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  • 1922
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“Don’t assume that it was Robert–or anybody else. Let them describe the man to you. Don’t influence them unconsciously by suggesting that he was short or tall, or anything of that sort. Just get them talking. If it’s the landlord, you’d better stand him a drink or two.”

“Right you are,” said Bill confidently. “Where do I meet you again?”

“Probably at the ‘George.’ If you get there before me, you can order dinner for eight o’clock. Anyhow we’ll meet at eight, if not before.”

“Good.” He nodded to Antony and strode off back to Stanton again.

Antony stood watching him with a little smile at his enthusiasm. Then he looked round slowly, as if in search of something. Suddenly he saw what he wanted. Twenty yards farther on a lane wandered off to the left, and there was a gate a little way up on the right-hand side of it. Antony walked to the gate, filling his pipe as he went. Then he lit his pipe, sat on the gate, and took his head in his hands.

“Now then,” he said to himself, “let’s begin at the beginning.”

It was nearly eight o’clock when William Beverley, the famous sleuth-hound, arrived, tired and dusty, at the “George,” to find Antony, cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting for him.

“Is dinner ready?” were Bill’s first words.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll just have a wash. Lord, I’m tired.”

“I never ought to have asked you,” said Antony penitently.

“That’s all right. I shan’t be a moment.” Half-way up the stairs he turned round and asked, “Am I in your room?”

“Yes. Do you know the way?”

“Yes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer.” He disappeared round the top of the staircase. Antony went slowly in.

When the first edge of his appetite had worn off, and he was able to spare a little time between the mouthfuls, Bill gave an account of his adventures. The landlord of the “Plough and Horses” had been sticky, decidedly sticky–Bill had been unable at first to get anything out of him. But Bill had been tactful; lorblessyou, how tactful he had been.

“He kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had been, and so on, and how there’d been an inquest in his wife’s family once, which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept saying, ‘Pretty busy, I suppose, just now, what?’ and then he’d say, ‘Middlin’,’ and go on again about Susan–that was the one that had the inquest–he talked about it as if it were a disease –and then I’d try again, and say, ‘Slack times, I expect, just now, eh?’ and he’d say ‘Middlin’ again, and then it was time to offer him another drink, and I didn’t seem to be getting much nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John Borden–he was the man who said he’d seen Mark at the station. Well, he knew all about Borden, and after he’d told me all about Borden’s wife’s family, and how one of them had been burnt to death–after you with the beer; thanks–well, then I said carelessly that it must be very hard to remember anybody whom you had just seen once, so as to identify him afterwards, and he agreed that it would be ‘middlin’ hard,’ and then–“

“Give me three guesses,” interrupted Antony. “You asked him if he remembered everybody who came to his inn?”

“That’s it. Bright, wasn’t it?”

“Brilliant. And what was the result?”

“The result was a woman.”

“A woman?” said Antony eagerly.

“A woman,” said Bill impressively. “Of course I thought it was going to be Robert–so did you, didn’t you?–but it wasn’t. It was a woman. Came quite late on Monday night in a car–driving herself–went off early next morning.”

“Did he describe her?”

“Yes. She was middlin’. Middlin’ tall, middlin’ age, middlin’ colour, and so on. Doesn’t help much, does it? But still–a woman. Does that upset your theory?”

Antony shook his head.

“No, Bill, not at all,” he said.

“You knew all the time? At least, you guessed?”

“Wait till to-morrow. I’ll tell you everything to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” said Bill in great disappointment.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing to-night, if you’ll promise not to ask any more questions. But you probably know it already.”

“What is it?”

“Only that Mark Albett did not kill his brother.”

“And Cayley did?”

“That’s another question, Bill. However, the answer is that Cayley didn’t, either.”

“Then who on earth–“

“Have some more beer,” said Antony with a smile. And Bill had to be content with that.

They were early to bed that evening, for both of them were tired. Bill slept loudly and defiantly, but Antony lay awake, wondering. What was happening at the Red House now? Perhaps he would hear in the morning; perhaps he would get a letter. He went over the whole story again from the beginning–was there any possibility of a mistake? What would the police do? Would they ever find out? Ought he to have told them? Well, let them find out; it was their job. Surely he couldn’t have made a mistake this time. No good wondering now; he would know definitely in the morning.

