Billingford’s track ran down to Neptune’s Seat, where it was lost on the hard surface of the rock. Sir Clinton, without halting, directed his companions’ attention to a second trail of male footprints running up towards the rock from the road, and crossed just at the landward side of Neptune’s Seat by the traces of Billingford.
“There’s no return track for these, so far as I can see,” he pointed out, “so it looks as if the murdered man made them.”
Without a glance at the body, he stepped up on to the rock, picked up the farther trail of Billingford, and began to follow it as it led along the beach towards Lynden Sands village. The footprints ran along the top of a series of slight whale-backs of sand, behind which lay a flatter zone running up towards the high-tide mark. Nearer the sea, a track showed the inspector’s line of advance during the night. After following the trail for nearly a quarter of a mile, Sir Clinton pointed to a change in its character.
“This is where he began to run. See how the pace shortens beyond this.”
Rather to the surprise of his companions, he continued to follow the trail.
“Is it really necessary to go as far as this?” Wendover demanded after a time. “You’ve come the best part of three-quarters of a mile from the rock. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to find out the earliest moment when Billingford could have reached the rock, of course,” sir Clinton explained, with a trace of irritation.
A few yards farther on, Billingford’s track was neatly interrupted. For twenty feet or so there were no tracks on the sand; then the footprints reappeared, sharply defined as before. At the sight of the gap Sir Clinton’s face brightened.
“I want something solid here,” he said. “Stakes would be best, but we haven’t any. A couple of cairns will have to do. Bring the biggest stones you can lift; there are lots up yonder above the tidemark.”
He set them an example, and soon they had collected a fair number of heavy stones. Sir Clinton, with an anxious eye on the tide, built up a strong cairn alongside the last of Billingford’s footprints which was visible.
“Now the same thing on the other side of the gap,” the chief constable directed.
Wendover suppressed his curiosity until the work in hand was over; but as soon as the second cairn had been erected at the point where Billingford’s footprints reappeared on the sand he demanded an explanation.
“I’m trying to estimate when Billingford passed that point last night,” Sir Clinton answered. “No, I haven’t time to explain all about it just now, squire. We’re too busy. Ask me again in twelve hours or so, and I’ll tell you the answer to the sum. It may be of importance or it mayn’t; I don’t know yet.”
He turned and glanced at the rising tide.
“Jove! We’ll need to look slippy. The tide’s getting near that rock. Look here, inspector. Get hold of one of these fishermen and ask them to pounce on the nearest boat and bring it round to the rock. Then we can leave everything on the rock to the last moment and spend our time on the sands, which haven’t got permanent traces and must be cleared up first of all. If we get cut off by the tide, we can always get the body away on a boat, if we have one handy.”
The inspector hurried off, waving to attract the attention of the fishermen. In a few moments he was back again.
“They say, sir, that the nearest boat is at Flatt’s cottage, just on the point yonder. They’re off to bring it round. By the way, they warned me against going near that old wreck there, farther along the bay. It seems there’s a patch of bad quicksand just to the seaward side of it—very dangerous.”
“All right, inspector. We’re not going any farther along in this direction for the present. Let’s get back to the rock where the body is. We’ve still got the other trails of footmarks to examine.”
They hurried off towards Neptune’s Seat, and at the edge of the rock Sir Clinton halted.
“Here’s a set of prints—a neatly-shod woman, by the look of them,” he pointed out. “She’s come down to the rock and gone back again almost on the same line. Take a cast of good ones, inspector, both left and right feet. Be careful with your first drippings of the wax.”
Wendover inspected the line of prints with care.
“They don’t tell us much,” he pointed out. “Billingford’s tracks don’t cross them, so there’s no saying when they were made. It might have been a visitor coming down to the beach yesterday afternoon.”
“Hardly,” interrupted Sir Clinton. “High tide was at half-past eight; and obviously they must have been made a good while after that or else this part of the sands would have been covered. But it was a moonlight night, and it’s quite possible someone came down here to look at the sea late in the evening.”
“It’s a small shoe,” Wendover pursued, without answering the criticism.
“Size 3½ or thereabouts,” Armadale amended, glancing up from his work. “I shouldn’t make it bigger than a 3½, and it might be even smaller.”
Wendover accepted the rectification, and continued.
“The step’s not a long one either. That looks like a rather small girl with a neat foot, doesn’t it?”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Looks like it. Have you a tape-measure, inspector? We ought to make a note of the length of the pace, I think. It might turn out useful. One never knows.”
The inspector fished a tape-measure from his pocket; and, with the help of Wendover, Sir Clinton made measurements of various distances.
“Just twenty-four inches from one right toe-mark to the next,” he announced. “And it seems a very regular walk. Now if you’re ready, inspector, we’ll go on to the next
