“But, I say, you know,” protested Bill, “one doesn’t necessarily try to ruin one’s rival in love.”
“Doesn’t one?” said Antony, turning to him with a smile.
Bill blushed.
“Well, of course, one never knows, but I mean—”
“You mightn’t try to ruin him, Bill, but you wouldn’t perjure yourself in order to get him out of a trouble of his own making.”
“Lord! no.”
“So that of the two alternatives the other is the more likely.”
They had come to the gate into the last field which divided them from the road, and having gone through it, they turned round and leant against it, resting for a moment, and looking down at the house which they had left.
“Jolly little place, isn’t it?” said Bill.
“Very. But rather mysterious.”
“In what way?”
“Well, where’s the front door?”
“The front door? Why, you’ve just come out of it.”
“But isn’t there a drive, or a road or anything?”
Bill laughed.
“No; that’s the beauty of it to some people. And that’s why it’s so cheap, and why the Norburys can afford it, I expect. They’re not too well off.”
“But what about luggage and tradesmen and that kind of thing?”
“Oh, there’s a cart-track, but motorcars can’t come any nearer than the road”—he turned round and pointed—“up there. So the weekend millionaire people don’t take it. At least, they’d have to build a road and a garage and all the rest of it, if they did.”
“I see,” said Antony carelessly, and they turned round and continued their walk up to the road. But later on he remembered this casual conversation at the gate, and saw the importance of it.
XVI
Getting Ready for the Night
What was it which Cayley was going to hide in that pond that night? Antony thought that he knew now. It was Mark’s body.
From the beginning he had seen this answer coming and had drawn back from it. For, if Mark had been killed, it seemed such a cold-blooded killing. Was Cayley equal to it? Bill would have said “No,” but that was because he had had breakfast with Cayley, and lunch with him, and dinner with him; had ragged him and played games with him. Bill would have said “No,” because Bill wouldn’t have killed anybody in cold blood himself, and because he took it for granted that other people behaved pretty much as he did. But Antony had no such illusions. Murders were done; murder had actually been done here, for there was Robert’s dead body. Why not another murder?
Had Mark been in the office at all that afternoon? The only evidence (other than Cayley’s, which obviously did not count) was Elsie’s. Elsie was quite certain that she had heard his voice. But then Bill had said that it was a very characteristic voice—an easy voice, therefore, to imitate. If Bill could imitate it so successfully, why not Cayley?
But perhaps it had not been such a cold-blooded killing, after all. Suppose Cayley had had a quarrel with his cousin that afternoon over the girl whom they were both wooing. Suppose Cayley had killed Mark, either purposely, in sudden passion, or accidentally, meaning only to knock him down. Suppose that this had happened in the passage, say about two o’clock, either because Cayley had deliberately led him there, or because Mark had casually suggested a visit to it. (One could imagine Mark continually gloating over that secret passage.) Suppose Cayley there, with the body at his feet, feeling already the rope round his neck; his mind darting this way and that in frantic search for a way of escape; and suppose that suddenly and irrelevantly he remembers that Robert is coming to the house at three o’clock that afternoon—automatically he looks at his watch—in half an hour’s time. … In half an hour’s time. He must think of something quickly, quickly. Shall he bury the body in the passage and let it be thought that Mark ran away, frightened at the mere thought of his brother’s arrival? But there was the evidence of the breakfast table. Mark had seemed annoyed at this resurrection of the black sheep, but certainly not frightened. No; that was much too thin a story. But suppose Mark had actually seen his brother and had a quarrel with him; suppose it could be made to look as if Robert had killed Mark—
Antony pictured to himself Cayley in the passage, standing over the dead body of his cousin, and working it out. How could Robert be made to seem the murderer, if Robert were alive to deny it? But suppose Robert were dead, too?
He looks at his watch again. (Only twenty-five minutes now.) Suppose Robert were dead, too? Robert dead in the office, and Mark dead in the passage—how does that help? Madness! But if the bodies were brought together somehow and Robert’s death looked like suicide? … Was it possible?
Madness again. Too difficult. (Only twenty minutes now.) Too difficult to arrange in twenty minutes. Can’t arrange a suicide. Too difficult. … Only nineteen minutes. …
And then the sudden inspiration! Robert dead in the office, Mark’s body hidden in the passage—impossible to make Robert seem the murderer, but how easy to make Mark! Robert dead and Mark missing; why, it jumped to the eye at once. Mark had killed Robert—accidentally; yes, that would be more likely—and then had run away. Sudden panic. … (He looks at his watch again. Fifteen minutes, but plenty of time now. The thing arranges itself.)
Was that the solution, Antony wondered. It seemed to fit in with the facts as they knew them; but then, so did that other theory which he had suggested to Bill in the morning.
“Which one?” said Bill.
They had come back from Jallands through the park and were sitting in the copse above the pond, from which the Inspector and his fishermen had now withdrawn. Bill had listened with open mouth to Antony’s theory, and save for an occasional “By Jove!” had listened in silence. “Smart man, Cayley,” had been his only comment at the end.
“Which
