“Aunt Alma’s death was what altered the look of things. When you told me about the will, I realized what a silly position I’d put myself in. Here was all Aunt Alma’s money going to that ass Farris, unless Derek could be produced, and I hadn’t the faintest idea where Derek was! So I remembered the letter at White Bracton, and I thought I’d try the cipher stunt. I posted the card to myself at Paddington. I could have cried with delight when the visit to White Bracton worked out so well. And then … well, there I was, and here I am. Can I be prosecuted for a conspiracy to defraud? I suppose I can; but it isn’t worth while unless you can find Derek alive; and if you do, why there’s all Aunt Alma’s money to pay off our liabilities with. On the whole, I’m feeling more comfortable than I’ve felt for a week.”
“M’m!” said Leyland, “you’ve been conspiring to defeat the ends of justice all right, by your own account, but I’m hanged if I know whether it’s actionable. May I just ask whether you’ve given us a complete list of your movements? Or whether we have to thank you for any more of the little conundrums we’ve been trying to solve in these last ten days?”
“No, I think not. … Oh yes, of course, there was one thing I did, but not very important. When I found the canoe, you know, and saw that it had a hole dug in the bottom of it, it worried me a good deal; because Derek’s disappearance was meant to suggest accidental death. But this neat little hole in the bottom of the boat suggested murder or suicide or a game of some sort. Nobody could think that was an accident. Then it occurred to me that it might be taken for an accident if only the edges of the hole weren’t so confoundedly regular. Well, there was this chap who was with me, you know, plunging about in the water like any old porpoise. So I got hold of a sharp piece of stone, and worried round the edges of the hole at the bottom, in the hope that it would look as if the canoe had run aground and got smashed up that way.”
“Did you now?” said Bredon, his eyes burning. “And did you by any chance happen to make the hole at all larger while you were about it?”
“Oh yes, lots. It was quite a little hole to start with.”
Bredon got up and walked about the room with his hands in his coat pockets, whistling.
XX
A Reconstruction
“No,” said Bredon as he and Leyland paddled up, it seemed for the fiftieth time, to Shipcote Lock. “I don’t find Nigel Burtell’s story incredible in the least. I was never at a University, but I can quite understand how a creature of poses like that might experience a sudden revulsion just at the end of his time there. In a small world it must be difficult for a self-conscious person not to pose—not to wonder what people are thinking of him and whether people are thinking of him; not to impose upon them a false personality if his true personality is not worth imposing. And to leave all that behind must engender a desire to return to the simple emotions. But then, unfortunately, murder is one of the simple emotions; and I shouldn’t be really surprised to hear that Nigel had returned to that. He’s so confoundedly plausible, you see; I wouldn’t put it beyond him to give us a perfectly genuine analysis of his emotions, and then conceal from us the central fact. And it remains certain that he’s blown his own alibi to bits. If there was only a hole about the size of a pin’s head in the bottom of that canoe, the wind and the stream would carry it no end of a distance before it filled up. And, dash it all, that’s all there was. Why shouldn’t the murder have been done before the canoe left the iron bridge? And if it was, why shouldn’t it have been Nigel that did it?”
“I know, I know. But then, you’ve always been building such a lot on that argument. To me, the whole thing has been a question of the total time involved.”
“Well, we’re going to find out all about that now.”
“Yes; and yet I’m not sure that all this reconstruction business is really a fair test. You see, you go about the business in cold blood, all gingered up beforehand and quite certain what you’re going to do next. Interruptions and sudden afterthoughts don’t put you off your stroke. When you undress by the bank, and dress again afterwards, your stud won’t lose itself in the grass, one sleeve of your shirt won’t pull itself inside out, because you won’t really be in a hurry, only pretending to be in a hurry. To catch a train and do a murder while you’re about it in twenty minutes is all right on paper, but when a man comes to do it he’s bound to lose his head. Look at those two photographs, for example. I dare say you’re right in thinking that the one of the footsteps was only due to an unintentional exposure of the film. But the one of the body in the canoe is an admirable snapshot. Well, you take photographs,
