VII
Cosgrove’s Trip North
On leaving Cosgrove Ponson, Inspector Tanner walked slowly up the shady side of Regent Street, his mind still running on the statement to which he had just listened. To test its truth was his obvious first duty, and as he sauntered along he considered the quickest and most thorough means of doing so. From the very nature of the story he felt inclined to believe it. Too much independent testimony seemed to be available for the alibi to be a fraud.
And if this was so, he, Tanner, was on the wrong track, and was wasting time. He had already lost nearly a week over Austin, and all the time he was working on these blind alleys the real scent was getting cold. But as he reviewed the facts he had learnt, he felt he could hardly have acted otherwise than as he had.
He considered Cosgrove’s statement point by point. Firstly, was it true he could only have gone to Scotland on the night in question of all others? In answer to this it should be easy to find out if he really was at the Duchess of Frothingham’s on the same afternoon. Then the missing of the train at King’s Cross must be known to several persons—the clerk at the stationmaster’s office, the barmaid who sold the cigars, as well possibly as the sleeping-car attendant, and the telegraph-office clerk, and copies of the wires to Grantham and to Montrose should be available. He was not sure that confirmation of Cosgrove’s visit to the Empire would be obtainable, though some attendant might have noticed him. But there should be ample proof of his call on Miss Belcher at the Follies Theatre. Not only would there be the testimony of Miss Belcher herself, but some of the many attendants must almost certainly have seen him. Then, if Cosgrove was not actually seen leaving London by the 10:30 p.m., he must have been observed in that train at Grantham, where his luggage was handed in to him. Finally, to ensure that he did not leave the train there and return to Luce Manor, as well as to test the genuineness of the whole journey, Tanner could see Colonel Archdale, the horse owner of Montrose.
And then another point struck him. What, he wondered, were the precise relations between Cosgrove Ponson and Miss Betty Belcher? From their demeanour at the restaurant, they were certainly on pretty intimate terms. In this case could Miss Belcher’s testimony to Cosgrove’s call at the theatre be relied on? Here was what undoubtedly might be a flaw in the alibi, and he felt he must handle this part of it with special care.
As he reached this point in his cogitations he arrived at the goal of his walk—a small but extremely fashionable tobacconist’s in Oxford Street. Handing in his card, he asked to see the manager.
He was shown into a small, neatly-furnished office, and there after a few minutes a tall young man in a grey frock coat joined him.
“Hallo, Tony,” said the Inspector when the door had closed.
The newcomer greeted his visitor breezily.
“Why, Tanner, old son,” he cried, “how goes it? You’re a stranger, you are. And what’s blown you in today?”
“Business as usual. I want your help.”
“You bet your life! And when you want help you know the right place to come. Tony B. won’t see you left, eh?”
“I know that. You’re not as bad as you look.”
The other winked slowly.
“And what’s little Albert’s trouble this time?” he asked.
“Why this,” Tanner answered, taking out his two little boxes and shaking the cigarette ends on to the table. “I want to know what kind of cigarettes these are, and when they were smoked.”
“H’m. Think I’m a blooming crystal-gazer, do you? Or one of those Zancigs—what do you call ’em?”
As he spoke he was examining the ends with a strong glass. Then he smelt them, drew out a shred of tobacco from each and tasted it, and finally picked them up and took them out of the room.
“Sit tight, Albert,” he remarked as he left, “and keep your little hands out of mischief till daddy comes back.”
In a few minutes he reentered and laid the ends down on the table with beside them a whole cigarette of a dark yellow colour.
“There you are, sonny,” he announced. “All chips of the old block, those are.”
“And what are they?” Tanner queried, examining the little brown tube with interest.
“Costly rubies, rich and rare,” his friend assured him. “They’re what we call ‘Muriquis,’ and they’re made in Rio by a firm called Oliveira. There ain’t many in this village, I tell you. Who are you trailing now? Is it Henry Ford or only his Majesty the King?”
“Neither,” Tanner returned seriously, “it’s that Ponson case I’m on.”
“Never heard of it. But Ponson knows his way about in cigarettes anyway, you bet your life.”
“And how long since they were smoked? Can you tell me that?”
“Nope. Not Tony B. This one about an hour; this one about a week at a guess. But don’t you take all you hear for gospel. I don’t know, as the girl said when her lover proposed.”
