefully premeditated murder and used that particular knife with a purpose. Which do you choose, sir?"
"I don't know. So far as I'm concerned, both ideas start at scratch. All three, in fact—"
"That's it!" Bagehot interrupted him excitedly. "I've got it, sir. My great-uncle used to have one. It's a scratching-out knife."
Addison looked his bewilderment. "Scratching out what?" he demanded.
"Well, sir, any mistake that you want to correct neatly. You scratch it gently, rub down the rough part, and you can hardly see the correction."
"And who'd use 'em?"
"Well, sir, pretty well anyone who wants to scratch out neatly. Artists, draughtsmen, perhaps clerks—but not accountants—"
"Why not?"
"Because, if an accountant makes a mistake, he just strikes the figure out, leaving it so that it can still be seen, and corrects in red. Some clerks do too."
Addison groaned. "Then it simply leads us back to that damned drawing office?" he asked plaintively.
"Probably, sir... What is it?"
Addison had suddenly bent forward over the knife, and was scrutinising a vague mark at one end.
"Letters," he said. "There's someone's initials. A monogram... W—W—"
"W.H.S., sir?" Bagehot suggested.
"Damn it, you don't mean—?" Addison asked. "It's not the firm supplying it?"
"No, sir. I don't think so..." Bagehot hesitated. "We don't know the initials of all of them, sir. But we could get a list—"
"S?" Addison murmured. "Seaton, Shepton, Somerton—"
Bagehot eyed him with a certain sympathy. "The trouble is, sir, that it's a monogram," he said. "You can't really tell it isn't 'S.W.H.'—for, say, Hatch or Hollingworth. Or even, at a pinch, 'H.S.W.' for—"
Addison looked up quickly as he paused. "There's only one," he said. "W for Willoughby."
IT was largely owing to the well-meant efforts of other people that Addison's benevolent intentions towards his prisoner failed of their immediate fulfilment next morning. The superintendent had mentioned the arrest to Shepton in their passage of the night before, and Shepton had duly passed the information on. As a result, the Chief Constable, assailed himself by an extremely incensed engineer in the early hours of the morning, had in turn roused the superintendent from a well-earned rest. Not merely bad temper, but the mere necessity for self-defence, had compelled Addison to make out so good a case against Prescott that as he retired to bed again, he was driven to the gloomy reflection that his great difficulty next morning would be to persuade his superior not to prefer an immediate charge, and to precipitate a release was out of the question.
In consequence, Prescott was still languishing in confinement when the hour approached next morning for the office workers to catch their bus to the factory. The conditions of his detention were not onerous. Biddulph, who was one of the few who seemed to have heard what had happened, was rather disappointed on calling at the police station to find the accused man enjoying an excellent breakfast, and apparently resigned to his fate. The fact was that a night's rest had done a good deal to restore Prescott's normal sanity. He could see that he had behaved like an ass, and that the situation was awkward. On the other hand, in the knowledge that he was innocent, he could not see how the superintendent could possibly succeed with a charge against him, and he was inclined, quite correctly, to class it as a case for apologies and explanations. He was going to make them at the first opportunity.
Biddulph, as a comforter in distress, certainly belonged to the type from which Job suffered. His manner suggested that he was taking a last farewell from someone who was inevitably destined for the scaffold. But it cheered Prescott considerably. There was something so irresistibly comic about Biddulph in a tragic mood, and only consideration for the good intentions which had prompted the visit prevented the object of his sympathy from giving visible expression to his enjoyment.
"I say, old man, I'm fearfully sorry," Biddulph said after a long and solemn pause. "It's all some ridiculous mistake, of course. None of our chaps will believe you're guilty... But I warned you."
Prescott nodded. "You were quite right," he admitted. "I was followed... But the man who did it wasn't up to the job. I got rid of him easily enough. This was mere bad luck."
"You didn't go to the pictures, then," Biddulph said almost reproachfully. "You know, when you said that last night, I quite thought you'd arranged—well, that you might be going with a girl. Otherwise, I'd have stuck to you, and this would never have happened."
That, Prescott reflected, was precisely why he had conveyed that impression.
"I'm sorry," Prescott apologised. "The fact is, I went to the pictures all right. That was where I lost my shadow. But I came out again pretty soon."
"But why did you have to go up to the factory?" Biddulph almost wailed. "You must have known the risk—"
Prescott was not going to broadcast the true reason to the world. "The fact is," he said, ignoring the classical warning about the words, "I'd got some silly idea I might be able to find something out about this business. Of course, it was a wash-out, but I ran into them, and they pinched me."
"Then," Biddulph said in a hushed voice, "you were actually on the spot when—when it happened?"
"Not actually on the spot," Prescott denied gravely. "That's what the police are saying. I was certainly in the neighbourhood—"
"Of course, I didn't mean that," Biddulph said hastily. "Then you didn't see anything?"
"Nothing in the least helpful," Prescott answered. As an equivocator practice was improving him. "And what I went there about was all nonsense."
Biddulph nodded with an air of profound wisdom. He paused for quite a time, cleared his throat, and half veiled his eyes. Prescott almost thought he was going to offer up a prayer.
"She was asking about you this morning," he said at last in a reverent whisper. "She seemed to have heard—"
"Who?" Prescott demanded, quite unnecessarily.
"Miss Seaton.... She seemed fearfully worried. I told her that it was all a mistake, and that at the most you'd get off with a few months' imprisonment... I say, Prescott. You don't think that girl—well, that she's beginning to like you?"
Prescott felt himself colouring slightly, but he parried it. "You sound as though you don't think much of my personal charm," he said lightly. "You don't seem to think anyone could like me—"
"I didn't mean that, of course," Biddulph said hastily. "I mean—well, I suppose one ought not to say it but—You don't think she's keen on you?"
Prescott knew that he was blushing then. The gaucheries of shyness are among the most difficult to deal with. Luckily, Biddulph was too occupied in doing the same.
"That's absurd!" Prescott almost snapped; then managed to laugh. "Why, she's hardly seen me. All I did was to tie up her leg."
Biddulph nodded with some relief. "Of course," he said hastily. "It was only that she seemed so worried. She's fearfully sympathetic, you know... And I was a bit bothered, because she's the kind of girl who would take—would take that sort of thing seriously—"
"Most of 'em do," Prescott generalised. "But you're not painting me as a Don Juan, surely?"
"No. But, all the more since her cousin's death, she needs someone to look after her—"
"He hasn't been playing a very active part that way for the past month or two, and she seems to have got on all right," Prescott pointed out. "I suppose you knew them quite well?"
"Oh, yes. Fearfully well. We used to go about quite a lot... I mean, with her cousin and the rest," he added hastily, as though he feared what the absence of proper chaperonage might imply. "I used to advise her quite a lot. She's a very understanding girl—"
Prescott's conscience smote him. He was really laughing at Biddulph and Biddulph was apparently on the verge of revealing the secrets of his curious little heart. He glanced at the clock.
"I say, Biddulph, you'll have to dash for that bus," he pointed out. "It was awfully good of you to call—"
Even in his last words Biddulph managed to show his pessimism.
"I'll be in again to-morrow or the next day," he said. "If they let me, and if you aren't moved to the county gaol... Good-bye, old boy, I'm sure it's some mistake."
Prescott grinned as the door closed behind his visitor; but after a minute or two a more sober mood asserted itself. Perhaps, after all, his position was more serious than he thought. Perhaps he ought to consult a solicitor. Easy as his conditions of imprisonment had been, there was something unnerving about being shut up, and the prospect Biddulph had held out in his final words rather appalled him. Suppose he was charged with the murder? He would come up before the magistrates. Almost certainly the police could rake up enough evidence to justify a committal to Assizes. That meant days in prison, weeks—He switched his mind forcibly from the prospect and recurred to the rest of Biddulph's conversation.
So Priscilla Seaton had been inquiring about him. It occurred to him to wonder how Biddulph had come to meet her. Though no doubt he would, at the first opportunity, pay another sympathetically depressing call on her, it was hard to see how he could so far have had the chance. There was no telephone at the farm. It looked as though for some reason she must have come into the town.
Biddulph was a fearful ass. There was something almost annoying in his suggestion that the girl might have fallen in love with him. He could not quite work out what it was. It was funny how Biddulph always adopted some kind of a periphrasis whenever he had to deal with the subject. Of course, the poor chap was fond of her himself, and thought that everyone else must be. And then, in a sudden burst of mental frankness, he asked himself the question whether after all he was not. He could imagine a good many worse fates than marrying Priscilla. The trouble was, that on her side the thing was hopeless. The interview which he had hoped would smooth everything over had ended by doing precisely the opposite. And, what was worse, probably she thought that his presence had been indirectly responsible for her cousin's death. No, she could hardly think that, or she would not have asked Biddulph. But he reached the depressing conclusion that the one interview of their acquaintance must have shown him up in the unfavourable light of a bullying busybody.
