“Surprising,” Markfield commented abruptly.
Sir Clinton nodded in agreement.
“What must have been even more surprising was the sequel. The glass of the front window broke with a blow, and from behind the curtains a man appeared, who fell upon Hassendean. There was a struggle, a couple of shots from Hassendean’s pistol, and then Hassendean fell on the ground—dead, as Whalley supposed at the time.”
Flamborough stared hard at Markfield, but at that moment the chemist again turned in his chair, ran the remainder of the liquid from the funnel into his flask, and then refilled the funnel from the bottle on the tray. This done, he turned once more with an impassive face to Sir Clinton.
“By this time, the late Mr. Whalley seems to have seen all that he wanted. Just as he was turning away from the window, he noticed the newcomer take some small object from his waistcoat pocket and drop it on the floor. Then Mr. Whalley felt it was time to make himself scarce. He stepped back on to the path, made his way round the bungalow, hurried down the approach to the gate. There he came across a car—evidently the one in which the assailant had arrived. The late Mr. Whalley, even at this stage, was not quite free from his second idea: ‘What is there in it for me?’ He took the number of the car, and then he made himself scarce.”
Sir Clinton stopped for a moment or two and gazed across at Markfield with an inscrutable face.
“By the way, Dr. Markfield,” he added in a casual tone, “what was the pet name that Mrs. Silverdale used to call you when you were alone together—the one beginning with B?”
This time, it was evident to the Inspector, Sir Clinton had got home under Markfield’s guard. The chemist glanced up with more than a shade of apprehension on his face. He seemed to be making a mental estimate of the situation before he replied.
“H’m! You know that, do you?” he said finally. “Then there’s no use denying it, I suppose. She used to call me ‘Bear’ usually. She said I had the manners of one, at times; and perhaps there was something in that.”
Sir Clinton showed no sign that he attached much importance to Markfield’s explanation.
“You became intimate with her some time in , I think, just after the Silverdales came here?”
Markfield nodded his assent.
“And very shortly after that, you and she thought it best to conceal your liaison by seeing as little of each other as possible in public, so as not to draw attention to your relations?”
“That’s true.”
“And finally she got hold of young Hassendean to serve as a blind? Advertised herself with him openly, whilst you stayed in the background?”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” Markfield admitted coldly.
“I think I know all that matters,” the Chief Constable commented. “You’ve lost the game, Dr. Markfield.”
Markfield seemed to consider the situation rapidly before he spoke again.
“You can’t make it worse than manslaughter,” he said at last. “It’s no more than that, on the evidence you’ve given me just now. I saw him shoot Yvonne, and then, in the struggle afterwards, his pistol went off twice by accident and hit him. You couldn’t call that a case of murder. I shall plead that it was done in self-defence; and you haven’t Whalley to put into the box against me.”
Sir Clinton took no pains to conceal a sardonic smile.
“It won’t do, Dr. Markfield,” he pointed out. “You might get off on that plea if it were only the bungalow business that you were charged with. But there’s the murder of the maid at Heatherfield as well. You can’t twist that into a self-defence affair. No jury would look at it for a moment.”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” Markfield repeated thoughtfully.
“I suppose what you really wanted at Heatherfield was a packet of your love-letters to Mrs. Silverdale?” Sir Clinton asked.
Markfield confirmed this with a nod.
“That’s all you have against me, I suppose?” he demanded after a pause.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“No,” he said, “there’s the affair of the late Mr. Whalley as well.”
Markfield’s face betrayed neither surprise nor chagrin at this fresh charge.
“That’s all, then?” he questioned again, with apparent unconcern.
“All that’s of importance,” Sir Clinton admitted. “Of course, in the guise of our friend Mr. Justice, you did your best to throw suspicion on Silverdale. That’s a minor point, so far as you’re concerned now. It’s curious how you murderers can’t leave well alone. If you hadn’t played the fool there, you’d have given us ever so much more trouble.”
Markfield made no answer at the moment. He seemed to be reviewing the whole situation in his mind, thinking hard before he broke the silence.
“Good thing, a scientific training,” he said at length, rather unexpectedly. “It teaches one to realise the bearing of plain facts. My game seems to be up. You’ve been too smart for me.”
He paused, and a grim smile crossed his face, as though he found something humorous in the situation.
“You seem to have enough stuff there to pitch a tale to a jury,” he continued, “and I daresay you’ve more in reserve. I’m not inclined to be dragged squalling to the gallows—too undignified for my taste. I’ll tell you the facts.”
Flamborough, eager that things should be done in proper form, interposed the usual official cautionary statement.
“That’s all right,” Markfield answered carelessly. “You’ll find paper over yonder on my desk, beside the typewriter. You can take down what I say, and I’ll sign it afterwards if you think that necessary when I’ve finished.”
The Inspector crossed the room, picked up a number of sheets of typewriting paper, and returned to the table. He pulled out his fountain-pen and prepared to take notes.
“Mind if I light my pipe?” Markfield inquired.
As the chemist put his hand to his pocket, Flamborough half-rose from his seat; but he sank back again into his chair when a tobacco-pouch appeared instead