Tanner, though more bored with his friend’s conversation every time he met him, remained chatting for some minutes. The two men had been at school together, and the Inspector kept up the acquaintanceship because of the valuable information he frequently got on matters connected with tobacco. But as soon as possible he took his leave, breathing a sigh of relief when he found himself once more in the street.
His interest was considerably aroused by the news he had just received. The suspicions he had entertained of Cosgrove had been somewhat lulled to rest by the latter’s story. But the fact that the cigarette-end found in the boathouse at Luce Manor was of that same rare kind which Cosgrove smoked revived all his doubts, and made him more than ever resolved to test the alibi to the utmost limit of his ability.
Before leaving Halford, Tanner had written to the photographers whose names he had found on the prints in the drawing-room at Luce Manor, ordering copies of Sir William’s, Austin’s, and Cosgrove’s photographs. The studio was in Regent Street, and hailing a taxi, Tanner drove there. The photographs were ready, and he put one of each in his pocket. Also he selected prints of three or four other men as like in appearance to the cousins as he could find. Then he went on to the Duchess of Frothingham’s house in Park Lane.
He saw her Grace’s butler, and representing himself as a reporter on the staff of a well-known society journal, asked for a list of the guests present at the “At Home” on the Wednesday of the murder, discreetly insinuating that he was prepared to pay for the trouble given. The addendum had the desired effect, and after a considerable delay a copy of the list was in Tanner’s hands. A glance at it showed Cosgrove’s name among the others, and a few judicious questions established the fact that he had actually been present.
Once more in the street, Tanner looked at his watch. It was after six o’clock.
“A little dinner and then the Empire,” he said to himself as he turned into Piccadilly. He had decided his first step must be to apply to those sources of information which could not possibly be interested in Cosgrove’s affairs; afterwards, if need be, hearing what Miss Belcher had to say on the same subject.
A couple of hours later he reached the Empire. Here he made exhaustive inquiries, but without finding anyone who had seen his man. But he was not greatly disappointed, as he had already realised that confirmation of this part of the alibi was problematical, if not unlikely.
Returning to his taxi, he continued his journey till he reached King’s Cross. It was just nine o’clock, and the great station was partially deserted, there being a lull in the traffic about that hour. For the first time that day Tanner felt cool, and he began to realise that he was tired. But apart from the general urgency of his business, he expected the persons he wished to see were on evening duty, and he decided he must finish his inquiries then and there. He therefore went to the stationmaster’s office, and sent in his card. A dark, intelligent looking young man with an alert manner received him, and to him Tanner explained his business.
“I did hear something about it,” the young man returned. “If you will wait a moment I’ll make inquiries.”
He left the room, returning presently with a clerk.
“Mr. Williams here remembers the affair. He dealt with it. Tell this gentleman what you know, Williams.”
“On Wednesday evening, the 7th instant, about 7:20 or 25,” began Williams, “a man called at the office and said he had booked a berth to Montrose on the 7:15 p.m., but that he had missed the train while in the refreshment room. He said his suitcase and waterproof had gone on in the train, and he asked what I would advise him to do.”
“That’s the man,” said Tanner, nodding. “Yes?”
“I told him the trains. The next to Montrose was the 10:30 p.m., and his mistake only meant that he would reach there at 8:24 a.m. instead of 5:25. But it seemed he wanted to arrive early, and I mentioned the 8:30 p.m. which runs from here to Dundee, suggesting he could go on by car. But on going into it he decided even this would be too late, and said he would travel on the 10:30. With regard to his luggage I offered to wire Grantham, which is the first stop of both the 7:15 p.m. and the 10:30, to have it collected from the sleeping car on the 7:15 p.m., and put into the 10:30. He agreed to this, and I sent the telegram at once.”
“Would you know the man if you saw him again?”
“Yes, I believe I should.”
“Any of these he?” and Tanner handed over the half-dozen photographs.
The clerk instantly passed over Sir William’s and those of the strangers, then he examined Austin’s for some moments with a puzzled expression, but when he came to Cosgrove’s he hesitated no longer.
“That’s the man,” he said, repeating Tanner’s words of a moment before, “I should know him anywhere.”