He had underrated the subtlety of Superintendent Addison. Letting Prescott out of gaol might not be immediately practicable; but the second part of the programme had been successfully dealt with. And, unknowingly, Addison had achieved a far more effective setting than he could otherwise have done. Fortunately the breakfast had been removed, and a real gloom had deepened in Prescott's heart by the time a light knock at the door heralded the arrival of Priscilla Seaton.
Unaware of the superintendent's romantic design, Priscilla Seaton might have found it difficult to say exactly why she had come. She had resented Prescott's interference badly enough the night before. But his arrest seemed somehow to have put matters in a different light. As the superintendent had admitted, he was there largely because he had tried to help her, and, thinking it over, she felt that she had been rather unjust to him. Besides, as Biddulph had said, she had a sympathetic heart. It took her to the prison just as it had always prevented her from laughing at Biddulph.
Prescott rose awkwardly to greet her. He felt himself colouring. Shyness was perhaps infectious. He took refuge in the conventional.
"Good morning," he said. "It's very good of you to come... You'd better have the chair... Your leg—"
She seated herself obediently. Prescott perched himself on the table. There was an awkward pause.
"It's really awfully good of you to come," he said again. "Though you ought to be resting. Biddulph said you'd inquired about me—"
She looked her surprise. "You've seen him?" she asked. "He's been here?"
"Yes. He's only just gone—to catch the bus. I think he felt it was a duty. You see, he thinks I'm here for months at least. That's all nonsense. But it wasn't exactly cheering... He was the only one who did come, incidentally—"
Probably more of the gloomy mood which had possessed him appeared in his speech than he had intended. He had spoken a little bitterly.
"Of course, they wouldn't know," she said quickly. "How could they when it was only—only last night that it—it happened?"
That had not occurred to Prescott. But it raised another point.
"How did Biddulph know?" he asked.
"Oh, that was just like him... He was worried about you, apparently, and called on your landlady. When he heard you hadn't come home, he went to the police."
She smiled rather wanly. Prescott followed her example.
"I'm afraid I shall have to change my digs," he said ruefully. "In fact, it'll be a puzzle to find anyone in town who'll have me.... But how did you come to meet him?"
Rather to his surprise, she coloured. "That was quite by accident. I—I had to go out, and I met him on his way here."
"You're staying in town, then?"
"Yes. After—after what had happened, the superintendent thought I couldn't possibly stay there. Inspector Bagehot found me a place—though I don't know how. In the small hours of the morning—
Prescott's heart warmed slightly towards the inspector; though even at that moment it struck him there might be an ulterior motive in placing the girl where she would be unobtrusively under supervision.
"He's quite a good chap," he admitted. "So's the superintendent, really, though he did flare up last night. But I asked for it—"
Almost as if by common consent they had carefully been avoiding the main subjects of discussion. It was the girl who broke the ice.
"That was why I came," she said a little hurriedly. "I know I was—was rather rude last night. But you don't know what this last day or two has been like. It all seems a nightmare. And I didn't quite understand what you meant until I'd talked with the superintendent. Of course, it's really all my fault you're here—"
"But it isn't," Prescott protested. "Really—"
"I know that you were trying to help me." She disregarded his protest. "If you'd gone to the police, and told them what you suspected—"
"It would be a good deal better all round," Prescott admitted. "Perhaps even your cousin—"
She looked at him a little wildly. "I can't help thinking of that," she said in a low voice. "If I'd done what I ought to have done, he'd have been alive now. But I felt sure he would be arrested. I couldn't bear to think that I had given him up—"
"I don't see how anyone could blame you," Prescott said stoutly. "Under the circumstances, I expect I should have done the same myself. We couldn't foresee—"
He broke off, and for a time she made no effort to continue the conversation. There was a long silence.
"But who could have killed him?" she asked at last, though speaking more to herself than to him.
"That's what I can't see myself," Prescott admitted. "I didn't know your cousin, of course... But, honestly, I couldn't understand how anyone should want to kill Falcon or Biddulph—"
She looked at him quickly. "Did anyone try to kill Biddulph?" she asked. "He said so—"
"I don't know. He was certainly fearfully sick. And he thought he'd been poisoned. But—well, he's rather imaginative. I think he ought to write penny dreadfuls!"
She did not smile. "Really, I think it would be a good thing if he could," she said seriously. "You see, he is funny. Everyone thinks so, and he knows it; but he can't reconcile himself to it. He wants to be a great, successful man, fascinating to women, respected—"
"He's a jolly good draughtsman," Prescott conceded.
"Yes. But how often does anyone notice that? And, you see, though he's probably quite as clever in that way as say—Mr. Somerton—can you ever imagine his becoming a chief draughtsman? Or anything in real authority?"
Prescott could not; but he felt that enough time had been wasted on Biddulph.
"By the way, did you know Somerton?" he asked.
"I think I had met him. But he didn't seem to remember me. Or he didn't want to... I knew Major Shepton, of course, and Hollingworth."
"Mr. Hollingworth," he corrected her smilingly. "He's been promoted since your time—"
"But he was always bound to be!" She laughed. Evidently for the moment she had forgotten the present. "He tried so hard. And his manner—"
"What was he in your time?" Prescott asked, more for the sake of prolonging the conversation on pleasant lines than for anything else.
"Oh, at first just a sectional engineer. And then a sort of assistant chief engineer. But we always knew that he'd do something. My cousin—"
She broke off, and her face clouded suddenly. When she spoke again, it was in a different voice.
"You know, I can hardly believe that this has happened at all," she said slowly. "I can't let myself think about it... And I'm not going to."
Prescott looked at her a little anxiously. "It's bound to work out all right somehow," he said, giving expression to the faith of a naturally optimistic nature. "And besides... we're at war. Just as luck will have it, I'm tied to that wretched drawing board. I'd a thousand times rather really be doing something—"
"But it's very important—"
"Oh, I suppose it is. But, when there is fighting going on, it doesn't feel like a man's job... Anyway, they won't release me, and I've got to stick to it—" He broke off. "Not that I meant to bother you with my troubles. Of course, they're nothing like yours. What I was trying to say was that we're at war, and all kinds of dreadful things are happening. Lots of people have lost everything—everything in the world. The only thing to do is to face it, and keep on."
She did not answer at once. "That's what I shall do, of course," she said after a pause. "But I don't think you quite understand. So far as the war is concerned, one is more or less hardened. If it had been the war that did this, it wouldn't have been so bad. But it seems as though some personal thing—some petty little fear or jealousy has done this quite separately... Do you realise that in the past two days I've lost the two people who were most fond of me in the world?"
Prescott did not quite know what to say. There was a kind of fierceness in her manner; and yet she was speaking quite quietly.
"I'm going to bore you with a little life history of my own," she went on, still in the same voice. "When we first came down here, before the war really started at all, I think it was the happiest time I had ever had. There were just a few of us, mostly at the office, though there were a couple of young officers. They are both dead... There was Falcon, and my cousin, and Biddulph because we hadn't really the heart to turn him away, and three or four friends of my own... We used to do nearly everything together. Of course, I met all the others, but they were outside the picture, somehow. I wasn't fond of either of them. I hadn't thought about it very much. I knew they were both fond of me, and I shouldn't have been very surprised if I'd married one of them in the end—though I suppose that seems a cold-blooded way of talking... I suppose you can't see what I'm trying to explain."
Prescott was far from sure that he could. He had passed a moderately serious-minded youth, having generally been too busy passing examinations to worry much about other things. And, certainly until the last day or two, the emotional part of his nature had had very little to do with determining his actions.
"I think I do," he said.
"But you don't... It was the happiest time in my life; because, as a child, with my parents in India, though I wasn't miserable, I don't seem to have enjoyed it in the way some people do. And now, they're all dead. Except Biddulph... I don't feel as though I should ever dare to be friendly with anyone again. It hurts so much when—"
Prescott felt very helpless. In the face of the misery which was in her words there seemed to be no consolation he could offer. He was trying to think of something to say.
"And that isn't the worst," she said slowly. "I've been wondering—whether—whether I wasn't in some way responsible. It seems so queer that Falcon, and my cousin—and even Biddulph—that someone should—"
She broke off abruptly; then rose to her feet with an attempt at a smile.
