Try another thesis. Eustace hadn’t destroyed the cheque. He hadn’t destroyed it because he had never had it. It had been drawn, but had never reached him. Then who? Gray? He’d have cancelled the counterfoil. Brand? Why? And how did he know it had been drawn? He saw it, perhaps. But if Eustace had been unable to move his father-in-law and co-director, what conceivable argument could Brand have produced to account for this amazing volte-face? And would Gray have drawn the cheque in Brand’s presence? Moreover, some time had elapsed between the drawing of the two cheques. It was far more reasonable to suppose that Gray would wait to find himself alone before drawing the cheque for Eustace. Indeed, he would probably wait until Eustace was with him. But if Eustace had drawn the cheque himself—well, he wouldn’t have destroyed it. As things stood, it was simply Brand’s alibi…
Brand’s alibi! How damned fortunate for him. But—if he’d killed the old man, what time had Gray had to draw a second cheque at all? The answer was, of course, he hadn’t had any time. Picture it. Here’s Brand, with his father dead at his feet. In his hand is the cheque that proves he was the last person to see Gray alive. That’s Christmas Eve. Think of the irony of the position. Probably for the first time in his life he has money on which he can draw; and through his own criminal folly it’s going to be absolutely useless to him. Useless, that is, unless he can somehow escape the consequences of his crime. And the one way to divert suspicion is to show that someone was in the library with Gray later than he was. It won’t be an easy thing to prove, because somehow this imaginary later visitor must be induced to leave traces of his presence in the room, something the police can get hold of, something that will nail him as the criminal. How’s this going to be done? The cheque in his hand had probably given Brand the idea. Make out a second cheque—it’s through a cheque that he’ll be condemned, if he fails; it’s through a cheque they shall take this other man. There’s the answer for you. Neat, too. It had taken a long time to get to that solution. It answered all the points—the disappearance of the second cheque, and the riddle of its existence in the first place. Of course, Eustace hadn’t got it. Eustace had never seen it. There’d never been a cheque for him or anyone else to see. The blank form probably accounted for the fragment of ash in the fireplace. But the illusion had been perfect.
6
After some inward debate Miles took his wife into his confidence, describing the position as he at present envisioned it. Ruth was aghast.
“Miles, you’re not going to try and hunt down Brand? When he’s got so many enemies as it is?”
“My dear, I can’t stand by and see an innocent man convicted. It’s no question of personalities. It’s just a job, like any other.”
“But—your job, Miles?”
“It seems so. I didn’t seek it out. I didn’t want it. The first hint I got, I evaded. But I can’t hide my head under a furze-bush any longer. There are too many discrepancies in this case for an honest man to feel easy in his mind.”
“Of course, your explanation is possible,” Ruth admitted reluctantly. “I remember the fearful row there was years ago when Brand wrote a whole letter in father’s writing and no one detected the forgery. We found out by pure chance. So I don’t suppose a cheque—or do you think he forged both cheques?—would be very difficult.”
Miles had suddenly swivelled round, and the pipe he was filling fell through his fingers.
“Two cheques,” he repeated softly. “Two. You’ve put your finger on it, Ruth. What a dunderhead I was not to see it before. That’s how Brand got hold of his money, of course. I’ve been puzzling and puzzling to understand how it was done; what inducements he had offered your father; above all, how he could have got that amount from a man who knew himself bankrupt. So far as I can gather, no one except his lawyer knew quite how deeply dipped he was. Even Eustace didn’t know, Richard didn’t know. And if he didn’t mind making a fool of Brand, though even that seems to me unlikely, he wouldn’t attempt to play the same trick on Eustace. Let’s piece this together, shall we?”
He left his chair and, coming to the writing-table, took up a silver pencil and began to jot down notes.
“Eleven o’clock. Brand goes down to the library.
“Two o’clock. He’s seen returning to his room.
“Eleven to two. Mr. Gray is murdered. According to the doctor, that couldn’t have taken place this side of midnight, and was more likely between one and two. What on earth did those two do from eleven till one?”
“Quarrelled,” answered Ruth unhappily.
“I’d be inclined to say Brand didn’t go down till getting on for midnight. I don’t know whether there’s any possibility of proving that. I should say not, as no one’s queried the evidence so far. They might easily argue for an hour, and they’d get pretty violent. At about one o’clock or a little later, Brand loses his head completely—it’s a bad time for even the most temperate man to be arguing—and strikes your father with the paper-weight. I don’t suppose at the time he realised what he was doing, but that cuts no ice with juries. All they’ll look at is the fact that he actually killed the old man. Then see him with the body, realising what he’s done. I daresay, at first, he doesn’t even
