DEATH TAKES A DETOUR

NEVER BEFORE, within living memory, had such a thing happened in the little hamlet of Brensford. That the river Turtle, here in its upper reaches no more than a brook, should misbehave itself so devastatingly, was unheard of. And on August bank holiday, too, when all the inhabitants should have been out and about, enjoying themselves.

The parish of Brensford consisted of two parts, rather less than a mile apart, and separated from each other by a tract of fertile arable land. Brensford Street, so called because it was situated along the old Roman road, and Brensford Green, on higher ground to the east. The river, barely a couple of yards wide and normally little more than a foot deep, ran through Brensford Street. Along the foot of the lawn of Stream House, by a culvert under the road, now a main thoroughfare, then through the garden of The Elders.

The road, busy with traffic, especially on bank holiday, crossed the river at right angles. It descended into the valley, at the foot of which was the village, then rose again. To the driver of a car, the slopes were almost imperceptible. On the road, or standing back a little distance from it, were the few houses which comprised the hamlet.

Brensford Green, a more ambitious community, lay away from the main road, from which it was reached by a side turning about a mile from the culvert. It contained the parish church, the rectory, the general shop and post office, and a few score small houses, some old, others of recent date. In one of the latter lived the village policeman, Constable Knipe.

The houses in Brensford Street were all old, dating from the seventeenth century. The largest of them was Stream House, where lived a middle-aged couple, George and Mary Fosdyke, It was a big, rambling place and from its appearance must have been altered and added to from time to time. It stood in a fork, of which the two prongs were the main road, and a secondary road from the neighbouring village of Plestham, which joined the main road close by the culvert.

The house could be approached from two directions. One was by a narrow gateway on the main road, and across a foot bridge over the river. From this a gravel path led along the edge of the lawn. But the main entrance, and the only one that could be used by vehicles, was from the Plestham road. There was a wide gateway, leading into an extensive yard. On one side of this was the house, with the front door, over which was a porch. On the other side was a row of outbuildings, including a double garage.

On the other side of the main road, standing directly upon it, was a rather smaller house, The Elders, inhabited by Colonel and Mrs. Heckley. The entrance was also into a yard, separated from the house by the river. Connection between the two was provided by a wide but somewhat precarious wooden bridge. At the end of the garden, on the same side of the river as the house, was a collection of pigsties and poultry houses, the occupants of which occupied the whole time of the Colonel and his wife.

Next to The Elders, separated from it by a fairly spacious pull-in, was the Rolling-Pin Inn. The origin of its somewhat unusual name was not known. Within recent years the brewers had employed an artist to depict as a sign a pastry cook, brandishing an enormous rolling-pin above a slab of pastry. The inn, with its bar, parlour and clubroom, was kept by Mr. and Mrs. Grayshott, past middle age, but both extremely active. Owing to its commanding position on the main road the Rolling-Pin did nourishing trade, not only in liquor but also in light refreshments.

These three houses lay in the lowest part of the valley. As the main road ascended the gentle slope in the direction of Owlsworth, the market town four miles from Brensford, it was flanked on either side by a half a dozen small houses in which lived workers employed on the surrounding farms. The last house actually in the parish was Brensford Hall, a fair-sized house with extensive grounds. The Hall stood at the top of the rise, almost hidden by trees from the main road, roughly half a mile from the Rolling-Pin.

At the Hall lived Mr. Donald Carswell, a widower in his early fifties. He was a man about whom hung a certain atmosphere of mystery. He was known to be the Managing Director of Reliant Brushes Ltd., a firm with a factory in the East End of London. But rumour had it that he had other interests as well, though what these were nobody seemed to know.

Least of all George Fosdyke, although he was Carswell's first cousin. The two had quarrelled years ago, over some property that Carswell's father had left to his nephew, of whom he had been very fond. Carswell had maintained that the property should have been left to him, as had the remainder of his father's estate. He had accused Fosdyke of having wheedled the legacy out of the old man when he was in his dotage. The quarrel had come to blows, and had left a rancour behind it which had never been appeased.

Carswell kept an establishment at the Hall, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, a middle-aged married couple, and their son Chris. The parents ran the house, Weedon being the butler, and his wife the cook. Chris was chauffeur, gardener, and general handyman. He drove the car when required, helped in the garden, and set his hand to anything else he was called upon to. He was twenty-five, good looking and indolent.

To all appearances, Donald Carswell was regular in his habits. On five days a week he was driven by Chris to Owlsworth station, where he caught the nine-five train to London. Chris met him again at seven-twenty and drove him back to the Hall, where dinner was waiting for him. Occasionally visitors were invited to the Hall for the week-end. A man, or sometimes two, with whom Carswell sat up far into the night. They were by no means always the same, and Carswell gave his domestic staff to understand that they were business friends of his. He referred to them as Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown.

On the week-ends when he had no visitors, Carswell usually went visiting himself. He would drive away in his car by himself on Saturday morning and return on Sunday night. He told nobody where, he went. Chris, who was of an inquisitive disposition, noticed that the mileage recorder of the car on its return indicated that it had covered a distance of about a hundred and fifty miles since it had set out.

Bank Holiday, which fell that year on August 4th, started promisingly enough. A warm bright early morning, with all the prospect of a fine day. The coach which had been hired to take a party to Turtlemouth, a resort on the coast thirty-five miles distant, drew up outside the Rolling-Pin at half-past nine. A group of people, men, women and children, among them Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, was waiting for it. They climbed in and, after a delay for a handful of stragglers, the coach drove off. It was due to return at half-past seven that evening, in time for the social to be held in the parish hall at Brensford Green.

The Fosdykes had visitors staying at Stream House over the week-end. George Fosdyke was a retired civil servant, enjoying a comfortable pension, and his wife Mary had an income of her own. They lived comfortably and quietly in their rambling old house, going out in their car occasionally, but otherwise spending most of their time at home. They depended for domestic help upon two women from the Street, who came in daily. But no help could be expected on Bank Holiday. The two women had gone off with the party to Turtlemouth.

The visitors were Harry and Grace Plaxtol. They had driven from London on Saturday, and were to drive back that 7 evening. Harry Plaxtol was a solicitor, and his wife Grace was a cousin of Mary Fosdyke. The two couples, all four of them much the same age, had known one another nearly all their lives. Since George's retirement, the Plaxtols had been frequent visitors to Stream House.

It had been agreed that the best thing to do on Bank Holiday was to stay at home. There was not much point in going out, only to be held up every few miles by traffic jams. While Mary and Grace busied themselves with household duties, George and Harry spent most of the morning sitting on deck chairs on the lawn. From where they sat, they could see across the main road the entrance to The Elders. A car came along from the direction of Owlsworth and turned into the yard.

“That's the Colonel's car,” George remarked. “He told me as we came out of church yesterday that he was throwing a party to-day. Two of them were coming by train from London, and no doubt he's been to Owlsworth to meet them. Two others are driving over from High Eldersham, a Mr. and Mrs. Merrion. I don't know any of them, but we shall meet them all this afternoon.”

“Do we go across and join the party?” Harry asked.

“No, we don't do that,” George replied. “There would hardly be room for us. I asked the Colonel to bring them over here after tea. They sound an interesting lot. The Colonel told me that during the war the men were engaged in different branches of Intelligence, and met fairly frequently. He thought it would be a good idea to have a reunion, so that they could chat about old times.” The day did not fulfil its early promise. Shortly before noon a heavy bank of cloud appeared, and George and Harry were driven indoors by a sudden downfall of rain.

“It's a pity,” George remarked as they sat in the lounge. “I hope the day won't be spoilt for the coach party. But this weather may be quite local. We often get a thunder shower in this valley when everyone else seems to escape it. And the glass doesn't fall, so I don't suppose it will last long.” But George's prediction turned out to be at fault. The rain continued with ever increasing intensity. As a clap of thunder reverberated through the valley, the heavens opened and the rain seemed to fall not in drops but in sheets. “I hope it will stop before it's time for us to start back,” said Harry. “I don't want to have to drive through this sort of thing.” Far from stopping, the rain continued to fall in torrents. The river, usually so placid, rose until it filled the culvert, this allowing insufficient passage for the water, which overflowed on to the road. By the time that lunch was over, and the four of them were sitting in the lounge having coffee, the water was creeping over the farther edge of the lawn.

“I've known this happen once before,” said George. “It's the culvert that's the trouble. It's not big enough to carry away the water when the river rises. I'm always telling the Council people that they ought to widen it. But I don't suppose the water will rise much higher now.” As he spoke, the rain turned to hail. It fell, not in ordinary hail stones, but in lumps of ice, some of them the size of a billiard ball. In an instant the glass roof of the greenhouse was shattered to fragments. The lawn became covered with a carpet of ice, melting rapidly in the warm air.

“This is terrible!” Mary exclaimed. “I'm not worrying so much about the greenhouse, because that's insured. It's not the first time we've had panes broken by hail. But I've never seen anything like this. It'll ruin the crops, just as they were coming on so nicely, too. I don't know what the farmers will be thinking. That beautiful field of wheat of Mr. Ventnor's, just up the Plestham road will be cut to pieces.”

“Whatever he thinks, there's nothing he can do about it,” George replied. “I don't like the way the water's rising. It's over the yard already. I don't suppose that it will come into the house. All the same, it wouldn't be a bad idea to take up the rugs on the ground floor and carry them upstairs, just in case.” The others agreed to this, and they set to work. They were just in time, for they had barely finished when the true flood came. A volume of water swept down the valley, almost like a tidal wave, carrying with it icebergs of congealed hail. The force of the impact was such that nothing could resist it. It burst open the french window of the lounge and the water poured triumphantly into the house, defying all their efforts to stem it.

“There's nothing for it but to migrate upstairs,” said George philosophically. “Our dressing-room above the lounge will be the best place. We'll take with us the cigarettes and what drink there is in the sideboard. And there we shall have to stop till the flood goes down.” From the windows of the dressing-room they were able to measure the rise of the water up the wall of the outhouses. Course after course of the brickwork became submerged. The main road was already flooded too deeply to allow cars to pass. Rows of them stood bumper to bumper, in either direction on the slopes which remained free of water. A venturesome lorry, loaded with milk churns, attempted the passage, only to be stuck before it reached the point where the water was deepest. The driver, finding it invading his cab, climbed out and perched himself on the top of his load. Looking, as Grace remarked, not unlike Noah surveying the deluge from the roof of his ark.

But worse was happening nearer at hand, The flood, now two or three hundred yards wide, was pouring down the valley, sweeping everything before it. The fastenings of the doors of the outhouses were unequal to the pressure exerted upon them. The first to yield was the door of the fuel store. It burst open, releasing a ton or more of coke, which floated merrily across the lawn and out of sight. “You'll have a job to retrieve that lot, George,” Harry remarked grimly.

“It's gone beyond hope of any retrieving,” George replied. “There's nothing to stop it between here and Turtlemouth. The coach party there will see it floating in the harbour, but they won't guess where it came from. By jove, look at that!” This time it was the garage door that had yielded to the pressure. It was a double door, and both sides were flung wide open, revealing the two cars within, George's and Harry's. The water in which they stood was well above the axles. “Can't we get them out before the flood gets any deeper?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Where could we get them to?” George replied. “The garage is three or four feet higher than the road. If we pushed them out of the gateway, we should only find ourselves in deeper water. You and Grace will have to resign yourselves to staying here with us till the flood goes down.” With a feeling of utter helplessness they watched the water rising round the cars, hiding first the number plates then creeping steadily up the back panels. “All the works are well drowned by now,” said George. “The nearest place where they can be dried out is in Plestham. We shall have to have them towed there as soon as the road becomes passable again.” “This place you speak of may be flooded out as we are,” Harry replied.

George shook his head. “No fear of that. Plestham stands fifty feet higher than we do. I can ring them up and tell them to send their breakdown outfit along. And we're not the only ones in the same trouble. Look over yonder!” From their elevated position they could see over the waste of waters into the yard of The Elders. Two cars were standing there, the Colonel's and one which George did not recognise. The water was even deeper there, and only the tops of them were visible. As the watchers in the dressing-room leaned out of the windows, they became aware of shouts, against a confused background of grunting, squealing and cackling. A hen, with wildly flapping wings came sailing through the air, to land with a splash beside the cars in the yard. Struggling ineffectively to rise again, it was swept out of their sight.

“That's one gone,” said George. “I can tell you what all the row's about. The Colonel and his party are trying to salvage the pigs and poultry. You can't see it from here, because it's behind the house, but there's a big barn with a loft to it. They'll be getting the stock up into the loft, I expect. And as there's only a steep ladder, I don't envy them their job. They won't stroll over to see us after tea, that's a sure thing. Talking of tea, what are we going to do about that?” “You always were a brave man, George,” Mary replied. “This is what we're going to do about it. You can go down to the kitchen and rescue the electric kettle. There's a plug here we can fit it to, and we can fill it from the bathroom tap. And while you're about it, bring the tea cannister and the milk bottle. And there's a cake in a tin in the larder.”

George did not seem enthralled by the prospect, but Harry volunteered to help him. The two men took off their shoes and socks, and rolled up their trousers as far as they would go. Then very gingerly they descended the stairs, to find the ground floor covered in eighteen inches of water. It was icy cold, owing to the hail stones floating on it. Plucking up their courage, they waded through it to the kitchen. The electric kettle and the tea cannister were standing on a dresser, a few inches above the water level. The larder unfortunately, was down a couple of steps, and there must have been fully three feet of water in it. However, they laid hands on two of the wooden chairs which were floating round the kitchen and lowered them into the larder. Harry held them down while George stepped on to them. The top of the refrigerator was visible and George opened it. The milk bottle standing on the lowest shelf was completely submerged, but he trusted that the cap had kept the water out. The tin, in which was the cake, had been washed from its shelf and was floating round his knees.

They carried their spoil upstairs, to be greeted with a chorus of applause from their wives, who produced towels with which they dried their legs. Then Mary realised that they had brought neither teapot nor cups. “I'm sorry, George, but you'll have to go down again,” she said. “The easiest things to get at will be the Japanese set on the dining-room sideboard. You'll find a tray there, and you can bring the teapot and cups up on it. Never mind about the saucers.” Grumbling, George made a second descent. He was wading towards the dining-room, when he heard a violent hammering on the back door. He wondered who on earth it could be, and how anyone could have got there short of swimming. He waded to the back door and opened it.

Beyond it was a short concrete path, leading to a narrow gateway in a low box hedge, on the farther side of which was the Plestham road. But all this was so deep in water that even the top of the hedge was covered. Standing up to their waists in water were three scared-looking men, and a few yards up the road, in the direction of Plestham, the roof of a car was visible, “We're awfully sorry,” said one of the men, who appeared to be the youngest. “May we take refuge with you? We thought we should be drowned before we could get out of the car.”

“Come in by all means,” George replied. “You won't find the house much drier than it is outside. We've had to take to the first floor. Come along and I'll show you the way.” He led them to the foot of the stairs and called up. “Here are some visitors for you, Mary. They're a bit moist, I'm afraid. See if you can rig them up in some of my clothes. I'll be up in a minute.”

Expressing their heartfelt thanks, two of the men started to ascend the stairs. But one of them remained behind. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have a most urgent appointment with Mr. Carswell. Is there any way by which I can get to Brensford Hall? A boat, or something of the kind?”

George shook his head. “You won't find a boat much nearer than Turtlemouth. We're not used to being amphibious in this parish. Donald Carswell will be all right, for the flood won't reach the Hall. But there's no way of getting there from here till the water goes down. Until it does, I should recommend you to stay here. We can offer you a cup of tea, but precious little else.”

“Then may I use your telephone and speak to Mr. Carswell?” the other asked.

George pointed across the hall, to where the telephone receiver was visible above the surface of the water. The instrument itself was submerged, and the receiver looked as if it was floating. “You can try, if you like. But I expect you'll find that the confounded thing is out of action. It's drowned, as you so nearly were.” George was right. The telephone was completely lifeless. After several attempts the man gave it up. “It's no good,” said George. “You'd better follow your friends upstairs. My wife will find you something dry to put on. You'll have to stay here till you can get to the Hall.” The man, who seemed considerably embarrassed, went up.

George waded to the dining-room, and put the teapot and seven cups on the tray. He carried this up to the dressing-room, where he found only Harry and Grace. “Mary has taken them into the pink room to undress,” Harry explained. “She's looking out some of your kit for them to put on. So we've got a party, after all. Not the Colonel's crowd, but these three bedraggled specimens. Who are they?”

“I haven't the remotest idea,” George replied. “They were coming along the Plestham road in a car, and one of them told me they were nearly drowned before they could get out of it. I believe that, because there's only the roof of the car sticking up above the water. The one who came up last is a friend of Donald Carswell's. I gather that they were bound for the Hall when they ran into the water outside here.”

Harry smiled. “A friend of Carswell's is not likely to become a friend of yours.”

“That's true,” George agreed. “But what could I do? I couldn't very well fling him out neck and crop into the flood. We shall just have to put up with him and his friends. With the telephone gone, we're completely isolated. We shall have to put them up for the night, I'm afraid,”

At that moment Mary reappeared. “I've given them a lot of your old clothes, George,” she said. “They'll have to make do with them as best they can. And if they've got to sleep here, two of them can have the pink room, and we can put up the camp bed in the linen room. What's bothering me is how we're going to feed them. There's not much left in the refrigerator.”

“And what there is is steeped in cold water,” George replied. “But I expect you've got a tin or two stowed away in case of emergency. And if this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is.” The door opened, and the youngest of the three men came in. “We are so sorry to inflict ourselves upon you like this,” he said apologetically. “I'd better introduce myself. My name is Harold Landrake, and I'm the owner of the car. The other two are Andrew Morstow, he's the taller one, and Jerry Newark. They are brothers-in-law, I believe.”

“You were on your way to Brensford Hall, I understand?” George asked.

“Jerry Newark was,” Landrake replied. “Andrew and I were going to drop him there, and then drive back to London. I'll tell you how it was. I've known Andrew for some time. He came round to see me this morning and asked me if I'd do him a favour. His sister's husband had urgent business with a Mr. Carswell at Brensford Hall. Would I drive him there?

“I had nothing else to do to-day, so I said I would. We arranged that the three of us should meet at the garage where I keep my car at two o'clock. They turned up there on time, and we set out. Jerry Newark told me that the place he wanted to get to was four miles short of Owlsworth, so I knew which direction to take. But I wanted to avoid the main road on Bank Holiday, so I struck across country.

“The weather was fine and sunny until we got two or three miles the other side of Plestham, but there we ran into a downpour. In Plestham I saw a signpost to Owlsworth, so I followed that road. Before long we ran into water, but at first it wasn't very deep, so I kept going. Then I suppose we must have gone down a slope, for all at once the water came surging into the car.

“It really was a most terrifying experience. We seemed to be up to our necks in it before we knew where we were. I was driving and Andrew was sitting beside me. We got out after a bit of a struggle. You've no idea how hard it was to open the doors against the water. Jerry didn't seem able to get his open at all. We had to open it for him and drag him out. He was a bit shaken, so we thought we'd better knock on your door and seek a haven of refuge.”

“You'd have been drowned if you'd stayed in the car,” said George. “Have you been to Brensford Hall before?”

“I'd never heard of the place until Andrew told me that Jerry wanted to go there,” Landrake replied. “I'd never even met Jerry until this afternoon. Is Brensford Hall far from here?”

“Rather more than half a mile,” said George. “But to get there now you'd have to go through at least six feet of water. The flood's still rising, as I can see by looking out of the window.” While they were talking Andrew and Jerry had come in. Mary had made the tea and was filling the cups.

Jerry was obviously filled with impatience. He was short and tubby with, George thought, rather foxy eyes. “Only half a mile?” he exclaimed. “Surely there must be some way of getting there? It's really most important that I should see Mr. Carswell.”

George beckoned him to the window. “Look for yourself. The Hall is the other side of that flood you see. You couldn't even leave this house without running the risk of getting drowned. You'll have to make up your mind to stopping here until the water goes down.”

“And how long is that likely to be?” Jerry Newark asked.

George shrugged his shoulders. “Not before the morning, I imagine. The rain appears to be stopping now, but it will take several hours for this lot to drain off. And of course if another storm comes up, that will delay matters still further.”

The party cooped up in the dressing-room could hardly be described as a merry one. The only entertainment was to look out of the windows and watch the flood, which continued to rise, though now more slowly. It rose until it reached the rear windows of the two cars in the garage, and then, almost imperceptibly began to fall. “The turn of the tide,” said George. “But at this rate the ebb will take all night. We can put you fellows up, you needn't worry about that. And it strikes me that a drink would do us all good.” He produced a bottle of whisky that he had salvaged, and a jug was filled with water from the bathroom tap. Mary managed to collect seven tooth glasses from the various bedrooms, and these served as drinking vessels. After a while the party became rather less sticky. Harold Landrake did most of the talking. His listeners gathered that he was something of a young man about town, with no very definite occupation, though he spoke vaguely of reading for the Bar. The other two, particularly Newark, said very little, and nothing whatever about themselves.

The stove in the kitchen was of course submerged, and there was no means of cooking on the first floor. A scratch meal was contrived from a tin of corned beef, toast made at an electric fire, and a few cold potatoes left over from lunch. The party broke up about eleven o'clock, after several more whiskies. George, exploring the ground floor, found that the water had fallen several inches. He and Mary retired to their room, and Harry and Grace to the spare room they had occupied since their arrival at Stream House. It had been decided that Morstow and Newark should share the pink room. Landrake had expressed himself as more than satisfied with the camp bed put up in the linen room.

CHAPTER II

THE COACH PARTY spent a wonderful day at Turtlemouth. Warm and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Certainly it looked black in the far distance but not a drop of rain came their way. They all enjoyed themselves thoroughly, and it was with regret that they assembled at six o'clock for the coach to take them home.

Their route lay to the southward of the river, and so to Brensford Green. There the coach was stopped by Constable Knipe, who had taken up his post to warn traffic of the state of the main road. “Brensford Street?” he said in answer to the driver's query. “There's not a hope of your being able to get there. The river's overflowed, and the water's about six feet deep by the culvert. You'd best drop your passengers here.” That was no great hardship to the majority, for most of them had intended to go to the social in the parish hall in any case. But Mr. and Mrs. Weedon were very much concerned. Mr. Carswell would be wanting them back to get his dinner for him. Surely there must be some way by which they could get back to the Hall?

But Knipe, whom they consulted, scouted the idea. “Mr. Carswell will be all right,” he said. “The Hall stands too high for the flood to reach it. But there's the flooded river between it and where we're standing now, and there's no way of crossing it bar swimming; They tell me there's not a lot of water across the lanes Plestham way. But if you were to go round all that way, you'd have to walk five miles or more. And you'd never manage that with your bad leg, Mrs. Weedon.”

“There's no help for it, Ethel,” said Mr. Weedon. “After all, Chris is there, and he'll be able to manage somehow. The best thing we can do is to go to the social. Your sister is sure to be there, and she'll understand the pickle we're in. She'll find us a bed for the night, you can set your mind at rest about that.”

In contrast with the coach party, Mr. Ventnor, of Broadfield Farm, had spent a very anxious day. The farmhouse was about halfway between Brensford and Plestham, and most of the land was on the Plestham side of the main road. In addition, Mr. Ventnor had twenty acres of peas on the farther side of the road, between the Street and the Green.

As Mary had surmised, the hail had destroyed a magnificent field of wheat in something under five minutes. The leaves of the sugar beet in an adjoining field had been slashed to ribbons, but, with any luck, the roots would not be greatly affected. But Mr. Ventnor could afford to regard this damage with some complacency. Knowing from past experience that Broadfield Farm lay in a hail belt, he had always insured his crops against hail damage.

The cause of his anxiety had been the rising flood. Would the water reach his barns and stockyard? If it did, the consequences might be disastrous. He had been single-handed that day, since it was Bank Holiday, none of his hands were at home, for they had all gone on the coach to Turtlemouth. Even if he could manage to drive the stock on to higher ground, the sacks of seed corn in the barns would have to be left where they were.

Mr. Ventnor had spent all the afternoon and most of the evening in the farmyard, watching the approaching flood. It crept across the fields towards the yard, submerging the already stripped wheat. By dusk it had begun to encroach on the yard itself, and he was on the point of releasing the stock and driving the animals into the field of kale, which sloped up towards Plestham village. It wouldn't do them, or the kale, any good but there seemed to be nothing else for it.

And then, almost suddenly it seemed, the water came no farther. Perhaps the failing light was deceptive. Mr. Ventnor fetched a hurricane lamp and stood with it at the edge of the flood. Half an hour passed, and the water did not rise up his gum boots. And then, less rapidly than it had risen, it began to recede. The danger was past.

Mr. Ventnor went indoors, had a hearty supper, then retired to bed. He was up again at dawn next morning, and from his bedroom window could see no water. But the twenty acres of peas was beyond his range of vision. He must go and see how they had fared.

He dressed and went out. He glanced first at the stock, to satisfy himself that they were all right. The stockman would be along very shortly, and he would attend to them. Mr. Ventnor took his car from the shed in which it stood, and drove off in the direction of Brensford. The road was comparatively dry, but for a few deep puddles.

But he got no farther than Stream House. There the road was blocked by a car standing unattended in the middle of it. He guessed what had happened. The car had been overwhelmed by the flood, and the driver and passengers had been forced to abandon it. But it couldn't be allowed to stop there, for nothing could pass in either direction. Mr. Ventnor supplied the milk to the neighbourhood. Apart from inconvenience to other people, his roundsman wouldn't be able to deliver in Brensford.

The derelict car was standing only a few yards from the gateway into the yard of Stream House. Mr. Ventnor opened the gate, thus enabling him to back in and drive out again in the direction of Broadfield Farm. On arriving there, he left his car in the yard and took out a tractor and a length of chain. He went back to the derelict car, attached the chain to it, and towed it by the tractor into the yard of Stream House. It wasn't Mr. Fosdyke's car. But he was good-natured enough not to mind it standing there until its owner came to collect it.

Mr. Ventnor took the tractor back to Broadfield Farm, then set off again in his car. He had no sooner reached the main road than he learnt the fate of his peas. The plants were hanging in clusters on the hedges on both sides of the road. A great heap of them had piled up in the garden of The Elders. The porch over the door of the Rolling-Pin was full of them. How many of them had been swept down the river, there was no telling.

He drove on until he came to the edge of the field in which the peas had been growing. It was almost completely bare. The rush of water had torn the plants out of the ground and carried them all over the parish. And probably all over several other parishes farther down the river.

It was about six o'clock when Harold Landrake woke up. The window of the linen room looked over the Plestham road. He got up and looked out of it, to find the sun had risen and that the morning was clear and bright. The water had drained off the road, but his car was not to be seen.

He knew that no one could have driven it away. Before the engine could be started, the whole system would have to be thoroughly drained of water. It must have been pushed away to make room for the traffic. His own clothes had been laid over a towel horse to dry. Feeling them, he found that they were still damp, but he reflected that they would soon dry on a morning like this. He put them on and crept quietly downstairs. No need to wake the rest of the household.

The ground floor was free of water, but a deposit of slippery mud remained upon it. He made his way across the slime to the front door and opened it. There was his car, standing in the yard. He went out to it and opened the bonnet, to find everything under it covered in mud. The interior of the car was in the same state, with the cushions still wringing wet. What the condition of the battery, situated under the rear seat, must be, Landrake dared not imagine.

As he contemplated this ghastly mess, he remembered something. When his friends had met him on the previous afternoon, Jerry Newark had been carrying a suitcase, which had been put in the boot. It must be completely sodden, but even so Jerry would probably want it. Landrake opened the boot. The suitcase was no longer there.

That was curious, because Jerry certainly hadn't taken it out when the car was abandoned. And it didn't seem very likely that whoever had put the car in the yard had taken it. However, there was nothing to be done about it for the moment.

Landrake returned to the house, where he found George, in dressing-gown and slippers, surveying the mud-covered floors. “Good morning,” he said as Landrake came in. “So I'm not the first up, then. What my wife will say when she sees the state the house is in I tremble to think. From my bedroom window I saw your car standing in the yard. You've been out to look at it, I daresay?”

“I have,” Landrake replied. “It's in a ghastly state. It'll have to be towed to the nearest garage and put right. But I'm not going to trespass on your hospitality till; that's been done. I shall make my way to London somehow, and come back to fetch the car when it's ready. I expect the other two will want to get back as well. Andrew Morstow certainly will, but Jerry Newark may prefer to go on to Brensford Hall.”

“There'll be no difficulty about that,” said George. “A bus stops at the Rolling-pin at half-past eight on its way to Owslworth. It will get you there in plenty of time to catch the nine-five train to London, and you can get breakfast on the train. That sounds inhospitable, I know. But quite honestly, we haven't enough undamaged food in the house to feed you.”

“That will suit us perfectly,” Landrake replied. “But what shall I do about the car? How far is the nearest garage?”

“A mile away, in Plestham,” said George. “But the trouble is we can't ring them up until the telephone has been put right.”

“If it's only a mile, I'll walk there straight away,” Landrake replied. “I suppose there'll be somebody about, even at this early hour?”

“That's a very good suggestion,” said George. “Yes, you're sure to find somebody. The place is called Deben's Garage. Mr. Deben and his family live on the premises. And there are two other cars here in the same plight as yours. While you're about it, you might ask the garage people to collect them too. You'll find the place on your right just as you get into Plestham village.”

After Landrake had gone, George set to work to explore the ground floor. Everywhere the floors were covered in slime, and a brown line round the walls showed the height to which the water had risen. That there should be no argument about it in the future, he took a foot rule and measured the height of this mark above the floor of the lounge. It was exactly twenty-seven inches. Although the rugs and most of the cushions had been carried upstairs, the remainder of the furniture was saturated. Muddy water was still dripping from the interior of the sofa. In the back premises matters were even worse. George switched on the oven of the electric stove in the kitchen, an incautious action which resulted in the blowing of the main fuse. That would have to be replaced without delay. Fortunately the main was overhead, and the switch and fuses were fixed on the wall of the pink room.

George went up there and knocked on the door. A sleepy voice bade him enter. He opened the door, to find the room in semi-darkness, since the curtains were drawn. The main fuse having gone, he could not switch on the light. He groped his way to the window and drew the curtains, filling the room with sunshine. Andrew Morstow, clad in a pair of George's pyjamas, was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. The other bed, although it had obviously been occupied, was now empty.

“Hullo!” George exclaimed. “Where's your friend?”

Morstow stared at the vacant bed. “Blest if I know,” he replied. “I hadn't missed him. He was there when I went to sleep last night. Jerry's always like that, restless. He never seems able to stay put. Has the water gone down yet?”

“There's none left to speak of,” George replied. “The road's clear, anyhow.”

“That's it then,” said Morstow. “He seemed desperately anxious to get to Brensford Hall. He must have got up in the night and found that he could get through. That's where he's gone to, I'll be bound.”

George noticed that Newark's own clothes were still hanging up to dry. “If that's the case, he's gone off with my kit,” he remarked. “Never mind, I daresay he'll return it. I've had a word with your friend Mr. Landrake. He won't be able to drive his car again for a day or two, so he means to go back to London by bus and train. He told me that you would probably want to go with him.”

“He was quite right,” Morstow replied, “What time do we start?”

“The bus leaves here at half-past eight,” said George. “I'm sorry we can't offer you any breakfast, but you'll be able to get some on the train.” He placed a chair against the wall, climbed on to it, and renewed the blown fuse. “Mr Landrake has gone to Plestham to see about having his car dried out,” he said as he came down. “He ought to be back in a few minutes. You've got an hour or more before it'll be time for you to start for the bus.”

As he went back to his room to dress, George met Harry on the landing. “Good morning, George,” said Harry. “I saw from our window that the flood had gone down. How are things below?”

“Pretty grim,” George replied. “What are your plans? Two of our uninvited guests are leaving by the half-past eight bus. The one they call Jerry has already cleared out, wearing my clothes. Must you and Grace get back to London to-day? I know you can't drive there. I've already arranged for your car to be towed to the garage in Plestham.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Harry. “No, we needn't go back if you can put up with us here. Grace said just now that perhaps we might make ourselves useful in helping to put things straight.”

“It will certainly take all hands,” George replied. “You'll see for yourself when you get downstairs. And I don't suppose we'll see our two women to-day. They live in the area that was flooded, and it will take them all their time to get their own houses straight. If you've nothing better to do, you might carry the things from the dressing-room back to the kitchen and put on the electric kettle. Don't touch the cooker, whatever you do. It's gone haywire.”

When George had dressed, he went downstairs to see how Harry was getting on. A couple of minutes later the front door bell rang. Landrake back from Plestham, he supposed, but he might have come in without ringing. But when George opened the door he found Colonel Heckley, dressed in a blue sweater, corduroy trousers and gum boots. “Come in. Colonel,” he said. “What can we do for you? You're in much the same state as we are, I expect.”

“House full of mud, cars out of action, that old wooden bridge over the stream carried away,” Heckley replied. “However, we got the pigs and most of the poultry up to the loft in the barn. It's lucky there were so many of us. Laura and I could never have managed it by ourselves. The ducks have disappeared down the river, but maybe somebody will have rescued them by now. And, to crown all, our telephone has packed up. I came across to ask if I might use yours?”

“I'm sorry, but we're in the same boat,” said George. “Our instrument is as dead as a doornail.”

“Then I suppose it means walking to Plestham,” Heckley replied. “I want Deben to tow away Merrion's car and mine and put them to rights.”

“I can save you a walk,” said George. “We've got three cars here that want putting to rights. The owner of one of them, who got stranded here yesterday, has gone to see Deben. When the garage people come along, I'll ask them to pick up your two as well.”

“I'd be glad if you would,” Heckley replied. “The Merrions are staying with us until their car is fit to drive. You must come over and meet them, they're a charming couple. The other two are catching the eight-thirty bus, as I can't drive them to Owlsworth station. Well, I'll get back. Don't forget to tell Deben's people about the cars.”

Soon after the Colonel had gone, Landrake returned. “I've got it all fixed up,” he said. “I saw Mr. Deben, and he promised to send his breakdown lorry along as soon as his men came to work. They'll tow the cars away and dry them out. I gave him my telephone number and asked him to give me a ring when he'd got my car ready. As soon as he does I shall come down and fetch it. And if I may, I shall call here and thank you and Mrs. Fosdyke for all your kindness.”

Harry had made a pot of tea, and he and George carried cups up to their respective wives. Shortly afterwards Morstow came down, dressed in his own clothes. “Yes, they are a bit damp,” he replied to George's enquiry. “But they'll dry off in time. Thanks, I would like a cup of tea. May I have a drop of your excellent whisky to put in it? It'll help to keep the damp out. It's all your fault, Harold.”

“What's all my fault?” Landrake asked.

“Why, that we got soaked through yesterday,” Morstow replied. “If you'd stopped when we first hit the water, we shouldn't have been a nuisance to these good people here. We could have left Jerry to find his own way to Brensford Hall and turned round and driven back to London.”

At a few minutes before half-past eight George escorted Landrake and Morstow to the junction of the Plestham and main roads. Two men, whom George guessed to be the Colonel's visitors, were already waiting there. “The bus should be along any time now,” he said. “Goodbye to you both, and I hope you'll have a pleasant journey.” The bus came in sight as he spoke, and when it stopped the four men got into it. George sighed with relief as the bus moved on. Young Landrake was all right, but he hadn't taken to Morstow at all. And the other chap had been worse. If he had gone to the Hall, George wished Donald joy of him. Birds of a feather.

It struck George that, being on their doorstep, it would be only neighbourly to ask how the Grayshotts had got on. He walked round the side door of the Rolling-pin. It was wide open, and Mr. Grayshott was swilling out the bar with buckets of water. “Good morning, Mr. Grayshott,” said George. “I should have thought you'd had enough water here yesterday without pouring more in.” Grayshott laughed. He was a man whose cheerfulness was proof against all adversity. “I'm trying to wash the mud out. My word, that was a rum 'un yesterday. It came up so fast there was precious little we could do. About a dozen of the folk whose cars were held up managed to wade in here before the water got too deep. And before they'd been here very long they had to sit on the tables in the bar. You never saw anything like it. And I couldn't draw them any beer, for the barrels were all floating about the cellar. They had to make do with what bottles there were on the shelf. Why, I was up to my waist in water serving them.”

“Has the flood done you much damage?” George asked.

“Not a lot that can't be put rightxxx' Grayshott replied. “Mabel was the first to see it coming, and she and I got a lot of stuff upstairs. The chief trouble is that the water has washed the labels off all the bottles that were in the cellar, and I'm blest if I can tell now what's in them. If my customers ask for a whisky and I pour them out a sherry, they won't be best pleased. And how are things with you, Mr. Fosdyke?”

“Much as they are with you,” George replied. “Our chief trouble is that nearly all our grub has got soaked. And the water got into the telephone, so we can't ring up and order some more.”

“That's soon put to rights,” said Grayshott. “We always lay in plenty of grub over the holiday. And a good thing we did, too, because those folk in here yesterday kept on calling for sandwiches. It was close on midnight before the water had gone down enough for them to wade back to their cars. But we've still got plenty left. If you'll hold on a minute, I'll slip up and bring you down some. The grub was the first thing Mabel carried upstairs.”

He went up and came back with a basket in which he had put a pound of bacon, a loaf and a dozen eggs. “There you are and welcome, Mr. Fosdyke,” he said. “You'll be able to have a bit of breakfast anyhow. Don't worry about settling now. You can see Mabel next time you come in.” As George left the Rolling-Pin a lorry with a man and woman sitting beside the driver, passed along the road in the direction of Owlsworth. The passengers were Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, and the driver was Mr. Yardon, Mrs. Weedon's sister's husband.

The Weedons had gone to the social, where they had found both Mrs. Yardon and her husband. As soon as they had explained the situation in which they found themselves, they received an immediate offer of hospitality. “You can't get to the Hall now, that's a sure thing,” said Yardon. “And it's no good your stopping up all night waiting for the water to go down. Just you stay with us until the morning. I've got to be in Owlsworth by nine o'clock to fetch a load of coal from the station. I shall pass the Hall, and you can come with me on my lorry.” It should be explained that Yardon was the local coal merchant. He collected his coal from Owlsworth station and delivered it in sacks throughout the neighbourhood. His suggestion was discussed. Mrs. Weedon felt that they ought to get back to the Hall as soon as ever the road was passable. But her husband said that was talking silly. What good would it do anybody if they arrived at midnight, or possibly even later?

Mrs. Weedon contended that Mr. Carswell would expect his cup of tea, which her husband always brought him at half-past seven. He'd be terribly upset if he didn't get it. But her husband brushed this argument aside. Chris was there, and what was he for if not to make himself useful? There would be no question of having to get Mr. Carswell's breakfast. He would be sure to be going to London by the nine-five, and he always had his breakfast on the train.

Mrs. Weedon allowed herself to be persuaded. She and her husband spent the night with the Yardons, and left in the lorry about half-past eight on Tuesday morning. Yardon dropped them at the entrance gate of the Hall and went on his way. The first thing the Weedons noticed was that the gate was shut. “That's queer,” Mrs. Weedon remarked. “When Chris drives Mr. Carswell to Owlsworth he always leaves the gate open till he comes back. Perhaps they haven't started yet.”

Her husband looked at his watch. “They're running it pretty fine if they haven't,” he replied. “It's five to nine now. More likely Mr. Carswell isn't going to London after all, seeing it's the day after the holiday. Never mind. There'll be plenty of time to get him his breakfast by half-past.” They hurried up the drive and round the house to the back door. This was unlocked, and they went in, expecting to find Chris in the kitchen. But Chris was not to be found and there was no evidence of his having made Mr. Carswell a cup of tea. “Can't understand it,” said Weedon. “Perhaps he's gone to London after all. I'll go round to the garage and see if the car's there.” He came back shaking his head. “The car's there all right, but Chris isn't about. And where's Mr. Carswell? Not waiting all this time for his cup of tea, surely? I'll go up to his room and see what he's about.” He went upstairs to Mr. Carswell's bedroom and knocked on the door. Receiving no reply, he opened it cautiously and peeped in. Mr. Carswell was not there. And what astonished Weedon more than anything was that the bed had not been slept in.

Weedon felt that something must be very much amiss. Mr. Carswell never walked a step farther than he could help, and if he had gone out for the night he would have taken his car. He couldn't have spent the night in his study, surely?

Weedon came slowly downstairs. When Mr. Carswell was in his study he wouldn't be disturbed, unless he wanted something and rang the bell. But the circumstances were so strange that Weedon thought that for once he would be justified in breaking the rule. Timidly he knocked on the study door, but no voice answered him from within. He waited for a minute, then knocked again, louder this time. Still no reply. “Are you there, sir?” he called.

The silence seemed to imply that Mr. Carswell was not there. Nevertheless Weedon opened the door and looked in. The heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and the room was in almost complete darkness. Weedon put out his hand and turned on the switch just inside the doorway. Mr. Carswell was there. He was lying huddled up on the carpet. And the briefest inspection was sufficient to show Weedon that he was dead.

CHAPTER III

WEEDON WAS NOT a man to panic when faced with such a situation. He shut the study door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he went to the telephone which, since the premises had not been affected by the flood, was in order. He rang up Constable Knipe, who fortunately was at home. “This is Weedon, the butler at the Hall speaking. I've just found Mr. Carswell lying dead on his study floor.” “Dead?” Knipe exclaimed. “What do you mean? Has he had a heart attack or something?”

“I don't think that's it, Mr. Knipe,” Weedon replied. “I think you'd best come and see. And perhaps you'd be good enough to tell Dr. Tudwick. He should be at the surgery by now.” Dr. Tudwick lived in Owlsworth but for the convenience of his outlying patients he had a surgery in Brensford Green at which he attended from nine to eleven on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Having assured Weedon that he would tell the doctor and 50 then come along, Knipe rang off. Weedon went into the kitchen, to find his wife busy at the electric cooker. “I can't think what's come over Chris!” she exclaimed. “He's let the Aga go out, and I've got to use this dratted thing.”

“You needn't trouble to get any breakfast for Mr. Carswell,” Weedon replied sombrely. “He's dead. He's lying on the floor in the study, and from the look of him he didn't die naturally.”

The frying-pan she was holding clattered from Mrs. Weedon's hand. “You mean he's been murdered?” she screamed. “Where's Chris?”

“There, there, don't take it like that, Ethel,” her husband replied soothingly. “Maybe it's not so bad as that. Mr. Knipe is coming along, and it won't do for either of us to say too much. I'll go and see if I can find Chris. Maybe he's overslept himself.” He went upstairs again, full of misgivings. Mr. Carswell had always been finding fault with Chris, who had bitterly resented the way he was spoken to. He had often told his father and mother that if things went on like that he would find another job for himself. In his more angry moods he had threatened to do Mr. Carswell a mischief, if he got the chance. Was it possible that Chris had put his threats into execution? It was not likely that there had been anyone in the house but Mr. Carswell and Chris on the previous evening.

Weedon did not trouble to knock on his son's door. He opened it and walked in. Chris was not there, nor had his bed been slept in.

He went downstairs, opened the front door, and stood there waiting, with a heavy heart. Not for long, for within a few minutes a car appeared in the drive. Weedon recognised it as Dr. Tudwick's. The car came to a halt outside the front door, and the doctor and Knipe alighted from it. “Good morning, Weedon,” said Tudwick tersely. “Where is Mr. Carswell?”

“If you'll come this way, sir,” Weedon replied. He led the two men across the hall to the study door. Then he took the key from his pocket and handed it to Knipe. “Nobody's been in there since I found him,” he said. “If I'm wanted, you've only got to ring the bell.” Knipe unlocked the door and he and the doctor entered the room.

The study was a big, airy room, with two windows overlooking an ill-kept lawn at the side of the house. It had an open fireplace, a central mahogany table, and half a dozen armchairs of various sizes. Beside the table was an overturned chair. Close to this lay the body of Mr. Carswell.

While the doctor examined the body, Knipe surveyed the room. He could see at once that it was in a state of some disorder. On the floor between the fireplace and the table was a polished steel poker. This was one of a set, the tongs and shovel being in place on the hearth. The rugs with which the floor was covered were all askew, suggesting shuffling feet. A vase of flowers had fallen from a side table and lay smashed to pieces.

