“How do you make that out?” Wendover demanded.
“Easy enough. Hasn’t the body a jacket on? I knew that when the doctor told us he had to push up the sleeves to see the marks; and, of course, when we saw the body, there was the coat, right enough. Now men of Peter Hay’s class don’t wear jackets as much as we do. They like to feel easy when they sit down after work’s done—take off their collars and ties and so forth in the evening. The question was, whether Peter Hay varied from type. Hence my talk with the constable, inspector. I saw your disapproving eye on me all through it; but out of it I raked the plain fact that Peter Hay would never have had a jacket on unless he expected a visitor—and, what’s more, a visitor of a class higher than his own. See it now?”
“There might be something in it,” the inspector conceded reluctantly.
Sir Clinton showed no particular sign of elation, but went on with his survey.
“The next point that struck me—I called your attention to it—was the nature of the marks: the sharp edge. There’s no doubt in my mind that some strip of cloth was used in tying him up. Now, one doesn’t find strips of cloth on the spur of the moment. A handkerchief would answer the purpose; but here you had each leg tied to the chair and a fetter on the wrists as well. Unless there were three people in the attack, they’d only be able to rake up two handkerchiefs on the spur of the moment, since most people normally content themselves with a handkerchief apiece. Strips torn off a bedsheet might answer; but I can’t quite see Peter Hay standing idly by while they tore up his sheets in order to tie him up later on. Besides, his bedclothes were intact, so far as I could see—and he doesn’t use sheets.”
“I see what you’re driving at, Clinton,” Wendover interrupted. “You want to make out that it was a premeditated affair. They brought the apparatus in their pockets ready for use, and didn’t tie the old man up on the spur of the moment with the first thing that came handy?”
“Things seem to point that way, don’t they?” Sir Clinton continued. “Then there’s the question of how it was done. I agree with you, inspector, that it was a job for more than one man. Quite evidently they had force enough to pin Peter Hay almost instantaneously, so that he hadn’t a chance of struggling; and it would take two men—and fairly powerful fellows—to do that successfully. Also, if there were two of them, one could hold him in talk whilst the other sauntered round—perhaps to look at the squirrel—and got into position to take him unawares from the rear.”
Armadale’s face showed a certain satisfaction at finding the chief constable in agreement with him on his point.
“Now we’ll assume that they had him overpowered. If it was a case of simple robbery, the easiest thing to do would be to tie his hands together and fetter his ankles, and then leave him on the floor while they looted the place. But they tied him in a chair—which isn’t so easy to do, after all. They must have had some reason for that, or they wouldn’t have gone to the extra trouble.”
“Even if you tie a man’s hands and feet, he can always roll over and over and make himself a nuisance,” the inspector suggested. “If you tie him in a chair you have him fast.”
“Quite true,” Sir Clinton admitted. “But would you go to the extra trouble yourself, inspector, if the case happened to be as I’ve stated it? No? Neither should I. It seems as if there might be a likelier solution. Ever visit a sick friend?”
“Yes,” said Armadale, obviously puzzled by the question.
“Did you ever notice, then, that it’s easier to talk to him if he’s sitting up in bed and not lying down?”
“There’s something in that,” the inspector admitted. “I’ve never paid any attention to it; but, now you mention it, sir, I believe you’re right. One gets more out of a talk with a man when he’s not lying down in bed. I suppose one’s unaccustomed to it.”
“Or else that when he’s sitting up you can follow the play of expression on his face,” Sir Clinton supplied, as an alternative.
Wendover evidently saw the drift of the chief constable’s remark.
“So you think he was tied up that way, Clinton, because they wanted to talk to him; and they wanted to see his face clearly while they talked?”
“Something of that sort might account for things. I don’t press the point. Now we come to the next item—the smell of pear-drops.”
“But that’s accounted for all right, surely. I found the bag of sweets on the dresser myself,” Wendover protested. “Peter Hay had been eating them. There’s nothing in that, Clinton.”
Sir Clinton smiled a little sardonically.
“Not so fast, squire. You found a bag of pear-drops, I admit. But who told you that Peter Hay bought them and put them there?”
“It stands to reason that he did, surely,” Wendover protested. “The constable told you he kept a bag of sweets in the house for children.”
“Quite so. And there wasn’t a second bag there, I’ll admit. But let’s confine ourselves to the pear-drops for a moment. One can’t deny that they’ve got a distinctive perfume. Can you think of anything else that smells like that?”
Inspector Armadale’s face lighted up.
“That stuff they use for covering cuts—New-Skin, isn’t it? That stuff smells like pear-drops.”
The look of comprehension faded slowly as he added:
“But I don’t see how New-Skin comes into the affair, sir.”
“No more do I, inspector,” Sir Clinton retorted blandly. “I should think
