“He might have had others to post as well,” Alec hazarded, blowing out a great cloud of smoke. “Would Mrs. Plant’s be the only one?”
“H’m! I never thought of that. Yes, he would. But still, it’s rather unlikely that he should have posted hers as well, I should say. By the way, it was that letter which accounted for her change of attitude before lunch. She knew then that she had nothing to fear from the opening of the safe, you see.”
“Well, how do matters stand now?”
“Exactly as they did before. I don’t see that this really affects it either way. It’s only another instance of the murderer’s cunning. Mrs. Plant, and possibly, as you say, one or two others, might raise awkward questions at Stanworth’s sudden death; therefore their apprehensions must be allayed. All that it really does as far as we are concerned, is to confirm the idea that the murderer must have a very intimate knowledge of Stanworth’s private affairs. Of course it shows that the safe was opened that night, and it brings our old friends, the ashes in the hearth, into prominence once more as being in all probability the remains of the blackmailer’s evidence. Curious that that first guess of mine should have turned out to be so near the truth, isn’t it?”
“And what about Jefferson?” Alec asked quietly.
“Ah, yes, Jefferson. Well, I suppose this affair of the letter and the fact that he did not break in on Mrs. Plant and Stanworth in the library that night and consequently was not helped by that lady—I suppose all this gives him credit for rather more brains than I had been willing to concede him; but otherwise I don’t see that his position is affected.”
“You mean, you still think he killed Stanworth?”
“If he didn’t, can you tell me who did?”
Alec shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve told you I’m convinced you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s no good going on repeating it.”
“Not a bit,” Roger said cheerfully.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Exactly what I was before. Have a little chat with him.”
“Rather ticklish business, isn’t it? I mean, when you’re so very uncertain of your ground.”
“Possibly. But so was Mrs. Plant for that matter. I think I shall be able to handle friend Jefferson all right. I shall be perfectly candid with him, and I’m willing to wager a small sum that I shall be back here within half an hour with his confession in my pocket.”
“Humph!” Alec observed sceptically. “Are you going to accuse him directly of the murder?”
“My dear Alec! Nothing so crude as that. I shan’t even say in so many words that I know a murder has been committed. I shall simply ask him a few pointed and extremely pertinent questions. He’ll see the drift of them all right; Master Jefferson is no fool, as we have every reason to know. Then we shall be able to get down to things.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake do bear in mind the possibility (I won’t put it any stronger than that) that Jefferson never did kill Stanworth at all, and walk warily.”
“Trust me for that,” Roger replied complacently. “By the way, did I tell you that Mrs. Plant received that letter just before going into lunch? It caught the eight-thirty post from the village.”
“Did it?” Alec said without very much interest.
“By Jove!” Roger exclaimed suddenly. “What an idiot I am! That’s conclusive proof that Stanworth couldn’t have posted it himself, isn’t it? Fancy my never spotting that point before!”
“What point?”
“Why, the first post out from the village is five o’clock. That letter must have been posted between five and eight-thirty—four hours or more after Stanworth was dead!”
XXV
The Mystery Finally Refuses to Accept Mr. Sheringham’s Solution
Roger had no time to waste. Mrs. Plant, Alec, and himself were all to leave by the train soon after five o’clock; the car would be ready to take them into Elchester at half-past four. Tea was to be at four, and the time was already close on three. He had an hour left in which to disentangle the last remaining threads. As he stood for a moment outside the morning-room door it seemed to Roger as if even this narrow margin were half an hour more than he needed.
Jefferson was still at work among the piled-up papers. He glanced up abstractedly as Roger entered the room and then smiled slightly.
“Come to offer me a hand again?” he asked. “Devilish good of you, but I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can turn over to you this time.”
Roger drew a chair up to the other side of the table and seated himself deliberately.
“As a matter of fact, I hadn’t,” he said slowly. “I wanted to ask you one or two questions, Jefferson, if you would be good enough to answer them.”
Jefferson looked slightly surprised.
“Questions? All right, fire away. What can I tell you?”
“Well, the first thing I want to ask you,” Roger shot out, “is—where were you at the time that Stanworth died?”
A look of blank astonishment was followed in Jefferson’s face by an angry flush.
“And what the devil has that got to do with you?” he asked abruptly.
“Never mind for the moment what it has to do with me,” Roger replied, his heart beating a little faster than usual. “I want you to answer that question.”
Jefferson rose slowly to his feet, his eyes glittering ominously. “Do you want me to kick you out of the room?” he said in a strangely quiet voice.
Roger leaned back in his chair and watched him unmoved.
“Do I understand that you refuse to answer?” he said evenly. “You refuse to tell me where you were between, say, one and three o’clock on the morning that