In the morning there was a letter for him.

CHAPTER XXI. CAYLEY’S APOLOGY

“My Dear Mr. Gillingham,

“I gather from your letter that you have made certain discoveries which you may feel it your duty to communicate to the police, and that in this case my arrest on a charge of murder would inevitably follow. Why, in these circumstances, you should give me such ample warning of your intentions I do not understand, unless it is that you are not wholly out of sympathy with me. But whether or not you sympathize, at any rate you will want to know–and I want you to know–the exact manner in which Ablett met his death and the reasons which made that death necessary. If the police have to be told anything, I would rather that they too knew the whole story. They, and even you, may call it murder, but by that time I shall be out of the way. Let them call it what they like.

“I must begin by taking you back to a summer day fifteen years ago, when I was a boy of thirteen and Mark a young man of twenty-five. His whole life was make-believe, and just now he was pretending to be a philanthropist. He sat in our little drawing-room, flicking his gloves against the back of his left hand, and my mother, good soul, thought what a noble young gentleman he was, and Philip and I, hastily washed and crammed into collars, stood in front of him, nudging each other and kicking the backs of our heels and cursing him in our hearts for having interrupted our game. He had decided to adopt one of us, kind Cousin Mark. Heaven knows why he chose me. Philip was eleven; two years longer to wait. Perhaps that was why.

“Well, Mark educated me. I went to a public school and to Cambridge, and I became his secretary. Well, much more than his secretary as your friend Beverley perhaps has told you: his land agent, his financial adviser, his courier, his–but this most of all–his audience. Mark could never live alone. There must always be somebody to listen to him. I think in his heart he hoped I should be his Boswell. He told me one day that he had made me his literary executor–poor devil. And he used to write me the absurdest long letters when I was away from him, letters which I read once and then tore up. The futility of the man!

“It was three years ago that Philip got into trouble. He had been hurried through a cheap grammar school and into a London office, and discovered there that there was not much fun to be got in this world on two pounds a week. I had a frantic letter from him one day, saying that he must have a hundred at once, or he would be ruined, and I went to Mark for the money. Only to borrow it, you understand; he gave me a good salary and I could have paid it back in three months. But no. He saw nothing for himself in it, I suppose; no applause, no admiration. Philip’s gratitude would be to me, not to him. I begged, I threatened, we argued; and while we were arguing, Philip was arrested. It killed my mother–he was always her favourite–but Mark, as usual, got his satisfaction out of it. He preened himself on his judgment of character in having chosen me and not Philip twelve years before!

“Later on I apologized to Mark for the reckless things I had said to him, and he played the part of a magnanimous gentleman with his accustomed skill, but, though outwardly we were as before to each other, from that day forward, though his vanity would never let him see it, I was his bitterest enemy. If that had been all, I wonder if I should have killed him? To live on terms of intimate friendship with a man whom you hate is dangerous work for your friend. Because of his belief in me as his admiring and grateful protege and his belief in himself as my benefactor, he was now utterly in my power. I could take my time and choose my opportunity. Perhaps I should not have killed him, but I had sworn to have my revenge–and there he was, poor vain fool, at my mercy. I was in no hurry.

“Two years later I had to reconsider my position, for my revenge was being taken out of my hands. Mark began to drink. Could I have stopped him? I don’t think so, but to my immense surprise I found myself trying to. Instinct, perhaps, getting the better of reason; or did I reason it out and tell myself that, if he drank himself to death, I should lose my revenge? Upon my word, I cannot tell you; but, for whatever motive, I did genuinely want to stop it. Drinking is such a beastly thing, anyhow.

“I could not stop him, but I kept him within certain bounds, so that nobody but myself knew his secret. Yes, I kept him outwardly decent; and perhaps now I was becoming like the cannibal who keeps his victim in good condition for his own ends. I used to gloat over Mark, thinking how utterly he was mine to ruin as I pleased, financially, morally, whatever way would give me most satisfaction. I had but to take my hand away from him and he sank. But again I was in no hurry.