All this Knipe took in at a glance. He went to each window in turn and drew back the curtains. “That's better,” said Tudwick. “Now I can see what I'm about.” Knipe continued looking about him. On the table was a newspaper, which looked as if it had been roughly handled, and a flat metal box. The newspaper was a copy of the Evening Herald of the previous day, and its presence on the table puzzled Knipe. The Evening Herald was published in Ipminster, the county town, fifteen miles from Brensford in the direction opposite to Owlsworth. Bundles of the paper were loaded on to the bus leaving Ipminster at half-past six, and delivered at various points on the route. One bundle was put off at the Rolling-Pin, where a boy was waiting for it. He had a bicycle, and delivered copies from the bundle in Brensford and Plestham.

But on the previous day this arrangement had fallen through. Owing to the flood, the bus had been diverted, and had not passed through Brensford. In any case the boy, who lived in Plestham, could not have got to the Rolling-Pin to meet it. No copies of the paper had been delivered in Brensford. How then had Mr. Carswell got hold of one?

“Come here, Knipe!” Tudwick exclaimed suddenly. “Look for yourself. It doesn't need medical knowledge to see the cause of death. Those bruises round the neck. The unfortunate fellow was strangled. And he certainly didn't strangle himself.”

“You mean that he was murdered, Doctor?” Knipe asked.

“I can't think of any other explanation,” Tudwick replied dryly. “But that's up to you people. And the first question that will be asked is when he was murdered, I'll try to find the answer to that.” As he resumed his examination Knipe, who had noticed the telephone in the hall, went to it. He rang up the police station at Owlsworth and asked to speak to Superintendent Sapcote, who was in charge of the Division. To him he reported the bare fact that Mr. Carswell had been found dead at Brensford Hall, apparently murdered. The reply was that the Superintendent would come along at once, and that Knipe was to stay where he was until he arrived.

Within little more than ten minutes Sapcote reached the Hall, accompanied by a sergeant carrying a finger printing apparatus. Knipe met them at the front door and took them into the study, where Sapcote greeted Tudwick. “So you're on the job, Doctor. What can you tell us?”

“It's an obvious case of strangulation,” Tudwick replied. “The bruises on the neck are perfectly plain, and they seem to have been made by the hands of a man with a powerful grip. The marks of the fingers are in the front of the neck, and those of the thumbs at the back. That means that the strangler was behind his victim.”

“And what time did it happen?” Sapcote asked.

Tudwick smiled. “I was waiting for that. In my opinion death took place between eight and twelve hours ago. It's ten o'clock now. I think it's safe to assume that he was strangled within a couple of hours of midnight, either way.” Sapcote turned to Knipe. “What do you know about this establishment, Constable?” he asked.

“Mr. Carswell was a widower, with no children as far as I know, sir,” Knipe replied. “He lived alone, with a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Weedon and their son to look after him. The Weedons were out yesterday with a coach party. I met the coach when it got back to the Green, and told the passengers they couldn't get any farther because the main road was flooded. The Weedons seemed a bit upset at not being able to get back here.”

“I know all about the flood,” said Sapcote. “I tried to get to Ipminster this way, but had to turn back and go round by the lanes. What time did the main road become passable?”

“It was about midnight when the first traffic got through, sir,” Knipe replied. “The water fell very quickly after that.”

“What about the son you mentioned just now?” Sapcote asked. “Did he go on the coach trip too?”

“I don't think so, sir,” Knipe replied. “He wasn't on the coach when it got back to the Green. All three Weedons live in the house here.”

“I've always understood that Mr. Carswell was not very popular among his neighbours,” said Sapcote. “What have you to say about that, Constable?”

“It's quite right, sir,” Knipe replied. “Nobody in Brensford seemed able to get on with him. I get to hear a good deal of gossip, one way and another. I've heard that even Mr. Fosdyke of Stream House never spoke to him if he could help it. And yet he's some sort of relation.”

“He and Carswell were first cousins,” said Tudwick, who was rearranging his bag. “I know the Fosdykes fairly well, and I got that from them. You won't want me any more now. I must get back to my surgery in Brensford Green. If it will save you any trouble I'll report the matter to the coroner on my return to Owlsworth. He's an old friend of mine.”

“Thank you. Doctor,” Sapcote replied. “It will save me trouble. No, there's no need to keep you here any longer. Your patients will be wondering what's become of you.” Tudwick left the Hall and drove back to Brensford Green. “Who reported this business to you, Constable?” Sapcote asked.

“Weedon rang me up and told me, sir,” Knipe replied. “I went to the doctor's surgery, and he drove me here.”

“I'll see Weedon later on,” said Sapcote. “We were talking about Mr. Carswell. Do you know of any reason why he should have been unpopular?”

“I think his temper had a lot to do with it sir,” Knipe replied. “He wasn't here all the time, because he was in London five days a week. But when he was here he was always picking a quarrel with somebody or other He went for me good and proper last autumn. He said that someone had been in his garden stealing his apples. And he asked me what my job was if not to prevent such things happening. He said that if he missed anything else he would report it to you, sir, and that he'd see to it that I got severely reprimanded. And it was only about three or four weeks ago that I saw him quarrelling with another chap.”

“Tell me about that,” said Sapcote. “Who was this chap?”

“I don't know his name, sir,” Knipe replied. “But I know him by sight well enough. He drives a small car and comes round every few months selling brushes and things like that. He goes from door to door, pestering folk to buy his stuff, and he's so persistent that most of the women buy something from him, if only to get rid of him. But my wife tells me that there's nothing offensive about him.

“Well, sir, one Saturday morning I was on my way to Owlsworth on my bicycle, and when I got as far as this I saw this man's car standing outside the gate. I thought to myself that if he was trying to sell Mr. Carswell something he had struck an unlikely customer. And then as I went by I heard a lot of shouting up the drive, and recognised Mr. Carswell's voice. Thinking there might be some trouble, I walked up the drive till I could see the house.

“The man I'm telling you about, sir, was outside the back door, and Mr. Carswell was bawling at him. I heard him say that he wasn't going to have him trying to palm off his trash on the servants at the Hall. If they wanted anything, they had only to ask him, and he would let them have something good, not rubbish like this man hawked round. You know that Mr. Carswell owned a concern called Reliant Brushes, sir?”

“Yes, I've heard that,” said Sapcote. “What happened next?”

“What I didn't expect, sir,” Knipe replied. “The man always carries a big case with samples in it. Mr. Carswell snatched this from him, opened it and turned it upside down, so that everything in it fell on the ground. He told the man he could pick up his trash and clear out. If he showed his nose inside the gate again he would put the police on his track. Then Mr. Carswell went into the house.

“I went back to the gate and waited by the car till the man came along. I asked him if he'd been having trouble, and he said that he'd been shockingly insulted. He had never called here before, but he thought he might as well try his luck. He had been to the back door, and a lady had opened it. That would have been Mrs. Weedon. He had shown her what he had in his case, and she had said that she would like a pair of hair brushes for her son for Christmas. She chose a pair she fancied, and he had told her that he only carried samples, but that he would bring the pair next time he came round, which would be in November. It was then that a gentleman came along and started swearing at him. Spilt all his samples on the ground, too. He said he wasn't coming here again, even though it meant the loss of the sale of a pair of hair brushes. That was the way Mr. Carswell used to go on, sir.”

“I don't wonder he was unpopular,” Sapcote remarked. “Well, Sergeant, how are you getting on?” All this while the sergeant had been busy with his apparatus. The polished steel poker lying on the floor, the metal box on the table and several other objects in the room had been dusted. At that moment the sergeant was engaged in taking the impressions of the dead man's fingers. “I'm nearly finished, sir,” he replied. “There aren't any prints on the box, but there's a fine set on the poker. I'm taking Mr. Carswell's prints, then I'll compare them.” He finished what he was doing then compared the cards with Carswell's prints on them with those on the poker. “That's clear enough, sir,” he said. “There are only one set of prints on the poker, and they are Mr. Carswell's.”

“Then I think we can reconstruct what happened,” Sapcote replied. “The murderer, whoever he was, came into this room. Mr. Carswell was alone, probably reading that paper lying there. He may or may not have been expecting the visitor. If he was, they possibly began with an amicable conversation. After a while they began to quarrel, not a very difficult matter where Mr. Carswell was concerned, apparently. The visitor turned ugly, and Mr. Carswell picked up the poker to defend himself. However, the visitor dodged round behind him and strangled him. I expect that's about it.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Knipe. “There's something rather queer about that paper.” He explained the impossibility of it having been delivered at the Hall on the previous evening. “It strikes me that somebody must have brought it, probably from Owlsworth, sir.”

“That's a good point. Constable,” Sapcote replied approvingly. “It's possible that the murderer may have brought it. We don't know how long they may have been together before Mr. Carswell was strangled. If the paper was bought in Owlsworth we may be able to trace the man who bought it. Meantime, what's in that box, I wonder? You're quite sure there are no prints on it, Sergeant?”

“Quite sure, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Though it's just the surface to take prints.”

“Then it won't matter if I handle it,” said Sapcote. He picked up the box and examined it with some curiosity. It was made of metal, probably steel, painted with smooth black enamel. It was eight inches long, six and a half wide and four deep. The lid was hinged, and was secured by a hasp and a small but stout padlock, which was locked.

“If this box belonged to Mr. Carswell, one must suppose that he had the key,” Sapcote remarked. “Go through his pockets. Sergeant, but don't disturb the body more than you can help.” The sergeant proceeded to do so. He produced a wallet containing a few pound and ten shilling notes, a driving-licence and insurance certificate. A cigarette case, half full, and a lighter. A quantity of small change, and a bunch of half a dozen keys. Finally, from the pockets of the waistcoat, a first class season ticket between Owlsworth and London, and a single small key.

The sergeant laid these things on the table for the superintendent's inspection. “Much what one might expect,” said Sapcote. “But why is that small key loose, and not on the bunch? It looks to me as though it might fit the padlock.” He inserted the key, turned it, and the padlock flew open. “I thought so,” he said. “Now we shall be able to see what's in the box.” He removed the padlock, disengaged the hasp, and raised the lid. The inside of this, he noticed, was inset with rubber, apparently with the purpose of rendering the box airtight. The box was full of something, and on the surface lay a strip of cardboard which almost exactly fitted it.

Sapcote removed this with the point of his knife and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. The box was completely filled with new five pound notes, packed tightly together. “Look at this lot, you two,” he said. “What can have induced Mr. Carswell to draw all this money and put it in a box? What did he mean to do with it?” Neither the sergeant nor Knipe ventured any reply to this question. “Well, one thing's pretty clear,” Sapcote went on. “The motive for his murder wasn't robbery. That is, if the murderer knew what was in the box. And, since it was standing on the table, I expect he did.”

“Perhaps he didn't care about taking fivers, sir,” the sergeant suggested. “He would have been afraid that there might be a record of the numbers.”

“There's something in that,” Sapcote agreed. “But what was the box doing on the table at all? We can't leave it there, so I'll take charge of it for the present. And now I think it's time we interviewed this butler chap. See if you can find him. Constable?”

“He said that if he was wanted we were to ring for him, sir,” Knipe replied.

“Very well,” said Sapcote. “Ring the bell, and we'll see what happens.” Knipe rang, and within half a minute there came a knock on the door. Sapcote called out “Come in!” and Weedon appeared. He had changed into his butler's clothes, and looked the picture of a dignified and respectful servant. “Sit down, Weedon,” said Sapcote. Then, pointing to the box, “Have you ever seen this before?” Weedon looked at the box closely. “Never, sir. But then if Mr. Carswell kept it locked up somewhere I shouldn't have seen it.”

“He did not take you into his confidence regarding his private affairs?” Sapcote asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Weedon replied. “He never spoke of them to me, though I've been with him this ten years and more.”

“When did you last see Mr. Carswell alive?” Sapcote asked.

“Yesterday morning, sir, when I took him his breakfast in the dining-room,” Weedon replied. “He knew that my wife and I were going out for the day, because I had asked him last week. He said we were welcome to go, so long as we were back to get him his dinner at eight o'clock. And so we should have been but for the flood which prevented us getting here.”

“And what about his lunch?” Sapcote asked. “Was Mr. Carswell prepared to get it for himself?”

Weedon looked uncomfortable. “There was no difficulty about that, sir. Mr. Carswell liked a cold lunch. My wife got mat ready before she left. Cold beef, salad and cheese.”

“But you didn't get back to give him his dinner,” said Sapcote. “How do you suppose Mr. Carswell managed about that?”

“He doesn't seem to have had any dinner, sir,” Weedon replied. “My wife had got it all ready, so that when she came back she could serve it without keeping Mr. Carswell waiting. A piece of salmon, some cutlets and a Bakewell tart. She put it all into the larder, and it's still there.”

“Was Mr. Carswell expecting a visitor yesterday evening?” Sapcote asked.

“He used to have visitors at the weekend sometimes, sir,” Weedon replied. “But he didn't say anything to me about expecting one yesterday.”

“Was Mr. Carswell alone in the house yesterday after you and your wife left him?” Sapcote asked.

Weedon hesitated. “Well, no, sir, not exactly alone. My son Chris was here. He must have taken Mr. Carswell his lunch and cleared away, because the dirty plates are in the scullery now.”

“And yet apparently your son did not take Mr. Carswell his dinner,” Sapcote remarked. “How do you explain that?”

“I don't think Chris would have known how to cook it, sir,” Weedon replied. “He has never done any cooking. His mother always does that.”

“So Mr. Carswell had to go without his dinner?” Sapcote suggested.

“I don't think he would have done that, sir,” Weedon replied. “I expect he went to dinner at the Black Swan in Owlsworth. He sometimes used to when he was alone.”

“We can find out if he did,” said Sapcote. “Tell me this, Weedon. Were the three of you, yourself, your wife and your son, happy in Mr. Carswell's service?”

“We had nothing to complain of, sir,” Weedon replied. “Some people weren't able to get on with Mr. Carswell, but we seemed able to manage.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Sapcote. “Where is your son now? I want to see him.”

“I think Mr. Carswell must have sent him away somewhere,” Weedon replied hesitatingly. “I've been looking for him, but he doesn't seem to be about.”

“Sent him away?” Sapcote asked. “Where would Mr. Carswell have sent him to and why?”

“That I can't say, sir,” Weedon replied. “Mr. Carswell used to send him on errands now and again.”

“I understand that Mr. Carswell's relations live in the village,” said Sapcote. “Do you know anything about them?”

“Yes, sir,” Weedon replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke, who live at Stream House. Mr. Fosdyke is Mr. Carswell's first cousin, I believe. But they never came here, and I don't think Mr. Carswell ever went to see them.”

“Had Mr. Carswell any other relations?” Sapcote asked.

“That I couldn't say, sir,” Weedon replied. “I've never heard him speak of any.”

“Very well,” said Sapcote, “That will do for the present, Weedon.” Weedon left the room, and Sapcote turned to the sergeant. “It strikes me that young Chris is the man we want. If he wasn't the murderer himself, he should know who was. Another question is, did Mr. Carswell leave the house yesterday evening, and if so at what time did he get back? I'll drive you and your gear back to Owlsworth, and you can make enquiries at the Black Swan. You stop here. Constable, and see that nobody interferes with anything in this room.”

Having driven the sergeant to Owls-worth, Sapcote turned round and followed the main road to Ipminster. A mile beyond the town was the County Police Headquarters, and this was his destination. There he reported to the Chief Constable the death of Mr. Carswell, and the steps he had taken in consequence. “It's a clear case of murder, sir,” he concluded. “And there's precious little to go upon. The only man who is likely to know anything about it has cleared out, and there's no telling where he may have gone to. And this box full of notes. I don't know what to make of that.”

It seemed to the Chief that Sapcote was taking a rather defeatist view of the matter. The murder of a man in Mr. Carswell's position was a little way outside his experience. “Didn't you tell me that Mr. Carswell had a business in London?” the Chief asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sapcote replied. “He used to go to London five days a week. He owned a brush factory, or something of the kind.”

“Then wouldn't it be a good idea to have enquiries made in London?” the Chief suggested. “I'm not trying to interfere in any way with your investigations. But if you think the Yard could help you, I've only got to ring them up and they'll send a man down.”

Sapcote brightened up at this. If the Yard were to be called in, the burden of responsibility would be lifted from his shoulders. But he did not want to appear too eager. “It's as you say, sir,” he replied.

“I think it would be a good move,” said the Chief. “I'll ring up the Yard at once. If they agree to send a man down, as I'm sure they will, I'll ask them to tell him to report to you at Owlsworth. And if there's any more that I can do to help you, you've only got to let me know.”

CHAPTER IV

AS THE CHIEF CONSTABLE had anticipated, Scotland Yard proved immediately cooperative. The Assistant Commissioner assigned Inspector Arnold to the case, instructing him to take the first train to Owlsworth and to establish contact with Superintendent Sapcote at the police station there.

It was soon after half-past two when Arnold was ushered into Sapcote's presence. “I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote as they shook hands. “I had a telephone message that you were coming, so I waited here for you. Sit down, and I'll tell you what the trouble's about.” He gave Arnold an account of what he knew of the case. “It seems to me rather significant that Mr. Carswell was generally unpopular,” he went on. “Even his first cousin, who lives half a mile from Brensford Hall, seems to have avoided him. His butler says that he and his family got on with him, but I'm rather inclined to doubt that statement. Mr. Carswell is known to have been of a quarrelsome disposition. I think you'll agree when you've seen the room, that he had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday evening. And he seems to have got the worst of it.”

“The fingerprints on the poker are Mr. Carswell's?” Arnold asked. “If he was laying about him with it, the murderer might plead that he strangled him in self-defence.”

“There's no doubt about the fingerprints,” Sapcote replied. “You shall see them for yourself. And the sergeant couldn't find any other fingerprints in the room. And there's that box full of fivers. Where does that come in?”

“I'd like to see it, if you've got it here,” said Arnold.

After showing it to the Chief, Sapcote had brought the box back with him. He opened the safe which stood in his room and produced it. Then he took out the key, unlocked the padlock, and opened the lid. “There you are. I haven't counted the notes, but there must be at least five hundred of them. Why did Mr. Carswell keep so much money on the premises? And there's another thing which strikes me. Mr. Carswell can't have been in the habit of opening and shutting the box regularly. If he had, he'd have carried the key on his bunch with the others. But he didn't. The key of the box was found by itself in his waistcoat pocket.”

Arnold took out one of the notes and turned it over in his fingers. Then he produced his pocket lens and through it examined the note minutely. “Do you know, I have my doubts about this note,” he said after a while. “I don't profess to be an expert in such matters, and I may be mistaken. But we know at the Yard that forged fivers have been in circulation lately, though so far we have no clue as to where they come from.”

“What's that?” Sapcote exclaimed. “You don't suspect Mr. Carswell of having been a forger do you?”

Arnold smiled. “I'm always ready to suspect anybody. However, as I say, I may be mistaken. Perhaps these notes are genuine, after all. I should like to take one to the Bank of England and get an opinion upon it.”

“You're welcome to do that,” said Sapcote. “Now, before I take you to Brensford Hall there's somebody you'd like to see. The manager of the Black Swan in the Market Place. He'll be able to tell you something about Mr. Carswell. I'll ring him up and ask him to come over.” He put the call through, and in a few minutes the manager appeared. Sapcote introduced him to Arnold and asked him to sit down. “Would you mind repeating to Mr. Arnold what you told the sergeant this morning?” he said.

“I'll do so willingly,” the manager replied. “I have known Mr. Carswell for some time, because he dines at the hotel occasionally, usually on a Saturday or Sunday.

“Yesterday afternoon, about five o'clock he rang me up and asked me to reserve a table for him for dinner. Being Bank Holiday we were fairly busy, but I knew I could squeeze Mr. Carswell in somehow. I told him that if he could make it convenient to be at the hotel at half-past seven, a table would be ready for him.

“I happened to be in the yard about that time, and saw Mr. Carswell's car drive in. He wasn't driving it himself, but it was being driven by a young man whom I remembered having seen before. Mr. Carswell got out of the car and said something to the young man. I didn't hear what it was.

“I told Mr. Carswell that his table was ready for him, and we walked into the hotel together. We always have a few copies of the Evening Herald on a table in the hall in case any of our customers should want one. Mr. Carswell picked up one of these and laid the money on the table. Then he went in to dinner.

“It was about nine o'clock when he came out of the dining-room, and I noticed that he had his copy of the Evening Herald under his arm. I asked him if he had enjoyed his dinner, and he replied that it wasn't any worse than he had expected. I followed him out into the yard, where his car was still standing, but the young man was nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. Carswell was furious. He said that he had told the young scamp to be waiting for him from half-past eight. He certainly wasn't going to hang about waiting for him. He would drive himself home, and the rascal would have to walk. Serve him right. Mr. Carswell drove off, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Did the young man come back to the hotel?” Arnold asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” the manager replied. “If he did, he would have gone into the yard and seen that the car wasn't there. The last bus had gone, and unless he could thumb a lift, he would have to walk to Brensford Hall.”

“You say that you remembered having seen the young man before,” said Arnold. “Can you tell us when and where?”

“I had seen him driving Mr. Carswell's car,” the manager replied. “On the previous occasions when Mr. Carswell came to the hotel for dinner, the young man was always driving him.”

Arnold thanked the manager, and Sapcote showed him from the room. “There's no doubt the young man was Chris Weedon,” said Arnold when Sapcote came back. “The first question is, why did he disobey his orders? He had been told to stand by the car from half-past eight onwards. The second question is, what has become of him?”

“I expect that when Mr. Carswell had gone into the Black Swan, Chris wandered off on his own,” Sapcote replied. “He may have met some friends and lost count of the time. When he did get back to the Black Swan, Mr. Carswell had driven himself away. What has become of him I can't tell you, except that he hasn't gone back to Brensford Hall. I told the constable that if Chris returned, he was to ring up at once, and he hasn't done so.”

“Do you think it likely that he went straight back to the Hall without waiting for Mr. Carswell?” Arnold asked. “You see the idea. He knew that Mr. Carswell was quite capable of driving himself home, and that he almost certainly would. My suggestion is that Chris did go back to the Hall, and lay in wait for Mr. Carswell in the study. How does that appeal to you?”

“It's quite possible,” Sapcote replied. “The last bus from here to Ipminster leaves at eight o'clock. Normally it passes the gate of the Hall, but yesterday it was diverted, because the main road through Brensford Street was flooded. The nearest point on the diversion route would be about a mile from the Hall, If Chris travelled by that bus and got off at the nearest point, he could have reached the Hall well before nine.”

“Before Mr. Carswell could have got there,” said Arnold. “Something of this kind may have happened. Chris waited for Mr. Carswell's return. When he had gone into the study, Chris followed him there. Seeing him come in Mr. Carswell, who was already infuriated, picked up the poker and threatened him with it. Chris, a younger and presumably more active man, dodged behind him and strangled him.”

“After which he took to his heels and bolted,” Sapcote replied. “He couldn't have got through the flood, so he must have doubled back in this direction. But how are we going to get a reliable description of him? I wouldn't trust his parents for that.”

“'I expect he's well known in the village,” said Arnold. “But that's only one theory, and it doesn't take into account the box of fivers. I rather fancy that Mr. Carswell was expecting a visitor later in the evening, and that was why he had the box handy. If that's the case, it may have been the visitor who strangled him.”

“Where was Chris when that happened?” Sapcote asked. “It seems to me that if he wasn't the murderer his behaviour is unaccountable. Well, we'd better get along to the Hall, where you can see things for yourself.”

When they reached the Hall they rang the bell and Weedon opened the door. “Have you any news of your son yet, Weedon?” Sapcote asked.

“No, sir, I haven't,” Weedon replied. “We're beginning to wonder if anything can have happened to him. My wife has got it into her head that he may have been drowned in the flood.”

“I don't think that's very likely,” said Sapcote. “You got back here about nine o'clock this morning, you say. How did you get into the house?”

“The back door was unlocked, sir,” Weedon replied. “I expect Mr. Carswell purposely left it like that so that we could get in. Neither my wife nor I have a key to the front door.”

Arnold saw that the front door was fitted with the usual Yale type lock. “Did you find this door shut and locked when you got back?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Weedon replied. “And my wife and I have been all over the house and everything seems to be in order. With Mr. Carswell being killed, we were afraid burglars might have got in.”

“That will do now, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “We'll ring for you if we want you.” He and Arnold went into the study, where they found Knipe. “Have you anything to report, Constable?” Sapcote asked.

“No, sir,” Knipe replied. “The telephone hasn't rung, and the only people who have been to the house were the milkman and the man who brings the newspapers. They went to the back door.

Meanwhile Arnold was surveying the room, taking notice of the state of disorder it was in. It was quite evident that a struggle of some kind had taken place. Apart from the poker on the floor, things had been knocked over. Beside the fireplace were two big armchairs, and a small table had been drawn up against one of these. On the table was an ash tray in which was the stub of a cigarette. It struck Arnold as rather curious that this should not have been upset.

He turned his attention to the articles which had been found in Mr. Carswell's pockets. He picked up the key ring and tried the keys on it in turn on the lock of the front door. One of them fitted perfectly. Then he opened the case, and compared the cigarettes in it with the stub in the ash tray. There was very little doubt that they were of the same brand.

“I'm trying to picture what happened after Mr. Carswell got back here yesterday evening,” said Arnold. “He drove away from the Black Swan about nine o'clock. The distance from there is about four miles, and we can allow him ten minutes to cover it. He put the car away, and walked back to the house. I expect he let himself in by the front door. He should have been settled in this room by half-past nine at the latest.

“I can't help thinking that he was expecting a visitor, who was coming to see him regarding some business deal. That was why he laid the box of notes on the table. The visitor would presumably have come to the front door and rung the bell. It would have been Chris's duty to admit him.

“Mr. Carswell sat down in that chair with the table beside it. The right-hand side of it is close to the hearth, on which the shovel and tongs are still resting. While sitting in the chair Mr. Carswell, by turning his head slightly to the left, could see anyone entering the room by the door.

“He lighted a cigarette, and, I expect, read the newspaper he had bought at the Black Swan. He smoked one cigarette through and did not apparently light another. We do not know how long he remained there. But after a while, not more than an hour after his return from Owlsworth, I imagine, the door opened and someone entered the room unannounced.

“He was not the visitor Mr. Carswell had been expecting but somebody whose appearance inspired Mr. Carswell to a passion of rage, or perhaps fear. He reached down and grasped the poker in his right hand. Then he sprang up, still holding the paper in his left hand. Which of the men first attacked the other we can't tell. Probably Mr. Carswell made for the intruder with the poker. The fact that he strangled Mr. Carswell rather suggests to me that the other man had no weapon.

“The two of them pranced about the floor, knocking things over, Mr. Carswell trying to get within striking distance, and the other man dodging him. At last the intruder caught Mr. Carswell unawares and managed to get behind him. Then he put his hands round his neck and strangled him.

“The intruder may have been Chris. If he left Owlsworth by the eight o'clock bus, got off at the nearest point to the Hall, and walked the intervening mile he could, as you have pointed out, have got here by nine. But if he was bent on murdering his master, why should he have waited so long before doing so? Surely it would have been more natural for him to have waited outside the house for Mr. Carswell's return. Then, when Mr. Carswell was coming from the garage after putting the car away, he could have ambushed him and strangled him. Again, if Chris had entered the study with murder in his heart, wouldn't he have brought some weapon with him? Another poker, or the hatchet used for chopping up firewood.”

“That's a very convincing reconstruction, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote. “If Chris was not the murderer, do you suppose that he was in the house when the crime was committed?”

“I very much doubt it,” Arnold replied. 'I have an idea that for some reason of his own he did not intend to come back here that night, or possibly at all. And that leads to the question of how the intruder got in. If he had gone to the front door and rang the bell, there would have been no Chris to answer it. Sitting in here, Mr. Carswell wouldn't have heard the bell. It's probable that the intruder, who may have known his way about, went to the back door. If the Weedons found it unlocked this morning, it must have been so all night.”

“What makes you say that the intruder may have known his way about?” Sapcote asked.

“Just this,” Arnold replied. “Mr. Carswell was murdered at a time when he was alone in the house, a most unusual circumstance. No one who was coming from a distance could have known that the Weedons had gone for a coach trip yesterday, or that they had been prevented by the flood from returning to the Hall last night. But those facts would be apparent to anyone in the village. An excellent opportunity for anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Carswell. And we are told that he was not popular locally.”

“He was murdered by one of his neighbours?” Sapcote asked. “But what about the visitor you say he was expecting? Where does he come in?”

“Literally speaking, I don't suppose he ever did come in,” Arnold replied. “Since Mr. Carswell went out to dinner, it's obvious that he didn't expect him until fairly late. He may have been delayed by the flood, which would have made him later still. If he arrived here after the murder he might have rung the bell and hammered on the front door till doomsday. I don't suppose it would have occurred to him to go round to the back door and try that. He wouldn't have expected to find it unlocked. In the end he would have given it up in despair, and gone back to wherever he came from. In which case, he doesn't come into the picture.”

“I daresay you're right,” said Sapcote. “Well, you've seen pretty well all there is to be seen here. What would you like to do now?”

“I should like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Carswell's cousin,” Arnold replied. “He lives in the village, you said?” Sapcote nodded. “At Stream House, about half a mile from here. I know Mr. Fosdyke slightly. He's the chairman of the Parish Council, and he comes to see me on parish matters now and again. I'll drive you to Stream House and introduce you. You had better stop here. Constable. Have you had anything to eat, by the way?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Knipe replied, “Mr. Weedon brought me some lunch.”

“Perhaps he'll bring you some tea, if you wait long enough. When I get back to Owslworth, I'll send a man out to relieve you. Now, Mr. Arnold, I'm ready if you are.” They drove down the slope as far as the Rolling-Pin, then turned right into the Plestham road. Outside the back door of Stream House was a scene of great activity. Rugs and various pieces of furniture had been carried out into the sun, and George and Mary, assisted by Harry and Grace, were trying their best to wipe the mud off them. As the police car pulled up George, recognising Sapcote, called out. “Good afternoon. Superintendent. We were flooded out yesterday, and we're doing our best to clean up.”

“Jolly bad luck, Mr. Fosdyke,” Sapcote replied. “Could you spare a few minutes for a word with us?”

“Certainly,” said George. “I'm glad of an excuse to give up these chores for a bit. I won't ask you into the house, for it's practically uninhabitable, but I can offer you chairs on the lawn. I'll open the gate, and you can run your car into the yard.” He opened the gate and when the car had driven in, he led Sapcote and Arnold to half a dozen deck chairs set out on the lawn. “I put them out this morning, and they should be fairly dry by now,” he said. “Sit down and tell me what you've come to see me about.”

“This is Mr. Arnold from Scotland Yard,” Sapcote replied. “We have come to see you about Mr. Carswell. Do you know that he is dead?” George nodded. “My wife heard from the newspaper man this morning that he was. He comes from Owlsworth, and his first delivery in the village is at the Hall. He said that when he got there Mrs. Weedon told him that they wouldn't be wanting any more newspapers, because Mr. Carswell was dead. I couldn't ring up the Hall to verify the fact, because the flood has put our telephone out of order. And I've been far too busy to go there.”

“The newspaper man's information was correct.' said Sapcote. “Mr. Carswell is dead, and there can be no doubt that he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” George loudly exclaimed. “That's a bad business. But I'm not altogether surprised. He contrived to make himself obnoxious to quite a lot of people. Who murdered him?”

“That is what Mr. Arnold and I are trying to find out,” Sapcote replied. “And we're hoping that you may be able to help us.” George shook his head. “Although Donald Carswell was my first cousin, I knew very little about him. Some years ago there was considerable unpleasantness between us, and since then we have barely spoken to each other. I haven't set foot inside the Hall for I don't know how long, and the same applies to my wife. I can't possibly tell you who might have murdered Donald. My word, though, I wonder?”

“What do you wonder, Mr. Fosdyke?” Arnold asked.

“That will take a bit of explaining,” George replied. “We had rather an odd adventure yesterday. Three chaps driving past here were nearly drowned when their car ran into the flood. They came in here like so many shipwrecked mariners seeking dry land. I'll tell you about it.” He described the incident and went on. “The first thing one of them said to me when he got inside the house was that he had a most urgent appointment with Mr. Carswell. It appeared that the party had been bound for the Hall. The man I'm speaking of, whose name was Jerry Newark, was to have been left there, and the other two were to have driven back to London. Newark wanted to know if there was any way of getting to the Hall, by boat if necessary. By that time there was at least six feet of water in the road, and it was rising fast. I told him that he couldn't possibly get there on foot, and that boats were not usually found in an inland village. I didn't like the chap or his manner. It seemed to me that there was something furtive about him. The other two weren't so bad. In fact the youngest, who was the owner of the car, was quite decent.

“Of course, even when the water went down, to attempt to drive the car would have been out of the question. All we could do was to put the three waifs up for the night, and that's what we did. Two of them left by the half-past eight bus this morning. The third, Newark, disappeared in the night.”

“Disappeared?” Arnold asked. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Fosdyke?”

“Just what I say,” George replied. “We had to put him and one of the others, Andrew Morstow, into the same room. They gave us to understand that they were brothers-in-law. Early this morning I had occasion to go into the room to replace a fuse, and found only Morstow there. When I asked him where his friend was, he said he didn't know. All he could say was that Newark had been in the room when he went to sleep, which must have been soon after eleven o'clock. And Newark went off in my old clothes that I'd lent him while his own were drying.”

“Do you think it was true that Morstow didn't know where his friend had gone?” Arnold asked.

“I don't think he knew for certain,” George replied. “And he probably didn't see Newark go, I daresay he was sleeping pretty heavily, because he drank quite a lot of my whisky overnight. But he made a guess, which may have been correct. Newark had been worrying all the evening because he couldn't get to the Hall. He might have got up in the night, seen that the water had gone down, and set out.”

“I'm told that the main road by the Rolling-Pin was passable about midnight,” Sapcote remarked.

“Then the Plestham road would have been passable some time before that,” George replied. “It's a couple of feet higher and that would make a lot of difference. In fact, when I looked out before I turned in there were not more than a few inches of water outside the back door. If Newark didn't mind getting his feet wet, he could have made his way to the Hall soon after midnight.”

“He wasn't there at nine o'clock this morning,” said Arnold. “Did Newark tell you where he lived?”

“In London, I gathered,” George replied. “But they none of them gave me their addresses. I can tell you how you might find out. The owner of the car, whose name is Harold Landrake, walked into Plestham before he left here this morning to see Deben about getting his car dried out. He gave Deben his telephone number, and asked him to ring him up when the car was ready. You could probably get on to Landrake that way, and he could give you the addresses of the other two.”

“That's a very good idea, Mr. Fosdyke,” said Arnold. “May I use your telephone?”

“I'm sorry to say that it's still out of order,” George replied. “And it will remain so until the telephone people come and see to it. Hullo, here's the Colonel. And I suppose it's that friend he spoke about that he's got with him.”

Two men had come out from The Elders and were entering the grounds of Stream House by the bridge over the river. Arnold, looking towards them, could hardly believe his eyes. The Colonel's friend was Desmond Merrion, whom he had known intimately for many years. “I hope we're not butting in, Fosdyke,” said Heckley. “We came across to see if you wanted anything. We're fairly straight at home, thanks to the help of Mr. Merrion and his wife. I say, it's a bad business about Carswell. It was very sudden, surely?”

“I gather that it was,” George replied with a side glance at Sapcote. He was by no means sure that he was at liberty to reveal the truth. But Sapcote rose from his chair. “I'll go along to Plestham and get that number out of Deben,” he said. “Are you coming with me, Mr. Arnold?”

“I'd rather stay here until you come back, if you've no objection,” Arnold replied.

“As you please,” said Sapcote. “I don't suppose I shall be very long.” He drove to Deben's garage, where he found five cars drawn up in the yard, with mechanics busy on them. Deben, who was superintending the work looked up as Sapcote drove in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sapcote,” he said, “We're busy as you see with these cars that got drowned in the flood. Three from Stream House and two from The Elders. And a pretty pickle they're in, I can promise you that.”

“It's the owner of one of the cars I want to ask you about,” Sapcote replied. “His name is Landrake, and he was here early this morning, I understand.”

“That's right,” said Deben. “He told me he couldn't wait till his car was ready, and that he was going back to London. He gave me a number and asked me to ring him up and he'd come and fetch it.”

“Can you give me the number?” Sapcote asked.

“If you'll step into the office I can,” Deben replied. “I've got a note of it there.” They went to the office, where Deben looked up the number. Sapcote made a note of it. “May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I'll pay for the call, of course.”

“You're welcome,” said Deben. “You'll excuse me if I leave you to it? I want to keep my eye on those chaps and see they do the job properly.” Sapcote asked for the number, and after a while heard an answering voice. “Dormouse Club, Bayswater.”

“Is Mr. Harold Landrake in?” Sapcote asked.

“Not just now,” the voice replied. “I can take a message for him.”

“Thank you,” said Sapcote. “Will you ask him, as soon as he comes in, to ring Owlsworth 1331? I'll repeat that. Owlsworth 1331. And will you please tell Mr. Landrake that it's a matter of the first importance.” 96

CHAPTER V

As SAPCOTE LEFT the lawn, Heckley introduced Merrion to George. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Fosdyke,” said Merrion as they shook hands. “Arnold and I require no introduction. We've known each other for more years than either of us care to remember, I daresay. But I hardly expected to meet him here.”

“Nor did I expect to meet you,” Arnold replied. “How long have you been staying with Colonel Heckley?”

“Since yesterday,” said Merrion. “The Colonel invited Mavis and me to spend the day. But we got caught in the flood, and the Colonel has very kindly invited us to stay at The Elders until the car is fit to drive again.”

“I don't know what Laura and I should have done without them,” Heckley remarked. “They've been working like niggers all day, helping us to get things straight. Oh, by the way, Fosdyke, many thanks for passing the word to Deben. His chaps came and towed away the two cars, Merrion's and mine, this morning.”

“And thank you. Colonel, for coming across,” George replied. “I think we've got all we want, and we have two able helpers.”

“Then I'll get back,” said Heckley. “It's time to feed the pigs. I daresay, Merrion, you'd like to stop here for a chat with your old friend.” He went back across the bridge, and George excused himself on the plea of helping with the furniture. “And just exactly what are you doing here?” Arnold asked when he and Merrion were left alone.

“What am I doing?” Merrion replied. “Lifting pigs up into a loft and lifting them down again. You've no idea how awkward a pig can be, even with a man at either end of it. As you heard the Colonel say. Mavis and I came over only for the day. But the car got stuck in the flood, so we've become immobile. And may I ask in turn what you're doing here?”

“You've heard about Mr. Carswell of Brensford Hall?” Arnold asked.

“I've heard quite a lot about him,” Merrion replied. “But it wasn't until this morning that I heard that he was dead. Is that what brings you here?”

“He was murdered, and I've been put on the case,” said Arnold. “What have you heard about him?”

“Nothing to his credit,” Merrion replied. “I'll explain. Before he retired, the Colonel was in charge of a branch of Intelligence, and he and I frequently came into contact during the war. We have kept in touch since and I have run over here now and then to see him. It's only fifty miles or so from High Eldersham.

“Yesterday Mavis and I came over to meet two men whom the Colonel had also invited for the day. I was slightly acquainted with both of them, for they had worked with the Colonel in the old days. Their names are Major Quarrington and Captain Rodden, of the Navy. They are now both retired.

“The Colonel's car was put out of action, as mine was. In any case, no one could have got through the flood yesterday afternoon. So all four of the Colonel's guests were marooned. He and his wife did wonders. They fed us, on two of their fowls slaughtered for the purpose, and put us up. Mavis and I in one spare room and the two men in the other.

“We all spent most of the afternoon hoisting pigs and trying to catch poultry. Then we retired to an upper room of the house, the ground floor being under water. By an act of providence the Heckleys had a small emergency electric oven, and this had been rescued and taken upstairs before it was overtaken by the flood. Mrs. Heckley cooked the fowls in it, and we had a most satisfactory meal.

“Mrs. Heckley and Mavis went to bed early, leaving us four men to gossip about old times. Carswell's name came up somehow. I think the Colonel remarked that he had nothing to worry about, as Brensford Hall stood far above any level that the flood was likely to reach. Quarrington pricked up his ears at that, and asked the Colonel if the man he was speaking was Donald Carswell, who owned a brush factory in the East End of London. When the Colonel replied that he was, Quarrington asked us if we didn't remember him.

“I remembered the name vaguely, but Rodden's memory was better than mine. It seems that during the war, he and Quarrington were working together on counter-espionage, and they had formed strong suspicions of Carswell. He had an agency in Dublin, ostensibly for the sale of his wares. But they had reason to believe that the agency was a fake, and that it was really a centre from which information was transmitted to the enemy. However, they had never been able to prove it, and Carswell had remained unscathed. But, apparently, far from forgotten.

“The Colonel told something of what he knew of Carswell as a neighbour. He said that he and Mr. Fosdyke were cousins, but that he had never known them speak to each other. He fancied that there must be some old feud, which had never been healed. He wasn't surprised that Fosdyke would have nothing to do with Carswell, who was quite impossible. The Colonel said that he had been insulted once, and that the insult still rankled.”

“Did he tell you how that had come about?” Arnold asked.

“He did, with some emphasis,” Merrion replied. “It seems that he went to Brensford Hall one evening, to ask Carswell for a subscription towards repairs to the parish hall. He was taken to Carswell's study. Without inviting him to sit down, Carswell asked him brusquely what he wanted. The Colonel explained, and Carswell turned on him. He was surprised that a man in his position should come round begging for money. But then he supposed that a Colonel who had descended to wallowing in pigsties must have lost all sense of the fitness of things. As for the parish hall, he had never been there, never intended to, and didn't care a damn if the place fell to pieces. The Colonel told him that he was not accustomed to be spoken to in such a manner. All Carswell did was to ring the bell for his butler and tell him to show the Colonel out.

“The Colonel got rather carried away by his indignation. In his opinion the brush business was only a cover for something far more sinister. Queer people were in the habit of coming to the Hall during weekends. He had seen some of them, and didn't like the look of them. He had heard, he didn't say where, that though there were at least a dozen of these visitors, their names were always Smith or Brown, It was quite obvious that neither they nor Carswell wished their true names to be known. They must either be crooks or agents of some foreign power. Carswell had been suspected, probably with good reason, of having been engaged in espionage during the war. It was quite possible that he was now engaged in transmitting information to certain persons behind the Iron Curtain.

“That set the Colonel's two friends off again like a pair of greyhounds after a hare. Whether, although retired, they still dabble in Intelligence work I don't know. One doesn't ask that sort of question, but I expect they probably do. At all events they said that immediate action ought to be taken. We should all four go in a body to the Hall and get the truth out of Carswell. With our combined experience we should know how to tackle him.”

“And did you go?” Arnold asked. “You weren't here yesterday evening,” Merrion replied. “And it's very difficult to make anyone who didn't see the flood understand how completely isolated our party was from the outside world. As far as communicating with anybody went, we might just as well have been locked up in a prison cell. We were sitting in an upper room, actually the spare room in which the two friends were to sleep. There were at least six feet of water round the house, the cars were in it up to the roof, and the telephone was drowned. We couldn't get out, and nobody could come near us.”

“I'm told that the water had practically gone by midnight,” Arnold remarked.

“I daresay it had,” Merrion replied. “But by midnight we had all gone to bed. We had had a strenuous day, you must remember. I didn't go outside until this morning. Whether any of the others made a nocturnal expedition to Brensford Hall I can't say, but I don't think it's very likely. Quarrington and Rodden left by the half-past eight bus. There was no further mention of Carswell until the Colonel and I heard that he was dead. The news was brought by the man who delivers the newspapers, I believe.”

“There seem to have been quite a lot of Carswell's acquaintances in the village last night,” said Arnold. “Mr. Fosdyke had three strangers thrust upon him, and it was far from being a case of entertaining angels unaware. One of them, who gave his name as Jerry Newark, was desperately anxious to get to Brensford Hall. And he certainly isn't angelic. Jerry Newark is a name that frequently crops up in our investigations. We've never yet been able to track him down, but there's no doubt that if he's not a crook himself, he associates with crooks. And he disappeared from this house in the course of last night.”

