III
It was three-quarters of an hour before Anthony descended the stairs; but in that time much had been decided and arranged. So much, in fact, that Anthony marvelled at his luck—a form of mental exercise unusual in him. He was always inclined to take the gifts of the gods as his due.
But this was different. Everything was being made so easy for him. First, here was dear, stolid old Boyd in charge of the case. Next, there was Sir Arthur. As yet they were the merest acquaintances, but the knight had, he knew, for some time been aware of and impressed by the war record of A. R. Gethryn, and had welcomed him to the stricken household. Through Sir Arthur, Miss Hoode—whom Anthony had not seen yet—had been persuaded to accept Anthony, despite his present aura of journalism.
Oh, most undoubtedly, everything was going very well! Now, thought Anthony, for the murderer. This, in spite of its painful side, was all vastly entertaining. Who killed Cock Robin Hoode?
Anthony felt more content than for the last year. It appeared that, after all, there might be interest in life.
In the hall he found Boyd; with him Poole, the butler—a lean, shaking old man—and a burly fellow whom Anthony knew for another of Scotland Yard’s Big Four.
Boyd came to meet him. The burly one picked up his hat and sought the front door. The butler vanished.
“I wish you’d tell me, colonel,” Boyd asked, “exactly where you come in on this business?”
Anthony smiled. “It’s no use, Boyd. I’m not the murderer. But lend me your ears and I’ll explain my presence.”
As the explanation ended, Boyd’s heavy face broke into a smile. He showed none of the chagrin commonly attributed to police detectives when faced with the amateur who is to prove them fools at every turn.
“There’s no one I’d rather have with me, colonel,” he said. “Of course, it’s all very unofficial—”
“That’s all right, Boyd. Before I left town I rang up Mr. Lucas. He gave me his blessing, and told me to carry on—provided I was accepted by the family.”
Boyd looked relieved. “That makes everything quite easy, then. I don’t mind telling you that this is a regular puzzler, Colonel Gethryn.”
“So I have gathered,” Anthony said. “By the way, Boyd, do drop that ‘Colonel,’ there’s a good Inspector. If you love me, call me mister, call me mister, Boydie dear.”
Boyd laughed. He found Anthony refreshingly unofficial. “Very well, sir. Now, if we may, let’s get down to business. I suppose you’ve heard roughly what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Much detail?”
“A wealth. None germane.”
Boyd was pleased. He knew this laconic mood of Anthony’s; it meant business. He was pleased because at present he felt himself out of his depth in the case. He produced from his breast-pocket a notebook.
“Here are some notes I’ve made, sir,” he said. “You won’t be able to read ’em, so let me give you an edited version.”
“Do. But let’s sit down first.”
They did so, on a small couch before the great fireplace.
Boyd began his tale. “I’ve questioned everyone in the house except Miss Hoode,” he said. “I’ll tackle her when she’s better, probably this afternoon. But beyond the fact that she was the first one to see the body, I don’t think she’ll be much use. Now the facts. After supp—dinner, that is, last night, Mr. Hoode, Miss Hoode, Mrs. Mainwaring and Sir Arthur Digby-Coates played bridge in the drawing-room. They finished the meal at eight-thirty, began the cards at nine and finished the game at about ten. Miss Hoode then said good night and went to her bedroom; so did the other lady. Sir Arthur went to his own sitting-room to work, and the deceased retired to his study for the same purpose.”
“No originality!” said Anthony plaintively. “It’s all exactly the same. Ever read detective stories, Boyd? They’re always killed in their studies. Always! Ever notice that?”
Boyd—perhaps a little shocked by the apparent levity—only shook his head. He went on: “That’s the study door over there, sir, the only door on the right side of the hall, you see. That little room just opposite to it—the one you climbed into this morning—is a sort of den for that old boy Poole, the butler. Poole says that from about nine-forty-five until the murder was discovered he sat in there, reading and thinking. And he had the door open all the time. And he was facing the door. And he swears that no one entered the study by that door during the whole of that time.”
“Mr. Poole is most convenient,” murmured Anthony. He was lying back, his legs stretched out before him.
Boyd looked at him curiously. But the thin face was in shadow, and the greenish eyes were veiled by their lids. A silence fell.
Anthony broke it. “Going to arrest Poole just yet?” he asked.
Boyd smiled. “No, sir. I suppose you’re thinking Poole knows too much. Got his story too pat, so to speak.”
“Something of the sort. Never mind, though. On with the tale, my Boyd.”
