Sir Clinton’s gesture in reply seemed to deprecate any haste.
“I’m not after anything in particular, squire,” he assured Wendover. “I simply don’t see my way through the business yet. I merely recommend the subject for you to browse over. As they say about Shakespeare, new perspectives open up before one’s eyes every time one examines the subject afresh. And, by the way, hypophosphites are said to be sustaining during a long spell of intense cogitation. I think we’ll call at the druggist’s on the way home and buy up his stock. There’s more in this affair than meets the eye.”
The inspector picked up the sack. Then, apparently struck by an afterthought, he laid it on the floor again and took out his notebook.
“Would you mind giving me any orders you want carried out immediately, sir?” he asked. “Anything in the way of information you need from the village?”
Sir Clinton looked at him in mock surprise, and answered with a parody of the “Needy Knifegrinder”:
“Orders! God bless you! I have none to give, sir. This is your case, inspector, not mine.”
Armadale succeeded in finding a form of words to turn the flank of his superior’s line:
“Well, sir, suppose you were in my place, what would you think it useful to find out?”
“A deuce of a lot of things, inspector. Who killed Peter Hay, for one. Who stole the diary, for another. When I’m likely to get any lunch, for a third. And so on. There’s heaps more of them, if you’ll think them up. But, if I were in your shoes, I’d make a beginning by interviewing young Colby, who found the body; then I’d investigate the sweet-shop, and find out who bought pear-drops there lately; I’d make sure there are no fingerprints on any of the silver; I’d get the P.M. done as quickly as possible, since amyl nitrite is volatile, and might disappear if the body’s left too long; and I think I’d make some very cautious inquiries about this long-lost nephew, if he’s anywhere in the vicinity. And, of course, I’d try to find out all I could about Peter Hay’s last movements yesterday, so far as one can discover them from witnesses.”
Inspector Armadale had been jotting the chief constable’s advice down in shorthand; and, when Sir Clinton finished speaking, he shut his notebook and put it back in his pocket.
“Peter Hay puzzles me,” Wendover said thoughtfully, as they made their way to the car.
“Perhaps Peter Hay knew too much for his own safety,” Sir Clinton answered, as he closed the door of Foxhills behind them.
A fresh line of thought occurred to Wendover.
“This missing nephew came from Australia, Clinton. I’m playing golf tomorrow morning with that Australian man who’s staying at the hotel. He isn’t the missing heir by any chance, is he?”
“I shouldn’t think so, from Miss Fordingbridge’s story. This claimant was pretty badly disfigured, whereas Cargill’s rather a nice-looking chap. Also, she’s sure to have come across Cargill in the hotel; he’s been here for a week at least; but the claimant-man only presented himself to her last night, if you remember.”
VI
The Beach Tragedy
Wakened abruptly by the trilling of a bell beside his bed, Sir Clinton bitterly regretted the striving of the Lynden Sands Hotel towards up-to-dateness, as represented by a room telephone system. He leaned over and picked up the receiver.
“Sir Clinton Driffield speaking.”
“I’m Armadale, sir,” came the reply. “Can I see you? It’s important, sir, and I can’t very well talk about it over the phone.”
Sir Clinton’s face betrayed a natural annoyance.
“This is an ungodly hour to be ringing anyone up in his bed, inspector. It’s barely dawn. However, since you’re here, you may as well come up. My room’s No. 89.”
He laid down the receiver, got out of bed, and put on his dressing-gown. As he moved across the room and mechanically began to brush his hair, a glance through the window showed him that the rain of the previous night had blown over and the sky was blue. The sun had not yet risen, and a pale full moon was low on the western horizon, A murmur of the incoming tide rose from the beaches; and the white crests of the waves showed faintly in the half-light.
“Well, inspector, what is it?” Sir Clinton demanded testily. “You’d better be brief, be businesslike, and be gone, as they say. I want to get back to bed.”
“There’s been another murder, sir.”
Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his surprise.
“Another murder! In a place this size? They must be making a hobby of it.”
The inspector observed with satisfaction that his superior had given up any thoughts of bed, for he was beginning to dress himself.
“This is what happened, sir,” Armadale continued. “Shortly after midnight a man appeared at the house of the local constable—Sapcote, you remember—and hammered on the door till Sapcote came down. He began some confused yarn to the constable, but Sapcote very wisely put on his clothes and brought the fellow round to me. I’ve got a room in a house near by, where I’m staying till this Hay affair is cleared up.”
Sir Clinton nodded, to show that he was paying attention, but went on swiftly with his dressing.
“I examined the man,” Armadale continued. “His name’s James Billingford. He’s a visitor here—he’s rented old Flatt’s cottage, on the point between here and Lynden Sands village. It seems he sometimes suffers from sleeplessness; and last night he went out rather late, hoping that a walk would do him some good. He strolled along the beach in this direction, not paying very much attention to anything. Then he heard the sound of shooting farther along the beach.”
“Does that mean one shot or several?” Sir Clinton demanded, turning from the mirror in front of which