“Then he killed himself. That futile little drunkard, eaten up with his own selfishness and vanity, offered his beastliness to the truest and purest woman on this earth. You have seen her, Mr. Gillingham, but you never knew Mark Ablett. Even if he had not been a drunkard, there was no chance for her of happiness with him. I had known him for many years, but never once had I seen him moved by any generous emotion. To have lived with that shrivelled little soul would have been hell for her; and a thousand times worse hell when he began to drink.

“So he had to be killed. I was the only one left to protect her, for her mother was in league with Mark to bring about her ruin. I would have shot him openly for her sake, and with what gladness, but I had no mind to sacrifice myself needlessly. He was in my power; I could persuade him to almost anything by flattery; surely it would not be difficult to give his death the appearance of an accident.

“I need not take up your time by telling you of the many plans I made and rejected. For some days I inclined towards an unfortunate boating accident in the pond–Mark, a very indifferent swimmer, myself almost exhausted in a gallant attempt to hold him up. And then he himself gave me the idea, he and Miss Norris between them, and so put himself in my hands; without risk of discovery, I should have said, had you not discovered me.

“We were talking about ghosts. Mark had been even more vain, pompous and absurd than usual, and I could see that Miss Norris was irritated by it. After dinner she suggested dressing up as a ghost and frightening him. I thought it my duty to warn her that Mark took any joke against himself badly, but she was determined to do it. I gave way reluctantly. Reluctantly, also, I told her the secret of the passage. (There is an underground passage from the library to the bowling-green. You should exercise your ingenuity, Mr. Gillingham, in trying to discover it. Mark came upon it by accident a year ago. It was a godsend to him; he could drink there in greater secrecy. But he had to tell me about it. He wanted an audience, even for his vices.)

“I told Miss Norris, then, because it was necessary for my plan that Mark should be thoroughly frightened. Without the passage she could never have got close enough to the bowling-green to alarm him properly, but as I arranged it with her she made the most effective appearance, and Mark was in just the state of rage and vindictiveness which I required. Miss Norris, you understand, is a professional actress. I need not say that to her I appeared to be animated by no other feeling than a boyish desire to bring off a good joke–a joke directed as much against the others as against Mark.

“He came to me that night, as I expected, still quivering with indignation. Miss Norris must never be asked to the house again; I was to make a special note of it; never again. It was outrageous. Had he not a reputation as a host to keep up, he would pack her off next morning. As it was, she could stay; hospitality demanded it; but never again would she come to the Red House–he was absolutely determined about that. I was to make a special note of it.

“I comforted him, I smoothed down his ruffled feathers. She had behaved very badly, but he was quite right; he must try not to show how much he disapproved of her. And of course she would never come again–that was obvious. And then suddenly I began to laugh. He looked up at me indignantly.

“‘Is there a joke?” he said coldly.

“I laughed gently again.

“‘I was just thinking,’ I said, ‘that it would be rather amusing if you–well, had your revenge.”

“‘My revenge? How do you mean?’

“‘Well, paid her back in her own coin.’

“‘Do you mean try and frighten her?’

“‘No, no; but dressed up and pulled her leg a bit. Made her look a fool in front of the others.’ I laughed to myself again. ‘Serve her jolly well right.’

“He jumped up excitedly.

“‘By Jove, Cay!’ he cried. ‘If I could! How? You must think of a way.

“I don’t know if Beverley has told you about Mark’s acting. He was an amateur of all the arts, and vain of his little talents, but as an actor he seemed to himself most wonderful. Certainly he had some ability for the stage, so long as he had the stage to himself and was playing to an admiring audience. As a professional actor in a small part he would have been hopeless; as an amateur playing the leading part, he deserved all that the local papers had ever said about him. And so the idea of giving us a private performance, directed against a professional actress who had made fun of him, appealed equally to his vanity and his desire for retaliation. If he, Mark Albett, by his wonderful acting could make Ruth Norris look a fool in front of the others, could take her in, and then join in the laugh at her afterwards, he would indeed have had a worthy revenge!

“It strikes you as childish, Mr. Gillingham? Ah, you never knew Mark Ablett.

“‘How, Cay, how?’ he said eagerly.

“‘Well, I haven’t really thought it out,’ I protested. ‘It was just an idea.’

“He began to think it out for himself.

