“To be sure,” said Pulteney.
“I am at your service,” said Eames.
“Well, this is actually what I found.” With a dramatic gesture he produced a small waterproof wallet, and turned out its contents. “You will find a thousand pounds there, all in Bank of England notes.”
“Well,” said Bredon, when the exclamations of surprise had died away, “are you still suspecting young Simmonds?”
“I’m not easy about him yet in my own mind. But of course I see Brinkman’s deeper in this business than I had suspected so far. A man who’s innocent doesn’t prepare to do a bolt with a thousand pounds and a motorcar that doesn’t belong to him.”
“Well,” said Bredon, “I suppose we ought to be keeping an eye on Mr. Brinkman.”
“My dear old thing,” said Leyland, “don’t you realize that I’ve had two of my men at the Swan all this week, and that Brinkman hasn’t been unaccounted for for one moment? The trouble is, he knows he’s being watched, so he won’t give himself away. At least I’m pretty sure of it. But the motor, of course, puts us in a very good position. We know how he means to escape, and we can afford to take the watch off him and put it on the motor instead. Then he’ll show his hand, because he’s mad keen to be off. At present he’s in his room, smoking a cigarette and reading an old novel. He won’t move, I think, until he makes certain that we’re all out of the way. Probably not till after supper, because a night ride will suit his purpose best. And he’s got a night for it too; there’s a big storm coming on, unless I’m mistaken.”
“And what about Simmonds?” asked Bredon.
“And the barmaid?” added Angela.
“Well, of course I could question both or either of them. But I’d sooner not, if I can help it; it’s cruel work, I was wondering if you, Mrs. Bredon, could go and have a talk to that maid after we’ve had our tea, and see what satisfaction you can get out of her?”
“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I rather want to have it out with dear Emmeline. I owe her one, you see. Meanwhile, let’s have tea by all means. I wonder if Brinky will come down to it?”
Brinkman did come down, and tea was not a very enlivening meal. Everybody in the room looked upon him as a man who was probably a murderer and certainly a thief. Consequently everybody tried to be nice to him, and everybody’s style was cramped by the effort. Even Mr. Pulteney’s verbosity seemed to have been dried up by the embarrassment of the situation. On the whole, Eames carried it off best. His dry, melancholy manner was quite unaltered; he talked about patience to Bredon, he talked Pullford gossip to Brinkman; he tried to draw out Pulteney on educational questions. But most of the party were glad when it was over, when Brinkman had shut himself up again, and Angela had betaken herself to the back premises to have it out with the barmaid.
The “best room” had been turned by common consent into a sort of committee room; during all this whirligig of sensations, the background of their mind was filled with those protuberant portraits of the late Mr. Davis which so defiantly occupied the walls. It was here that Angela found them assembled when she came up, some half an hour later, a little red about the eyes.
“Well, I didn’t try any subterfuges this time; I let her have it straight from the shoulder. And then she cried, and I cried, and we both cried together a good bit.”
“The mysterious sex again,” said Mr. Pulteney.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand, of course. Anyhow, she’s had a rotten time. That first evening, when she listened outside the door, it was only for a moment or two, out of sheer curiosity, and she didn’t hear anything that interested her. It was yesterday evening, when you two were talking, that she got interested. She overheard at first merely by accident, which just shows how careful you ought to be. She caught the name ‘Simmonds’; she heard, for the first time, about the Euthanasia policy, and what it might have meant to him and to her. She went on listening, naturally, and so she came in for all Mr. Leyland’s exposition of the case against Simmonds. You didn’t convince my husband, Mr. Leyland, but you had a much greater success on the other side of the wall. The poor girl, who’s been brought up on novelettes and penny-shockers all her life, drank in the whole story. She really believed that the man who had been making love to her, the man she was in love with, was a cold-blooded murderer. She acted I think, very well. He came round that evening to take her out for an evening walk, and on the way she taxed him with his supposed crime. If you come to think of it, that was sporting of her.”
“It was,” said Leyland. “People are found dead in ditches for less than that.”
“Well, anyhow, it worked all right. Simmonds listened to her charges, and then denied them all. He didn’t give her any evidence for his denial, but she believed him. There was no quarrel. Next day, that is to say this morning, Emmeline heard you two arranging for a talk at the mill-house. She didn’t suspect the trap; she walked straight into it. What she heard made her believe that there was only one way to save Simmonds—to pretend that he knew about the Euthanasia, and knew the money wasn’t coming to him. The poor girl reflected that Simmonds had been hanging round the house on the night of Mottram’s death; he