“He managed to get to Brensford Hall, one supposes,” Merrion replied. “It's interesting that a man who associates with crooks should be an acquaintance of Carswell's. I wonder if he was one of the suspicious characters the Colonel saw about the place?”

At that moment Sapcote's car drew up outside the gate. “I shall have to get along now,” said Arnold. “We shall meet again soon, I don't doubt.” He went round to the back door, where he found the party still busy, and drew George aside. “Just one more question, Mr. Fosdyke,” he said. “You told us, I think, that Newark went off in the clothes you had lent him. Can you describe them?”

“I expect my wife can,” George replied. “She looked them out for him. Just a minute-Mary!”

Mary joined them, and Arnold repeated his question. “Yes, I can tell you what they were,” she replied. “A pair of old flannel trousers which George wears when he takes it into his head to do a bit of gardening. I noticed that they had a hole in the right knee. And a ridiculous brown Norfolk jacket, which George hasn't worn for years. I don't know why it hadn't been sent to a rummage sale long ago.” Arnold thanked her and joined Sapcote in the car. “I got the number from Deben and rang it,” said Sapcote. “I was told it was the Dormouse Club in Bayswater, and that Landrake was not in. Do you know anything about the place?”

“I've heard of it, but I've never been there,” Arnold replied. “It's a residential club for men only. I believe it's called the Dormouse because its members sleep there. Perfectly respectable, so far as I know.”

“I left a message for Landrake,” said Sapcote. “I gave the number of Owlsworth police station and asked him to ring up as soon as he got back to the club. I didn't give my name or say what the number was. Landrake is sure to suppose that it has something to do with his car. I don't doubt that he'll ring up.”

“If he doesn't, we know what to do,” Arnold replied. “I'll get on to the Yard and send someone round to the club to chase him. Meanwhile my friend Merrion has been telling me some rather interesting things. But they can wait till we get back to Owlsworth.”

“We may as well call at the Hall on our way,” said Sapcote. They drove off and pulled up at the Hall entrance. Weedon admitted them, and they went into the study. Knipe sprang to his feet. “I have something to report, sir.”

“Carry on. Constable,” Sapcote replied. “Has anyone called here?”

“No, sir,” said Knipe. “But half an hour ago the telephone rang, I didn't go to answer it, for I thought you'd rather the caller shouldn't know the police were in the house, sir. So I waited till Weedon came along and took the call. He said he was Mr. Carswell's butler, and asked who was speaking. Then he listened for a bit, not very long, and looked very much relieved. After that he began asking questions, but he didn't seem to get any answer. And when he put the telephone down I asked him who he had been speaking to. And he told me it was his son Chris. I didn't question him any further, sir, because I thought you would rather do that.”

“You acted quite correctly. Constable,” said Sapcote. “Ring the bell.” Knipe rang and within a couple of minutes Weedon appeared. “I understand that you have had a message from your son, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “Where is he?”

“He rang up from Ipminster, sir,” Weedon replied. “He said that his mother and I were not to worry about him, because he was quite all right. He had found a job, and was going to start work next Monday. He said he would come here by bus tomorrow, after Mr. Carswell had gone to London, and fetch his things.”

“Did you ask him where he was staying?” Sapcote asked.

“I didn't have a chance to ask him anything, sir,” Weedon replied. “As soon as he had told me what he wanted, he rang off.”

“Very well, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “You may leave us now.” Weedon went out and Sapcote turned to Arnold. “What are we going to do about that? Wait on the chance of Chris turning up, or get the Ipminster police to comb the town for him?”

“I should be inclined to wait,” Arnold replied. “I don't think he'd have told his father he was coming if he didn't mean to come. There wouldn't have been any point in it. If he doesn't turn up to-morrow, it will be a different matter.”

“Then we'll leave it at that,” said Sapcote. “And now we'll be getting along to Owlsworth. I won't forget to send your relief. Constable.” When they reached Owlsworth police station Sapcote found two messages. The first was from the coroner. He would hold the inquest at Brensford at eleven o'clock on Thursday morning. He would sit with a jury, and no doubt the Superintendent would make the necessary arrangements. The second message was from the county pathologist. He had been requested by the coroner to examine the body, and had arranged with Dr. Tudwick that they should do so together on Wednesday morning.

Sapcote told the sergeant on duty to send a constable to Brensford Hall to relieve Knipe. Then he showed the messages to Arnold. “There won't be any difficulty about the inquest,” he said. “The only possible place to hold it is the parish hall, and Knipe can round up a jury. I shall tell him not to include anyone living in Brensford Street. He can easily find seven good men and true in Brensford Green. And now what was it that you were going to tell me?”

Arnold repeated what Merrion had said to him on the lawn at Stream House. “It's rather curious that the Colonel's two visitors should have known so much about Carswell,” he went on. “Their idea of a combined descent upon Brensford Hall sounds fantastic, I know. But when one comes to think of it, I'm not so sure that it is. Those two counter-espionage chaps had a grudge against Carswell. Although they were fairly sure that he was conveying information to the enemy, he was too clever for them, and they were never able to prove it. If they could extract evidence from him that he was now communicating with people behind the Iron Curtain, their honour would be satisfied.

“Now we know that Jerry Newark managed to get away from Stream House some time during the night. It follows that these two chaps could have got away from The Elders. They had been put into a room by themselves, and could have slipped out without waking any of the others. Suppose this is what they did. They walked to the Hall, found the back door open and Carswell alone in the house. They entered the study unannounced. Not with the intention of murdering Carswell, but of asking him a lot of searching questions.

“You may be sure that Carswell recognised them, and guessed that this wasn't merely a friendly visit. He wasn't the man to take that sort of thing lying down. He snatched up the poker, and threatened to bash their heads in if they didn't clear out. That didn't intimidate them, and a struggle ensued. In the course of it, one of them caught Carswell by the neck. He may not have meant to strangle him, but merely to put him out of action while they took the poker from him. But he squeezed too hard, and Carswell died. This was unfortunate, because it meant that nothing could be got out of him. They left the Hall, and returned to The Elders by the way they had come.”

“A very pretty theory, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote. “You'll follow it up?”

“I certainly shall,” Arnold replied. “I can find out from the Colonel how to get in touch with both of these men. Now let's get back to Jerry Newark. Was he the visitor whom I believe Carswell to have been expecting?

“That's worth going into carefully. We are told that Landrake had been asked by Morstow to drive Newark to Brensford Hall, and that he agreed to do so. Newark was to have been left at the Hall, and the other two were to have driven back to London. Newark was very anxious to get to the Hall or, failing that, to communicate with Carswell.

“Now, consider the timing. It was about four o'clock when the car was held up outside Stream House. But for the flood, Newark would have arrived at the Hall a few minutes later. We may assume then that Carswell expected him at four o'clock, or at all events in the course of the afternoon. He probably knew that the flood had made the main road impassable, but he could hardly have guessed that Landrake had driven into it. He supposed that Newark would be delayed, owing to the car having to take a roundabout route.

“But it seems that by five o'clock Carswell had given up expecting Newark. He rang up the Black Swan and asked for a table to be reserved for him for dinner. For himself, only, without any mention of the possibility of his bringing a friend with him. He must have left the Hall about a quarter-past seven. At that time Newark was marooned at Stream House, although Carswell didn't know it.

“By the time that Carswell got back to the Hall, soon after nine, he must have abandoned all hope of seeing Newark that evening. A visitor expected at four was not likely to turn up five hours later. But what about the box full of fivers? It looks as though that had nothing to do with Newark. If Carswell had got it out in expectation of Newark's visit, he would have put it away again when he didn't turn up. He most certainly would not have left it on the table while he was away from the house.”

“That's perfectly sound reasoning,” said Sapcote. “What is your explanation?”

“That Carswell expected another visitor,” Arnold replied. “He may have made one appointment for the afternoon and another for the evening. It may be that Newark was to have met the second visitor. He was to have been left at the Hall, but there has been no mention of his being fetched from there. It may have been arranged that he should stay there for the night. He could have gone back to London with Carswell in the morning.”

“Have you any idea who this second visitor might have been?” Sapcote asked.

Arnold shook his head. “None. But we folk at the Yard know something about Jerry Newark. Now and then, when we are investigating a minor crime, his name crops up. Never as the principal, but as an intermediary. For instance, there was a case not long ago of a confidence trick being played on an unsuspecting foreigner. It was necessary that the crooks should be in possession of five hundred pounds in cash which they could display to their victim. We knew very well that they had nothing like all that cash between them. It came to our ears that it had been advanced by Jerry Newark. But beyond that we got no further. We were never able to get on the track of this most obliging lender.

“The way I look at it is this. Newark, if not a crook himself, is undoubtedly well known in the underworld. Colonel Heckley suspects Carswell of having been something other than the respectable brush manufacturer he professed to be. Yesterday may have been chosen by birds of a feather to flock together. If Carswell and Newark were to meet a third person, he was probably an equally doubtful character.”

The telephone on Sapcote's desk rang. He picked it up and listened to a message from the sergeant on duty. “Landrake is on the line,” he said to Arnold. “Will you speak to him, or shall I?”

“Perhaps I'd better,” Arnold replied. He took the telephone. “Put Mr. Landrake through, Sergeant,” he said.

A voice came through, rather a pleasant voice, Arnold thought. “This is Harold Landrake speaking from the Dormouse Club. When I came in a moment ago I was given a message asking me to ring up Owlsworth 1331. Well, here I am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Landrake,” Arnold replied. “I am a police officer. Mr. Fosdyke has complained to us that your friend Mr. Newark has made off with some of his property. A pair of grey flannel trousers and a brown Norfolk jacket.”

“He's no friend of mine,” Landrake replied. “I never set eyes on him until yesterday.”

“But no doubt you can give me his London address?” Arnold asked.

“I can't even do that,” Landrake replied. “His brother-in-law, Andrew Morstow, would know it, but I don't.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me how I can get in touch with Mr. Morstow?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know where he lives either,” Landrake replied. “I've never been to his home. He's really only a casual acquaintance of mine. We run into each other fairly frequently at the Artichoke, off Leicester Square.”

“Did Mr. Newark intend to stay at Brensford Hall last night?” Arnold asked.

“I think he must have, because he brought a suitcase with him,” Landrake replied. “I put it in the boot of the car. But it wasn't there when I looked this morning. I expect Newark took it out when he left Stream House.”

“Thank you, Mr. Landrake,” said Arnold. “Should you come across Mr. Newark again, you might ask him to hand in Mr. Fosdyke's property to the nearest police station.” He rang off and repeated the conversation to Sapcote. “I think Landrake was telling the truth,” he said. “It's quite likely that Morstow and Newark merely made use of him and his car. And or course Newark won't go near a police station. I only made up that yarn about Mr. Fosdyke having lodged a complaint to account for the police being interested in Newark.”

“What do you propose to do next?” Sapcote asked.

“About Newark?” Arnold replied. “I shall wait till I get back to London. Then I shall get in touch with Landrake, and take him to the Artichoke. He can introduce me to Morstow if he turns up. And surely I ought to be able to get some clue to Newark's whereabouts from him.”

“Do you suppose that Morstow is also a crook?” Sapcote asked.

“It's not unlikely,” Arnold replied. “Though I suppose it doesn't follow that a crook's brother-in-law is necessarily a crook himself. This is what I suggest doing, if it fits in with your plans. I shall stay here tonight, and we'll go to Brensford in the morning, to meet Chris if he turns up, as I rather expect he will. Then I'll go back to London, and get things moving at that end.”

“I don't think you can do better,” said Sapcote. “I recommend you to stay at the Black Swan here. You'll be back in time for the inquest on Thursday, I hope?”

“I'll do my best,” Arnold replied. “But if I find myself hot on Newark's trail, I shan't leave it. I want to know if he went to Brensford Hall last night and, if so, what happened while he was there.”

CHAPTER VI

ARNOLD WENT TO the Black Swan, sought out the manager and had a further conversation. He learnt that Mr. Carswell, though he had dined fairly frequently at the hotel, had never brought anyone with him. Mr. Carswell had been a gentleman of ungracious manners, and had never seemed to have a polite word for anybody. The manager knew Brensford, as he and his wife sometimes drove to the Rolling-Pin and had tea there. He had heard quite a lot about Mr. Carswell from Mr. Grayshott, the landlord, who disliked him intensely. Mr. Grayshott had said that the best thing about Mr. Carswell was that he went up to London nearly every day, which meant that he couldn't make a nuisance of himself in the village.

On Wednesday morning Arnold and Sapcote met at the police station. “Good morning, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote. “I hope you slept well. I've just had a phone call from Dr. Tudwick, to say that he and the pathologist will be at Brensford Hall at eleven o'clock. I told him that we'd be there to meet them. A bus from Ipminster reaches Brensford at half-past ten. That's pretty sure to be the one Chris will take, if he shows up at all. And I'm by no means so sure of that as you seem to be.”

“Well, we shall see,” Arnold replied. “What time does the first bus run from Brensford to here?”

“At half-past eight,” said Sapcote. “That's the one that Landrake and Morstow took yesterday morning.”

“And the Colonel's two visitors as well,” Arnold agreed. “When does the first train leave here for London?”

“At six forty-five,” Sapcote replied. “It's a slow train, and there's a change at Ipminster. The time of arrival in London is nine-fifty. What makes you ask that particular question?”

“I'm wondering what, became of Newark,” said Arnold. “He would have wanted to get away from these parts as soon as he could. If he caught the train you speak of he would have got to London well ahead of the other two. Are there usually many passengers by the six forty-five?”

“Quite a few as far as Ipminster,” Sapcote replied. “Several people who live here work there.”

“Those regular passengers presumably have season tickets,” said Arnold. “Newark would have had to buy his ticket. Very few people wear Norfolk jackets these days, and it's just possible the booking clerk may remember him by that. Could you send one of your men to make enquiries at the railway station?”

“Certainly,” Sapcote replied. “I'll send a constable along now. We shall hear his report when we get back from the Hall. We shall find Knipe there. He has relieved the man I sent over yesterday evening.” They reached Brensford Hall shortly before half-past ten, to find Knipe on guard in the study. “You know Chris Weedon by sight, I suppose. Constable?” Sapcote asked.

“Yes, sir, I know him well,” Knipe replied.

“Very well,” said Sapcote. “There's a chance that he'll come here by the half-past ten bus. I don't want him to meet his parents until we've seen him. Go along to the gate and wait there. If Chris turns up, bring him with you. And leave the front door open, so that you can get in that way. We shall be in the hall.” Knipe went out and Sapcote turned to Arnold. “We don't want him in here. We can talk, to him in one of the other rooms. Let's see.” He opened one of the doors leading off the hall, which happened to be that of the dining-room. “This will do very well,” he said. “There's a key in the lock, and we'll turn it and keep it when we've got our man. We don't want Weedon or his wife butting in, nor do we want Chris to try to make a bolt for it. Look there! You seem to have been right after all, Mr. Arnold.”

The window of the dining-room overlooked the drive. Two men were approaching the front door, Knipe and a young man, good looking, but with a rather sulky expression. Arnold and Sapcote went to the front door to meet them. “This is Chris Weedon, sir,” said Knipe.

Chris seemed very much surprised at finding himself in the presence of these two strangers. “What's all this about?” he asked truculently.

“You will very soon find out,” Sapcote replied. “Come this way.” The three of them entered the dining-room, Knipe bringing up the rear. “You can go back to the study. Constable,” said Sapcote. “And when Dr. Tudwick comes, let me know.”

As Knipe went out, Arnold turned the key and put it in his pocket. “Sit down,” said Sapcote, pointing to a chair facing the window. “We have some questions to ask you. First, why did you leave Mr. Carswell in the lurch at Owlsworth on Monday evening?”

“Oh, so that's it!” Chris exclaimed. “Well, I'll tell you. It was because I couldn't stick it any longer. He'd been on at me all day, and I'd had more than enough of it. I'd have done it before, if it hadn't been that Dad and Mum begged me to stop on with them.”

“What would you have done before?” Sapcote asked.

“Why, gone away and found myself a job where I shouldn't have been nagged at all day,” Chris replied. “He was worse on Monday than I'd ever known him. He had only me to find fault with, Dad and Mum being out. It started in the morning when he rang for me. He said he'd been round the garden, and it looked like a wilderness. Why wasn't I out there tidying things up, instead of idling about the house?

“Then it was when I told him his lunch was ready. He came in here and told me I hadn't laid the table properly. Besides, my hands were dirty. Didn't I ever wash them? And did I expect him to eat his lunch off a filthy plate? He told me to take it away and get him a clean one.

“Later on in the afternoon, when it was raining and hailing like I never remember seeing it come down before, he rang for me again. He gave me a letter and told me to go and post it. I put on a mac and started of down the road. The first thing I saw was a line of cars drawn up. And I didn't have to go much farther to see why. The river had over-flowed right across the road. The letter-box is in the wall between the Rolling-Pin and The Elders, but I couldn't see it because it was under water.

“So I came back, gave him his letter, an told him how things were. He didn't seem to believe me, and told me that the reason I hadn't posted the letter was that I was afraid of getting my feet wet. I told him it wouldn't have been any good posting a letter in a box full of water. And I went on to say that I didn't see how Dad and Mum were going to get back here in time to get him his dinner.”

“Hold on a moment,” said Sapcote. “Did you look at the address on the letter?”

“I did happen to see it,” Chris replied. “It was to the garage in Owlsworth where he always gets his petrol. On my way to the station to fetch him on Friday afternoon, I called there and had the car filled up. They gave me a bill which I passed on to him. They do that early every month. I expect there was a cheque in the letter in payment of it.”

“I see,” said Sapcote. “Go on with your story.”

“When I told him about Dad and Mum he seemed to think it was their fault,” Chris replied. “He said they'd snatch at any excuse to shirk their duties. But if they weren't going to be home in time for dinner, he wasn't going to eat another meal served up by me. He wasn't going to risk being poisoned by my filthy habits. He would have his dinner at the Black Swan in Owlsworth. I was to have the car at the door at seven-fifteen, ready to drive him there.”

“Was Mr. Carswell expecting a visitor on Monday afternoon?” Sapcote asked.

“That I couldn't say.' Chris replied. “He didn't tell me he was. But then if he had been expecting anybody, he'd have thought it was no business of mine.”

“You drove Mr. Carswell to the Black Swan?” Sapcote asked. “What happened then?”

“Yes, I drove him there all right,” Chris replied. “And he was on to me all the time. He said the car wasn't running properly, and it was because I was too lazy to look after it. Besides, I was driving carelessly, and he believed that I'd been drinking his whisky.”

“Was that the case?” Sapcote asked.

“No, it wasn't,” Chris replied indignantly. “I don't care for whisky. All I ever drink is a drop of beer, when I get the chance of slipping down to the Rolling-Pin of an evening. I hadn't had anything to drink all day, and there was nothing wrong with the way the car was running. It was just that he couldn't resist nagging at anyone who was handy.

“When we got to the Black Swan he told me to be ready to drive him home again any time after half-past eight. What he expected me to do till then I don't know. Go and get myself something to eat, I suppose. It wouldn't have been like him to give me some money to pay for it. But I'd made up my mind what I meant to do before we left the Hall.”

“What did you mean to do?” Sapcote asked.

“Clear out and be rid of him for good and all,” Chris replied. “I'd got a bit of money laid by, and I'd taken it with me. After he'd gone into the Black Swan, I strolled round to the bus station and caught the eight o'clock bus to Ipminster.”

“Where did you get off the bus?” Sapcote asked.

“Why, in Ipminster, to be sure,” Chris replied. “It took a lot longer than usual, because it couldn't go straight along the main road like it always does. I daresay it was half-past nine or more by the time I got to Ipminster.”

“What did you do when you did get there?” Sapcote asked.

“The first thing I did was to drop into the cafe close by where the bus stops,” Chris replied. “I had a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches. Then I set out to look for a pal of mine. He used to work for a carpenter in Brensford Green, but when the old man died about a year ago he took a job in Ipminster. I knew where he lodged, and went there to look for him. But his landlady said he had had his supper and gone out. I might very likely find him at the Pink Flower.

“I went along there and found the place full, it being Bank Holiday. But I couldn't see Bob anywhere, so I sat down and had a glass of beer, thinking he might come in any time. I stayed there till half-past ten or maybe later, but Bob didn't turn up. So I went back to his lodgings and found that he'd just come in. He hadn't been in the Pink Flower that evening, but to another place.”

“What is the name and address of this friend of yours?” Sapcote asked.

“His name is Bob Yaxley,” Chris replied. “And he lodges at 7 Copper Lane. His people live in London, but he never could get on with them, so he left home. Bob was that surprised to see me, and asked me what I was doing in Ipminster at that time of night. I told him that I'd chucked my hand in, and that I was going round to the employment exchange in the morning to see if I could find another job. And I asked Bob if I could stop the night with him.”

“What time was it when this conversation took place?” Sapcote asked.

Before Chris could answer, there came a knock on the door. Arnold got up, took the key from his pocket and opened it, to find Knipe outside. “I beg your pardon, sir.” said Knipe. “Dr. Tudwick and another gentleman have just arrived, and gone into the study.”

“Very well. Constable,” Sapcote replied. “I'll see them before they go. That'll do.” Knipe went out, and Arnold relocked the door. “I'll repeat that question,” said Sapcote. “What time was it when you had this talk with your friend?”

“It must have been about eleven, or a bit later,” Chris replied. “Bob wasn't so surprised when I told him that. He knew that for a long time I'd been wanting to get away from the Hall. He told me that there was a vacancy for a cleaner at the place where he worked, and that I might have a try for that. I could doss down in his room for the night, and if I got a job I could look round for somewhere to lodge in the morning.

“I went to the Exchange as soon as it was open on Tuesday. I told them of the vacancy Bob had told me about, and said that I thought it would suit me. They asked me a lot of questions and seemed satisfied with what I told them. In the end they sent me round to the factory to try my luck.

“I saw the foreman, and he asked me what my last job had been. I said I had been employed as handyman at Brensford Hall. And I told him straight that it wouldn't bexxx any good applying for a reference, for if wasn't likely that I should get one. He asked me how that was, and I told him that my boss would have his knife into me because I'd left without giving notice. But he was very nice about it. He said he'd take me onxxx a week's trial. I'm to start next Monday.”

“Meanwhile, you will stay here,” said Sapcote. “You understand that?”

“Stay here?” Chris exclaimed. “I can't do that. I don't want to see Mr. Carswell. I've finished with him.”

“You'll do what I tell you,” said Sapcote “Go and talk to your parents.” Arnold opened the door and Chris went out. “Well, and what do you make of that yarn, Mr. Arnold?” Sapcote asked.

“It sounded fairly convincing,” Arnold replied. “It all depends upon the time when he first called at his friend's lodgings. If it was as early as he says, he can't have got off the bus at the nearest point to here and then made his way to Ipminster.”

“I'll check up on that,” said Sapcote. “There's this about it. If what he said about Mr. Carswell was true, he had a motive for murdering him. And it certainly conforms to what we've heard about Mr. Carswell from other sources. I suppose we'd better wait here and see what the pathologist has to tell us.” They discussed the possibilities for half an hour or so, with the door open so that they could see what went on. Then the study door opened and Dr. Tudwick and the pathologist came out.

Sapcote and Arnold went to meet them. “Good morning, Superintendent,” said the pathologist. “The constable told us that you were here. “I have very little to add to Dr. Tudwick's opinion. Mr. Carswell was strangled by someone standing behind him. Considerable force must have been used, because one of the small bones of the neck is broken, And I agree with my colleague's estimate of the time of death. Within two hours either way of midnight on Monday.”

“Well, there's no doubt about that,” said Sapcote, when Dr. Tudwick and the pathologist had left the house. “I wish the doctors could find some way of making a closer estimate. Four hours is a long time.”

“And in this case the exact time would have been most helpful,” Arnold replied. “From what we've been told about the flood, nobody from Brensford could have got here before midnight. But after that, the way was clear to anyone from Stream House or The Elders.”

“That's true enough,” Sapcote agreed. “We shall have to do the best we can with the time limit we've got. You'd like to be getting back to Owlsworth, I daresay?”

“I'd like a word with the Colonel first,” Arnold replied. “I want to get the addresses of those two friends of his from him.” They were about to leave the house when Chris came into the hall from the back premises. His manner was more respectful than it had been before. “Dad and Mum have told me what's happened,” he said. “I quite understand that you think I know something about it, but I don't. The last time I saw Mr. Carswell was when he left the car in the yard of the Black Swan. I didn't come back here after that, but went straight to Ipminster. And I'm quite ready now to do what you tell me.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Sapcote replied. “Tell me this. When you went out to get the car on Monday evening, did you lock the back door behind you?”

“No, I didn't do that,” said Chris. “I left it unlocked so that Dad and Mum could get in that way.”

“Very well,” said Sapcote. “That will do for the present. You will be called upon to give evidence at the inquest to-morrow.”

Sapcote drove Arnold to The Elders, where they found the Colonel displaying his latest litter of pigs to Merrion. “I don't know Rodden's address,” he replied to Arnold's question. “Quarrington can give it to you. He's got a flat in Greeting Gardens. I don't remember the number offhand, but you'll find it in the telephone book. Did you hear about my ducks, Mr. Arnold?”

“I can't say that I did. Colonel,” Arnold replied.

“Then I'll tell you,” said Heckley. “It's the sort of thing that can't often happen. When the flood came they got carried away down the river. And, would you believe it, next morning a farmer just this side of Owlsworth found them stranded high and dry in one of his fields. He guessed they were mine, and sent a lad over on a bicycle to ask me if I'd lost any. He shut them up, and he's going to bring them here this evening. I couldn't fetch them myself, because neither Merrion's car nor mine is ready yet. Marvellous! The current might have carried them right out to sea.”

Having expressed polite astonishment, Arnold and Sapcote drove back to Owlsworth. When they entered the police station, the sergeant on duty reported to Sapcote. “The constable is back from the railway station, sir. Will you see him?”

“Yes, I'll see him now,” Sapcote replied. “Send him to my room.”

The constable appeared and made his report. “I proceeded to the railway station, sir, and found the clerk who issued tickets on Tuesday morning. He told me that he issued only three tickets before the departure of the six forty-five, two to Ipminster and one to London. He distinctly remembers the passenger who booked to London. He was short and rather tubby, and hadn't shaved that morning. He was wearing a pair of grey flannel trousers, shabby and too long for him, and a brown Norfolk jacket. The clerk thought he must be a tramp, sir.”

“Tramps don't as a rule buy railway tickets to London,” Sapcote remarked. “There's no doubt that the man was Newark. Any more. Constable?”

“Yes sir,” the constable replied. “To the clerk's surprise, the passenger asked for a first class ticket. The clerk told him that the first class single fare to London was nineteen shillings and eightpence. The passenger took a wallet from his pocket and handed him a pound note. The clerk thinks there were several other notes in the wallet.

“Then I found the inspector who was checking tickets at the barrier that morning. I asked him if he remembered a passenger in a brown Norfolk jacket. He said that he remembered him well, for it had struck him as very queer that such a rum-looking chap should have bought a first class ticket. And what was almost as queer was that he was carrying a leather suitcase which looked nearly new.”

“All right. Constable, that'll do,” said Sapcote. The constable went out, and Sapcote glanced at Arnold. “And what do you make of that?” he asked.

“It's much what I expected,” Arnold replied. “The quickest way for Newark to get away from this neighbourhood was to catch the first train from here. But this seems to me to be the question. Newark was desperately anxious to get to Brensford Hall. What made him equally anxious to get away from there?”

“That's an easy one,” said Sapcote. “A murderer is naturally anxious to get away from the scene of his crime as soon as possible.”

“Very well,” Arnold replied. “But Newark wasn't anxious to get to the Hall in order to murder Mr. Carswell. He wouldn't have advertised his anxiety so widely if that had been his intention. Let's see if we can reconstruct what actually happened.

“But for the flood, Newark would have got to the Hall about four o'clock. As it was, he got no farther than Stream House, and was stranded there until midnight or thereabouts. As soon as the water had gone down sufficiently he left the house, took his suitcase from the boot of Landrake's car and walked to the Hall. He rang the front door bell and Mr. Carswell, who must surely have been waiting for him, or he would not have been sitting in the study so late, let him in.

“What happened next we can't tell. All we know is that, sooner or later, there was a quarrel. Carswell picked up the poker, there was a scrimmage, and the other man strangled him. I can't help thinking that the box of notes had something to do with the quarrel.

“Now, assuming that the other man was Newark, what did he do next? The fact that he had a suitcase with him strongly suggests that he had expected to stay the night at the Hall. But, having strangled his host, he could hardly do that. So he cleared out, suitcase and all. I'm rather surprised that he didn't take the box of notes as well. I expect he went some way, then laid up until daylight. Then he walked the rest of the way to Owlsworth, and caught the first train back to London.”

“I can't think why he drew attention to himself by buying a first class ticket,” Sapcote remarked.

“He was conspicuous enough already, in this queer rigout,” Arnold replied. “And I can guess why he bought a first class ticket. He wanted a compartment to himself. He could be fairly sure of that, for I don't suppose many first class passengers travel by that train. Possibly he had another suit of clothes in his suitcase. Alone in a compartment, he could have changed in the train, thus arriving in London in a more normal costume.”

“You may be right,” said Sapcote. “If you're going after him, I recommend youxxx to catch the one-twenty train. It runs through to London, and you can get something to eat on it. I'll drive you to the station.”

“I'll take your advice,” Arnold replied, “I should like to get expert opinion on those fivers. Can I borrow one of them as a sample?” Sapcote gave him one of the notes, then drove him to the railway station.

When he had had lunch, Sapcote drove to Ipminster and stopped at number 7 Copper Lane. He knocked on the door, which after a short interval was opened by a cheerful-looking middle-aged woman. “Good afternoon,” said Sapcote. “Mr. Bob Yaxley lodges with you, doesn't he?”

“That's right,” the woman replied. “But he's not here now. He's at work. He's employed at the bacon factory down by the station.”

“Did a visitor call here to see him on Monday evening?” Sapcote asked.

“That's right,” she replied. “I didn't know who he was when he first called here. But he stayed the night with Mr. Yaxley, and he told me in the morning who he was, a Chris Weedon, that he'd known when he was working in Brensford Green.”

“What time was it when Weedon first called here?” Sapcote asked.

“Well now let me see,” the woman replied. “It can't have been much after ten, for it was a quarter past when my husband came in a few minutes later. I told Mr. Weedon that Mr. Yaxley wasn't at home, but that he might find him at the Pink Flower, as he often went there in the evening.”

“And what time was it when Weedon came back again?” Sapcote asked.

“It must have been about eleven,” she replied. “I can't say for certain, because I didn't let him in myself. It was this way, Mr. Yaxley came in not long after my husband, and the three of us sat in the kitchen for a while. I told him that a friend of his had called, and he said he didn't know who that might be. I said that his friend might call again later on, and he said that my husband and I needn't wait up for him. He'd listen for a knock and open the door.

“It wasn't long after my husband and I had gone upstairs that I heard a knock, and then the door opened and shut again. I heard two voices, Mr. Yaxley's and another man's. They came upstairs and I could hear them talking in Mr. Yaxley's room, which is next to ours. They were still at it when I went to sleep.” Sapcote thanked the woman and drove back to Owlsworth. He saw no reason for disbelieving what she had told him, and her statement confirmed Chris's in every respect. Since he had been in Ipminster at 140 ten o'clock, he could not have called at Brensford Hall on his way there. Not only would time not have permitted, but the flood would have barred his way from the Hall to Ipminster.

It was equally impossible that he should have returned to the Hall after eleven. His only way of getting there would have been on foot, and he could hardly have walked the fifteen miles odd before two, the latest hour agreed by the doctors for Mr. Carswell's death. Besides, what explanation could he have given his friend Bob of this nocturnal expedition? No doubt remained of Chris's innocence.

CHAPTER VII

AS ARNOLD ATE his meal on the train, his thoughts were centred upon Jerry Newark. That he was an extremely doubtful character was already fully apparent. What had made him so anxious to reach Brensford Hall? And what reason had he for supposing that Mr. Carswell would put him up? Had he received an invitation to spend the night in the Hall?

That struck Arnold as a rather curious point. If Mr. Carswell had invited Newark, he would almost certainly have told him to come by train, and that he would meet him at Owlsworth station. Mr. Carswell could not have anticipated that Newark would, find a friend of a friend who would obligingly drive him all the way from London. Further, if Mr. Carswell had been expecting a guest for the night, he would surely have told the Weedons to get a bed ready for him.

Arnold began to wonder whether Mr., Carswell had been expecting Newark. His behaviour that afternoon and evening hardly suggested that he had. Then what had been the reason for Newark's intended visit to the Hall? That the two already knew each other there could be no doubt. Incidentally, the fact that Mr. Carswell had such an acquaintance as Newark was no testimonial to his own integrity. It seemed not impossible that the two of them had been engaged together upon some nefarious project. Some unexpected development had taken place. It had been essential that Mr. Carswell should be consulted upon this. It had not been a fitting matter for discussion over the telephone. This had been the reason for Newark's journey.

Arnold's first call on reaching London was at the Bank of England. He left the five pound note there, with the request that it should be examined and a report sent to Scotland Yard as soon as possible. Then he went on there and rang up the Dormouse Club. On asking if Mr. Landrake was in, he was told that he was, and that if he would hold on for a moment he would be put through to him. In a few seconds a voice replied. “Harold Landrake speaking. Who is that?”

“Inspector Arnold, of the Metropolitan Police,” said Arnold. “I spoke to you on the telephone from Owlsworth yesterday, Mr. Landrake. Would it be convenient if I came to see you now?”

“I can't tell you any more than I did yesterday,” Landrake replied. “But if you care to come along, do so by all means. If you ask the hall porter, he'll show you up to my room.” Arnold took a bus to the Dormouse Club, a fairly large building in Bayswater. He gave his name to the porter, who called a page. The boy took Arnold up in a lift to the second floor, then along a corridor. He stopped at a door and knocked. A voice bade him enter.

He opened the door. “Mr. Arnold to see you, sir.” Arnold entered the room, which was very comfortably furnished as a bed-sitting room.

Landrake rose from an armchair and laid aside the book he had been reading. “Dull stuff,” he said, “but I'm reading for the Bar, and one has to take the law as it comes. Sit down, Mr. Arnold. I think you'll find that chair fairly comfortable. It's about Mr. Fosdyke's clothes again?”

“How much do you know about Jerry Newark, Mr. Landrake?” Arnold asked.

“Nothing whatever, beyond that Morstow told me he was his brother-in-law,” said Landrake. “To be quite frank, I didn't take to him overmuch. Morstow isn't a bad fellow, but I can't congratulate him on his brother-in-law. I'd never even heard of Newark until Monday morning.”

“Did Mr. Morstow tell you why his brother-in-law wanted to go to Brensford Hall?” Arnold asked.

“He gave no reason,” Landrake replied. “He merely said that it was a matter of great importance. I didn't feel inclined to ask questions. I only agreed to take Newark there because I had nothing better to do that afternoon and I thought it would be a pleasant drive.”

“It turned out to be a remarkably unpleasant one,” Arnold remarked. “You will go and fetch your car as soon as you hear that it is ready?”

“I had a telephone call from Deben just now,” Landrake replied. “He told me that the car would be ready tomorrow afternoon. He said that if I would take the train which gets to Owlsworth at three-twenty, he would meet me in my car at the station. That's what I shall do. I shall drive Deben back to Plestham, and call at Stream House on the way to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke.”

Arnold reflected that he would inevitably hear of what had happened to Mr. Carswell. There could therefore be no harm in telling him now. “A crime was committed at Brensford Hall during Monday night,” he said. “On Tuesday morning, very shortly after you left Brensford, Mr Carswell was found strangled in his study.”

“Strangled?” Landrake exclaimed. “Do you suspect Newark of having strangled him?”

“I am anxious to interview Mr. Newark.” Arnold replied. “It seems quite possible that when he left Stream House in the course of Monday night he went to Brensford Hall.”

“He was certainly fidgeting to get there,” said Landrake. “So it isn't only Mr. Fosdyke's clothes that the police are interested in?”

“That was only my pretext for asking you for Mr. Newark's address,” Arnold replied “You will understand that there are matte better not discussed on the telephone.”

“Quite,” said Landrake. “But I have no idea where Newark lives or, for that matter where he is normally to be found. As I told you yesterday, his brother-in-law should know.”

“Have you seen Mr. Morstow since you and he left Brensford together?” Arnold asked.

Landrake shook his head. “We travelled together as far as Liverpool Street, and there we parted. Morstow said he had business in the city, and I came along here. I haven't been to the Artichoke this week.”

“Are you likely to go there this evening?” Arnold asked.

“I could,” Landrake replied. “When Morstow goes there, it is usually about nine. If you care to meet me there then, and he turns up, I could introduce you.”

“That's a very kind offer,” said Arnold. “I will be at the Artichoke at nine or soon after.” After some further conversation he left the club and returned to Scotland Yard. He had not been there very long when he was rung up by an official of the Bank of England, who asked for a personal interview. Arnold suggested that he should come to Scotland Yard, to which he agreed, adding that he would start at once.

While awaiting his arrival, Arnold consulted the telephone directory. He found the entry he was looking for. “Quarrington, Maj. C, J., 5 Greeting Gardens, S.W.5.” He copied the number into his notebook. He would ring up Major Quarrington when a suitable opportunity presented itself.

The official from the Bank arrived and was shown into Arnold's room. He was obviously in a state of considerable excitement. “I have called to see you with reference to the note you left at the Bank this afternoon, Mr. Arnold,” he said. “There is no doubt that it is a forgery. The genuine note bearing the same number is in our vaults at this moment. But it is a very able forgery. No one but an expert would be able to detect that it was false. It might have remained in circulation for a long time before any suspicion of its genuineness arose. It is, I observe, perfectly clean and uncreased. May I ask how it came into your possession, Mr. Arnold?”

“It is one of about five hundred similar notes which were found in a metal box,” Arnold replied. “I hasten to assure that the rest of the notes are in the hands of the police. The box was found in the possession of a certain Mr. Carswell of Brensford Hall. Unfortunately, at the time of the finding Mr. Carswell was dead. He had in fact been murdered.”

The official uttered a sigh of relief. “I suppose I shouldn't say so, but I am very glad that Mr. Carswell is dead. Have you any reason to suppose that he was himself the forger of the notes?”

“I have as yet no evidence on that point,” Arnold replied. “He may have been, but I think it more probable that he was merely an agent for their distribution.”

“Our security people have for some time been aware that false five pound notes were in circulation,” said the official. “But those brought to our notice had passed through so many hands that it was impossible to trace their origin. We hoped that those still in circulation were small in number. It appals me to hear you speak of as many as five hundred from one source alone. You will, I trust, keep us informed of the progress of your investigations into the origin of the notes found in Mr. Carswell's possession?” Arnold promised to do this, and after some further discussion of the matter the official took his leave.

Arnold felt distinctly pleased that his intuition, for it had been scarcely more than that, had been correct. How had a box packed full of spurious fivers found its way into Mr. Carswell's possession?

That question was, for the present at least, unanswerable. A second presented itself. What had he intended to do with the notes? The box was on his table, and the key in his waistcoat pocket. The inference was that he meant to pass the notes on to some person whom he expected to call at the Hall. Who could this person have been?

Newark, was the obvious answer. But to this theory there were objections. Mr. Carswell might have been expecting Newark to arrive in the afternoon. But surely he would have given him up by midnight? And, if the notes were intended for Newark, why hadn't he taken the box?

After a quiet meal in Soho, Arnold went on to the Artichoke, arriving there punctually at nine o'clock. The place was all strip lighting and chromium and was crowded. Arnold noticed that the customers were all more or less well dressed, and that the male element predominated. As he looked round for Landrake, he recognised a middle-aged man, with nothing particularly distinctive about him. He might have been a head clerk from some office. The two exchanged glances, but did not approach each other. Arnold wondered what on earth Detective-Sergeant Wighton was doing in a place like this.

At that moment Landrake came up to Arnold, holding a glass of whisky. “I saw you come in, Mr. Arnold,” he said. “But it's taken me all this time to fight my way through the crush. It's always like this, especially on Wednesday evening. Morstow hasn't turned up yet, but I expect he will. May I have the pleasure of buying you a drink?”

“That's very good of you,” Arnold replied. “Can one get beer here?”

“Oh, yes,” said Landrake. “They won't serve you with a pint in this bar, but I'll get you a glass.” With some difficulty he made his way to the counter and returned with a glass of beer. “Here's your very good health, Mr. Arnold,” he said, taking a sip of his whisky.

And yours, Mr. Landrake,” Arnold replied, sampling the beer, which he found none too good. They stood watching the entrance, through which was a constant coming and going. “Ah, there he is!” Landrake exclaimed.

A man had entered and was looking about him. Seeing Landrake, he made his way towards him. “I thought I might find you here, Harold,” he said. “We haven't met since our queer adventure. How goes it?”

“Not too badly,” Landrake replied. “I'm going back to-morrow to fetch my car. What are you going to drink?”

“Thanks very much,” said Morstow. “The usual. You know. Gin and lime, if it's all the same to you.”

Landrake went to the counter again and returned with a glass which he handed to Morstow. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Arnold. He comes from Scotland Yard, and he wants to ask you about your brother-in-law.”

Morstow gave Arnold a quick shrewd glance. “What's Jerry been up to?” he asked.

“There's been some bother about the clothes he was wearing when he left Stream House,” Arnold replied. “They belong to Mr. Fosdyke, and he's rather upset about it. He has asked the police to find Mr. Newark, and get him to return them. Can you give me Mr. Newark's address?”

“Why, of course,” Morstow replied. “He doesn't live in London. He's got a little place in the country. The address is Fern Cottage, Markover. It's not very far from Rendley, on the Portsmouth road.”

“Is Mr. Newark on the telephone?” Arnold asked.

Morstow shook his head. “No, Fern Cottage is too remote for that. It's an odd little place, no telephone, no electricity, no main water, no nothing. I fancy that the only reason why Jerry bought it was that it was cheap.”

“Has your brother-in-law any occupation?” Arnold asked.

“Well, no, not definitely,” Morstow replied. “He dabbles in lots of things, none of them very profitable. And he knows a surprising number of people. He's always coming up to London to see somebody. My wife and I see him fairly often. She is his sister, you know. Both of them inherited quite comfortable incomes from their parents.”

“Do you know why Mr. Newark wished to see Mr. Carswell on Monday?” Arnold asked.

“No, I don't,” Morstow replied. “All I can tell you is that he blew in on us on Monday morning. We were very much surprised to see him, it being Bank Holiday, and more so because he had a suitcase with him. We asked him if he had come to stay with us, and he said no, it wasn't that. He was going to stay at Brensford Hall. Did we know of anyone with a car who would oblige him by driving him there?”

“I asked him why he didn't hire a car, and he replied that he didn't want to do that, because it would be so terribly expensive. Jerry's like that. He won't pay for a thing if he sees any chance of getting it for nothing. I immediately thought of Harold here, who is the soul of good nature. I told Jerry that I did know of somebody, but whether he'd be in town on Bank Holiday I couldn't say. I'd go and find out and, if he was, I'd ask him. So I went round to the Dormouse. That's right, isn't it, Harold?”

“Quite right,” Landrake replied. “And as it looked like a fine day for a drive, I said yes. If I'd known there was going to be a flood in Brensford I should have said no.”

“I'm awfully sorry about your car,” said Morstow. “I feel that Jerry and I are to blame. When I went back and told Jerry that you'd take us, he seemed much relieved. He said it was most important that he should get to Brensford Hall that afternoon. I asked him why, but he wouldn't tell me. He merely said that Mr. Carswell wished to consult him on a matter concerning his private affairs. Mr. Carswell's, not Jerry's.”

“Then Mr. Carswell must have been expecting him?” Arnold suggested.

“Presumably,” Morstow replied. “Even Jerry wouldn't plant himself in a friend's house without having been invited. Why Mr. Carswell should have wished to consult him I have no idea. I had never heard Jerry mention his name before.”

“You know whether this was to have been Mr. Newark's first visit to Brensford Hall?” Arnold asked.

