Sir Clinton’s face relaxed.
“Ah,” he confessed. “Now I seem to have some glimmerings of what you’re after; and, since there’s no question of my having interfered without being asked, I might look into the affair. But if I’m doing you a favour—as you seem to think—then I’m going to lay down one condition, sine qua non. Mr. Wendover’s interested in detective work. He knows all the classics: Sherlock Holmes, Hanaud, Thorndyke, etc. So, if I come in, then he’s to be allowed to join us. Agree to that, inspector?”
The inspector looked rather sourly at Wendover, as though trying to estimate how great a nuisance he was likely to prove; but, as Sir Clinton’s assistance could evidently be secured only at a price, Armadale gave a rather ungracious consent to the proposed arrangement.
Sir Clinton seemed almost to regret his own decision.
“I’d hardly bargained for a bus-driver’s holiday,” he said rather ruefully.
A glance at the inspector’s face showed that the expression had missed its mark. Sir Clinton made his meaning clearer.
“In the old horse-bus days, inspector, it was rumoured that when a bus-driver got a holiday he spent it on somebody else’s bus, picking up tips from the driver. It seems that you want me to spend my holiday watching you do police work and picking up tips from your methods.”
Inspector Armadale evidently suspected something behind the politeness with which Sir Clinton had turned his phrase. He looked rather glumly at his superior as he replied:
“I see I’m going to get the usual mixture, sir—help and sarcasm, half and half. Well, my hide’s been tanned already; and your help’s worth it.”
Sir Clinton corrected him with an air of exactitude.
“What I said was that I’d ‘look into the affair.’ It’s your case, inspector. I’m not taking it off your shoulders, you understand. I don’t mind prowling round with you; but the thing’s in your hands officially, and I’ve nothing to do with it except as a spectator, remember.”
Armadale’s air became even gloomier when he heard this point of view so explicitly laid down.
“You mean it’s to be just the same as the Ravensthorpe affair, I suppose,” he suggested. “Each of us has all the facts we collect, but you don’t tell me what you think of them as we get them. Is that it, sir?”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“That’s it, inspector. Now, if you and Mr. Wendover will go round to the front of this place, I’ll get my car out and pick you up in a minute or two.”
III
The Police at the Caretaker’s
Wendover, scanning his friend’s face, could see that all the carelessness had vanished from its expression. With the prospect of definite work before him, Sir Clinton seemed to have dropped his holiday mood completely.
“I think the first port of call should be the doctor,” he suggested as he turned the car into the road leading to Lynden Sands village. “We’d better start at the beginning, inspector; and the doctor seems likely to have been the earliest expert on the spot.”
They found Dr. Rafford in his garden, tinkering at a spotless motorcycle; and Wendover was somewhat impressed by the obvious alertness of the young medico. Armadale introduced his companions, and then went straight to the point.
“I’ve come over about that case, doctor—the caretaker at Foxhills. Can you give us something to go on before we start to look into it up there?”
Dr. Rafford’s air of efficiency was not belied when he told his story.
“This morning, at about half-past eight, young Colby came hammering at my door in a great state. He does some of the milk delivery round about here; and Peter Hay’s house is one at which he leaves milk. It seems he went up there as usual; but when he got to the gate of the cottage he saw old Hay’s body lying on the path up to the door. I needn’t describe how it was lying; you’ll see for yourself. I didn’t disturb it—didn’t need to.”
Inspector Armadale’s nod conveyed his satisfaction at this news. The doctor continued:
“Young Colby’s only a child; so he got a bit of a fright. His head’s screwed on all right, though; and he came straight off here to get hold of me. Luckily I hadn’t gone out on my rounds as early as that, and he found me just finishing breakfast. I got my bike out and went up to Foxhills immediately.
“When I heard young Colby’s tale, I naturally concluded that poor old Hay had had a stroke. I’d been doing my best to treat him for high blood-pressure, off and on; but I hadn’t been able to do much for him; and once or twice he’d had slight attacks. He was bound to go, some time or other; and I concluded that he’d had a final attack through overexertion or something of the sort.”
He paused in his narrative for a moment and glanced from face to face in the group.
“You’ll see, from this, foul play was the last thing that entered my mind. I got up to his cottage and found him, just as young Colby had said, lying face down on the garden path. From the look of him he’d obviously died of congestion. It seemed all plain sailing. In fact, I was just going to leave him and hunt up some assistance when my eye caught something. His arms were stretched out at full length above his head, as if he’d gone down all of a piece, you know; and his right sleeve had got rucked up a little, so that it showed a bit of his arm. And my eye happened to catch a mark on the skin just above the wrist. It was pretty faint; but there had evidently been some compression there. It puzzled me—still puzzles me. However, that’s your affair. It struck me
