When Armadale had let the body drop back into its original position, Sir Clinton knelt down and unstrapped the wristwatch, after which he wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief. The fragments of glass he handed to the inspector, who stowed them away in an envelope.
Meanwhile Wendover had made a discovery.
“Come here, Clinton. That yellow thing was the brass case of a discharged cartridge.”
Sir Clinton stepped across the rock and picked up the tiny object, marking its position as he did so by scoring a cross on the stone with his penknife.
“It’s a .38 calibre, apparently,” he commented, after a glance at it. “You’d better keep it, inspector. Hullo! Here’s the boat coming in.”
A rowing-boat manned by the two fishermen was approaching Neptune’s Seat.
“That’s good. We can finish our examination on the spot now. The tide won’t rise to the level of the rock for a while yet; and it doesn’t matter if we do get cut off, now that the boat’s here. Bring her close in, please, if there’s water enough.”
The fishermen, nothing loath to get a closer view of the proceedings, brought the boat’s bow up to the natural quay formed by the rock; and then, shipping their oars, they sat down to watch what was going on.
“We may as well go through his pockets next,” Sir Clinton suggested, returning to the body. “Go ahead, inspector.”
Armadale began his search, reporting each object discovered.
“Raincoat pockets—nothing in either. Left-hand breast pocket of jacket—a handkerchief. Right-hand breast pocket—a notecase.”
He handed this over to Sir Clinton, who opened it.
“Fifteen-ten in notes. Nothing else. Well, it wasn’t a case of robbery, apparently. Go on, inspector.”
“Right-hand upper waistcoat pocket,” the inspector droned obediently, “a pocket diary.”
Sir Clinton took it, skimmed over the pages, and put it down.
“It’s a calendar diary—blank. A book of stamps, with some stamps missing, in the cover. Not much help there. Go ahead.”
The inspector continued his search.
“Other upper pocket—a pencil and fountain-pen. Lower waistcoat pocket, left hand, a silver matchbox with monogram—S and N intertwined. Right-hand pocket—a penknife and a cigar-cutter. Trouser side-pockets—some money, mostly silver, and a nail-trimmer, and a couple of keys. Hip-pocket—a cigar-case.”
He handed the various articles to the chief constable.
“Nothing in the ticket-pocket. Outside jacket pockets. Left-hand pocket—there’s a pipe and a tobacco-pouch. Right-hand pocket—ah, here’s something more interesting! Letter-card addressed to ‘N. Staveley, Esq., ℅ Billingford, Flatt’s Cottage, Lynden Sands.’ So his name was Staveley? That fits the S on the monogram. And here’s another bit of paper; looks like a note of some sort. No envelope to it.”
He held out the two papers to Sir Clinton, who examined the letter-card first.
“Posted two days ago in London—W.1. H’m! Nothing much to take hold of here, I’m afraid. ‘Dear Nick—Sorry to miss you on Tuesday. See you when you get back to town.’ No address, and the signature’s a scrawl.”
He turned to the single sheet of notepaper, and as he unfolded it Wendover saw his eyebrows raised involuntarily. For a moment he seemed in doubt; then, with a glance at the two fishermen, he carefully refolded the paper and stowed it away in his pocketbook.
“That will keep for the present,” he said.
Over the chief constable’s shoulder, Wendover caught a glimpse of a figure advancing along the sands from the direction of the hotel bathing-boxes. A towel over its shoulder showed the reason for the appearance of the stranger on the beach before breakfast. As it approached, Wendover recognised the gait.
“Here’s Cargill, that Australian who’s staying at the hotel, Clinton. He’s come down for a bathe, evidently. You’d better do the talking for us.”
Cargill had evidently recognised them, for he hastened his steps and soon reached the groyne.
“I shouldn’t come any farther, Mr. Cargill,” Sir Clinton said politely. “There are some tracks there which we may want to look at if we have time; and I’d rather not have them mixed up with yours, if you don’t mind.”
Cargill halted obediently, but looked inquisitively at the group on the rock.
“Is that where the murder happened?” he inquired.
“How do you know about it?” Sir Clinton replied, giving question for question.
“Oh, the news came up to the hotel with the milk, I expect,” the Australian answered. “I heard it from a waiter as I came through on my way to bathe. The whole staff’s buzzing with it. I say, who Is it?”
“Couldn’t say yet,” Sir Clinton returned with an air of candour. Then he added: “I’m sorry we haven’t time to talk it over just now, Mr. Cargill. This tide will be all round us in a minute, if we don’t get a move on.”
He turned to the fishermen.
“We’ll shift the body into your boat now, and then you can row slowly along towards the village. Don’t hurry; and don’t go ashore till you see Inspector Armadale there. He’ll take the body off your hands. You understand? Thanks.”
The boat was brought close alongside the natural quay and the body of Staveley put aboard without mishap. At a sign from Sir Clinton, the boat put out into the bay. Armadale seemed a little at a loss over the procedure; but he made no audible protest. Cargill remained on the other side of the groyne, obviously taking the keenest interest in the whole affair.
Sir Clinton gave a last glance round the rock plateau; then, followed by his companions, he retreated to the upper sands. Cargill, thus left alone, hovered uncertainly for a moment or two, and finally sat down on the groyne, looking idly at the sand around his feet. Evidently he understood that he was not wanted, but it looked as though he had still some faint hopes of being allowed to join the party.
“We must carry all this stuff up to the car,” Sir Clinton reminded his companions. “I’ll take some of the casts; you can manage the