“No, I don't,” Morstow replied. “Jerry is always running about, calling on his friends. By the way he spoke, I fancy that he must have been to Brensford Hall before. He knew, at all events, that it was on the main road from Ipminster to Owlsworth.”

“When did you last see Mr. Newark?” Arnold asked.

“When I went to sleep in the same room with him at Stream House,” Morstow replied. “I don't know about you, Harold, but I must have drunk quite a lot of Mr. Fosdyke's excellent whisky. At all events, I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. And when Mr. Fosdyke woke me up in the morning. Jerry was gone.”

“Where do you suppose he had gone to?” Arnold asked.

“Brensford Hall, I imagine,” Morstow replied. “He must have seen that the water had gone down, and decided to walk there. I'm sorry that he went off in Mr. Fosdyke' clothes, but it's just the sort of thing he would do. He's very absentminded, and expect he didn't realise that they weren't his own. I'm perfectly certain that he had no intention of stealing them.”

“Are you surprised at not having seen Mr. Newark since Monday night?” Arnold asked.

“I can't say that I am,” Morstow replied. “To-day's only Wednesday. We never know when Jerry will drop in to see us, but it's very rarely more than once a week. My wife and I don't often go down to Fern Cottage. It's a bit of an undertaking, for we haven't got a car. We go by train to Rendley station, and Jerry meets us there. He has a small car, so old that I'm always expecting it to fall to pieces at any moment. I think he only uses it to get to the station and back.”

“You live in London, I take it?” Arnold asked casually.

“Oh, yes,” Morstow replied. “We've got a flat in Paddington, just off Praed Street. It's not a very fashionable neighbourhood, I know, but the flat's comfortable enough, and it suits us.”

“Unlike your brother-in-law, you have some occupation?” Arnold suggested.

“Only a part-time one,” Morstow replied. “I'm an agent for a firm of tailors, and I do my best to persuade my friends to buy their clothes from them. It's an occupation which doesn't bring in much but on the other hand it's not too strenuous.”

Arnold looked at his watch. “My word, I'd no idea it was so late!” he exclaimed. “I must ask you both to excuse me. I have an appointment in Kensington in a few minutes' time, and I shall only just be able to make it. You'll forgive me, I know. Goodnight.” He parted from them. Wighton was standing not far from the door. Judging from his expression, his thoughts might have been far away, but Arnold knew that he was watching and listening intently. “The Yard, as quick as you can,” Arnold muttered as he passed him. Then he left the Artichoke, hailed a taxi in Leicester Square, and drove to Scotland Yard.

The first thing he did when he got there was to order a police car to stand by. Then he went to his room, where in a few minutes Wighton appeared. “Sorry to have dragged you away from whatever you were up to in the pub, Sergeant,” said Arnold. “But you're coming for a drive into the country with me. I'll tell you all about it on the way. Come along, the car's waiting.” When they reached the car, Arnold told the driver to follow the main Portsmouth road to Rendley, then ask the way to Markover. “I've got a line on Jerry Newark at last,” he said to Wighton. “One of the men you saw me talking to in the pub is his brother-in-law, and I got Newark's address out of him. What were you doing there, may I ask?”

“This was the way of it, sir,” Wighton replied. “I got word that a relation of Jerry's often went to the Artichoke in the evenings. I thought that Jerry might meet him there, so I went in to have a look round. I'd have liked to warn you not to ask for beer, sir. They hand you out terrible stuff. I tried a glass, but I simply couldn't drink it, so I ordered a gin and tonic instead.”

“Very wise of you,” said Arnold. “I suppose one oughtn't to expect good beer in a place like that. Now listen to me. The name of Newark's brother-in-law is Morstow. He told me that he and his wife had a flat just off Praed Street. I didn't want to appear too inquisitive, but that ought to be enough for you. When we get back you can ferret round and find out exactly where Morstow lives. We may want him.”

“Very good, sir,” Wighton replied. “That won't be a difficult job.”

“I'm more than doubtful about Morstow,” said Arnold. “To begin with, he married Jerry's sister, and must know a lot more about him than we do. And to go on with, I got the impression that he wasn't telling me the truth. His manner was frank enough, but there was a sly look about him that I mistrusted. But I don't suppose that he'd have told me that Jerry lived at Fem Cottage if he didn't. He knew who I was, for the other chap blurted it out. And he must have realised that if he had given me a false address he'd have found himself in an awkward position. That's why we're on our way to Fern Cottage now.”

“You don't think that Morstow will have warned Jerry that you've been making' inquiries about him, sir?” Wighton asked.

“I don't see how he can have,” Arnold replied. “He told me that Fem Cottage wasn't on the telephone, which I daresay is true. And he may not know what I want Newark for. It's murder this time. You wouldn't know about that. I'll tell you.”

By the time that Arnold had outlined the case of Mr. Carswell for Wighton's benefit, they had reached Rendley. They had covered the twenty-four miles from London in just under three-quarters of an hour, and it was now eleven o'clock. The pubs were closed, and the town seemed asleep, but for two or three cars standing outside a building with lighted windows. In the driving seat of one of the cars a man was sitting, smoking a cigarette. “Go and ask that chap, driver,” said Arnold. “If he knows the way to Markover, ask him if he knows where Fern Cottage is.” The driver alighted and walked up to the car. “Can you tell me the way to Markover, chum?” he asked.

“Keep straight on the way you're going till you come to the Red Lion,” the other replied. “Turn right there, and keep on for a mile or so till you come to a cross-roads. Turn left, and another couple of miles will bring you to Markover.”

“Thanks,” said the police driver. “It's Fem Cottage I'm looking for. Do you know where that is?”

“Can't say that I do,” the other replied. “But I know where Fern Farm is. This is my car, that I use for driving folk about in, and now and again I've driven the farmer and his wife when their car's been out of action. I expect that Fern Cottage isn't far from their place.”

“How do I get to Fern Farm?” the driver asked.

“When you come to Markover, go straight through the village,” the other replied. “Some little way farther on, you'll come to a lane branching off on your right. You'll have to watch out for it, for there's no signpost. And, now I come to think of it, there is a house half way up the lane before you get to the farm. That'll be Fern Cottage, I don't doubt.” As the driver thanked him, the door of the building opened, and a stream of people began to flow from it. “My folk will be here in a moment,” said the owner of the hire car. “There's been a meeting here this evening, and I'm waiting for them. Don't forget, now. Right at the Red Lion and left at the cross-roads. Good-night, and you're welcome.”

The driver went back to the police car “I think I can find my way now, sir,” he said.

“Carry on, then,” Arnold replied. The car started again, the driver following the instructions he had been given. At the cross-roads was a signpost. The arm pointing to the left bore the words “Markover, 2 miles.” The road into which the car turned was narrow and twisting, requiring careful driving. At that time of night the road was deserted, as was the village of Markover when they reached it. Not a soul was about, and only one or two lights showed in the windows.

The driver went on very slowly, keeping a sharp eye open for the end of the lane. Not until the car had almost reached it did it become visible in the glare of the headlights. The driver turned into it, and the car bumped along very slowly over a series of pot holes. They had proceeded in this manner for about a quarter of a mile when the top of a chimney appeared above the tall hedge on their left.

“That will be Fern Cottage I think, sir,” said the driver.

“Very well,” Arnold replied. “Stop when you get to the gate.” A few yards farther on the tall hedge ended, and the headlights enabled them to see what remained of Fern Cottage. Only the stout brick chimney stack still stood. The rest of the building had collapsed, and lay in a charred mass of debris on the ground.

CHAPTER VIII

ARNOLD AND WIGHTON stared at the wreckage in dismay. “Burnt down!” Arnold exclaimed. “I wonder if that was why Morstow was so ready to give me his brother-in-law's address? That rather depends upon how long ago it happened. Keep the car where it is, driver, so that we can see by the headlights.” There was no doubt that they had indeed reached their destination. A gate by the roadside had been lifted off its hinges and lay on the ground. On it was painted the name “Fern Cottage.” Arnold Aid Wighton got out of the car and made their way gingerly over charred fragments of wood and plaster. Although there was no spark of fire, a faint acrid smell of burning told them that the disaster had been quite recent.

“It's no good starting to make enquiries at this time of night,” said Arnold peevishly. “It's not likely that anyone knows where Newark is. If he'd been under that heap of rubbish someone would have tried to dig 164 him out, and there's no sign of that. We'll go home and come back here in the morning.”

The driver turned the car in the gateway and they drove back to London. On the way, Arnold considered how he should proceed. Newark could have reached Fern Cottage in the course of Tuesday morning. But it seemed highly unlikely that he had been trapped in the burning building. Someone in the vicinity might know what had become of him. Arnold decided that his proper course was to investigate locally.

That would mean postponing his intended interview with Quarrington. Then a thought occurred to him. Quarrington was a friend of Merrion's. If Landrake's car was to be ready on the following afternoon, it was probable that Merrion's would be too. He would then presumably leave The Elders. Arnold thought that it would be a good plan if he could persuade him to introduce him to Quarrington.

It was after midnight when they reached Scotland Yard. Arnold told Wighton and the driver to be ready to start again at nine o'clock. He spent the night at Scotland Yard, and shortly before the appointed hour rang up Owlsworth police station. Sapcote had not yet arrived, but Arnold left a message for him. He would be unable to attend the inquest, but he would endeavour to be in Owlsworth in the course of the afternoon.

The police car, with Arnold and Wighton as passengers, set out punctually at nine o'clock, and reached Rendley shortly before ten. The first call was at the police station, which stood beside the main road a little way beyond the Red Lion. Leaving Wighton in the car, Arnold went in and asked to see the Superintendent. To him Arnold explained the object of his visit. “Acting upon information received, I drove to Fern Cottage, Markover, last night, only to find the place burnt down. Can you tell me when it happened, sir?”

“On Monday night,” the Superintendent replied. “I'll send for the sergeant who was on duty at the time.” He gave the necessary instructions, and very shortly the sergeant appeared. “Inspector Arnold from the Yard is enquiring about the fire at Markover on Monday night,” said the Superintendent. “Tell him what you know about it, Sergeant.”

“Very good, sir,” the sergeant replied. “At eleven-ten on Monday night I had a telephone call. It was from Mr. Tamplin, of Fern Farm, Markover. He told me that Fern Cottage was on fire and burning furiously. He had rung up the fire brigade before calling me.

“There is no constable stationed at Markover, the nearest being at Addlebridge, two miles away. Rather than send him to the spot, it seemed quicker for me to go myself. I handed over my duty to the senior constable present, and rode to Fem Cottage on my motor cycle.

“The fire brigade were there when I arrived but there was very little that they could do. Flames were coming out of all the windows of the house, and the thatch was already well alight. There is no piped water in Markover, and the nearest available supply was from a small pond about a quarter of a mile away.

“Mr. Tamplin was there and came and spoke to me. He told me that there could have been nobody in the house when the fire broke out. Mr. Newark had gone away that morning, saying that he wouldn't be back for a day or two. He lived there by himself, with a woman from Markover to come in the mornings and do the housework. It wasn't likely that she would have been to Fern Cottage that day, Mr. Newark being away and it being Bank Holiday.”

“Have you any idea how the fire originated?” Arnold asked.

“I had a word about that with the officer in charge of the firemen, sir,” the sergeant replied. “He's quite certain that it wasn't a case of the thatch catching fire from outside, as sometimes happens. It seemed to him that the fire had started on the ground floor, and was burning upwards. Fern Cottage was an old-fashioned place built of wood and plaster. It often happens that in a house like that a beam runs across a chimney. The beam might start smouldering from a fire in the grate, and go on smouldering for days. And then a sudden draught will make it burst into flames. The officer thinks that is very likely what happened.”

“Would Mr. Newark have lighted a fire at this time of year?” Arnold asked.

“I think he might have, sir,” the sergeant replied. “We had some pretty chilly evenings here in the latter part of last week.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Arnold, and at a nod from the Superintendent the sergeant left the room. “May I ask the reason for your interest in the fire at Fern Cottage, Mr. Arnold?” the Superintendent asked.

“It's not so much the fire, sir,” Arnold replied. “We're on the track of the man who lived in it. We know where he was when the fire broke out, but now we've lost sight of him. Have you any objection to my making enquiries locally?”

“None whatever,” said the Superintendent. “And if I or any of my people can help you, you've only got to ask.”

“Then I'd like to ask this, sir,” Arnold replied. “That you have Fern Cottage, or what remains of it, kept under observation. That, if Newark returns, you detain him on a charge of stealing certain articles of clothing. If, having done so, you will ring up the Yard, I will come down at once.” The Superintendent nodded. “I'll do that for you. I rather suspect that you have something more serious against him than a theft of clothing?”

“Very much more serious, sir,” Arnold replied. “We have reason to suspect him of murder.”

“The dickens you have!” the Superintendent exclaimed. “I won't waste your time asking about it now. You can tell me some other day. We'll keep our eyes open for Newark, and let you know as soon as we've got him.” Arnold left the police station and got into the waiting car. “Back to Fern Cottage, driver,” he said. “But don't stop there. Keep on up the lane till you get to Fern Farm.”

“Very good, sir,” the driver replied. Hi started off and followed the same route a before. The village of Markover had a sleepy, old world appearance, and there were not many signs of activity about it. They passed the ruins of Fern Cottage, that seemed in daylight even more forlorn than they had on the previous night. They proceeded up the lane for half a mile or so until it ended abruptly in a farmyard. 0n one side of this was a fine old farmhouse and on the other a range of outbuildings.

The car came to a stop and Arnold and Wighton alighted. As they did so, a man appeared from one of the outhouses. He was big and burly, with a round red face and bright blue eyes. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is John Tamplin, and I'm the boss here. What is your business, may I ask?”

Arnold introduced himself and Wighton. “Could you spare the time to tell us what you know about the fire at Fern Cottage, Mr. Tamplin?” he asked.

“We haven't started harvesting, so I'm not all that busy,” Tamplin replied. “Come along into the kitchen. My wife's there, and she was the first to see the fire. She'd gone up to bed, leaving me in the office to fill up forms, which is a farmer's chief occupation these days.” He led the way into the house and into a big kitchen, where a cheerful-looking woman was preparing a meal. “Here you are, Meg,” he said. “Visitors from Scotland Yard to see you. They want to know about the fire at Fern Cottage. Tell them how you came to see it.”

“I was upstairs undressing,” Mrs. Tamplin replied. “Our bedroom looks down the lane, and when I went to the window to draw the curtains I saw a blaze I thought at first it might be one of the stacks caught fire, and I called John to come and see. He came up and said at once that it wasn't one of the stacks, it must be Fern Cottage.”

“That's just what I did say,” her husband chimed in. “I could see that the fire wasn't in the stack yard, and I knew it j must be the cottage because it was the only house between us and the village. We've got no telephone here, so I got out the van to run along to the telephone box in the village.”

“Can you tell us what time this was?” Arnold asked.

“It struck eleven as I was going upstairs,” Mrs. Tamplin replied. “It was a minute or two later that I saw the fire.”

“It must have started some time before then,” said her husband. “It can't have been five minutes later when I drove past the cottage. Flames were coming through the ground floor windows, and sparks were flying all over the road. I could see then that there wasn't much chance of saving the place. I wasn't worrying about anyone being in the cottage. Mr. Newark was away and Mrs. Crimp from the village wouldn't be there at that time. So I didn't stop, but went right on to the telephone box. I rang up the fire-station first, then put a call through to the police.”

“How did you know that Mr. Newark was away?” Arnold asked.

“Because I'd driven him in to Rendley that morning,” Tamplin replied. “This was the way of it. My wife or I take our milk into Rendley every morning, Sundays and Bank Holidays included, whichever of us is the least busy and we get away from here as soon after eight as we can make it. I took the milk on Monday morning, and as I passed the cottage I saw Mr. Newark standing at the gate with a suitcase beside him. I pulled up, and he asked me if I'd give him a lift into Rendley. I said I'd be glad to, and he jumped up beside me, suitcase and all.

“He told me that he was going away for a few days. He didn't want to leave his car in Rendley while he was gone, so he had looked out for me. He'd have done better to leave his car in Rendley, for there won't be anything left of it now. It stood in a wooden shed built against the side of the cottage. I asked him where he was going, and he said he was going to stay with a friend of his, he didn't say where.

“I took him to the railway station and that's the last I saw of him. He hasn't been back here since. And I don't suppose he's heard what happened. If he'd told me where he was going, I could have let him know. There's nothing left of the cottage, or anything that was inside it, for that matter.”

“Was the cottage Mr. Newark's property?” Arnold asked.

“I sold it to him some years back,” Tamplin replied. “My foreman. Crimp, used to live there. It's his wife who came in the mornings to do Mr. Newark's housework for him. But the cottage as it was then was an inconvenient old shack, and as soon as the Crimps could get a council house in Markover they moved there.”

“I wonder if Mr. Newark told Mrs. Crimp where he was going?” Arnold asked.

“He didn't,” Tamplin replied. “I know that, because she came here to see me on Tuesday morning. She was very much upset, because she thought that Mr. Newark might think that the fire had been her fault. She asked me if I knew where he was, and I said that all I could tell her was that he had gone away by train on Monday morning.”

“Did you know Mr. Newark before you sold him the cottage?” Arnold asked.

Tamplin shook his head. “Never even heard of him. It was this way. None of my men wanted to live in the cottage in the state it was then, and I didn't want to spend a lot of money repairing an old building. I thought perhaps I could sell it, especially if I sold enough land with it to make a garden or even a small holding. So I put an advertisement in a London newspaper.

“I only got one answer, and that was from Mr. Newark. Another gentleman, whose name I didn't get, drove him down here to look at the cottage. Mr. Newark seemed to take to it at once. He told me that he was an inventor, and that he wanted a place where he could work without being spied upon.

“Under the cottage was a big cellar, with plenty of head room and as dry as a bone. Why it was dug, nobody can tell. Some say that at one time Fern Cottage was a pub, and that the cellar was where they brewed the beer. But that doesn't seem to me very likely, for the cottage is too far from the village. Others say that the cellar was used for hiding smuggled goods. The excisemen weren't likely to look for them in such an out of the way spot.

“Anyway, it was the cellar that took Mr. Newark's fancy. He said he had a few tools, a lathe, a drilling machine, and what not, and that the cellar would do very well for a workshop. People couldn't peep through the windows, because there weren't any. He said he didn't want any land, as he couldn't be bothered with even a small garden. He just wanted the cottage. We came to terms, and the deal was clinched.

“It wasn't very long before he set men to work on the place. Repairs to the thatch, new plaster where the old had fallen away, a modem cooker in the kitchen, and that sort of thing. And he had a wooden shed put up against the house to keep his car in. But the principal improvement he made was to put in electric light. Not from the mains, because the nearest supply is in the village. He put in his own generating set, which ran on vaporising oil, like a tractor. He had it fixed up in the cellar.”

“And a noisy thing it was,” Mrs. Tamplin remarked. “I don't know how Mr. Newark could put up with it. Why, if we were in the yard here, we could hear it when it was running.”

“That's true enough,” her husband agreed. “I suppose Mr. Newark got used to it. Well, when everything was ready, a furniture van came along and Mr. Newark moved in. He must have spent a lot of money on all he had done. And I'm bound to say we've been good neighbours. Not that we ever bother each other much. But if our car is in dock he gives us lifts in his, and we do the same for him. That's why he knew he could count on me to take him into Rendley on Monday morning.”

“Did Mr. Newark spend all his time at Fern Cottage?” Arnold asked.

“When he was at home, he did,” Tamplin replied. “But he isn't always at home. He goes away for the day, usually two or three times a week. He drives to Rendley station and leaves his car there till he comes back. He told me that he has a sister and her husband living in London, and that he used to go and see them.”

“Did any visitors come to the cottage?” Arnold asked.

“Now and again,” Tamplin replied. “Always at the week-ends, so far as I know. I never saw anyone about in the middle of the week. Did you, Meg?”

“I can't remember that I did,” Mrs. Tamplin replied. “I know that Mr. Newark's sister and her husband used to come for the week-end sometimes. He used to meet them in his car at Rendley station. And there was the gentleman who drove him here when he first came to look at the cottage. He has a big car, and I've seen it standing inside the gate dozens of times, always on a Saturday or a Sunday.”

“Do you know this gentleman's name?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know that I ever heard it,” she replied. “Did you, John?”

“I did hear it, but don't rightly remember it,” her husband replied. “It was that first day he brought Mr. Newark here. Mr. Newark introduced me to him. I seem to remember that his name had something to do with motors.”

“Could it have been Carswell?” Amok asked.

“Something like that,” Tamplin replied. “I couldn't say for certain. It was long ago and I didn't take much heed of it at the time.”

“Did you see much of Mr. Newark on the days when he was at home?” Arnold asked.

“Not a lot,” Tamplin replied. “It wasn't often that he came here. When he first settled in, we thought he might be lonely at the cottage all by himself. So one day I asked him if he'd care to drop in here of an evening. He thanked me, but said that when he was at home he was always too busy with his inventions. And I've never been inside the cottage since he has been there.”

“Sometimes in fine weather, he used to sit in the porch,” said Mrs. Tamplin. “I think it was to get out of Mrs. Crimp's way, because it was always in the mornings when she was cleaning out the house. If I was passing on my way to the village I'd stop and have a word with him. He was always very nice, but he never once asked me to step inside.”

“He seems to have preferred his own company,” Arnold remarked. “What I can't quite understand is how the cottage caught fire when it was shut up with nobody in it.”

“It's wonderful how fires do start,” said Tamplin. “Especially when there's electricity about the place. It might have been a short circuit. And the cottage being built of wood and plaster, the slightest thing would have set it blazing.”

Having obtained the number of Mrs.Crimp's council house, Arnold and Wighton took their leave. “Well, Sergeant, what did you make of what we've just heard?” Arnold asked when they were settled in the car.

“We've learnt quite a lot about Jerry Newark, sir,” Wighton replied. “But there's one thing I'd like to know. How did he keep in touch with his crook friends? Did he meet them in London on those days that he left home? Or did they come down here to see him?”

“One of his crook friends did,” said Arnold. “Those forged fivers are sufficient evidence that Carswell was a crook. And that the man with the big car was Carswell I have no doubt, even though Tamplin can't be certain of it. And we know where Newark was bound for on Monday morning.”

They reached Markover, and the driver found his way to 11 Orchard Close, which was the address Arnold had been given. A middle-aged woman of rather severe expression answered their knock on the door. “You are Mrs. Crimp?” Arnold asked. “We have just come from Fern Farm, where we were told that you work for Mr. Newark.”

“That's right,” she replied. “You'd best come in, both of you. But if you're asking about the fire, there's nothing I can tell you. There was nothing wrong when I left the cottage round about twelve.” She led them into the parlour and asked them to sit down. “Was there a fire in any of the rooms when you left the cottage?” Arnold asked.

“On August Bank Holiday?” she replied scornfully. “Not likely. It was sweltering hot here, and I was in a muck sweat by the time I'd ridden to the cottage on my bicycle. I didn't even light the cooker in the kitchen. There was an electric kettle there, and that was good enough for me to make my cup of tea with.”

“Were you surprised when you got to the cottage to find that Mr. Newark wasn't there?” Arnold asked.

“Why should I be?” Mrs. Crimp replied. “Mr. Newark often goes out for the day, and he'd left the cottage before I got there. My hours were from ten to twelve every day except Sunday. I have my own key, so that I can let myself in.”

“When Mr. Newark left the cottage on Monday, he didn't intend to come back that night,” said Arnold. “Did he tell you that when you last saw him?”

“Naturally I didn't see him on Sunday,” she replied. “I last saw him on Saturday morning, when he paid me my wages. He didn't say anything then about going away on Monday. But then he often goes without telling me beforehand.”

“When did you first hear that the cottage was on fire?” Arnold asked.

“Not on Monday night,” Mrs. Crimp replied. “My husband and I had spent the afternoon in Rendley, at the fete there, and we were both feeling pretty tired by the time we got home. It was barely ten o'clock when we went up to bed. The first I knew of it was when I got to the cottage at ten on Tuesday morning and found it burnt down. I went straight on to the farm and asked Mr. Tamplin if he knew where Mr. Newark was. He told me he didn't but he was quite sure that he hadn't been at the cottage.”

“I'm told that there was a cellar under the cottage,” said Arnold. “Have you ever been in it?”

“Naturally, since my husband and I lived in the cottage at one time,” she replied. “A great big place, nearly as big as the cottage itself. We used it to store things in, logs and that. But I never went down there in Mr. Newark's time. He always kept it locked up. He said he didn't want people to see what he was inventing.”

“Did Mr. Newark spend his time in the cellar when he was at home?” Arnold asked.

“Not when I was there he didn't,” Mrs. Crimp replied. “He usually sat reading his newspaper. In the porch if it was fine and warm, and in his sitting-room if it wasn't. What he did when I wasn't there I can't say.”

“Of course you can't,” Arnold agreed. “How many rooms were there in the cottage?”

“Two rooms and the kitchen on the ground floor,” she replied. “And when my husband and I were living there there were three rooms above. But Mr. Newark had 183 the smallest of them turned into a bathroom. The water was pumped from the well by electricity. And all the rooms were furnished. That's all gone now, more's the pity.”

“What started the fire, do you suppose?” Arnold asked.

“It had nothing to do with me, that's all I can say,” Mrs. Crimp replied. “There wasn't so much as a candle burning in the cottage when I left it. And I know I switched off the electric kettle when I'd used it. But there's no telling what there might have been in the cellar. There was that engine and I daresay a lot of other things besides. Something down there might have got overheated. Mr. Newark never told me what he was inventing. It might have been one of those atoms we're always reading about in the newspapers. It wasn't anything to do with me.”

Arnold and Wighton left the house, and Arnold told the driver to take them back to London. “The origin of the fire seems to me a bit mysterious,” said Arnold, when they had started on their way. “It seems to have started between ten and eleven. We know that Newark was miles away at that time. I don't think it was due to any carelessness on Mrs. Crimp's part. There were no fires in any of the rooms. Short circuits don't usually develop when no current is being used. And I can't imagine that Newark was experimenting with nuclear energy.”

“I'd like to know what he had in the cellar, sir,” Wighton replied. “But I've got an idea about it. Suppose somebody came along and set fire to the place, just to spite Newark?”

Arnold agreed that was possible. “The question is, where is Newark now?” he went on. “I have an idea that he'll contact his brother-in-law before very long. Your job will be to locate Morstow's flat and have it watched. As soon as we get back to London, I must go on to Owlsworth.”

CHAPTER IX

ARNOLD REACHED Liverpool Street in time to catch the one-twenty. As he passed through the barrier, he heard a voice behind him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Arnold. I didn't know that you'd be travelling by this train,”

Arnold turned, to see Harold Landrake behind him. “And I had forgotten that you would be travelling by it, Mr. Landrake,' he replied. “We are to be fellow passengers it seems.” They walked up the train until they found an empty compartment, which they entered. The train was by no means full and no other passengers joined them

“That's good,” said Landrake as the trainxxx moved off. “The first stop is Ipminster, and we shall have the compartment to ourselves at least till then. We were sorry you had to leave us so hurriedly last night, Mr Arnold.”

“That's the worst of being a policeman,' Arnold replied. “My time is never my own Perhaps we can arrange to meet again at the Artichoke some evening. I was glad to meet your friend Mr. Morstow.”

“He's not a bad fellow,” said Landrake. “I never knew before he told you that he was a tailor's tout. Though I do remember that he remarked to me once that he knew a firm of tailors who were first class and reasonably cheap. Would it be indiscreet to ask you whether you got into touch with his brother-in-law?”

“I went to the address which Mr. Morstow gave me,” Arnold replied. “When I got there, I found that Fern Cottage had been completely burnt down. And Mr. Newark had not been seen in the vicinity since Monday morning.”

“Burnt down?” Landrake exclaimed. “That's most extraordinary. Morstow can't have known about that, or he'd have told you.”

“Perhaps he thought it better that I should discover the fact for myself,” Arnold replied. “I shall be obliged if you do not mention my visit to Fern Cottage when you meet him again.” Landrake promised to say nothing, and Arnold turned the conversation to other matters.

While Arnold had been making investigations in Markover, the inquest had been held in Brensford parish hall. A jury of seven, all from Brensford Green, had been summoned, and the proceedings opened punctually at eleven o'clock.

George Fosdyke was the first witness called. He had been shown the body, and had recognised it as that of his first cousin Donald Edgar Carswell, a widower aged fifty-two, residing at Brensford Hall. The witness and his cousin had not been on intimate terms, and it had been some weeks before his death that he had last seen him. Asked by the coroner whether he was aware that his cousin had any enemies, George replied that he was ignorant of his affairs and of those with whom he associated.

He was followed by Weedon, who gavel his evidence simply and without hesitation. He had last seen the deceased alive when he brought him his breakfast on Monday morning. Shortly afterwards the witness and his wife had left the house, to go on a coach trip to Turtlemouth. The deceased had given them permission to go. They had expected to be back by half-past seven or soon after, but the flood had made it impossible for them to return to the Hall until the following morning. On entering the study at about nine o'clock, the witness had found the deceased lying dead on the floor. He had immediately informed Constable Knipe by telephone.

The medical evidence was taken next. Dr. Tudwick told of his visit to the Hall on Tuesday morning, and the pathologist of his examination of the body on the following day. There was no conflict between their views. The deceased had been strangled by a man, standing behind him, putting his hands round his neck and compressing it with sufficient force to break a small bone.

Chris was then called, and told his story, hesitatingly at first, but with increasing confidence. It differed in no respect from what he had told the police. When he had left Owlsworth he had had no intention of returning to the Hall that night. He had not in fact done so until Wednesday morning.

He was followed by the manager of the Black Swan, who had been called upon to give evidence since he was the last person known to have seen Mr. Carswell alive. He described the conversation in the hotel yard. The deceased had driven off alone in his car. This had been at approximately five minutes past nine.

Knipe then gave evidence. On receiving; Weedon's message, he had proceeded to the Hall in Dr. Tudwick's car. He had found the study there in great disorder. The poker from the hearth was lying on the floor. On hearing the doctor's report, he had telephoned to Superintendent Sapcote. Sapcote gave a brief description of what he had found. The sergeant who had accompanied him followed. He had tested the poker for fingerprints, and had found those of the deceased upon it. The poker showed no trace of the fingerprints of any other person. He had been unable to find fingerprints upon any other object in the room.

No further witnesses were called, and the coroner summed up. Having heard the medical evidence, the jury would have no doubt as to the cause of death. The evidence showed that the domestic staff had been absent from Brensford Hall during Monday night, also that the back door had been left unlocked. The state of disorder in the study and the fingerprints on the poker suggested that a struggle had taken place, and that the deceased had endeavoured to defend himself. The jury were at liberty to retire to consider their verdict.

The members of the jury whispered together for a minute or two. Then the foreman stood up. He announced that the jury had not found it necessary to retire, since they were unanimously agreed upon their verdict. The deceased had been wilfully murdered by some person unknown.

The coroner expressed himself as being fully in agreement with the verdict, which he would record. He understood that the police were investigating the matter, and they must all hope that in due course they would succeed in apprehending the criminal. After the usual formalities the proceedings came to an end.

Arnold and Landrake reached Owlsworth at three-twenty. In the station yard they found Deben with Landrake's car. Arnold accepted his offer of a lift to the police station. They parted there, with expressions of hope that they would meet again in London.

Sapcote greeted Arnold warmly. “So here you are, Mr. Arnold. I was sorry you couldn't get here in time for the inquest, but you didn't miss much. Nothing came out that we didn't already know. I'll tell you about it.” He repeated the evidence and the verdict. “So that's that. It didn't take the jury more than a couple of minutes to make; up their minds. And, by the way, Chris is cleared.”

Sapcote described the investigations he had made in Ipminster. “That was good enough for me, though I realised that it all depended upon the landlady's word. This morning I chanced upon another piece of evidence in Chris's favour. I saw him before the inquest, and while I was talking to him I remembered the letter which Mr. Carswell had given him to post. I asked him what he had done with it.”

“He told me that he had put it in his pocket, meaning to post it in Owlsworth. He had forgotten all about it until he got to Ipminster, and had posted it there in the first letter box he came to. I rang up the garage here, and asked them if they had received a letter from Mr. Carswell recently. They replied that they had received a cheque from him by the firs post on Tuesday morning. I asked them if they had kept the envelope and they said that they thought they could find it. I asked them, if they did find it, to keep it for me to see.

“When I got back here after the inquest, I called at the place. They had rummaged in the office wastepaper basket and found the envelope, which they said I could have.” He opened a drawer and laid the envelope on his desk. “Look at it for yourself, Mr. Arnold. For once, the postmark is distinct.” Arnold found no difficulty in deciphering the postmark. “Ipminster, Aug 4, 9.45 p.m.”

“Chris must have got to Ipminster before that time,” he remarked.

“Exactly,” Sapcote replied. “And that's conclusive proof that once he had boarded the bus here, he didn't get off it till it arrived there. Now tell me what you've been up to since we last met.”

Arnold described his investigations and the conversations he had had. “So I was led up the garden path,” he went on. “I don't for a moment think that Landrake has anything to do with the affair. But I don't trust Morstow. I have an idea that he was laughing at me up his sleeve yesterday evening.”

“If he knew that Fern Cottage had been burned down, he certainly was,” Sapcote replied. “But what about Newark?”

“Before we discuss him, I should like to get in touch with my friend Merrion,” said Arnold. “Do you know if he is still at The Elders?”

“I saw him at the inquest this morning,” Sapcote replied. “He was there with Colonel Heckley.”

“I wonder if the Colonel's telephone has been put in order again?” Arnold asked.

“Mr. Fosdyke's has,” Sapcote replied. “I rang him up this morning to ask him to meet me at the Hall, so that he could view the body. I expect that the Colonel's has been too. You can but try.”

Arnold looked up the number and dialled it. The Colonel's voice replied. Arnold gave his name. “Is Mr. Merrion still with you, sir?”

“He's here beside me,” the Colonel replied. “Hold on.”

In a second or two Arnold heard Merrion's voice. “Here I am. You've only just caught me. We're on the point of leaving this most hospitable house. What do you want with me?”

“What are your plans for the immediate future?” Arnold asked.

“I'm driving Mavis back to High Eldersham,” Merrion replied. “I'm leaving her there, and then going on to London, as I have an appointment in the city to-morrow morning. I ought to be at my rooms by nine o'clock.”

“Can I look in some time after then?” Arnold asked.

Merrion replied that he would be delighted to see him, and Arnold rang off. “I want to get an introduction to Major Quarrington,” he explained to Sapcote. “It'll be easier than introducing myself. Now, about Newark. We know that he took a first class ticket to London. Where did he go when he got there? I'm certain that he didn't go down to Markover.”

“He'd hardly have gone there,” Sapcote replied. “He would know that the police would be after him. He's hiding up somewhere, I don't doubt.”

“In London, probably,” Arnold agreed. “We'll do our best to run him to earth. I've already taken steps to have Morstow's flat watched. But I don't imagine that Newark is there. He would think it a bit too risky.”

“I shall have to leave him to you” said Sapcote. “I don't think there can be much doubt that he was the murderer. But it seems to me that Mr. Fosdyke may possibly be a gainer by Mr. Carswell's death. When I was talking to him this morning I asked him if he knew whether his cousin had made a will. He assured me that he knew nothing whatever about his cousin's affairs. If he had made a will, it certainly wouldn't have been in his favour. If he hadn't he, Mr. Fosdyke, was Mr. Carswell's only living relative.

“Mr. Fosdyke went on to tell me that the friend who had been staying with him, Mr. Plaxtol, was a solicitor, and that he had asked his advice. Mr. Plaxtol had told him that, as the next of kin, it was up to him to take action. Mr. Fosdyke asked me if there would be any objection to his looking through his cousin's papers after the funeral. I told him that, as far as the police were concerned, there would be none whatever. You agree, I take it?”

“Certainly.” Arnold replied. “Mr. Fosdyke may make some very interesting discoveries. More forged fivers, perhaps. He is to be trusted?”

“I have no reason to suppose that he is not,” said Sapcote. “All the same, I could ask him to allow me to be present when he looked through the papers. My pretext being that the police believed that among them might be something which would throw light on the motive for the murder.” Arnold agreed that the idea was an excellent one. He and Sapcote discussed the case in all its aspects, until it was time for Arnold to be driven to the railway station.

On his arrival in London, he went to Scotland Yard, and sent for Wighton. “Well, Sergeant, any luck?” he asked when Wighton duly appeared.

“I've found the place, sir,” Wighton replied. “It wasn't very difficult, I made enquiries at several shops in the Praed Street district, and after a while I found a grocer who knew Mrs. Morstow as a regular customer. He told me that her address was 5a Wash Street.

“I went to look at the place, and found that it wasn't properly speaking a flat, but the upper part over number 5, which is an antique shop. As it happened, a couple of window cleaners were at work on the place when I got there. Window cleaners see a lot, and when they had finished the job I asked them if they had seen anyone indoors. They said that they had cleaned the windows of every room, and the only person they had seen was the lady. They were quite sure that there had been no one else at home.

“I hung around for a bit, keeping my eye on the door, and after a while a gentleman came along. I recognised him at once as one of the two you were talking to in the Artichoke yesterday evening, sir. The elder one who was drinking gin and lime. He took a key from his pocket, opened the door of number 5a, went in and shut the door behind him.”

“That's good. Sergeant,” said Arnold. “Now we know where to find Morstow when we want him. I didn't expect that Newark would be there, but it's quite likely that he'll call sooner or later. You've arranged to have the place watched?”

“Yes, sir,” Wighton replied. “I spoke to the Division about it, and they will keep the flat under observation.”

“Good enough,” said Arnold. “I'll leave Morstow to you for the present. Keep an eye on him, and don't forget the Artichoke.”

Soon after nine o'clock, Arnold presented himself at Merrion's rooms in St. James'. The door was opened by Newport, Merrion's right-hand man. He greeted Arnold respectfully, but with the freedom of an old friend. “You're expected, sir. Will you come in? Mr. Merrion is in the sitting-room.” Arnold found Merrion sitting in an armchair, beside which was a table loaded with bottles of beer and two large tumblers. “Sit down and pour one out for yourself,” said Merrion. “It's a thirsty evening. You've come to talk about that affair at Brensford Hall, I take it?”

“I have,” Arnold replied. “You were at the inquest this morning, I hear.”

“I was,” said Merrion. “Inquests are by way of being a hobby of mine, as you are aware. Mavis says that it is a morbid taste, and perhaps it is. A clear case of murder. Have you any clue to the murderer?”

Arnold told him the whole story up to date. “I think you'll agree that Newark is the man,” he went on. “He and Mr. Carswell had known each other for a long time. The first time that Newark went to see Fern Cottage, Carswell drove him there. He has been to the cottage several times since. Probably one of the mysterious visitors to Brensford Hall, known as Smith or Brown, was Newark. Newark was on his way to stay with Carswell when he was marooned by the flood at Stream House. There can be very little doubt that as soon as the water went down he slipped out and went to the Hall. He took a ticket to London at Owlsworth station early next morning. We have no word of him since.”

Merrion nodded. “After the inquest, Fosdyke joined the Colonel and me. He said he felt quite sure that Newark was the murderer. He had felt there was something fishy about him the first time he spoke to him. If he was going to the Hall on a friendly visit, why hadn't he waited until the morning? Visitors don't usually descend upon their hosts in the middle of the night. And why hadn't Newark returned the clothes Fosdyke had lent him? The only reason could be that Newark had murdered Carswell and bolted. Not perhaps strictly logical, but it supports your opinion.”

“I can't make up my mind whether or not it was Newark that Carswell expected,” said Arnold. “He must have been expecting someone, or he would hardly have been sitting up in his study so late. You heard what the doctors said about the time of death. Carswell can't have been murdered before midnight, because that was the earliest hour that Newark could have got to the Hall. I told you just now about that box of forged fivers. That's additional evidence that Carswell was expecting someone.”

“Yes,” Merrion replied thoughtfully. He lighted a cigarette and smoked it for a minute or two in silence. “The box was lying on the table, you tell me. What sort of a box was it?”

“A flat enamelled metal box,” Arnold replied. “It had rubber insets in the lid to make it airtight. It was fastened with a hasp and padlock. The key of the padlock was found, not on Mr. Carswell's bunch, but by itself in his waistcoat pocket.”

“There's something about that box that strikes me as rather curious,” said Merrion. “The sergeant who gave evidence at the inquest said that he had found fingerprints on the poker, but on no other object in the room. That includes the box, one must suppose. Yet enamelled metal is just the surface on which one would expect to find fingerprints.”

“I wish the fingerprints had been left for our experts from the Yard,” Arnold replied. “I don't altogether trust these provincial amateurs. However, we must accept it as a fact that there were no prints on the box.”

“Then let's accept it,” said Merrion. “Mr. Carswell's prints were found on the poker, but not on the box. How do you account for that?” Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “It just happened, that's all.”

“An easy way out of the difficulty. Now I'll answer my own question. Mr. Carswell's prints weren't found on the box; because he never handled it.”

“Nonsense!” Arnold exclaimed. “He must have handled it. He put it on the table. It wasn't lying there always. Weedon says that he had never seen it before.”

“He hadn't,” said Merrion. “It wasn't in the Hall until Monday evening. No, don't interrupt. I'm going back to Newark and his adventures.

“When he started on that memorable drive from London, he had a suitcase, which was put in the boot of Landrake's car. Outside Stream House, the car plunged into the flood, and became submerged almost up to the roof. The occupants managed to save themselves, but they didn't save the suitcase. It, and everything in it, must have become completely saturated.

“In the course of the night Newark got up, and we know that he must have rescued the dripping suitcase from the boot of the car. Up till now, you have had no definite proof that he went to the Hall, but I think the box provides it. He took the box from his suitcase and laid it on the study table, being careful to wipe his own prints from it when he had done so. You say the box was airtight. It must therefore have been water-tight, saving the notes in it from saturation.”

“But where did Newark get the box from?” Arnold asked.

“That seems to be a matter for you to discover,” Merrion replied. “The fact that he had it with him seems to me to explain his anxiety to get to the Hall. Anyone travelling with a number of forged fivers in his baggage would be anxious to get them to a place of safety. In the end, Newark carried out his intention of planting the notes on Mr. Carswell.”

Arnold shook his head. “Your imagination grows more vivid as you grow older. Do you suppose that Mr. Carswell was waiting for Newark in order to receive from him a box full of forged notes?”

“Whether he was waiting for him or not I don't know,” Merrion replied. “But I am quite satisfied that Newark's reason for going to the Hall was to hand over the box to Mr. Carswell.”

Once again Arnold shook his head. “It simply won't do, my friend. How do you account for the key having been found in Mr. Carswell's pocket?”

“Here's one explanation for you,” Merrion replied. “When Newark had put the box on the table he handed the key to Mr. Carswell, who put it in his pocket. But I don't think it was quite so simple as that. You believe that Newark was the murderer. What was his motive?”

“I don't suppose that there was any real motive,” said Arnold. “By all accounts Mr. Carswell was ready to quarrel with anyone on the slightest provocation. A quarrel did arise, possibly over some trifle. Mr. Carswell picked up the poker, and a struggle ensued which ended in Mr. Carswell being strangled. Newark, not unnaturally, hastily cleared out.”

“Leaving the box on the table,” Merrion remarked. “Wasn't that very rash of him? If it were ascertained that the box had been his property, it would have been conclusive evidence of his guilt.”

“Well, there you are,” said Arnold. “It was your idea that the box was Newark's property. What you've just said seems to suggest very strongly that it wasn't. Look here. If Newark had brought Mr. Carswell a box full of notes and given him the key, wouldn't he have opened it? We know that he didn't because, if he had, his fingerprints would have been found on it.”

Merrion smiled. “We're arguing in circles. I'll make another suggestion to you. What if by the time that Newark reached the Hall, Mr. Carswell was already dead?”

“Murdered by someone else?” Arnold asked. “Perhaps your imagination will enable you to tell me who the murderer was?”

“Never mind about that for the moment,” Merrion replied. “We know that Mr. Carswell and Newark were friends if not, as I strongly suspect, associates in crime. Consider what would have happened if the flood had not caused Newark's plans to miscarry. He would have reached the Hall, suitcase and all, about four o'clock. He would have handed the box and key to Mr. Carswell, who would have opened the box, if only to count the notes inside. Newark would have stayed at the Hall, certainly during Monday night and possibly longer. It strikes me, by the way, as rather curious that he told nobody at Markover where he was to be found.”