“‘I might pretend to be a manager, come down to see her–but I suppose she knows them all. What about an interviewer?’

“‘It’s going to be difficult,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got rather a characteristic face, you know. And your beard–‘

“‘I’d shave it off,’ he snapped.

“‘My dear Mark!’

“He looked away, and mumbled, ‘I’ve been thinking of taking it off, anyhow. And besides, if I’m going to do the thing, I’m going to do it properly.’

“‘Yes, you always were an artist,’ I said, looking at him admiringly.

“He purred. To be called an artist was what he longed for most. Now I knew that I had him.

“‘All the same,’ I went on, ‘even without your beard and moustache you might be recognizable. Unless, of course–‘ I broke off.

“‘Unless what?’

“‘You pretend to be Robert.’ I began to laugh to myself again. ‘By Jove!’ I said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Pretend to be Robert, the wastrel brother, and make yourself objectionable to Miss Norris. Borrow money from her, and that sort of thing.’

“He looked at me, with his bright little eyes, nodding eagerly.

“‘Robert,’ he said. ‘Yes. How shall we work it?’

“There was really a Robert, Mr. Gillingham, as I have no doubt you and the Inspector both discovered. And he was a wastrel and he went to Australia. But he never came to the Red House on Tuesday afternoon. He couldn’t have, because he died (unlamented) three years ago. But there was nobody who knew this, save Mark and myself, for Mark was the only one of the family left, his sister having died last year. Though I doubt, anyhow, if she knew whether Robert was alive or dead. He was not talked about.

“For the next two days Mark and I worked out our plans. You understand by now that our aims were not identical. Mark’s endeavour was that his deception should last for, say, a couple of hours; mine that it should go to the grave with him. He had only to deceive Miss Norris and the other guests; I had to deceive the world. When he was dressed up as Robert, I was going to kill him. Robert would then be dead, Mark (of course) missing. What could anybody think but that Mark had killed Robert? But you see how important it was for Mark to enter fully into his latest (and last) impersonation. Half-measures would be fatal.

“You will say that it was impossible so do the thing thoroughly enough. I answer again that you never knew Mark. He was being what he wished most to be–an artist. No Othello ever blacked himself all over with such enthusiasm as did Mark. His beard was going anyhow–possible a chance remark of Miss Norbury’s helped here. She did not like beards. But it was important for me that the dead man’s hands should not be the hands of a manicured gentleman. Five minutes playing upon the vanity of the artist settled his hands. He let the nails grow and then cut them raggedly. ‘Miss Norris would notice your hands at once,’ I had said. ‘Besides, as an artist–‘

“So with his underclothes. It was hardly necessary to warn him that his pants might show above the edge of his socks; as an artist he had already decided upon Robertian pants. I bought them, and other things, in London for him. Even if I had not cut out all trace of the maker’s name, he would instinctively have done it. As an Australian and an artist, he could not have an East London address on his underclothes. Yes, we were doing the thing thoroughly, both of us; he as an artist, I as a–well, you may say murderer, if you like. I shall not mind now.

“Our plans were settled. I went to London on the Monday and wrote him a letter from Robert. (The artistic touch again.) I also bought a revolver. On the Tuesday morning he announced the arrival of Robert at the breakfast-table. Robert was now alive –we had six witnesses to prove it; six witnesses who knew that he was coming that afternoon. Our private plan was that Robert should present himself at three o’clock, in readiness for the return of the golfing-party shortly afterwards. The maid would go to look for Mark, and having failed to find him, come back to the office to find me entertaining Robert in Mark’s absence. I would explain that Mark must have gone out somewhere, and would myself introduce the wastrel brother to the tea-table. Mark’s absence would not excite any comment, for it would be generally felt–indeed Robert would suggest it–that he had been afraid of meeting his brother. Then Robert would make himself amusingly offensive to the guests, particularly, of course, Miss Norris, until he thought that the joke had gone far enough.

“That was our private plan. Perhaps I should say that it was Mark’s private plan. My own was different.