“So far so good,” thought Tanner as he stepped out once more on to the concourse. “Now for the refreshment room.”
He found the platform from which the 7:15 had started on the night in question, and looked about him. There was little doubt as to where Cosgrove had gone for his cigars. On the platform itself was a large sign “First-Class-Refreshment Room.” The Inspector pushed open the door and entered.
“Good evening,” he said, raising his hat politely to the presiding goddess. “I want a few cigars, please.”
“I have only these,” the girl answered, placing two partially emptied boxes before him.
Tanner examined them.
“I am not much of a judge,” he informed her, “but these look the lighter. I’ll have half a dozen, please. That is,” he went on with a whimsical glance at the clock, “if it’s safe.”
The barmaid looked at him as if she thought he was crazy, but she did not speak and Tanner explained:
“A friend of mine had an experience here the other night buying cigars, so he told me. He missed his train over the head of it. I was wondering if I should do the same.”
A light seemed to dawn on the girl. She laughed.
“I remember your friend. I couldn’t help smiling, but I was sorry for him too. He came in here and chose a dozen cigars, and then he looked up and saw the clock.
“ ‘Your clock’s fast,’ he says.
“ ‘I don’t think,’ I says, and with that he hooked it out of the door, fair running, and all the cigars lying on the counter. I couldn’t but laugh at him.”
“But he didn’t laugh, for he missed his train,” prompted Tanner.
“Oh, he missed his train right enough. He came back and showed me his watch—three minutes slow. But he got his cigars all right.”
Tanner took Austin’s photograph from his pocket, and glancing at it casually, passed it to the girl.
“He’s a good old sport, he is,” he announced, “but to look at him there you wouldn’t think butter would melt in his mouth. What do you say?”
The girl wrinkled her pretty eyebrows.
“But that isn’t the man,” she exclaimed.
Tanner took the card.
“I’m a blooming idiot,” he said. “I’ve shown you the wrong photo. This was the one I meant.” He handed over the print of Cosgrove.
“Why, yes,” the girl answered unhesitatingly. “That’s him and no mistake.”
“He’s a good soul enough,” went on Tanner, “but he was very sick about that train, I can tell you.”
They conversed for a few moments more as the Inspector lit one of his purchases. Then with a courteous “Goodnight,” he left the bar.
Whatever else might be true or false in Cosgrove’s statement, thought Tanner, it was at least bedrock that he had missed the 7:15 train as he had said. The thing now to be ascertained was whether he really had travelled by the 10:30.
By dint of persistent inquiries the Inspector found a number of the men who had been on duty when that train left. But here he was not so successful. No one so far as he could learn had seen Cosgrove.
But this was not surprising. Tanner could not and did not expect confirmation from these men. They had had no dealings with Cosgrove which would have attracted their attention to him. The point could be better tested at Grantham, where whoever gave him his luggage should remember the circumstance.
Inspector Tanner glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to ten. Why, he thought, when he was so far, should he not carry the thing through right then? He looked up the time tables. A train left at 10:00 p.m. for Grantham, arriving at 12:28. The 10:30 p.m., following, reached the same station ten minutes later, proceeding at 12:43. If he went by the 10:00 he would have fifteen minutes at Grantham to make inquiries, and he could go on by the 10:30 to Montrose and interview Colonel Archdale. And if fifteen minutes proved insufficient for his Grantham business he could sleep there, and go on in the morning.
Five minutes later he was in the train. Though, compared to that following, it was a slow train, it only made four stops—at Hatfield, Hitchin, Huntingdon and Peterborough. A minute before time it drew up at Grantham.
Here Tanner had even less difficulty than at King’s Cross. An official at the stationmaster’s office remembered the episode of the telegram, and was able in a few seconds to find the porter to whom he had entrusted the matter. This man also clearly recollected the circumstances and unhesitatingly identified Cosgrove from his photograph.
“Just tell me what occurred when you met Mr. Ponson, will you?” asked Tanner.
“Well, sir,” the man answered, “I was going along the train with ’is bag and coat, and ’e comes out of a first-class carriage bare ’eaded, and when ’e sees the bag ’e says, ‘that’s my bag, porter,’ ’e says, and ’e gives ’is name. ‘Shove it in ’ere,’ ’e says. ’E ’ad ’is ’at on the seat for to keep ’is place, and that’s all I knows about it.”