"I—I hardly think I'm a good person to comfort those in distress," she said with an attempt at lightness. "I don't know what you'll think of all this nonsense. I suppose I had to tell someone; but it seems hard to bore you to tears when you're in prison—"
"I was glad you did," Prescott said seriously. "As for this—I don't really believe I'm here for very long. I think it was just that I handled the superintendent badly, and he thought he'd teach me a lesson... I think he has... I'm almost grateful to him—"
She smiled a little. "You're evidently one of the characters on whom prison does have a reforming influence," she suggested; and then her voice changed. "Then—you really think that—?"
"I think I shall be out of here in no time, and in a day or two this business will be over—somehow. Though, I think, from now on, I'd rather leave it to the police. I've lost my faith in private detectives."
"Including Biddulph?" She was still making a valiant attempt at cheerfulness. "He's quite sure that he'll solve it soon... Oh, if only it would be finished—somehow. I don't think I care how—"
"The best thing you can do," Prescott said practically, "is to go back to bed and stay there for an hour or two. Have some hot milk, or something. Your leg—it's my first real casualty. I don't want it to go wrong. And I hardly think you've been quite fair to it!"
She managed a faint smile. "On the whole, it's a testimony to your treatment," she assured him. "And now—I'd really better go. I'm surprised they've let me stay so long... Good-bye."
"They're very lax in this gaol." Prescott was determined to end on a cheerful note. "Perhaps I'll escape. If I do, I may come and see you?"
She smiled and turned towards the door. But it was opened before she got there. Apparently someone had already been on the way to interrupt them.
"If you'll excuse me, Miss Seaton," the sergeant said quite politely, "I think the superintendent is waiting to see Mr. Prescott."
BENT uncomfortably double under a blackthorn bush which had already pricked him three times, Inspector Bagehot sighed as he carefully poured the white fluid from the jug in his hand. He had been glad that morning to escape from the possible repercussions of the superintendent's move of the night before; and he could reasonably claim that he had plenty to occupy his attention elsewhere. But he had to admit that he was getting too old for that kind of work. No doubt it had been bad enough for Prescott to worm his way up the lane in the dark; but he was unencumbered. Bagehot, though he had the advantage of the daylight, was hampered by the bag which carried certain necessary equipment, the weight of which seemed to increase with every yard.
Still, he seemed in a fair way to doing what he had set out to do. That was to establish an unbroken line of evidence from some person unknown to the farm where the murder had taken place. In the bag, he had already three casts of footprints, and one, much less satisfactory, of a hand. The last, which he was just preparing, was important as providing an explanation of the sudden cessation of movement which had followed the snapping of the stick. Prescott had not known the tunnel; in the dusk, he could have seen very little. But there was a way out, and the owner of the footprint had taken it. Bagehot retrieved the plaster shell tenderly, stowed it in his bag as though it was a precious jewel, and scrambled through the gap behind the bush.
It was as he had thought. The farm was in plain view, only a few fields away. If the man who had followed Prescott had come through as he had done, he could have got there as quickly, if not more quickly, certainly in time to enter the window after he had come out. His next work would be at the farm—unless he had the luck to find another print in between; but that he doubted. The discovery of even one print there would establish a clear line between the lane and the place of the murder. Then, all that would be necessary, would be to find the owner of the shoes that had made the marks.
Bagehot believed that he was really on the way to doing it. The conversation with Addison the previous day had been far more illuminating to him than the superintendent guessed. It had brought out two points which they had rather overlooked about the first murder. There was, it was true, a serious stumbling-block; but the walk in the open air had clarified his brain. He had great hopes that a simple telephone-call might deal with that, and that call he proposed to put through from the factory as soon as he had finished at the farm. Even so, of course, there was a good deal to be done. For example, there was the knife. There was every hope that the office records might help to solve the problem of the monogram. But Bagehot was not quite sure about the knife.
No further prints rewarded him until he reached the farm. On the grass, they could scarcely be expected. Here the police were already in occupation—the sergeant and two constables. Bagehot was warm with his walk, and saw the chance to delegate his responsibilities. He handed to the two constables, with special injunctions as to care in the handling of them, two of his precious casts, appointed the place for each to search, and himself remained to talk to the sergeant.
"Nothing happened, then?" he asked. There was no special reason why anything should happen, but in a case like this one never knew. "No one been here?"
"A good many tried, sir," the sergeant said gloomily. "We've headed them off, though."
Bagehot raised his eyebrows. "Country people, or from the factory?" he asked.
"Both, sir. But we stopped them at the lane end. None of 'em got near the place."
"You've found nothing else?"
"Well, not exactly, sir. But that roof, sir—the one they climbed over. We looked at it last night—"
"Nothing much there," Bagehot said. "I was going to have a look at it in daylight, anyhow."
"You'll find a difference, sir. There's tracks all over it."
Bagehot rose to his feet. "Let's see," he said, "tracks are my meat just now."
Undoubtedly the sergeant was right—though perhaps he was guilty of overstatement. The tracks were not all over the roof. On the contrary, they led in a beautifully direct line from the water-butt to the window; except for one lot, very faint, which for some unknown reason went sideways towards the end of the roof. But what puzzled Bagehot was their distinctness. Admittedly it had been dark the night before, but even a flashlight should have shown them. He pursed his lips into a whistle.
"You see, sir," the sergeant explained, noting his surprise, "last night the roof was wet. It's dried up now. Everyone who went up had mud on their shoes; but when the mud and the slates were damp the two sort of blended—"
"You're right, Sergeant," Bagehot said with approval. "And, good heavens! To think it might have rained!" He made a motion to mount the water-butt, but changed his mind. "No. You might just get that ladder from over there. We'll go up just to one side—"
On a closer inspection, the prospect seemed rather less hopeful. It was true there were tracks, but the very number of them proved an embarrassment. They were so blended and confused that it was hard to see any of them clearly. Of the first two prints which he found in any clear shape, Bagehot recognised neither. He frowned down at them.
"Now, let's think what happened—or what we think happened," he said. "First of all that young—Mr. Prescott climbed up and came down again. Or so we think. Then, we think the murderer did the same. Then Major Shepton did the same. So, the murderer's prints should cover Prescott's; and the major's both of them. The question is, which is which? We'll assume, for the moment, that that's correct. We can verify it afterwards. Now, just look, Sergeant, for prints covering other prints—"
It was a longer job than he had expected. His logic was all right, but the prints, and more particularly in the immediate neighbourhood of the water-butt, were too mixed. In the end it was the sergeant whose efforts were rewarded, from a point almost at the top of the roof.
"Here you are, sir... But it's a new one—"
Bagehot pounded dangerously up the slates and looked.
"Thank Heaven!" he said fervently. "Sergeant, you've got it." He eyed the slate for a minute. Again the thought of a possible shower came to him. Stooping, he ripped the slate ruthlessly out, regardless of what might happen in the room below. He eyed it affectionately. Whether the constables were successful or not, he had got what he wanted. The tracks in the lane had been made by a rubber sole and heel, no doubt chosen for the absence of noise. But it had also made a much better print than a leather shoe would have done, and Bagehot had no shadow of doubt that it was the same. He thought for a moment. "We'll leave this for the present," he said. "Let's see how the others are getting on."
Three prints which were sufficiently plain had rewarded the searches of the constables. Bagehot was finishing his last cast, when the sound of footsteps made them look up. The sergeant muttered something beneath his breath.
"There's another of 'em, sir," he said. "From the factory. Shall I go and—"
But Bagehot had recognised the approaching figure. He shook his head and himself advanced to meet Major Shepton as he reached the farmyard gate.
Shepton smiled apologetically. Evidently he was intending to make peace.
"Good morning, Inspector," he said. "I thought you or the superintendent might be here... I'm sorry about last night, of course. I think we were both rather on edge—"
"Naturally, sir, you couldn't know what was happening." Bagehot accepted the olive branch, but he still barred the way into the yard. "I was just coming over to the factory, sir. If you'll just let me speak to the sergeant—"
Shepton stood eyeing them curiously until Bagehot returned.
"You've been busy here," he commented. "Tracks? I should think there were plenty. Two of my Home Guard chaps came round at different times—Belsey and Wayland. They'd be in regulation boots. I was in rubbers myself."
He caught the quick glance the inspector cast at his leather brogues.
"No good," he said. "If you want them for identification, you can easily collect 'em. They weren't in any state to wear this morning."
"Perhaps we will, sir," Bagehot assented. Major Shepton's shoes, he judged, were about size eight. Certainly they were larger than the tracks he had found in the lane; but not so much larger that he might not have squeezed with some discomfort into that size. He made to go forward. "Shall we get along, sir?"