“No, Poole’s not my man. By all accounts he was devoted to his master. That’s one thing. Another is that his right arm’s practically useless with rheumatism and that he’s infirm—with an absolute minimum of physical strength, so to speak. That proves he’s not the man, even if other things were against him, which they’re not. You’ll know why when I take you into that room there, sir.” The detective nodded his head in the direction of the study door.
“Well,” he continued, “taking Poole, for the present at any rate, as a reliable witness, we know that the murderer didn’t enter by the door. The chimney’s impossible because it’s too small and the register’s down; so he must have got in through the window.”
“Which of how many?” Anthony asked, still in that sleepy tone.
“The one farthest from the door and facing the garden, sir. The room’s got windows on all three sides—three on the garden side, one in the end wall, and two facing the drive; but only one of ’em—the one I said—was open.”
Anthony opened his eyes. “But how sultry!” he complained.
“I know, sir. That’s what I thought. And in this hot weather and all. But there’s an explanation. The deceased always had them—those windows—shut all day in the hot weather, and the blinds down. He knew a thing or two, you see. But he always used to open ’em himself at night, when he went in there to work. I suppose last night he must ’ave been in a great hurry or something, and only opened one of ’em.” He looked across at Anthony for approval of his reasoning, then continued: “But the queer thing is, sir, that that open window shows no traces of anything—no scratches, no marks, no nothing. Nor does the flowerbed under it either.”
“Any fingerprints anywhere on anything?” said Anthony.
“None anywhere in the room but the deceased’s—except on one thing. I’ve sent that up to the Yard—Jardine’s taken it—for the experts to photograph. I’ll have the prints sometime this afternoon I should think.” Boyd’s tone was mysterious.
Anthony looked at him. “Out with it, Boyd. You’re like a boy with a surprise for daddy.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Boyd laughed, rather shamefacedly, “it’s the modus operandi, so to speak.”
“So you’ve found the ber-loodstained weapon. Boyd, I congratulate you. What was it? And whose are the fingerprints?”
“The weapon used, sir, was a large wood-rasp, and a very nasty weapon it must have made. As for the fingerprints, I don’t know yet. And it’s my firm belief we shan’t be much wiser when we’ve got the enlargements—not even if we were to compare ’em with all the prints of all the fingers for miles round. I don’t know what it is, sir, but this case has got a nasty, puzzling sort of feel about it, so to speak.”
“A wood-rasp, eh?” mused Anthony. “Not very enlightening. Doesn’t belong to the house, I suppose?”
“As far as I can find out, sir, most certainly not.” Boyd’s tone was gloomy.
“H’mm! Well, let us advance. We’ve absolved the aged Poole; but what about the rest of the household?” Anthony spread out his long fingers and ticked off each name as he spoke. “Miss Hoode, Mrs. Mainwaring, her maid Duboise, Sir Arthur, Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, Maggie—no, Martha Forrest, Lily Ingram, Annie Holt, Belford, Harry Wright. Any of them do? The horticultural Mr. Diggle’s in hospital and therefore out of it, I suppose.”
Boyd stared amazement. “Good Lord, sir!” he exclaimed, “you’ve got ’em off pat enough. Have you been talking to them?”
“Preserve absolute calm, Boyd; I have not been talking to them. I got their dreadful names from an outsider. Anyhow, what about them?”
Boyd shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”
“All got confused but trustworthy alibis? That it?”
“Yes, sir, more or less; some of the alibis are clear as glass. To tell you the truth, I don’t suspect anyone in the house. Some of the servants have got ‘confused alibis’ as you call it, but they’re all obviously all right. That’s the servants; it’s the same only more so with the others. Take the secretary, Mr. Deacon; he was up there in his room the whole time. There’s one, p’r’aps two witnesses to prove it. The same with Miss Hoode. And the other lady; to be sure she’s got no witnesses, but that murder wasn’t her job, nor any woman’s. Take Sir Arthur, it’s the same thing again. Even if there was anything suspicious—which there wasn’t—about his relations with the deceased, you can’t suspect a man who was, to the actual knowledge of five or six witnesses who saw him, sitting upstairs in his room during the only possible time when the murder can have been done.
“No, sir!” Boyd shook his head with vigour. “It’s no good looking in the house. Take it from me.”
“I will, Boyd; for the present anyhow.” Anthony rose and stretched himself. “Can I see the study?”
Boyd jumped up with alacrity. “You can, sir. We’ve been in there a lot, taking photos, etcetera; but it’s untouched—just as it was when they found the body.”