Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was nothing to prevent anyone from walking straight through into the garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for the night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to watch until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every chance of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the yard, and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom occupied. Even if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only a very slender chance that he had been noticed.
The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan entered into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had the car out in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion, Lucas’s car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept the place open after Lucas went in case anyone might want a car out. He had locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had then gone straight to bed. Had anyone, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in the yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and came back to assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard part of the time, she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There was no one else, was there, Joan asked, about that night? No one. But then the chauffeur seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes, miss, there was someone else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be the cook, miss—she came in to help with the dinner, and she stayed the night with us. She went to bed early, she did—about half-past ten. She had to leave early next morning—she went away before they found out what had happened in the night.”
“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”
“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was sitting at the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was trying to read herself off.”
“Then she might have seen anyone come in?”
“Yes, miss, she might.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now, away in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning. But it’s her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”
Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour with her and the chauffeur’s wife.
“Did I see anyone come through the coach-yard that night? Yes, I did, miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate leading into the garden, I saw his face.”
“Who was it? Did you know him?”
“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing as it was him.”
“And he went through into the garden?”
“Yes, miss.”
“You didn’t see him come out again?”
“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis here came and locked up.”
“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell anyone—or you, Purvis, or your wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very important you shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing. Purvis himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and then he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s request. His jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said—
“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman had aught to do with this terrible affair?”
“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing anybody. But I knew someone came in by the yard, and I wanted to make sure who it was.”
“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”
They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to anyone else. But, when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among themselves. Joan’s questions had been enough to make them suspect that Woodman might be concerned in the murders. And, though nothing was said of Joan’s discovery, Purvis’s dark and unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what she could say if she had a mind, were soon all round the servants’ hall.
It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip, and the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which had not escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for the vague suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always ready to suspect anyone they disliked; and in this case they were all strong partisans of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their attentions which the police had bestowed on the menservants at Liskeard House. All the same, the inspector traced the rumours to the chauffeur’s wife, and made up his mind to have a little talk with her.
He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by
