Murder in the Queen's Armes

'And since you've learned there's been a murder?'

'I...how could I come forward? After not saying anything before? How would I look?'

Bagshawe's beefy but expressive face told him. “And so you were content to leave us with a fabricated and misleading story that cast suspicion on Professor Marcus. I take an extremely dim view of this, sir.'

In response, Frawley pouted and muttered under his breath like a chastened child who has capitulated—but not quite. Gideon heard, “...don't think...done anything so wrong...'

'Be that as it may,” Bagshawe said, and consulted his notes. “This meeting, I understand, was to be in the sitting room. What were you doing in the Tudor Room?'

'I already told you. I was just seeing what the place looked like.'

'So you just happened to wander into the Tudor Room and just happened to find Leon Hillyer's body.'

'Yes!'

'I think we've finished here, Professor Frawley.'

'You mean I can go back to my place now?'

'I'd rather you stay here in the Queen's Armes. If you still need to lie down, tell P. C. Piggott. I'm sure a bed can be found.'

'I don't know about you,” Gideon said when Frawley had left, “but I'm a lot more confused than I was an hour ago. I would have bet anything on Leon's being the murderer.'

'And so may he be,” Bagshawe replied. “Getting killed oneself is hardly proof of innocence, now is it? No, I rather like your little theory of an hour ago, left-handed mallet-wielder and all.'

'But then who killed Leon?'

'Tea?” Bagshawe asked. He leaned comfortably forward, lifted the cozy from the pot, and poured two cups. “Who killed Leon,” he mused. “That's the question, all right. Well, it might have been the gentleman who just left, mightn't it? He didn't know, after all, that Leon had already spilled the beans to you, and he might have killed him to keep him from doing so. Do you remember what he said?” He flipped a page to look at his notes. “ ‘How could I come forward after not saying anything before? How would I look?’ He could have killed Leon to protect his reputation, such as it is.” Bagshawe sucked some tea from his cup and rolled it around his mouth.

Gideon was doubtful. “Maybe. I don't doubt Frawley's base motives, you understand, but I have a hard time visualizing him strangling someone or crushing a head with a poker. Now, poison would be something else.'

As the inspector grimly smiled his agreement, Constable Piggott ambled by the dining-room entrance. Bagshawe called to him. “Would you give my compliments to Dr. Arbuckle and ask him if he'd be kind enough to step in for a few moments?'

'Sir!” said P. C. Piggott, and in a few seconds Arbuckle came hesitantly in, looking shaken. In him this showed itself as a constrained stiffness of manner, a quiet stolidity slightly more pronounced than usual.

'Now, Dr. Arbuckle,” Bagshawe said, after he had ceremoniously poured the tea and Arbuckle had taken an apathetic sip, “if you would tell us what you saw, I'd be obliged.'

'I was in my room upstairs,” Arbuckle said, looking at the table, “and I heard somebody shout; Dr. Frawley, I think. It took me a few moment to—to collect my wits, and then I ran downstairs to the Tudor Room. Everyone was standing in a huddle near the door, not moving.” He groped for his cup and drank some more. “In a state of shock, I suppose. It was horrible. He was lying there, all...all...'

'Yes, of course. By ‘everyone’ you refer to...?'

'All of them. Everybody that's in the sitting room now. Well, except Dr. Marcus, of course.” There was a prim little twitch of his lips, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “He wasn't in any condition to come.'

'I see,” Bagshawe said, writing. “And what happened when you got there?'

'I thought maybe I could do something for the boy. I went to him—I'm afraid I had to push some people out of the way—and did my best. I tried to start his heart, tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but ...I don't think there was anything anybody could do.'

'Very commendable, sir,” Bagshawe said. “It must have been extremely unpleasant.'

'I felt I had to do it,” Arbuckle said simply.

'Considering the state of the body,” Bagshawe said, “your clothing is remarkably clean.'

'It is now, yes. I ran up to my room to wash and change. I got blood all over my shirt, my hands, my...mouth. And it wasn't only blood....You know, I've never seen a violent death before....” For the first time his rigid posture crumbled slightly. He lifted his eyes from the table, and in his darting glance around the room there was horror.

'And the clothes you were wearing at the time?” Bagshawe asked. “Where are they now? I don't mean to press you.'

'It's all right,” Arbuckle said, regaining his tenuous self-control. “I just threw them on the floor, I think.'

'I see. It might be necessary for us to take those away. Would you have any objection?'

Arbuckle seemed surprised. “No, but why?'

'Well, it's always possible that in brushing against the body something important might have adhered to your clothing. One never knows.'

'You're welcome to them.” Arbuckle shivered. “God knows I'm never going to wear them again.'

There was a light tap at the door and Dr. Merrill looked in, his florid, friendly face arranged into an unnaturally serious mien to fit the occasion.