Armadale’s face betrayed some incredulity.
“Don’t you see the slip?” Sir Clinton continued. “What sort of man was Peter Hay? You heard me pumping the constable, didn’t you? And what did I get? That Peter Hay was a simple old chap who read his Bible and practically nothing else. Now, just recall the fact that there wasn’t a fingerprint on any of those things; and silver will take a fingerprint more clearly than most surfaces. Whoever handled these ornaments knew all about the fingerprint danger. He wore gloves, whoever he may be. You’ll hardly persuade me—after hearing the constable’s report of Peter Hay—that he was a person likely to think of a precaution of that sort.”
The inspector looked doubtful.
“Perhaps not, sir; but you never can tell.”
“Well, my guess is that Peter Hay never handled the stuff at all. It was put there by his murderers; and they took good care not to leave their visiting-cards on it. Doesn’t its presence suggest something else to you people?”
“You mean,” said Wendover, “that they may have burgled Foxhills themselves, Clinton, and put these things into Peter Hay’s drawer to lay the scent in his direction, while they got away with the main bulk of the stuff?”
Sir Clinton seemed disinclined to endorse this heartily.
“It’s a possibility, squire. We needn’t brood over it just yet, however. When we get into Foxhills, we’ll see if anything’s missing except these things.”
He glanced at his wristwatch.
“Time’s getting on. These people might be here any minute, if the constable didn’t waste time. Let’s finish up this symposium. Suppose we eliminate robbery as a motive, then—”
He broke off abruptly in the middle of the sentence as a car came along the avenue and drew up at the entrance to the lane which led down to the cottage. Paul Fordingbridge was driving, and his sister sat beside him. Followed by his two companions, Sir Clinton walked down the lane to where the car had halted.
V
The Diary
“I suppose the constable explained things more or less, Mr. Fordingbridge?” Sir Clinton asked, as he came abreast of the car.
Miss Fordingbridge did not wait for her brother’s reply.
“It’s really dreadful, Sir Clinton,” she broke out. “I can hardly believe that it’s true. And who could want to kill poor Peter Hay, who hadn’t an enemy in the world, is beyond me altogether. I simply can’t imagine it. And what made them do it? I can’t guess. I must try at my next séance to see if I can get any light on it. Perhaps you’ve found out all about it already.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“We’ve found out next to nothing, I’m sorry to say.”
Miss Fordingbridge regarded him with marked disapproval.
“And aren’t you going to arrest the man who killed him?”
“In the end, I hope,” Sir Clinton answered patiently. Then he turned to Paul Fordingbridge. “These are the keys of Foxhills that Peter Hay kept. I haven’t a search-warrant; but we must get into the house, if you’ll let us go over it. Would you mind showing us round the place? You see, you know all about it, and your help would be of value to us in case there’s anything wrong up there.”
At the word “search-warrant,” Paul Fordingbridge seemed to prick up his ears; and there was a perceptible pause before he answered the chief constable’s inquiry.
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he replied smoothly. “I shall be only too glad to give you any assistance that I can. But what makes you think there’s anything wrong at Foxhills? The constable told us that Peter Hay was found at his own cottage.”
At a gesture from Sir Clinton, the inspector went over to the chief constable’s car and, first drawing on his rubber gloves, he brought back one of the silver ornaments taken from Peter Hay’s drawer.
“You recognise that?” Sir Clinton asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Fordingbridge replied, without hesitation. “That’s one of the things we left behind when we shut up Foxhills. It’s of no great value, and so we didn’t send it to the bank strongroom with the rest of the stuff.”
“Peter Hay told someone it was valuable,” the inspector broke in.
“Oh, so it was, in a way,” Miss Fordingbridge replied. “It was a present to me from an old friend, and so it had a sentimental value. But in itself it’s worth next to nothing, as you can see.”
Evidently Peter Hay had misunderstood something which he had heard. Armadale, rather disgusted by the news, carried the article back to the chief constable’s car.
“We’ll need to keep that and the other things in our charge for a time,” Sir Clinton said apologetically. “They were found at Peter Hay’s cottage. Perhaps you could suggest some reason for their removal from Foxhills?”
“There’s no reason whatever that I can see,” Miss Fordingbridge replied promptly. “Peter Hay had nothing to do with them, and he’d no right to take them out of the house. None at all.”
“Possibly he mistook them for things of value, and thought they’d be safer in his cottage,” Wendover suggested.
“He had no right to touch anything of mine,” Miss Fordingbridge commented decidedly.
“Suppose we go up to the house?” Paul Fordingbridge suggested in a colourless voice. “You’ll take your own car? Good. Then I’ll go ahead.”
He pressed the self-starter and took his car up the avenue. Sir Clinton and his companions got into their own car and followed.
“You didn’t get much out of him,” Wendover commented to the others.
Sir Clinton smiled.
“I don’t think he got much chance to volunteer information,” he pointed out.
They reached Foxhills as Paul Fordingbridge was opening the main door of the house; and he invited them with a gesture to come in.
“I suppose you merely wish to have a general look round?” he asked. “Do just as you like. I’ll go round with you and answer any questions that I can for you.”
Miss Fordingbridge attached herself to the party, and they went from room to room. Sir Clinton and the
