“You mean he only struck it to give the impression that he’d lit the gas, but didn’t really light it? I’m getting the hang of the thing, aren’t I? By the way, he couldn’t have lit another match and thrown it out of the window?”
“Very unlikely. Only smokers, and tidy ones at that, throw matches out of the window. He either had one match left in his pocket or borrowed one from Brinkman. But he didn’t use it; suicides like the dark. There’s one other tiny point—you see that?” He took up a large, cheap Bible which stood at the bedside of their own room. “There’s a society which provides those, and of course there’s one for each room. Mottram had taken his away from the bedside and put it in a drawer. It’s funny how superstitious we men are, when all’s said and done.”
“That’s a tiny bit grooly, isn’t it? Well, when are you going to dig the grave at the crossroads and borrow a stake from the local carpenter?”
“Well, you see, there’s just that trifling difficulty about the tap being turned off. Leyland is right in saying that dead men don’t do that sort of thing.”
“What’s Brinky’s explanation?”
“Mr. Brinkman, to whom you were only introduced three hours ago, thinks the doctor turned it off accidentally in the morning. That’s nonsense, of course. His idea was that the tap was very loose, but it wasn’t, really—Leyland had it loosened on purpose, so as to be able to turn it without obliterating the fingermarks. If it hadn’t been stiff, of course, there’d have been no marks left at all. So there’s a three-pipe problem for you, my dear Mrs. Hudson.”
Angela’s forehead wrinkled becomingly. “Two problems, my poor old Lestrade. How did the tap get turned off, and why does Brinky want us to think it got turned off accidental? I always like you to have plenty of theories, because it keeps your mind active; but with my well-known womanly intuition I should say it was a plain issue between the locked door, which means suicide, and the turned-off tap, which means murder. Did I hear you putting a fiver on it with Leyland?”
“You did. There’s dashed little you don’t hear.”
“Well, if you’ve got a fiver on it, of course it’s got to be suicide. That’s a good, wifely point of view, isn’t it? I wish it were the other way round; I believe I could account for that door if I were put to it. But I won’t; I wonder how Leyland’s getting on?”
“Well, he’s worse off than we are, because he’s got to get over the door trouble, and he’s got to find a motive for the murder and a criminal to convict of it. We score there; if it’s suicide, there can be no two theories about the criminal! And we know the motive—partly, anyhow. Mottram did it in order to make certain of that half-million for his legatees. And we shall soon know who they are. The only motive that worries me is Brinkman’s: Why’s he so keen on its being suicide? Perhaps the will would make that clear too. … I can’t work it out at present.” He began to stride up and down the room. “I’m perfectly certain about that door. It’s impossible that it should be a spring-lock, in an old-fashioned hotel like this.” He went up to the door of their room, and bent down to examine it. Then, with startling suddenness, he turned the handle and threw it open. “Angela, come here. … You see that picture in the passage? There’s no wind to make it swing like that, is there?”
“You mean you think somebody’s been—”
“Just as I bent down to the door, I could have sworn I heard footsteps going softly away. It must have been somebody actually at the keyhole.”
“Why didn’t you run out?”
“Well, it makes it so dashed awkward to find somebody listening and catch them at it. In some ways it’s much better to know that somebody has been listening and for them not to know whether you know or not. It’s confoundedly awkward, all the same.”
“Idiotic of us not to have remembered that we were in a country pub, and that servants in country pubs still do listen at keyholes.”
“Servants? Well, ye‑es. But Pulteney’s room is only just round that corner.”
“Miles, I will not have you talking of poor old Edward like that.”
“Who told you his name was Edward?”
“It must be; you’ve only to look at him. Anyhow, he will always be Edward to me. But he simply couldn’t listen at a keyhole. He would regard it as a somewhat unconventional proceeding” (this with a fair imitation of Mr. Pulteney’s voice). “Besides, he can’t nearly have finished that crossword yet. He’s very stupid without me to help him; he will always put down ‘emu’ when there’s a bird of three letters.”
“Well, anyhow, Brinkman’s room is only up one flight of stairs. As you say, it may be the servants, or even Mrs. Davis herself; but I’d like to feel sure of that. I wonder how much of what we said was overheard.”
“Well, Miles dear, you ought to know. Don’t you remember how you listened at the kitchen door in old Solomon’s house, and thought you heard a man’s voice and found out afterward it was only the loudspeaker?”
“Good God, why does one marry? Look