Shepton fell into step beside him. For a minute they walked in silence. Perhaps it was the constraint of the previous evening's dispute; perhaps each of them hoped to extract information from the other.
"A terrible business," Shepton said rather obviously. "You know, I thought that Seaton must have done it somehow—though I didn't see how he could. And now—Stabbed, wasn't he?"
"Yes, sir," Bagehot agreed with reserve. He was wondering at the speed with which the news had spread, in spite of their precautions. But was that an item which was really generally known? Abruptly he decided to take the plunge. All at once he became communicative. "As you say, sir, it's a very queer business. And a queer knife that stabbed him, too."
"Yes?" Major Shepton said. Either his self-control was perfect, or he was only naturally interested.
"What's called a scratching-out knife, sir, I think," Bagehot went on informatively. "That may very well give a clue, I think. There can't be so many people with them?"
"A—a scratching-out—?" Bagehot was sure that it was not his fancy. There was a perceptible tremor in the major's voice. "A good many draughtsmen have them, of course," he said at last.
"This one's quite distinctive, sir. Besides, there's some sort of a monogram on it. H.S.W. or something like that... By the way, what are Mr. Willoughby's initials?"
This time there was no doubt that Shepton was shaken. He had paled visibly.
"Willoughby?" he echoed after a perceptible pause. "A.T., I think, but you can easily find out from—You're sure the monogram was H.W.—was H.S.W.?"
"We're sure of the letters, sir," Bagehot said. "They were rather rubbed, but quite plain. I suppose you don't happen to know of anyone with a knife like that?"
Shepton appeared to consider. "I couldn't say without seeing it," he said after a pause. "I don't remember the initials. Except—But that's out of the question, of course."
"Except who, sir?" Bagehot insisted.
"Well, you'd find out, anyhow, and it can't be anything but a coincidence. Except Mr. Hollingworth!"
It was Bagehot's turn to be surprised. "You mean, taking them with the H at the end, sir?" he said. "Of course, they could be like that... Though, as you say, it's absurd, sir."
There was silence for a little. They were getting near the office. Shepton made an effort to reopen the conversation.
"About the—" he began, and stopped. There was quite a perceptible pause before he went on. "About the rifles," he said, and Bagehot would have sworn that it was not the word he had intended to say the first time. "I understand you had them tested, Inspector. Any luck?"
"Rather confusing, sir. We're still trying to sort that out."
There was another brief silence.
"It's true, isn't it, about young Prescott? Really, I think you're making a mistake, if you think he had anything to do with the murder. He didn't even know Seaton."
"He's not been charged with it, sir," Bagehot assured him. "It's possible he may be released quite soon."
This time the silence lasted until they reached the lodge. With a brief farewell, Shepton left him. Bagehot looked after him and pursed his lips. The major, he thought, was an even worse hand at concealment than Prescott. But what was he concealing?
He put through his telephone call, received the unsatisfactory intimation that the doctor was out; then went in search of the general office. The chief clerk seemed surprised by his demand for the time-book; but handed it over. Bagehot seated himself at an empty table, and ran his finger down the pages. He stopped for a moment at one of them, and his eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Charles G. Shepton."
The entry meant that a perfectly good idea had gone west. The major had been troubled at the mention of a scratching-out knife; he had paled at the initials, and had been on the point of giving them as H.W.S. Bagehot had jumped to the natural conclusion that they were his own. Now, apparently, they were not. Obviously he would have to pursue his inquiries further.
There was still something he wanted to do. He had, of course, a record of the movements of the members of the squad on the night of Falcon's murder, but for his purpose it was still scarcely complete enough. The lunch-hour was just beginning, and people would be coming out. Thinking over the statements which had been made, he sent the sergeant in search of Hatch, Curry and Chard. They should be able to tell him most things between them; and, with the possible exception of the first, none had been in the least suspected. For the time at which the shot was fired, he wanted to compile a time-table of everyone's movements to the nearest minute and yard.
While he was waiting, he tried to work out the positive results of his morning's work. He had established, at least, that some person who had not been accounted for had followed Prescott by the indirect route to the farm; that he had been at the farm; and had climbed on to the roof. Coincidences could be very extraordinary, and in that case there had been some queer ones, but he felt it was stretching even coincidence too far to think that that was not the murderer. He had, to some extent, substantiated the partial account Prescott had given of his movements. Then, with regard to the knife, he had found that Hollingworth was the only person with the appropriate initials; and he had somehow managed to throw a scare into Major Shepton by merely mentioning the knife and initials.
On the whole, the result was puzzling, but full of promise. The number of people whom it was possible to suspect on any reasonable ground was, after all, limited. Not many of them could take a size seven shoe. With any luck he might be able to prove ownership of the shoes. It was true that the rubbers were of a common enough type; but they were also a little worn. Though soles or heels might be as alike as two peas when they left the factory, even a day or two was enough to give them distinctive peculiarities. The only hope of their owner was to destroy them. But they were all living in digs. And, it was quite certain that the disappearance of a pair of shoes would be noticed, and would form at least negative evidence.
About the knife, he was less certain. All that he could think of was that Hollingworth had lent or given the knife to Shepton. He could, of course, ask Hollingworth; but even the engineer was not yet off his list of possibles. For the present, he would only make indirect inquiries if any occasion offered.
His review of the situation was interrupted by the arrival of the sergeant, ushering in his three witnesses, all obviously interested and all eager to do their best. Perhaps it was the excess of eagerness which made the task more difficult than he had expected. There was a conflict of evidence about certain people at a good many times during the night, and it seemed clear enough that almost any one of them might at some time during the night have done some of the essential preliminaries, such as planting the rifle. But about the time of the actual shooting very little doubt existed. After he had dismissed his helpers with thanks, Bagehot set himself to tabulate the result, combining it as far as possible with the other knowledge he possessed. When he had studied it for some minutes, he lit his pipe and sat thinking.
The result was far from conclusive. But the little additional information he had obtained at least fitted in with the half-formed theory which, improbable as it seemed, was steadily taking shape in his mind. He had just realised that it was past lunch-time when the telephone bell rang sharply. He lifted the receiver to hear the superintendent's voice. Then he jumped to his feet.
"Right, sir," he said. "I'm coming at once."
Pausing only to replace the receiver and grab his hat, he hurried towards the door.
But he was not to get away so easily. The porter intercepted him, holding out a paper.
"Message for you, sir," he said. "From Dr.—"
Bagehot grabbed it without stopping, and dived for the entrance, leaving the man staring after him.
PRESCOTT'S release from captivity took place shortly after twelve o'clock. His interview with the superintendent had been pleasanter than he expected. Addison had demonstrated with convincing thoroughness what an incompetent liar he had been; he, on his part, had told the simple truth; and with a fatherly warning he had been allowed to depart.
Rather to his surprise, it was not as a social pariah, but as something of a hero that he found himself received by his landlady. His friendly feeling for the superintendent increased considerably on learning that that officer, presumably foreseeing possible complications, had concocted a story which at least conveyed the impression that he had been detained to assist in the murder investigation, rather than detained for not assisting. By preserving a mysterious and ambiguous manner, he found his prestige increased, and half an hour later he was sitting down to the best lunch he had been given since he had arrived there.
It was that particular alternate Saturday on which he was not supposed to work overtime. On other occasions, he welcomed the advent of the holiday; now, he found himself rather at a loose end. Over lunch, he tried to think out what he was to do. He was rather soured on the subject of amateur detective work. Perhaps unreasonably he was not feeling particularly inclined to seek out any of his fellow office workers who had failed to seek him out earlier in the day, at least until he knew more about their attitude towards him. The one thing he would have liked to do he could not quite see how to manage. He wanted to see Priscilla Seaton, and he did not know her address.
He was contemplating the desperate step of seeking out the inspector and asking him when Biddulph arrived. Evidently, in his view there was still need of the greatest precautions, for he arrived as wrapped-up and anonymously as ever. This time, however, the effect produced on the landlady was quite different. She classed him as some particularly special kind of detective, and showed him in immediately.
For once, Prescott was genuinely glad to see him, even apart from the probability that he might know the girl's address. He had felt more kindly disposed towards Biddulph since the visit that morning, and even his melodramatic manner seemed only a harmless eccentricity. Obviously he still feared the worst. His first words were a warning.
"I say, Prescott," he said solemnly. "You'll have to be frightfully careful now. Of course, you know why they've let you out?"
"Well, yes, I think so," Prescott admitted, a little puzzled.
"They're hoping that you'll incriminate yourself. It's a common trick... And, of course, you'll be watched. But you won't be able to throw them off this time. They'll be with you everywhere."