“He didn't anticipate that Fern Cottage would be burnt down in his absence.” Arnold remarked dryly.

“Maybe not,” Merrion replied. “But rather fancy that his reticence was due to the fact that he didn't want to be found. You tell me that your people were on his track Had you anything definite against him?”

“Nothing definite,” said Arnold. “But his name had cropped up in the course of more than one of our investigations. There were quite a lot of questions we wanted to ask him.”

“If you had caught him in possession a quantity of forged fivers you would have had still more questions to ask,” Merrion remarked. “I have an idea that Newark was seeking a hiding place where you were not likely to find him. Why, do you suppose, didn't he go by train to Owlsworth, and thence by taxi to the Hall?”

“This is the explanation I've been given,” Arnold replied. “He was a bit of a cadger, and never spent money when he saw a chance of getting what he wanted free. So he got Morstow to persuade Landrake to drive him to the Hall. A free ride, in fact.”

“A plausible explanation,” said Merrion. “But I very much doubt whether it is the true one. It seems to me far more likely that Newark's true reason for scrounging a lift in a car was that he wanted to be seen by as few people as possible. From his point of view, the flood was really most unfortunate. But for his enforced sojourn at Stream House, you would never have got on to his track. And he would have been perfectly safe at the Hall. The presence there of Mr. Carswell's friend Mr. Brown would have aroused no suspicions in the breast of the local constable.”

“Then why did he queer his own pitch by murdering Mr. Carswell?” Arnold asked.

“Did he?” Merrion replied. “I have I suggested that Mr. Carswell may already have been dead by the time that Newark reached the Hall. It must have been a shock to Newark when he discovered that. But, though no doubt appalled by this second frustration of his plans, Newark saw how he could rid himself of the notes. By putting the box on the table and the key in Mr. Carswell's pocket, he conveyed the impression that the notes were the property of Mr. Carswell.”

Arnold poured himself out another bottle of beer. “I'll admit the possibility that Newark wasn't the murderer,” he said. “Anyone could have got into the Hall by the back door. And that reminds me. Can you contrive to introduce me to Major Quarrington?”

“I would willingly, if I knew his address,” Merrion replied.

“I got that from the Colonel,” said Arnold. “He lives at 5, Cretting Gardens, and he's on the telephone. You'll find his number in the book.”

“Let me see now,” Merrion replied. “I shall be busy most of the morning, I'll tell you what I'll do. Before I go out, I'll ring up Quarrington, and ask him to lunch here to-morrow at one o'clock. If he accepts, I'll let you know and you can come too.”

CHAPTER X

SHORTLY AFTER he arrived at Scotland Yard on Friday morning, Arnold had a call from Merrion, informing him that Major Quarrington had accepted the invitation. As it happened, Arnold was detained by a small matter of routine, and it was a few minutes after one when he reached Merrion's rooms. He found Merrion and Quarrington enjoying a glass of sherry while they were waiting for him. “Here you are at last!” Merrion exclaimed. “Allow me to introduce you to Major Quarrington, who was the Colonel's guest the other day. This is Inspector Arnold, Quarrington, whom I mentioned to you just now. I've been telling Quarrington about the inquest I attended yesterday.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr Arnold,” said Quarrington as they shook hands. “So Donald Carswell was murdered. I'm sorry about that. Not that he was murdered, for I think it's a very good riddance. But because Rodden and I hadn't the chance of a heart to heart talk with him before he died.”

“You knew him during the war, I believe?” Arnold asked.

“Quarrington can tell you all about that while we're having lunch,” Merrion interposed. “It's ready now, and Newport will never forgive us if we let it spoil. Come along.” They went into the dining-room, where the table was laid and Newport was in attendance. “Now you may answer Arnold's question,” said Merrion as Newport brought in the soup.

“Oh, yes, I knew him,” said Quarrington. “Not as a personal friend, I assure you. As one we strongly suspected of nefarious practices. When I say we, I mean the Intelligence Branch of which I was a member. I have no doubt that our suspicions were well founded. But the chap was so infernally clever that we were never able to catch him out.”

“Is it a fact that Mr. Carswell was the owner of Reliant Brushes?” Arnold asked.

“He was at the time I'm speaking of,” Quarrington replied. “He had a small factory just off the Mile End Road. The business was genuine enough and appeared quite prosperous. But we had every reason to believe that Carswell used it as a cover for his more sinister activities.”

“To put it bluntly, you believed him to be engaged in espionage?” Merrion suggested.

“We did' Quarrington replied. “I needn't go into all the details now. We knew that at intervals certain pieces of information reached the enemy by way of the Legation in Dublin. Carswell was a frequent visitor to Dublin, where he had a branch establishment. We discovered that the receipt of information by the enemy coincided with his visits there. And that, I regret to say, is about as far as we got.

“Mind you, we never supposed that Carswell did any spying himself. He was a collector of information from other people. Men used to call at the factory on various pretexts. They were wholesalers, wanting to make a contract for the future supply of brushes. They were workmen, seeking a job at the factory. They were commercial travellers, wanting to be appointed agents for the sale of Reliant Brushes. Almost any pretext you can think of. And on more than one occasion we were able to discover that a man who had called at the factory was employed in some highly secret job.

“Of course, that by itself wasn't good enough. Because such a man had called at the factory, it didn't follow that he had done so in order to reveal secrets to Carswell. We tried every dodge we could think of, including sending dummy spies to the factory, armed with scraps of fictitious information. But Carswell wouldn't bite. He blandly told our men that his business was manufacturing brushes, and that he wasn't in the least interested in their tittle tattle. In the interests of security, he recommended them to be more careful about what they said.”

“Have you any reason to believe that since that time Mr. Carswell was engaged in illegal activities?” Arnold asked.

“I had no reason to believe it,” Quarrington replied. “When the war ended, we had little further interest in him. Neither Rodden nor I had heard anything of him until the Colonel happened to mention that a man of the name of Carswell lived just up the road. That set us talking about him, as Merrion will remember. The Colonel was convinced that he was up to something shady. It seems that Carswell used to have some pretty queer visitors to the Hall.”

“How did the Colonel know that?” Arnold asked. “I understand that he rarely or never went to the Hall.”

“I can answer that question,” Merrion replied. “The Colonel told me that he always bought his cigarettes at the Rolling-Pin, and usually stayed there for a few minutes chatting with the other customers. The young chap who gave evidence at the inquest, Chris Weedon, was often among them. He used to talk about men staying at the Hall for the week-end, Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown. And he wondered why they weren't always the same Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown who had stayed there before. From which the Colonel made the rather obvious deduction that those weren't their real names. And, as he said, people don't conceal their names unless they are up to something fishy.”

Quarrington laughed. “We all got worked up about Carswell that evening. We even went so far as to suggest that the four of us should beard him in his den and get the truth out of him. Of course such a thing was impossible anyhow that evening. We should have wanted a raft to get across the water, and we hadn't got one. And both Rodden and I wanted to be in London as early as possible next morning.”

“Whoever murdered Mr. Carswell managed to get to the Hall,” Arnold remarked.

“Well, we didn't,” Quarrington replied. “The water was certainly falling when the party broke up and we went to bed, but we should still have been up to our necks if we'd tried to get on to the main road. Do you remember what time that was, Merrion?”

“About eleven,” Merrion replied. “There was a bit of a moon, and I looked out of our bedroom window. I could see my car standing in the yard, with the water more than halfway up the radiator.”

“You none of you left the house before morning?” Arnold asked.

“Rodden may have,” Quarrington replied. “He was fidgety. He's a naval man, and he said that he didn't mind salt water, but the sight of all that fresh water swirling round scared him. He was afraid it might undermine the foundations of the house. He got up in the night, and said he was going to have a look.”

“What time was that?” Arnold asked.

“I have no idea.” Quarrington replied. “I was asleep, and woke up to hear Rodden moving about. I asked him what he was up to, and he said he was going downstairs to I see if the flood had abated at all. I told him he couldn't do anything about it if it hadn't, and went to sleep again.”

“Couldn't Captain Rodden have seen the level of the water from the bedroom window, as Merrion did?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know,” Quarrington replied. “I was too drowsy to think of such a thing. But I seem to remember that it was pitch dark.”

“The moon would have set about midnight,” Merrion remarked.

“Well, I don't know what time it was,” said Quarrington. “All I can tell you is that Rodden was in bed and asleep when I woke up in the morning.” Merrion turned the conversation to other subjects, and, the meal having come to an end, they returned to the sitting-room for coffee. Soon afterwards Quarrington rose to take his leave. “I've thoroughly enjoyed myself,” he said. “And I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Arnold. My grateful thanks for a most excellent lunch, Merrion.”

“I'd have asked Rodden to come along too,” Merrion replied. “But I didn't know his address or how to get hold of him.”

“He's got a flat in Ealing,” said Quarrington. “He's not on the telephone. Give me a piece of paper and I'll write down the address for you.”

When he had done so, Merrion showed him out and returned to Arnold. “I thought you might like Rodden's address, and that was the most tactful way of getting it. Did he go to the Hall, do you suppose? When we were all together next morning, he didn't say anything about having got up in the night.”

“You say the moon set about midnight,” Arnold replied. “By all accounts the water had gone down by then. If it was dark when Rodden got up, he could have made his way to the Hall.”

“The last visitor Carswell would have expected,” said Merrion. “And a most unwelcome one at that. I don't think it's very likely that Rodden murdered Carswell. What I'm wondering is, did he see anything of Newark?”

“He may have,” Arnold replied. “They both seem to have been up and about at much the same time. I should like to meet Captain Rodden.”

“I daresay I can arrange that for you.” said Merrion. “I'll drop him a line and ask him to look in here when he's next in town. What's your next move?”

“I'm very much interested in what Major Quarrington told us about Carswell's factory,” Arnold replied.

“Presumably the place is on the telephone,” said Merrion. He got up and consulted the directory. “Yes, I've got the address and, as usual, I'm inquisitive. I'll drive you there straight away, if you like.”

“That's a kind offer,” Arnold replied. “I'm ready when you are.” Newport was sent to fetch the car, which was garaged a short distance away. When he had brought it to the door Arnold and Merrion set out and threaded their way through the city to the Mile End Road. Not being sure of which turning to take Merrion stopped and asked a policeman. Having received his directions, he went on, entered a narrow street, and drew up outside a gateway on which the words were painted, “Reliant Brushes Ltd.”

The gates were closed and as they alighted from the car the factory seemed strangely silent. It was a comparatively small building of two storeys, and no sign of movement was visible. “I believe the place is closed!” Arnold exclaimed.

“We can but try our luck,” Merrion replied. On one of the gateposts was a bell push, and he pressed it. Within a minute they heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the gates. A postern set in one of them opened and a middle-aged man appeared. He seemed surprised to see two strangers and the large car drawn up at the pavement. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am the manager here. Have you come from Mr. Stonham?”

Arnold produced his official card and showed it to him. “My friend and I are engaged upon certain enquiries, in connection with which we should like to ask you a few questions.”

“Then you'd better come in,” the manager replied. “I'm alone here to-day. The factory is closed for Mr. Carswell's funeral. I stayed in the office to see anyone who might call and answer the telephone. I wasn't expecting the police, though.” He led Arnold and Merrion across the yard to one of the doors of the building. From this they passed through an unoccupied enquiry office to a small room furnished with a desk and a few chairs. “This is my office,” said the manager. “Sit down, gentleman. What is it you want to know?”

“First of all, why you asked us if we came from Mr. Stonham,” said Arnold.

“Mr. Carswell's solicitor,” the manager replied. “I've seen him once or twice before but I didn't know then who he was. When he came here it was to see Mr. Carswell and I didn't have any word with him. But the last time he came he asked to see me, And I could hardly believe my ears when h6 told me that Mr. Carswell had died suddenly.”

“When was it that Mr. Stonham called to see you?” Arnold asked.

“On Tuesday morning,” the manager replied. “Some time between ten and eleven. He told me who he was, and said that he brought very bad news. Then he told me that Mr. Carswell had died suddenly on Monday night, I asked him what he had died of, and he said he didn't know. Someone from Brensford Hall had rung him up and told him that Mr. Carswell was dead, but no more. Mr. Stonham said that he was going to Brensford Hall himself, but that he thought he had better call here first.

“Naturally, I wondered what was to happen now. I asked Mr. Stonham if the factory would carry on, and he said that it would for the present. What would happen in the future depended upon many things. Mr. Carswell's executors would have to be consulted as soon as possible, and that was one of the reasons why Mr. Stonham had called here before going to Brensford Hall.”

“I don't quite follow that,” said Arnold.

“Why, you see, it was this way,” the manager replied. “Mr. Stonham told me that he had drawn up a will for Mr. Carswell some years ago, but that he couldn't remember who he had appointed as his executors. He knew that the will was in Mr. Carswell's room here, and he was going to look for it. He would do so at once, as he was in a great hurry.

“Mr. Carswell always kept his room locked, and carried the key with him. But he had left a duplicate with me, only to be used in case of emergency. In case of a fire, or anything like that. I've always kept it in that safe yonder. I opened the safe and gave the key of Mr. Carswell's room to Mr. Stonham, and he unlocked it and went in.

“A minute later he came out again and asked me if I had a duplicate key to Mr. Carswell's desk. I told him I hadn't, and he said that the desk was locked and that we should have to break it open, as it was most important that he should find the will at once. I got a cold chisel from the store and forced the lock with it. Mr. Stonham thanked me and said he would go through Mr. Carswell's papers.

“It wasn't more than ten minutes later that he came and gave me back the key. He told me that he had found the will and that he was taking it with him to Brensford, as the executors named lived in the neighbourhood. Then I asked him what about money for the wages? Mr. Carswell had always written a cheque and I had cashed it at the bank.

“Mr. Stonham said that would be all right. There was enough cash in Mr. Carswell's desk to pay the wages for at least a couple of weeks, after which other arrangements would have to be made. I should find the money in a cash box in the right hand top drawer of the desk. Mr. Stonham said that he would stop at Brensford Hall until after the funeral, and then he would come back and tell me what arrangements had been made regarding the factory. And then he went off.”

“Have you seen him again since then?” Arnold asked.

“I haven't seen him,” the manager replied. “But someone rang up from his office first thing this morning. She said she had a message from Mr. Stonham, which was to be passed on to me. Mr. Carswell was to be buried this afternoon. I wondered whether I ought to go, but I decided that I had better stop here. But I thought the factory ought to be closed as a mark of respect. Friday is pay day, so I made up the pay packets, gave them to the staff and sent them home.”

“You made up the pay packets from the cash Mr. Stonham had told you about?” Arnold asked.

“That's right,” the manager replied. “I didn't like the idea of the cash box being in the desk after it had been broken open. So as soon as Mr. Stonham had gone, I went into Mr. Carswell's room, and found the box where he had said. It was locked, but the key was lying beside it. I opened it and found a wad of notes, fivers mostly. Then I brought the box in here and put it in my safe.”

“May I see the box?” Arnold asked.

“By all means,” the manager replied. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one of them and opened the safe. From it he produced a metal box which he handed to Arnold. “There you are,” he said. “I never knew that Mr. Carswell kept all that lot of cash in his desk.”

The box, secured with hasp and padlock, was exactly similar to the one which had been found at Brensford Hall. “Are there any notes left in it?” Arnold asked.

The manager nodded. “Plenty. More than enough for next week's wages. You can see for yourself, if you like. If you'll let me I have the box I'll open it for you. I put the key on my bunch for safety's sake.”

Arnold gave him the box and selecting another key, he unlocked the padlock and raised the lid. “There you are,” he said. “There are only fivers left. I used up the rest when I made up the pay packets this morning. I shall have to get some of the fivers changed at the bank before I pay out next week.” Arnold took out one of the notes, “I daresay we can change this for you,” he said. Then, turning to Merrion, “Have you got enough money on you?” Merrion took out his wallet and produced five one pound notes. Arnold gave these to the manager and put the five pound note in his pocket. “That will help you out,” he said. “You won't be using any of the other fivers until next pay day?”

“I shan't have any need to do that,” the manager replied. “I've got enough petty cash in hand without them.”

“That's good,” said Arnold. “Now to get back to Mr. Stonham. He gave you his office address and telephone number, I take it?”

“Well no, he didn't,” the manager replied. “And I never thought to ask him till after he'd gone. Then I looked up his name in the telephone book, but I couldn't find it. I expect the firm he belongs to has another name. He didn't tell me what it was.”

“What did he look like?” Arnold asked. “Well, I hardly know,” the manager replied. “There wasn't much about him to take notice of. About the average height, and a bit on the thin side. Dark hair, getting a bit thin on top. He had a bowler hat and one of those despatch cases, and he wore spectacles. What I did notice about him was that he was dressed very smart. Just like one of those tailors' advertisements you see in the papers.”

“How did he get here?” Arnold asked. “He came in a taxi,” the manager replied. “I went out with him when he left, and there it was waiting for him.”

“You told us that Mr. Stonham had been here before to see Mr. Carswell,' said Arnold. “Did Mr. Carswell have many visitors?”

“Not a lot,” the manager replied. “They didn't come tumbling over one another; so to speak. He might have had half a dozen a week, I daresay. I didn't take a lot of notice of them, for they didn't corn' here to see me.”

“How often did Mr. Carswell come here?” Arnold asked.

“Pretty well every working day,” the manager replied. “He might miss a day now and again, but not very often. And it was very rarely that he stopped here all day. He'd spend two or three hours here in the morning or the afternoon. He never interfered with the working of the factory. He left that entirely to me.”

“Did you and Mr. Carswell get on well together?” Arnold asked.

The manager shrugged his shoulders. “Not so badly. We didn't see all that much of each other. Mr. Carswell would be in his room, and I'd be in here or about the shop. He was all right so long as you didn't cross him. But if anyone said anything to him he didn't like, he'd fly out at him. Quick tempered, that's what he was.”

“When will the factory start working again?” Arnold asked.

“Not till Monday,” the manager replied. “We do a forty-hour week, and don't work on Saturdays. We just manage to keep level with our orders, that way. There's always a steady demand for our products. I expect Mr. Stonham will be back again on Monday to tell me what's to be done.”

“Well, I'm obliged to you for what you've told us,” said Arnold. “We must be getting on our way.” The manager escorted them off the premises, and watched them drive away.

“I was expecting you to ask to be shown Mr. Carswell's room,” Merrion remarked, as they turned into the Mile End Road.

“Plenty of time for that,” Arnold replied. “Besides, somebody else had been there before me. Who was this chap Stonham?”

Merrion smiled. “Whoever he was, he wasn't Mr. Carswell's solicitor. He gave himself away rather badly. A solicitor would have kept a copy of his client's will. He could have consulted that, without the necessity of looking for the original. Where do you want to go?”

“Back to the Yard,” Arnold replied. “And when we get there I want you to come up to my room for a chat. I've a lot of questions for your imagination to get its teeth into.” They reached Scotland Yard and went up to Arnold's room. “Make yourself comfortable and light a cigarette,” said Arnold. “You'll excuse me a moment.” He picked up the telephone and gave directions that Sergeant Wighton should be told he wished to see him. Within a minute or two Wighton appeared. “Any news from Wash Street?” Arnold asked.

“Nothing much, sir,” Wighton replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Morstow have been in and out. But there's been no sign of Newark.” Arnold took the five pound note from his pocket and gave it to Wighton. “Take that to the Bank of England,” he said. “Ask for the security official who was here on Wednesday. Show him that note and ask him what he thinks of it. When you've got his opinion, come back and tell me.”

“Very good, sir,” Wighton replied. He went off, and Arnold turned to Merrion. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I want that point settled. Now then, first of all, what did you make of that manager chap?”

“My impression was that he was honest enough, but perhaps not over intelligent,” Merrion replied. “I think you can take it that what he told you was the truth, as far as he was concerned.”

“Very much what I thought,” said Arnold. “Then we come back to this mysterious Mr. Stonham. I quite agree with you that whoever he was, he wasn't Mr. Carswell's solicitor. Now consider this. Mr. Carswell's body was not found until about nine o'clock on Tuesday morning. Between ten and eleven Stonham arrived at the factory with the news, saying that he had got it from someone at Brensford Hall. What do you make of that?”

“One possibility is this,” Merrion replied. “Weedon rang up Stonham before he rang up the police.”

“It's the only possibility, so far as I can see,” said Arnold. “Can you suggest any other?”

“The murderer would have known of his victim's death several hours before nine o'clock,” Merrion replied.

Arnold shook his head. “That won't do. The manager's description might apply to thousands of people, but certainly not to Newark.”

“I've already told you that I'm by no means satisfied that Newark is the murderer,” Merrion replied. “I believe that he didn't get to the Hall until after the crime had been committed. Who then was the murderer?

“During the time of the flood, access to the Hall was impossible only to those in Brensford and the neighbourhood. Carswell was able to get to Owlsworth and back. The bus by which Chris travelled was able to get from Owlsworth to Ipminster by making a fairly wide detour. It follows therefore that a car from London could have reached the Hall and returned, at any time on Monday evening. The route might have been via Ipminster, thence by the detour taken by the bus to Owlsworth, and so to the Hall.

“Why should not Stonham have been the driver of that car? If he was, one can more or less reconstruct what happened. Stonham reached the Hall some time after ten o'clock. He may have gone in by the back door, or Carswell may have admitted him by the front. In either case, he entered the study.

“I'm inclined to think that he had a grievance against Carswell and threatened him. It doesn't follow that his original intention was murder. Carswell picked up the poker and attacked him with it. We know what the outcome of the struggle was. After that there was nothing to detain Stonham at the Hall. He could have been back in London in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Any objections?”

“Not so far,” said Arnold. “I'll agree that Stonham may have been the murderer. What was he after at the factory?”

“That's what intrigued me when the manager was telling his story,” Merrion replied. “His object in going to the factory was to get into Carswell's room there. He established his position as a man of authority by telling the manager that he was Carswell's solicitor. But even so, it was more than doubtful whether the manager would have let him have the key of the room if he believed Carswell to be alive. Carswell might have turned up at any minute, and would have kicked up the very devil of a fuss when he found someone in his room without his permission. So Stonham had to tell the manager that Carswell was dead, which was the truth.

“What was he after, you ask. Not the will, I'll be bound. That was a plausible pretext, wills being the business of solicitors. And, when you come to think of it, it wasn't very likely that the will was there. If I had a London office, I shouldn't keep my will in my desk there. The question is, did he take anything from the room, or did he deposit something there?”

“What would he have wanted to deposit there?” Arnold asked.

“We'll postpone that question until your sergeant returns,” Merrion replied. “Did you know that Carswell was to be buried this afternoon?”

“Yes, I knew,” said Arnold. “Sapcote told me when I was with him yesterday. Mr. Fosdyke didn't definitely fix the time and date until after the inquest, when the coroner had given him the burial certificate.”

“Someone, who claimed to be speaking from Stonham's office, rang up the factory with the news first thing this morning,” Merrion replied. “That, I suppose means not later than nine o'clock. The caller must have been a woman, for the manager used the pronoun she. It is safe to assume that the woman got the information from Stonham, since she mentioned his name. How did Stonham learn when the funeral was to be? Was he actually in Brensford, as he had told the manager he would be, and did he ring up the woman from there? Or did someone else in Brensford ring him up? And who could this someone have been?”

“I can only think of one of the Weedons,” Arnold replied. “All three of them were at the Hall yesterday. What I can't understand is why Stonham thought it necessary to inform the manager.”

“That seems obvious enough,” said Merrion. “He wanted to keep up the deception as long as possible. If the manager had heard nothing more from him, some dim suspicion might have entered his rather obtuse mind. What more reassuring than such a message from the solicitor's office?”

“He won't keep up the deception so far as to show up at the factory on Monday.” Arnold replied. “All the same, I'll have the place watched, just in case. Come in!” It was Wighton who had knocked on the door. “Well, Sergeant, what's the answer?” Arnold asked when Wighton appeared.

“I've been to the bank, sir,” Wighton replied. “I saw the gentleman, and after he'd had a look at the note he told me it was a forgery. Exactly similar to the one you left with him on Wednesday, sir.”

CHAPTER XI

AT A NOD FROM Arnold, Wighton left the room. “I guessed as much,” said Arnold. “Now you'll have to revise your theory. A box of forged fivers was found in Carswell's study at Brensford Hall. An exactly similar box was found in his room at the factory. That rather upsets your theory that the forged notes had never been in Carswell's possession.”

“On the contrary, it strengthens it,” Merrion replied. “I still maintain that the first box was deposited at the Hall. In the same way, the second box was deposited in Carswell's desk at the factory. And that seems to me to suggest that in both cases the depositor was the same.”

“You regard that as proof that Stonham went to the Hall on Monday night?” Arnold asked.

“Not exactly proof,” Merrion replied. “But it does suggest a strong probability.”

“But why should anyone want to deposit forged notes in such a way?” Arnold asked. “Can your imagination find an answer to that?”

“I think it can,” Merrion replied. “Let's consider the situation as a whole. Since the notes were forged, there must have been a forger or forgers. It seems probable that Carswell was in league with them. Not as a working partner, but as an agent for the distribution of the notes. He may have acted in that capacity from the factory.

“What actually happened this morning? The manager made up his pay packets from the notes in the box found in Carswell's desk. It is unlikely that any of the recipients of the pay packets took a note to a bank. They would use them in payment of, various purchases. You have been told on the best authority that only an expert eye could detect that the notes were counterfeit. It is unlikely that any expert eye will see those notes until they have changed hands, possibly several times. It will therefore be impossible to trace the source from which they originated.”

“We have known for some time that forged fivers were in circulation,” Arnold remarked.

“Exactly,” Merrion replied. “And I strongly suspect that, during that time, Carswell was largely responsible. You remember something the manager told us. Carswell used to write a cheque for the wages, and the manager cashed it at the bank. A normal and perfectly straightforward procedure. But I should like to know what happened when the manager brought the cash back to the factory.”

“He made up the pay packets with it, presumably,” said Arnold.

“Not immediately, I think,” Merrion replied. Carswell may very well have told the manager to bring the money to him to check over. While he was doing that, he took out some of the genuine notes and put forged ones in their place. Not until then did he return the money to the manager.”

“That's all very well,” said Arnold. “But you haven't answered my question. Why were the two boxes of notes left on Carswell's premises?”

“This is my explanation,” Merrion replied. “The forgers had taken fright. Rightly or wrongly they believed that your people were getting warm, as the children say. They decided that they must cease operations, for the time being, at least. And they also decided to draw a red herring across the trail.

“Carswell, supposing him to have been a distributing agent, must have received supplies of the notes from time to time. But not, I imagine, in such large quantities. The forgers had no doubt a stock of notes on their hands. If these were found in Carswell's possession, it would be assumed that he had been the principal. And dead men don't answer questions.

“That's only the bare outline, drawn as simply as possible. I expect there was a good deal more to it than that. It may or may not point to the motive of the murder. I don't think that the first box would have been planted on him if it was intended that he should remain alive. He was already dead when the second box was planted.”

“I shall have to impound that second box,” said Arnold. “We don't want any more forged notes to get into circulation.”

“If I were you, I wouldn't do anything too hastily,” Merrion replied. “The notes won't come to any harm where they are, for a few days. The manager said that he would have no use for them until the next pay day. Meanwhile I'd concentrate upon Stonham. You're quite satisfied that he can't have been Newark?”

Arnold went to a bookshelf and took from it an A.B.C. timetable. “Newark is known to have left Owlsworth by the first train, at six forty-five. Wait a minute.” He turned over the pages of the timetable until he came to Owlsworth. “Sapcote told me it was a slow train,” he went on. “It doesn't get to London until nine-fifteen.

“When he left Owlsworth, Newark was wearing Mr. Fosdyke's old clothes. As I have told you, I think it highly probable that he changed in the train. But he can only have changed into what he had in his suitcase. Everything in that must have been soaked through. However smart the suit that he changed into had once been, it certainly wasn't then. It must have looked like something ready to hang out on the washing line.

“Remember, what impressed the manager most about Stonham was the smartness of his get-up. If he had been Newark, how could he have changed his appearance in so short a time? He had to obtain yet another suit and put it on. Where could he have done this, but at his brother-in-law's flat? He couldn't possibly have got to the factory between ten and eleven. Besides, vague though the manager's description may have been, it couldn't apply to Newark.

“Morstow might fit it. But in his case again, we're up against the same difficulties. Morstow left Brensford by the eight-thirty bus, and we must suppose that he caught the nine-five at Owlsworth. That train gets to London at ten-fifty. Morstow was wearing the clothes in which he had been caught in the flood. However smart they may have been once, they can't have been looking their best and brightest after that. He too would have had to change before going to the factory. And he couldn't have done that in ten minutes.”

Merrion smiled. “A thoroughly logical argument. But it leaves you very much in the air. Failing Newark or Morstow, who was this Mr. Stonham?”

“And how did he know that Carswell was dead?” Arnold replied. “It may be that the answer to that question is to be found in Brensford. I shall go back there to-morrow morning.”

“It's only five o'clock now,” said Merrion. “How would you like me to take you for a run in my car? I'm very much interested in what you've told me about Fern Cottage, and I should like to see it for myself. You can find the way to Markover, I suppose?”

“Trust me for that,” Arnold replied. “Just wait till I put through a call to Sapcote.”

He rang up Owlsworth 1331. The sergeant on duty who replied told him that the Superintendent was at Brensford Hall. Arnold left a message that he would arrive at Owlsworth at eleven-ten next morning. He rang off and turned to Merrion. “Now I'm ready.”

They set off in Merrion's car. At that time of day the traffic was heavy, and it took them an hour to reach Rendley. After that, under Arnold's direction, they drove through Markover to Fern Cottage.

There was nobody about, and they got out to survey the ruins. “It's always like that when one of these half-timbered thatched houses catches fire,” Merrion remarked. “The wood and thatch burn like tinder, and collapse, leaving only the central brick chimney stack. And the most efficient fire service in the world can't do much about it unless they're on the spot within a few minutes. There's not much left of Newark's comfortable little house. As for the cellar, in which he evolved his inventions, it is obviously full of debris, which is a pity.”

“I suppose it could be dug out,” Arnold replied.

Merrion shook his head. “Not worth the labour and expense involved. Whatever may have been in the cellar will be quite unrecognisable by now. I may be wrong, but I have an idea that that's where the fire started. I wonder where Newark kept the fuel for his generating plant?” He walked round the rubbish until he came to where the side of the cottage had been. There, almost hidden by the fallen beams and plaster, he came upon a two hundred gallon iron tank, cracked and warped, but still recognisable.

“That's it,; I'll be bound!” Merrion exclaimed. “You can't be sure of that,” said Arnold. “It might have been used as a rain-water butt.”

“That remark displays your urban ignorance, my friend,” Merrion replied. “One doesn't collect rain-water from a thatched roof. How about going on to the farm and having a chat with Mr. Tamplin?”

Arnold agreed and they drove up the lane, to find Mr. Tamplin in the yard. He recognised Arnold at once. “Glad to see you again, Mr. Arnold,” he said. “You've got another friend with you this time?”

“Mr. Merrion,” Arnold replied. “We've been having a look at what remains of Fern Cottage, and I think he has a question or two to ask you.”

“It's about Mr. Newark's generating plant,” said Merrion. “It ran on vaporising oil, I believe. Do you know where Mr. Newark kept his fuel supply?”

“Why, that I do,” Tamplin replied. “He had a tank put up outside the cottage. The plant was in the cellar, and the oil ran down to it by gravity. The tank must have been fairly full on Monday, because the oil people had been along only a week before.

“I'll tell you how I know that. I use vaporising oil for my tractors, and I've got an underground tank. You can see the pump yonder. When the oil people came along to fill my tank, they stopped at the cottage on the way and filled Mr. Newark's. And, as I say, it was a week last Monday that they were here. I never thought until now of all that oil being there. No wonder the place blazed up so quick!”

“Is vaporising oil particularly inflammable?” Merrion asked.

“I wouldn't say that,” Tamplin replied. “It's safe enough if you're careful with it. But if it should catch, it'll burn fierce enough. That's just about it. It was the oil that started it. But how it came to catch alight I don't understand. The tank wasn't; open at the top. It had a filling hole with a screwed cap.”

“The tank was outside the cottage, so if could easily have been got at,” said. Merrion. “If anyone had unscrewed the cap, could they have set light to the oil in the tank?”

Tamplin stroked his chin reflectively. “It wouldn't have been easy. Throwing in a match wouldn't have done the trick. How should I have set about it myself? There's one way I can think of. I should have unscrewed the cap and poured in a little petrol, which would float on top of the oil. Then I should have dropped a match on that. The petrol would have caught fire, and that would have started the oil going. But I don't see why anyone should have wanted to burn the cottage down while Mr. Newark was away.”

“Someone who had a grudge against him, possibly,” Arnold remarked, “He hasn't been back here since the fire?”

“If he has, I haven't set eyes on him,” Tamplin replied. “I can't understand it. He told me he was only going away for a couple of days. He can't have heard about the fire, or surely he'd have been down to have a look for himself. You don't know where he is, I suppose?”

“I know where he was on Monday night,” said Arnold. “But he left there early on Tuesday morning, and I haven't heard of him since. Well, you're a busy man, Mr. Tamplin, and we won't keep you talking any longer.” He and Merrion got into the car and drove away. “I hope your curiosity is satisfied,” said Arnold. “As you've seen for yourself, there's nothing left of the cottage or anything that was in it.”

“You heard what Tamplin told us,” Merrion replied. “I've my own ideas about how the fire started. Would you care to hear them?”

“I'm always ready to listen to the products of your imagination,” said Arnold. “I won't guarantee to agree with them.”

“I have never seen Newark's generating plant,” Merrion replied. “And I never shall now. All that is left of it will be some bits of twisted metal. But I can guess what it was like. An engine coupled to a generator, which charged up a set of batteries.

“Most engines that run on vaporising oil have to be started up on petrol. When they are warm, you turn off the petrol and turn on the oil. If Newark's engine was of that type, he must have had a supply of petrol, probably in a relatively small tank in the cellar.”

“If he had, he would have bought his petrol locally,” said Arnold. “I noticed a filling station in Markover as we came through. It wouldn't do any harm to stop there and ask.” As they entered the village, the filling station became visible. Merrion pulled up at it, and a man came up to the car. “Is Mr. Newark, who lived at Fern Cottage before it was burnt down, a customer of yours?” Arnold asked.

“That's right,” the man replied. “He always filled up here.”

“Did he ever buy petrol for any other purpose?” Merrion asked.

“Now and then he did,” the man replied. “He'd bring a can along and have it filled. He told me he used it to start up his generating plant.” Merrion glanced at his petrol gauge, which showed the tank to be rather less than half full. “Well, now we're here, we may as well fill up,” he said. “Eight gallons, please.” The man poured in the petrol, Merrion paid him, and they drove on. “My bill against you is mounting up,” said Merrion. “Five pounds that I paid the factory manager for his forged fiver, and now the price of eight gallons of petrol. But I daresay we shan't quarrel about that. You heard what the chap said. And I think you'll admit that my guess wasn't far wrong that time.”

“Yes, I'll admit that,” Arnold replied. “But I fail to see what Newark's generating set has to do with his disappearance.”

“Indirectly, it may have had a lot to do with it,” said Merrion. “My imagination pictures this as what may have happened. The oil from the outside tank was fed to the engine by gravity, the flow being no doubt controlled by a valve.

“Now suppose that on Monday a chapter of accidents befell. The valve went out of order, allowing the oil to run unchecked until it overflowed and covered the floor of the cellar. The petrol tank developed a leak, and the petrol dripped on to the oil. Then somehow the petrol became ignited. You can imagine what a fine blaze would have resulted. Within a matter of seconds the cellar would have become a raging furnace, and everything in it would have been destroyed. The flames would have burst through the ceiling and set the rest of the cottage alight. I think it must have been shortly after this that the fire was first seen from Fern Farm. It is certain that the fire must have started on the ground floor or below it, for the thatch was not alight when Tamplin passed by.”

“You may be right,” Arnold replied. “But, putting aside that remarkable series of accidents, I don't understand how the petrol could have become ignited when there was nobody in the house.”

Merrion smiled. “Don't you see what's in my mind? What I described as accidents might have been deliberately contrived early on Monday morning. And the petrol might have been ignited by a device worked by a time fuse of some kind.”

“Now I see what you're driving at,” Arnold replied. “But will you tell me why Newark should have wanted to burn up the cottage and all his possessions with it? Was it a dodge to get the insurance money?”

“There was a good deal more in it than that, I fancy,” said Merrion. “I believe that Newark was an inventor, and that the cellar was his workshop. And I further believe that the products of his inventive genius were five pound notes.”

“It seems not impossible,” Arnold agreed. “But why the fire?”

“Because, as I have suggested before, Newark was thoroughly scared,” Merrion replied. “He had got it into his head that you people were closing in on him, and he thought it was high time to close down for good and all. When he left home on Monday morning he took with him all the forged notes he had on hand. But there remained the apparatus he had used in producing them. A search of the cellar would reveal, not model making tools, but engraving tools and a printing press. By the way, that noisy generating plant was a clever dodge. While it was working, it would drown the noise of the press.

“The only thing to be done was to destroy the lot, and a fire would be the most convenient way of doing so. And, to spare himself from being asked awkward questions, Newark decided to be far away when the fire broke out. A time fuse would enable that to be arranged. Having set everything in order, Newark left the cottage, intending never to return. His plan was to seek shelter with Carswell at Brensford Hall. And, as I have pointed out already, but for that flood you would never have got track of him. Is it likely that he would have murdered Carswell?”

“If he didn't, who did?” Arnold asked.

“I'm not prepared to speculate about that,” Merrion replied. “There's nothing whatever to start on. It would be more profitable to consider what Newark may have done after he reached London at nine-fifteen on Tuesday morning.

“You have proved, by irrefutable logic, that Stonham can have been neither Newark nor Morstow. How did he learn of Carswell's death? It is of course just possible, though I think it highly unlikely, that Weedon rang him up from Brensford Hall. It is almost certain that Newark went to the Hall about midnight, and almost equally certain that he did not return to Stream House. In which case when Morstow reached London at ten-fifty, he was ignorant of Carswell's death.

“This is the way I look at it. There were several crooks engaged in the production and distribution of the counterfeit notes. Newark, Carswell, Morstow, Stonham and possibly others whom we haven't yet heard of. Newark was the chief forger. The others may have given him a hand on occasion, but their main job was to get rid of the notes.

“Now consider Newark's state of mind when he arrived in London. When he left Markover he was in a blue funk. The fact that he had arranged that the cottage should be burnt down is ample proof of that. By all accounts he was very badly shaken when he was prevented by the flood from reaching his destination. And when at last he was able to make his way to Brensford Hall, he found Carswell murdered.”

“I'm not so sure of that as you seem to be,” Arnold remarked.

“Never mind,” Merrion replied. “Let me go on. This last straw must have driven Newark nearly frantic. Not so much Carswell's death, because I don't suppose that these crooks have much affection for one another. But the fact that his haven of refuge was denied him. His instinct, rather than his reason, drove him back to London.

“By the time he got there he had probably worked himself into such a state that he believed that the combined police forces of the country were on his heels. Where was he to go? To seek refuge in his brother-in-law's flat would be madness. That would be the first place where the police would look for him. Only one of his associates remained, the man we know as Stonham.

“Newark knew where Stonham was to be found, and sought his protection. He told Stonham his lamentable story. That would account for Stonham's early knowledge of Carswell's death. I have no doubt that Stonham was one of the distributors of the notes, and that he had a supply in his possession. He decided to do as Newark had done, and get rid of them. Newark had left his at the Hall. He would leave his at the factory. There could be no harm in making a scapegoat of a dead man.

“I have very little doubt that the crooks, or at least Morstow and Stonham, met and conferred. It was agreed that the fiction of Stonham being Carswell's solicitor should be maintained as long as possible. Probably the woman who rang up the manager this morning, saying that she was speaking from Stonham's office, was Mrs. Morstow. But what puzzles me is how she knew what arrangements had been made for the funeral. It very much looks as though the gang had an informant in Brensford.”

“I've my own idea about that,” said Arnold. “Have you any bright ideas as to rounding up the gang, as you call it?”

“None in particular,” Merrion replied. “You're not likely to be able to catch them all in one cast of your net. And, suppose you are able to catch them individually, what are you going to charge each of them with? Starting with Newark?”

“Fabricating counterfeit notes, to begin with,” said Arnold. “Having been the owner of the forged notes found at the Hall. And finally the murder of Carswell. That ought to be enough to go on with.”

“What evidence have you in support of those charges?” Merrion asked. “You can't prove that there was a printing press at Fern Cottage. Even if you dug out that cellar, you wouldn't find anything recognisable as a printing press. Nor can you prove that Newark went to the Hall on Monday night. As for the murder of Carswell, I think you're on the wrong track there. And Morstow?”

“Aiding and abetting Newark,” Arnold replied. “And being concerned in the distribution of forged notes.”

“You haven't a shadow of proof in support of either charge,” said Merrion. “I am well aware that evil communications corrupt good manners. But the fact that I Morstow's brother-in-law is a crook is no proof that he is a crook himself. And last; comes Stonham?”

“Obtaining access to Carswell's room at; the factory by false pretences,” Arnold replied. “Having been the owner of the forged notes found there. Assisting Newark to escape from the police.”

Merrion shook his head. “The first charge is not a very grave one. You have no evidence that Stonham took anything from Carswell's room. His defence on the second would be that he did actually find the cash box there. And your third charge is founded upon no more than guess work.

“It's all very well, my friend. You and I may have our suspicions, and they are probably well founded. But mere suspicions don't carry much weight with a judge and jury. If I were you, I should try to get more evidence before I took any drastic step. The longer the members of the gang remain unmolested, the more likely they are to get careless, and make some false step. And just one more word of advice. The case you're supposed to be on is the murder of Carswell. Don't let this business of the forged notes distract you from that.”

They reached London and, at Arnold's request, Merrion dropped him at Scotland Yard. Arnold went to his room and sent for Wighton. When the sergeant appeared, Arnold told of his interview with the factory manager that afternoon. “Who this chap Stonham was, we have at present no means of telling,” he went on. “I don't think it's very likely that he will show up at the factory again, but we'll take the precaution of having the place watched. It won't open again till Monday.

“Meanwhile, there's one possible clue. Stonham took a taxi to the factory, and kept it waiting while he was there. I daresay that Carswell used to go to and from the factory by taxi, but I don't suppose that many other people did. And it must be unusual for a taxi to be kept waiting there. Consequently, the driver may remember the incident.

“Get it round to all the licensed taxi drivers in London. Never mind about the time and date, we know them already. What we want to know from the driver is where he picked his fare up and where he set him down again.” After receiving his instructions, Wighton left the room. Arnold glanced at the clock, to find that the time was a few minutes after eight. He had a question to ask Landrake, and wondered whether he should ring him up. On second thoughts he decided not to. It would be less formal to look in at the Artichoke and see if he was there. If he did not turn up, he could enquire for him at the Dormouse Club.

An hour later, Arnold entered the Artichoke. Landrake was there, one of a group of men, none of whom was Morstow, standing by the counter. On seeing Arnold, Landrake detached himself and came to meet him. “Good evening, Mr. Arnold. I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”

“I just looked in, in case you were here,” Arnold replied. “I didn't have a chance of meeting Mr. Fosdyke while I was in Owlsworth. Did you call at Stream House after you had dropped me?”

“Yes, I did,” Landrake replied. “I thought it was the decent thing to do. I saw Mr. Fosdyke and had a few words with him. He spoke about the inquest, but I had heard all that from Deben, who told me while we were on our way. Then Mr. Fosdyke mentioned that he was arranging for Mr. Carswell to be buried this afternoon.”

“Did you mention your conversation with Mr. Fosdyke to anyone?” Arnold asked.

“Morstow was in here yesterday evening,” Landrake replied. “I told him about my call at Stream House, and said that I had included him in my expression of thanks to Mr. Fosdyke for his hospitality to us on Monday. Morstow said he was glad I had done that. He had meant to write Mr. Fosdyke a note, but had kept putting it off. Then I told him about Carswell. I knew there could be no harm in that, for by that time the affair was common knowledge.”

