“And yours?”
“I won’t conceal it. The door was locked, with the key on the inside.”
“How did anybody get in, then, to find the corpus?”
“Broke down the door. It was rotten, like everything else in this house, and the hinges pulled the screws out. You can see, there, where we’ve put fresh screws in since.”
“Door locked on the inside. And the window?” Bredon crossed to the other side of the room. “Barred, eh?” It was an old-fashioned lattice window with iron bars on the inside to protect it from unauthorized approach. The window itself opened outward, its movement free until it reached an angle of forty-five degrees; at that point it passed over a spring catch which made it fast. It was so made fast now that Bredon examined it.
“This too?” he asked. “Was the window just like this?”
“Just like that. Wide open, so that it’s hard to see why the gas didn’t blow out of doors almost as soon as it escaped; and there was a high wind on Monday night, Pulteney tells me. And yet, with those bars, it seems impossible that anyone should have come in through it.”
“I think you’re going to have difficulties over your murder theory.”
“So are you, Bredon, over your suicide theory. Look at that shirt over there; the studs carefully put in overnight; and it’s a clean shirt, mark you; the outside buttonholes haven’t been pierced. Do you mean to tell me that a man who is going to commit suicide is going to let himself in for all that tiresome process of putting studs in before he goes to bed?”
“And do you mean to tell me that a man goes out fishing in a boiled shirt?”
“Yes, if he’s a successful manufacturer. The idea that one wears special clothes when one is going to take exercise is an upper-class theory. I tell you, I’ve seen a farmer getting in the hay in a dickey, merely to show that he was a farmer, not a farm labourer.”
“Well, grant the point; why shouldn’t a man who wants to commit suicide put studs in his shirt to make it look as if it wasn’t suicide? Remember, it was a matter of half a million to his heirs. Is that too heavy a price for the bother of it?”
“I see you’re convinced; it’s no good arguing with you. Otherwise, I’d have pointed out that he wound up his watch.”
“One does. To a man of methodical habit it’s an effort to leave a watch unwound. Was he a smoker?”
“Brinkman says not. And there are no signs of it anywhere.”
“The law ought to compel people to smoke. In bed, especially—we should have got some very nice indications of what he was really up to if he had smoked in bed. But I see he wasn’t a bedroom smoker in any case; here’s a solitary match which has only been used to light the gas—he hasn’t burnt a quarter of an inch of it.”
“That match worries me too. There’s a box on the mantelpiece, but those are ordinary safeties. This is a smaller kind altogether, and I can’t find any of them in his pockets.”
“The maid might have been in before him and lighted the gas.”
“They never do. At least, Mrs. Davis says they never do.”
“It was dark when he went to bed?”
“About ten o’clock, Brinkman says. You would be able to see your way then, but not much more. And he must have lit the gas, to put the studs in his shirt—besides, he’s left some writing, which was probably done late that night, though we can’t prove it.”
“Writing! Anything important?”
“Only a letter to some local rag at Pullford. Here it is, if you want to read it.” And Leyland handed Bredon a letter from the blotting-pad on the table. It ran:
To the Editor of the Pullford Examiner:
Dear Sir:
Your correspondent, “Brutus,” in complaining of the closing of the Mottram Recreation Grounds at the hour of seven p.m., describes these grounds as having been “presented to the town with money wrung from the pockets of the poor.” Now, Sir, I have nothing to do with the action of the Town Council in opening the Recreation Grounds or closing same. I write only as a private citizen who has done my best to make life amenable for the citizens of Pullford, to know why my name should be dragged into this controversy, and in the very injurious terms he has done. Such recreation grounds were presented by me twelve years ago to the townspeople of Pullford, not as “blood-money” at all, but because I wanted them, and especially the kiddies, to get a breath of God’s open air now and again. If “Brutus” will be kind enough to supply chapter and verse, showing where or how operatives in my pay have received less pay than what they ought to have done—
At this point the letter closed abruptly.
“He wasn’t very handy with his pen,” observed Bredon. “I suppose friend Brinkman would have had to get onto this in the morning and put it into English. Yes, I know what you’re going to say: if the man had foreseen his end he either wouldn’t have taken the trouble to start the letter or else he’d have taken the trouble to finish it. But I tell you, I don’t like this letter—I say, we must be getting down to dinner; attract suspicion, what, if we’re found nosing round up here too long? All right, Leyland, I won’t spoil your sport. What about having a fiver on it—suicide or murder?”
“I don’t mind if I do. What about telling one another how we get on?”
“Let’s be quite free about that. But each side shall keep notes of the case from day to day, putting down his suspicions and his reasons for them, and we’ll compare notes afterward. Ah, is that Mrs. Davis? All right, we’re just coming.”
V
Supper, and Mr. Brinkman
