Roger’s last question followed so closely on the heels of his previous remarks that Moresby had answered it almost before he had time to reflect on the possible indiscretion of doing so. “No, Mr. Sheringham, I don’t think that. Farrar’s a capable man, and he’d leave no stone unturned—no stone, I mean, that he could turn.” Moresby paused significantly.
“Ah!” said Roger.
Having committed himself to this lamb, Moresby seemed disposed to look about for a sheep. He resettled himself in his chair and recklessly drank a gill from his tumbler. Roger, scarcely daring to breathe too audibly for fear of scaring the sheep, studiously examined the fire.
“You see, this is a very difficult case, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby pronounced. “Farrar had an open mind, of course, when he took it up, and he kept an open mind even after he’d found out that Sir Eustace was even a bit more of a daisy than he’d imagined at first. That is to say, he never lost sight of the fact that it might have been some outside lunatic who sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace, just out of a general socialistic or religious feeling that he’d be doing a favour to society or Heaven by putting him out of the world. A fanatic, you might say.”
“Murder from conviction,” Roger murmured. “Yes?”
“But naturally what Farrar was concentrating on was Sir Eustace’s private life. And that’s where we police-officers are handicapped. It’s not easy for us to make enquiries into the private life of a baronet. Nobody wants to be helpful; everybody seems anxious to put a spoke in our wheel. Every line that looked hopeful to Farrar led to a dead end. Sir Eustace himself told him to go to the devil, and made no bones about it.”
“Naturally, from his point of view,” Roger said thoughtfully. “The last thing he’d want would be a sheaf of his peccadilloes laid out for a harvest festival in court.”
“Yes, and Mrs. Bendix lying in her grave on account of them,” retorted Moresby with asperity. “No, he was responsible for her death, though indirectly enough I’ll admit, and it was up to him to be as helpful as he could to the police-officer investigating the case. But there Farrar was; couldn’t get any further. He unearthed a scandal or two, it’s true, but they led to nothing. So—well, he hasn’t admitted this, Mr. Sheringham, and you’ll realise I ought not to be telling you; it’s to go no further than this room, mind.”
“Good heavens, no,” Roger said eagerly.
“Well then, it’s my private opinion that Farrar was driven to the other conclusion in self-defence. And the chief had to agree with it in self-defence too. But if you want to get to the bottom of the business, Mr. Sheringham (and nobody would be more pleased if you did than Farrar himself) my advice to you is to concentrate on Sir Eustace’s private life. You’ve a better chance than any of us there; you’re on his level, you’ll know members of his club, you’ll know his friends personally, and the friends of his friends. And that,” concluded Moresby, “is the tip I really came round to give you.”
“That’s very decent of you, Moresby,” Roger said with warmth. “Very decent indeed. Have another spot.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” said Chief Inspector Moresby. “I don’t mind if I do.”
Roger was meditating as he mixed the drinks. “I believe you’re right, Moresby,” he said slowly. “In fact, I’ve been thinking along those lines ever since I read the first full account. The truth lies in Sir Eustace’s private life, I feel sure. And if I were superstitious, which I’m not, do you know what I should believe? That the murderer’s aim misfired and Sir Eustace escaped death for an express purpose of Providence: so that he, the destined victim, should be the ironical instrument of bringing his own intended murderer to justice.”
“Well, Mr. Sheringham, would you really?” said the sarcastic Chief Inspector, who was not superstitious either.
Roger seemed rather taken with the idea. “Chance, the Avenger. Make a good film title, wouldn’t it? But there’s a terrible lot of truth in it.
“How often don’t you people at the Yard stumble on some vital piece of evidence out of pure chance? How often isn’t it that you’re led to the right solution by what seems a series of mere coincidences? I’m not belittling your detective-work; but just think how often a piece of brilliant detective-work which has led you most of the way but not the last vital few inches, meets with some remarkable stroke of sheer luck (thoroughly well-deserved luck, no doubt, but luck), which just makes the case complete for you. I can think of scores of instances. The Milsom and Fowler murder, for example. Don’t you see what I mean? Is it chance every time, or is it Providence avenging the victim?”
“Well, Mr. Sheringham,” said Chief Inspector Moresby, “to tell you the truth, I don’t mind what it is, so long as it lets me put my hands on the right man.”
“Moresby,” laughed Roger, “you’re hopeless.”
V
Sir Charles Wildman, as he had said, cared more for honest facts than for psychological fiddle-faddle.
Facts were very dear to Sir Charles. More, they were meat and drink to him. His income of roughly thirty thousand pounds a year was derived entirely from the masterful way in which he was able to handle facts. There was no one at the bar who could so convincingly distort an honest but awkward fact into carrying an entirely different interpretation from that which any ordinary person (counsel for the prosecution, for instance) would have put upon it. He could take that fact, look it boldly in the face, twist it round, read a message from the back of its neck, turn it inside out and detect auguries in its entrails, dance triumphantly on its corpse, pulverise it completely, remould it if necessary into an utterly different shape, and finally,
