“Oh, the reason’s clear enough. He lost his nerve. Got the wind up suddenly.”
“Wouldn’t a man who had the nerve to commit murder have the nerve to sit still afterward?”
“Depends. Depends. I know criminals. Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought he was suspected, and he bolted.”
“Have you verified his own account of himself?”
“Naturally, Sir Charles. That’s plain routine work. London Agency confirms his story. He had a written reference from Sir Horace Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace himself is in East Africa.”
“So the reference might have been forged?”
“Exactly,” said Colonel Johnson, beaming upon Sir Charles, with the air of a schoolmaster congratulating a bright pupil. “We’ve wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it might be some little time before we get a reply. He’s on safari.”
“When did the man disappear?”
“Morning after the death. There was a doctor present at the dinner – Sir Jocelyn Campbell – bit of a toxicologist, I understand; he and Davis (local man) agreed over the case, and our people were called in immediately. We interviewed everybody that night. Ellis (that’s the butler) went to his room as usual and was missing in the morning. His bed hadn’t been slept in.”
“He slipped away under cover of the darkness?”
“Seems so. One of the ladies staying there, Miss Sutcliffe, the actress – you know her, perhaps?”
“Very well, indeed.”
“Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to us. She suggested that the man had left the house through a secret passage.” He blew his nose apologetically. “Sounds rather Edgar Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end of it comes out among some fallen masonry about half a mile away.”
“That would be a possible explanation, certainly,” agreed Sir Charles. “Only – would the butler know of the existence of such a passage?”
“That’s the point, of course. My missus always says servants know everything. Daresay she’s right.”
“I understand the poison was nicotine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“That’s right. Most unusual stuff to use, I believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if a man’s a heavy smoker, such as the doctor was, it would tend to complicate matters. I mean, he might have died of nicotine poisoning in a natural way. Only, of course, this business was too sudden for that.”
“How was it administered?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “That’s going to be the weak part of the case. According to medical evidence, it could only have been swallowed a few minutes previous to death.”
“They were drinking port, I understand?”
“Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in the port; but it wasn’t. We analysed his glass. That glass had contained port, and nothing but port. The other wine glasses had been cleared, of course, but they were all on a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one of them contained anything it shouldn’t. As for what he ate, it was the same as everybody else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant and chipped potatoes, chocolate souffle, soft roes on toast. His cook’s been with him fifteen years. No, there doesn’t seem to be any way he could have been given the stuff, and yet there it is in the stomach. It’s a nasty problem.”
Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr. Satterthwaite.
“The same thing,” he said excitedly. “Exactly the same as before.”
He turned apologetically to the chief constable.
“I must explain. A death occurred at my house in Cornwall – ”
Colonel Johnson looked interested.
“I think I’ve heard about that. From a young lady – Miss Lytton Gore.”
“Yes, she was there. She told you about it?”
“She did. She was very set on her theory. But, you know, Sir Charles, I can’t believe there’s anything in that theory. It doesn’t explain the flight of the butler. Your man didn’t disappear, by any chance?”
“Haven’t got a man – only a parlourmaid.”
“She couldn’t have been a man in disguise?”
Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine Temple, Sir Charles smiled.
Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically.
“Just an idea,” he said. “No, I can’t say I put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore’s theory. I understand the death in question was an elderly clergyman. Who would want to put an old clergyman out of the way?”
“That’s just the puzzling part of it,” said Sir Charles.
“I think you’ll find it’s just coincidence. Depend on it, the butler’s our man. Very likely he’s a regular criminal. Unluckily we can’t find any of his finger-prints. We had a finger-print expert go over his bedroom and the butler’s pantry, but he had no luck.”
“If it was the butler, what motive can you suggest?”
“That, of course, is one of our difficulties,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “The man might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him out.”
Both Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson himself seemed to feel that the suggestion lacked plausibility.
“The fact of the matter is, one can only theorise. Once we’ve got John Ellis under lock and key and have found out who he is, and whether he’s ever been through our hands before – well, the motive may be as clear as day.”
“You’ve been through Sir Bartholomew’s papers, I suppose?”
“Naturally, Sir Charles. We’ve given that side of the case every attention. I must introduce you to Superintendent Crossfield, who has charge of the case. A most reliable man. I pointed out to him, and he was quick to agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew’s profession might have had something to do with the crime. A doctor knows many professional secrets. Sir Bartholomew’s papers were all neatly filed and docketed – his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with Crossfield.”
“And there was nothing?”
“Nothing at all suggestive, Sir Charles.”
“Was anything missing from the house – silver, jewellery, anything like that?”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
“Who exactly was staying in the house?”
“I’ve got a list – now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet Crossfield; as a matter of fact, I’m expecting him any minute now to report” – as a bell went – “that’s probably the man now.”
Superintendent Crossfield was a large, solid-looking man, rather slow of speech, but with a fairly keen blue eye.
He saluted his superior officer, and was introduced to the two visitors.
It is possible that had Mr. Satterthwaite been alone he would have found it hard to make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn’t hold with gentlemen from London – amateurs coming down with “ideas.” Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent Crossfield had a childish reverence for the glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir Charles act, and the excitement and rapture of seeing this hero of the footlights in a flesh-an-blood manner made him as friendly and loquacious as could be wished.
“I saw you in London, sir, I did. I was up with the wife.
“Well,” said Sir Charles, “I’ve retired from the stage now, as you know. But they still know my name at the Pall Mall.” He took out a card and wrote a few words on it. “You give this to the people at the box office next time you and Mrs. Crossfield are having a jaunt to town, and they’ll give you a couple of the best seats going.”
“I take that very kindly of you, Sir Charles – very kindly, indeed. My wife will be all worked up when I tell her about this.”
After this Superintendent Crossfield was as wax in the ex-actor’s hand.
“It’s an odd case, Sir. Never come across a case of nicotine poisoning before in all my experience. No more