The confirmation seemed so complete that Tanner was tempted to return to town instead of taking the long journey to Montrose. But before everything he was thorough. He had paid too dearly in the past for taking obvious things for granted. In this case every point must be tested.
Soon, therefore, he was moving slowly out of Grantham on his way north. He had not been able to get a sleeping berth, but he made himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of a first-class compartment, and there he slept almost without moving till the bustle at Edinburgh aroused him. Here a restaurant car was attached, and shortly after Tanner moved in and breakfasted.
At Montrose he went to a barber’s and was shaved, then, hiring a car, he was driven out to the training stables.
Colonel Archdale was an elderly man of a school Tanner had imagined was extinct—short, red-faced and peppery, and dressed in a check suit and riding breeches. The Inspector had called at the house, a low, straggling building of the bungalow type, but had been sent on to find its master at the stables, half a mile distant.
“Mornin’,” the Colonel greeted him, as Tanner handed him his card and asked for a few moments conversation. “Certainly, I’ll go up to the house with you in a minute.”
“I shouldn’t, sir, dream of troubling you so far,” Tanner assured him. “Besides, it is not necessary. A minute or two here when you are disengaged is all I want.”
“Be gad, sir, you’re modest. Comin’ all the way from London for a minute or two,” and calling out some directions to a groom, he led the way into a kind of small office at the end of the stable.
“Well, sir,” he said as he seated himself before a small roll top desk, and pointed to a chair, “and what can I do for you?”
“I am engaged, sir,” Tanner answered, “in making some confidential inquiries into the movements of a man, who, I understand, was recently here—Mr. Cosgrove Ponson of London.”
“He was here”—the Colonel hesitated a moment—“this day week. And what the devil has he been doin’?”
“Nothing, sir, so far as we know. It is the case of another man altogether, but it is necessary for us to know if Mr. Ponson really was out of London on that day.”
“Well I’ve told you he was here. Is that evidence enough?”
“Quite, sir, as far as that goes. But I would like also to know some details to assure myself if his business here was genuine. What was his business, if I might ask?”
“You may ask and I’ll tell you too, be gad. He wanted to see Sir Jocelyn, that’s a three-year-old I’m goin’ to sell. Devilish good bit of horseflesh too. But he wouldn’t stretch to my figure. I wanted seven hundred, and he would only go five fifty. So it was no deal.”
“He came about this time in the morning, I suppose?”
“Yes, and a confoundedly silly time it was to come. He was to have been here at six for the morning exercise, but he missed his train, so he said, in London.”
“I understood so from him. Just one question more, sir. When was the arrangement about his visit made?”
“Some days before; I think it was on Monday evening I got his wire asking would Thursday suit me.”
“This is the man you mean, I presume?” and Tanner took out Cosgrove’s photograph.
The colonel nodded as he answered: “That’s he.”
“And there was nothing, sir, in the whole episode that seemed to you suspicious or otherwise than it appeared on the surface?”
“Not a thing.”
Tanner rose.
“Allow me then, sir, to express my thanks for your courtesy. That is all I want to know.”
Declining an invitation to go up to the house for a drink—“too devilish risky to keep it here, be gad”—he returned to Montrose and looked up the trains to London. There was one at 2:29 which, travelling by Edinburgh and Carlisle, reached St. Pancras at 6:30 the following morning. This, he decided, would suit him admirably, and when it came in he got on board.
As he sat a little later gazing out on to the smiling Fifeshire country, he went over once more, point by point, that portion of Cosgrove’s alibi which he had already checked. So far as he had gone it certainly seemed to him very complete. In the first place, not only was the journey north made with, so far as he could ascertain, a quite genuine purpose, but the selection of that particular night was reasonably accounted for. The arrangement for it had been made at least as early as the previous Monday, which, again, would be a reasonable time in advance. Tanner could see nothing in any way suspicious or suggestive of a plant about the whole business.