“The announcement at breakfast went well. After the golfing-party had gone off, we had the morning in which to complete our arrangements. What I was chiefly concerned about was to establish as completely as possible the identity of Robert. For this reason I suggested to Mark that, when dressed, he should go out by the secret passage to the bowling-green, and come back by the drive, taking care to enter into conversation with the lodge-keeper. In this way I would have two more witnesses of Robert’s arrival–first the lodge-keeper, and secondly one of the gardeners whom I would have working on the front lawn. Mark, of course, was willing enough. He could practise his Australian accent on the lodge-keeper. It was really amusing to see how readily he fell into every suggestion which I made. Never was a killing more carefully planned by its victim.

“He changed into Robert’s clothes in the office bedroom. This was the safest way–for both of us. When he was ready, he called me in, and I inspected him. It was extraordinary how well he looked the part. I suppose that the signs of his dissipation had already marked themselves on, his face, but had been concealed hitherto by his moustache and beard; for now that he was clean-shaven they lay open to the world from which we had so carefully hidden them, and he was indeed the wastrel which he was pretending to be.

“‘By Jove, you’re wonderful,’ I said.

“He smirked, and called my attention to the various artistic touches which I might have missed.

“‘Wonderful,’ I said to myself again. ‘Nobody could possibly guess.’

“I peered into the hall. It was empty. We hurried across to the library; he got into the passage and made off. I went back to the bedroom, collected all his discarded clothes, did them up in a bundle and returned with them to the passage. Then I sat down in the hall and waited.

“You heard the evidence of Stevens, the maid. As soon as she was on her way to the Temple in search of Mark, I stepped into the office. My hand was in my side-pocket, and in my hand was the revolver.

“He began at once in his character of Robert–some rigmarole about working his passage over from Australia; a little private performance for my edification. Then in his natural voice, gloating over his well-planned retaliation on Miss Norris, he burst out, ‘It’s my turn now. You wait.’ It was this which Elsie heard. She had no business to be there and she might have ruined everything, but as it turned out it was the luckiest thing which could have happened. For it was the one piece of evidence which I wanted; evidence, other than my own, that Mark and Robert were in the room together.

“I said nothing. I was not going to take the risk of being heard to speak in that room. I just smiled at the poor little fool, and took out my revolver, and shot him. Then I went back into the library and waited–just as I said in my evidence.

“Can you imagine, Mr. Gillingham, the shock which your sudden appearance gave me? Can you imagine the feelings of a ‘murderer’ who has (as he thinks) planned for every possibility, and is then confronted suddenly with an utterly new problem? What difference would your coming make? I didn’t know. Perhaps none; perhaps all. And I had forgotten to open the window!

“I don’t know whether you will think my plan for killing Mark a clever one. Perhaps not. But if I do deserve any praise in the matter, I think I deserve it for the way I pulled myself together in the face of the unexpected catastrophe of your arrival. Yes, I got a window open, Mr. Gillingham, under your very nose; the right window too, you were kind enough to say. And the keys –yes, that was clever of you, but I think I was cleverer. I deceived you over the keys, Mr. Gillingham, as I learnt when I took the liberty of listening to a conversation on the bowling-green between you and your friend Beverley. Where was I? Ah, you must have a look for that secret passage, Mr. Gillingham.

“But what am I saying? Did I deceive you at all? You have found out the secret–that Robert was Mark–and that is all that matters. How have you found out? I shall never know now. Where did I go wrong? Perhaps you have been deceiving me all the time. Perhaps you knew about the keys, about the window, even about the secret passage. You are a clever man, Mr. Gillingham.

“I had Mark’s clothes on my hands. I might have left them in the passage, but the secret of the passage was now out. Miss Norris knew it. That was the weak point of my plan, perhaps, that Miss Norris had to know it. So I hid them in the pond, the inspector having obligingly dragged it for me first. A couple of keys joined them, but I kept the revolver. Fortunate, wasn’t it, Mr. Gillingham?

“I don’t think that there is any more to tell you. This is a long letter, but then it is the last which I shall write. There was a time when I hoped that there might be a happy future for me, not at the Red House, not alone. Perhaps it was never more than an idle day-dream, for I am no more worthy of her than Mark was. But I could have made her happy, Mr. Gillingham. God, how I would have worked to make her happy! But now that is impossible. To offer her the hand of a murderer would be as bad as to offer her the hand of a drunkard. And Mark died for that. I saw her this morning. She was very sweet. It is a difficult world to understand.

