Markfield examined the object carefully, but his face showed only a certain bewilderment when he looked up at the Inspector again.
“It seems to be a button and a bit of cloth with a picric acid stain on it,” he pointed out with a tinge of irony. “Do you want me to make an expert examination of it? If so, you’d better tell me some more about it, so that I’ll know what you want with it.”
Flamborough stared at him for a moment or two, as though trying to read something in his expression, but Markfield seemed in no way put out.
“I’m not a mind-reader, Inspector,” he pointed out. “You’ll need to explain clearly what you expect me to do; and I’ll have to be told whether I can cut bits out of your specimen for chemical analysis.”
Flamborough saw that his attempt to draw Markfield was not going to be so easy as he had hoped.
“Have a good look at the thing first of all,” he suggested. “Can you remember anything like it?”
Markfield stolidly examined the object once more.
“It’s a button and a piece of cloth,” he said at last. “Of course I’ve seen buttons before, and bits of cloth are not uncommon. I should think that this stain is a picric acid one, but that’s a matter for further examination before I could say anything definite. Is that what you wanted?”
Flamborough kept his temper with difficulty.
“What I want to know, Dr. Markfield, is whether you have recently seen anything that you could associate with that thing—any garment from which it might have been torn, or anything of that sort.”
Markfield’s eyes narrowed and he glanced with obvious unfriendliness at the Inspector.
“It’s a coat-button, by the look of it. I’m no specialist in buttons, I admit. It might have come off any lounge suit, so far as I can see.”
“I’d advise you not to fence with us too long, Dr. Markfield,” Flamborough suggested. “Look at the cloth. Does that remind you of anything that’s familiar to you?”
Markfield’s face betrayed his obvious annoyance.
“I suppose you’ve identified it already for yourselves. Why come to me? Presumably you mean that it’s a bit torn off Dr. Silverdale’s laboratory coat. Well, I can’t swear to that. It may be, for all I know. Why not compare it with the coat, and if the coat’s torn, you’ve got your evidence, whatever it may be. I don’t see why you drag me into the thing at all.”
Flamborough’s voice grew hard as he answered:
“There’s one thing I want you to bear in mind, Dr. Markfield. A man may very easily become an accessory after the fact in a murder case; and the penalty runs as high as penal servitude for life. I’m not at all satisfied with the way in which you seem to have determined to evade some of the questions I’ve had to put to you; and I’d like to remind you that you may be running risks. It would be far better if you’d deal frankly with us instead of shuffling.”
The covert threat seemed to have its effect on Markfield. He looked sulky, but he appeared to make up his mind to alter his tactics.
“Well, ask your questions, then,” he snapped. “But put them on matters of fact. I’m not going to say what I think about this and what I suppose about that. I’ll tell you anything that I know definitely, if you ask about it.”
Flamborough wasted no time before taking up the challenge.
“Very good, Dr. Markfield. We’ll stick to facts, if you like. Now once upon a time you saw Dr. Silverdale acting in some private theatricals, I believe. I learned that from Dr. Ringwood. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We were members of a small amateur show at one time.”
“In any of his parts, did Dr. Silverdale play the banjo?”
Markfield reflected for a moment.
“I think he did.”
“He’s an expert banjo-player?”
“He plays the banjo,” Markfield corrected. “I’m not going to give you my opinion about his playing. That’s not a question of fact; it’s a mere matter of taste.”
Flamborough let this pass without comment.
“He plays the banjo, anyhow. That’s what I want to get at.”
He stepped across the laboratory to where a little glass apparatus was attached to a tap at a sink and examined the rubber tubing attached.
“What’s this thing here?” he demanded.
“A water-pump,” Markfield answered, as though not quite following the Inspector’s train of thought.
“And this rubber tubing, what sort of stuff is it?”
“Pressure-tubing. What about it?”
“Does Dr. Silverdale use anything of that sort?”
“Everybody in the place uses it. Whenever one wants quick filtering one uses a water-pump with pressure-tubing connections.”
“Miss Deepcar and Miss Hailsham use it, then?”
“I should think there are a dozen or two of these pumps in this department alone. They’re ordinary fittings in every chemical laboratory. If I may ask, Inspector, what are you getting at?”
Flamborough switched off to a fresh line without making any direct reply.
“Is Miss Deepcar here today?”
“I don’t think so. I believe she’s out of town—been away for a couple of days. I’ll send a message to find out definitely if you want to know.”
Flamborough shook his head.
“Don’t trouble. I can find out for myself.”
“I heard that she would be back the day after tomorrow,” Markfield volunteered. “But you’d better find out for yourself of course.”
Again the Inspector turned to a fresh line.
“Do you know anything about a man Whalley—Peter Whalley?” he demanded.
“Whalley?” Markfield repeated as though trying to recall the name. “Whalley? Oh, yes. He came to me with some story about having been hit by my car on a foggy night. I didn’t believe him. I knew I’d hurt no one with the car, though once I came near it that night. Mr. Whalley got no change out of me.”
“He didn’t go any further in the matter, then?”
“I heard no more about it. The thing was so obviously a try-on that I didn’t even advise my insurance company about it.”
Flamborough reflected for