Then, coming to details, the missing of the train at King’s Cross might of course have been faked, but there was no evidence to support such a supposition. On the contrary, everything he had learnt seemed to prove it genuine. But even if it had been a plant, it was demonstrated beyond a shadow of doubt that Cosgrove had missed the 7:15 p.m. as he said, and that, further, he had travelled to Montrose by the 10:30. Even as the case stood Tanner felt bound to accept the alibi, but if he could confirm Cosgrove’s statement of his visit to his rooms at 7:45 or 8 o’clock, and to the Follies about 10:00, any last shred of doubt that might remain must be dispelled. This, he decided, would be his next task.
The following morning, therefore, he returned to Knightsbridge. Here, keeping his eye on Cosgrove’s door, he strolled about for nearly an hour before he was rewarded by seeing it open and Cosgrove emerge and disappear towards Piccadilly. He allowed some ten minutes more to elapse, then he walked to the door and rang. It was opened by the same dark, clean-shaven butler who had admitted him before. The man recognised his visitor, evidently with suspicion.
“Mr. Reginald Willoughby, the Albany?” he asked with sarcasm, and a thinly veiled insolence in his tone.
“That’s all right,” Tanner answered easily. “I know my name is not Willoughby. It’s Tanner”—he handed over his real card—“and if you’ll invite me in for a moment or two I’ll show you my credentials so that you’ll have no more doubt.”
The butler was evidently impressed, and proffering the suggested invitation, led the way to a small sitting room.
“Mr. Ponson he phoned the Albany,” he explained, “and they said there weren’t no one of that name there, so we was wondering about your little game.”
Tanner, following his usual custom, rapidly sized up his man, and decided how he should deal with him. With the veneer of his calling removed the Inspector imagined he might prove a braggart, a bully, and a coward. He therefore took a strong line.
“I suppose you know,” he began, without heeding the other’s remark, “that Mr. Cosgrove Ponson is under serious suspicion of the murder of his uncle, Sir William, at Luce Manor?”
It was evident this was the last thing the butler had expected to hear. He stared at the Inspector in amazement.
“Lord lumme!” he stammered, “is that a fact?”
“That’s a fact,” Tanner went on sharply, “and I want some information from you. And let me advise you to give it to me correctly, for if you don’t you may find yourself in the Old Bailey charged as an accessory after the fact.”
The man blenched, and Tanner felt that the estimate he had made of his character was correct.
“I don’t know nothing about it,” he growled sulkily.
“Oh yes, you do. Mr. Ponson told me he spent that Wednesday night here, or a part of it anyway. Is that true?”
Tanner had set his little trap to learn whether the butler had been primed with a story by Cosgrove. His victim did not answer for a time. Clearly a struggle was going on in his mind. Then at last he said, “Has Mr. Cosgrove been arrested?”
The question still further bore out the estimate Tanner had made of the man’s character. The Inspector could follow the thought which had prompted it. If the butler was to continue uninterruptedly in his master’s service, he would rather not have the latter know he had given him away, but if Cosgrove was already in custody he would keep on the safe side and tell the truth. Tanner did not assist him to a conclusion.
“Never you mind that. You concentrate on avoiding arrest yourself. Now, will you answer my question?”
After some further urging the statement came. Cosgrove had not spent the evening in his rooms. He had left about 6:45 to catch the 7:15 at King’s Cross, but he had returned unexpectedly in about an hour. He told the butler he had missed his train, and was travelling by a later one. He had gone out again, almost at once, and the butler had not seen him for two days.
Tanner asked several searching questions, and ended up completely satisfied that the man was telling the truth. There was no doubt whatever that Cosgrove’s story was true in this particular also.
There now remained to be checked only the matter of his visit to the Follies, and though Tanner was not certain of the necessity for this, his habit of thoroughness again asserted itself, and he drove to the theatre. There he learnt that there was no rehearsal that forenoon, and he went straight on to Chelsea. His ring at the actress’s flat was answered by a smartly dressed maid, to whom he handed his card, asking for an interview with her mistress.
The girl disappeared and in a few moments returned.
“Miss Belcher will see you now, sir.”
He was ushered into a small drawing-room, charmingly furnished in pale blue, with white enamelled woodwork. The chairs were deep and luxurious though elegant, the walls panelled with silk and bearing a few good monochrome drawings, while on the dark polished floor were thick and, as the Inspector knew, costly rugs. But though everything in the room was dainty, its outstanding feature was its roses. Roses were everywhere, massed in great silver bowls and rare old cut-glass vases.
