“We’ll clean up the boat and return it in the afternoon,” he said shortly. “Now come along. I haven’t time to waste.”
A short walk took them to Flatt’s cottage, which stood near the point of the promontory between the village and the bay in which Staveley’s body had been found. The road up to it was hardly better than a rough track, and pools of water stood here and there which evidently dated farther back than the rain of the previous night. The cottage itself was neatly kept, and seemed fairly roomy.
“Call your friend,” Armadale ordered, as they reached the door.
Billingford complied without protest, and almost at once they heard steps approaching. As the door opened, Wendover received a shock. The man who stood before them was almost faceless; and his eyes looked out from amid a mass of old scars which gave him the appearance of something inhuman. The hand which held the door open lacked the first two fingers. Wendover had never seen such a wreck. When he took his eyes from the distorted visage, it was almost a surprise to find that the rest of the form was intact.
The newcomer stared at them for a moment. His attitude showed the surprise which his face could not express.
“What made you bring this gang here, Billingford?” he demanded. “Visitors are barred, you know that quite well.”
He made a suggestive gesture towards his twisted face.
Armadale stepped forward.
“You’re Mr. Fordingbridge, aren’t you?” he asked.
The apparition nodded, and fixed its eyes on him without saying anything.
“I’m Inspector Armadale. I suppose you know that your friend Staveley was murdered last night?”
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I heard there had been a murder. I believe they borrowed the boat from here to use in bringing the body in. But I didn’t know it was Staveley. Who did it?”
“Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t come home last night?” the inspector demanded.
Something which might have been a smile passed over the shattered face.
“No. He had a knack of staying out all night often enough. It wasn’t uncommon. Was there a woman in the case?”
“I think we’ll get on faster if you let me do the questioning,” said the inspector bluntly. “I’m sorry I haven’t any time to spare just now. Can you tell me anything about Staveley?”
“He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my cousin Cressida during the war.”
Armadale’s face lighted up as he heard this.
“Then how do you account for her being the wife of Mr. Stanley Fleetwood?” he asked abruptly.
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently.
“Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn’t turn up after the war, so I expect she wrote him down as dead. She’d hardly grieve over him, from what I know of his habits.”
“Ah,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. Had she come across him by any chance since he came down here?”
“I couldn’t say. I’m hardly in touch with the rest of my family at present.”
The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the claimant to the Foxhills estate, did not think it necessary to pursue the matter further. He turned back to the more immediate question.
“Can you tell me anything about Staveley’s movements last night?”
“Nothing much. We played poker after dinner. Someone interrupted us—a friend of Staveley’s. Then we played some more. Then I went to bed early. That’s all.”
“What about this friend of Staveley’s? Was it a man or a woman?”
“A woman, I believe; but I didn’t see. Staveley went to the door himself. That would be between nine and ten o’clock.”
“When did Staveley go out?”
“I can’t say. After ten o’clock, at any rate, for I went to bed, then. I’d a headache.”
“When did you hear about the murder?”
“Before I got out of bed. I was told that two men wanted to borrow the boat.”
The inspector paused before continuing his inquiry. When he spoke again, it was on a different point.
“I shall need to go through his luggage, of course. Can I see it?”
Derek Fordingbridge led the way into the cottage.
“It’s in there,” he said, indicating one of the rooms. “He’d only a suitcase with him.”
The inspector knelt down and turned out the suitcase’s contents with some care.
“Nothing here of any use,” he said disappointedly when he had finished. “One or two odds and ends. No papers.”
He rummaged in the drawers of the room-furniture with the same lack of success. As he rose to his feet, Sir Clinton turned to Fordingbridge.
“I’d like to see the fourth man of the party,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind getting hold of him for me if he’s here.”
Wendover and Armadale showed some surprise; but Fordingbridge seemed to see nothing in it.
“That’s rather sharp of you. It’s just as well we aren’t up against you. You mean the man who told me about the boat being wanted? Sorry I can’t get him for you. He was a handyman we brought down with us. Billingford had a row with him last night and fired him, so he took himself off this morning.”
“What was his name?”
Billingford’s look of innocence was intentionally overdone.
“His name? Well, I called him Jack.”
“Jack what?”
“Just Jack. Or at times: ‘Here! You!’ He answered to either.”
Inspector Armadale’s temper began to show signs of fraying.
“You must know something more about him. Hadn’t he a character when you employed him?”
“Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my whiskey.”
“Don’t be funny,” snapped Armadale. “Didn’t you get any references from an earlier employer?”
Billingford’s eyes twinkled.
“Me? No. I’ve a charitable nature. Where would any of us be if we had our characters pawed over? Forgive and forget’s my motto. It’s easy enough to work on till someone does you in the eye.”
“So you say you know nothing about him?”
“I don’t quite like the way you put it, inspector. It seems almost rude. But I don’t know where he is now, and I’ll kiss the Book on that for you if you want it.”
Armadale’s expression showed clearly that he thought little would be gained by accepting Billingford’s offer. He warned
