Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt to extract further information from him was a complete failure.
“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the land lies up yonder.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for them at the door.
“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?”
Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in, followed by Armadale.
A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by the showcases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down, and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips.
“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time.
“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it, though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the valet.”
Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though nothing mattered but the end in view.
Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves.
“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?”
Joan shook her head.
“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked.
Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend her his moral support.
After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story.
“Some time after lunch, I was sitting on the terrace with Mr. Foss. I forget what we were talking about—nothing of any importance. Soon after that, Maurice came out of the house and sat down. I was surprised to see him, for he’d arranged to play golf this afternoon. But he’d sprained his right wrist badly after lunch, it seems, and had phoned to put off his match. He sat nursing his wrist, and we began to speak of one thing and another. Then, I remember, Mr. Foss somehow turned the talk on to some of the things we have. It was mostly about Japanese things that they spoke; and Mr. Foss seemed chiefly interested in some of the weapons my father had collected. I remember they talked about a Sukesada sword we have and about the Muramasa short sword. Mr. Foss said that he would like to see them some time. He thought that Mr. Kessock would be interested to hear about them.”
She broke off and seemed to be trying to remember the transitions of the conversation. Sir Clinton waited patiently; but at last she evidently found herself unable to recall any details of the next stage in the talk.
“I can’t remember how it came up. It was just general talk about things in our collection and things Mr. Foss had seen elsewhere, but finally they got on to the Medusa Medallions somehow. Mr. Foss was telling Maurice how tantalizing it was to buy these things and pass them on to collectors when he’d like to keep them for himself if only he could afford it. Then it came out that he always took a rubbing of all the coins and medals he came across. I remember he made some little joke about his ‘poor man’s collection’ or something like that. I forget exactly how it came about, but either he asked Maurice to let him have another look at the Leonardo medallions or Maurice volunteered to let him take rubbings there and then. I can’t recall the exact way in which the suggestion was made. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”
She looked up to see if Sir Clinton showed any sign of annoyance at incomplete information; but his face betrayed neither dissatisfaction nor approval. Inspector Armadale, though following the evidence keenly and making frequent notes, seemed to think that very little of her information was to the point.
“Then,” Joan went on, “I remember Mr. Foss getting up from his chair and saying: ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the things.’ And he went away and left Maurice and me together. I said: ‘What’s he gone for?’ And Maurice said: ‘Some paper to take rubbings of the medallions and some stuff he uses for
