The inspector bent down and hastily felt the dead man’s pockets.
“Nothing at all here,” he said as he straightened himself. “No watch or chain or purse or anything. Looks like robbery as well as murder. Does anybody know him?”
“I know who this gentlemen is, sir,” answered the policeman to whom Viner had first gone. “He’s a Mr. Ashton, who came to live not so long since at number seven in Markendale Square, close by Mr. Viner there. I’ve heard that he came from the Colonies.”
“Do you know him,” asked the inspector, turning to Viner.
“Only by sight,” answered Viner. “I’ve seen him often, but I didn’t know his name. I believe he has a wife and daughter—”
“No sir,” interrupted the policeman. “He was a single gentleman. The young lady at number seven is his ward, and the older lady looked after her—sort of a companion.”
The Inspector looked round. Other policemen, attracted by the whistle, were coming into the passage at each end, and he turned to his sergeant.
“Put a man at the top and another at the bottom of this passage,” he said. “Keep everybody out. Send for the divisional surgeon. Dr. Cortelyon, will you see him when he comes along? I want him to see the body before its removal. Now, then, about these ladies—they’ll have to be told.” He turned to Viner. “I understand you live close by them?” he asked. “Perhaps you’ll go there with me?”
Viner nodded; and the inspector, after giving a few more words of instruction to the sergeant, motioned him to follow; together they went down the passage into Markendale Square.
“Been resident here long, Mr. Viner?” asked the Inspector as they emerged. “I noticed that some of my men knew you. I’ve only recently come into this part myself.”
“Fifteen years,” answered Viner.
“Do you know anything of this dead man?”
“Nothing—not so much as your constable knows.”
“Policemen pick things up. These ladies, now? It’s a most unpleasant thing to have to go and break news like this. You know nothing about them, sir?”
“Not even as much as your man knew. I’ve seen them often—with him, the dead man. There’s an elderly lady and a younger one, a mere girl. I took them for his wife and daughter. But you heard what your man said.”
“Well, whatever they are, they’ve got to be told. I’d be obliged if you’d come with me. And then—that fellow you saw running away! You’ll have to give us as near a description of him as you can. What number did my man say it was—seven?”
Viner suddenly laid a hand on his companion’s sleeve. A smart car, of the sort let out on hire from the more pretentious automobile establishments, had just come round the corner and was being pulled up at the door of a house in whose porticoed front hung a brilliant lamp.
“That’s number seven,” said Viner. “And—those are the two ladies.”
The Inspector stopped and watched. The door of the house opened, letting a further flood of light on the broad step beneath the portico and on the pavement beyond; the door of the car opened too, and a girl stepped out, and for a second or two stood in the full glare of the lamps. She was a slender, lissome young creature, gowned in white, and muffled to the throat in an opera cloak out of which a fresh, girlish face, bright in colour, sparkling of eye, crowned by a mass of hair of the tint of dead gold, showed clearly ere she rapidly crossed to the open door. After her came an elderly, well-preserved woman in an elaborate evening toilette, the personification of the precise and conventional chaperon. The door closed; the car drove away; the Inspector turned to Viner with a shake of his head.
“Just home from the theatre!” he said. “And—to hear this! Well, it’s got to be done, Mr. Viner, anyhow.”
Viner, who had often observed the girl whom they had just seen with an interest for which he had never troubled to account, found himself wishing that Miss Penkridge was there in his place. He did not know what part he was to play, what he was to do or say; worse than that, he did not know if the girl in whose presence he would certainly find himself within a minute or two was very fond of the man whom he had just found done to death. In that case—but here his musings were cut short by the fact that the Inspector had touched the bell in the portico of number seven, and that the door had opened, to reveal a smart and wondering parlourmaid, who glanced with surprise at the inspector’s uniform.
“Hush! This is Mr. Ashton’s?” said the Inspector. “Yes—well, now, what is the name of the lady—the elderly lady—I saw come in just now? Keep quiet, there’s a good girl—the fact is, Mr. Ashton’s had an accident, and I want to see that lady.”
“Mrs. Killenhall,” answered the parlourmaid.
“And the young lady—her name?” asked the Inspector.
“Miss Wickham.”
The Inspector walked inside the house.
“Just ask Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham if they’ll be good enough to see Inspector Drillford for a few minutes,” he said. Then, as the girl closed the door and turned away up the inner hall, he whispered to Viner. “Better see both and be done with it. It’s no use keeping bad news too long; they may as well know—both.”
The parlourmaid reappeared at the door of a room along the hall; and the two men, advancing in answer to her summons, entered what was evidently the dining-room of the house. The two ladies had thrown off their wraps; the younger one sat near a big, cheery fire, holding her slender fingers to the blaze; the elder stood facing the door in evident expectancy. The room itself was luxuriously furnished in a somewhat old-fashioned, heavy style; everything about it betokened wealth and comfort. And that its owner was expected home every minute was made
