“Of course,” replied Bent. “The house is yours—only too glad, old chap. But what a queer case it is! I’d give something, you know, to know what you really think about it.”
“I’ve not yet settled in my own mind what I do think about it,” said Brereton. “But I’ll suggest a few things to you which you can think over at your leisure. What motive could Harborough have had for killing Kitely? There’s abundant testimony in the town—from his daughter, from neighbours, from tradesmen—that Harborough was never short of money—he’s always had more money than most men in his position are supposed to have. Do you think it likely that he’d have killed Kitely for thirty pounds? Again—does anybody of sense believe that a man of Harborough’s evident ability would have murdered his victim so clumsily as to leave a direct clue behind him? Now turn to another side. Is it not evident that if Miss Pett wanted to murder Kitely she’d excellent chances of not only doing so, but of directing suspicion to another person? She knew her master’s habits—she knew the surroundings—she knew where Harborough kept that cord—she is the sort of person who could steal about as quietly as a cat. If—as may be established by the will which her nephew has, and of which, in spite of all she affirmed, or, rather, swore, she may have accurate knowledge—she benefits by Kitely’s death, is there not motive there? Clearly, Miss Pett is to be suspected!”
“Do you mean to tell me that she’d kill old Kitely just to get possession of the bit he had to leave?” asked Bent incredulously. “Come, now—that’s a stiff proposition.”
“Not to me,” replied Brereton. “I’ve known of a case in which a young wife carefully murdered an old husband because she was so eager to get out of the dull life she led with him that she couldn’t wait a year or two for his natural decease; I’ve heard of a case in which an elderly woman poisoned her twin-sister, so that she could inherit her share of an estate and go to live in style at Brighton. I don’t want to do Miss Pett any injustice, but I say that there are grounds for suspecting her—and they may be widened.”
“Then it comes to this,” said Bent. “There are two people under suspicion: Harborough’s suspected by the police—Miss Pett’s suspected by you. And it may be, and probably is, the truth that both are entirely innocent. In that case, who’s the guilty person?”
“Ah, who indeed?” assented Brereton, half carelessly. “That is a question. But my duty is to prove that my client is not guilty. And as you’re going to attend to your business this afternoon, I’ll do a little attending to mine by thinking things over.”
When Bent had gone away to the town, Brereton lighted a cigar, stretched himself in an easy chair in front of a warm fire in his host’s smoking-room, and tried to think clearly. He had said to Bent all that was in his mind about Harborough and about Miss Pett—but he had said nothing, had been determined to say nothing, about a curious thought, an unformed, vague suspicion which was there. It was that as yet formless suspicion which occupied all his mental powers now—he put Harborough and Miss Pett clean away from him.
And as he sat there, he asked himself first of all—why had this curious doubt about two apparently highly-respectable men of this little, out-of-the-world town come into his mind? He traced it back to its first source—Cotherstone. Brereton was a close observer of men; it was his natural instinct to observe, and he was always giving it a further training and development. He had felt certain as he sat at supper with him, the night before, that Cotherstone had something in his thoughts which was not of his guests, his daughter, or himself. His whole behaviour suggested preoccupation, occasional absentmindedness: once or twice he obviously did not hear the remarks which were addressed to him. He had certainly betrayed some curious sort of confusion when Kitely’s name was mentioned. And he had manifested great astonishment, been much upset, when Garthwaite came in with the news of Kitely’s death.
Now here came in what Brereton felt to be the all-important, the critical point of this, his first attempt to think things out. He was not at all sure that Cotherstone’s astonishment on hearing Garthwaite’s announcement was not feigned, was not a piece of pure acting. Why? He smiled cynically as he answered his own question. The answer was—Because when Cotherstone, Garthwaite, Bent, and Brereton set out from Cotherstone’s house to look at the dead man’s body, Cotherstone led the way straight to it.
How did Cotherstone know exactly where, in that half-mile of wooded hillside, the murder had been committed of which he had only heard five minutes before? Yet, he led them all to within a few yards of the dead man, until he suddenly checked himself, thrust the lantern into Garthwaite’s hands and said that of course he didn’t know where the body was! Now might not that really mean, when fully analyzed, that even if Cotherstone did not kill Kitely himself during the full hour in which he was absent from his house he knew that Kitely had been killed, and where—and possibly by whom?
Anyway, here were certain facts—and they had to be reckoned with. Kitely was murdered about a quarter-past nine o’clock. Cotherstone was out of his house from ten minutes to nine o’clock until five minutes to ten. He
