“Oh, there’s no secret about that,” said Angela. “You’ll find the spot marked, not with a cross, but with a troop of about sixteen boy scouts with no clothes on, diving into the river all day in the hopes of fishing something up. Or, if for any reason their operations should be suspended, you’ll know the place because it’s just opposite a disused boathouse, the only one of its kind. The boathouse would be on the right-hand side as you go up, but it’s easier to get at the river from the other side, because of the towpath.”
Leyland called round the next morning soon before luncheon. They sat and talked on the lawn, while Mr. Quirk, who had returned from a morning ramble, watched them, with Angela, from the drawing-room window. Leyland and Bredon were examining what looked like photographs. “How lucky,” observed Mr. Quirk, “that your husband should be a photographic expert.”
“Why, how on earth did you know?” asked Angela, genuinely surprised.
“I don’t pride myself very much on my observation, Mrs. Bredon, but I think I can recognize the stains on a man’s hands when he has been developing films recently.”
Leyland had a long tour of examination to report, which for the most part had produced painfully negative results. They remembered, at Shipcote Station, a gentleman catching the nine-fourteen to Oxford at the last moment. The ticket-collector at Oxford remembered a gentleman travelling by that train who had no ticket, and had to buy one at the guichet. The porter at the schools remembered a gentleman presenting himself for his viva a day too soon. All these agreed roughly in their description of Nigel; and the fact that it was really Nigel who went back on that train seemed established beyond all possibility of doubt by the testimony of his landlady, who had met him at the door when he came to his digs. With some difficulty, Leyland even found the taxi-driver who took up a fare close to Carfax and put him down at the Gudgeon “round about eleven o’clock.”
“That alibi seems all right, don’t it?” suggested Leyland.
“Yes, only (as I say) it’s just a bit too perfect. The young man seems to have been at such elaborate pains to leave memories of himself wherever he went. There’s not a link missing in the chain, you see; it looks as if he’d definitely meant to establish his whereabouts at every moment of the day. But perhaps I’m fanciful. What about the other end? Did you get any evidence about his staying here all the time between eleven and one o’clock that morning?”
The evidence here seemed less satisfactory. The barmaid could remember Nigel’s arrival; she had told him that it was not possible to serve him with cherry brandy at that hour; she had served him, however, with ginger-beer. She had not watched him at all as he sat on the lawn, though she had passed by once with a message, and had seen him sitting there—she was not quite sure what the time would be. The people camping on the opposite bank had been conscious of his presence; they had noticed his attempts to feed the peacock; but they, too, could only say that it would be some time between eleven and twelve. His further movements were not definitely dated, except by the fact that he ordered luncheon at a quarter, or it might be, half-past twelve. “Granted that he was feeding the peacock about a quarter-past eleven,” said Leyland, “that gives him an hour to hurry along the towpath, do what he came to do, and get back.”
“Yes, but you don’t believe that. You don’t believe he would take the risk. This is what I should consider a real alibi—a natural one. He made no efforts to advertise his presence—didn’t rush into the bar for a cherry brandy, for example, exactly at twelve o’clock. No, my feeling is, that up to eleven, Master Nigel was very careful to be where somebody could see him; after that, he doesn’t appear to have minded. I wonder why? Dash it all, I suppose it ought to suggest something.”
Leyland shook his head. “All too confoundedly theoretical. I tried Spinnaker Farm, too; but there they could give me nothing in the way of a description. The old lady had only seen the stranger from an upstairs window as he hurried through the yard; she had guessed that he was running for the train, and had looked out to see the smoke of the train later on, from anxiety to know whether he had caught it or not.”
“Did the stranger see her?” asked Bredon.
“Yes, oddly enough he must have; because he took off his hat to her. Rather an unusual exercise of politeness, for a man catching a train.”
“Precisely. But, you see, once more he makes absolutely certain of his alibi.”
“Then I tried the lock-keeper. He was absolutely positive that he saw nobody else about so early in the morning, except the boy who brings the milk, and the man who went up in a punt just before the Burtells passed. He never saw the man in the punt again. Had the man in the punt come back yet? (I asked). He wasn’t certain, didn’t think he had, but hadn’t paid much attention to him. As for the canoe, he described Nigel quite unmistakably; he was sure that there was another gentleman in the canoe, but had not seen him move; nor had he heard him speak, because he was below the level of the lock, mostly. I asked, Mustn’t he have moved so as to push the boat out of the lock? Mr. Burgess, who sticks (I fancy)
