On the first floor he found his hopes realised. It was depopulated. As he had calculated, the whole household was downstairs.
III
The court adjourned at fifteen minutes to two. Hastings and a different, softer, more charming than ever Margaret Warren were given lunch by Anthony in his sitting-room at the Bear and Key.
The meal over, Margaret was given the one comfortable chair, Hastings sat on the table, and Anthony leaned against the mantelpiece.
“Now, my children,” he said, “I have congratulated you, I have filled your stomachs. To work. What of the crowner’s quest?”
“Adjourned till three-thirty,” said Hastings, “when, after a quarter of an hour’s cosy talk, they’ll bring in a red-hot verdict of willful murder aganst the hulking private secretary. We needn’t go back, I think. There’s one of our men there. He’ll take the rest of the report; and it’s all over except the shouting.”
Anthony nodded. “No, you needn’t stay.”
“I,” said Margaret, “don’t think the secretary had anything to do with it. Not with those sort of eyes—he couldn’t.”
Hastings guffawed.
“I agree with you, Miss Warren,” Anthony said. “And it was the eyes which made me think that way.”
Hastings exploded. “Oh! I say! But—”
“Quiet, dog!” Anthony waved him to silence. “I am Richard on the Spot. The case is mine, and I say that Archibald Deacon’s a nonstarter. Children, I am about to question you. Make ready.”
Hastings cast his smile. Margaret produced a notebook.
Anthony said: “So far, the case against Deacon is, I assume: one, that in his possession were found banknotes for a hundred pounds proved as having been drawn by Hoode from his bank on the morning of the murder; two, that his explanation that this money was given to him by Hoode as a birthday present was neither regarded as at all probable nor supported by any witness; three, that his explanation as to his whereabouts during the time within which the murder was committed was both unsatisfactory and entirely uncorroborated; four, that he attempted to mislead officers of the law by means of an alibi which he knew to be false; five, that in view of his size, strength, length of leg, and the fact that everyone else for miles round appears to be accounted for, he seems the most likely person; and six, that his fingerprints were found on the wood-rasp with which the deed was done.”
“Look here,” said Hastings, “if you were at the inquest, what’s all the palaver about?”
“I wasn’t, and you’ll see. Some of this I knew already, some I guessed. Wonderful, isn’t it?”
Margaret leaned forward. “But who do you think did do it, Mr. Gethryn? Do you suspect anyone?”
“Everyone in the world,” said Anthony. “Except Deacon, you, James Masterson, and one other. But I look first at the household; just as a matter of interest like.” He ticked off names on his fingers. “The butler Poole, the chauffeur Wright, Martha Forrest the cook, Robert Belford the other manservant; Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, housemaids; Lily Ingram the kitchenmaid, and one Thomas Diggle, gardener. Also the sister of the corpse, Sir Arthur Digby-Coates, and Mrs. Mainwaring. And there we have the ‘ ’ole ruddy issue, incloodin’ the ’eads.’ ”
“Shades of Pelman!” Hastings was moved to exclaim.
“And,” said Anthony benignantly, “what about ’em all? Their stories, their behaviour?”
Margaret consulted the notebook. “The servants,” she said, “were all right. Most obviously all right—except the man Belford. The girls no one could accuse of murder, they’re too timid and their stories were all connected enough. In most cases they fitted in with each other naturally enough. The cook was in bed before ten-thirty, and slept through the whole thing. The chauffeur was talking to friends outside the lodge. The butler was apparently in his little room all the evening. He can’t prove it by witnesses, but you couldn’t suspect an old man like that. He’s not strong enough for one thing; and he’s obviously dreadfully upset by the death of his master. Mrs. Mainwaring seemed all right. She went to bed early, and was seen there by both Miss Hoode and the maid Smith—the one that was afterwards in the linen-room. After the murder was discovered she was found fast asleep. Sir Arthur Digby-Coates is quite all right. He was in his own sitting-room—it has his bedroom on one side of it and the secretary’s on the other, apparently—from ten-fifteen until the body was found by Miss Hoode and the old butler rushed up and fetched him. During that time he was seen by various people, including Deacon, at very short intervals. As for Miss Hoode, she deposed—that’s the word, isn’t it?—that she was in bed by half-past ten, reading. At about eleven she suddenly remembered something about an invitation to someone—she wasn’t very clear in her evidence—and went downstairs to use the telephone and to speak to her brother. After that, well, you know what happened. That’s all.”
Anthony smiled. “And very good, too. I congratulate you, Miss Warren. ‘So there, in a manner of speaking, they all are.’ Of course, it’s all very untidy, this evidence. Very untidy! Not at all neat!”
“I know, Mr. Gethryn. But then, you see, it wasn’t as if they were all on trial. I mean, all this about where they were and that sort of thing came out mixed up with other things. It wasn’t cross-examination with everything on the point and nowhere else. And if people don’t know there’s going to be a murder, they can’t very well all get up nice, smooth alibis, can they?”
Anthony laughed. “Just what I said, Miss Warren. They can’t. Now, about ferret-face—Belford, I mean. You seem to think his evidence wasn’t as good as the others’. What did he do? Or say?”
Hastings took up the tale. “Nothing very unusual in itself. But his manner was all wrong. Too wrong, I thought, to be merely natural nervousness. Margaret thinks the same. It wasn’t that he said anything one could catch hold of; he was just
