“These are only my first impressions. They may have to be revised drastically as the case proceeds. But of one thing I am confident—there has been foul play, and the effort to represent it as a case of suicide is necessarily doomed to failure.”
VIII
The Bishop at Home
Angela and her husband breakfasted late next morning. Leyland came in as they were finishing, his manner full of excitement. “Mrs. Davis,” he explained, “has been talking to me.”
“Don’t be led on too much by that,” said Angela. “It has happened to others.”
“No, but I mean, Mrs. Davis has been saying something.”
“That is far more unusual,” assented Bredon. “Let’s hear all about it. Angela—”
“Mrs. Bredon,” said Angela firmly, “has been associated with me in many of my cases, and you may speak freely in her presence. Cough it up, Mr. Leyland; nothing is going to separate me from this piece of toast.”
“Oh, there’s nothing private about it particularly. But I thought perhaps you might help. You see, Mrs. Davis says that Mottram was expecting a visitor to turn up in the morning and go out fishing with him.”
“A mysterious stranger?” suggested Angela. “Carrying a blunt instrument?”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact it was the Bishop of Pullford. Do you know Pullford at all?”
“Nothing is hidden from us, Mr. Leyland. They make drainpipes there, not perambulators, as some have supposed. The parish church is a fine specimen of early Perp. It has been the seat of a Roman Catholic Bishopric—oh! I suppose that’s the man?”
“So Mrs. Davis explained. A very genial man. Not one of your standoffish ones. He was expected, it seems, by the first train, which gets in about ten. Mottram left word that he was to be called early, because he wanted to get at the fishing, and the Bishop, when he arrived, was to be asked to join Mr. Mottram on the river; he would be at the Long Pool. He’d been down here before, apparently, as Mottram’s guest. Now, it’s obvious that we had better find out what the Bishop has to say about all this. I’d go myself only for one thing: I don’t quite like leaving Chilthorpe while my suspicions” (he dropped his voice) “are so undefined; and for another thing, I’ve telegraphed up to London for details about the will and I want to be certain that the answer comes straight to my own hands. And the inquest is at four this afternoon; I can’t risk being late for that. I was wondering whether you and Mrs. Bredon would care to run over there? It would take you less than an hour in the car, and if you went as representing the Indescribable it would make it all rather less—well, official. Then I thought perhaps at the end of the day we might swap information.”
“What about it, Angy?”
“I don’t think I shall come and see the Bishop. It doesn’t sound quite proper, somehow. But I’ll drive you into Pullford, and sit at the hotel for a bit and have luncheon there, and you can pick me up.”
“All right. I say, though,” he added piteously, “shall I have to go and change my suit?”
“Not for a moment. You can explain to the Bishop that your Sunday trousers are in pawn; if he’s really genial he’ll appreciate that. Besides, that tweed suit makes you look like a good-natured sort of ass; and that’s what you want, isn’t it? After all, if you do stay to lunch, it will only be a bachelor party.”
“Very well, then, we’ll go. Just when I was beginning to like Chilthorpe! Look here, Leyland, you aren’t expecting me to serve a summons on the Bishop or clap the darbies on him, or anything? Because if so you’d better go yourself.”
“Oh no, I don’t suspect the Bishop—not particularly, that is. I just want to know what he can tell us about Mottram’s movements immediately before his death, and what sort of man he was generally. He may even know something about the will; but there’s no need to drag that topic in, because my telegram ought to produce full information about that. Thanks awfully. And we’ll pool the day’s information, eh?”
“Done. I say, though, I think I’d better just wire to the Bishop, to make sure that he’s at home, and ready to receive a stray spy. Then we can start at elevenish.”
As Bredon returned from sending the telegram, he was waylaid, to his surprise, by Mr. Pulteney, who was fooling about with rods and reels and things in the front hall. “I wonder if I might make a suggestion to you, Mr. Bredon,” he said. “I despise myself for the weakness, but you know how it is. Every man thinks in his heart that he would have made a good detective. I ought to know better at my age, but the foul fiend keeps urging me to point something out to you.”
Bredon smiled at the elaborate address. “I should like to hear it awfully,” he said. “After all, detection is only a mixture of common sense and special knowledge, so why shouldn’t we all put something into the pot?”
“It is special knowledge that is in question here; otherwise I would not have ventured to approach you. You see that rod? It is, as you doubtless know, Mottram’s; it is the one which he intended to take out with him on that fatal morning. You see those flies on it?”
They looked to Bredon very much like any other flies, and he said so.
“Exactly. That is where special knowledge comes in. I don’t know this river very well; but I do know that it would be ridiculous to try to fish this river with those particular flies, especially at this time of the year and after the weather we’ve been having. And I do know that a man like Mottram, who had been fishing this river year after year, couldn’t possibly have imagined that it was any