“It’s a rose case,” thought the Inspector whimsically, as he recalled that in two other sitting rooms he had had to visit—those of Miss Lois Drew and Cosgrove Ponson—he had found the same decoration, though in neither case with the same prodigal liberality as here.
He waited for over half an hour and then the door opened and Miss Belcher appeared.
Seeing her full face in the light from the window, he realised her beauty as he had not done in the restaurant. Though she was slightly—Tanner thought comfortable looking, though jealous people might have used the word stout—her features were so delicately moulded, her little, pouting mouth so daintily suggestive of dimples, her light blue eyes so large and appealing, her complexion so creamy, and above all and crowning all, her hair, so luxuriant and of so glorious a shade of red gold, that he began to understand the position she held in the popular favour. She was dressed in a garment which Tanner imagined was a negligee, a flowing robe of light-blue silk trimmed with the finest lace, beneath which peeped out the tiny toe of a gilt slipper.
Tanner bowed low.
“I beg you to pardon this intrusion, madame,” he said, “but my business is both serious and urgent.”
Without speaking, the actress sank gracefully into a luxurious armchair, indicating with a careless wave of her arm a seat for the Inspector in front of her. He obeyed her gesture and continued:
“I have been ordered, madame, to make an investigation into the death of the late Sir William Ponson of Luce Manor, not far from Luton. I understand that you are acquainted with his nephew, Mr. Cosgrove Ponson?” His hostess nodded, still without speaking. Tanner thought her manner unnecessarily ungracious, and determined to give a hint of the iron which lurked beneath his velvet exterior.
“I deeply regret to have to inform you that there is reason to believe Sir William was murdered, and that grave suspicion rests on Mr. Cosgrove.”
This time the mask of indifference was pierced.
“But how perfectly outrageous,” the lady cried, a flicker of anger passing over her expressive face, “and stupid and cruel as well. How dare you come here and tell me such a thing?”
“Because I think you may help me to clear him. Please consider the facts. The medical evidence shows Sir William was murdered some time after 8:30 on the evening of Wednesday week. We know that Mr. Cosgrove Ponson was financially in low water—in fact, was in debt for a very large sum, and under threat of exposure and ruin unless he paid up. We know also he benefited to a considerable extent under Sir William’s will. Further, in the boathouse from which Sir William’s body was set adrift, a cigarette end was found—one of a peculiar brand, but little smoked in England, but which Mr. Ponson continually uses, and lastly, and this is what brings me to you today, Mr. Ponson has been unable to account satisfactorily for his time on the evening in question. He says he was with you from 8:30 till 9:00, and what I want to ask you is, Can we get proof of that? I think you will appreciate that proof of that means proof of his innocence.”
Tanner had been unobtrusively watching his companion while he spoke, and her demeanour interested him keenly. While he was recounting the medical evidence and Cosgrove’s financial position she had listened perfunctorily, as if bored by such trifles being brought to her notice. But when he mentioned the cigarette she started and a look first of fear and then of anger showed momentarily in her eyes. It seemed to Tanner she might have so acted if she knew Cosgrove was guilty—as if she was aware of and prepared for all he had to say except this about the cigarette, and that her anger was against Cosgrove for having smoked under such circumstances. She did not speak for some moments, and Tanner felt instinctively she had seen his little trap, and was considering a way out. At last she appeared to come to a conclusion, and replied in a quiet voice:
“What Mr. Ponson has told you is quite true, or at least almost. He was at my room at the Follies for about half an hour that evening, but not quite at the hour you have mentioned. He came about half-past nine, and left at ten. I know the time because it is the only period in that play during which I am off the stage.”
She had avoided his trap anyway, and her answer confirmed Cosgrove’s story. But Tanner recognised he was dealing with a very clever woman, and he was by no means so convinced of the truth of her statement as he was of that of the butler. He went on:
“Obviously, madame, if we have to go before a jury the more corroborative evidence we can get the better. Now, are there any other persons who might have seen Mr. Ponson at the theatre, and who could be called to add their testimonies?”
“I don’t know if anyone else actually saw Mr. Ponson,” she answered, “but I should think it likely. Probably the doorkeeper did, or one of the other men. Have you made inquiries?”
