Wendover, bearing in mind the coming fall of the inspector’s case, took this side-thrust amiably.
“Let’s go on,” he suggested. “There’s the Cargill affair.”
“I’ve got my own ideas about that,” the inspector interjected. “Though I haven’t had time to work them up yet.”
“Cargill’s about the same build as the claimant,” Wendover continued, without noticing the interruption. “It seems to me quite on the cards that the attack on him was a case of mistaken identity. Or else—of course! He was a good witness for the claimant! He’d met him in the war, you remember. Perhaps that was why he was attacked.”
“I think more of your first notion, sir,” the inspector interrupted, with more than a tinge of approval in his tone. “As I said before, everything points the same way. You find Mrs. Fleetwood mixed up in the whole affair from start to finish.”
Sir Clinton ignored this view of the case, and turned to Wendover.
“Doesn’t it seem rather out of proportion when you assume that Paul Fordingbridge would go the length of murder merely in order to keep the claimant out of the money and out of Foxhills?” he inquired gently. “It really seems carrying things a bit too far when you take that as a premise.”
“Well, what better can you suggest?” Wendover demanded.
“If I were set to make a guess, I think I’d hazard something of this sort,” the chief constable returned. “Suppose that friend Paul has been up to some hanky-panky under his power of attorney—malversation of some kind. He wouldn’t dare to sell Foxhills; but he might safely dispose of securities. There was no audit, remember; the competent fellow managed it all himself. And so long as no claimant turned up he was all right; for none of the rest of them seemed to need money badly, and no one protested against the estate being left hanging in the wind. But, as soon as this claimant hove in sight, friend Paul looked like being ‘for it’ if the claimant could establish his case. Everything would come out then. That would be a good enough motive, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s more in it than that, sir,” the inspector broke in. “If he’d got himself into Queer Street, it might be handy if he could disappear when things looked like getting too hot for him. Perhaps the whole of this”—he turned and waved his hand towards the mysterious footprints—“is simply a blind to cover his getaway. Perhaps it’s just something left for us to scratch our heads over while he gets under cover, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed slightly amused by the picture the inspector had drawn.
“I never held with head-scratching, inspector. It’s a breach of good manners, and not even friend Paul shall tempt me to make a habit of it. I don’t think he’s very far away; but I doubt if you’ll get your hands on him in a hurry. My impression is that he’s gone to ground in a very safe hole.”
The inspector seemed to be reminded of something.
“By the way, sir, that new fellow who’s turned up at Flatt’s cottage must have come down by car, probably during the night. They’ve got the car in the boathouse beside the cottage; I saw its bonnet sticking out as I passed this morning.”
“Very sensible of Mr. Aird, inspector, since he seems to shun being recognised by his old friends round about here. If he’d come by train, someone would have spotted him at the station.”
Without paying further attention to the matter, Sir Clinton changed the subject.
“When we get back to the hotel, inspector, I think we’ll interview the Fleetwood family. They’ve had quite long enough to polish their speeches by this time. But I’ll give you one hint—and I mean it, inspector. Don’t be too sure about that case of yours. And don’t let your zeal run away with you when you come to question the Fleetwoods. You’re on very slippery ice; and, if you get their backs up too much, we may fail to get a piece of evidence out of them which is essential.”
The inspector considered this in silence for a few moments. Quite obviously he did not like being handled in this fashion.
“Well, sir,” he conceded at last, “if you think I’m likely to bungle something because I don’t know what it is, why not give me a hint?”
“Mr. Wendover could do that, I think, if you cared to ask him, inspector.”
Armadale turned round to Wendover with ill-concealed sulkiness.
“Have you something up your sleeve, sir?”
Wendover took no notice of the ungracious tone. He saw his way to achieve his end without the difficulties he had feared.
“You’ve got no case at all, inspector,” he said roundly. “Sir Clinton told you long ago that there was a flaw in it. The whole thing’s a washout. Now I don’t want to have you walking straight into a mess, you understand; and you’ll do that if you aren’t careful. Suppose we let Sir Clinton do the talking at this interview? He’ll get what he wants. You and I can ask any questions we choose after he’s done. And after it’s all over I’ll show you the flaw in your case. Agree to that?”
“I really think Mr. Wendover’s suggestion is sound, inspector,” Sir Clinton interposed, as Armadale hesitated over accepting the situation. “It’s a fact that you can’t prove your case on the evidence available.”
“Oh, very well, then,” Armadale agreed, rather resentfully. “If you want it handled so, sir, I’ve no objection. But it seems to me that case will take a lot of breaking.”
“It’s quite on the cards that this interview will stiffen you in your opinions, inspector; but you’re wrong for all that,” Sir Clinton pronounced, in a voice that carried conviction to even the inspector’s mind.
XIII
Cressida’s Narrative
Reassured by the knowledge that Sir Clinton had taken the examination of Cressida out of
