happened. Nor would he slink dispiritedly away. He would see things through, watch the sequence of events, patiently observe as he had always done.
It was not all observation, even now. Anyone who had been so involved in events was entitled to bring a little influence to bear on the way they were interpreted. That was why he had gone to the police about the matter of the coat-button. What a pity it was that he had been attended to by the constable, and not his shrewd superior! The man seemed positively pleased to report that all the buttons on the sealskin coat were in position, planting his hands across his belly like some smug grocer promising a customer that all the eggs in his shop were new-laid. One could not even be sure he would mention the matter to Sergeant Cribb, who could be relied upon to understand its significance and employ the resources of Scotland Yard to establish that the button in question had been replaced recently.
The present necessity was to watch every move that Dr. Prothero made. Sooner or later the investigation must concentrate on him. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. Here was a man who had already buried two wives and was treating his third as though she did not exist, openly deserting her by day and administering chloral to her by night to keep her in ignorance of his iniquitous infidelities. Zena herself had described the marriage as ‘a continuous ordeal’ and talked of the ‘unspeakable thing’ that made the child Jason her single consolation. Cribb had made a note of the phrases when they were repeated to him and could be relied upon to understand their significance. Oh no, it would not be long before Dr. Prothero came under suspicion for the murder of his wife. Wasn’t membership of the medical profession tantamount to a predisposition for murder? There was a long line of murderous doctors, from Palmer, the Rugeley poisoner, to George Henry Lamson, who had gone to the gallows as recently as April for killing his crippled brother-in-law. Doctors had the means of disposal to hand, after all, and their work brought them into such intimate contact with death that it was no surprise if occasionally one of them developed a cynical indifference to it, even a predilection for it as a convenient way of solving problems. Palmer and his kind were those who had made errors. How many others in the same profession had committed similar crimes nobody had detected?
The details of the case-the circumstances in which Prothero had returned from the regimental ball and Zena had been on the beach-were for Scotland Yard to determine. What mattered was that until they were ready to arrest the doctor every move he made should be observed, every suspicious action recorded, and he, Moscrop, would see that it was done. A singular way to pass a holiday, but one that, curiously enough, brought him peace of mind.
Beyond the barques and pleasure-yachts dotting the expanse of the sea, a war vessel was at gun-practice, a compelling spectacle, for after each flash on the water and before the puff of white smoke dispersed, there was a moment’s hiatus while one waited for the boom of the gun. He was watching this phenomenon for perhaps the fifth time and beginning to speculate more generally on the delay between cause and effect when he saw that Dr. Prothero had come down the steps of the Albemarle and was turning into the Marine Parade in the direction of the Aquarium. That he was not going to look at fish or reptiles this morning was evident from his clothes. He wore walking-boots and leggings and carried a stick and a bulky knapsack. His stride bore all the indications of a long hike in prospect.
Moscrop pulled nervously at the ends of his moustache. This was a new development, quite foreign to the routine of Brill’s, Mutton’s and Lewes Crescent that he had thought was inflexibly established. It held him temporarily incapable of action. Anything else-a carriage-drive, a boat-trip, a walk along the pier-he could reasonably have accepted. But this-it was unaccountable, and quite impossible to have anticipated. Heavens! Where was the man going dressed like that, striding towards the centre of town?
He set off numbly in pursuit, through Steine Gardens and past the Victoria fountain, forced almost into a trotting gait to keep within sight of the eccentrically dressed doctor, who was passing with his knapsack-who would credit it? under the very shadow of the Town Hall towards North Street. The trail continued past the circulating libraries, Treacher’s and Wright’s, across the junction with West Street and into Dyke Road, the steep ascent making no appreciable difference to Prothero’s rate of progress.