“No, madame. Not yet.”
“Well, you had better do so,” and she got up to indicate that the interview was at an end.
Tanner found himself in the street with a baffled feeling of having handled the interview badly. But it was at least obvious that the lady’s advice was good, and somewhat ruefully he drove back to the Follies.
Here he made exhaustive inquiries, but without any very satisfactory result. The stage doorkeeper knew Cosgrove, and said he was a frequent visitor to Miss Belcher. He remembered he had come two or three evenings in the week in question at about 9:30, and stayed with the actress for about half an hour. But he could not be sure whether or not Wednesday was one of these evenings. Three or four other attendants had also seen him, but in no case had there been anything to attract their attention to him, and none of them could say on what nights he had been there. But Tanner had to admit to himself that he could hardly expect such information from persons who were not interested in Cosgrove’s visit.
But on another point he got positive information. His inquiries established the fact that on the Wednesday night of the murder Miss Belcher had been on the stage at 9:15. She therefore could not have been masquerading as Mrs. Franklyn’s servant at the Old Ferry.
On the whole the Inspector felt that, in spite of his momentary suspicion of Miss Belcher’s manner, he must fully accept the alibi. The evidence of Cosgrove’s missing the 7:15 p.m. train, and travelling by the 10:30 was overwhelming. The butler’s corroboration of his master’s return to Knightsbridge was convincing. Though Tanner was not so sure of Miss Belcher’s statement, it at least agreed with Cosgrove’s. Further, the lady had not fallen into Tanner’s little trap about the hour of the call and had disagreed with what he told her Cosgrove had said.
Then another point struck him. Cosgrove was at Knightsbridge between 7:45 and 8:00, and at King’s Cross at 10:30. Was this evidence alone not sufficient? Would it have been possible for him to have visited Luce Manor in the interval? Suppose he had used a fast motor and gone by road?
Tanner did not think it could have been done. From London to Halford was thirty-five miles, and there and back made seventy. What speed could he reckon on? Considering how much of London would have to be traversed, and the amount of traffic to be expected on so important a road, Tanner felt sure not more than an average of thirty miles an hour at the outside. This would take two hours and twenty minutes at least, leaving from ten to twenty minutes. The motor never would have risked going up to Luce Manor, as it would have been heard—in fact, no motor did so. That meant that ten minutes must have been spent in going from the road to the boathouse, and another ten in returning. This even if it could be done at all, would leave no time in which to commit the murder, get out the boat and set the body and the oars adrift. Tanner considered it carefully, and at last came to the conclusion the thing would be utterly impossible. Indeed, he did not believe that an average of thirty miles an hour could be maintained. No, the alibi was complete. He felt he must unhesitatingly accept it.
Inspector Tanner was a depressed man as he walked slowly back to New Scotland Yard. Up to the present he saw that he had been on the wrong track—that all his time and trouble had been lost. He was now as far off solving the mystery, as when he started the inquiry, indeed further, for the real scent must now be cooler.
And Sergeant Longwell had been almost equally unsuccessful in his endeavour to trace the man who had made the fifth line of footprints on the river bank. With occasional assistance from Tanner the sergeant had made exhaustive inquiries in all the surrounding country, but without result. The only thing he had learnt which might have had a bearing on the matter was that a small, elderly man with a white goatee beard had taken the 5:47 a.m. train from St. Albans to London, on the morning of the discovery of the crime. From Halford to St. Albans was about fifteen miles, and Longwell’s theory was that this man—if he were the suspect—had walked during the night to St. Albans, thinking that at a large station a considerable distance from Luce Manor he would be more likely to escape observation. But there was no real reason to connect this early traveller with the visitor to the boathouse. His boots had not been observed. But even if it had been proved that he was indeed the wanted man, the detectives were no further on. For the traveller had vanished into thin air at St. Albans, and no trace of him could be found either in London or anywhere else.
That day a note was received at the Yard from the Chief Constable at Halford, urging that, unless there was some strong reason for its further adjournment, the inquest should be completed. The delay, it was pointed out, was objectionable for several reasons, as well as being needlessly trying to the family. Rather bitterly Tanner wired his consent to the proposal, and later in the afternoon there was a message that the adjourned inquiry would take place at 12:00 noon next day, Saturday.