“And then?” Sir Clinton prompted. As they were evidently coming near the moment of the murder in Joan’s narrative, it was clear that he wished to leave her no time to think of the crime itself.
“We went into the museum. Since that night of the masked ball, Maurice has removed most of the smaller articles of value from the cases and put them into the safe; so in order to get the medallions he had to open the safe. It’s a combination lock, you know; and as I knew Maurice wouldn’t like us to be at his elbow while he was setting the combination, I took Mr. Foss under my wing and led him over to where the Sukesada sword is hung on the wall. We looked at it for a few moments. I remember taking it out of its sheath to show the blade to Mr. Foss. Then I heard Maurice slamming the door of the safe; and when we went into the bay where it is, Maurice was there with the Leonardo medallions in his hand.”
“One moment,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You said it was a combination lock on the safe. Do you happen to know the combination?”
Joan shook her head.
“Maurice is the only one who knows that. He never told it to any of us.”
Sir Clinton invited her to continue.
“Maurice handed Mr. Foss one of the medallions and Mr. Foss took it over to the big central case—the one with the flat top. Then he began to take a rubbing of the medallion with his paper and black stuff. He didn’t seem quite satisfied with his first attempt, so he had a second try at it. As we were watching him, he seemed to prick up his ears, and then he said: ‘There’s someone calling for you, Miss Chacewater.’ I couldn’t hear anything myself; but he explained that the voice was pretty far off. He had extra good hearing, I remember he said. He seemed very positive about it, so I went off to see what it was all about.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes,” said Joan, but she had obviously more to tell.
“And then?”
“As I was going away from the museum door, I met Mr. Foss’s man, Marden. He had a small brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stopped me and asked me if I knew where Mr. Foss was. Something about the parcel, I gathered, though I didn’t stop to listen to him. I told him Mr. Foss was in the museum; and I went on to see if I could find who was calling. I searched about and came across Mr. Clifton; but I didn’t hear anyone calling my name. Mr. Foss must have been mistaken.”
“And then?”
Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in.
“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all. The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at the station.”
“What had become of Mr. Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question.
“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the valet. I don’t know.”
Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he silenced him by a glance.
“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan. “Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum yourself?”
Joan thought for a few seconds.
“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr. Clifton, and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard the shout?”
“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested.
“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time we heard the shout.”
“About that,” Michael agreed.
Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook.
“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter, so far as you know?”
Joan paused for a moment or two before replying.
“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else that would be of use.”
“You’ve no idea where your brother is?”
“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her. “You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded, anxiously.
“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr. Clifton away for a few minutes,