“No harm at all,” said Arnold. “Did Mr. Morstow seem interested?”

“Not particularly,” Landrake replied. “He had never met Mr. Carswell, so his death was of no personal interest to him.”

“Did Mr. Morstow make any mention of his brother-in-law?” Arnold asked.

“Only to say that he hadn't seen him since Monday,” Landrake replied. “He supposed that he had gone back to Fern Cottage. He remarked that as Mr. Carswell was to be buried this afternoon, as I had told him. Jerry, as a friend of his, might quite likely attend the funeral.”

CHAPTER XII

NEXT MORNING, when Arnold arrived at Owlsworth, he found Sapcote waiting for him on the platform. They drove to the police station, and settled themselves in the Superintendent's room. Arnold gave Sapcote a detailed account of his doings since they last met. “When I rang up yesterday afternoon, I was told that you were at Brensford Hall,” he remarked.

“I was,” Sapcote replied. “I asked Mr. Fosdyke if he had any objection to my being present when he looked through Mr. Carswell's papers, to which he replied that he had no objection whatever. He told me that he and his friend and solicitor, Mr. Plaxtol, would be at Brensford Hall directly after the funeral. I joined them there.”

“Talking of the funeral,” said Arnold. “Were there any strangers there?”

“I didn't go myself,” Sapcote replied. “Knipe kept an eye on the proceedings and reported to me later. The only stranger was Mr. Fosdyke's friend, who was with him. Mr. and Mrs. Weedon were there, and a sprinkling of villagers. That was all. Colonel Heckley did not attend.”

“Not a very impressive gathering,” said Arnold. “How did Mr. Fosdyke and his solicitor get on at Brensford Hall?”

“They drew a complete blank, so far as any will was concerned,” Sapcote replied. “The only papers to be found in the house were in the bureau in the study. It was locked, but one of the keys on Mr. Carswell's ring opened it. They went through the contents very thoroughly, but found nothing of particular interest. No personal letters, only a few bills and receipts. A quantity of stationery, and three or four brushes of various kinds, probably samples from the factory. A bundle of one pound notes, twenty-three of them, secured with a rubber band. No five pound notes, genuine or otherwise. A number of statements from a bank in the town here, and a cheque book on the same branch. And that was about all.

“I asked them to let me look through the statements, but there was nothing like a clue in them. The sums on the credit side were dividends on shares held by Mr. Carswell, and those on the debit side drawings of cash or payments to local tradesmen. The last cheque entered was in favour of the garage I told you about.”

“Were any of the share certificates found?” Arnold asked.

Sapcote shook his head. “No securities of any kind. Mr. Plaxtol said they were probably in the strong room at the bank. He and Mr. Fosdyke agreed to go there this morning and see the manager. I asked them to let me know the result of their interview, and they promised they would. Anyway, they found no will. Do you think, after all, that this man Stonham you tell me about found it at the factory and took it away?”

“I don't think that's very likely,” Arnold replied. “If there is a will, it is probably at the bank with the securities. I should like to have a few words with Weedon. Could one of your people run me along to Brensford Hall?”

“I should like to have driven you there myself,” said Sapcote. “But I don't want to leave here this morning in case Mr. Fosdyke or Mr. Plaxtol should call. My driver will take you. I'll send for him.”

In a very short time the car deposited Arnold at the Hall. He rang the bell, and Weedon opened the door. “I have a few questions to ask you, Weedon,” he said. “We'll go into the study.” They entered the room, from which all traces of disorder had been removed. “Do you know if Mr. Carswell employed a London solicitor?” Arnold asked.

“No, sir, I don't,” Weedon replied. “He never spoke to me about what he did in London, or the people he saw there. One of the gentlemen who used to come and stay here may have been Mr. Carswell's solicitor, but he never told me so.”

“Have you ever heard the name of Stonham?” Arnold asked.

Weedon hesitated. “Well, yes, sir, I have. But I don't think I was meant to hear it. It was this way. Three or four months ago there was a gentleman staying here for the week-end. Mr. Carswell met him at Owlsworth station on Saturday afternoon, and he went back to London with Mr. Carswell on Monday morning. Mr. Carswell told me that his name was Mr. Smith.

“He and Mr. Carswell were sitting in here before dinner. The bell rang and I went to answer it. The gentleman was sitting with his back to the door, and I don't think he can have heard me open it. He was talking to Mr. Carswell, and I heard him say, 'The people there know me as Stonham.' Mr. Carswell told me to bring the whisky. I never heard the name again.”

“Do you remember what the gentleman looked like?” Arnold asked.

“He was dark, sir, but there wasn't anything very striking about him,” Weedon replied. “He was pleasantly spoken, and his clothes were new and smart. By smart I mean that they were townified and fitted him perfectly. They weren't bought off the hook, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“I know very well what you mean,” said Arnold. “The sort or clothes you would expect a gentleman from London to wear. Have you any reason to suppose that this Mr. Smith was Mr. Carswell's solicitor?” Weedon shook his head. “I don't think it's very likely, sir. The only thing he brought with him was a suitcase, and I unpacked it for him. There were no papers of any kind in it.”

“You're probably right,” said Arnold. “A solicitor coming to discuss matters with a client might be expected to bring papers of some kind with him. Now, tell me exactly what you did after you had found Mr. Carswell's body lying in here on Tuesday morning.”

“The first thing I did was to ring up Mr. Knipe, sir.” Weedon replied. “Then I went into the kitchen and told my wife. Then I went upstairs to look for Chris. After that I stood at the front door till Mr. Knipe came.”

“You are quite sure that you rang up nobody else?” Arnold asked.

“Quite sure, sir,” Weedon replied. “When I had told Mr. Knipe that Mr. Carswell was dead, I thought it would be best to leave things to him.”

“You were quite right,” said Arnold. “Where is your son?”

“He went to Ipminster by bus this morning, sir,” Weedon replied. “After the inquest Mr. Sapcote told him he might go. He's to start work there on Monday morning.”

“And what do you and Mrs. Weedon intend to do?” Arnold asked.

“Mr. Fosdyke spoke to me about that before he left here yesterday, sir,” Weedon replied. “He asked me if we would stay on here till things were settled, and after I'd spoken to my wife I told him we would. We shouldn't take another place after that. We've talked it over, and we've decided what we're going to do.”

“And what may that be?” Arnold asked.

“We want to find a house in Turtlemouth, sir,” Weedon replied. “A place where we could take in lodgers. We've saved up a bit of money, and we could easily manage between us.”

“I'm sure you could,” said Arnold. “All right, Weedon. That's all I want for the present.” He drove back to Owlsworth police station, where he found Sapcote.

“Mr. Fosdyke and Mr. Plaxtol have been here,” said the Superintendent. “They haven't been gone five minutes. They told me that they had had a conversation with the bank manager. Mr. Carswell had deposited his securities with him, but no will. Mr. Carswell had never spoken to him on the subject. Mr. Fosdyke thought it probable that his cousin had never made a will. He had never appeared to like anyone sufficiently to leave his money to him or her.”

“He had plenty of money to leave, I expect?” Arnold asked.

“Mr. Plaxtol said that the estate already known would amount to at least a hundred thousand,” Sapcote replied. “It was not known yet what the factory might be worth. Nothing has been found, either at the Hall or the bank to throw any light upon Mr. Carswell's business affairs. Mr. Fosdyke and Mr. Plaxtol are going to the factory on Monday.”

“I'm glad of that,” said Arnold. “I shall be there too. Did you tell them about Stonham's visit?”

“I told them as much as I thought convenient to know,” Sapcote replied. I told them that a man giving that name, and claiming to be Mr. Carswell's solicitor, had been to the factory on the pretext of looking for a will. I also told them that you did not believe that the man was a solicitor, or that a search for a will had been the true object of his visit. No more than that.”

“Enough to give them something think about,” said Arnold. “What is the position regarding Mr. Carswell's affairs?”

“I asked them that,” Sapcote replied. “Mr. Plaxtol told me that he would advertise, asking anyone who had any knowledge of a will to communicate with him. If no reply was received within a certain period, Mr. Carswell would be assumed to have died intestate, and Mr. Fosdyke would inherit his estate.”

“Very nice for Mr. Fosdyke,” Arnold remarked. “I'm more than ever sure now that Stonham wasn't Mr. Carswell's solicitor. Weedon overheard a rather curious remark. I'll tell you.” He repeated his conversation with Weedon, and went on. “This man's name when he was staying at the Hall was Mr. Smith. Apparently he was known to certain other people as Stonham. Hardly what one would expect of a respectable solicitor, I think you'll agree.”

“I do, indeed,” Sapcote replied. “Now I've something else to tell you. A weekly newspaper is published in this town, the Owlsworth Advertiser. It appears on Saturday morning, and this morning it had a fairly full account of the inquest. Not long before I met your train a man who had read this account called here and asked to see me.

“He was a man whom I know fairly well, a Mr. Lulworth. He is in business here as a builder and decorator, and more than once he has done a job for me at home. I have always found him decent, honest and straightforward. The last person in the world to imagine things or to fake up a yam for the sake of getting himself into the picture.

“This is what he told me. He has a brother in Ipminster, who is something of an invalid and is subject to fits of acute depression. Some time after nine on Monday evening he had a telephone call from his brother's wife. Her husband was in one of his fits, and she could do nothing with him. A visit by his brother would certainly cheer him up. Late as it was, could Lulworth come along? Lulworth replied that he would get out his car and come along at once. I'm giving you these details to show you that it was purely by chance that Lulworth was on the road at that time.

“He hadn't heard about the road being flooded at Brensford, so he set out along it, as being the direct way to Ipminster. He knew Brensford Hall, because he had done some work there a couple of years ago. When he got as far as that, he saw a small car standing outside the Hall entrance, with apparently no one in it. I asked him what time this was, and he said that it must have been a little after ten.

“He hadn't gone much farther when he found himself at the end of a queue of cars, standing still and also with no one in them. He got out to see what the trouble was, walked down the road and found it deep in water. Being a sensible man he walked back to his car, turned it round, and came back in this direction. He noticed that the car was still standing outside the Hall, empty. He came back for a mile or two, then turned off the main road and followed the diversion that the bus had taken. It was about half-past ten when he got to Ipminster.

“He left again about midnight, by which time his brother was much more cheerful. As it had stopped raining hours ago, he supposed that the water would have gone down, and decided to return here by the direct route. As he was approaching Brensford Street, he saw a policeman standing at the corner, where the road from Brensford Green joins the main road. He stopped and asked him if the road was clear, and the policeman told him that it was. So he drove on.

“He hadn't gone very far when a man carrying a suitcase came from the Plestham road and turned in this direction. As Lulworth overtook him, he slowed down and asked him if would like a lift. The fact that the man was wearing a Norfolk jacket struck Lulworth, as he had not seen such a garment for a long time. The man thanked him, but declined the offer, saying that he had only a short distance to go. Lulworth drove on, and as he passed the entrance to the Hall, he noticed that the small car was no longer standing there. He reached home and went to bed.

“Lulworth explained to me that none of these incidents had any significance for him at the time. It was not until he read the account of the inquest that their possible significance occurred to him. He had seen the car standing outside the Hall entrance, and the man with the suitcase, within the time limits fixed by the medical evidence for the murder.

“Naturally, I questioned him closely. But he had already told me everything he could. He hadn't noticed the number of the car, and couldn't even tell me what make it was. All he could say about it was that it was small and facing towards Brensford Street. As for the man, all he had noticed about him was the suitcase and the Norfolk jacket.”

“That's enough for us,” said Arnold. “The man was obviously Newark, wearing Mr. Fosdyke's Norfolk jacket and carrying the suitcase he had taken from the boot of Landrake's car. His coming out of the Plestham turning shows that he had just left Stream House. His remark that he had only a short distance to go very strongly suggests that he was bound for the Hall. He didn't say so, because he didn't want Lulworth or anyone else to know where he was going. But what about the car?”

“Lulworth saw it first a few minutes after ten,” Sapcote replied. “He is quite sure that there was no one in it. But you must remember that a little farther on Lulworth came upon other unoccupied cars. We are told that at that time the Rolling-Pin was full of stranded motorists. The driver of the car that Lulworth saw may have been told by some passerby that he couldn't get much farther. So he had walked down to the Rolling-Pin and joined the party.”

'Well, yes,” said Arnold doubtfully. “That might have been the case, certainly. But I prefer another explanation. The driver had left his car and walked, not to the Rolling-Pin, but up the drive to the Hall.”

Sapcote smiled. “I hadn't overlooked that possibility. And what did the driver find when he got there?”

Arnold took out his notebook and consulted it. “Mr. Carswell left the Black Swan soon after nine o'clock. If he drove straight home, as we can assume he did, he would have got to the Hall well before half-past. It would have taken him only a few minutes to put his car in the garage and to settle down in the study to read the newspaper he had brought with him.

“I don't suppose the car that Lulworth saw was standing at the entrance when Mr. Carswell returned. And for this reason. We have been told that when Mr. Carswell's car was out for a comparatively short time, the entrance gate was left open during its absence. I imagine therefore that it was left open on Monday evening, and that Mr. Carswell shut it on his return. It seems to me that if the driver of the small car had found the gate open when he reached it, he would have driven in. By leaving the car in the drive he would not have to leave the lights switched on.”

“There's something in that,” Sapcote agreed. “Another thing is that if the driver of the small car, let's call him X for short, had found the gate open he would have guessed that Mr. Carswell's car was out, probably with the owner in it. If that was the case, he would not be at home. X would probably have waited in his car until he saw Mr. Carswell come back.”

“I quite agree,” said Arnold. “I think we may take it that when X stopped at the entrance gate, Mr. Carswell was already in the study. The arrival of X must have been between half-past nine and the time when Lulworth saw the car. It must have stood there for at least a few minutes, for it was still in the same place when Lulworth returned from his walk to the edge of the flood. How long it stayed there we don't know. It was not there when Lulworth drove past the Hall on his way back from Ipminster. And that must have been about half-past twelve.”

Sapcote nodded. “The car had gone before Newark reached the Hall. It follows therefore that he and X did not meet. Do you imagine that X went to the Hall by appointment to meet Mr. Carswell?”

“He may have done so,” Arnold replied. “We are learning that Mr. Carswell was in the habit of meeting peculiar people. I feel pretty certain that he wasn't expecting Newark that day. But he may have made an appointment with someone else for that evening. One of the gang with which he was in association, perhaps. We know that X cannot have been either Newark or Morstow. At ten o'clock they were both marooned by the flood in Stream House. And they had no car at their disposal.”

“The same applies to anyone who was in Brensford at the time,” said Sapcote. “The party at The Elders, for instance.”

“Exactly,” Arnold replied. “X must have come from farther away than that. Perhaps even from as far as London. I say that because I'm wondering whether X can have been Stonham.”

“I rather doubt that,” said Sapcote. “And I'll tell you why. There seems to be no doubt that Newark and Stonham were partners in crime. If Stonham had a car, wouldn't it have been natural for Newark to have got him to drive him to Brensford Hall, rather than to enlist the services of a complete stranger?”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Arnold replied. “I think he certainly would. Perhaps X didn't come from any great distance, after all.”

“What's in your mind now?” Sapcote asked.

“This possibility,” Arnold replied. “X saw Mr. Carswell in Owlsworth that evening. While he was in the Black Swan, or while he was entering or leaving the hotel. X watched him, and saw him drive off alone in the direction of Brensford. It was a fair assumption that he was on his way home. X procured a car, not necessarily his own, and followed him.”

“With the intention of murdering him?” Sapcote asked.

“It hardly looks like it,” Arnold replied. “An intending murderer would surely not have left the car outside the entrance to the Hall, for all the world to see. A more observant person than Lulworth might have noticed the make and number. By leaving the car where he did, X advertised his visit to the Hall. If he had driven on a little farther he would have joined the queue of cars already there. It would have been supposed that his car was one of those waiting for the flood to subside.”

“If X didn't follow Mr. Carswell in order to murder him, what was his object?” Sapcote asked.

Arnold shook his head. “I'm not guessing about that. X may have had some business with Mr. Carswell, of such a nature that it was best conducted in private. I'll try to reconstruct what may have happened after X left his car where Lulworth saw it.

“He walked up the drive to the house. The curtains in the study were drawn over the window, but may have shown a light through the chinks. If so, that showed that Mr. Carswell was at home. Did he go up to the front door and ring the bell? If so, Mr. Carswell, in the study, may not have heard, the bell, which is in the passage outside the kitchen.

“Failing to obtain entrance that way, X went back to the back door. He found this unlocked, and walked into the house. The back premises were in darkness, and there was no sign of anyone being about. X went on until he reached the study door. I don't think he knocked on it, but that he just walked in.

“After his return home Mr. Carswell had settled himself in his chair, lighted a cigarette and opened his paper. That was the situation when X appeared. Mr. Carswell recognised him, and possibly guessed what his business was. It was a business to which he had no intention of being a party. We have heard a lot about his violent temper.

“He snatched the poker, leapt up, and started abusing X. One can imagine the sort of words he would have used. 'What the devil do you mean by this intrusion? Get out, or I'll bash your head in.' But X wasn't to be got rid of so easily. He caught Mr. Carswell's uplifted arm and tried to wrest the poker from him. There was a struggle, of which I fancy X was getting the worst. He slipped round behind Mr. Carswell and put his hands round his neck. Whether or not he meant the grip to be fatal is a matter for conjecture.

“When he realised that Carswell was dead, he probably wasted no time. I expect he let himself out by the front door, instead of going all the way through to the back of the house. Then down the drive and into his car. He couldn't have gone through Brensford Street, because the water was still up. He must have turned the car, and come back in this direction.”

“I congratulate you on a brilliant piece of reconstruction,” said Sapcote, with a note of irony in his voice. “This is the first time you have heard of X, of whom neither of us know anything whatever. You have satisfied yourself already that he killed Mr. Carswell?”

Arnold laughed. “I deserved that, sir. No, I am by no means satisfied. It is merely a possibility which I feel bound to consider. There are many others.”

“There are indeed,” Sapcote replied. “There is no proof that X ever went to the Hall. If he did, and saw Mr. Carswell, the interview may have been entirely amicable. In fact, it may have been at Mr. Carswell's suggestion. It's my turn to try my hand at a piece of reconstruction.

“You said just now that X saw Mr. Carswell in or about the Black Swan. It may have been the other way round. As he was leaving the yard, alone in his car, Mr. Carswell saw X, whom he knew and with whom he had had previous dealings. He stopped and told X that he would be alone at the Hall when he got back there. It was an excellent chance of a little private conversation unknown to anyone else. Mr. Carswell suggested to X that he should follow him to the Hall in half an hour's time. Do you see any objection to that?”

“Only this,” said Arnold. “Why didn't Mr. Carswell tell X to jump into his car? He could have driven X to the Hall.”

“Because neither of them wished to be seen in each other's company,” Sapcote replied. “Besides, if Mr. Carswell had driven X to the Hall, how was he to get back here? I don't suppose that Mr. Carswell felt inclined to turn out again to drive him back.

“Very well, then. X made his way to the Hall in another car, and the conversation took place. When it had come to an end, X drove back here. Later on, your man Newark arrived at the Hall, seeking refuge there, as you have supposed. But Mr. Carswell was in no mood to shelter a man whom the police were after, and told Newark to clear out. After which things happened much as you have described them.”

“I'll admit that your theory sounds more likely than mine,” said Arnold. “All the same, I should like to meet X and have a few words with him. If Mr. Carswell saw him as he was leaving the Black Swan, he must be a resident in Owlsworth.”

“Not at all,” Sapcote replied. “You must remember that all this happened on the evening of Bank Holiday. The town was full of strangers, by which I mean people who don't live here. I'm told it was almost impossible to fight one's way into any of the pubs. You remember the manager of the Black Swan saying that they were very busy that evening.

“No, I think X had come from a distance, and that his meeting with Mr. Carswell was entirely by chance. And, from what you have learnt of Mr. Carswell, you might hazard a guess as to what he and X had to talk about in such strict privacy.”

“Forged fivers!” Arnold exclaimed. “In which case X is yet another member of the gang!”

CHAPTER XIII

ARNOLD RETURNED to London. He had barely reached his room at Scotland Yard on Monday morning when Wighton appeared with a report. “We found the taxi driver, sir,” he said. “I saw him myself yesterday and took down a statement from him. Will you hear it now, sir?”

“I'll hear it,” Arnold replied. “Sit down, Sergeant, and read it to me.”

Wighton took out his note book. “The driver remembers Tuesday, sir, because he hadn't his cab out on Bank Holiday. That morning early he picked up a fare at King's Cross and drove him to Bethnal Green. As he was coming back along Hackney Road a well-dressed gentleman hailed him. He thinks this must have been between half-past nine and ten, sir.

“The gentleman told him to drive to a factory off the Mile End Road. He has forgotten the name of the place and the street it was in. When they got there the gentleman told him to wait. He waited for about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Then the gentleman came out of the factory and another man with him.

“The gentleman got into the cab and told him to drive back by the way he had come. When they had got to Hackney Road, not far from the junction with Great Cambridge Street, the gentleman told him to stop. Ho got out, paid his fare, and was still standing on the pavement when the driver went on. Naturally he didn't see which way the gentleman went after that.”

“Good enough,” said Arnold. “The gentleman was Stonham right enough. That tells us something about him, but not very much. He hailed the taxi in Hackney Road, and was put down again in much the same place. You've got a man watching the factory?”

“Yes, sir, since eight o'clock this morning,” Wighton replied. “His orders are to ring up if any visitors arrive. haven't heard anything from him yet.”

“Let me know at once if you do hear anything from him,” said Arnold. “Is there any news from Wash Street?”

“Not of Jerry Newark, sir,” Wighton replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Morstow are there. They go in and out, but neither of them are away for very long at a time. And they haven't had any visitors.”

“Lying quiet, apparently,” Arnold remarked. “All right. Sergeant. That will do.” Arnold considered what he had been told.

At various times Stonham had stayed at the Hall, as Mr. Smith, and had visited the factory. This seemed to make it impossible that he should have been X. If Stonham had had matters to discuss with Mr. Carswell, he would have gone straight to the Hall, rather than have roamed the streets of Owlsworth on the odd chance of meeting him. If he had rung up the Hall during Mr. Carswell's absence he would have got no reply. That would have told him that Mr. Carswell was out, but not where he had gone to.

Sapcote was probably right about the subject of the conversation between X and Mr. Carswell. X was therefore a member of the gang, though possibly not a very important one. For the present it would be hopeless to try to trace him. Lulworth had not seen the driver of the car standing outside the Hall. And, owing to his lack of observation, the owner of it could not be identified. Lulworth could not be blamed. At the time he had no reason whatever to take particular notice of the car.

An idea struck Arnold. He and Sapcote, although the driver of the car had not been seen, had both assumed him to be a man. Why? The car might equally well have been driven by a woman. Arnold believed that Mrs. Morstow had been involved in the machinations of the gang. Was it possible that she had been X?

Arnold sought an answer to this question. Morstow had accompanied his brother-in-law during the drive to Brensford, but had expressed his intention of not calling at the Hall. Newark was to have been left there, while Landrake drove Morstow back to London. There might have been some reason for this. For instance, that it was thought undesirable that Newark and Morstow should be seen at the Hall together.

But for the flood, Morstow would have been back in London on Monday evening. Since he did not return, his wife became seriously alarmed. She could not possibly have guessed that a flood had detained him. Newark had apparently been obsessed by the belief that the police were close on the heels of the gang. His sister might have shared this belief. She had jumped to the conclusion that her brother and her husband, possibly Mr. Carswell as well, had been arrested.

She had determined to discover the truth. She procured a car, possibly from some self-driving hire firm, and set out for Owlsworth. She would not have gone to the Hall, which might well be in the occupation of the police. By discreet questioning she might hear something in Owlsworth. The most likely place to hear news was a house of public resort. She had been about to enter the Black Swan when Mr. Carswell drove out of the yard. After a few hurried words, Mr. Carswell had asked her to follow him to the Hall.

Their conversation there must have been slightly bewildering. Mrs. Morstow told Mr. Carswell that her husband and her brother had set out in a friend's car that afternoon, their destination being the Hall. He could only reply that he had seen or heard nothing of either of them all day. They might have found their way blocked by the flood and, not knowing how to get round it, were waiting for it to subside. He could not have guessed that the two men were marooned at Stream House.

Somewhat reassured, Mrs. Morstow had left the Hall and driven back to London. And that might explain why Mr. Carswell had remained in the study instead of going to bed. Whether or not he had been expecting Newark that afternoon, he had reason to expect him now. Satisfied with his own conjecture, he decided to stay where he was until the road became clear. And, soon after midnight, Newark appeared.

This was, of course, open to the same objection as had been raised to the theory that X had been Stonham. If Mrs. Morstow could procure and drive a car, why had she not driven her husband and brother to the Hall? Perhaps, in the state of panic that Newark at least was in, they did not care to take the risk of the three of them being seen together.

Arnold felt that the theory of X having been Mrs. Morstow was not unpromising. One thing at least was certain. If X had been a woman, she had not strangled Mr. Carswell. He would have been able to tear a woman's hands from his throat without the slightest difficulty.

Arnold had reached this stage when his telephone buzzed. He picked it up and listened. “Sergeant Wighton speaking, sir. The man watching the factory has just reported that two gentlemen have arrived there in a private car and gone in.”

“Right!” Arnold replied. “Call up a car and stand by to go with me.” By the time that Arnold came out of the building, the car was ready, with Wighton sitting beside the driver. “Down Mile End Road, driver,” said Arnold. “When we get into it, I'll show you the way.”

He got into the back of the car, which immediately drove off. “I think I know who the two gentlemen are,” he said to Wighton. “Mr. Fosdyke and his friend Mr. Plaxtol. I heard that they were going to the factory today. It will be interesting to see what they find there.” They reached the factory, outside the gates of which a car was standing. Their driver pulled in behind this, and Arnold and Wighton alighted. As soon as they entered the yard they found signs of activity. Two men were loading up a van, and from the interior of the building came the hum of machinery. Entering the enquiry office they found three typists at work.

One of the girls rose and approached them. Arnold asked if they could see the manager. The girl replied that she was sorry, but he was engaged. Arnold produced his card and asked her to take it to him. She did so, and very shortly returned, saying that the manager would be pleased to see Mr. Arnold and his friend.

She escorted them into the manager's room, where they found George Fosdyke and Harry Plaxtol. “Good morning, Mr. Arnold,” said George. “You are the very man Harry and I want to see. You were here on Friday, I understand?”

“I was,” Arnold replied. “Our friend the manager told me about a visit he had had from a man who represented himself as Mr. Carswell's solicitor. The name he gave was Stonham.”

“We heard about that from Superintendent Sapcote on Saturday,” said George. “And the manager has just told us the story in detail.”

“The man, whoever he was must have been an impostor,” said Harry. “If he had been Carswell's solicitor he would have shown up at the Hall, which Weedon assures us he didn't. What is your opinion, Mr. Arnold?”

“I fancy that he was a crook,” Arnold replied. “Whether he took anything from Mr. Carswell's room I can't say. But I have reason to believe that he left something there.” With five men in it the manager's room was uncomfortably crowded. He suggested that they should move into Mr. Carswell's room, where there was more space. They passed through the outer office into a more spacious room, furnished with a large roll-top desk, a couple of easy chairs and a central table, round which other chairs were placed.

“This is certainly much better,” said George. “Donald seems to have known how to make himself comfortable. You were saying that you had reason to believe that Stonham left something here. May we ask what it was?”

“The cash box which the manager has now deposited in his safe,” Arnold replied. “He said that he had found it in Mr. Carswell's desk, but I am not inclined to believe that statement.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “He left a large sum of money here? You can't suppose that the man was a philanthropist?”

“Hardly that,” Arnold replied. “I must ask that no further notes be taken from the box.” He turned to the manager. “You will remember that the friend who was with me on Friday gave you five one pound notes in exchange for one of the five pound notes from the box?”

“Yes, I remember that,” said the manager. “I was glad to have them.” Arnold nodded. “I sent that five pound note to the Bank of England. The report upon it was that it was counterfeit.”

“You can't surely mean that!” George exclaimed.

“Repeat what the gentleman at the bank told you. Sergeant,” said Arnold.

George, Harry and the manager listened in amazement to Wighton's account of his interview. “But I paid the wages out of that cash box on Friday!” the manager exclaimed.

“So you told me when I was here that day,” Arnold replied. “I said nothing then, for I wasn't sure myself. No blame whatever attaches to you, for you had no suspicion that the notes were counterfeit.”

“May I ask why your suspicions were aroused, Mr. Arnold?” Harry asked.

“I will tell you,” Arnold replied. “When the police entered the study at Brensford Hall last Tuesday morning, an exactly similar box was lying on the table. It was padlocked, and the key was found in Mr. Carswell's pocket. On being opened, the box was found to contain a quantity of five pound notes. I took a sample to the Bank of England, where I was informed that the note was spurious.”

“Do you mean to say that. Donald was a forger?” George asked.

“I do not think that he actually forged the notes,” Arnold replied. “But we have evidence that he was in close association with the man who did. And we have every reason to believe that he was Jerry Newark, your guest of Monday night.”

“Good heavens!” George exclaimed. “You're not accusing me of harbouring him, are you? I had no idea the man was a forger.”

Arnold smiled. “You need have no qualms about that, Mr. Fosdyke. Our theory is that Newark left the box of forged notes in Mr. Carswell's study. And that makes it seem not unlikely that Stonham, one of his accomplices, left a similar box here.”

“But still I don't understand why,” Harry remarked.

“That's rather a long story,” Arnold replied. “Briefly, because the gang were trying to make it appear that Carswell alone was responsible for the forgeries. The finding of counterfeit notes both here and at the Hall would very strongly suggest that. My own belief is that the part played by Mr. Carswell was in the distribution of the notes.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” said George. “I always suspected him of being up to some dirty work. Did Newark murder him?”

“The evidence on that point is not yet conclusive,” Arnold replied guardedly. “We have every reason to believe that when he left Stream House he went to the Hall.”

“He made no secret of his anxiety to get there,” said Harry. “We seem to have been in bad company that evening, George. A forger and probable murderer. What about the other two, Mr. Arnold?”

“I suspect Morstow of being a member of the gang,” Arnold replied. “But not Mr. Landrake. I think he acted in all innocence.”

“I thought him a decent fellow,” said George. “He called in on us on Thursday and thanked us very nicely for sheltering him and his passengers. Well, Mr. Arnold, we came here to see if we could find anything to help us. Do you mind if we get on with the job?”

“Not in the least,” Arnold replied. He sat down and watched them at their work. They found nothing in the desk but papers and documents relating to the business. Among them a cheque book and statement, this time on the East End Branch of a leading bank. The cheques bore the name of Reliant Brushes Ltd., and had a space for the signature of a director. “Did anyone but Mr. Carswell have power to sign cheques?” Harry asked the manager.

“Not that I know of,” the manager replied. “Mr. Carswell always signed them. And he endorsed all the cheques that came in. You'll find a rubber stamp there. “Reliant Brushes Ltd.' Nobody ever used it but him.”

“What are you going to do now?” Harry asked. “This is a limited liability company apparently. Who are the other directors?”

“Limited company was all eye-wash,” the manager replied. “Mr. Carswell owned the concern. I'm a director and so is the shop foreman. But we hold only one share each, and Mr. Carswell never consulted us about anything. Our job was to sign on the dotted line when he told us to.”

“I see,” said Harry. “According to the statement, there is plenty of money in the bank to carry on with. But Mr. Fosdyke has no authority to do so. Mr. Carswell may have left the business to one or other of those precious friends of his. But as we can't find a will, we don't know. Mr. Fosdyke and I will have to talk the matter over and decide what steps to take. We can't do any good by stopping here any longer. There are no questions you would care to ask us, Mr. Arnold?”

“Not at present,” Arnold replied. “But if any will is found, I hope you will let me know?” Harry assured him that he would. After promising the manager that they would keep in touch with him, George and Harry left the building. “It only remains for me to ask you to surrender the cash box and its contents,” said Arnold.

“I'm quite ready to do that,” the manager replied. “I don't want to have snide notes on the premises. What's worrying me is how I'm going to pay the wages on Friday.”

“I'm sure you can trust Mr. Fosdyke to see to that,” said Arnold. The manager unlocked the safe and gave him the cash box with its key. Arnold and Wighton bade him good morning, entered the waiting car, and drove back to Scotland Yard.

As Arnold entered the building he was handed a slip of paper, on which was written a message received from Merrion half an hour earlier. “If you want to meet Rodden, come round to my rooms at half-past two this afternoon.”

Arnold made his appearance at the appointed time. “Ah, here you are,” said Merrion as Newport showed the visitor into the sitting-room. “I thought you'd be glad of the opportunity. I wrote to Rodden on Friday evening, and had his reply this morning. He has an appointment in Whitehall at half-past two this afternoon, which shouldn't take him very long. He promises to look in here afterwards. So we may expect him within half an hour or so. Well, and what's your news?”

Arnold told him what he had learnt in the course of his visit to Owlsworth on Saturday and of his conversation at the factory that morning. “I found the Lulworth story most interesting,” he went on. “We have no evidence that the driver of the car seen by Lulworth actually went to the Hall, but I think it exceedingly probable. If that was the case, who can X have been? And what did he, or possibly she, and Mr. Carswell talk about at their interview?”

Merrion smiled. “You've already got your answer to that, I expect. Let's hear it.”

“My guess is that X was Mrs. Morstow,” Arnold replied. “Seeking information about her husband and brother, both of whom, as far as her knowledge went, had completely disappeared.”

Merrion lighted a cigarette. “Mrs. Morstow, eh? At that time the Morstows' flat was not yet being watched. I suppose it's possible but, frankly, I don't think it's very likely. She wasn't expecting to see her brother that evening, for he was to have stayed at the Hall. It can only have been her husband that she was worried about. And would she have set out to look for him unless something urgent had cropped up after he left London?”

“What could have cropped up to alarm her?” Arnold asked. “Wighton had heard that Newark had a brother-in-law who frequented the Artichoke. But he didn't know his name, or where he lived.”

“She may have had a message from Stonham,” Merrion replied. “The member of the gang whose whereabouts that day are not known. However, it's no good guessing with no facts to go on. Talking of Stonham, I've got an idea about him. Would you care to hear it?”

“The products of your imagination are always welcome,” said Arnold.

“Then here you are,” Merrion replied. “The thing that impressed the factory manager about Stonham was that he was well dressed. You have just told me that Weedon was impressed by the same thing. He made the sage remark that Mr. Smith's clothes weren't bought off the hook, by which he meant that they had been made for him.

“We may take it from what Weedon overheard that Mr. Smith was Stonham, neither being his real name. The taxi driver picked him up in Hackney Road, and set him down again there. Are noticeably well-dressed men a common feature of that neighbourhood?”

“By no means, as far as I know the district,” Arnold replied.

“Who, among those living in a shabby district, would you expect to find well dressed?” Merrion asked.

“I'm blest if I know,” Arnold replied. “My theory is that Stonham doesn't live in Hackney Road, or anywhere near it. His appearance there was in order to lay a false trail. He had taken a bus from the West End to Hackney Road. Then he hailed the first taxi that came along.” Merrion shook his head. “I think you're complicating matters unnecessarily. We are agreed that Stonham can only have heard of Carswell's death from Newark personally?”

“I don't see how else he could have heard of it,” Arnold replied. “Weedon says he rang no one up but the policeman, and I believe him.”

“Very well then,” said Merrion. Newark arrived at Liverpool Street at nine-fifteen. His one idea was to find a hiding place as quickly as possible. How convenient for him if he had a friend living in the Hackney Road district! He could have reached his place in a matter of minutes.”

“There's something in that,” Arnold replied. “But until we can find Stonham, it doesn't help us much.”

“I'm trying to suggest a way of finding him,” said Merrion. “I'll repeat the question I asked just now. Who would you expect to find well dressed in a shabby district? The answer is, a tailor. He would have to dress well, in order to impress his customers. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“Morstow gave me to understand that he was a tailor's tout,” Arnold replied.

“Exactly,” said Merrion. “If my guess is right, and Stonham is a tailor, he is the one that Morstow touts for. Only as a pretext for being in close touch with him, of course. You will have observed that all the members of the gang have, or had, perfectly respectable occupations. Newark was an inventor, devoting the greater part of his time to his inventions. Carswell was the proprietor of a brush manufacturing concern. Morstow is a gentleman of comparative leisure, who touts for a tailor as a means of adding to his income. Stonham, as I have suggested, may be that tailor.”

“And X?” Arnold asked. “If X wasn't Mrs. Morstow, can you suggest a respectable occupation for him or her?”

Once again Merrion shook his head. “As I've warned you before, you're allowing yourself to become obsessed by this gang business. There is no evidence whatever that X was a member of the gang, or had any knowledge of it. It is surely possible that Carswell and X discussed a matter entirely unconnected with forged fivers?”

“I suppose it is,” Arnold replied. “But it's a curious coincidence that at the time X visited the Hall, Newark and Morstow were only half a mile away,”

“It's no coincidence at all,” said Merrion. “X may have been unaware that the two men existed. For that matter, you have no proof yet that X did visit the Hall. The only thing you have to go upon is that a car was seen standing unoccupied outside the entrance.”

“I don't know where X can have gone to but the Hall,” Arnold replied. “And if he did, we must suppose that he found Carswell at home.”

“We must suppose!” Merrion exclaimed scornfully. “In this case, as soon as you suppose anything, you start off after it. I daresay you've never seen a field of corn being harvested. When only a small patch is left standing, a dozen rabbits will bolt from it, scattering in all directions. An untrained dog will chase one, then change his mind and start off after another. And that's what you're doing.”

Arnold laughed. “And what does a trained dog do?”

“Choose the biggest, and stick to it till he catches it,” Merrion replied. “In this case, the biggest rabbit is undoubtedly Newark. It seems practically certain that he at least did go to the Hall. And until you learn what he found when he got there, you won't get any further than you are now.”

Before Arnold could comment upon this the door opened. “Captain Rodden, sir,” Newport announced.

CHAPTER XIV

MERRION AND ARNOLD rose from their chairs as Rodden came in. “I'm so glad you were able to look in,” said Merrion. “After our astonishing adventure the other day I felt that we really must meet again. This is my friend Mr. Arnold, who has also found time to drop in and see me. Don't go, Arnold. Rodden and I have nothing private to say to each other.”

Rodden took the chair that Merrion offered him. “No, I won't have a cigarette, thanks. I always stick to a pipe. It certainly was a queer adventure. I'm afraid the Colonel and Mrs. Heckley must have found us all a confounded nuisance. And we weren't the only ones to meet with adventure. I saw in the Sunday paper yesterday that the man we were talking about that evening got himself murdered. You knew that?”

“Yes, I did hear about it,” said Merrion. “I gathered from what you and Quarrington were saying about him that his death will be no great loss to the community.”

“He was a damned scoundrel,” Rodden replied. “Has it occurred to you that if the four of us had been able to get to Brensford Hall, he wouldn't have been murdered?”

“Murder in the presence of four witnesses would certainly have been improbable,” said Merrion. “But I'm not sure that either you or Quarrington would have stirred a finger to hinder the murderer.”

“I should have liked to get the truth out of him before he died,” Rodden replied. “Now I suppose it will never be known. It was someone upon whom he had played a dirty trick who murdered him, I don't doubt.”

“That's not unlikely,” Merrion agreed. “I was sorry that you and Quarrington had to leave The Elders so early to catch the bus. Quarrington was lunching with me the other day, and from a remark he made I gather that you didn't have a very good night.”

“I couldn't sleep a wink,” Rodden replied. “I'd never been in a flood before, and it scared me stiff. The water was surging past the house like a five-knot tide. That's all right on board ship, but houses aren't built to stand that sort of thing. I thought that the foundations would be undermined, and that the place would collapse like a house of cards.”

Merrion smiled. “Those old houses will stand almost anything.”

“I daresay they will,” Rodden replied. “All the same, I couldn't get to sleep. I lay awake, listening to the water swirling past. As I tell you, it was like being anchored in a tideway. At last I couldn't stick it any longer, and I got up and dressed. Quarrington was sleeping like a log. I didn't mean to disturb him, but he woke up and asked me what the devil I was up to. I told him I was going out to see if the water was going down at all.”

“And was it?” Merrion asked.

“Rather to my surprise, it was,” Rodden replied. “When I opened the front door, I found only an inch or two outside. What I had heard was the river, running like a mill stream bank high. It was dark, but on a clear summer night there's always enough light for one to see one's way about.

“The first thing I noticed was that the bridge over the river had been carried away, and I wondered whether that old barn had followed suit. After spending most of the afternoon helping to hoist those infernal pigs up into the loft, I felt I had a personal interest in them. So I went along to have a look. The barn was still there, and the pigs were snoring, or grunting, whichever it was, quite happily.”

“The Colonel and I got them down after you had left next morning.” said Merrion.

“An easier job than getting them up, I'll be bound,” Rodden replied. “Then I thought I'd go and see if the road was clear. The bridge having gone, I couldn't get across to the yard. But I expect you remember that footpath which runs along the side of the house to the road. I went along that to the gate, from which I could see that the road was practically clear.”

Rodden puffed at his pipe for a few seconds in silence. “You're going to laugh at me,” he went on abruptly. “And I daresay I deserve it. It struck me, as I stood there, that there was nothing now to prevent me from walking to Brensford Hall if I wanted to. And I did want to, even at that time of night. I don't suppose I can make you understand why.”

“You can but try,” said Merrion. “What time of night was it?”

“I heard a clock in the house strike twelve as I came out,” Rodden replied. “By the time I reached the end of the path it must have been about ten minutes past. You must wonder why on earth I should feel any interest in Carswell, after all this time. Whether or not he had been engaged in espionage during the war, that was all over long ago. But talking about him that evening had made all my old resentment flare up. He had beaten me at my own game, and I had lost face in consequence. I desperately wanted to have it out with him.”

“You wouldn't have gone to the length of strangling Carswell?” Merrion asked.

“Well, I don't know,” Rodden replied. “If it had come to a scrap between us, I should have done my beast to beat him up. But it didn't come to that, for I never saw him. I'll tell you what happened.

“I hadn't been standing at the gate more than a minute or two when I heard the sound of footsteps. Not very far away, but far enough for me not to be able to see whose steps they were. Then a car came along from the direction of Ipminster, and its headlights showed me the man. He came out of the turning on to the main road, and I could see him quite clearly. He was wearing a Norfolk jacket and a pair of grey flannel trousers, and he was carrying a suitcase.

“As the car overtook him, the driver slowed down and called out, offering him a lift. I couldn't hear the man's reply, but he didn't get into the car, which went on in the direction of Owlsworth. The man plodded on after it, and I waited until he was swallowed up in the darkness. Then I started off for Brensford Hall.

“I walked fairly fast, and before I had gone very far, the man came in sight again, still plodding along with his suitcase. I slowed down to his pace, and so kept a constant distance between us. I was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and he didn't become aware that anyone was following him. We went on like that for a quarter of a mile or more, and then the man stopped. I did the same, and heard the click of a latch. The man disappeared from my sight, hidden by trees on the right.

“As he drove us from Owlsworth station on Monday morning, the Colonel had pointed out the trees surrounding Brensford Hall. The house itself was invisible from the road. So I knew that my man must have entered the drive of the Hall. My curiosity was aroused, and I determined to find out what he was up to. I shortened the distance between us, and when I got to the gate I opened it, being careful not to allow the latch to click. It was too dark under the trees for me to be able to see much, but I could hear the man's footsteps, not far ahead of me.

“The trees came to an end a few yards from the house, and in the open space there was rather more light. I crept up under one of the trees where I knew that I could not be seen. So far as I could see, there were no lights in any of the windows of the house. I supposed that Carswell might be in bed asleep, and I wondered what the man would do.

“From my observation post I could see him fairly clearly. He seemed to know his way about well enough. To my surprise he did not go to the front door and ring, but walked round the comer of the house, out of my sight. I dodged among the trees until I could see the side of the house. And there, on the ground floor was the window of a lighted room. The curtains were drawn across the window, but I could see light around their edges. The man went up to the window and tapped upon it very gently.

