But now, it seemed, this pleasant theory must be abandoned, for in the first place no such letter as this had ever been sent out at all; the firm had produced no new brand of chocolates, if they had done so it was not their custom to dispense sample boxes among private individuals, the letter was a forgery. But the notepaper on the other hand (and this was the only remnant left to support the theory) was perfectly genuine, so far as the old man could tell. He could not say for certain, but was almost sure that this was a piece of old stock which had been finished up about six months ago. The heading might be forged, but he did not think so.
“Six months ago?” queried the Inspector unhappily.
“About that,” said the other, and plucked a piece of paper out of a stand in front of him. “This is what we use now.” The Inspector examined it. There was no doubt of the difference. The new paper was thinner and more glossy. But the heading looked exactly the same. The Inspector took a note of the firm who had printed both.
Unfortunately no sample of the old paper was available. Mr. Mason had a search made on the spot, but not a sheet was left.
“As a matter of fact,” Moresby now said, “it had been noticed that the piece of paper on which the letter was written was an old one. It is distinctly yellow round the edges. I’ll pass it round and you can see for yourselves. Please be careful of it.” The bit of paper, once handled by a murderer, passed slowly from each would-be detective to his neighbour.
“Well, to cut a long story shorter,” Moresby went on, “we had it examined by the firm of printers, Webster’s, in Frith Street, and they’re prepared to swear that it’s their work. That means the paper was genuine, worse luck.”
“You mean, of course,” put in Sir Charles Wildman impressively, “that had the heading been a copy, the task of discovering the printers who executed it should have been comparatively simple?”
“That’s correct, Sir Charles. Except if it had been done by somebody who owned a small press of their own; but that would have been traceable too. All we’ve actually got is that the murderer is someone who had access to Mason’s notepaper up to six months ago; and that’s pretty wide.”
“Do you think it was stolen with the actual intention of putting it to the purpose for which it was used?” asked Alicia Dammers.
“It seems like it, madam. And something kept holding the murderer up.”
As regards the wrapper, Mr. Mason had been unable to help at all. This consisted simply of a piece of ordinary, thin brown paper, such as could be bought anywhere, with Sir Eustace’s name and address hand-printed on it in neat capitals. Apparently there was nothing to be learnt from it at all. The postmark showed that it had been despatched by the nine-thirty p.m. post from the post office in Southampton Street, Strand.
“There is a collection at 8:30 and another at 9:30,” Moresby explained, “so it must have been posted between those two times. The packet was quite small enough to go into the opening for letters. The stamps make up the right value. The post office was shut by then, so it could not have been handed in over the counter. Perhaps you’d care to see it.” The piece of brown paper was handed gravely round.
“Have you brought the box too, and the other chocolates?” asked Mrs. Fielder-Flemming.
“No, madam. It was one of Mason’s ordinary boxes, and the chocolates have all been used for analysis.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was plainly disappointed. “I thought there might be fingerprints on it,” she explained.
“We have already looked for those,” replied Moresby without a flicker.
There was a pause while the wrapper passed from hand to hand.
“Naturally, we’ve made inquiries as to anyone seen posting a packet in Southampton Street between half-past eight and half-past nine,” Moresby continued, “but without result. We’ve also carefully interrogated Sir Eustace Pennefather to discover whether he could throw any light on the question why anyone should wish to take his life, or who. Sir Eustace can’t give us the faintest idea. Of course we followed up the usual line of inquiry as to who would benefit by his death, but without any helpful results. Most of his possessions go to his wife, who has a divorce suit pending against him; and she’s out of the country. We’ve checked her movements and she’s out of the question. Besides,” added Moresby unprofessionally, “she’s a very nice lady.
“And as to facts, all we know is that the murderer probably had some connection with Mason & Sons up to six months ago, and was almost certainly in Southampton Street at some time between eight-thirty and nine-thirty on that particular evening. I’m very much afraid we’re up against a brick wall.” Moresby did not add that so were the amateur criminologists in front of him too, but he very distinctly implied it.
There was a silence.
“Is that all?” asked Roger.
“That’s all, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby agreed.
There was another silence.
“Surely the police have a theory?” Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley threw out in a detached manner.
Moresby hesitated perceptibly.
“Come along, Moresby,” Roger encouraged him. “It’s quite a simple theory. I know it.”
“Well,” said Moresby, thus stimulated, “we’re inclined to believe that the crime was the work of a lunatic, or semi-lunatic, possibly quite unknown personally to Sir Eustace. You see …” Moresby looked a trifle embarrassed. “You see,” he went on bravely, “Sir Eustace’s life was a bit, well, we might say hectic, if you’ll excuse the word. We think at the Yard that some religious or social maniac took it on himself to rid the world of him, so to speak.
