“I suppose one of the family told you about them?”
“I don’t know how many of them knew.”
“I expect my brother would, and Mr. Moore. I don’t know about the others. Mr. Amery, perhaps, but I’m not sure. I don’t fancy he and my father were on the best of terms.”
“No?” Ross’s voice was non-committal. Brand amended himself sharply.
“I beg your pardon. I was thinking aloud. I don’t mean to imply that there were any serious disagreements between them. I don’t believe they often met. But I know their standards were different, and my father was displeased at what he considered Mr. Amery’s lack of ambition. That was all I intended to convey when I said I doubted whether he’d be in my father’s confidence.”
“I see,” said Murray in the same tone. “To go back to the matter of the cheque. Your father wrote it out while you were in the room?”
“Yes. He hadn’t anticipated giving me one. He’d hardly have it prepared.”
“Quite. He didn’t say anything about a cheque for Mr. Moore?”
“No. But he did give me the impression that he would not be altogether surprised at seeing him again before morning. It was obvious to us all that there was something serious on my brother-in-law’s mind.”
“And you necessarily associated that with Mr. Gray?”
“The only basis on which my father and Mr. Moore ever met was a financial one. They’d nothing else in common. Besides, even I have heard how rocky some of the companies are in which my father and Mr. Moore have investments. And this wouldn’t be the first time he has come down here to ask for funds.”
“He said nothing of this to you—Mr. Moore, I mean?”
“Mr. Moore regards me as a congenital idiot, on whom words and ordinary common sense are wasted.”
“I see. Thank you. There’s one more point. This document you signed. Was that awaiting your signature or did your father draw it up in your presence?”
Here Brand paused an instant, suspecting a further trap. “He drew it up while I was in the room,” he replied, after that moment of hesitation. “He didn’t know he was going to give me money; he’d hardly have had the document in readiness, would he?”
“Quite. I wonder if you’d oblige me by letting me take an impression of your finger-prints.”
Brand was startled; yet an instant’s reflection assured him that he had nothing to fear from this procedure. He had acknowledged his presence in the room, and in the circumstances it would be reasonable to expect to find traces.
But he did ask, as he complied with the detective’s request, reflecting gloomily that he would have to wash his hands before his return to the morning-room, “What’s the idea? Or is it just a formality?”
“Oh, no,” Ross told him, in placid tones. “There are some finger-prints on the safe that we want to identify. Of course, if you didn’t know it was there, they can’t be yours, but as a matter of routine I must test every member of the household.”
“They may be my father’s.”
“Oh, very probably. But it isn’t safe to act on that assumption. Thank you, Mr. Gray. I wonder if you’d let Mr. Moore know I should like to see him.” Brand mounted the stairs two at a time, lithe and silent as a cat. He thought rapidly, “Must be on my guard, without appearing to notice anything unusual. I mustn’t seem anxious and I mustn’t go to the other extreme and look too casual. After all, I am involved, some people would say heavily involved. It may seem odd that there are none of Eustace’s finger-prints in the room. A fellow like that one will be sure to comment on that. How does a man behave who knows he may be arrested for murder, that everyone believes him guilty of murder, but who is actually innocent? That’s the attitude I’ve got to adopt.”
He put his head into the morning-room and gave Moore the detective’s message.
“Where are you going now, Brand?” asked Amy hungrily.
“To wash my hands. This stuff in which they take your finger-prints—oh, yes, it’s all very official, like something on the pictures. Good luck, Eustace.”
He lingered in the bathroom, trying to determine the best line to follow. If he appeared too greatly alarmed at the prospect he would arouse suspicion; and if he were devil-may-care and defiant he would probably confirm a suspicion, not in the minds of his relations, who did not, actually, matter, but in the mind of that silent, astute, and vigilant man who was as resolved to come to the bottom of the mystery as he, the murderer in their midst, intended to escape the consequences of his deed.
Drying his hands on the blue-and-white checked towel—“What cheap towels Sophy buys,” he thought; “it’s a pleasure to feel this thick, soft material under one’s hands”—he went on in his mind, “How much does that fellow know? What has he discovered? He gave nothing away. Whom does he suspect? Has he examined the fireplace? Suppose that doesn’t occur to him? What”—and this was the crucial question—“what does he know that I don’t know he knows?” Therein lay his true danger, and once again he was impressed and appalled to think that he had stood face to face with a man, not more than two feet distant, had been free to observe his expressions, gestures, and the movements of his body, and yet had no key whatsoever as to what was passing in that calm and reasoning brain. He put the towel down untidily, and went back to the group in the morning-room. Eustace was still, presumably, undergoing examination. Perhaps he, too, was having a gruelling time.
Brand spoke suddenly. “How much authority have these police fellows got? How many questions can they ask, and is there anything sacred to them? Can you refuse to answer anything?”
“Honest people with nothing to fear don’t mind answering questions,” Amy ripped out viciously.
“Quite. But are any of us that?”
They turned their faces towards