“If anyone in the room had replied, I shouldn't have heard, for I was too far away. But the man seemed satisfied with what he had seen or heard. He hurried back to the front of the house and this time I felt sure that he would go to the front door and wait until it was opened. But not a bit of it. He went round to the other side of the house. Along this side the drive continued, I suppose to a garage beyond. Keeping out of sight myself, I was able to watch what he did. He went up to a door, possibly the back door, and turned the handle. The door opened, and the man disappeared within.

“I didn't feel inclined to follow him any farther. I waited for perhaps ten minutes, to see if he would come out again. Then it occurred to me that the fact that he was carrying a suitcase suggested that he intended to spend the night at the Hall. I wasn't prepared to tackle Carswell when he had a friend beside him to give him comfort and assistance. So I left it at that and went back to The Elders, seeing nobody on my way. I managed to get back to bed without waking Quarrington.”

“In the morning you never told us of your adventures.” Merrion remarked.

“It would have made a pretty poor story,” Rodden replied. “I had gone to Brensford Hall to confront Carswell, and I had come away without attempting to see him. In any case, you would have thought I was crazy to go there at all. So I kept my adventures, as you call them, to myself.”

“When you read your Sunday paper, did it occur to you that the man you had shadowed might have been the murderer?” Merrion asked.

Rodden smiled. “Oh, yes, that occurred to me all right. But what was I to do about it? Take my story to the police? There were two reasons why I didn't do that. The first was that, if I had told them that I had been to Brensford Hall in the middle of the night, they would have thought that I had invented the man in the Norfolk jacket, and that I had strangled Carswell myself. The second reason was that I should have hated to give information which might have led to the arrest of Carswell's murderer. In my opinion the man was a public benefactor.”

“That's one way of looking at it, certainly,” said Merrion. “Have you seen Quarrington since that Tuesday morning?”

“No, but I shall on Wednesday,” Rodden replied. “He and I lunch together regularly once a fortnight at a little place we know in Soho. Would you and Mr. Arnold care to join us?”

“I'm afraid I must say no,” said Merrion. “I have a previous engagement on Wednesday. What about you, Arnold?”

“I regret that I must say the same,” Arnold replied. “Wednesday is always my busy day.” The conversation drifted into generalities, and after a while Rodden took his leave.

“Well, and what do you make of that?.” Merrion asked when he had gone.

“I think Captain Rodden would have been a bit shaken if he had discovered that he had been talking in the presence of the Yard,” Arnold replied. “But I think we may accept his story as the truth. It confirms what Lulworth told Sapcote, and carries us even further. We know now that Newark did actually enter the Hall, soon after midnight.”

“The way he entered the house is rather interesting,” said Merrion. “I suppose the window he tapped at was that of the study?”

“I think we can assume that it was,” Arnold replied. “The study lies on that side of the house.”

“Newark went straight to it,” said Merrion. “That shows that he had been to the Hall before. He therefore knew who he might expect to find there. While he was at Stream House he may have heard that Weedon and his wife had gone to Turtlemouth. He may have guessed that the flood had prevented them from getting back to the Hall. But he can't have guessed that Chris had chosen that evening to abandon his job.”

“I agree to all that,” Arnold replied. “But I don't see the significance of it.”

“Just this,” said Merrion. “It seems to show that Newark wanted to gain sanctuary unknown to anyone but Carswell. If he rang the front door bell, it was probable that Chris would answer it, or so it seemed to Newark. So he went to the study window, and saw that there was a light in the room. That seemed to him an indication that Carswell was there. So he tapped on the window to attract his attention.

“Did he get an answer to his tap? That seems to me the crux of the matter. If he did, it means that Carswell was sitting up waiting for him. Carswell may have replied by telling him to go round to the back door, which he would find unlocked.”

“And if Newark received no reply?” Arnold asked.

“I'm trying to put myself in Newark's place,” Merrion replied. “He was definitely on the run, and he hoped to find a refuge at the Hall. His flight had been interrupted by the flood, and his consequent enforced detention at Stream House. At the earliest possible moment he escaped and resumed his journey to the Hall. Was Carswell expecting him at that time of night? I think not, though it is possible that he may have been expecting him in the course of that afternoon.

“Seeing a light in the study, Newark would have assumed that Carswell had not yet gone to bed. If he got no reply to his tapping, he would suppose that Carswell had left the room temporarily. If he guessed that Weedon and his wife had been unable to return, he would also have guessed that Carswell would have left the back door unlocked, so that when they did return they could get in without disturbing him.”

“You're supposing that Carswell was alive when Newark tapped on the window,” Arnold asked.

“If he had been dead, Newark would not have been aware of the fact,” Merrion replied. “There was no possible means by which he could have learnt it. Was the light on in the study when Weedon discovered the body on Tuesday morning?”

“According to him, it was not,” said Arnold. “He told Sapcote that when he opened the study door he had to turn on the light before he could see anything.”

“Then Newark must have turned it off,” Merrion replied. “Unless Carswell had yet another visitor after Newark's departure. And that brings us to this question. If. Carswell had remained alive, would Newark have left the Hall and undertaken that early morning journey to London?”

“Not unless Carswell had driven him out,” said Arnold. “And it's my belief that he was in no condition to do that. This business of the light makes things even clearer than they were before. You will admit that it is at all events probable that X went to the Hall and saw Carswell. If he did, he left Carswell alive and well in the study with the light burning.

“We don't know when X left. But what Captain Rodden told us enables us to add a piece to the jig-saw puzzle. The car he saw was Lulworth's. This was about ten minutes past twelve. When Lulworth passed the entrance to the Hall, the car driven by X was no longer there. There is no evidence as to how long it had been gone. Possibly only a few minutes earlier.

“That may explain why Carswell was sitting up so late. It wasn't that he was expecting Newark, or anyone else, for that matter. It was simply that he had been kept up by X, who had spent a couple of hours with him. He was smoking a last cigarette before going to bed when Newark arrived, unexpectedly, I feel pretty sure.

“What happened after that, we can only guess. The two must have had some conversation. Captain Rodden waited for ten minutes and Newark did not reappear. That means that the quarrel between them did not break out immediately Newark appeared. But we know that it must have broken out before two o'clock. Newark strangled Carswell and, I have no doubt, made off at once. Since he had been able to reach the Hall, there was no reason why Weedon and his wife shouldn't do so too. They might turn up at any moment, and Newark had no desire to be caught red-handed.”

“There is very little fault to be found with that reasoning,” Merrion agreed. “But you have no proof that this is what actually happened. As I was saying when we were interrupted by Rodden's arrival, Newark is the only person who can tell you that. I have an idea that both Morstow and Stonham know where he is. But if you start questioning them, you'll only give the alarm, and the rabbit will find a fresh burrow.”

“I can't question Stonham,” Arnold replied. “I don't yet know where to find him. But I'm rather struck by that idea of yours that he may be a tailor. I propose to work on that. And now I must be getting back to the Yard. Very many thanks for the way in which you contrived that I should hear Captain Rodden's story.”

As soon as he reached Scotland Yard, Arnold sent for Wighton. “I believe that I've got a line on that chap Stonham,” he said when the sergeant appeared. “There's just a chance that he's a tailor, with a place somewhere in the Hackney Road district. But I don't for a moment suppose that he trades under the name of Stonham.”

“I could make enquiries, sir,” Wighton replied.

“That's just what I want you to do,” said Arnold. “Hackney Road isn't Savile Row. There'll be plenty of ready-made clothing shops round about, but I don't suppose many working tailors. Go to J Division, and have a talk with the people there. They'll know what tailors there are in the district. Don't call on any of them, but come back here and report to me.” When Wighton had gone, Arnold set to work upon the papers in the tray on his desk. But his thoughts constantly recurred to Merrion's suggestion. Newark, deprived of his refuge at Brensford Hall, had presumably found another hiding place. When he reached London on Tuesday morning, he might well have made for the nearest. If a fellow member of the gang lived in the Hackney Road district, that would be the obvious place. And it was not unlikely that Newark was still there.

There was of course a means by which Stonham might be traced. And that was to ask Morstow the name of the tailor he touted for. But that would be to give the game away. Morstow, unless detained, and there were no grounds for his detention, would warn Newark, who would find another burrow.

Before Arnold had finished dealing with his papers, Wighton returned. “I got a list of tailors in J Division, sir,” he reported. “There are half a dozen of them, working tailors, that is, in and about Hackney Road. Three of them are one-man businesses, and the chaps who own them don't dress differently from their customers. Of the other three there's one that seems likely, sir.”

“What makes you think that particular one seems likely?” Arnold asked.

“Because the chap that owns the business is a bit of a toff, sir,” Wighton replied. “His customers aren't workmen, but folk who like to look smart, clerks, salesmen and the like. The sergeant I spoke to told me he had had a suit made by him, and a very good suit it was, too. And there's another thing, sir. This man doesn't spend all of his time stitching and sewing. He leaves most of the work to the chaps he employs. It is believed that he has other interests in the West End.”

“The man sounds interesting,” Arnold remarked. “What is his name?”

“Sturry, sir,” Wighton replied. “The business is known as Sturry and Son. He lives above the shop, and may have a family, for all the sergeant knows. And the address is in Runton Street, one of the side streets running from Hackney Road to the canal. The shop is on the telephone, sir.”

“I don't propose to ring up Sturry,” said Arnold. “All right, Sergeant. That will do.” Wighton went out, and Arnold set to work to consider how he was to ascertain whether Sturry and Stonham were one and the same. It was by now past business hours, and the shop would almost certainly be closed. Further, it was essential that Sturry, if indeed he was Stonham, should not be put on the alert by a visit from the police. And there was only one man available who could confirm the identity.

After some minutes of thought an idea came to Arnold. He put a call through to Merrion's rooms, which was answered by Newport. “This is Mr. Arnold speaking' said Arnold. “Is Mr. Merrion in?”

“He's been out, but he's just come in, sir,” Newport replied. “I'll tell Mr. Merrion that you wish to speak to him.” A few seconds later Arnold heard Merrion's voice. “Well, friend, what's your trouble now?”

“Will you be free to-morrow?” Arnold asked.

“Not in the morning,” Merrion replied. “I've got a business appointment. But I could make time to see you in the afternoon, if that will do.”

“It will do very well,” said Arnold. “Would you be prepared to do your duty as a good citizen by spending an hour or so assisting the police?”

“I am always prepared to do my duty,” Merrion replied. “What is it that you want me to do?”

“It would take too long to explain that over the telephone,” said Arnold. “I'll come round and see you straight away.”

At half-past two on the following after noon, Tuesday, Merrion set out by himself 320 in his car. He drove to the Reliant Brush factory, where he asked to see the manager, who received him cordially. “I remember you very well, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “You were here with Mr. Arnold on Friday.”

“I was,” Merrion replied. “I didn't think then that we should meet again so soon.”

“It's a pleasure,” said the manager. “I was expecting you, because Mr. Arnold rang me up this morning. He said you would call, and asked me if I would be good enough to go with you for an hour or so on a matter concerning the police. I said I would, but Mr. Arnold didn't tell me more than that.”

“Come along then,” Merrion replied. “I've got my car outside, and when we're sitting in it I'll tell you what Mr. Arnold wants you to do. If you've got a newspaper handy, you might bring it with you.”

“There'll be one in the outer office,” said the manager. “I'm quite ready.” They left the room and as they passed through the outer office the manager picked up a newspaper from a table there. Merrion showed the manager into the back of his car, and got in beside him. “Do you know the Hackney district?” Merrion asked.

“I did at one time,” the manager replied. “My uncle and aunt had a small business there when I was a lad, and I used to go and see them. But I haven't been there since.”

“Well, we're going there now,” said Merrion. “I am going into a tailor's shop, and I want you to wait in the car outside. Pretend to be reading the newspaper, and don't show your face more than you can. But keep a sharp look-out all the same. If you recognise anyone, don't take any notice and don't let him recognise you if you can help it. That's understood, isn't it?” The manager replied that he understood perfectly. Merrion got out of the back, took his place in the driving seat, and started off. This time he had consulted a street plan, and on reaching Hackney Road knew which turning to take.

In the middle of the afternoon Runton Street was quiet, and there were not many people about. Merrion drove slowly along until he came to a shop on the left, with the name Sturry and Son and the fascia board. He pulled up three or four yards beyond the door. “This is the place,” he whispered. “You'll be able to see anyone who goes in or out of the shop through the rear window.”

In the window of the shop was a row of dummies, clad in various garments, smart but rather on the flashy side. Merrion opened the door and went in. Behind the counter were shelves carrying bolts of cloth, and half-finished suits were hanging from a rail. At the opening of the door a man entered the shop through a doorway at the back. He was well dressed, in clothes of the same type as those exhibited in the window, and he had a tape measure slung round his neck. He glanced sharply at Merrion, as though wondering what business this stranger might have with him. “Good afternoon,” said Merrion. “Am I speaking to Mr. Sturry?”

“That is my name,” the man replied. “What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

“I want a suit made,” Merrion replied. “The same style as the one I'm wearing now. I was recommended to come to you by a friend of mine, Mr. Harold Landrake. I don't think he's actually a customer of yours, but a friend of his gave him the recommendation, and he passed it on to me.”

“I am not acquainted with Mr. Landrake,” said Sturry. “But it was very kind of him. I am sure that we shall be able to make you a suit to your satisfaction. Will you allow me to take your measurements?” Merrion raised no objection, and Sturry called through the doorway at the back of the shop. He then set to work with his tape, calling out figures which the other man took down. “That will be quite sufficient,” he said as he came to the end. “Now will you be good enough to choose the material of which you wish the suit to be made?” He produced a book of patterns, from which Merrion chose one.

“A very suitable choice, if I may say so,” said Sturry. “As it happens, we have not got that particular material in stock, but it will take us only two or three days to get it. I'm afraid we must ask you to come here again in about a fortnight's time for the first fitting. May I have your telephone number, so that we can ring you up and arrange an appointment?”

“I don't live in London,” Merrion replied. “But if you send me a postcard, that will bring me here.” He gave his name, and the address of High Eldersham Hall. “I come up to London fairly frequently. Let me know when you're ready for me, and I'll fix an appointment the next time I'm up.”

“That will be quite satisfactory,” said Sturry. “Would you like me to ring up for a taxi? They're rather scarce in this part of London.”

“Thanks, but I've got my car outside,” Merrion replied. Sturry opened the door of the shop for him and followed him on to the pavement. “I'm glad you were able to oblige me, Mr. Sturry,” said Merrion. “We shall meet again in a fortnight or three weeks' time.”

“I shall look forward to it with pleasure, Mr. Merrion,” Sturry replied. “I will not fail to inform you when the suit is ready for the first fitting.” Merrion got into the car, and Sturry returned to the shop. The manager appeared to be very short-sighted, for he was holding the newspaper so close to his eyes that nothing of his face could be seen.

Nothing was said until the car had turned the corner into Hackney Road. Then the manager exclaimed excitedly. “That was Mr. Stonham! The gentleman who came out of the shop with you. I saw him plainly in your driving mirror through the back window. He was Mr. Stonham, I've no doubt of that. But what he was doing in a tailor's shop with a tape measure round his neck is more than I can tell.”

CHAPTER XV

HAVING DROPPED the manager at the factory, Merrion drove on to Scotland Yard. Arnold had given orders that he was to be shown up to his room, and he was escorted there without delay. “Well, and how did you get on?” Arnold asked.

Merrion replied with a detailed account of his expedition. “The manager identified Sturry as Stonham without hesitation,” he went on. “I felt I ought to give Sturry some reason for my calling at his shop. If I'd let him think that I had fallen out of the blue he might have been suspicious. A man living in the country wouldn't look for a tailor in Runton Street without a cause. That is why I spoke of a recommendation.”

“Did Sturry sit up and take notice at the mention of Landrake's name?” Arnold asked.

“Not noticeably,” Merrion replied. “He merely said that he was not acquainted with him, which was probably true. He must of course have heard of Landrake, if not before the Bank Holiday adventure at least afterwards. But I don't think he associated my mention of Landrake with that adventure.”

“It doesn't so very much matter if he did,” said Arnold. “We know now where to find Stonham when we want him. Do you think that he's got Newark hidden away in the back of the shop?”

“Not in the back of the shop, I imagine,” Merrion replied. “But, from what I could see of the place from outside, there must be fair-sized living accommodation above the shop. If Newark is on the premises, that's where he'd probably be.”

“Do you think that Sturry is merely playing at being a tailor?” Arnold asked.

“Decidedly not,” Merrion replied. “He knows the trade well enough. I could tell that by the expert way in which he took my measurements. The man I go to in Savile Row couldn't have done it more professionally, I shouldn't wonder if the majority of Sturry's customers were gentleman crooks. And I shrewdly suspect that he uses the tailor's business as a cover for more nefarious transactions.”

“I'll have the place watched,” said Arnold.

“I should, if I were you,” Merrion replied. “But I almost hope that you won't find it necessary to arrest Sturry. If you do, I shall never get that suit, and I'm perfectly sure that he would have made an excellent job of it. Well, I must get home. Let me know if there is any fresh development.”

When Merrion had been shown out, Arnold sent for Wighton, who appeared within a minute or two. “You were right, Sergeant,” said Arnold. “Your Mr. Sturry the tailor is the man who called at the factory, giving his name as Stonham and representing himself as Mr. Carswell's solicitor. It's just possible that he is sheltering Newark, and the place must be watched. Don't take on the job yourself, because you're too well known in the underworld. If anyone answering to Newark's description comes out, he is to be followed and, when he has reached a safe distance, stopped and questioned. Arrange with J Division for a uniformed constable to be within hail, but out of sight.”

So it came about that Detective-Constable Brough was in Runton Street that evening. He was wearing corduroy trousers, and a rough working coat, with a muffler round his neck. In this get-up he attracted no attention. It was a fine evening, and quite a number of people, men, women and children, were standing in groups or strolling aimlessly along the pavements.

Brough also stood or strolled, the fag end of a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was careful never to stand outside Sturry's shop, but he never lost sight of the door. The shop was closed, and the windows had blinds drawn across them.

As the evening drew on, a light appeared in a window above the shop, but the shop remained in darkness. Gradually, the crowd began to thin, and Brough felt that he might be becoming conspicuous. The shop was barely fifty yards from the comer of the street, and he strolled down to Hackney Road. There a uniformed constable was standing directing the traffic, in such position that he could look down Runton Street. Brough crossed the road where the Constable stood. “Nothing so far,” h muttered as he passed him.

Brough walked a little way along Hackney Road, then crossed again and came back to the corner of Runton Street. Three men had assembled there, apparently having be ejected from a nearby public house. They were arguing drunkenly in loud voices, and a sprinkling of stragglers had gathered round, jeering at them. Brough joined the group, keeping his eyes on the shop. A street lamp on the opposite side of the road illuminated it most conveniently.

By this time Runton Street was practically deserted. A clock in the distance struck eleven. The three men, who had composed their differences, went off arm in arm, singing lustily. Deprived of their entertainment, the group at the corner melted away, until Brough was left alone.

He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lighted one of them. As he threw the match into the gutter the light in the window above the shop went out. Brough had a feeling of profound disappointment. Whoever was up there had presumably gone to bed, and there would be no further development that night. Then, a minute or two later, the door of the shop opened for a few inches, and a head peered out, looking up and down the street.

Brough turned his back, strolled away and concealed himself round the comer. He waited there for several seconds. If the 331 man came out, he would still be visible at the end of that period. Brough turned back into Runton Street. On the pavement, twenty yards from the shop was a man who was certainly not a casual stroller. He was wearing a dark suit and a soft felt hat, not by any means the evening dress favoured in Runton Street. He was short and rather stout and he was walking, rather stumblingly, not towards Hackney Road, but in the opposite direction.

Brough gave him a good start, then followed on the opposite pavement at a leisurely pace. The chase continued thus for a couple of hundred yards, when the distance between pursued and pursuer decreased. Since Brough had not increased his pace, it followed that the man in front of him must be walking more slowly. Indeed, there was a hesitancy in his step, as though he might turn and go back. Brough felt that the time had come to accost him. He crossed the road and walked swiftly up behind him. “Just a moment, please,” he called.

The man had apparently not heard the sound of Brough's rubber-soled shoes. He uttered a startled cry, then turned and peered at Brough apprehensively. “I haven't got any money on me, if that's what you want,” he faltered.

“It isn't what I want,” Brough replied. “Where are you going?”

“No farther than the canal,” the man replied wearily. “That'll be as easy a way out as any.”

“You intended to drown yourself?” Brough asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. “If I can screw up enough courage to jump in.”

“You'll do nothing of the kind,” said Brough sternly. “I am a police officer, and I must ask you to come with me. It's no use trying to bolt, because I expect I can run a good deal faster than you can.” The man laughed mirthlessly. “A police officer? Do you expect me to believe that? Come on, out with it, what's your game?”

“You may believe it or not as you please,” Brough replied. “You will come with me, and I shall hand you over to the uniformed constable at the end of the street.” The man looked about him, as though contemplating flight. Brough put his hand on his arm. “Don't be silly,” he said. “You had far better come with me quietly. What is your name and address?”

At the grip of Brough's arm, the man seemed to resign himself to his fate. “So that's to be the end, after all,” he muttered. “I'll come with you quietly enough, you need have no fear of that. My name is Jerry Newark, and I have no address. I used to have once, but that's all over now.”

They started back along Runton Street, Brough still holding his captive by the arm. They reached the end of the street and the constable in Hackney Road, seeing Brough with a companion, immediately lost all interest in the traffic. He came forward to meet them. “Got him?” he asked.

“Yes, he's the man,” Brough replied. “We'll get him along to the station. He's been quiet enough, so far.”

Arnold had remained at Scotland Yard that evening, in the hope that the dispositions he had made might bear fruit. He was dozing in the chair in his room when at half-past eleven his telephone buzzed. Answering it, he was told that Constable Brough wished to speak to him. “Put him through,” he replied briefly.

“This is Constable Brough, sir, speaking from Hackney police station,” came a voice. “I have Jerry Newark here.”

“Good man!” Arnold exclaimed. “Stand by for the car I'm sending, and when it arrives, bring him here.” Arnold had provided himself with warrants for the arrest of Morstow and Sturry, and now the time had come to use them. He had three police cars in readiness, each with two constables in it, and these he now despatched. The first to Hackney police station, the second to Wash Street, and the third to Runton Street. This done, he sat back and waited for reports. He had given orders that on no account were the three men to catch sight of one another.

The first report came just after midnight. The duty sergeant telephoned that the car had returned from Hackney police station, with Brough and Newark. Arnold's instructions were that Newark was to be left in charge of Brough until he sent for them.

A few minutes later, the second report came in. The car sent to Wash Street had returned with Morstow, who had been accommodated with a cell to himself. A further report that Sturry had been collected from Runton Street completed the tally.

So the surviving members of the gang were in the bag, and each had been apprehended without the others' knowledge. So far so good. Arnold gave orders that Brough and Newark were to be sent to his room.

They appeared within a minute or two. Brough had had no time to change his clothes, and looked far more disreputable than his prisoner. Newark was neatly, almost jauntily dressed, but all the spirit had gone out of him. He slumped into the chair which was pointed out to him, and stared at Arnold like a rabbit fascinated by a snake. “Let me have your report. Constable,” said Arnold.

Brough described what had happened in Runton Street. “The prisoner made no attempt at resistance, sir,” he concluded.

“That was wise of him,” Arnold remarked. “So you were going to jump into the canal, were you, Newark? What made you want to do that?”

“There wasn't anything else I could do,” Newark replied wearily. “I'd have gone to the police long before this, but my friends told me that would only be putting myself in the dock on a charge of murder. And when Johnny told me this evening that I couldn't stay with him any longer, I made up my mind to put an end to it for good and all.”

“And who may Johnny be?” Arnold asked.

“Just a friend that I'd been staying with,” Newark replied uneasily.

“Let me put your mind at rest on one point,” said Arnold. “You need not be afraid of any act of revenge on the part of your friends. Both Morstow and Sturry have been arrested, and are being detained in this building at this moment. Neither of them know that you have been arrested too. Johnny's other name is Sturry?”

Newark seemed not unduly dejected at the news that he and his friends were in the same boat. “That's right,” he replied. “He got scared, and that's why he turned me out.”

“What had scared him?” Arnold asked.

“He'd had a customer this afternoon,” Newark replied. “He gave the name of Merrion, and Johnny asked me if I had ever heard the name before, I told him that I had heard it when I was at Stream House. Mr. Fosdyke told us that we weren't the only ones stranded by the flood. The Colonel who lived in the house over the road had visitors who wouldn't be able to get away. Mr. Fosdyke had told us their names, and I remembered that one of them was Merrion. Then Johnny told me that this Mr. Merrion had a chap sitting in the back of his car, who might have been a plain clothes man. If the police had got an inkling of where I was, I should have to clear out.” At all events Sturry had not recognised the factory manager, which was all to the good.

“I see,” said Arnold. “But it seems to me that we've started at the wrong end of the story. We go back to Monday of last week which, as you may remember, was Bank Holiday. What made you so anxious to get to Brensford Hall that day?”

“I had nowhere else to go,” Newark replied glibly. “My house had been burnt down, and all my possessions had gone with it. I knew very well that my old friend Mr. Carswell would be glad to offer me hospitality.”

Arnold shook a warning finger at him. “You'll do yourself no good by telling lies, Newark. Fern Cottage was not burnt down until several hours after you had left it. We know not only who engraved and printed those counterfeit notes, but who distributed them. We'll talk about that later on. You say that you knew that Mr. Carswell would offer you hospitality. Had you told him that you were coming to Brensford Hall?”

Arnold's confident tone knocked all the glibness out of Newark. “I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Arnold,” he replied. “The absolute truth, I promise you. I'll tell you the whole story, if you'll only believe me.”

“I can't undertake to believe you,” said Arnold. “But I am prepared to listen to any statement you may care to make. Before you do so, it is my duty to caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence at some future time. You understand that?”

“Oh, yes, I understand that,” Newark replied. “This is what happened, Mr. Arnold.

“Andrew Morstow, my brother-in-law, came to see me at Fern Cottage after dark on Sunday. He had borrowed a motor cycle from a friend and ridden it down from London. He was very much upset, and told me that the game was up. He had heard from some of his friends that the police were searching for me, and that could only be because they had found out that I was printing the notes. It might be only a matter of hours before they found out where I lived. The only thing was for me to go into hiding and to destroy all the apparatus I had in the cellar.”

“Did Morstow offer to hide you in his flat in Wash Street?” Arnold asked.

“He said that would be suicidal,” Newark replied. “The police might find out that he was my brother-in-law, and his flat was the first place they would search. If I could get to Brensford Hall, I should be safe enough there. In his own interests, Mr. Carswell couldn't refuse to take me in.”

“Why in his own interests?” Arnold asked.

Newark looked uncomfortable. “Well, you see, it was this way, Mr. Arnold. Andrew put it bluntly that none of them trusted me. If the police caught me, they might persuade me to turn Queen's evidence against my friends. And then Mr. Carswell would be among the first to be arrested.”

“Your friends didn't have a very high opinion of your fortitude, apparently,” said Arnold. “Go on.”

“Andrew and I talked it over,” Newark replied. “We arranged that I should go up to London on Monday morning and go straight to his flat. It would be exposing him to some risk, but I should only be there for a short time. Andrew said that he knew a man whom he could persuade to drive me to Brensford Hall in his car, so that I needn't show myself in public.”

“The man being Mr. Landrake,” said Arnold. “We've heard his story, so you needn't tell us what happened. Before you got to Brensford Hall he drove you into the flood, and in order to escape drowning the three of you were forced to take shelter, in Stream House.

“Just to show you how much we know, I'll go on from there. At almost exactly midnight you got up and put on the clothes Mr. Fosdyke had lent you. Finding that the water had gone down, you determined to make your way to Brensford Hall. You took your suitcase from the boot of Mr. Landrake's car, and set out.

“When you got to the main road, a car overtook you, and the driver offered you a lift. You refused the offer, saying that you had only a short distance to go. You did not wish anyone to know what your destination was. Having reached the Hall, you walked up the drive and tapped on the study window. Did you get any answer to your tapping?”

Newark was goggling at Arnold with an expression of almost ludicrous amazement. “How could you possibly know that?” he asked.

“Never mind how I know it,” Arnold replied. “The fact remains that I do. Answer my question.”

“I couldn't hear anything,” said Newark. “The light was on in the room, so I knew that Mr. Carswell must be there. I thought perhaps he had gone off to sleep in his chair.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “You meant to get into the house somehow. You didn't like to ring the front door bell, so you went round to the back door, hoping that you might find it unlocked. It was, so you went in. You found nobody about in the back premises, so you made your way to the study.” Arnold paused, then went on slowly. “You opened the study door. The light was on in the room. Where was Mr. Carswell?”

“I'm telling the truth!” Newark wailed. “You must believe me, Mr. Arnold. Mr. Carswell was lying on the floor. And when I went up to him, I found that he was dead.”

“That takes some believing,” said Arnold sceptically. “You must know that Mr. Carswell was murdered. Who but you could have murdered him?”

“I don't know!” Newark replied wildly. “Can't I make you believe that I didn't murder him? He was dead when I got to the Hall.”

“There is a telephone there,” said Arnold. “Why didn't you ring up the police and report to them what you had found?”

“The police!” Newark exclaimed. “They'd have thought I'd done it. There had been a struggle, anyone could see that. The poker was lying on the floor, and things were upset and broken. And there seemed to be no one in the house but Mr. Carswell and me. Besides-” His voice faded out.

“Besides what?” Arnold asked. “Look here, Newark. The only way you can persuade me to believe you is to tell me the whole truth. What other reason had you for not ringing the police?”

“Andrew had told me that they were after me already,” Newark replied. “And I had something with me that I didn't want them to find.”

“And what was that?” Arnold asked.

“A box of counterfeit notes,” Newark replied. “I had brought them from Fern Cottage. I wanted Andrew to take them, but he wouldn't. He said he wasn't going to be found with such things in his possession. Then I thought that if I gave them to Mr. Carswell without asking him to pay for them, he wouldn't so much mind my coming to him.”

“Very well,” said Arnold. “What did you do next?”

“I didn't know what to do,” Newark replied. “I was struck all of a heap. I stood staring at Mr. Carswell, hardly believing my eyes. Then it dawned upon me that I must get away from the Hall before some-one came along and found me there. But what was I to do with the notes? If I were stopped and they were found on me, the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance, I must get rid of them somehow.

“At last, when I was able to think clearly again, I thought of a way. I put the box on the table and wiped it carefully. I didn't mean to leave my fingerprints on it. Then I slipped the key into Mr. Carswell's pocket. When the box was found on the table and key in Mr. Carswell's possession, people would think the notes were his property.”

“And Mr. Carswell couldn't deny it,” said Arnold. “Did you open the desk in the study?”

“It was locked,” Newark replied. “And I didn't feel like wasting time looking for the key and unlocking it. I wasn't feeling worried about what might be in the desk, because I knew that Mr. Carswell kept things that he didn't want other people to see at the factory.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Carswell had made a will?” Arnold asked.

“I'm almost sure he hadn't,” Newark replied. “One day last year when I was spending the week-end at Brensford Hall Mr. Carswell told me as much. He said that he wasn't going to leave his money to his cousin, whom he disliked as much as his cousin did him. He didn't know of anyone whom he wanted to make his heir. And, as he wasn't likely to die for a good many years yet, making a will could wait.”

“He overlooked the possibility that he might be murdered,” Arnold remarked. “Who was it, Newark?”

“It wasn't me, Mr. Arnold,” Newark replied desperately. “I'll swear to that on the gallows, if it comes to it. The only person I can think of is that ill-conditioned Weedon lad. Chris, they call him.”

“You left the notes in the study,” said Arnold. “Did you take anything from there?”

“Well, yes I did,” Newark replied. “And to this day I don't really know why. As I told you, the room was in a bit of a mess. A big flower vase had been knocked over, and was lying in bits on the floor. Among the bits was something wrapped in Cellophane. I picked it up and saw it was a shaving brush.”

Arnold remembered that Sapcote had told him that several factory samples had been found in the desk in the study. This no doubt was one of them, though why it had been lying on the floor was rather puzzling. “There's nothing very remarkable about that,” he said. “You might have expected to find brushes of all kinds at the Hall, since Mr. Carswell was a brush manufacturer.”

“That was just it,” Newark replied. “This wasn't a Reliant brush. It was some other make. And how it came to be lying where I found it I couldn't make out. Anyway, I put it in my pocket.”

“Where is this shaving brush now?” Arnold asked.

“In the room I slept in while I was at Johnny's,” Newark replied. “I didn't take anything away from there but the clothes I'm wearing now.”

“Did anyone except Sturry live over the shop in Runton Street?” Arnold asked.

Newark shook his head. “Nobody else slept there. A woman used to come in and tidy up and cook Johnny's meals. But on Tuesday morning when the woman came, Johnny paid her off and told her he wouldn't want her any longer. I was used to cooking a meal for myself in the evening at Fern Cottage, and I managed for both of us. I never went out for fear of being seen, and Johnny did the shopping.”

“We'll get back to Brensford Hall,” said Arnold. “How long did you stay there?”

“No longer than I could help,” Newark replied. “I was in mortal terror of Weedon and his wife turning up at any moment. I heard while I was at Stream House that they had gone to Turtlemouth. Mrs. Fosdyke had seen them start off in the coach that morning. The flood might have prevented them getting back when they meant to. But it had gone down, and now there was nothing to stop them. And there was Chris to be reckoned with, too. He had probably gone to bed. But he might come down again if he heard anything.”

“There wasn't much to be heard,” said Arnold. “I don't suppose that you made more noise than you could help. Unless you took part in the struggle in the study?”

“I swear I didn't, Mr. Arnold!” Newark exclaimed. “That must have happened before I got there, I don't suppose I was in the study more than a quarter of an hour, before I left the house. Then I didn't dare go to the back door, in case the Weedons had come back and were in the kitchen. I let myself out by the front door and shut it behind me.”

“And what did you do after that?” Arnold asked.

“My one idea was to get away as quickly as I could,” Newark replied. “I was terrified at the thought of going back to London, but where else was I to go? I must; catch the first train from Owlsworth. I had been to Brensford Hall before, and I knew that there was a path running near the house which led to a lane which would take me to Owlsworth. I daren't go by the main road, even at that time of night, in case anyone should see me. So I started off, carrying my suitcase.

“I hadn't gone very far along the lane before I came to an open shed with a few bales of straw in it. I didn't know what time the first train left Owlsworth, but I supposed that it wouldn't be before six. I didn't want to hang about the town waiting, so I went into the shed and lay down on the straw. I couldn't sleep, but at least I rested a bit. Then about half-past four I started off again and dragged my suitcase all the way to the railway station.”

“Where you attracted considerable attention,” said Arnold. “You took a first class ticket to London, the idea being that you wanted a carriage to yourself. You changed your clothes in the train, I take it?”

“That's right,” Newark replied. “Before it got to Ipminster.”

“What did you do with the clothes Mr. Fosdyke had lent you?” Arnold asked.

“My first idea was to throw them out of the carriage window,” Newark replied. “Then it struck me that they would be found, and would give a clue to where I had gone. So I put them in my suitcase. They're still at Johnny's place, if Mr. Fosdyke wants them back.”

“I'll see that he gets them,” said Arnold. “What did you do when you got to London?”

“I'd made up my mind about that while I was in the train,” Newark replied. “After what Andrew had said, I daren't go to his flat. There was only one other place I could go to, and that was Johnny's shop.”

“You had literally burnt your boats behind you,” said Arnold. “Now I want to know why your first idea was to seek refuge at Brensford Hall. How did Mr. Carswell come into the picture?”

CHAPTER XVI

NEWARK LOOKED nervously about him, as though he feared that Carswell's ghost might be threatening him. “It was Mr, Carswell who started it all,” he replied, hardly above a whisper.

“Started all what?” Arnold asked. “Come on, I want the whole truth.”

“I'm telling you the truth, Mr. Arnold!” Newark exclaimed. “I promise you I am. I'll begin at the very beginning. Many years ago I was in business as an engraver, and had a little place just off the Commercial Road. One day, early in the war, Mr. Carswell came to see me. That was the first time I met him. He asked me if I could carry out some highly confidential work for him, for which he was prepared to pay me my own price.

“I asked him what he wanted me to do. He gave me five hundred pounds in notes, and told me that was merely an honorarium to ensure that I should keep what he was about to tell me a profound secret. When I had undertaken to do that, he produced a passport, and asked me if I could copy it exactly. I told him that I was quite sure I could do that, and he told me he would want ten copies.”

“Did he tell you what he wanted the passports for?” Arnold asked.

“Not then, and naturally I didn't ask him,” Newark replied. “But years after, when we had got to know each other well, I did ask him why he had wanted the passports. He told me that they had been for enemy agents in this country, who naturally could not obtain genuine passports. He went on to say that none of the passports I had produced for him had ever been questioned.

“After the passport business I did several other jobs for Mr. Carswell. Copying official permits, and documents of that kind. Then, when the war ended, I lost sight of him for a year or two. Until one day he came to see me and asked me to stay with him at Brensford Hall for the week-end. He said that he had a very attractive proposition to discuss with me.

“I went, and he told me what was in his mind. My skill as an engraver was wasted or mere humdrum commercial work. It could be put to far more profitable use in making money. I didn't catch what he meant. Then he came right out with it. Why shouldn't I employ my abilities in engraving and printing bank notes?

“I was horrified at first. It seemed to me that the risk of detection would be far too great. But Mr. Carswell said there would be no risk at all if proper precautions were taken. We should have to find a small house in the country, as remote as possible, where my plant could be installed. I could work there, and I need take no part in the distribution of my products. Mr. Carswell would see to that.

“In the end I fell in with his idea. Mr. Carswell saw an advertisement of Fern Cottage, and we went to look at it together. It seemed an ideal place for the purpose, well off the beaten track. And there was a big cellar, with plenty of room for the apparatus I should require.

“Mr. Carswell supplied the money, and I bought the place. Gradually, piece by piece, I transported the apparatus from my workshop in London to Fern Cottage. Electricity was necessary, so I bought a second-hand generating plant. Being old, it was noisy, which suited me very well. When it was running, nobody passing by could hear anything else that might be going on in the cellar.

“Up until then, no one else was in the secret. Then one day when Mr. Carswell had come down to see how I was getting on, he said that we could not operate by ourselves alone. It would be necessary to find at least two agents, who would assist in the distribution of the notes. He knew of one, a tailor in Hackney, who had a wide connection among the London underworld. Did I know of any other likely person, who moved in more respectable circles?

“I knew that my sister and brother-in-law were not over scrupulous. They had at one time tried their hands at card sharping, with some success. They would probably jump at any chance of making money. I approached them, and they agreed at once to come in. I introduced them to Mr. Carswell and things were fixed up.”

“A very pretty set of crooks,” said Arnold. “How did the Morstows distribute the notes?”

“Mr. Carswell put them up to several dodges,” Newark replied. “For instance one or other of them would go to an antique dealer in a small way. There whichever of them it was would look out for some object of genuine value and easily portable, a piece of china, say. He or she would buy it, paying for it in counterfeit notes, and immediately take it to the other. This one would at once take it to one of the larger dealers and sell it, taking payment by cheque. Naturally they gave false names, and carried out their transactions after banking hours.”

“A very neat idea,” said Arnold. “A small dealer might very likely not bank the notes, but use them for making purchases at sales. They might remain in circulation for quite a while before any banker saw them. How many of these snide notes did you turn out, Newark?”

“I didn't keep an accurate account,” Newark replied. “Mr. Carswell did all that. But their total face value must have been well over fifty thousand pounds.”

“And the gang shared the proceeds, I suppose,” said Arnold. “Were there any other members besides those you have mentioned?” Newark shook his head. “No, there was nobody else. Mr. Carswell always said that the fewer there were in it the better.”

“How did you contrive that the cottage should catch fire so long after you had left it?” Arnold asked.

“It was easy enough,” Newark replied. “I flooded the cellar with oil from the fuel tank. Then I disconnected the petrol pipe, and adjusted the tap so that it would drip very slowly. I had fitted the generating plant with a time switch, so that it would start and charge the battery if I happened to be away. I connected a sparking plug to this switch, and put it beside the dripping petrol. Then I set the switch so that it would operate about ten o'clock on Monday night. I reckoned that the fire would have got r good hold before anyone saw it.”

“Your reckoning was not at fault,” said Arnold. “There is nothing left of Fern Cottage but the chimney stack. You will be charged with fabricating counterfeit notes and possibly a still graver charge will be added later. If you care to make a written statement, facilities for doing so will be given you. All right, Constable, take him away.” Brough led Newark from the room.

Arnold allowed a few minutes to elapse, then rang through for Morstow to be sent up. He duly appeared, in the charge of a constable, and had hardly entered the room before he burst out. “What does this mean, Mr. Arnold? I was in bed when your fellows came and hammered on the door. I went down to open it, and they told me that they had orders to bring me to you. They would hardly give me time to get dressed. My wife is naturally very much upset. It's an outrage, and I must demand an explanation.”

“I'm sorry you've been inconvenienced, Mr. Morstow,” said Arnold. “Sit down, in that chair, please. You may be interested to learn that your brother-in-law left this room five minutes ago.” Morstow collapsed like a deflated balloon. “Jerry?” he exclaimed. “You've got him here? What has he been saying to you?”

“Quite a lot,” said Arnold. “We had a most interesting conversation. How did you know that the police were on Newark's track?”

Morstow recovered something of his self possession. “I don't know that I feel bound to answer your questions, Mr. Arnold.”

“You must please yourself about that,” said Arnold. “But if you choose not to answer, a very sinister interpretation might be made of your silence. It might even be believed that you had been concerned in the murder of Mr. Carswell.”

At this suggestion Morstow's attempt at defiance nickered out. “I didn't go near Brensford Hall that night!” he exclaimed. “It was Jerry who went there. I didn't know what had happened until next day. I'll answer anything you care to ask me, Mr. Arnold.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that,” said Arnold. “Begin by answering the question I've just asked you.”

“A friend of mine told me,” Morstow replied. “He knows a lot of people who earn their livelihood by dubious means. More than one of them had told him that the police were making enquiries for Jerry Newark.”

“Your friend being the tailor with whom you were associated,” said Arnold. “We know him to be a certain Mr. Sturry, who has a shop in Runton Street. You went to Fern Cottage on the Sunday before Bank Holiday, and warned your brother-in-law. It was agreed between you that the counterfeiting establishment should be destroyed, and that Newark should seek shelter with Mr. Carswell. He did not reach Brensford Hall until after midnight on Monday. When did you next see him?”

“On Tuesday evening,” Morstow replied. “In the course of that afternoon, I received a telegram, 'Suit ready for fitting.' I knew that it came from Sturry, and that it meant he wanted to see me urgently. I went to Runton Street after the shop had closed, and Sturry told me that Jerry had come to him with a most extraordinary story. He took me up to the room where Jerry was, and made him repeat it to me. The gist of it was that when he got to Brensford Hall, he had found Mr. Carswell dead.”

“Do you believe that?” Arnold asked.

“Frankly, Mr. Arnold, I don't know what to believe,” Morstow replied. “It seems a most extraordinary thing that Mr. Carswell should have been strangled by some unknown person on that particular evening. On the other hand, I can't imagine Jerry having the guts to strangle him. I've read the account of the inquest in the papers. Jerry is not a very courageous person. If Mr. Carswell had picked up the poker and threatened him with it, I don't think Jerry would have closed with him. It seems to me more likely that he would have turned tail and bolted. He was ready enough to bolt from Fern Cottage when I told him that the police were after him.”

“I take it that the three of you discussed what was to be done next?” Arnold asked.

“Sturry and I did,” Morstow replied. “Jerry was in such a state of dithering funk that he wasn't fit to discuss anything. Every time he heard footsteps on the pavement outside he thought it was the police coming for him. He kept saying that the only thing he could do was to give himself up. We told him that if he did that he would certainly be hanged for the murder of Mr. Carswell. I never in my life saw a man in such a state of abject terror.

