“It’s that thing I told you about before,” he explained. “This is how it happened. I was so sore last night that I forgot all about it.”
He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled envelope.
“I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was writing something at one of the tables. She made a muddle of her addressing of the thing, and flung a spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket beside her. Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her letter, and went out.
“I happened to have some jottings to make; and, as her waste-paper basket was just at my elbow, I leaned over and fished out the old envelope, to save myself the bother of getting out of my chair for a piece of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make, put the envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It wasn’t for a while after that—yesterday—that I needed the jottings I’d made. I fished the envelope out, and was reading my notes, when suddenly my eye was caught by the spoiled address on the envelope.” He handed the paper across to Sir Clinton, who read:
Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,
Flatt’s Cotage,
Lynden Sands.
“You see, she’d spelt ‘cottage’ with one t,” Cargill pointed out unnecessarily. “That’s what made her throw away the envelope, I expect.”
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully.
“That’s extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep this? Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for reference later on?”
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by Wendover.
“Why didn’t you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that envelope has now is that it further confirms Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux’s evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of importance.”
“I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill’s industry. If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to give us any more assistance; and one never knows what may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He thought he was doing splendidly.”
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge coming along the corridor towards the stairs.
“Here’s someone who can perhaps give us more valuable information,” Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.
“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see that there was no one within earshot, “there’s just one point I’d like you to clear up for me, if you don’t mind.”
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face.
“Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying anything in his tone.
“It’s nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns it at present?”
“If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on that point, you understand.”
“Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew’s death were proved, who are the next heirs? That’s what I’d like you to tell me, if you don’t mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset House, but if you’ll save me the trouble it will be a help.”
“Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“And if anything happened to her?”
“It falls to me in that case.”
“And if you weren’t there to take it by then?”
“My sister would get it.”
“There’s no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance, couldn’t step in front of you owing to his having married your niece?”
“No,” Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. “The will took account of seven lives, and I suppose that was sufficient in the ordinary way. My sister, if she gets it, can leave it to anyone she chooses.”
Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a slight pause that he took up a fresh line of questions.
“Can you tell me anything about the present management of the thing? You have a power of attorney, I believe; but I suppose you leave matters very much in the hands of lawyers?”
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I’m afraid I’m no great believer in lawyers. One’s better to look after things oneself. I’m not a busy man, and it’s an occupation for me. Everything goes through my hands.”
“Must be rather a business,” Sir Clinton criticised. “But I suppose you do as I would myself—get a firm of auditors to keep your books for you.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the suggestion.
“No. Do you suppose I can’t draw up a balance-sheet once a year? I’m not quite incompetent.”
It was evident that Sir Clinton’s suggestion had touched him in his vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief constable hastened to smooth matters over.
“I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for figures myself, and I shouldn’t care to have that kind of work thrust on my hands.”
“Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
“I think that’s everything. Oh, there’s one other matter which you may know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to turn up?”
“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand that they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe they’ll make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for tomorrow.”
Sir Clinton’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further delay; but he made no audible
