Michael retreated from the room as they turned towards the body on the floor.
“Leave Maurice out of it!” he thought, as he walked at a snail’s pace towards the room where he had left Joan. “That’s a nice bit of advice! If you leave Maurice out of it, there seems to be nothing left in it. Now what the devil am I to say to her? If I say nothing, she’ll jump to the worst conclusion; and if I say anything at all, she’ll jump to the same.”
IX
The Muramasa Sword
As the door closed behind Michael Clifton, the Chief Constable turned to the Inspector.
“Now we can get to business, Inspector. Let’s have a look round the place at leisure, and perhaps the surgeon will turn up before we reach the body itself.”
Followed by Armadale, he stepped over to the bay containing the corpse of Foss and began methodically to inspect the surroundings.
“This must have been the case that Marden slipped against when he cut his hand,” the Inspector pointed out. “There’s a big hole in the glass and some blood on the broken edges of the gap.”
“Oh, yes, there’s blood enough to suit most people,” Sir Clinton admitted, with a glance towards the shattered case. But he seemed less interested in the glass than in the floor surface; for he moved slowly to and fro, evidently trying to place himself so that the sunlight from the window was reflected up to him from the parquet. After a moment or two, he seemed satisfied.
“That part of Marden’s story seems true enough. He did slip here. If you come across, you’ll see a line where the polish of the parquet has been taken off by some hard part of his shoe. You won’t be able to spot it unless you make a mirror of the floor.”
The Inspector in his turn moved over and satisfied himself of the existence of the faint mark.
“That confirms part of his story,” he admitted, grudgingly. “There’s a lot of blood about, quite apart from the stuff from the body. One might make something out of that.”
“Suppose we try,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Assume that he cut his hand here on the glass. He’d be all asprawl on the floor; and the first thing he’d do would be to put his hands down to help himself up. That would account for these biggish patches here, under the case. Then a foot or so away you see those round marks of droplets with tiny splashes radiating from them with a fair regularity all round. These must have been made by drops falling from his hand while he stood still—no doubt while he was feeling with the other hand for his handkerchief to stanch the bleeding.”
The Inspector indicated his agreement.
“After he’d got it fixed up, one might expect him to go over and look at Foss. He’d gone down on the floor, you remember, while he was hurrying to Foss’s assistance.”
“There’s no sign of that,” Armadale hastened to point out. “I can’t see any blood-drops round about the body.”
“Oh, don’t be in too much of a hurry, Inspector. Perhaps they fell in the pool of Foss’s own blood or, more probably, his handkerchief soaked up any blood that flowed just then.”
Sir Clinton, still with his eyes on the ground, began to cast about in search of further traces.
“Ah, here are a couple of drops at the end of the bay. Have a look at them, Inspector.”
Armadale knelt down and examined the clots.
“Made on his way to the door, probably,” he suggested.
“They might have been, if he was swinging his arms as one does when one walks freely; but one doesn’t usually swing the arm when there’s a fresh wound in the hand, I think. These aren’t round blobs like the others; they’re elongated, and all the splashing from them is at one end—the end towards the safe. His hand, when they were made, was moving towards the safe’s bay, whatever his body was doing.”
Sir Clinton made a rough measurement of the distance between the two drops.
“If they’d been nearer together or further apart, then each of them might have been made while his arm was going backwards in its natural swing while he was walking towards the door. But the distance between them won’t fit that. You’ll see at once if you try walking over the ground yourself, Inspector; for you’re just about Marden’s height and your stride must be nearly the same as his.”
“He said something about going to the safe and trying the handle,” the Inspector admitted, grudgingly. “So far, his tale’s got some support.”
Sir Clinton smiled covertly at Armadale’s obvious desire to pick holes in the valet’s narrative.
“Well, let’s find out how it happened,” Sir Clinton suggested. “He evidently passed this bay and went on towards the next one, where the safe is. We’ll follow his example.”
They turned the corner of the showcase and stepped over to the safe door.
“There’s a trace of blood on the handle, true enough,” the Inspector admitted. “But I’m not sure he told the truth about why he came to the safe.”
Sir Clinton inspected the smear of blood on the handle, but he seemed to attach very little importance to it.
“I suppose one mustn’t jump to conclusions and assume that everything’s all aboveboard,” he conceded. “But even if we keep open minds, wouldn’t it be the most natural thing in the world for Marden to try the safe door? Remember what had happened according to his story. Mr. Chacewater was in the room, for Marden saw him with his own eyes. Mr. Chacewater turned the corner of a bay—the one next this; and then Marden lost him for good. If you’d been in Marden’s place, wouldn’t you have searched about, and then, finding no trace of the missing man, wouldn’t you have jumped to the
