“Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I’ll just go across the bay now and see if he’s at home. I’m halfway there already.”
Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on finding that it would be taking them out of their way, Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he should stumble into it unawares.
“That’s an interesting find,” Wendover volunteered as they climbed the beach. “I didn’t say anything in front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence.”
“You mean that Billingford couldn’t tell the inspector whether there was a single shot or a pair?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Yes. That looked funny at first sight; but if the two shots were fired almost simultaneously, then it would have been a bit difficult to say whether there was a double report or not.”
“That’s so squire. You’re getting devilish acute these days, I must admit.”
But, from his friend’s tone, the compliment did not sound so warm as the words suggested. Wendover imagined that he detected a tinge of irony in Sir Clinton’s voice; but it was so faint that he could not feel certain of it.
“I’m getting too much into a groove,” the chief constable went on. “This was supposed to be holiday; and yet I’m spending almost every minute of it in rushing about at Armadale’s coattails. I really must have some relaxation. There’s some dancing at the hotel tonight and I think I’ll join. I need a change of occupation.”
Wendover was not a dancing man, but he liked to watch dancers; so after dinner he found his way to the ballroom of the hotel, ensconced himself comfortably in a corner from which he had a good view of the floor, and prepared to enjoy himself. He had a half-suspicion that Sir Clinton’s sudden humour for dancing was not wholly explicable on the ground of a mere relaxation, though the chief constable was undoubtedly a good dancer; and he watched with interest to see what partners his friend would choose.
Any expectations he might have had were unfulfilled, however. Sir Clinton seemed to pay no particular attention to any of his partners; and most of them obviously could have no connection with the tragedies. Once, it is true, he sat out with Miss Staunton, whose ankle was apparently not sufficiently strong to allow her to dance; and Wendover noted also that three others on Armadale’s list—Miss Fairford, Miss Stanmore, and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—were among his friend’s partners.
Shortly before midnight, Sir Clinton seemed to tire of his amusement. He took leave of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, with whom he had been dancing, and came across the room to Wendover.
“Profited by your study of vamps, I hope, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton professed to be puzzled by the inquiry.
“Vamps? Oh, you mean Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, I suppose. I’m afraid she found me poor ground for her talents. I made it clear to her at the start that she was far above rubies and chief constables. All I had to offer was the purest friendship. It seems it was a new sensation to her—never met anything of the sort before. She’s rather interesting, squire. You might do worse than cultivate her acquaintance—on the same terms as myself. Now, come along. We’ll need to change before Armadale turns up, unless you have a fancy to dabble your dress trousers in the brine down there.”
They left the room and made their way towards the lift. In the corridor they encountered Cargill, who stopped them.
“Thanks for directing me to that cottage,” he said. “It turned out to be the man I knew, right enough. But I’d hardly have recognised him, poor devil. He used to be a fine-looking beggar—and look at him now.”
“Enjoy a talk with him?” Sir Clinton asked politely.
“Oh, yes. But I was a bit surprised to hear that he’s quite a big pot with an estate and all that. I only knew him in the war, of course, and it seems he came into the cash later on. Foxhills is his place, isn’t it?”
“So I’m told. By the way, did you meet his friend, Mr. Billingford? He’s an amusing artist.”
Cargill’s brow clouded slightly.
“You think so?” he said doubtfully.
Sir Clinton glanced at his wristwatch.
“I’m sorry I’ve got to hurry off, Mr. Cargill. I’d no notion it was so late.”
With a nod, Cargill passed. Sir Clinton and Wendover hurried upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for the sands. They were ready just as the inspector knocked at the chief constable’s door; and in a few minutes all three were in Sir Clinton’s car on the road to the beach.
“Got the flash-lamps, inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded as he pulled up the car at a point considerably beyond Neptune’s Seat. “That’s all right. We get out here, I think. We ought to be opposite those two cairns we built, if I’m not out in my reckoning.”
They moved down the beach and soon came to a long pool of seawater extending into the darkness on either hand. Sir Clinton surveyed it for a moment.
“We’ll just have to splash through, I suppose,” he said, and set an example. “It won’t take you over your ankles.”
A few seconds took them through the shallow pool and brought them to drying sands on the farther side.
“This is a low whale-back,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “When the tide’s full in, this is covered, like all the rest. Then, as the tide falls, the whale-back acts as a dam and there’s a big sea-pool left on the sands between here and the road. That’s the pool we’ve just waded through. Now we’ll look for the next item.” Wendover and Armadale followed him across the sands to where a broad stream of water was pouring down towards the sea.
“This is the channel between our whale-back and the next one,” Sir Clinton explained as they came up to it.
