Lord Caterham paused and took a breath.
“Thank you,” said the detective. “A mere matter of routine, but necessary as such.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose,” asked George ponderously, “that the murderer entered by the window?”
Battle paused for a minute before replying slowly.
“There were footsteps leading up to the window, and footsteps leading away from it. A car stopped outside the park at 11:40 last night. At twelve o’clock a young man arrived at the Jolly Cricketers in a car, and engaged a room. He put his boots outside to be cleaned—they were very wet and muddy, as though he had been walking through the long grass in the park.”
George leant forward eagerly.
“Could not the boots be compared with the footprints?”
“They were.”
“Well?”
“They exactly correspond.”
“That settles it,” cried George. “We have the murderer. The young man—what is his name, by the way?”
“At the inn he gave the name of Anthony Cade.”
“This Anthony Cade must be pursued at once, and arrested.”
“You won’t need to pursue him,” said Superintendent Battle.
“Why?”
“Because he’s still there.”
“What?”
“Curious, isn’t it?”
Colonel Melrose eyed him keenly.
“What’s in your mind, Battle? Out with it.”
“I just say it’s curious, that’s all. Here’s a young man who ought to cut and run, but he doesn’t cut and run. He stays here, and gives us every facility for comparing footmarks.”
“What do you think, then?”
“I don’t know what to think. And that’s a very disturbing state of mind.”
“Do you imagine—” began Colonel Melrose, but broke off as a discreet knock came at the door.
George rose and went to it. Tredwell, inwardly suffering from having to knock at doors in this low fashion, stood dignified upon the threshold, and addressed his master.
“Excuse me, my lord, but a gentleman wishes to see you on urgent and important business, connected, I understand, with this morning’s tragedy.”
“What’s his name?” asked Battle suddenly.
“His name, sir, is Mr. Anthony Cade, but he said it wouldn’t convey anything to anybody.”
It seemed to convey something to the four men present. They all sat up in varying degrees of astonishment.
Lord Caterham began to chuckle.
“I’m really beginning to enjoy myself. Show him in, Tredwell. Show him in at once.”
XII
Anthony Tells His Story
“Mr. Anthony Cade,” announced Tredwell.
“Enter suspicious stranger from village inn,” said Anthony.
He made his way toward Lord Caterham with a kind of instinct rare in strangers. At the same time he summed up the other three men in his own mind thus: “1, Scotland Yard. 2, Local dignitary—probably chief constable. 3, Harassed gentleman on the verge of apoplexy—possibly connected with the Government.”
“I must apologize,” continued Anthony, still addressing Lord Caterham. “For forcing my way in like this, I mean. But it was rumoured round the Jolly Dog, or whatever the name of your local pub may be, that you had had a murder up here, and as I thought I might be able to throw some light upon it I came along.”
For a moment or two, no one spoke. Superintendent Battle because he was a man of ripe experience who knew how infinitely better it was to let everyone else speak if they could be persuaded upon to do so, Colonel Melrose because he was habitually taciturn, George because he was in the habit of having notice given him of the question, Lord Caterham because he had not the least idea of what to say. The silence of the other three, however, and the fact that he had been directly addressed, finally forced speech upon the last named.
“Er—quite so—quite so,” he said nervously. “Won’t—you—er—sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Anthony.
George cleared his throat portentously.
“Er—when you say you can throw light upon this matter, you mean—?”
“I mean,” said Anthony, “that I was trespassing upon Lord Caterham’s property (for which I hope he will forgive me) last night at about 11:45, and that I actually heard the shot fired. I can at any rate fix the time of the crime for you.”
He looked round at the three in turn, his eyes resting longest on Superintendent Battle, the impassivity of whose face he seemed to appreciate.
“But I hardly think that that’s news to you,” he added gently.
“Meaning by that, Mr. Cade?” asked Battle.
“Just this. I put on shoes when I got up this morning. Later, when I asked for my boots, I couldn’t have them. Some nice young constable had called round for them. So I naturally put two and two together, and hurried up here to clear my character if possible.”
“A very sensible move,” said Battle non-committally.
Anthony’s eyes twinkled a little.
“I appreciate your reticence, inspector. It is inspector, isn’t it?”
Lord Caterham interposed. He was beginning to take a fancy to Anthony.
“Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. This is Colonel Melrose, our Chief Constable, and Mr. Lomax.”
Anthony looked sharply at George.
“Mr. George Lomax?”
“Yes.”
“I think, Mr. Lomax,” said Anthony, “that I had the pleasure of receiving a letter from you yesterday.”
George stared at him.
“I think not,” he said coldly.
But he wished that Miss Oscar were here. Miss Oscar wrote all his letters for him, and remembered who they were to and what they were about. A great man like George could not possibly remember all these annoying details.
“I think, Mr. Cade,” he hinted, “that you were about to give us some—er—explanation of what you were doing in the grounds last night at 11:45?”
His tone said plainly: “And whatever it may be, we are not likely to believe it.”
“Yes, Mr. Cade, what were you doing?” said Lord Caterham, with lively interest.
“Well,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s rather a long story.”
He drew out his cigarette case.
“May I?”
Lord Caterham nodded, and Anthony lit a cigarette, and braced himself for the ordeal.
He was aware, none better, of the peril in which he stood. In the short space of twenty-four hours, he had become embroiled in two separate crimes. His actions in connection with the first would not bear looking into for a second. After deliberately disposing of one body, and so defeating the aims of
