“He was there, you know, when you and Leyland arranged to go out to the mill-house after breakfast. And he was there at luncheon, though I don’t think either of us mentioned that we meant to go there. Still, he might have guessed that. But what on earth is the poor old dear up to?”
“Well, one or two things are clear. About Brinkman, I mean. Whatever his idea may have been when he took me out for a walk to the gorge and talked about geology he wasn’t ‘reacting’ on Leyland’s suggestion, because it wasn’t he who was listening behind the wall when the suggestion was made. And there’s another thing—this bit of paper Leyland found lying about in the room upstairs. If Brinkman put it there, then Brinkman did it on his own; he wasn’t playing up to the suggestion which Leyland made about wanting clues to incriminate Simmonds with.”
“Still,” objected Angela, “we never proved that it was Brinky who left that old clue lying about. We only assumed it, because we thought it was Brinky who was listening behind the wall.”
“You mean that if Pulteney was listening, and Pulteney was—well, was somehow interested in confusing the tracks of the murder, it may have been he who left the bit of paper under the table.”
“I didn’t say so. But it seems quite as much on the cards as anything else in this frightful business.”
“Let’s see, now, what do we know about Pulteney? We know, in the first place, that he was sleeping in the house on the night when Mottram died. Actually, he had the room next door to Mottram’s—between his and the one we’ve got now. According to his own evidence, he slept soundly all night, and heard nothing. On the other hand, his own evidence showed that he went to bed after Mottram and Brinkman, and we’ve nothing, therefore, to confirm his own account of his movements. He was woken up the next morning after the tragedy had occurred, and when he was told about it all he said was—what was it, Angela?”
“ ‘In that case, Mrs. Davis, I shall fish the Long Pool this morning.’ ”
“That might almost be represented as suggesting that he wasn’t exactly surprised when he heard of Mottram’s death, mightn’t it? All his references to Mottram’s death since then have been rather—shall we say?—lacking in feeling. He, no less than Brinkman, seemed to be anxious that we should interpret the death as suicide, because it was he who suggested to me that idea about Mottram having brought down the wrong flies, as if he never really had any intention of fishing at all. He has been rather inquisitive about when Brinkman was leaving, and when we were leaving too, for that matter. That’s all you can scrape together, I think, against his general behaviour. And against that, of course, you’ve got to put the absence of all known motive.”
“And the general character of the man,” suggested Eames.
“I suppose so. … What impression exactly does he make on you?”
“Why, that he is out of touch with real life. All that macabre humour of his about corpses and so on is an academic thing—he has never really felt death close to. I don’t say that a superb actor mightn’t adopt that ironical pose. I only say it’s far more natural to regard him as a harmless old gentleman who reflects and doesn’t act. It’s very seldom that you find the capacity for acute reflection and the capacity for successful action combined in the same character. At least, that’s always been my impression.”
“Well, granted that we acquit him of the main charge, as Leyland would acquit Brinkman of the main charge. He still comes under the minor suspicion of eavesdropping. He’s as good a candidate for that position as Brinkman himself, only that it was Brinkman’s brand of cigarette we found behind the wall yesterday.”
“Edward had run out, you remember,” suggested Angela. “He might have borrowed one from Brinky, or pinched it when he wasn’t looking. And to be accurate, we must remember that the first time we were overheard, when we were talking in my room, the listener had disappeared before you got into the passage, and the next room to ours is Edward’s.”
“And besides, we know now that it wasn’t Brinkman, this time at any rate. Because he was away at the funeral. Whereas Pulteney shirked the funeral on an obviously false ground; didn’t go to the funeral and didn’t go fishing either. Assuming that the listener is the same all through, it looks bad for Pulteney.”
A knock at the door suddenly interrupted their interview. “May I come in?” said a gentle voice, and following it, flushed as with hot walking yet still beaming with its habitual benevolence, came the face of Mr. Pulteney.
“Ah, Mr. Bredon, they told me I would find you in here. I wanted a word with you. Could we go outside, or—”
“Nonsense, Mr. Pulteney,” said Angela firmly. “What Mr. Eames and I don’t know isn’t worth knowing. Come in and tell us all about it.”
“Well, you know, I’m afraid I’ve got to make a kind of confession. It’s a very humiliating confession for me to make, because I’m afraid, once again, I’ve been guilty of curiosity. I simply cannot mind my own business.”
“And what have you been up to now?” asked Angela.
“Why, when I said I was going out fishing this afternoon, I’m afraid I was guilty of a prevarication. Indeed, when I announced my intention of going to the funeral, I was beginning to weave the tangled web of those who first practise to deceive. You see, I didn’t want Brinkman to know.”
“To know what?”
“Well, that I was rather suspicious about his movements. You see, I’ve asked him several times when he means to leave Chilthorpe, and he always talks as if he was quite uncertain of his plans. He did so at breakfast, you remember. But this morning, when
