“It’s hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton.”
“I’m not laughing,” Sir Clinton said soberly. “Hanging’s no joke. Remember the ‘Ballad of Sam Hall’—
“Then the parson he will come. …
and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by mistake.”
Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up before the front of the hotel.
“You can get out here, squire. There’s no need to go round with me to the garage.”
But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the lookout for their arrival.
“I’ve been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir Clinton,” he explained as he came up to the car. “I missed you at lunchtime; and when I tried to get hold of you, I found you’d gone off. I’ve got something that seems important to show you.”
He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny glittering object which he handed over to the chief constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.
“I’ve seen things of this sort before,” Sir Clinton said indifferently as he glanced at it. “I doubt if the loser’s likely to offer a reward.”
Cargill seemed taken aback.
“Can’t you see its importance?” he demanded. “I found it down on the beach this morning.”
“How was I to know that until you told me?” Sir Clinton asked mildly. “I’m not psychic, as they call it. I just have to be told things plainly. But I shouldn’t shout them, Mr. Cargill, if they really are important.”
Cargill dropped his voice at the implied rebuke.
“You remember I was down bathing this morning before breakfast? And you warned me off the premises—wouldn’t let me come nearer than the groyne. I sat down on the groyne and watched you for a while; then you went away. I wasn’t in a hurry to bathe just then, so I sat for a bit on the groyne, just thinking things over and trying to put two and two together from what I could see of the footmarks on the sands. I suppose I must have sat there for a quarter of an hour or so. When I got up again, I found I’d been kicking up the sand a bit while I was thinking—shuffling about without noticing what I was doing with my feet. And when I looked down—there was this thing shining on the sand at my toes. It was half hidden; and until I picked it up I didn’t spot what it was. By that time your party had cleared out. So I made a careful note of the spot, put the thing in my pocket, and set off to look for you. Unfortunately, you weren’t to be found just then; so I’ve been waiting till I could get hold of you.”
He looked at the chief constable eagerly as though expecting some display of emotion as a reward for his trouble; but Sir Clinton’s face betrayed nothing as he thanked Cargill.
“Would you mind getting aboard?” he asked immediately. “I’d like to see just where you found this thing.”
Then, as a concession to Cargill’s feelings, he added:
“You must have pretty sharp eyes. I thought I’d been over that ground fairly carefully myself.”
“Probably the thing was buried in the sand,” the Australian pointed out. “I saw it only after I kicked about a while.”
Sir Clinton turned the car and took the road leading down to Neptune’s Seat.
“What do you make of it, Mr. Cargill?” he inquired, after a moment or two.
“I haven’t thought much about it,” Cargill answered. “It seems straightforward enough. Somebody must have been behind the groyne and fired a shot. It’s within easy shooting distance of the rock where the body was found.”
Wendover opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, thinking better of it, he refrained.
When they reached the shore, the tide was sufficiently far out to allow Cargill to show them the spot at which he had picked up the cartridge-case. Wendover still had a mental map in his head, and he recognised that the shot must have been fired by the man behind the groyne at the time when he was nearest to Neptune’s Seat. If Stanley Fleetwood was even a moderate shot with an automatic, he could hardly have missed Staveley’s figure at the distance.
Sir Clinton seemed to become more keenly interested when they reached the shore. His detached manner thawed markedly, and he thanked Cargill again for having brought the evidence to light.
“Oh, it was only an accident,” the Australian protested. “I wasn’t looking for anything. It just chanced to catch my eye. Does it throw any light on things?”
Sir Clinton obviously resented the question.
“Everything helps,” he said sententiously.
Cargill saw that he had been indiscreet.
“Oh, I’m not trying to stick my oar in,” he hastened to assure the chief constable. “I just asked out of mere curiosity.”
He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he changed the subject completely.
“By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying somewhere hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came across somebody of that name in the war.”
“He’s staying at that cottage across the bay,” Wendover explained, pointing out Flatt’s cottage as he spoke. “What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance, I mean.”
“Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair darkish, if I remember right.”
“This looks like your man, then,” Wendover assured him. “But you’ll probably find him a bit altered. He’s had