“Sturry and I decided that the best thing we could do was to lie low. So far as we knew, it was only Jerry that the police were after. Sturry was all right, because there was nothing to connect him with Jerry. But I was already implicated. Owing to that confounded flood, I had been seen in Jerry's company, and Landrake had let on that we were brothers-in-law.

“Very much what I had expected happened. You contacted me, Mr. Arnold, and asked me some searching questions, which, I admit, I did not in every case answer truthfully. I thought you might possibly search the flat, but I wasn't afraid of that. Jerry wasn't there, and my wife and I had destroyed everything incriminating.”

“Such as a few counterfeit notes?” Arnold suggested.

“I'm afraid you're right,” Morstow replied. “It seemed a thousand pities to burn them, but there was no help for it. I couldn't land them on Mr. Carswell's premises, as the others had.”

“Have you seen your brother-in-law since Tuesday evening?” Arnold asked.

Morstow shook his head. “No, Mr. Arnold, I haven't. I haven't been to Runton Street since. Sturry had agreed to keep Jerry until other arrangements could be made. I thought the police might be shadowing me, so Sturry and I decided that it would be better for us not to meet.”

“You met Mr. Landrake at the Artichoke on Thursday evening,” said Arnold. “He told you that Mr. Carswell was to be buried next day. You took steps to inform the factory manager of that?”

Morstow smiled feebly. “I'm surprised at the extent of your knowledge, Mr. Arnold. Sturry had told me of his visit to the factory, where he posed as Mr. Carswell's lawyer. He had promised to communicate with the manager again, and he was afraid the man would suspect something fishy if he didn't. Sturry didn't mean to risk making a second visit, but a telephone call would do. So when I heard from Landrake about the funeral, I thought that would be an excellent pretext. Next morning I got my wife to ring up the manager from a call box, saying that she was speaking from Mr. Stonham's office.”

“That's all I have to ask you for the present,” said Arnold. “You will be charged with conspiring to utter counterfeit notes.” He nodded to the constable, who led away a crestfallen Morstow.

Arnold again allowed a few minutes to elapse, then gave orders for Sturry to be brought up. When he appeared, escorted by; the same constable, his manner was very different from Morstow's. He settled himself comfortably in the chair which Arnold pointed out to him. “It's about Jerry Newark, of course,” he said calmly. “Did you collar him, or did he just walk into the nearest police station?”

“You are here to be questioned, not to question me,” Arnold replied sternly. “Newark had been with you since last Tuesday morning. Wasn't it rather inconsiderate of you to turn him out when you did?”

Sturry shrugged his shoulders. “It was far more inconsiderate of him to land himself on me. And what could I do but turn him out? I didn't want the police to find him on my premises. This afternoon a gentleman called on me giving the name of Merrion. When I asked Jerry if he had ever heard the name, he told me that he had been in Brensford at the same time as he had. I thought that was rather too suspicious a coincidence. And there was somebody in the back of Mr. Merrion's car who might well have been a plain clothes man. Anyway, I was taking no chances.”

“You were mistaken in your conjecture,” said Arnold dryly. “The man in the back of the car was not a detective, but the manager of the Reliant brush factory.”

“So that was the dodge,” Sturry replied. “He recognised me as Mr. Stonham. But I'm wondering how you came to suspect that Mr. Stonham might be me.”

“Never mind about that,” said Arnold. “Once, when you were staying at Brensford Hall under the name of Smith, you made an incautious remark. Who were the people who knew you as Mr. Stonham?”

“Oh, quite a few,” Sturry replied easily. “People with whom I had business dealings, mostly.”

“Did these dealings include transactions in counterfeit notes?” Arnold asked.

“That is a question I must decline to answer, Mr. Arnold,” Sturry replied. “No man is called upon to incriminate himself.”

“Very well, if you prefer it so,” said Arnold. “Now, about your visit to the Reliant brush factory. You represented yourself as Mr. Carswell's solicitor, and told the manager that you had come to look for his will. What was your object in doing that?”

“I wanted to see what Mr. Carswell had in his desk,” Sturry replied. “I knew that he kept his confidential papers at the factory, and not at Brensford Hall. And there might have been something compromising in those papers. Something relating to Jerry, for instance.”

“Or to yourself,” said Arnold. “You deposited a box of counterfeit notes in the desk, for the same reason that Newark left a similar box on the table in the study at Brensford Hall. What did you take from the desk?”

“Not a will,” Sturry replied. “I didn't expect to find one there. I knew that Mr. Carswell never employed a solicitor, and I felt fairly certain that he had never made a will. He was far from being of a generous disposition, and he hated the very idea of leaving his money to anyone.”

“You were in Mr. Carswell's confidence?” Arnold asked.

“As far as he took anyone into his confidence,” Sturry replied. “I had known him for many years, and had been associated with him during the war. He had kept in touch with me ever since.”

“What form did this association take?” Arnold asked.

“That is another question that I must decline to answer,” Sturry replied. “It was a matter entirely between ourselves.”

“I have no doubt that it was,” said Arnold. “From various sources we have learnt quite a lot about Mr. Carswell's activities during the war. Were you one of those enemy agents for whom Newark produced forged passports?”

For the first time Sturry was taken aback. “You seem to have squeezed quite a lot of juice out of Jerry,” he sneered. “I always knew he would squeal if the police got hold of him. No, I was not an enemy agent. I was able to supply Mr. Carswell with certain information. I will say no more than that. It's all ancient history now.”

“Then we'll get back to your visit to the factory,” said Arnold. “You obviously took something from the desk. What was it?”

“I daresay Jerry has told you already,” Sturry replied sullenly. “Only a private notebook recording various transactions in which certain people were named. Jerry among them.”

“And yourself and Morstow as well,” Arnold remarked. “And you burnt that notebook when the three of you met at your place in Runton Street on Tuesday night?”

“You seem to know as much about it as I do,” Sturry replied. “But let me point this out to you, Mr. Arnold. I do not admit that I left anything in Mr. Carswell's desk at the factory. You have no evidence that I ever handled a counterfeit note in my life.”

“You will be charged in the first place with harbouring a man whom you knew to be a criminal,” said Arnold. “Other charges may follow later. What do you know about the murder of Mr. Carswell? And before you answer that question, I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

“I know no more about it than I have read in the newspapers,” Sturry replied. “I have heard Jerry's story of what he found when he got to Brensford Hall. I had nothing to do with the murder, I assure you.”

“Where were you that night?” Arnold asked.

“In London,” Sturry replied. “Being Bank Holiday, there was a festivity at the Catherine Wheel, at the comer of Runton Street. They had an extension till midnight, and I stayed there till then and, I regret to say, a few minutes later.”

“Can you produce any witnesses who saw you there?” Arnold asked.

Sturry smiled. “Dozens. And I have an alibi which should satisfy even you, Mr. Arnold.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arnold asked.

Sturry's smile broadened. “The unimpeachable evidence of the police. Half-a-dozen of us stayed in the pub after closing time. At about ten minutes past twelve a constable came in and took our names and addresses. I've heard no more about it, but no doubt there is a record at Hackney police station.”

“Do you believe Newark's story?” Arnold asked.

“It's a pretty queer one, I'll admit,” Sturry replied. “But somehow I don't see Jerry as a murderer. And there's this about it. Mr. Carswell was a powerful man, and Jerry is a weakling. It seems to me that if it came to a scuffle. Jerry would have got the worst of it.”

“If Newark didn't murder Mr. Carswell, who did?” Arnold-asked.

Sturry shrugged his shoulders. “Isn't that a question for your people to answer, Mr. Arnold? Mr. Carswell was a man of ruthless methods, and he had made many enemies in his time. He appears to have been alone in the house that evening. An excellent opportunity for one of those enemies to butt in and put an end to him.”

At a word from Arnold the constable led Sturry away. It was by now about three o'clock on Tuesday morning. Arnold spent an hour writing up his notes, then settled down in his chair to get what rest he could. He dozed fitfully till eight o'clock, then rang up Merrion's number.

Newport answered the call, and Arnold gave him his name. “Mr. Merrion isn't up yet, sir,” Newport replied. “I've just taken him his cup of tea. Shall I tell him that you want to speak to him, sir?”

“No, don't disturb him,” said Arnold. “Just go and ask him if I can come and have breakfast with him.” Newport went off and returned to say that Mr. Merrion would be delighted to have Arnold's company for breakfast. Shortly before nine o'clock Arnold arrived at the rooms, to find Merrion waiting for him. “We don't often meet as early as this,” said Merrion. “What's the trouble? You look a trifle jaded.”

“I haven't been to bed since we last met,” Arnold replied. “But it's been worth it. We've scooped the three of them.”

“Good for you!” Merrion exclaimed. “Sit down and tell me all about it while we have our eggs and bacon.”

As they sat at the breakfast table Arnold described the events of the past twelve hours, and the interviews he had held. “They're a pretty bunch of crooks,” he went on. “Without, I think, very much initiative between them. I was rather struck by the fact that all three of them spoke of Carswell as Mr. Carswell, as though they regarded him as a being superior to themselves. I have an idea that he directed operations, and that the others did what he told them.”

“I think that's very likely,” Merrion agreed. “You think you got the truth out of them, in all essential points at least?”

“As far as the activities of the gang were concerned, Newark told the truth,” Arnold replied. “He was completely at the end of his tether, to such an extent that he couldn't have fabricated a convincing lie if he tried. Morstow began by blustering, but crumpled up as soon as I told him that Newark had been talking. Sturry assumed that he had, and behaved accordingly. I'm quite satisfied that the whole gang is accounted for.”

“That's something, certainly,” said Merrion. “But what about the murder? That's your main problem, after all.”

“Neither of Newark's friends would say definitely that they didn't believe he did it,” Arnold replied. “They gave reasons for thinking it improbable, but they wouldn't go any further than that. Newark's protestations of innocence had a genuine ring about them. I'm coming round to your theory that Newark found Mr. Carswell dead when he got to the Hall. Which throws us back on the mysterious X, of whom we know nothing.”

Merrion helped himself to marmalade. “Are you going to search the rooms above the shop in Runton Street?” he asked. “According to Newark, you should be able to recover Mr. Fosdyke's trousers and Norfolk jacket. And Newark probably left other things behind him when he bolted. The shaving brush, for instance.”

“I'm not particularly interested in that,” Arnold replied. “Mr. Fosdyke and Mr. Plaxtol found a number of factory samples in the desk in the study at the Hall.”

“But didn't you tell me that Newark said that this was not a Reliant product?” Merrion asked.

“He did,” Arnold replied. “But what of that? A manufacturer might be expected to buy samples of his competitors' products, for purposes of comparison.”

“And leave them lying on the floor of his study?” Merrion asked.

“Of course not,” Arnold replied. “I expect that Mr. Carswell was examining the brush when he was interrupted. In the course of the struggle that ensued, the brush fell on the floor, where Newark found it.”

“Carswell can't have been examining the brush very carefully if it was still wrapped in Cellophane,” Merrion remarked. “What are your plans?”

“I must get back to the Yard now, to see about charging those malefactors,” Arnold replied. “Then I shall have to go to Owlsworth, to report the latest developments to Sapcote.”

“Won't you go to Runton Street before you leave London?” Merrion asked. “You might find Mr. Fosdyke's property there. If you did, you could take it with you.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Arnold agreed.

“Very well, then,” said Merrion. “I meant to go home in any case. It'll take Newport and me an hour to get ready. At the end of that time we'll call for you at the Yard in the car, and drive you to Runton Street. When you've finished there, we'll take you on to Owlsworth. It's more or less on our way.”

CHAPTER XVII

THIS PROGRAMME was carried out. Arnold returned to Scotland Yard, where the three prisoners were formally charged, and told that they would appear before the magistrate on the following day. Having procured the key of the shop from Sturry, Arnold found Merrion seated in his car, with Newport in the back. The three of them set off, and reached Runton Street shortly after eleven o'clock.

A group of three men were standing outside the door of the shop as Arnold and Merrion alighted. One of them approached them. “Excuse me,” he said. “The shop's shut, and we can't get in. We work here for Mr. Sturry, and we've been waiting all the morning. We've knocked and rung, but we can't make anybody hear.”

“You're not likely to see Mr. Sturry again for quite a while,” Arnold replied. “The best thing you can do is to go home. If you call at Hackney police station in a couple of days' time, they'll tell you what arrangements have been made for paying you off.”

Arnold unlocked the door, and he and Merrion entered the shop. “It looks much the same as when I was here yesterday,” Merrion remarked. “I expect the staircase is somewhere at the back.” They passed through the doorway at the back of the shop, to find that it led to a work room. Beyond this was a passage, at one end of which was a flight of stairs. Ascending these, they reached a landing on the first floor with doors opening off it. The first room they entered looked out into Runton Street, and was obviously Sturry's. The bed had been slept in, and had apparently been hurriedly vacated.

They entered a second room, looking over the back. Here the bed had been made, but not slept in. Under the bed was a fair-sized suitcase. Hanging on a hook behind the door was a pair of grey flannel trousers and a brown Norfolk jacket.

Merrion pointed to these. “There you are. Mr. Fosdyke's property. I daresay he'll be glad to have it back. I saw plenty of paper and string in the work room, and we can make a neat parcel of it. Now, where's that shaving brush? There it is, on the chest of drawers, still in the original Cellophane.”

Arnold picked up the brush, which was obviously new and unused. Through the Cellophane he could see the word “Climax” stamped in bold letters on the handle. “Newark was right,” he remarked. “This isn't a Reliant brush. But I don't suppose it's of any significance.”

“I'd pop it in your pocket, all the same,” Merrion replied. “You can show it to Sapcote when we get to Owlsworth. If there's nothing more you want to see here, we'll take the jacket and trousers, wrap them up, and get on our way.” This they did, and returned to the car.

Having told Newport to drive, Merrion gestured to Arnold to get into the back and followed him. “We can talk more comfortably that way,” he explained. “And Newport knows the road as well as I do. I can't help being interested in that shaving brush. You're satisfied that Newark told you the truth about it?”

“I don't see why he should have lied to me,” Arnold replied. “It was a matter of no importance. He was in such a state of dither when he saw the brush that he hardly knew what he was doing. He picked it up and put it in his pocket automatically.”

“You're probably right,” said Merrion. “If he had known what he was doing he'd have left it for the police to find. How much of the other things he told you do you believe?”

“Pretty well all,” Arnold replied. “You and I can tell when a man's down and out. For a week Newark had been living in terror of being pounced upon at any minute. When the moment did come, his powers of resistance were at an end, and he couldn't put up any sort of a defence. He could do no more than make a clean breast of everything. All the same, I'm keeping a charge of murder hanging over his head.”

“Quarrington and Rodden would have liked to have heard what he told you about those passports,” Merrion remarked. “To say nothing of Sturry's statement that he used to supply Carswell with information. It would have satisfied them that their suspicions of Carswell were wholly justified.”

The conversation continued as they sped on their way. Once clear of London, and with a comparatively open road ahead, the speedometer touched the sixty miles an hour mark. It was one o'clock by the time they reached the outskirts of Ipminster. “There's no point in your getting to Owlsworth too soon,” said Merrion. “You'd only find that Sapcote had gone out to lunch. We'll stop here and have lunch ourselves.”

It was half-past two by the time they reached Owlsworth police station. “Well, here we are,” said Merrion. “I'll wish you good luck, and a satisfactory ending to your case. Here's the parcel with Mr. Fosdyke's belongings in it. And don't forget to show Sapcote that shaving brush.” Arnold alighted, and the car drove on towards High Eldersham.

In the Superintendent's room Arnold found Sapcote, who welcomed him cordially. “So here you are again, Mr. Arnold. They rang up from the Yard and told me you were coming. What have you got there? Have you been doing some shopping on the way?”

By way of reply Arnold unwrapped the parcel and displayed its contents. “We've heard a lot about that Norfolk jacket,” he remarked.

“Mr. Fosdyke's!” Sapcote exclaimed. “You've got Newark, then?”

“Last night,” Arnold replied. “And we've got Morstow and Stonham, whose real name is Sturry, as well. All three of them have been questioned, and I should like you to hear what they said.”

“That's very good work on your part, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote. “I'm quite ready to listen to anything you have to tell me.” With constant reference to his notebook, Arnold repeated the interrogations, Sapcote listening intently. “I congratulate you, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote as Arnold closed his notebook. “You've rounded up the counterfeiting gang most ably. But what about the murder of Mr. Carswell? Did Newark do it, or didn't he?”

“I'm inclined to think he didn't,” Arnold replied. “If he's telling the truth, Mr. Carswell was dead before he got to the Hall. If that was the case, I can't see who can have committed the murder but X, to whose identity we haven't the shadow of a clue.”

“We don't even know that the driver of the car which Lulworth saw went to the Hall,” said Sapcote. “And I don't see how we're going to trace either car or driver, after all this time. Tell me again what Newark saw and did while he was in the study.”

Arnold repeated that part of Newark's statement. “He admits that he put the box of notes on the table, and the key in Mr. Carswell's pocket. And he swears that he took nothing from the study but that shaving brush he picked up. I've got it here, if you'd like to see it.” Sapcote examined the Cellophane-wrapped brush which Arnold handed to him. “Climax,” he said. “Not one of Mr. Carswell's products. I wonder how it came to be lying on the floor of the study?”

“My idea about that is this,” Arnold replied. “It seems quite likely that Mr. Carswell bought samples of his competitors' goods, to see whether they were better or worse value than his own. He had bought this brush, and it was lying somewhere in the study, probably beside the flower vase, when the struggle took place. It got knocked over, and fell on the floor with the vase. Newark says that he found it among the broken pieces.”

“I expect that's about it,” Sapcote agreed. “Mr. Carswell could have bought the brush in this neighbourhood. A chap who lodges in the town here calls himself the district representative of Climax brushes. Actually, I expect he's a traveller working on commission. His name is Mellis, and he's apt to make an infernal nuisance of himself. He hawks his goods through town and country, pestering people to buy them. And he won't take a plain no thank you for an answer. He'll keep on badgering folk, women especially, until they buy something for the sake of getting rid of him.”

“I know the type,” Arnold replied. “They're a positive menace at times. You think Mr. Carswell may have bought the brush from this man?” Sapcote laughed. “If he did, it wasn't because Mellis pestered him. From all we've heard, he'd have sent him about his business sharp enough. But he may have wanted a Climax brush for comparison with his own, as you suggest. He saw Mellis and bought one from him. I think we ought to find out where the brush came from. Mellis lodges with a Mrs. Crouch, who lives only a couple of hundred yards from here. Shall we stroll round and ask him if he sold the brush to Mr. Carswell?”

Arnold agreed and they set out. A short walk brought them to a row of neat houses, at one of which Sapcote stopped and rang the bell. A stout, cheerful-looking middle-aged woman appeared. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sapcote,” she said. “Pleased to see you, I'm sure. Are you looking for lodgings for your friend here? I've got a room to spare.”

“It's not that exactly, Mrs. Crouch,” Sapcote replied. “We're wanting a word with Mr. Mellis. Is he at home?”

Mrs. Crouch shook her head. “Not at this time of day. He's out in his car with his samples, trying to persuade folk to give him an order. And he won't be back for his supper till seven or after. He never is, these light evenings. Except last week, when he was feeling a bit queer from that nasty knock he had.”

“I'm sorry he had a nasty knock,” said Sapcote. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Crouch smiled indulgently. “I know what men are. He told me that he had lifted the bonnet of his car to do something to the engine, and that the bonnet fell down and gave him a crack on the head. But I didn't believe that.”

“Why didn't you believe it?” Sapcote asked, in some amusement. “Well, you see, it was Bank Holiday evening, when he wouldn't have been likely to be wanting his car. Besides his manner was queer, just as if he'd been drinking. My belief is that he'd been to a pub and got into some sort of a scrap there. My husband used to like to go to a pub for a quiet drink in the evenings. But he always kept away on Bank Holidays. He said they seemed to make some folk get excited.”

“Your husband must have been a wise man,” said Sapcote. “You saw Mr. Mellis when he came home that evening?”

“Oh, yes, I saw him,” Mrs. Crouch replied. “He went out after he'd had his supper, saying that he was going for a stroll round the town. It was about the time the pubs were closing that he came back and walked into the kitchen. He told me that story about the bonnet of his car, and showed me a bump on the left side of his head as big as a walnut. I told him I knew of something that would do it good, and I put some arnica on it. Then he said that he felt badly shaken up, and that he'd go to bed. When I saw him next morning, he didn't look as if he'd slept much, and he couldn't eat his breakfast. But he went off on his rounds just the same.”

“He's got over it by now, I expect,” Sapcote remarked. “When Mr. Mellis comes in, will you ask him to come and see me at the police station? You can tell him that I've got something to show him.” Mrs. Crouch promised to do that, and Sapcote and Arnold walked away.

“We've time to spare before seven,” said Arnold. “Would you care to drive me to Brensford? We could give Mr. Fosdyke back his property. And I think he would be relieved to know that Mr. Stonham has been identified.” Sapcote agreed to this. They went back to the police station, repacked the trousers and Norfolk jacket, and set off in Sapcote's car.

At Stream House they found George and Mary sitting on the lawn, and were greeted cordially by both. “Well, Mr. Arnold, we meet again,” said George. “Have you come to ask me any more questions? If so, I'll do my best to answer them.”

“No questions this time, Mr. Fosdyke,” Arnold replied, handing him the parcel. “We called to give you something.”

“What have we got here?” George asked as he unwrapped the parcel. “Why, bless my soul, my old Norfolk jacket, and a pair of trousers that ought to have been in the rag bag long ago. I never expected to see them again. These are what you gave to that chap Newark, aren't they, Mary?”

“They are indeed,” Mary replied. “It was very good of you to take all that trouble to bring them back, Mr. Arnold.”

“It was no trouble, Mrs. Fosdyke,” said Arnold. “The clothes were recovered without difficulty. You may be interested to hear that two of the three men to whom you gave aid and comfort last week have been arrested.”

“Eh, what's that?” George exclaimed. “Landrake wasn't one of them, I hope? I thought he was a very decent young fellow. He was the only one of the three who called to thank us. The other two haven't even written, which they might well have done.”

Arnold smiled. “They are hardly in a position to write now. We've got nothing against Landrake, who seems to have associated with crooks unwittingly. And we've added a third to the bag. The gentleman who called at the factory giving the name of Stonham. Far from being a solicitor, he's a tailor.”

“A tailor?” George asked. “How does he come into the picture?”

“He claims to be an old friend of Mr. Carswell,” Arnold replied. “And it was with him that Newark took refuge after his flight from Brensford Hall. This is what most nearly concerns you, Mr. Fosdyke. Stonham, whose real name is Sturry, admits that he searched Mr. Carswell's desk. He says that the only thing he took from it was a notebook which incriminated him and his associates. Both he and Newark are reasonably certain that Mr. Carswell had never made a will.”

“Then am I to be saddled with that infernal factory?” George demanded. “I'll ring up Harry Plaxtol and tell him what you say. One thing I shall make quite clear to him. I'm not going to turn into a brush maker at my time of life.” After some further conversation, Sapcote and Arnold took their leave.

“While you were talking to Mr. Fosdyke I remembered something,” said Sapcote when they were once more seated in the car. “Do you mind if we drive to Brensford Green, and call on the constable there?” Arnold raised no objection. Soon after they had turned off the main road, they met Knipe cycling towards them. Recognising the car, he dismounted and saluted. Sapcote leaned out of the window. “Where are you bound for, constable?” he asked.

“The Rolling-Pin, sir,” Knipe replied. “Mr. Ventnor of Broadfield Farm rang me up. Two of his pullets are missing. He can't find them anywhere, and he thinks they must have been stolen. And the local pub is always the best place to make enquiries, sir.”

“You're right there. Constable,” said Sapcote. “Your enquiries can wait for a few minutes. Get into the car.” Knipe propped his bicycle against the hedge and entered the back of the car.

“You remember last Tuesday morning?” Sapcote went on. “You and I were in the study at Brensford Hall. You told me of an altercation you had witnessed between Mr. Carswell and a salesman of rival brushes. Repeat to Mr. Arnold what you told me then.”

Knipe complied, telling the story in much the same words as he had a week previously. “I know the man well enough by sight, but I don't know his name, sir. He goes round the villages trying to get people to give him an order, but I haven't seen him about recently.”

“He has a car, I suppose?” Arnold asked.

“Yes, sir,” Knipe replied. “An oldish eight horse power Bouncealong, painted black. He used it to carry his case of samples in and, if he gets an order, to deliver the goods.”

“You'd recognise the man if you saw him again?” Sapcote asked.

“Oh yes, sir,” Knipe replied. “I've seen him often enough for that.”

“Very well,” said Sapcote. “When you've made your enquiries at the Rolling-Pin, ride on to Owlsworth police station. Wait there in the entrance, and if anyone you know comes in, tell the sergeant.” When Knipe had alighted from the car, Sapcote drove Arnold back to Owlsworth. In the Superintendent's room at the police station they discussed the line they should take.

Soon after half-past six the sergeant entered the room. “Constable Knipe has reported here on your instructions, sir,” he said.

“He has his orders,” Sapcote replied. “We are expecting Mr. Mellis, the brush salesman. As soon as he comes, show him in here. Knipe will tell you whether or not he recognised him when he came in. If he did, write 'Yes' on a slip of paper, and if he didn't write 'No'. Then bring the slip to me.”

An hour passed and then, ushered in by the sergeant, a man entered the room. He was middle-aged, rather short in the legs, with a powerful body and a persuasive expression. Arnold noticed the exceptionally large hands and bony fingers. His hair was cut short, and a discoloration, as of a bruise, was visible on the left side of his head. “Good afternoon. Superintendent,” he said in a slightly wheedling voice. “Mrs. Crouch told me that you wanted to see me as you had something to show me.”

“That's right, Mr. Mellis,” Sapcote replied. “I've got something here that I want your opinion upon. One moment. Yes, Sergeant, what is it?”

The sergeant had entered the room with a slip of paper in his hand. “A message for you, sir,” he said, handing the slip to Sapcote, who read the message and passed the slip to Arnold. On it was written the single word “Yes.”

“Thank you. Sergeant,” said Sapcote. “You may tell the constable to return to his post.” The sergeant went out, and Sapcote opened a drawer of his desk. “Ah, here it is. I'm sorry for that interruption, Mr. Mellis. Will you look at this, and tell me if it is one of your firm's make?”

Mellis took the brush which Sapcote handed him and glanced at it. “Yes, it's one of ours,” he replied. “We always sell them wrapped up in Cellophane. It's more hygienic, and the customer knows that it can't have been contaminated in any way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mellis,” said Sapcote. “Oh, by the way. Mrs. Crouch told us that you met with a nasty accident the other evening. I can still see the remains of a bruise on your head. The bonnet of your car fell on it, I believe?”

“That's right,” Mellis replied easily. “I had my head down over the carburettor, and the confounded bonnet fell on it.”

“Where do you keep your car?” Sapcote asked. “You haven't got a garage at your lodgings, have you?”

“Unfortunately not,” Mellis replied. “It would save me quite a lot of money if I had. I have to keep the car at the Black Swan, and pay garage rent.”

“And that, I suppose, is where the accident happened,” said Sapcote. “I shouldn't have thought that you would be worrying about your car on Bank Holiday evening. Were you going to take it out?”

“I had taken it out,” Mellis replied. “Not on business, of course. I'd been to see some friends of mine who live just outside the town. The car wasn't running properly, and when I got back I lifted the bonnet to find out what was the matter. And that's when it happened.”

“Your friends don't live in Brensford, by any chance?” Sapcote asked.

Mellis rose from his chair. “Oh no, in the opposite direction. A couple of miles along the Turtlemouth road. Do you want me to do anything about that shaving brush, Mr. Sapcote?”

“Don't go yet,” said Sapcote. “Sit down again. My friend here has a few questions to ask you about the brush.”

Reluctantly Mellis resumed his seat. “Some little while ago, you called at Brensford Hall in the course of your business,” said Arnold. “You went to the back door, and showed your samples to the domestic staff, in the hope of securing an order from them. On his way from the garage Mr. Carswell saw you at the back door and objected to your proceedings. That is the case, is it not?”

Mellis looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he managed to produce a disdainful smile. “I'd almost forgotten the incident. Mr. Carswell appears to have been a man with a violent temper. He was most abusive, and knocked my sample case out of my hand. I have been careful never to go to Brensford Hall since.”

“Are you sure of that?” Arnold asked. “I suggest that you were at Brensford Hall soon after ten o'clock on the evening of Bank Holiday. A car strongly resembling yours was seen outside the gate at that time.”

Mellis was so taken aback that he could find no reply. Arnold went on relentlessly. “The shaving brush that Mr. Sapcote has shown you was found later that evening on the floor of Mr. Carswell's study. It is, no doubt, one of the samples that you carry about with you. Before you answer my next question, I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. Did you murder Mr. Carswell in revenge for his treatment of you?” Mellis became deadly pale. “I didn't murder him,” he faltered.

“That won't do,” said Arnold sternly. “You cannot deny that you were at Brensford Hall about ten o'clock that evening. Mr. Carswell was found strangled a couple of hours later. What explanation can you give of that?”

Mellis remained silent, twisting his hands together, for a full minute. “It wasn't murder!” he burst out suddenly.

“Then what was it?” Arnold asked. “I strongly recommend you to tell us the whole truth.”

“Well, I suppose it's come to it,” Mellis replied dejectedly. “I'm past caring very much what happens to me. Do you know what it means to be a salesman on commission? No, I suppose you don't. I can only tell you that it's the nearest thing to hell that anyone has ever imagined. You shall have the whole story, and I'll vouch for it being the truth.

“I hadn't been out on my rounds that Monday. Not because I wanted to take a holiday. I can't afford luxuries like that. But because I couldn't expect to get an order when everybody else was out to enjoy themselves. I stayed at home all day, and didn't go out until I'd had my supper. Then I went to the Black Swan Shades. The public bar on the opposite side of the yard to the hotel. Mr. Sapcote knows where I mean.”

Sapcote nodded. “Yes, I know. Go on.”

“The place was fairly full when I got there about seven,” Mellis replied. “They were mostly strangers from outside the town, and there was only one man there I knew. He is employed as a mechanic at one of the garages in the town, and everyone knows him as Bert. I didn't speak to him, and I doubt whether he spotted me in the crowd.

“I hadn't been there half an hour when a young chap whom I knew I had seen before came in. I couldn't place him at first, but then I remembered. He had been at Brensford Hall, that time I was showing my samples at the back door. The woman who was talking to me called him Chris.

“He wasn't likely to have recognised me, but he saw Bert and went up to him. Bert seemed surprised to see him, and asked him what he was doing in Owlsworth. Had he got the evening off? Chris replied that that wasn't likely. He had driven the boss in to have dinner at the hotel. There was no one at home to get dinner for him, for Chris's parents had gone to Turtlemouth, and they couldn't get back because of the flood. But he wasn't going to drive the boss home again, there was no fear of that.

“Bert asked him what he meant, and he replied that he was fed up. He'd been wanting to look for another job for a long time, and this seemed as good a chance of getting away as any. He was going to catch the half-past eight bus to Ipminster, and the boss could do what he liked about it.

“After a while the two of them went out together, and I saw no more of them. It must have been a few minutes after nine when I made up my mind that it was time to go home. I went out into the yard, and there I saw Mr. Carswell talking to the manager. Mr. Carswell seemed to be very much upset about something. I suppose it was not finding Chris there ready to drive him home. I heard him say that he wasn't going to wait, and that the young scoundrel could walk. He got into his car and drove off.

“I knew, from what I had overheard, that there would be nobody at Brensford Hall when he got there. I'd had a drink or two, and that may have accounted for the wild idea that sprang into my mind. I didn't go home. I went back to the Shades and had another drink, just by way of screwing up my courage.”

“A wild idea?” Arnold asked. “It was to murder Mr. Carswell, whom you knew you would find alone at Brensford Hall?”

Mellis shook his head slowly. “No, that wasn't the idea. I didn't bear him sufficient resentment for that. I thought that if I approached Mr. Carswell humbly and respectfully, I might persuade him to do something for me.”

“What could you have expected Mr. Carswell to do for you?” Arnold asked.

“I said it was a wild idea,” Mellis replied. “I can't hope to make you understand how sick and tired I was of going round trying to get orders. I got no salary, and my living depended upon what I could persuade people to buy. Like Chris, I desperately wanted to find another job. I know the brush business inside and out. I thought I might be able to persuade Mr. Carswell to give me a job in his factory, if only on trial. I felt quite confident that I should be able to make good.”

There was a note of sincerity in the man's voice which inclined Arnold to believe him. Wild idea though it might have been, there was a chance that it might have succeeded. “Well, go on,” said Arnold. “Tell us the rest of the story.”

“Things didn't go as I had hoped,” Mellis replied. “About half an hour after I had seen Mr. Carswell drive away, I took out my car and drove to Brensford Hall. I left my car outside the entrance and walked up the drive as far as the garage, beyond the house. I peeped in through the garage window and saw Mr. Carswell's car there, so I knew he must be at home. Then it struck me that the back door would have been left unlocked, so that the domestic staff could get in. I went to the door, and, as I had expected, was able to open it.

“I had never been in the house before and did not know my way about it. But I found my way into the hall, which was in darkness. However, under one of the doors leading from it was a strip of light. This door must lead into the room where Mr. Carswell was.

“I knocked on the door, and Mr. Carswell's voice told me to come in. I expect he thought that it was one of his people, coming to report their return. I opened the door and went in.”

“And what did you find?” Arnold asked.

“Mr. Carswell alone in his study,” Mellis replied. “He was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, with a newspaper in his hands. There was a table beside him on which was an ash tray and a half smoked cigarette. He looked up as I came in, and his expression became ferocious. Rather to my surprise he recognised me. 'It's that damned tout again!' he exclaimed. 'What the devil do you mean by intruding on me like this? Didn't I tell you never to come near the place again?'

“Before I could answer him, he had snatched the poker, jumped up, and come for me. I wasn't expecting that, and he caught me unawares. I tried to dodge, but the poker caught me a glancing blow on the side of the head. If I had received the full force of the blow, it would have knocked me out.

“I could see that he meant to strike me again. The only thing I could do was to close with him. I didn't mean him any harm, but I had to get the poker away from him. We had a terrific struggle, reeling about all over the room and knocking things over. But he was stronger than I was, and I felt he was getting the better of me.

“It was a nightmarish business. I daren't lay hold of the poker and try and wrench it from him, for that would have left his hand free to punch me in the face. The only thing I could do was to hold him firmly by the wrists, and try to prevent him from doing me any further injury. The struggle seemed to last for hours, though I suppose it was really all over in a few minutes. We swayed from one side of the room to the other, knocking into things. I found afterwards that I was bruised all over.”

Mellis put his hands in his pockets and produced one after another a nail brush, a tooth brush, and a scrubbing brush, all wrapped in Cellophane. “I always carry a few samples in my pockets,” he said as he laid these on the desk beside which he was sitting. “Just in case I should come across a likely customer when I haven't my sample case with me. I can't afford to miss the chance of my commission on any article worth a shilling or two. I had a few things in my pockets when I went to Brensford Hall, and that shaving brush was among them.

“It must have fallen out of my pocket while we were struggling, but I never noticed it. And when I got home I was far too shaken up to think about it. It wasn't until next day that I missed the brush. I thought it might be in Mr. Carswell's study, but by that time it was too late to go back and look for it. I knew the name on it would lead the police to me. But the days went by, and I heard nothing. I began to hope that I had dropped the brush somewhere else.”

“There was a reason for the delay,” said Arnold. “Tell us how the struggle between you and Mr. Carswell ended.”

Mellis made no immediate reply. He seemed to be living again his terrible experiences in the study. “How it ended?” he said slowly. “I'll try to make it as clear as I can. At the very moment that the vase crashed to the floor, Mr. Carswell wrenched his left hand loose, and clutched me by the throat. I managed to tear his hand away, but it gave me an idea. I had heard that pressure on the neck produced unconsciousness in a very short time.

“So I let go of Mr. Carswell's wrists, swung round behind him, and put both my hands round his neck. He dropped the poker, and tried to tear my hands away. The more strength he put into it, the tighter I had to grasp his neck.

“And so we wrestled, until I thought it would never end. But at last, quite suddenly, Mr. Carswell's hands relaxed. I loosened my grip of his neck, and it slipped through my fingers. Mr. Carswell fell motionless at my feet.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A TENSE SILENCE fell on the room as Mellis came to an end. It was broken by Arnold's steady voice. “You knew that he was dead?”

“I didn't know,” Mellis replied excitedly. “I hoped I had only put him out temporarily. But I had to make sure. I knelt down beside him and put my fingers on his wrist, but I couldn't feel any pulse. I listened, and he wasn't breathing. And then I panicked.”

“You would have done better to have kept your head and rung up the police,” said Arnold severely. “Your story would have sounded more convincing if you had done that. You say you panicked. What do you mean by that?”

“I bolted,” Mellis replied. “I ran out of the study, slamming the door behind me. The house was in complete darkness, and I was in such a state that it took me ages to find my way to the back door. Once I was outside, there was a bit of a moon, and I could see my way clearly. I ran down the drive to my car, and started it up.

“It wasn't until I was sitting in the car that I realised that my head was buzzing to such an extent from the blow I had received that I hardly knew what I was doing. However, driving very slowly, I managed to get back to the Black Swan, where I put the car away. Then I staggered home. I knew I couldn't hide the lump on my head from Mrs. Crouch, so I made up the story of the bonnet having fallen on me to account for it.” He paused for a few moments, staring at the floor with lack-lustre eyes. “And now what happens to me?” he asked.

Arnold glanced at Sapcote, who replied. “You will be charged with causing the death of Mr. Carswell. Are you prepared to make a statement in writing of what you have told us?”

“Yes, I will do that,” Mellis replied, almost eagerly. “And it will be a record of the strict truth, I promise you that.”

Sapcote pressed a bell push on his desk, and the sergeant appeared. “Mr. Mellis is to be detained,” said Sapcote. “He wishes to make a written statement. Provide him with the necessary materials, Sergeant.”

The sergeant led Mellis from the room. Sapcote turned to Arnold. “Did he murder Mr. Carswell, or didn't he?”

“I believe that he was telling the truth, and that Mr. Carswell struck him first,” Arnold replied. “Naturally, his instinct was to defend himself. It seems unlikely that he went to Brensford Hall with the intention of murdering Mr. Carswell. If he had, he wouldn't have trusted to his bare hands, but would have taken some sort of weapon with him. Nor would he have left his car outside the entrance. He would have driven it inside the gateway, where it couldn't be seen from the road.”

“He had the air of a man who was telling the truth,” Sapcote agreed. “Once he had got going, there were no hesitations or evasions. At all events, we know now who X was.”

Arnold smiled. “The clue having been the shaving brush. And that's rather a curious point. If Newark for some muddle-headed reason of his own, hadn't removed it, you would have found it on Tuesday morning.”

Arnold, feeling that the events of the past twenty-four hours had entitled him to a rest, put up at the Black Swan for the night. On Wednesday morning he returned to the police station, where Sapcote showed him the statement which Mellis had written out. It was a lengthy document, differing in no detail from what Mellis had said on the previous evening. He was brought before a special sitting of the local Bench, charged with causing the death of Mr. Carswell. Sapcote asked for a remand to enable the police to prepare their case. This was granted, and Mellis was remanded in custody, Sapcote opposing the granting of bail.

When the proceedings were over, Arnold returned to London, where he found that Newark, Morstow and Sturry had shared the same fate. They too had appeared before the magistrate and been remanded in custody.

It was some weeks later, after the trials, that Merrion came again to London and invited Arnold to dine with him in his rooms. “I think you can claim that Carswell affair as a successful case, or rather cases,” said Merrion. “I read all about it in the newspapers. I was particularly interested in the trial of that chap Mellis. He wasn't charged with murder, I noticed.”

“No jury would have convicted him on that charge,” Arnold replied. “That's why the Public Prosecutor decided to reduce it to manslaughter. Of course there were no witnesses of what actually happened in the study that evening, and the prisoner was the only person who could speak in his defence. But his manner in the witness box was so straightforward that the jury believed his story, as I had from the first. I consider eighteen months to have been quite a fair sentence.”

“What about those other three rascals?” Merrion asked. “Did you have any difficulty with them?”

“With Newark, none at all,” Arnold replied. “He wrote out a full confession, implicating not only himself but the other two, and Carswell as well. Any details he had omitted to confess came out in the course of his cross-examination.

“Morstow, and particularly Slurry, were inclined to be stubborn at first. But in the light of Newark's revelations, they had no hope. We were prepared to put Newark in the box as Queen's evidence, but as it turned out it wasn't necessary. You saw in the papers what the sentences were I expect?”

Merrion nodded. “Newark got five years, as being the actual counterfeiter. The other two got three years each for conspiring with him. I wonder what Carswell would have got if he had lived to be brought to trial?”

“Something pretty stiff, I expect,” Arnold replied. “According to Newark's statement he was not only the originator of the affair, but he controlled the operations of the gang. By the way, Landrake came to see me after the trials. He had been called to give evidence as to that Bank Holiday drive and its abrupt ending in the flood. He was appalled by the discovery of the true characters of the friends he had made. He told me that it was a warning to him never to be friendly with anyone again.”

“He'll get over that feeling,” said Merrion. “And now perhaps I can give you some news. A week ago Mavis and I drove to Brensford to have lunch with the Colonel and Mrs. Heckley. They knew Mellis, who had more than once been to The Elders, flourishing his samples in their faces and pestering them to buy something. The Colonel's opinion was that, instead of being given eighteen months, he ought to have been presented with a gold medal as a public benefactor.

“After lunch, I heard all the local gossip. No answer had been received to any of Plaxtol's advertisements, and Fosdyke had been accepted as his cousin's sole heir.”

“What about the factory?” Arnold asked “When I last saw Mr. Fosdyke he was very emphatic about not wanting to be bothered with it.”

“He won't be,” Merrion replied. “The Climax people made what appears to have been a very reasonable offer for Reliant Brushes as a going concern, and Fosdyke jumped at it. The Colonel says that he was so anxious to be rid of the factory that he would willingly give it away. I understand that our friend the manager is to remain in charge.”

“Does Mr. Fosdyke intend to sell Brensford Hall?” Arnold asked.

“No, he doesn't,” Merrion replied. “The Heckleys are very much amused about that. It seems that since her Bank Holiday experience Mrs. Fosdyke has had floods on her brain. Every morning before breakfast she walks across the lawn to see whether the river is rising. Not only that, but she has installed cooking apparatus and laid in a store of food upstairs, in what they call the pink room. She doesn't mean to be caught out again.”

“One can understand that,” said Arnold. “Though I suppose it isn't very likely to happen again.”

“That's what her husband says,” Merrion replied. “He used to tease her about her precautions. And one day he said to her, jokingly, that the best thing they could do would be to go and live in the Hall, where they would be out of reach of any possible flood.

“Mrs. Fosdyke took him seriously, and jumped at the idea. The Colonel says that Fosdyke could have bitten his tongue out, because he is very fond of Stream House, and doesn't at all want to leave it. However, Mrs. Fosdyke has had her way, and they are going to move very shortly.”

“And what is to become of Stream House?” Arnold asked.

“The Plaxtols are going to rent it,” Merrion replied. “It seems they are both tired of living in London. Plaxtol will be able to go up to his office every day, in the same way that Carswell did. Oh, and by the way, the Fosdykes are going to keep the Weedons on at the Hall.”

“I thought they were going to start a boarding house in Turtlemouth,” said Arnold.

“I suppose they've thought better of it,” Merrion replied. “Perhaps because they want to be nearer Chris. He's got quite a good job in Ipminster, and he's acquired a girl. He paraded her through the village a few Sundays ago, and the Colonel says she's a very nice girl, and looks quite capable of keeping Chris in order. Well, that's about all my news. What will happen to Mellis when he comes out?”

“I shall keep him in mind,” said Arnold. “At the bottom of my heart I'm rather sorry for him. I daresay the Climax people could be persuaded to take him on again. Not as a salesman, but in some position where it wouldn't be necessary for him to pester people.”

“Let's hope they will,” Merrion replied. “Well, the equation of which X was the unknown factor, has been solved with satisfaction to all concerned—except, of course, those languishing in gaol.”