"Well, let 'em all come," Prescott said cheerfully. "I don't mind. Besides, I wasn't going out—at least, I don't think so."
Biddulph gave a worried look at him. "That's just it," he said unhappily. "I'd got a message for you... But I really don't think you ought to go. You might get her into trouble."
"A message? From Pr—from Miss Seaton?" Prescott demanded.
"Yes... Apparently she'd heard from the inspector that you had been—er—released. She said she wanted to see you... But you can see how difficult it is. They'll be watching you—eavesdropping. And the house where she's staying—well, you know, Inspector Bagehot chose it. You couldn't go there."
Prescott did not quite see why not. He was now a rehabilitated character. If the police still chose to watch him that was their affair. On the other hand, he had to admit that the prospective interview might be rather spoilt by the presence of two or three detectives hovering round, note-book in hand.
"What was the message?" he demanded.
"She said that she'd like you to meet her at half-past two," Biddulph said reluctantly. "Of course, you know where she's staying now, don't you?"
"No," Prescott admitted. "The police forgot to tell me. I've not seen anyone else."
"Well, you know where the rifle-range is? The town butts, I mean, for the barracks. Not ours. There's a big house up that lane at the back of them—you know? That's it."
Prescott nodded. "I know the place. She wants me to meet her there?"
"No. That's it. She particularly doesn't want the police to see you together... She thinks she can throw off anyone who is watching her. She suggested she should meet you at Arthur's Stone."
Prescott frowned a little. It seemed an extraordinary arrangement to make. He half suspected that it might mean he was going to be involved in some proceeding of doubtful legality; and his heart rather sank at the prospect. He had had enough of playing about with the police. Biddulph noticed his hesitation.
"Really, Prescott, I shouldn't go," he advised. "It's frightfully risky for a man in your position. I shouldn't go, if I were you... I shouldn't have told you at all, really. Only she insisted, you see... Besides, you can't go. I mean, I don't think you'll ever be able to shake off the detectives. They've got two men at least watching now. I saw them."
"Of course I can shake them off somehow," Prescott said irritably. "Let's just think—"
"The cinema—" Biddulph suggested timidly.
"Don't be a fool," Prescott snapped. "I suppose if I were seen to go into a cinema now, they'd surround the damned place with a cordon right away."
Biddulph looked disappointed. Suddenly his face lightened.
"Prescott!" he exclaimed. "I've got it. No one saw me come here."
"I thought you said they were watching?"
"Yes. They saw—they saw a mysterious figure arrive—but they couldn't know it was me... Don't you see? If you went out like that—in my hat and coat, and all wrapped up, they'd think they'd seen you come in before, so they wouldn't worry about your going out!"
Prescott smiled; then laughed outright. The idea distinctly appealed to him.
"And then you could put on my hat and coat and go to a cinema!" he suggested. "Seriously, Biddulph, that's the brightest idea you've had yet."
"It is rather good... But, I say. I don't think you ought to go really. Except that she seemed rather keen on it. I think there was something she wanted you to do."
Prescott's mind was made up. "I'm going," he said. "Come on. Take 'em off quick. It'll take me half an hour to get there—"
Biddulph obeyed, obviously torn between the fascination of the scheme and his fears. As he took off his various wrappings, Prescott noticed for the first time how deadly pale he was.
"You're not ill?" he asked; and then another explanation occurred to him. "Really, there's nothing to be worried about, you know. We're not committing any crime, even if it were found out."
"It—it's not that," Biddulph denied. "It's the poison. It's not quite worked out of my system yet. I've felt bad once or twice. But the doctor says it will pass off.... I'm quite all right, really—"
"All the same, I shouldn't fool about... You'd better go home to bed. Don't bother about throwing them off the scent with that cinema idea. This will be quite enough."
"I—I'll see," Biddulph promised. "I think I'll just sit down a little... It will soon go—"
Prescott was wrapped up and ready. But he hesitated. "You're sure you wouldn't like me to send a doctor along?" he demanded. "Or I could easily—"
"No. You'd better go. It will take you quite half an hour to get there. You'll have to avoid the butts. The Home Guard is practising there to-day. They'd notice you. Even if they thought it was me—"
He had risen to his feet. He was still pale, but he certainly looked better. Prescott moved towards the door.
"Righto," he said. "So long. And thanks awfully. I'll let you have the things back—"
Next moment, in the exhilaration of passing through the onfront door under the very noses of any possible watchers, he had almost forgotten Biddulph and his illness. At the first glimpse he could see nothing of them. Undoubtedly, unless they were figments of Biddulph's fertile imagination they were much better concealed this time. He noticed, then, that a road-sweeper whom he passed seemed to give an almost imperceptible signal to someone further up the street. As he drew level with one of the end houses, a postman, surely either very belated or too early, emerged, glanced at him, and passed on.
Undoubtedly Addison was doing the thing in style. But there was no move to follow him. Biddulph's reasoning had been sound enough. They had seen him go in, so they were incurious about his departure. Besides, if either of them were the watcher of the previous day, he would have seen the same mysterious figure then. He was fairly certain that the trick had taken them in completely.
As he walked along, he was conscious of a curious elation. Why she should have done it in that particular way was more than he could understand, but she had sent for him. She wanted him to do something. After that, a few minor risks, and even the fatherly attitude of the superintendent that morning, though it gave him a slight twinge of conscience, were nothing. He knew the place she had named well enough. It was on the moor, just behind the butts used by the barracks. In summer it was sometimes visited by picnickers. Now, it should be secluded enough. Probably the stone had nothing to do with Arthur whatever, but it was linked by local legend with the famous king. It was a large rock, set at a curious angle in a smooth, grassy mound, almost in the centre of a quarry-like hollow some three or four hundred yards across. Only on one side the mound and the rock were both cut sheer away, almost as though they had been chopped through with a knife. This was the side furthest from the entrance to the quarry, and there one could be quite hidden, except from the view of anyone on the opposite rim of the cliff-walls surrounding it.
He was getting near now. The crackle of rifle-fire sounded quite clearly from the butts, and he remembered that, all being well, he himself was to have attended a Home Guard practice there that afternoon. They would just have started. Still, the circumstances were exceptional. Even the most exacting squad leader could hardly expect a man who had only been released from gaol a couple of hours before to turn out on parade. But it meant that he had to be more careful. Quite a number of people who knew him would be wandering about in the vicinity and it was possible that they might be inquisitive. He kept a sharp look-out, but he had seen no one by the time he turned from the lane into the path which led to the hollow.
Would she be there? He felt his pulse quicken a little. And why had she wanted him to come? Had she, in spite of everything, discovered something about the murderer? But why should she not have gone to the police in the ordinary way? Or was it something about himself? So far as he knew there was nothing much more incriminating that could be found out. He gave it up. He was just turning into the quarry, and the next few minutes would provide the answer to his questions. Stumbling down the last steep bit of the track, he looked round eagerly. With a shock of disappointment he saw that the place was empty.
He glanced at his watch as he moved slowly forward. He himself was punctual to the minute; but it was possible that she might not be. A dozen things might have prevented her from arriving up to time. But for Biddulph's providential idea, he himself might have had more trouble in evading the attentions of his guardians. It was not unlikely that she should have found it difficult. Then his heart gave a jump as a slim figure in a tweed costume emerged from the far side of the rock and waved a hand to him. He waved in answer, and broke into a run.
The girl's face was a little flushed. She smiled a greeting to him, but there was anxiety in her eyes.
"You—got here?" she asked. "You got away? But how—? What happened? Why did you have to do it?"
Prescott laughed. He did not quite understand the succession of questions, but her presence made him momentarily indifferent to details.
"Oh, that was Biddulph," he said. "He arranged everything. I'm wearing his hat and coat at the present moment, if you observe. It was perfectly easy."
"But why—why was it necessary? What happened? Did they find—The knife? It was yours?"
Prescott stared stupidly. "The knife?" he echoed. "It certainly wasn't. I've been borrowing knives for the past two years."
"I don't understand." There was a puzzled frown on her face. "Why did you have to come here?"
Prescott felt a little hurt. "I thought you wanted to see me," he said.
"I did. Of course I did. And I want to help... But what was it they found out? The inspector was quite certain that you'd be released in an hour or two—before lunch, he said—"
"Well, I was," Prescott said bewilderedly. "I've just had lunch."
"Then—then you've not escaped? They released you—after all?"
"I never meant to escape," Prescott said. He was completely puzzled. "Who told you I did?"
"It was Gerald... Biddulph, I mean. He came to me just before lunch, and said that the police had discovered fresh evidence against you, that it was absolutely certain you'd be charged with Falcon's murder and perhaps with my cousin's... He said you'd made up your mind to escape while there was a chance, and that you wanted to see me here."