“Well, well, we are all gone now–the Abletts and the Cayleys. I wonder what old Grandfather Cayley thinks of it all. Perhaps it is as well that we have died out. Not that there was anything wrong with Sarah–except her temper. And she had the Ablett nose–you can’t do much with that. I’m glad she left no children.

“Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham. I’m sorry that your stay with us was not of a pleasanter nature, but you understand the difficulties in which I was placed. Don’t let Bill think too badly of me. He is a good fellow; look after him. He will he surprised. The young are always surprised. And thank you for letting me end my own way. I expect you did sympathize a little, you know. We might have been friends in another world–you and I, and I and she. Tell her what you like. Everything or nothing. You will know what is best. Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham.

“MATTHEW CAYLEY.

“I am lonely to-night without Mark. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER XXII. MR. BEVERLEY MOVES ON

“Good Lord!” said Bill, as he put down the letter.

“I thought you’d say that,” murmured Antony.

“Tony, do you mean to say that you knew all this?”

“I guessed some of it. I didn’t quite know all of it, of course.”

“Good Lord!” said Bill again, and returned to the letter. In a moment he was looking up again. “What did you write to him? Was that last night? After I’d gone into Stanton?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say? That you’d discovered that Mark was Robert?”

“Yes. At least I said that this morning I should probably telegraph to Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street, and ask him to–“

Bill burst in eagerly on the top of the sentence. “Yes, now what was all that about? You were so damn Sherlocky yesterday all of a sudden. We’d been doing the thing together all the time, and you’d been telling me everything, and then suddenly you become very mysterious and private and talk enigmatically–is that the word?–about dentists and swimming and the ‘Plough and Horses,’ and–well, what was it all about? You simply vanished out of sight; I didn’t know what on earth we were talking about.”

Antony laughed and apologized.

“Sorry, Bill. I felt like that suddenly. Just for the last half-hour; just to end up with. I’ll tell you everything now. Not that there’s anything to tell, really. It seems so easy when you know it–so obvious. About Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street. Of course he was just to identify the body.”

“But whatever made you think of a dentist for that?”

“Who could do it better? Could you have done it? How could you? You’d never gone bathing with Mark; you’d never seen him stripped. He didn’t swim. Could his doctor do it? Not unless he’d had some particular operation, and perhaps not then. But his dentists could–at any time, always–if he had been to his dentist fairly often. Hence Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street.”

Bill nodded thoughtfully and went back again to the letter.

“I see. And you told Cayley that you were telegraphing to Cartwright to identify the body?”

“Yes. And then of course it was all up for him. Once we knew that Robert was Mark we knew everything.”

“How did you know?”

Antony got up from the breakfast table and began to fill his pipe.

“I’m not sure that I can say, Bill. You know those problems in Algebra where you say, ‘Let x be the answer,’ and then you work it out and find what x is. Well, that’s one way; and another way, which they never give you any marks for at school, is to guess the answer. Pretend the answer is 4–well, will that satisfy the conditions of the problem? No. Then try 6; and if 6 doesn’t either, then what about 5?–and so on. Well, the Inspector and the Coroner and all that lot had guessed their answer, and it seemed to fit, but you and I knew it didn’t really fit; there were several conditions in the problem which it didn’t fit at all. So we knew that their answer was wrong, and we had to think of another–an answer which explained all the things which were puzzling us. Well, I happened to guess the right one. Got a match?”

Bill handed him a box, and he lit his pipe.

“Yes, but that doesn’t quite do, old boy. Something must have put you on to it suddenly. By the way, I’ll have my matches back, if you don’t mind.”

Antony laughed and took them out of his pocket.

“Sorry …. Well then, let’s see if I can go through my own mind again, and tell you how I guessed it. First of all, the clothes.”

“Yes?”

“To Cayley the clothes seemed an enormously important clue. I didn’t quite see why, but I did realize that to a man in Cayley’s position the smallest clue would have an entirely disproportionate value. For some reason, then, Cayley attached this exaggerated importance to the clothes which Mark was wearing on that Tuesday morning; all the clothes, the inside ones as well as the outside ones. I didn’t know why, but I did feel certain that, in that case, the absence of the collar was unintentional. In collecting the clothes he had overlooked the collar. Why?”

