“I could have sworn I looked under there,” he declared.
“So you did, Inspector; but it happened to be close up to one of the feet of the bookcase, and probably it was hidden from you in the position you were when you lay on the floor. It just happened to be in the right line from where I was standing a moment ago. Now let’s have a look at it.”
He held it out, handling it by the tip with the greatest precaution to avoid leaving his fingerprints upon the tube. At first sight, it seemed simply a cigarette-holder such as could be bought in any tobacconist’s shop; but as he rotated it between his finger and thumb, the other side of the barrel came into view and revealed a fly embedded in the material.
“One hears a lot about flies in amber,” Sir Clinton said, “but this is the first time I’ve seen one.”
Dr. Ringwood bent over and examined the imprisoned insect.
“That ought to be easy enough to identify,” he commented. “I never saw a fly in amber before; and that one, with its wings half-spread, must be fairly well known to most of the owner’s friends.”
“It may have nothing to do with the case, though,” Inspector Flamborough put in. “It’s quite on the cards that it was dropped there at the time the house was open for the summer. Some visitor may have lost it, for all one can tell. Or it may belong to either of the Hassendeans.”
Sir Clinton twisted the little object into a vertical position and peered into the cavity which had received the cigarettes’ ends.
“It’s not a leftover from summer, Inspector. The tube’s got quite a lot of tarry liquid in it. That would have gone viscid if the thing had been lying there for a couple of months. No, it’s been used quite recently—within the last day or two, certainly.”
He moved towards the window.
“Just bring that machine of yours, Inspector, and blow some powder over it, please.”
Flamborough obeyed; but the application of the powder revealed nothing except a few shapeless blotches on the stem of the holder.
“Nothing!” Ringwood exclaimed, with more than a tinge of disappointment in his tone.
“Nothing,” Sir Clinton admitted.
He handed the holder to Flamborough, who stowed it away safely.
“We’ve still to overhaul the body,” the Chief Constable suggested. “You’d better do that, Inspector.”
“Not much help in these modern dresses,” said Flamborough, eyeing the girl’s evening frock with a disparaging glance. “But she ought to have a bag with her, surely. … Here it is!”
He plunged his hand between the body and the chair and withdrew a little bag, which he proceeded to open.
“The usual powder-box,” he began, enumerating the articles as they came to hand, “Small mirror, silver-mounted, no initials on it. Small comb. Lipstick—been used once or twice. No money. No handkerchief.”
“You found Mrs. Silverdale’s handkerchief in the car last night,” Sir Clinton reminded him.
“Then I suppose this must be her body, right enough, sir. Well, that seems to be all that’s here.”
“What about these rings she’s wearing,” the Chief Constable suggested. “See if you can get them off. There may be some inscriptions on the inside; some women go in for that kind of thing.”
Fortunately the hands of the body were relaxed, and it was possible to remove the circlets from the fingers. Flamborough rose with three rings in his possession, which he examined with care.
“You’re on the mark there, sir, right enough. Here’s her wedding-ring. It’s engraved ‘’—that’ll be the date of her marriage, I suppose. Then on each side of the date are initials. ‘Y. S.’—that’s for Yvonne Silverdale, obviously; and ‘F. S.’—these’ll be her husband’s initials. Then there’s a diamond ring that she was using for a keeper. Let’s see. It’s got the same pairs of initials on each side of the date ‘.’ That’ll be her engagement-ring, I expect. H’m! They don’t seem to have given themselves much time for second thoughts if the engagement lasted only a month and three days.”
He passed the two rings to Sir Clinton and picked the last one from his palm for examination.
“This is off the little finger. It’s a plain gold signet with Y and S intertwined on it. Evidently it’s Mrs. Silverdale right enough, sir. The inscription’s inside … H’m! there’s a variation here. The date’s ‘’ here; but there’s only a single letter at each end: a Y at one side and a B at the other. That’s a bit of a puzzle,” he concluded, glancing at his superior to see if he could detect anything in his face.
“I agree with you, Inspector,” was all that he elicited for his pains. “Now take off the bracelet, and that string of pearls round her neck. Anything of note on the bracelet?”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” the Inspector reported after a glance at it.
“Well, you’d better put these in a safe place when we get back to town. Now does that finish us here?”
He glanced round the room and his eye was caught by the second window which looked out from the side of the bungalow. The curtains were still undrawn, and he noticed a minute gap through which the outer daylight could pass freely. A thought seemed to strike him as he ran his eyes over the fabric.
“We’ll just go outside for a minute,” he announced, and led the way through the hall and out of the front door. “Let’s see, that window’s round here, isn’t it. Keep back for a moment.”
He halted outside the window and scrutinised the ground with care for a few seconds.
“See that, Inspector?” he inquired. “There aren’t any footprints that one could make anything out of; but someone has put his foot on the box edging of the path just in front of the window. It’s quite obviously crushed … and freshly crushed, too, by the look of it.”
Stepping softly on to the flowerbed which lay under the windowsill, he
