“You say Maurice was wearing a white Pierrot costume? So was the fellow you were chasing. So was the man next me at the case when the lights went out.”
“I suppose you’re suggesting that Maurice is at the bottom of the business, Foxy,” Michael replied at once. “I’ll swallow that if you’ll answer one question. Why should a man burgle his own house?”
“Lord alone knows,” Foxy admitted humbly. “I’ve no brainwave on the subject.”
“It seems rather improbable,” observed Sir Clinton. “I think you’ll have to produce a motive before that idea could be accepted.”
He glanced round at the door as he spoke and added:
“Here’s Maurice himself.”
Maurice Chacewater had entered the room while the Chief Constable was speaking. He had discarded his fancy costume and wore ordinary evening-dress, against the black of which his face looked white and drawn. He came up to the group and leaned on the showcase as if for support.
“So you’ve muddled it, Michael,” he commented, after a pause. “You didn’t get your hands on the fellow, after all?”
Dismissing Michael with almost open contempt, he turned to Sir Clinton.
“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?”
“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so far as we can see.”
As he spoke, his glance telegraphed a warning to the rest of the group. It seemed unnecessary that Maurice should know all the ins and outs of the night’s doings.
But Foxy evidently failed to grasp the meaning of the Chief Constable’s look.
“We saved the real medallions for you, Maurice. Vote of thanks to us, eh?”
“How did you manage that?” Maurice demanded, with no sign of gratitude in his voice.
Quite oblivious of the warning looks thrown at him by the rest of the group, Foxy launched at once into a detailed account of the whole practical joke and its sequel. Maurice listened frowningly to the story. When it was completed, he made no direct comment.
“Who’s got the medallions? You, Joan? I’ll take them.”
When she had handed them over, he scrutinized them carefully.
“These seem to be the Leonardo ones,” he confirmed.
Sir Clinton interposed a question.
“Were the medallions and the replicas in their usual places tonight, Maurice? I mean, were the real things in the top row and the electros down below?”
Maurice gave a curt nod of assent. He weighed the three medallions unconsciously in his hand for a moment, then moved over to the safe in the wall of the museum.
“These things will be safer under lock and key, now,” he said.
He opened the safe, inserted the medallions, closed the safe-door with a clang, and busied himself with the combination of the lock.
Before saying anything further, Sir Clinton waited until Maurice had returned to the group.
“There’s one thing,” he said. “I shall have to look into this affair officially now. It’s essential that things shall be left as they are. Especially the place where that fellow gave you the slip, Clifton. Nobody must be wandering about there, up at the spinney, until I’ve done with the ground. There may be clues left, for all one can tell; and we can’t run the risk of their being destroyed.”
Maurice looked up gloomily.
“Very well. I’ll give orders to the keepers to patrol the wood and turn everyone back. That do?”
“So long as no one sets foot on anything beyond the wood, I’ll be quite satisfied. But it’s important, Maurice. Impress that on your keepers, please.”
Maurice indicated his comprehension with a nod.
“I’ll begin dragging the lakelet up there tomorrow morning,” Sir Clinton added. “Something must have gone into the water to make the splash that was heard; and perhaps we shall find it. I don’t mind anyone going down by the lake side. It’s the top of the cliff that I want kept intact.”
He looked at his watch.
“You’re on the phone here? I must ring up the police in Hincheldene now and make arrangements for tomorrow. Show me your phone, please, Joan. And as I must get some sleep tonight, I’ll say goodbye to the rest of you now. Come along, Ariel. Lead the way.”
VII
What Was in the Lake
“I was afraid of it,” Sir Clinton observed, as he lifted the dripping pole with which he had been sounding the water of the lakelet. “The net will be no good, Inspector. With these spikes of rock jutting up from the bottom all over the place, you couldn’t get a clean sweep; and if there’s anything here at all, it’s pretty sure to have lodged in one of the cavities between the spikes.”
It was the morning after the masked ball at Ravensthorpe. The Chief Constable had made all his arrangements overnight, so that when he reached the shore of the artificial lake, everything was in readiness. The decrepit raft had been strengthened; a large net had been brought for the purpose of dragging the pool; and several grapnels had been procured, in case the net turned out to be useless. Sir Clinton had gone out on the raft to sound the water and discover whether the net could be utilized; but the results had not been encouraging.
Inspector Armadale listened to the verdict with a rather gloomy face.
“It’s a pity,” he commented regretfully. “Dragging with the grapnel is a kind of hit-or-miss job, Sir Clinton; and it’ll take far longer than working with the net.”
Sir Clinton acquiesced with a gesture.
“We’d better start close in under the cliff-face,” he said. “If anything came down from the top, it can’t have gone far before it sank. One of the people last night was watching the pool and he saw nothing on the surface after the splash, so it ought to be somewhere near the cave-mouth. You can pole over to the shore now, Constable; we’ve done with this part of the business.”
The constable obeyed the order and soon Sir Clinton rejoined the Inspector
