Armadale was hardly prepared for this move.
“I think you’re injudicious, Mr. Chacewater,” he said in a tone which he was evidently striving not to make threatening. “I know you didn’t arrive by the first train this morning, though you told us you did. Your position’s rather an awkward one, if you think about it.”
“You can’t bluff me, Inspector,” Cecil returned. “Make your charge, and I’ll know how to answer it. If you won’t make a charge, I don’t propose to help you with a fishing inquiry.”
The Inspector glanced at Sir Clinton’s face, and on it he read quite plainly the Chief Constable’s disapproval of his proceedings. He decided to go no further for the moment. Sir Clinton intervened to make the situation less strained.
“Would you mind looking at him, Cecil, and formally identifying him?”
Cecil came forward rather reluctantly, knelt down beside his brother’s body, examined the clothes, and finally, removing the handkerchief, gazed for a moment or two at the shattered face. The shot had entered the right side of the head and had done enough damage to show that it had been fired almost in contact with the skin.
Cecil replaced the handkerchief and rose to his feet. For a few moments he stood looking down at the body. Then he turned away.
“That’s my brother, undoubtedly.”
Then, as if speaking to himself, he added in a regretful tone:
“Poor old Chuchundra!”
To the Inspector’s amazement Sir Clinton started a little at the word.
“Was that a nickname, Cecil?”
Cecil looked up, and the Inspector could see that he was more than a little moved.
“We used to call him that when we were kids.”
Sir Clinton’s next question left the Inspector still further bemused.
“Out of The Jungle Book by any chance?”
Cecil seemed to see the drift of the inquiry, for he replied at once:
“Yes. ‘Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,’ you know.”
“I was almost certain of it,” said Sir Clinton. “I can put a name to the trouble, I think. It begins with A.”
Cecil reflected for a moment before replying.
“Yes. You’re right. It does begin with A.”
“That saves a lot of bother,” said Sir Clinton, thankfully. “I was just going to fish in a fresh direction to get that bit of information. I’m quite satisfied now.”
Cecil seemed to pay little attention to the Chief Constable’s last remark. His eyes went round to the shattered thing that had been his brother.
“I’d no notion it was as bad as all this,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so bitter about things.”
The sergeant and constables appeared at the edge of the clearing.
“Seen all you want to see, Inspector?” asked Sir Clinton. “Then in that case we can leave the body in charge of the sergeant. I see they’ve got a stretcher with them. They can take it down to Ravensthorpe.”
Armadale rapidly gave the necessary orders to his subordinates.
“Now, Inspector, I think we’ll go over to Ravensthorpe ourselves. I want to see that chauffeur again. Something’s occurred to me.”
As the three men walked through the belt of woodland Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.
“There’s one point I’d like to have cleared up. Do you know if Maurice had any visitors in the last three months or so—people who wanted to see the collection?”
Cecil reflected for a time before he could recall the facts.
“Now you mention it, I remember hearing Maurice say something about a fellow—a Yankee—who was writing a book on Leonardo. That chap certainly came here one day and Maurice showed him the stuff. The medallions were what he chiefly wanted to look at, of course.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No. None of us saw him except Maurice.”
Sir Clinton made no comment; and they walked on in silence till they came to the house. Inspector Armadale was by this time completely at sea.
“Find that chauffeur, Inspector, please; and bring him along. I’ve got one or two points which need clearing up.”
When the chauffeur arrived it was evident that Armadale had not been mistaken when he described him as stupid-looking. Information had to be dragged out of him by minute questioning.
“Your name’s Brackley, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton began.
“Yes, sir. Joe Brackley.”
“Now, Brackley, don’t be in a hurry with your replies. I want you to think carefully. First of all, on the day that Mr. Foss was murdered, he ordered you to bring the car round to the front door.”
“Yes, sir. I was to wait for him if he wasn’t there.”
“You pulled up the car here, didn’t you?”
Sir Clinton indicated the position in front of the house.
“Yes, sir. It was there or thereabouts.”
“Then you put up the hood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What possessed you to do that on a sunny day?”
“One of the fastenings was a bit loose and I wanted to make it right before going out.”
“You didn’t think of doing that in the garage?”
“I didn’t notice it, sir, until I’d brought the car round. My eye happened to fall on it. And just then I saw Mr. Foss going off into the house with some people. He didn’t seem in a hurry, so I thought I’d just time to make the repair before he came out.”
“You got on to the running-board to reach the hood, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which running-board? The one nearest the house?”
“No, sir. The other one.”
“So you could see the front of the house as you were working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see anything—anything whatever—while you were at work? You must have raised your eyes occasionally.”
“I could see the window opposite me.”
“By and by, I think, Marden, the valet, came up and spoke to you?”
“Yes, sir, he did. He’d been going to the post, he said, but there had been some mistake or other and he’d come back.”
“He left you and went into the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“After that, did you see Marden again—I mean within, say, twenty minutes or so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you
