“Surely,” said Collins; “he opened the door himself, and takes him straight to his library.”
“This man may have been the actual murderer or not. We are here going on the statements of the housekeeper, which may turn out to be a tissue of lies; but I do not think so, she is not a good enough actress for that. This man stays for half an hour, and is let out by the Home Secretary. After that Sir James writes a letter and posts it himself. He returns and goes to his room complaining of feeling sleepy.”
“Did he?” said Sinclair, “I did not hear that.”
“Certainly,” said Collins, “Mrs. Simmons said so, if she is reliable. Very good, he locks himself in, and asks not to be disturbed. Here he remains, as far as we know, till the murder takes place. We find the door locked and the windows fastened, with no apparent means of escape. There is no one in the room.”
“By Jove, he was a cool hand,” said Sinclair. “All the time he was talking with Sir James the letter was on its way to the Central News, and might have arrived. He must have calculated things pretty well.”
“Undoubtedly, and he probably knew that there was no telephone in the house.”
Collins got up and handed round the cigar box. When he resumed his seat he continued, and his face was grave.
“A Home Secretary is very open to attack. He may have refused to pardon a criminal, and the man when he comes out from penal servitude or imprisonment will seek revenge. He is always getting threatening letters. Then there are murderers whom he reprieves, and the relatives of the murdered man may seek revenge. Again, there are political fanatics. You remember the Phoenix Park murders.”
“Of course,” said Boyce, “the whole staff will be put on tomorrow to investigate this side of the question.” Collins nodded.
“Then there is a personal revenge. His life appears to be a blameless and honourable one, but one never knows; there are skeletons in the best of cupboards.”
“There was a ne’er-do-well son,” said Sinclair.
“Chut, don’t let’s come to any personalities until we have more data; we shall be following wandering fires.”
Sinclair was not to be silenced.
“What do you make of the behaviour of Lewis when I asked him to come with me?” he said.
“I don’t pretend to make anything of it. It may have the most natural of explanations.”
“I have never known him to behave like that before,” he persisted. Collins ignored him.
“We have five things to bear in mind, or shall I put it we have five questions to answer:
“Who sent the letter to the Central News, and for what object?
“Who called us up on the telephone, and why?
“Who was the man who called at three?
“How did the murderer get in, and how did he escape?
“What was the motive of the murderer?”
“You’ve left out the most important of all,” said Boyce, “who was the murderer?”
“Yes, of course, there’s always that,” said Collins with an indulgent smile.
“You’ve put it very well,” said Sinclair, who was in a genial mood after Collins’ excellent fare.
“We must find out all we can about the letter and envelope.”
“It was a most extraordinarily good forgery, that signature,” said Boyce, “I would have sworn in any court it was yours.”
Sinclair’s face flushed. “Are you suggesting anything, sir,” he said.
“Of course not, my dear fellow, only it was, wasn’t it?”
“Then you must try and find out about the telephone calls,” intervened Collins.
“I shall have Mrs. Simmons up to the Yard and take down a full statement,” said Boyce, anxious to show he had a grasp of the situation.
“All right, I must put a few things together and get off. We will each carry on with our own line of research.”
And he went into the next room.
“Has he got something up his sleeve?” said Boyce. “It’s not like him to go off when there’s an interesting problem to solve. It can’t be just to break the news, he knows nothing of these people.”
“He’s pretty deep, and it may be he saw something that I didn’t,” said Sinclair, modestly. “He seemed to think Mrs. Simmons was holding something back.”
Collins came back with a small suitcase.
“I will let you know when I am coming back,” he said, “and we will meet and compare notes. This will make a most almighty stir, and if the Prime Minister thinks it is the work of an ex-convict or anything of that sort, you will get it hot.”
Boyce made a wry face.
“I am afraid so,” he said.
III
At the Vale
The Vale was situated in one of the lovely valleys of North Devon on the borders of Somerset. In the distance could be seen the Mendip Hills. Here the summer stayed on when autumn had taken hold of less favoured spots.
It was a fine old house, half-timbered, nestling in the valley, almost hidden in trees and covered with ivy. The gardens had been the special joy of Sir James Watson. It was here he led his simple home life away from the factions of Westminster and the labours of his thankless office.
He was a cold, haughty, reserved man, with few friends. His one joy in a rather lonely life was his daughter Mabel. Like so many widowers with an only daughter, he was somewhat selfish, and could never believe that she had grown up. He had watched with anxiety the attentions which had been paid to her by the many who had appeared as possible suitors.
She, unconscious of it all, had led a secluded life among her flowers; she hated the times she had to spend in the gloomy house in Town, and had no liking for London or its gaieties.
Her mother had died when she was a baby, and no cloud of sorrow except one had crossed her path.
That one had been when her brother, quite a boy, had been sent down from Oxford, and her father had sternly pointed
