The following day he determined to sift the matter as far as he was able, and he went, therefore, to a newspaper office, where he read through the detailed accounts of Gray’s death and the subsequent reports. He examined each detail minutely, and presently a fresh consideration occurred to him.
“Whoever burnt the handkerchief burnt the blotting-paper,” he decided. “A man doesn’t burn blotting-paper, when there’s an empty basket at his elbow, unless he’s got some specific reason. I don’t suppose Gray had written anything he wanted destroyed. There was too little paper ash—an infinitesimal quantity, according to the police; certainly not enough to account for letters or anything damaging of that kind. Besides, if it had been incriminating letters, they wouldn’t have been written and blotted in that room; they mightn’t even have been in Gray’s handwriting. So I should say the blotting-paper was burnt by someone else. And was that other man Brand? And if so, why? What record did that blotting-paper contain? We know the cheques were blotted, and Brand’s document was blotted, but no one ever saw that sheet of blotting-paper. Now, why should it be burnt unless it contained some other record that it was dangerous for anyone else to see? It must have been something brief, too, because the paper-ash is so small.”
It then occurred to him that the damaging paper might have been carried off by the murderer, although no ash had been found in any other room.
“And there’s one more point, while I think of it, and that is the matches. Eustace has a patent cigarette-lighter; only Brand uses those horrible cheap splinters. The police don’t seem to have made much of that.”
Presently he turned from that line of enquiry to another problem that had troubled him from the first. How had Brand compelled his father to draw a cheque for that amount? The only answer that occurred to him was blackmail, but the question at once arose: what hold could Brand conceivably have over a man like Adrian Gray? No one would be likely to listen to anything he said. Moreover, Gray had no particular stake to lose, and Brand didn’t know enough reputable people for his word to carry any weight. And then, look at that paper. It’s ludicrous, thought Miles, sucking fiercely at a pipe. It’s just the kind of fulsome, pompous affair Gray might have conceived—but who would be likely to part with two thousand pounds on so vague an assurance? Then, too, it must have been obvious to him that if Brand disappeared, as certainly with that amount of money in hand he would, he’d be morally if not legally responsible for those children, if it came to any question of State support. And since Brand had no legal claim on him at all, he wouldn’t have given him money. It wasn’t as if it would help his own position later. And as there were no obligations, that gift absolved him from nothing. Then what inducement had Brand offered?
Be melodramatic for a minute, and suppose Brand had been violent. It was quite probable, if the younger man saw any prospect of personal advantage that he wouldn’t hesitate at any threat. But what threat could he use? Holding a pistol—literally, a pistol—to his father’s head? Nonsense. Brand hadn’t got a pistol, and wouldn’t know how to handle one, in any case. Then had he threatened the old man with the block of brass?
“I’ll smash your skull if you don’t give me that money?” Was that the kind of thing that had gone on in the library on Christmas Eve? Miles shook his head again. That wasn’t Brand’s line. Besides, cui bono? Gray had only to refuse to surrender the cheque and Brand was powerless. A murder with no adequate reward was a form of activity that even men of Brand’s erratic genius did not pursue. Besides, there were two arguments against this remote possibility. One was the presence, under the ledge of Gray’s table, of a concealed electric bell; that would have aroused comment and enquiry, ringing at such an hour. The second was Gray’s blatant betrayal of his son the next morning in the presence of the whole family, when he would unquestionably narrate the history of Brand’s hold-up the previous night and recover his cheque.
“Brand had nothing important to sell him,” concluded Miles, “because it would have been found among his papers. And even if he had compelled Gray to give him a cheque, and then murdered him because it was his only hope of keeping the money, still that doesn’t account for Eustace’s cheque. I’m damned if I see how we can work that in. Unless, of course, Eustace forged the thing himself. Yes, that’s an idea. I wonder if there’s any remote possibility of that being true. It’s the precise sum he wanted; he was bound to be gaoled if he couldn’t raise it, and I daresay he thought he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Then where does Gray come in? Of course, it’s possible to sit at that table in a bad light and draw a cheque without seeing the body under the curtains—possible though not very likely. But surely he’d glance at the most recent counterfoil and then he’d see Brand’s name down for two thousand pounds. But I’ll swear it came as much of a shock to him as to anyone on Christmas morning, when he heard about it. He didn’t know. I’m convinced of that. But, on the other hand, now I recall the scene more particularly, Brand was pretty certain Eustace hadn’t got a penny. He taunted him with it. But if Eustace had got that cheque, why didn’t he mention it at the time? That would be the obvious thing to do. And why didn’t he mention it to the police? He must, if he wasn’t completely imbecile, realise it
