“You never said anything about them,” complained Bill.
“I only saw them afterwards. I was looking for the collar, you remember. They came back to me afterwards; I knew how Cayley would feel about it. … Poor devil!”
“Go on,” said Bill.
“Well, then, we had the inquest, and of course I noticed, and I suppose you did too, the curious fact that Robert had asked his way at the second lodge and not at the first. So I talked to Amos and Parsons. That made it more curious. Amos told me that Robert had gone out of his way to speak to him; had called to him, in fact. Parsons told me that his wife was out in their little garden at the first lodge all the afternoon, and was certain that Robert had never come past it. He also told me that Cayley had put him on to a job on the front lawn that afternoon. So I had another guess. Robert had used the secret passage—the passage which comes out into the park between the first and second lodges. Robert, then, had been in the house; it was a put-up job between Robert and Cayley. But how could Robert be there without Mark knowing? Obviously, Mark knew too. What did it all mean?”
“When was this?” interrupted Bill. “Just after the inquest—after you’d seen Amos and Parsons, of course?”
“Yes. I got up and left them, and came to look for you. I’d got back to the clothes then. Why did Mark change his clothes so secretly? Disguise? But then what about his face? That was much more important than clothes. His face, his beard—he’d have to shave off his beard—and then—oh, idiot! I saw you looking at that poster. Mark acting, Mark made-up, Mark disguised. Oh, priceless idiot! Mark was Robert. … Matches, please.”
Bill passed over the matches again, waited till Antony had relit his pipe, and then held out his hand for them, just as they were going into the other’s pocket.
“Yes,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Yes. … But wait a moment. What about the Plough and Horses?” Antony looked comically at him.
“You’ll never forgive me, Bill,” he said. “You’ll never come clue-hunting with me again.”
“What do you mean?”
Antony sighed.
“It was a fake, Watson. I wanted you out of the way. I wanted to be alone. I’d guessed at my x, and I wanted to test it—to test it every way, by everything we’d discovered. I simply had to be alone just then. So—” he smiled and added, “Well, I knew you wanted a drink.”
“You are a devil,” said Bill, staring at him. “And your interest when I told you that a woman had been staying there—”
“Well, it was only polite to be interested when you’d taken so much trouble.”
“You brute! You—you Sherlock! And then you keep trying to steal my matches. Well, go on.”
“That’s all. My x fitted.”
“Did you guess Miss Norris and all that?”
“Well, not quite. I didn’t realize that Cayley had worked for it from the beginning—had put Miss Norris up to frightening Mark. I thought he’d just seized the opportunity.”
Bill was silent for a long time. Then, puffing at his pipe, he said slowly, “Has Cayley shot himself?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
“Poor devil,” said Bill. “It was decent of you to give him a chance. I’m glad you did.”
“I couldn’t help liking Cayley in a kind of way, you know.”
“He’s a clever devil. If you hadn’t turned up just when you did, he would never have been found out.”
“I wonder. It was ingenious, but it’s often the ingenious thing which gets found out. The awkward thing from Cayley’s point of view was that, though Mark was missing, neither he nor his body could ever be found. Well, that doesn’t often happen with a missing man. He generally gets discovered in the end; a professional criminal; perhaps not—but an amateur like Mark! He might have kept the secret of how he killed Mark, but I think it would have become obvious sooner or later that he had killed him.”
“Yes, there’s something in that. … Oh, just tell me one thing. Why did Mark tell Miss Norbury about his imaginary brother?”
“That’s puzzled me rather, too, Bill. It may be that he was just doing the Othello business—painting himself black all over. I mean he may have been so full of his appearance as Robert that he had almost got to believe in Robert, and had to tell everybody. More likely, though, he felt that, having told all of you at the house, he had better tell Miss Norbury, in case she met one of you; in which case, if you mentioned the approaching arrival of Robert, she might say, ‘Oh, I’m certain he has no brother; he would have told me if he had,’ and so spoil his joke. Possibly, too, Cayley put him on to it; Cayley obviously wanted as many people as possible to know about Robert.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“Yes, I suppose they’ll have to know. Cayley may have left another confession. I hope he won’t give me away; you see, I’ve been a sort of accessory since yesterday evening. And I must go and see Miss Norbury.”
“I asked,” explained Bill, “because I was wondering what I should say to—to Betty. Miss Calladine.