Prescott stared. "Then Biddulph, if you'll excuse my saying so, in addition to being the world's prize ass, is well in the running as the champion liar. Or else he's off his head."
"Then—then it's not true?"
"Not a word of it... What he told me was that you wanted me to meet you here particularly at half-past two. So I came."
There was an anxious look on her face. "Then—then he lied to both of us," she said slowly. "But why? Why did he want to bring us here at all?"
Prescott frowned for a moment, then laughed. "I'm not disposed to question the workings of fate, or Biddulph, at the moment," he said cheerfully. "The great point is that we are here. Do you know, when Biddulph came, I was just wondering how on earth to find out where you lived. I even thought of going to the inspector."
The girl smiled for a moment; but the anxious look did not leave her eyes.
"But what reason could he have had—for wanting us both to come here?" she said almost to herself.
"Perhaps it's an example of his super-tact," Prescott suggested. He thought. "He might even be trying his hand at match-making!"
Priscilla reddened a little. Her face was grave. "He'd never do that," she said. "Don't you understand that he's madly jealous of me?"
"Jealous?" Prescott echoed in astonishment. For the first time he had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling that something was wrong. "But—"
"Of course, he knows that I wouldn't marry him," she said quickly. "I don't think he'd ever have the courage to ask me. But I think he'd do anything to stop my marrying anyone else."
"Anything?" Prescott echoed. An amazing suspicion had suddenly crossed his mind. "Anything?"
The girl bowed her head. "I—I even thought that myself," she said after a long pause. "But I'm sure he couldn't—"
Prescott was not. He felt a sudden premonition of danger. Biddulph had brought them together for some reason, though Biddulph would have done anything to keep them separate. From where they stood on the mound covering the base of the rock he could see every corner of the hollow. He looked round. There was no one there. There was no possibility of concealment. On the poor, sandy soil, the grass was almost as short and fine as a lawn. There was not an inch of cover in the whole place, except where the rock broke away behind them.
"Well, he's not here," he said with a certain relief. "But I think perhaps we'd better—"
He broke off. Something whistled past his ear viciously, and a wind fanned his cheek. A little puff of dust rose from the top of the rock. He understood in a flash. Gripping the girl's arm, he started to drag her round the mound.
"What—?" she began, and stopped. "It—it was a shot?"
Prescott had no time to answer. He pulled her into the shelter of the sheer rock just in time. Another shot sounded, and a bullet buried itself in the short turf not six inches from him. Thrusting the girl further into the shelter, he peered round cautiously; then ducked.
"It's Biddulph," he said expressionlessly. "I saw my hat... On the rim above."
"You mean—?" The girl's voice trembled a little, but her eyes met his steadily. "He's trying to—to—?"
"He's trying to shoot us... That's why he brought us here. And he's a good shot. I wonder he missed the first time."
"But—but we're safe here?" the girl asked. "And someone will hear the shots—"
A sudden rattle from the butts on their left answered the second point. If Biddulph timed things well, the odds were against anyone noticing a few shots. He had chosen the place cunningly—in more ways than one, Prescott thought. It was true that, for the moment, they were in cover. But nothing would be easier than for Biddulph to move round the quarry rim until they were again in range. And they could not move. Except on that particular side, the slope of the mound was too gentle to give any protection against a man firing from that elevation.
Perhaps they could run for it. It seemed the only chance, but it was a slender one. The rock was rather nearer the inner wall than the entrance—perhaps a hundred and fifty yards compared with two hundred and fifty or three hundred. And there was no cover. While they were running for the path, Biddulph would have the chance of several shots. Still, he might miss. Then he remembered the girl's leg. She could never manage the distance. He thought for a moment.
"Priscilla," he said, "lend me your hat and stick—"
She obeyed without a word. The hat was of a distinctive light brown. Biddulph could never mistake it for the one Prescott wore. He placed it on the top of the stick and elevated it cautiously. The next moment the stick was torn violently from his hand, and the hat flew some distance away.
That disposed of that idea. Biddulph was trying to shoot both of them. He could not possibly leave the girl and make a dash for help. And Biddulph had also got the range, and was on the alert. If he could make such good practice on so small a mark as the hat, he was not likely to miss the two of them. He looked up to find Priscilla's eyes fixed on his face.
"Then—then, there is danger?" she asked.
"Yes." Prescott felt his mouth was a little dry. It was the first time anyone had ever fired at him, but he was not afraid for himself. "Priscilla—" he said, and stopped. "I'm afraid he'll go round—"
And then he saw Biddulph. He was in plain view, on the very edge of the rock, walking quite slowly. They could see the rifle in his hand.
"I'm not—I'm not afraid," Priscilla said resolutely. "Someone—someone will come—"
He felt her hand steal into his and clasped it. His arm went about her, pushing her towards the rock, while his body formed a shield between her and the cliff. Then he looked over his shoulder.
Biddulph had stopped. He was kneeling with raised rifle. A little puff of smoke showed for an instant. Prescott felt a searing pain. The hand which held the girl's dropped uselessly. He turned to meet her eyes. She bent forward, and her arm went round his neck.
"Colin—" she said, and kissed him. And as she did so, another shot rang out.
THE Superintendent was pacing the room impatiently when Bagehot entered, and his face had that peculiar absence of expression which he affected most in moments of excitement. Without a word he handed a sheet of paper to the inspector, seated himself at his desk, and began to fill his pipe.
Bagehot read it through. It was really two messages, but the main subject of both was the same. Obviously it was a note which had been typed from a telephone conversation. Once or twice he nodded to himself. He looked up to find the superintendent's eyes fixed upon him.
"Well?" Addison demanded.
"I think I rather expected it, sir—" Bagehot began.
"Since when?"
"It was something you said yourself yesterday which put me on the right track, sir," Bagehot said tactfully. "You remember you said that perhaps the central incident wasn't Falcon's murder, but the poisoning of Biddulph, and that we'd neglected that because it wasn't successful, but only put him out of the way for a bit."
Addison nodded. He remembered using the words, but he had meant them in quite another way.
"Well, sir, that was quite true—in a sense. Biddulph's sickness was the central point, because it apparently got him out of the way; and, above all, because it left him free to do what he wanted at the vital time. Otherwise he'd have been on guard. And though, of course, he could have shot Falcon while he was patrolling with him, he would certainly have been suspected—as Willoughby, on whom he'd planted the rifle, actually was for a time. It not only freed him from the guard. It freed him from the necessity of having to take part in all that happened after the murder—and gave him a little free time to clear things up—"
"You mean that he poisoned himself?"
"Not exactly, sir. I've just had this message through from the doctor who was tackling the analysis for us. It's in answer to two questions I asked him."
Addison took the paper the porter had handed to Bagehot as he left the factory. The message was commendably brief, but, to the superintendent, incomprehensible. It consisted of three words only: "Yes. Yes—Ipecacuanha." He looked at the inspector bewilderedly.
"I asked him, sir, whether the arsenic could have been put in the bowl after he had been sick; and whether there was any trace of anything in the nature of an emetic. It wasn't likely that an analyst would look for that very carefully—and, if he found it, he'd probably think it had been administered to deal with the poison... Biddulph didn't poison himself, sir. He took an emetic, and when it took effect, poured the arsenic into the bowl."
"I see," Addison said. "But hadn't we better begin at the beginning?"
"You've sent to get him, sir?" Bagehot said anxiously. "I'm dead sure we shall be able to prove a case."
"First thing I did was to send a man round... Now, these?"
He nodded towards the paper. Bagehot passed it over, then felt in his pocket and produced a few typewritten sheets.
"As a matter of fact, sir, these are the beginning," he said. "I got them sent by rail. I was going to show you them."
Addison glanced at them. "A report of Seaton's trial?" he said.
"Yes. If you'll look through it, sir, you'll see that, though Falcon's evidence was against Seaton, Biddulph's was really much more damning. You see, he gave it as though he was standing by his friend, and giving away as little as possible. Yet, if you really go through it, you'll find he made far more telling points than Falcon did... You might say that he really got Seaton locked up."
"And let out again." Addison waved the paper.
"Yes. Because he meant to dispose of him finally, and to kill two birds with one stone. Biddulph had a certain amount of indirect influence. He got someone to take up Seaton's case, on the ground of misinterpretation of evidence, and in the end it succeeded. But he hadn't reckoned how slowly the wheels go round in these cases. He thought it had failed, so he managed to bribe the guard and get Seaton out—as it says there."
"Why?" Addison demanded.
