It is possible that, in thinking this, Antony was doing Inspector Birch a slight injustice. Birch was certainly prepared to believe that Mark had shot his brother. Robert had been shown into the office (witness Audrey); Mark had gone in to Robert (witness Cayley); Mark and Robert had been heard talking (witness Elsie); there was a shot (witness everybody); the room had been entered and Robert’s body had been found (witness Cayley and Gillingham). And Mark was missing. Obviously, then, Mark had killed his brother: accidentally, as Cayley believed, or deliberately, as Elsie’s evidence seemed to suggest. There was no point in looking for a difficult solution to a problem, when the easy solution had no flaw in it. But at the same time Birch would have preferred the difficult solution, simply because there was more credit attached to it. A “sensational” arrest of somebody in the house would have given him more pleasure than a commonplace pursuit of Mark Ablett across country. Mark must be found, guilty or not guilty. But there were other possibilities. It would have interested Antony to know that, just at the time when he was feeling rather superior to the prejudiced inspector, the Inspector himself was letting his mind dwell lovingly upon the possibilities in connection with Mr. Gillingham. Was it only a coincidence that Mr. Gillingham had turned up just when he did? And Mr. Beverley’s curious answers when asked for some account of his friend. An assistant in a tobacconist’s, a waiter! An odd man, Mr. Gillingham, evidently. It might be as well to keep an eye on him.
VI
Outside or Inside?
The guests had said goodbye to Cayley, according to their different manner. The Major, gruff and simple: “If you want me, command me. Anything I can do—Goodbye”; Betty, silently sympathetic, with everything in her large eyes which she was too much overawed to tell; Mrs. Calladine, protesting that she did not know what to say, but apparently finding plenty; and Miss Norris, crowding so much into one despairing gesture that Cayley’s unvarying “Thank you very much” might have been taken this time as gratitude for an artistic entertainment.
Bill had seen them into the car, had taken his own farewells (with a special squeeze of the hand for Betty), and had wandered out to join Antony on his garden seat.
“Well, this is a rum show,” said Bill as he sat down.
“Very rum, William.”
“And you actually walked right into it?”
“Right into it,” said Antony.
“Then you’re the man I want. There are all sorts of rumours and mysteries about, and that inspector fellow simply wouldn’t keep to the point when I wanted to ask him about the murder, or whatever it is, but kept asking me questions about where I’d met you first, and all sorts of dull things like that. Now, what really happened?”
Antony told him as concisely as he could all that he had already told the Inspector, Bill interrupting him here and there with appropriate “Good Lords” and whistles.
“I say, it’s a bit of a business, isn’t it? Where do I come in, exactly?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, everybody else is bundled off except me, and I get put through it by that inspector as if I knew all about it—what’s the idea?”
Antony smiled at him.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about, you know. Naturally Birch wanted to see one of you so as to know what you’d all been doing all day. And Cayley was nice enough to think that you’d be company for me, as I knew you already. And—well, that’s all.”
“You’re staying here, in the house?” said Bill eagerly. “Good man. That’s splendid.”
“It reconciles you to the departure of—some of the others?”
Bill blushed.
“Oh, well, I shall see her again next week, anyway,” he murmured.
“I congratulate you. I liked her looks. And that grey dress. A nice comfortable sort of woman—”
“You fool, that’s her mother.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. But anyhow, Bill, I want you more than she does just now. So try and put up with me.”
“I say, do you really?” said Bill, rather flattered. He had a great admiration for Antony, and was very proud to be liked by him.
“Yes. You see, things are going to happen here soon.”
“Inquests and that sort of thing?”
“Well, perhaps something before that. Hallo, here comes Cayley.”
Cayley was walking across the lawn towards them, a big, heavy-shouldered man, with one of those strong, clean-shaven, ugly faces which can never quite be called plain. “Bad luck on Cayley,” said Bill. “I say, ought I to tell him how sorry I am and all that sort of thing? It seems so dashed inadequate.”
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Antony.
Cayley nodded as he came to them, and stood there for a moment.
“We can make room for you,” said Bill, getting up.
“Oh, don’t bother, thanks. I just came to say,” he went on to Antony, “that naturally they’ve rather lost their heads in the kitchen, and dinner won’t be till half-past eight. Do just as you like about dressing, of course. And what about your luggage?”
“I thought Bill and I would walk over to the inn directly, and see about it.”
“The car can go and fetch it as soon as it comes back from the station.”
“It’s very good of you, but I shall have to go over myself, anyhow, to pack up and pay my bill. Besides, it’s a good evening for a walk. If you wouldn’t mind it, Bill?”
“I should love it.”
“Well, then, if you leave the bag there, I’ll send the car round for it later.”
“Thanks very much.”
Having said what he wanted to say, Cayley remained there a little awkwardly, as if not sure whether to go or to stay. Antony wondered whether he wanted to talk about the afternoon’s happenings, or whether it was the one subject he wished to avoid. To break the silence he asked carelessly if the Inspector had gone.
Cayley nodded. Then he said abruptly, “He’s getting a warrant for Mark’s arrest.”
Bill made
