“Of course, I do not know all that has happened, but I do know that Sir James used to make an allowance to him; but the time came when the firm of lawyers said they had lost all trace of him, and the money was stopped.”
“Where was he at that time—I mean in what country?”
“I don’t properly know, but it was in one of those South American States.”
“And that is all you can tell us,” said Collins, fixing the housekeeper with a sharp look.
“Yes, sir, as far as I can remember, but of course I am all of a fluster. Something more may occur to me; but, oh, sir, what shall I do, I cannot stay in this dreadful house?”
“There is no need for you to do so, is there, Sinclair?” said Collins.
The other tugged at his moustache. “I don’t know. Where are you going?”
“I want to go to my sister’s house at Forest Gate, if I may, I am so upset with all this.”
Collins drew Sinclair aside.
“Let her go,” he said, “and have her watched. It may be useful.”
“Very good,” said he. To Mrs. Simmons, he said, “You can go, but you must give us your address, you will be wanted as a witness at the inquest. Don’t talk about the affair at all. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, sir, I will go and pack,” said she gratefully.
Collins watched her go.
“What do you make of her?” he said.
“She seemed quite straightforward; I think she’s told us the truth.”
Collins gave a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “The truth, but not the whole truth. She’s a clever old woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“When a simple soul tells the tale, and tries to conceal something, she gives herself away. She will not look straight at you. When you are dealing with the cunning type, she will look at you with a particularly open face and innocent look. All the time she was telling her narratives she was confused and upset, as was natural. But when I asked her if she had anything else to say her manner altered, and she became collected and looked me straight in the face.”
“Oh, you imagine these things. I didn’t see any difference.”
“Very good,” said Collins, “we shall see.”
“Now for the next move,” said Sinclair, who always got irritated when his colleague assumed this superior manner. “I must go to the Yard and make a full report. We cannot keep this thing secret. It will make a great stir. Will you come with me?”
“I will run you down in my car, and then must get off at once.”
“Where to?” said the other in surprise.
“Someone must break the news to the girl. It’s a rotten job, but it’s of the greatest importance. I am off to Devonshire, and hope I shall arrive in time.”
“In time?”
“Before the news reaches there.”
“You’ve got something at the back of your mind, I can see that. It’s not just to spare the girl’s feelings.”
Collins smiled. “I would like to make the acquaintance of the family,” he said.
“But there is only one in the family,” said Sinclair surprised.
“Perhaps,” said Collins.
They made their way into the Square, where dusk was falling.
Several persons were looking up at the house and pointing.
“What the devil is the meaning of that?” said Sinclair, as Collins was starting the car.
“Ask me another, jump in,” and they went off.
As they turned into Bond Street, where the lights were on, they saw a newspaper boy shouting, and running down the street. In front of him was a news-bill, on which was printed:
“Home Secretary Murdered at his House.
Full Details.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said the Superintendent.
Collins stopped the car, and bought a paper.
On the News page, across two columns, was a flaring account of the murder.
“What in Hell’s name is the meaning of this?” said Sinclair.
“Let’s go to the Yard,” said Collins, putting in the clutch.
Mr. Boyce was a flabby man of fifty. He had had an unsuccessful career at the Bar which would have ruined a man without means; but his father was a distinguished Judge of the High Court, and had considerable influence. After trying to get his son a job as Stipendiary and a County Court Judge, he at last jobbed him into the position of Commissioner in Scotland Yard, where he subsisted on the brains of his subordinates. He listened with an assumption of wisdom to the account of the affair given by Sinclair. Collins had come with him after the incident of the newspaper. He had a profound contempt for Boyce, which the other resented though he dared not show his resentment.
While Sinclair was reporting, Collins had got busy with a timetable, and then turned to the telephone.
The others waited while he called up.
After several conversations, he laid the receiver down, and turned to the other two.
“The Editor of the Evening Rag,” said he. “I asked him where he got the news of the murder from, and he says via the Central News. He says he was careful to ascertain whether it was authentic before he sent it to press. What do you think he says?”
“Can’t guess,” said Sinclair shortly.
“He says it came in in the form of a report from Scotland Yard, on official paper, signed by Superintendent Sinclair.”
Sinclair turned purple.
Boyce looked at him with large, fishy eyes.
“Really, really,” he said, “this is most unorthodox.”
“You don’t suppose I sent it in, do you, sir,” spluttered Sinclair.
Collins intervened.
“I can answer for that,” said he; “Sinclair has been with me the whole time. No; there is another explanation for this.”
“What is that?”
“Why the same person who called us on the phone, and probably the murderer. It is curious how vain these people are. He may have stepped too far. It’s just possible he’s given us a valuable clue. One cannot send letters with impunity. There’s the post mark, and the time.”
“The document must be obtained,” said Boyce.
“I have already asked the Central News to send it here for inspection. It is coming now by hand.”
While they waited,