"He wanted to kill Falcon. He wanted to have Seaton accused of the murder. And the motive, of course, was jealousy of Priscilla Seaton. It was difficult for us to imagine that motive, or for that matter to imagine him as a murderer at all; first because he's so shy, and secondly because he's comic. I don't suppose he ever kissed a girl in his life. Probably Miss Seaton was the only one who hadn't treated him as a huge joke. Of course, it was mere kind-heartedness on her part, but it brought about all the trouble. The men thought he was a joke too—and, particularly Falcon and Willoughby, used to poke a good deal of fun at him. People can be very cruel that way without meaning to be. But Biddulph took himself seriously. In the end he seems to have reached the state of mind when he was determined to show them that they had to take him seriously. Of course, he's probably a bit mad, though not certifiable. That shyness and so on—"
Addison nodded. "But what precipitated it?"
"We don't know at present. Probably we shall find that either Seaton or Falcon said something to Biddulph; or perhaps he found out that Priscilla Seaton had seen one or both of them... He'd worked it out in great detail. Most shy people spend a good deal of time day-dreaming about situations in which they emerge as awfully powerful and successful. Biddulph, you might say, day-dreamed the murder. And did it well. But, from the beginning he had one big advantage. The very peculiarities about him which made him commit the murders were what made us think he couldn't be a murderer at all."
"So, he arranged to get Seaton out of gaol and to come down here—"
"With Miss Seaton. He'd be pretty well the only person left that she knew, and he hoped to play the role of protector. He succeeded, the night they were on guard, and then everything was set."
"The bomb?" Addison asked.
"I suspect that he put that idea into Seaton's head. The scheme must have been to prove his innocence by putting an obviously dud bomb in a place where a real one would have done damage—to show that he could have done something, but didn't."
"Pretty silly." The superintendent frowned.
"Seaton was pretty silly in some ways, sir... However, he's got Seaton down here, or thinks he has, to be suspect No. 1. But there might have been some hitch, so he provides another suspect—one of the men who laughed at him most, Willoughby. Now, since they didn't stick to their own rifles, it was perfectly easy for him to give Willoughby the one that had been fired. As soon as they'd gone off parade and been inspected, he hurried back to the armoury, before it was locked up, and took the dirty rifle himself. Then, it was just a matter of changing it in the rack... The numbers, by the way, sir, corresponded to the beds, and he knew which bed Willoughby had chosen. Now, everything was ready. Then there came a bit of a complication. Miss Seaton got herself shot and was brought inside."
"A complication?" Addison asked. "It showed they'd got down."
"Yes. But it did two other things. It alarmed the whole guard to an extent that he'd never meant to do—"
"That, and the air raid."
"The air raid was pure accident... And then it involved Miss Seaton to some extent. Besides, it must have imposed on him the need for an enormous amount of self-control. Feeling as he did about the girl, he must have been thoroughly upset that she was hurt. But he went on."
"You've missed something out," the superintendent suggested. "How about Chard?"
"The shot at him, sir? I think the original idea was so that people, dismissing it at the time, but remembering it afterwards, as they might be expected to do, should think it showed the attack was from outside. Actually, that wasn't from outside. When I saw those windows I realised how it might be done. You couldn't get out, but you could put a hand out and throw something—say, the bullet found near Chard."
"He could have done that?"
"I think so, sir; From the room beyond the guard room, along the right wing. By the time the whistle blew, he'd be in the passage, hurrying along to the entrance. Now, some of them were sleeping, and some were having tea in the dining-room. Each lot, seeing him, would think he'd been with the other. And no one was likely to ask."
The superintendent nodded, glanced at the clock and frowned a little. "Go on," he said. "He'll be here soon."
"Everything is ready. He takes the emetic, so that he won't have to go on guard. It's the last patrol of the night. They're all dead tired. In spite of all that's happened, all the people who aren't actually on duty lie down and go to sleep. Of course, he knew that by that time it would be practically impossible for them to keep awake. He goes too, and waits to see if they all go off. They do."
"But if they hadn't?"
"It would have been a bit more dangerous. Not much. All he'd have had to do was to wait a bit, make noises as though he was being sick and bolt for the lavatory. I'm inclined to think he'd already put the gun there—"
"In the lavatory?"
"Yes. In case anyone had stayed in the dining-room—"
"But then, they'd have heard where the shot came from?"
"I don't think so. There's a door, a bit of a space, and two more doors between the dining-room and the window I actually think he fired from. Besides, the actual shot would be outside. If anyone came, though it wasn't part of his plan, he could have thrown the gun outside on the path and hoped for the best."
"His own gun?"
"No, sir. I think an extra one he'd got from the armoury... They seem to have been pretty casual about it. Besides, he probably had a key to fit. It's only an ordinary lock."
"Wouldn't that have been better?"
"Perhaps. But someone might have thought of the lavatory if the gun had been found just outside. He didn't want that. So, he left it there after he'd fired, came back and cleaned it when he was alone all but the sentry, and put it back then." He paused. "Unless he tells us, we shan't know this bit," he said. "The moonlight was fairly bright—bright enough to recognise Falcon, who'd got rather a distinctive figure and walk. But the first person to come along wasn't Falcon, but Seaton, who, just at that point, had to come near the path to avoid a ditch which was being dug. He may have recognised Seaton. Or he may have mistaken him for Falcon. Anyhow, almost immediately Falcon comes round the corner—running, perhaps, having heard the shot. Biddulph gets him then, pulls in the gun, shuts the window, and slips back to the dormitory."
"He might have been seen," Addison objected.
"He'd still got his lavatory alibi. But the shot hadn't wakened anyone. He's just got to lie down and wake with the rest. But he's still too sick to wander about. He's left lying down when the rest of the squad turns out. And he can deal with the rifle and put it away."
"It seems to cover everything," the superintendent admitted. "But wait a bit. There are two things—no, three. First, how did he know Falcon would come round that way?"
"He didn't. But the sentry's beat at that point is to go right round the building. If they happen to take about the same time, the two meet at the back, pass each other, and go on. If Falcon hadn't come one way, he would the other."
"The cartridge? The one Shepton found?"
"I think he found a chance to throw it there. No one was watching him."
"The telephone?"
"I don't know..." Bagehot frowned. "He could have cut it through the window... But it might have been Seaton who did it."
The superintendent looked at the clock again and a worried look came on his face.
"I hope nothing's gone wrong," he said anxiously. "They should have picked him up by now... Well? About Seaton?"
"As I say, sir, we don't know whether he'd planned to kill Seaton himself or not. He may have meant to get him hanged instead. But perhaps he saw that he'd failed to do that. So, when he knew that Seaton was only wounded—he must have guessed that from the fact that the body wasn't found—he seems to have decided to settle things. He knew the farm, because he'd practically arranged for Seaton to go there. Perhaps he'd spotted that window in advance, in case of accidents."
"It wouldn't always be open," Addison objected.
"It might generally be open, sir... People go very much by habit in these things. I wouldn't mind betting that in dozens of houses you'd find the same window open on the same day year after year—if the weather allowed it. At any rate, he went there to look round. And he went armed."
"That knife? You've traced it?"
"Not exactly, sir... The initials are actually those of Hollingworth, of course... But I'm inclined to think that it really belongs to Major Shepton, who didn't like to own up to its loss. It's an old-fashioned sort of thing, sir. Quite possibly it was passed on to him by his father, or something like that." He paused for a moment. "Naturally, Biddulph hadn't any idea that there was going to be all that crowd round the farm. He was so lucky that I don't think he realised till afterwards that it was there. But he did know Prescott had paid a surreptitious visit through the window, and I think that explains his visit to the gaol this morning. He'd got the idea that there was something on between Prescott and the girl—"
"There may be by now," the superintendent said almost hopefully.
"He wanted to see how the land lay... And, if he'd been going to remain at large, I think we should have had to watch Prescott pretty carefully, or he'd have been after him too. I'm inclined to think he wouldn't hurt the girl. One can't tell about that, though."
"They're safe enough now... Or I hope so... You can prove all this?"
"I believe so... In the second murder, he did leave some traces—the footprints. Those are positive evidence, if he hasn't destroyed the shoes. And then, we may be able to prove opportunity with regard to the knife—"
"What's that?" Addison was obviously getting nervous. "They've got him?" He crossed to the door and looked out; then he frowned. "It's Wilson," he said. "He should still be watching Prescott... Here, you!"
The detective who had been talking excitedly to the sergeant outside hurried across towards him.
"What the devil's up?" snapped the superintendent. "You were told—"
Evidently the detective was thoroughly scared. He was speaking in an apologetic, defensive tone, and from where he stood Bagehot could only make out occasional words. As the story finished, Addison turned to the inspector desperately.
