The third represented a group of cows, knee-deep in the river, regarding the camera with that patient curiosity which cows register at the sight of any human activity.
The fourth, also taken from the river, showed a thin promontory of land, overgrown with a wealth of garden flowers; in the centre of these stood the figure of a stalwart gardener, from the waist downwards.
The fifth, taken at an irregular angle which played havoc with the perspective, looked down a flight of apparently stone steps, on each of which a footprint was discernible, though only those halfway down were sufficiently in focus to be clearly distinguished. The camera itself had obviously been held on a tilt, as if a very inexpert performer had manipulated it. At the sight of this Bredon whistled sharply.
The sixth was a view of the river, taken from a bridge; this was sufficiently indicated by the appearance of what looked like an iron girder, much out of focus, at the bottom of the picture. In the centre, fully focused, floated a canoe, which seemed to be nearly parallel to the bridge, nearly broadside on to the flow of the river. The water was slightly rippled, and a paddle, lying across the centre of the boat, made no clear reflection. The figure of a man lay sprawling at full length on the floor of the canoe, the knees just under the front thwart; the head was turned sideways, and was propped up by a rest and a cushion. The whole attitude suggested a complete abandonment of repose; something about the bend of the neck, something about the way in which the left arm lay crushed under the body, suggested that it was not the attitude in which a man would naturally have fallen asleep. A hat shaded most of the face, but revealed a clean-shaven chin. The back seat of the boat was empty; the other paddle leaned carelessly against it.
“Is he d-dead?” asked Angela, her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“Dead, or dead drunk, or drugged, perhaps. I think the person who took this picture meant us to think he was dead, anyhow. He’s not a very pretty sight, you see, in any case. On the face of it, I must say it looks as if somebody had—well, had finished him off and then taken a photograph of him.”
“But that’s rather horrible. It seems so disgustingly cold-blooded.”
“It needn’t have been the murderer, of course. It might have been somebody who found him lying dead—apparently dead—and thought it important to have a snapshot of him looking like that. Anyhow, the man who took that photograph is the man we want to get hold of. He must be able to give us news of Derek Burtell which is later than the lock-keeper’s.”
“You’re certain it was taken at the lock-stream bridge? Oh yes, of course, the footprint-photograph shows that.”
“Even if it didn’t, there could hardly be any doubt. You haven’t looked attentively enough at Number Four, or you’d have recognized an old friend.”
“Oo, is that Mr. Burgess?”
“There’s no doubt about the lock and the island. There can’t be two locks arranged like that. Now, you say this throws suspicion on Nigel Burtell. Let’s hear how you’d work it out.”
“Dash it all, it makes him out such a perfect brute. But you say he is one. Let’s assume that his alibi is all wrong; that he didn’t really take the train to Oxford at all, but went there by a fast motor—if he ever did go to Oxford. No, that won’t do; he couldn’t get to the motor soon enough. Let’s say that he didn’t go to Oxford at all, for the sake of argument. That gives him all the time there is. He waits till Mr. Burgess’ back is turned, which doesn’t seem to be a very difficult thing to do; then he slinks down along the island, through the woods, and lies in wait for the canoe. Let’s say that his cousin is under the influence of a drug; that seems probable enough. He leaves his camera on the bridge, then goes down a little lower, takes off his clothes, and puts them there all ready. He comes up above the bridge again, swims out to the canoe as it floats by, and—then I suppose he does something horrible, stabs his cousin with a hatpin or something. He swims to the bridge, ahead of the canoe, climbs up the framework of the bridge, and takes his photograph from there. Then he runs down the steps, all wet, and swims out to the canoe again; brings it in to the bank, and puts on his clothes. Then he sits down in the stern of the canoe, as if nothing had happened, and paddles it down a good long distance. He ties a weight to the body, digs a hole in the bottom of the canoe, gets out and makes tracks for the high road, or perhaps for Wheathampton Station. It doesn’t seem to work out awfully well.”
“What an imagination you’ve got! But there’s one point, don’t you see, where you must be wrong. He took a photograph of the footprints before he took a photograph of the body in the canoe. Therefore the footprints were made before he climbed up on to the bridge, not after he went down.”
“Blow, I’d forgotten that. But then how do you account for the footsteps going down, not coming up?”
“He walked up the stairs backwards. You can see that, if you look at the photograph carefully. The marks are the marks of heels. You don’t walk downstairs on your heels, you walk on your toes and the flat part of the soles. These marks show that he walked up backwards.”
“But why backwards?”
“Possibly just to create confusion. More probably because the prints of his toes might, in the millionth chance, have given him away. If he’d a hammer toe, for example, that would show up quite
