“On the contrary, Alexander,” Roger rejoined, with a satisfied smile; “that is exactly what I have done.”
“Oh? Then who killed him?”
“If you want it in a single word,” Roger said, not without a certain reluctance, “Jefferson.”
“Jefferson?” Alec exclaimed. “Oh, rot!”
Roger glanced at him curiously. “Now that’s interesting,” he commented. “Why do you say ‘rot’ like that?”
“Because—” Alec hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems such rot to think of Jefferson committing a murder, I suppose. Why?”
“You mean, you don’t think it’s the sort of thing he would do?”
“I certainly don’t!” Alec returned with emphasis.
“Do you know, Alec, I’m beginning to think you’re a better judge of character than I am. It’s a humiliating confession, but there you are. Tell me, have you always thought that about Jefferson, or only just recently?”
Alec considered. “Ever since this business cropped up, I think. It always seemed fantastic to me that Jefferson could be mixed up with it. And the two women as well, for that matter. No, Roger, if you’re trying to fix it on Jefferson, I’m quite sure you’re making a bad mistake.”
Roger’s complacency was unshaken.
“If the case were an ordinary one, no doubt,” he replied. “But you’ve got to remember that this isn’t. Stanworth was a blackmailer, and that alters everything. You may murder an ordinary man, but you execute a blackmailer. That is, if you don’t kill him on the spur of the moment, carried away by madness or exasperation. You’d do that sort of thing on your own account, wouldn’t you? Well, how much more so are you going to do it on behalf of a woman, and that a woman with whom you’re in love? I tell you, Alec, the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff.”
“Meaning that Jefferson is in love?”
“Precisely.”
“Who with?”
“Mrs. Plant.”
Alec gasped. “Good Lord, how on earth do you know that?” he asked incredulously.
“I don’t,” Roger replied with a pleased air. “But he must be. It’s the only explanation. I deduced it.”
“The devil you did!”
“Yes, I’d arrived at that conclusion even before we discovered the secret of Stanworth’s hidden life. That clears up absolutely everything.”
“Does it? I admit it seems to make some of the things more understandable, but I’m dashed if I can see how it makes you so sure that Jefferson killed him.”
“I’ll explain,” Roger said kindly. “Jefferson was secretly in love with Mrs. Plant. For some reason or other Mrs. Plant was being blackmailed by Stanworth unknown to Jefferson. He has a midnight interview with her in the library and demands money. She weeps and implores him (hence the dampness of the handkerchief) and lays a face on the arm of the couch as women do (hence the powder in that particular place). Stanworth is adamant; he must have money. She says she hasn’t got any money. All right, says Stanworth, hand your jewels over then. She goes and gets her jewels and gives them to him. Stanworth opens the safe and tells her that is where he keeps his evidence against her. Then he locks the jewels up and tells her she can go. Enter Jefferson unexpectedly, takes in the situation at a glance, and goes for Stanworth bald-headed. Stanworth fires at him and misses, hitting the vase. Jefferson grabs his wrist, forces the revolver round and pulls the trigger, thus shooting Stanworth with his own revolver without relaxing the other’s grip on it. Mrs. Plant is horror-struck; but, seeing that the thing is done, she takes command of the situation and arranges the rest. And that,” Roger concluded, with a metaphorical pat on his own back, “is the solution of the peculiar events at Layton Court.”
“Is it?” Alec said, with less certainty. “It’s a very pretty little story, no doubt, and does great credit to your imagination. But as to being the solution—well, I’m not so sure about that.”
“It seems to me to account for pretty well everything,” Roger retorted. “But you always were difficult to please, Alec. Think. The broken vase and the second bullet; how the murder was committed; the fact that the murderer went back into the house again; the agitation about the safe being opened; Mrs. Plant’s behaviour in the morning, her reluctance to give evidence (in case she let out anything of what really happened, you see), and her fright when I sprang on her the fact that I knew she’d been in the library, after all; the disappearance of the footprints; the presence of the powder and the dampness of the handkerchief; Lady Stanworth’s indifference to her brother-in-law’s death (I expect he had some hold over her, too, if the truth were known); the employment of a prizefighter as a butler, obviously a measure of self-protection; the fact that I heard people moving about late that night; everything! All cleared up and explained.”
“Humph!” said Alec noncommittally.
“Well, can you find a single flaw in it?” Roger asked, in some exasperation.
“If it comes to that,” Alec replied slowly, “why was it that both Mrs. Plant and Jefferson suddenly had no objection to the safe being opened, after they’d both shown that they were anxious to prevent it?”
“Easy!” Roger retorted. “While we were upstairs, Jefferson opened the safe and took out the documents. It would only take a minute, after all. Any objection to that?”
“Did the inspector leave the keys behind? I thought he put them in his pocket.”
“No, he left them on the table, and Jefferson put them in his pocket. I remember noticing that at the time, and wondering why he did it. Now it’s obvious, of course.”
“Well, what about that little pile of ashes in the library hearth? You suggested that it might be the remains of some important documents, and you thought that Jefferson looked uncommonly relieved at the idea.”
“My mistake at the time,” Roger said promptly. “As for the ashes, they might have been anything. I don’t attach any importance to them.”
“But you did!” Alec persisted obstinately.
“Yes, excellent but sponge-headed Alexander,” Roger explained patiently, “because I thought
