“I suppose we all look a bit like that, after this affair,” Wendover commented to himself. “Clinton’s half killing himself with anxiety; young Hawkhurst’s far from normal; and I suppose I must look a bit white about the gills myself. It’s only to be expected.”
Sir Clinton wasted no time on preliminaries, but came to the point at once.
“Mr. Shandon told us that you knew the contents of Roger Shandon’s will. Can you give me the gist of it? It’s not a confidential document now, of course.”
“There’s a copy of it in the safe here,” Stenness explained. “You can look it over if you like.”
“Thanks. But if you can remember the main points it may save me the trouble of reading through it.”
Stenness took a key from his pocket and went across to open the safe which was built into the wall of the study.
“The will’s simple enough. All the property is to be divided equally between Neville Shandon, Ernest Shandon, Miss Hawkhurst, and Arthur Hawkhurst. There’s the usual provision about heirs and survivors of that group.”
“What I particularly want to know is whether there’s any residuary legatee mentioned, anybody who takes the remainder of the estate after all other legacies have been paid in full.”
“I don’t remember any provision of that sort,” Stenness admitted, searching among the papers in the safe. “Here’s the copy of the will if you’d care to look at it.”
He handed it over to Sir Clinton who unfolded it and began to read.
“He left you nothing, did he?” the Chief Constable asked casually, as he continued his study of the document.
Stenness was plainly surprised by the question.
“No. Why should he? I’ve only been with him a year or two. I’m not an old family retainer who’s earned a pension. As a matter of fact, there are no bequests of the kind.”
“So I see,” Sir Clinton agreed when he had finished his reading. “It’s a very short will, not complicated by any of the provisions they often put into these things.”
He seemed to ponder over the matter for a moment or two.
“I had rather expected to find a residuary legatee in the thing somewhere; but you’re quite right, there’s nothing of the sort mentioned. You don’t happen to know anything about Neville Shandon’s will, do you? It wouldn’t fall into your province.”
Stenness shook his head.
“I never read it. But I witnessed it, as it happens. And the impression I got from a glance at the last page was that it may have run on the same lines as Roger’s. You can easily get a copy of it once it’s filed, if you need it.”
Sir Clinton handed back the will and rose to his feet as the secretary restored the document to the safe.
“I see you have a key of that thing?”
Stenness closed the safe and put the key back into his pocket.
“Yes, Mr. Shandon told me to keep this one. I’ve been arranging the papers for him and it was more convenient that I should have the key. It saved him the bother of always handing it over when I needed it.”
“You hadn’t a key in Roger Shandon’s time?”
“No, Roger was rather a different sort of person.”
“By the way, Mr. Stenness, are you staying on here as secretary to Ernest Shandon?”
Stenness seemed slightly taken aback by the question.
“There’s no definite arrangement, so far. I’m staying until the estate affairs have been cleared up; but after that I doubt if I shall remain here. I can do better than this.”
“I suppose you could,” Sir Clinton agreed indifferently.
He looked at his watch.
“I want to see Dr. Ardsley now. I’m rather in a hurry at present; but there are one or two more questions I want to put to you sometime, Mr. Stenness. Will you be free after dinner tonight? Very well, I’ll come across then. Now, if you could let Dr. Ardsley know I’m here.”
Stenness was evidently a prompt messenger, for Ardsley appeared almost at once. Wendover scanned his face eagerly as he came into the room. Here was the person who might be able to set their minds at ease. But Ardsley’s countenance gave him no cause for raising his spirits. It betrayed nothing but gloom and anxiety.
“She’s much worse. I’d hoped for a rally after that attack in the night, but she hasn’t pulled herself together.”
“Tell us plainly what you think,” demanded Sir Clinton. “You needn’t beat about the bush where we’re concerned.”
Ardsley’s face seemed to grow, if anything, graver than before.
“I can hold out no great hope. Frankly, I think it will be all up soon—tonight, perhaps.”
No one seemed inclined to speak. Wendover was trying to force himself to face what now seemed inevitable. Death often came swiftly; but the circumstances of Sylvia’s tragedy gave it a quality which ordinary deaths do not possess. He could hardly assure himself that the whole thing was not a nightmare. There seemed to be something so aimless in the whole business, the killing of a young girl against whom no one could conceivably harbour any personal grudge. The inhuman purposelessness which had cut Sylvia down on the threshold of her life seemed more terrible to him than any planned scheme would have done; for a calculated crime would imply a motive, whereas this deed seemed to have arisen out of mere chaos—something outside normal things.
Sir Clinton took a step towards the door and then seemed to change his mind.
“Do you think you could get some vinegar and some washing soda?” he asked, turning to Ardsley. “There’s something I’d like to be sure about; and it might be as well that an expert should see it.”
Ardsley had no difficulty in procuring what was wanted. As the doctor in charge of Sylvia, he had only to ask for
