At all events Ferguson told him nothing about Philpot that he had not known before. He asked and obtained permission to interrogate a number of the staff who remembered the two men, but from none of these did he learn anything new about either.
He could see nothing for it, therefore, but to interview Philpot forthwith, and returning to the station, he caught the last train to Edinburgh. There he stayed the night, and took a train which brought him through the Border country to Carlisle and thence in due course to Hellifield and Thirsby.
VIII
Dr. Philpot’s Story
Doctor Philpot lived in a small detached house at the end of the High Street of the little town, close enough to the centre of things to be convenient for patients, and far enough away to have a strip of garden round his house and to avoid being overlooked by his neighbours.
The reply to the letter he had written from “Charles Musgrave” about the mythical gardener told French that the doctor’s consulting hours were from to in the evening, and at on the day he had returned from Edinburgh French rang the doctor’s bell. The door was opened by an elderly woman who led the way to the consulting room.
There seemed to French a vaguely unprosperous air about the place. The garden was untended, the railing wanted paint and the house, while well enough furnished, looked neglected and dirty. French wondered if these were the outward and visible signs of the betting proclivities of their owner, of which the hotel landlord had taken so serious a view.
Dr. Philpot was seated at a writing table, but he rose on French’s entry. His appearance was not exactly unprepossessing, but it suggested a lack of force or personality. Physically he was frail, neither tall nor short, and washed out as to colouring. His tired, dreamy-looking eyes were of light blue, his fair hair, thinning on the top, was flecked with gray and his complexion had an almost unhealthy pallor. He had well-formed, rather aristocratic features, but his expression was bored and dissatisfied. He struck French as a dreamer rather than a practical man of affairs. But his manner was polite enough as he wished his visitor good evening and pointed to a chair.
“I have called, Dr. Philpot, not as a patient, but to consult you on a small matter of business.”
Dr. Philpot glanced at the clock on the marble chimney piece.
“It is just ,” he answered. “I shall not have any more patients tonight. I am quite at your service.”
French sat down and made a remark or two about the weather, while he watched the man opposite to him keenly but unobtrusively. He was playing for time in which to ascertain what manner of man this doctor really was, so that he might handle the interview in the way most likely to achieve its end. Philpot replied politely but shortly, evidently at a loss to know why his visitor could not come to the point. But French presently did so with surprising suddenness.
“I am sorry, Dr. Philpot, that I am here on very unpleasant business, and I must begin by telling you that I am a detective inspector from New Scotland Yard.”
As he spoke French made no secret of his keen scrutiny. His eyes never left the other’s face, and he felt the thrill of the hunter when he noticed a sudden change come over its expression. From inattentive and bored it now became watchful and wary, and the man’s figure seemed to stiffen as if he were bracing himself to meet a shock.
“I regret to say,” French proceeded, “that information has recently been received by the Yard which, if true, would indicate that you are guilty of a very serious crime, and I have to warn you that if you are unable to offer me a satisfactory explanation I may have to arrest you, in which case anything which you may now say may be used in evidence against you.”
French was deeply interested by the other’s reception of this speech. Dr. Philpot’s face was showing extreme apprehension, not to say actual fear. This was not altogether unexpected—French had seen apprehension stamped on many a face under similar circumstances. But what was unexpected was that the doctor should show no surprise. He seemed indeed to take French’s statement for granted, as if a contingency which he had long expected had at last arisen. “He knows what is coming,” French thought as he paused for the other to speak.
But Philpot did not speak. Instead he deliberately raised his eyebrows, and looking inquiringly at French, waited for him to continue. French remained silent for a moment or two, then leaning forward and staring into the other’s eyes, he said in a low tone: “Dr. Philpot, you are accused of murdering your wife, Edna Philpot, at your home at Braeside, Kintilloch, about .”
The doctor started and paled. For a moment panic seemed about to overtake him, then he pulled himself together.
“Ridiculous!” he declared coolly. “Your information must be capable of some other explanation. What does it consist of?”
“It purports to be the statement of an eyewitness,” French returned, continuing slowly: “It mentions—among other things—it mentions—a cricket bat.”
Again Philpot’s start indicated that the shot had told,
