Sir Clinton had listened intently to the Inspector’s reconstruction of the episode.
“That’s very neat indeed, Inspector,” he adjudged at the close. “It’s quite sound, so far as it goes, and so far as one can see. But, of course, it leaves one or two points untouched. Where does the murder of the maid come into the business?”
Flamborough reflected for a moment or two before answering.
“I’m not prepared to fill that gap just at this moment, sir. But I’ll suggest something. Renard told us that Mrs. Silverdale was going to draw up a note of the terms of her new will. It’s on the cards that Silverdale knew about that—she may have mentioned it to him. He’d want to get that note and destroy it at any cost, before there was any search of his house or any hunting through Mrs. Silverdale’s possessions.”
“He might have thought it worth while, I admit. But I’d hardly think it important enough to lead to an unnecessary murder. Besides, it wasn’t necessary for Silverdale to murder the maid at all. It was his own house. He could search where he chose in it and nobody could object. The maid wouldn’t see anything strange in that.”
“It was pretty clear that the maid knew her murderer, anyhow,” the Inspector pointed out. “Everything points to that. I admit I’m only making a guess, sir. I can’t bring any evidence against Silverdale on that count yet. For all one can tell, she may have seen something—blood on his coat from the shots, or something of that sort. Then he’d have to silence her.”
Sir Clinton made no comment on the Inspector’s suggestion. Instead, he turned to a fresh aspect of the case.
“And where does Mr. Justice come into your theory of the affair? He wasn’t your friend Whalley. That’s evident.”
The Inspector rubbed his nose thoughtfully, as though trying to gain inspiration from the friction.
“It’s a fact, sir, that I can’t fit Mr. Justice into my theory at present. He wasn’t Whalley, and that’s a fact. But hold on a moment! Suppose that Whalley wasn’t Silverdale’s witness at all. Come to think of it, Whalley was hardly the sort that one would pick out for the job, if one had been in Silverdale’s shoes.”
“I’m quite convinced of that, at any rate, Inspector. You needn’t waste breath in persuading me.”
“Yes, but there’s another possibility that’s been overlooked, sir,” Flamborough interrupted eagerly. “I’ve been assuming all along that Silverdale was the only person at the opened window. But suppose he’d brought someone along with him. Both of them might have been looking through the front window, whilst Whalley was at the side window, quite unknown to them at the time.”
“Now you’re getting positively brilliant, Inspector,” Sir Clinton commended. “I think you’ve got at least half the truth there, beyond a doubt.”
“Who could Silverdale’s witness have been?” the Inspector pursued, as if impatient of the interruption. “What about the Deepcar girl?”
“Think again,” Sir Clinton advised him drily. “Do you really suppose that Silverdale—who seems in love with the girl—would have picked her out for business of that sort? It’s incredible, Inspector.”
The first flush of enthusiasm at his discovery passed from Flamborough’s thoughts at the tone of the Chief Constable’s voice.
“I suppose you’re right, sir,” he had to admit. “But there’s another girl who’d have enjoyed the job—and that’s the Hailsham girl. She’d have given a good deal just for the pleasure of seeing those two humiliated. She’d have gloated over the chance of giving that particular evidence in court and squaring accounts with young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale. It would have been all jam to her, sir. You can’t deny that.”
Sir Clinton conceded the point without ado.
“I won’t deny it,” he said curtly. “But you needn’t let your mind run exclusively on the female population of Westerhaven in a matter of this sort. A man would be a much more convenient witness for Silverdale to take with him. Why leave Silverdale’s male friends out of account?”
“If you’re thinking of Markfield, sir, we’ll not get much out of him, I’m afraid,” Flamborough pronounced. “So far, except when he couldn’t help it, he’s done his level best to refuse any information about Silverdale and his doings—if he hasn’t actually served out misleading statements to us. I don’t much care for Dr. Markfield’s way of going about things.”
Sir Clinton crossed the room and took down his hat from its peg.
“Well, let’s sample his methods once more, Inspector. We’ll go round now to the Croft-Thornton and look into the question of the jacket. You can bear the burden of the interview, if you like; but I should prefer to hear what goes on. And you might press Silverdale a little more sharply about his doings on the night of the bungalow affair. We may as well give him a chance of second thoughts, though really I don’t expect anything from him at this stage.”
XIV
The Jacket
Sir Clinton and the Inspector found Markfield at work in his laboratory when they reached the Croft-Thornton Institute. Flamborough wasted no time in preliminaries, but plunged at once into the business which had brought him there.
“What do you make of that, Dr. Markfield?” he demanded, producing the shred