Moscrop had reason to be thankful for his daily constitutional along Oxford Street; Prothero was demonstrably in better physical condition than men half his age. But the necessity of keeping pace was not the most alarming aspect of the march. Of more concern to Moscrop was the grim sense of purpose in the set of the doctor’s shoulders and the almost military rigidity of his head. This was no taking of the air; it was a calculated march and it was leading them by the quickest possible route to one of the highest points of the South Downs. The knapsack, boots and leggings, so out of place among the shoppers in North Street, were entirely justified here, and Moscrop, in canvas shoes and flannels, was pathetically ill-equipped. Aside from the folly of attempting to cover uneven terrain in such gear, he faced the prospect of appearing as conspicuous on the Downs as Prothero had looked in Brighton.
As they approached Seven Dials he made the decision he knew he must: he would watch Prothero cross the road, see which route he took of the half-dozen available, and then double back to his lodgings for his walking boots and the Zeiss binoculars, staking the power of the lens on the open slopes against the twenty minutes start he would thereby sacrifice. If, as he suspected, Prothero had decided for his own reasons to walk clean out of Brighton and over the Downs by the loneliest route, someone must give pursuit. The man might never be heard of again. It would be a grave mistake to depend upon young Guy to lead the authorities to his father. The boy had left the Albemarle half an hour before Dr. Prothero that morning, and in all probability was already pedalling out of Brighton along some quiet lane on a hired bicycle.
At the Seven Dials crossroad, Prothero marched unhesitatingly to the continuation of Dyke Road. Moscrop turned left into Vernon Terrace and unashamedly ran down the hill towards his lodgings.
One of the largest of the arch-fronted buildings under the Parade had been put at Constable Thackeray’s disposal. So had Constable Murphy, principally known in Brighton for his tea-making. Unhappily, no one had provided a gas-ring.
‘I could always try the boxing saloon next door,’ suggested Murphy. ‘It’s known locally as the Blood Hole but I reckon the owners might try to think of something else after this week’s melancholy happenings. Sugar and milk for you?’
‘We’ll leave it for half an hour, shall we?’ said Thackeray. ‘We should be through this lot by then and I’ll enjoy one of your specials back at Grafton Street when I’ve got the smell of fish off my hands. Found anything else in your bin?’
‘It’s mainly driftwood and seaweed,’ said Murphy.
‘Lay it all out neat, just the same. Those was the sergeant’s orders.’
The floor was already three-parts covered with objects taken from the beach during the diggings earlier in the week. In the search for human remains everything picked up except pebbles had been deposited in bins. The necessary work of sifting the contents for a possible clue was in the capable hands of Thackeray and Murphy.
‘Your sergeant’s taken the afternoon off, has he?’ said Murphy, carefully smoothing out a strip of seaweed and placing it, like a necktie, over the back of a convenient chair.
‘I don’t think he’d do that,’ said Thackeray. ‘He’s not above fitting in a swim now and then, but he wouldn’t take long over it. No, he’s gone to Dorking on the train, as a matter of fact. Pursuing inquiries there. No offence intended towards you, of course, but I wouldn’t mind being with him. I think he might have something to say to the newspapers when he gets back tonight.’
‘What’s that-the name of the murdered woman?’
‘I ain’t at liberty to say,’ said Thackeray primly. ‘Hey! Keep your eyes on the job. That’s a piece of paper you’ve got there. All the paper has to come to me. Sergeant Cribb’s instructions.’
The instructions (which Murphy could not very well dispute, Cribb having communicated them through Thackeray) were that Thackeray should take charge of anything made of paper, cloth and metal, while Murphy handled the rest, including seaweed, driftwood, gull’s feathers and fish remains.
‘Here’s another garter for you, anyway,’ said Murphy. ‘That’s the fifth, and they’re all too faded to have been there just since Saturday. This old beach could tell a few stories-what’s that you’ve got?’
Thackeray unfolded a piece of blue paper. ‘I’m damned if it ain’t the very thing the sergeant asked me to look for! This is going to make my day. Here. Come and have a look.’ The paper was headed