"He's gone daft!" he proclaimed. "What d'you make of it?"
Not having heard, Bagehot made nothing at all. He listened with a growing frown as Addison summarised briefly. A muffled-up figure had gone in. A muffled-up figure had come out. Then Biddulph, who had not gone in at all, came out. At that point the watchers had grown suspicious that all was not well. One had gone to inquire, and found that Mr. Prescott, who had not gone out, was out; the other had followed Biddulph, until he had joined the Home Guard on the butts for an afternoon's target practice. All at once Bagehot paled.
"My God!" he exclaimed and stood for a second. "If—"
"What?" snapped Addison.
"Don't you see, sir? Biddulph's done it. He's got Prescott out of the house somehow... And he's gone to the butts—where he can get hold of a rifle! Quick—!"
Addison stared for a moment while it sunk in; then he dashed out into the passage. A car was standing outside the police station. Regardless of details of ownership, Addison jumped inside, with Bagehot following. The engine started at a touch; they were sweeping down the road by the time the indignant owner came out on to the steps shouting.
"He should have immobilised it," Addison said as they turned into the main street. "That's the way cars get stolen... You really think—?"
"I'm pretty sure," Bagehot said grimly. "Somehow he's decoyed Prescott out, and gone for a gun... The girl, I expect—"
"He's after her, too?"
"He probably used her as a bait, and Prescott fell for it. Round here—round to the right."
Addison obeyed with vigour. As a driver, he was quick, but rough. For another two hundred yards they drove up into the moor, before the lane became impassable. On a stretch of grass, several other cars were already parked.
Addison swerved the car recklessly in, braked, and jumped out. The sound of firing guided them. As they topped a slight rise, they saw the butts half a mile up a low valley. Just a few yards away, several men were lying prone with rifles raised. The volley rang out as they moved towards where a small group stood, including two or three officers in uniform.
At the sound of their hurried footsteps, a man on the edge of the group turned. Bagehot recognised Major Shepton, and hastened towards him. To his surprise, the Major started visibly, backed a pace, and then advanced to meet him.
"I can guess what you've come about," he said calmly. "I've been a fool... That knife was mine. Given me by an uncle. I lost it a few days ago. But, of course, I can't prove—"
Whatever effect he might have expected this confession to produce he could hardly have foreseen the actual one. Bagehot simply disregarded it.
"Biddulph," Bagehot gasped. "Have you seen Mr. Biddulph? He's here?"
Hollingworth turned in a leisurely manner, and surveyed him for a moment. Shepton was still recovering from his shock.
"Mr. Biddulph?" he said languidly. "Why, yes. He is here. Came rather late, and not in uniform, but he's certainly here... Please don't shout, Inspector. It disturbs the men's aim."
"But, sir, where is he?"
Bagehot was already desperately scanning the faces of those about him. Besides those actually firing, there were a number standing about, not in any special formation, but simply watching. But Biddulph was not one of them. Major Shepton had recovered from his shock. A light seemed to break on him.
"Good heavens, you don't mean that Biddulph—?" He turned and shouted along the line. "Somerton! Where's Biddulph?"
Somerton, who had been seated on a rock a little further on, rose and looked round.
"He was here," he said dubiously. "Went across there just a few minutes ago... Well, half an hour, maybe. He'll be back soon. We've got to fire at three."
Bagehot dashed up the line, followed by a small procession. To the last two men he flung a question.
"Biddulph? Drawing office chap? He was here," he learnt with exasperating repetition. "Can't see him now."
"I expect he's gone to have a look at the shooting on the other butts, sir," the other man volunteered.
"The other butts?" Shepton demanded. "There aren't any!"
"Aren't there, sir? I was almost sure I heard firing over there a few minutes ago—"
Bagehot did not wait for more. He was already sprinting up the low hill which bounded the range on the far side. Hollingworth, running easily, overtook him.
"Careful," he warned. "Not too fast.... The quarry's just ahead... Ah!"
They had reached the top of the hill. Below them lay another valley, parallel to the first, and, scooped out of it just below them, the rock-walled quarry. But it was the sound of the shot ringing out to greet them which had wrung the exclamation from Hollingworth.
For a moment Bagehot could not guess where it had come from; then the light puff of smoke drifting gently away on the wind guided him to the figure which knelt on the edge of the hollow about a quarter of the way round from where they stood.
"It's him," he said. "But where—?"
Hollingworth had been spotting and still carried his field-glasses. He focused them quickly.
"It's certainly Mr. Biddulph," he said. "He's seen us—"
"My God! Look!"
Shepton almost screamed the words. He was pointing down towards the rock in the centre of the quarry. It was only then that the others saw the target at which the murderer was aiming.
"Prescott!" Addison said,
"And Miss Seaton, sir," Bagehot added, and his voice had the calm of despair. "He's firing again—"
The shot rang out as he spoke. Hollingworth redirected his glasses.
"Hit," he announced with a tremor in his voice. "Prescott's wounded... He's down—"
"Quick!" Addison snapped, and started forward. Bagehot grabbed him. "Let go, damn you!"
"It's no use, sir," Bagehot reasoned. "He'd have time to fire four or five shots before we reached him... And he'd get one or two of us—"
"He's loading," Hollingworth announced. "He's putting in another clip—"
Bagehot turned suddenly to Major Shepton. Like the others, Shepton had been about to take his turn at shooting. He had clung to his rifle mainly because it had not occurred to him to throw it away.
"Sir," he urged. "Could you—? Is it loaded?"
Shepton's hand dived into his pocket, and came out again with two clips of cartridges. The bolt snicked back, and he slipped one in. He knelt, raised the gun, then hesitated.
"I can't—" he said in a sickly voice; then regained self-control. "I might wing him—"
"He's going to fire," Hollingworth announced.
Major Shepton's face was set grimly. His fingers tightened. Then the rifle cracked. A quarter of a mile away over the quarry the figure slumped forward.
"Got him!" Bagehot said with pure relief more than triumph. "And now—"
He was running along the hillside. Hollingworth, who had again switched his glasses to the quarry, spoke quietly in the silence which had followed.
"Prescott's moving," he said unemotionally. "Right shoulder, I fancy... The girl's all right—"
"And—and—?" Shepton had sunk back, still clutching the rifle. He could not finish the sentence, but his eyes sought the dark heap towards which Addison and the inspector were running.
"They're wasting their breath," Hollingworth said, and replaced his glasses in the case. "Of course, it was him or the girl, Shepton... And you always fire too high. You got him in the head."
SOME three months later Bagehot was at his busiest in the office when Superintendent Addison entered. The inspector glanced up; then, seeing the newspaper in the other's hand, buried his face in his work again. He had an idea what was coming, and he was in no mood for it.
"Seen the paper, Bagehot?" Addison laid it carefully on the report his colleague was reading, thereby ensuring that at least he should see it then. "Second column—and the photo."
Bagehot read the first line. "The marriage took place—" Then he glanced at the photo, and pushed the paper away.
"A charming couple," the superintendent commented. Bagehot suspected a quotation from the account.
Addison beamed. "They sent me a piece of cake," he boasted.
"Me, too," Bagehot said. "No icing."
"I understand that he's managed to get released for the Engineers."
Bagehot sat back in despair. "Yes, sir... It's funny how people seem to marry when they go into the army."
"Love, and poverty, and war—" The superintendent quoted a little obscurely.
"Yes. I expect they'll be poor enough, if he's got to manage on his pay.... I had my income-tax form to-day."
"I believe they both had private means... It's odd, Bagehot, how Fate works in these things—I mean, how they came together—were brought together—"
Bagehot raised his eyebrows. "If you mean marriages are made in heaven, sir—including this one," he said, "the arrangements are a bit hard on other people. Having three people killed, just to pair them off—"
"I suppose I had something to do with it," Addison admitted. "I sent them a wedding present."
"Compensation?" Bagehot suggested. "What, sir?"
"A coffee-set."
Bagehot snorted with real feeling. He had sent a coffee-set himself.
"And now, sir," he said firmly, "if you'll look at these—I don't think we ought to support that extension. Last time there were three drunks."
With a sigh, the superintendent accepted the papers. For a moment there was silence. Then something occurred to Bagehot. He looked up, and smiled wickedly.
"There's a better quotation than yours, sir, about this wedding," he said. "From your favourite. Gilbert."
"Gilbert who?" Addison demanded. He had been immersed himself. "What quotation?"
"About the wedding, sir." Bagehot paused. '"Thou art the only one that's left. So I am thine!'" he quoted.
And then routine went on
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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