consequences. Roger was not thinking so much of possible punishment as of the effect on his hobby. If things did reach the point when he had to admit what he had done, the confidence of the police would be lost to him for ever; never would he be allowed to go officially detecting again. And yet he could not regret the action. Better that Roger Sheringham should be in the permanent black books of Scotland Yard than that David should suffer what blind justice would certainly order him to suffer for an act of almost insane desperation.
But if Roger could prevent it, things would not reach that point. And the really important thing was to prevent the inquest from being adjourned. An adjourned inquest, in such circumstances, would mean the ears of every pressman in the kingdom cocked to high heaven. Inevitably mud would be slung, reputations spotted, and the whole childish joke of the party twisted to fit the most preposterous insinuations. The party, and all those who had attended it, would be 'news' of the yellowest description. If it could possibly be done, that must be stopped. But how?
Time was so infernally short. The police had somehow got to be convinced that very day that there was no ground for further inquiry: that the case really was as simple as it had looked at first. And with that damning chair in their possession, Roger did not see how on earth he was going to convince them of anything of the sort.
Besides, the trouble was that he himself, for all he knew, might be suspect. It would only be justice, and not merely poetic justice at that, if he were. He tried to remember what his attitude to the police had been, and theirs to him. Had he, for instance, appeared too partisan that morning in dismissing the position of the chair as of no importance? And yet the irritating thing was that it had been of no importance; none at all. Had he tried to lead the inspector too obviously last night?
Roger mounted the steps that led to the raised walk round the rose garden, his hands sunk in his pockets, his head dropped in thought. Yes, the attitude of the police towards him had altered. Last night the inspector had been delighted to meet him, only too eager to ask his advice and listen to his suggestions. This morning on the roof Roger's suggestions had plainly failed to convince him. Later, when the scenes with which he was so familiar were being enacted, he had not even been consulted at all. More, it might be that he had been purposely excluded. The arrival of the police at the back door and the injunction to the maid to say nothing to the master of the house about it might have been aimed more at Roger than at Ronald.
It was not nice to feel suspect. Roger, who had chased so many quarries with gusto, felt horrid little cold finger taps up and down his spine at the idea of being a quarry himself. Was it possible that the police suspected him even of the actual murder? He must not get morbid: but was it? And if so, and the fact of his having handled that chair did come out, together with the fact that he had been on the roof, alone, during the crucial time - well, Colin had put up a very nasty case against him last night; how would that case sound in open court, from the dock?
No, it was ridiculous. He was Roger Sheringham. But still . . .
'Hullo, Mr. Sheringham,' said a voice at his elbow. 'I've been watching you pace round like a lion in a cage. I'm sorry to disturb the reverie, but I'm simply dying to know what it's about.' Mrs. Lefroy was sunning herself in a little arbour let into the rambler walk.
'Then I shan't tell you,' said Roger, recovering himself not without difficulty. 'You brought my heart into my mouth and nearly out through the top of my head. You really mustn't speak suddenly like that to people in the dock for murder.'
'Were you in the dock for murder?' Mrs. Lefroy asked curiously.
'I was. I'm not, thank goodness, now.' He seated himself on the bench beside her. The presence of Mrs. Lefroy was right. Obviously there was not the least use in brooding. 'Do you mind talking to me,' he said carefully, 'about - about pancakes? Yes, pancakes. Pancakes are very soothing things.'
'Pancakes!' Mrs. Lefroy repeated rather dubiously. 'I'm not sure that I know much about pancakes. But I can tell you how to cook a chicken a la Toulousaine.'
'Tell me,' said Roger eagerly.
At a quarter to four Ronald Stratton, on Roger's impatient instigation, rang up Dr. Chalmers. No, the doctor was not yet back.
Roger possessed himself somehow for twenty - five minutes, but certainly not in patience. 'And they started at three!' he groaned. 'Oh, ring up again, Ronald.'
Ronald rang up again. This time he was more lucky. 'Dr. Chalmers has just come in? Ask him to speak to me, will you? Mr. Stratton.'
In the pause, Ronald beckoned to Roger. 'If you put your head close to the receiver, you'll probably be able to hear, too.'
Roger nodded and put his head close to the receiver. He could actually hear Ronald's heart thumping and knew that Ronald could probably hear his. Then came Chalmers's voice, just as cheerful as ever. 'That you, Ronald? I was just going to ring you up, my man. Yes, just got in.'
'The p.m.'s over?'
'Oh, yes. Quite simple. Of course the cause of death was never in doubt.'
'No, no. But . . .'
'What is it, my man?'
'Well, did you find anything else? Bruising on the body, or anything like that?'
'Oh, yes. The body was rather badly bruised. The skin broken on both kneecaps, a large contusion on the right hip and another on the right buttock, and a bit of a bruise on the back of the head which I'm afraid we must have overlooked last night. Otherwise nothing.'
'I see,' said Ronald, in a dull voice. He looked inquiringly at Roger, who shook his head. There was no need to ask anything further.
'That all you wanted to know? We shall just send in a formal report. In fact the whole thing was nothing but a formality. Yes. Well, good - bye, Ronald.'
Ronald hung up the receiver and looked at Roger. Roger looked at him. 'A bruise on the back of the head,' Roger was thinking. Then he must have overlooked that, too, as well as the doctors, for he had felt the back of Mrs. Stratton's head last night for the exact purpose of finding out if there was any bump or swelling and had detected none; it must have been too high up under her hat. In any case that explained only too clearly why there had been no struggle or noise. David had stunned her. Roger wondered what with, and whether it was now safely concealed. David had stunned her, and she had slumped down to her knees, breaking the skin on the rough surface of the asphalt. How the other bruises had been acquired did not matter; the one on the back of the head was the damning one. So that was how David had done it.
Roger realized that he was still looking at Ronald, and Ronald at him. And he was pretty sure that the thoughts which had just been chasing one another through his own mind had equally been chasing themselves through Ronald's. Aloud he said: 'That's a bit of a nuisance.'
'Yes,' said Ronald.
Dr. Mitchell's house was of cheerfully modern red brick, with a small garden in front full of flowering shrubs and a glimpse down one side of a lawn and rose bushes at the back. It stood in a pleasant, green avenue, and Roger had had no difficulty in finding it, on the instructions Ronald had given him. He had asked Ronald to drop him at the Westerford crossroads, whence he could make his way to Dr. Mitchell's on foot, as he considered that it might be unwise for Ronald to drive all the way to the house. For all anyone knew, Ronald might now be under police suspicion, and he must not appear to be trying to tamper with the medical evidence. For that matter, so might Roger himself; but people in Westerford could not recognize him as they could Ronald and Ronald's car.
He waited for Dr. Mitchell in a somewhat severe room with an official - looking desk in one corner of the room and, rather incongruously, a piano in another. 'Why, Sheringham, this is a surprise. Delighted to see you. Come into the other room and have some tea.'
Dr. Mitchell, no longer Jack the Ripper but a thoroughly respectable practitioner in a lounge suit, was obviously pleased to see him. Roger, however, had no time for tea, though his conscience felt a little uneasy as he tried to detach the doctor from the young woman waiting in the next room, who would certainly be cursing him heartily for the next fifteen minutes.
'Thanks very much, but I'm rather in a hurry. Can you spare me a couple of minutes, or are you in the middle of tea?'
'Not a bit. Sit down. You've not come to consult me professionally, surely?' Dr. Mitchell seated himself at the official - looking desk, and Roger took a convenient chair.