“It was the one in the linen-basket?”

“Yes. It seemed probable. Why had Cayley put it there? The obvious answer was that he hadn’t. Mark had put it there. I remembered what you told me about Mark being finicky, and having lots of clothes and so on, and I felt that he was just the sort of man who would never wear the same collar twice.” He paused, and then asked, “Is that right, do you think?”

“Absolutely,” said Bill with conviction.

“Well, I guessed it was. So then I began to see an x which would fit just this part of the problem–the clothes part. I saw Mark changing his clothes; I saw him instinctively dropping the collar in the linen-basket, just as he had always dropped every collar he had ever taken off, but leaving the rest of the clothes on a chair in the ordinary way; and I saw Cayley collecting all the clothes afterwards–all the visible clothes–and not realizing that the collar wasn’t there.”

“Go on,” said Bill eagerly.

“Well, I felt pretty sure about that, and I wanted an explanation of it. Why had Mark changed down there instead of in his bedroom? The only answer was that the fact of his changing had to be kept secret. When did he change? The only possible time was between lunch (when he would be seen by the servants) and the moment of Robert’s arrival. And when did Cayley collect the clothes in a bundle? Again, the only answer was ‘Before Robert’s arrival.’ So another x was wanted–to fit those three conditions.”

“And the answer was that a murder was intended, even before Robert arrived?”

“Yes. Well now, it couldn’t be intended on the strength of that letter, unless there was very much more behind the letter than we knew. Nor was it possible a murder could be intended without any more preparation than the changing into a different suit in which to escape. The thing was too childish. Also, if Robert was to be murdered, why go out of the way to announce his existence to you all–even, at the cost of some trouble, to Mrs. Norbury? What did it all mean? I didn’t know. But I began to feel now that Robert was an incident only; that the plot was a plot of Cayley’s against Mark–either to get him to kill his brother, or to get his brother to kill him–and that for some inexplicable reason Mark seemed to be lending himself to the plot.” He was silent for a little, and then said, almost to himself, “I had seen the empty brandy bottles in that cupboard.”

“You never said anything about them” complained Bill.

“I only saw them afterwards. I was looking for the collar, you remember. They came back to me afterwards; I knew how Cayley would feel about it …. Poor devil!”

“Go on,” said Bill.

“Well, then, we had the inquest, and of course I noticed, and I suppose you did too, the curious fact that Robert had asked his way at the second lodge and not at the first. So I talked to Amos and Parsons. That made it more curious. Amos told me that Robert had gone out of his way to speak to him; had called to him, in fact. Parsons told me that his wife was out in their little garden at the first lodge all the afternoon, and was certain that Robert had never come past it. He also told me that Cayley had put him on to a job on the front lawn that afternoon. So I had another guess. Robert had used the secret passage–the passage which comes out into the park between the first and second lodges. Robert, then, had been in the house; it was a put-up job between Robert and Cayley. But how could Robert be there without Mark knowing? Obviously, Mark knew too. What did it all mean?”

“When was this?” interrupted Bill. “Just after the inquest–after you’d seen Amos and Parsons, of course?”

“Yes. I got up and left them, and came to look for you. I’d got back to the clothes then. Why did Mark change his clothes so secretly? Disguise? But then what about his face? That was much more important than clothes. His face, his beard–he’d have to shave off his beard–and then–oh, idiot! I saw you looking at that poster. Mark acting, Mark made-up, Mark disguised. Oh, priceless idiot! Mark was Robert …. Matches, please.”

Bill passed over the matches again, waited till Antony had relit his pipe, and then held out his hand for them, just as they were going into the other’s pocket.

“Yes,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Yes …. But wait a moment. What about the ‘Plough and Horses’?” Antony looked comically at him.

“You’ll never forgive me, Bill,” he said. “You’ll never come clue-hunting with me again.”

“What do you mean?”

Antony sighed.

“It was a fake, Watson. I wanted you out of the way. I wanted to be alone. I’d guessed at my x, and I wanted to test it–to test it every way, by everything we’d discovered. I simply had to be alone just then. So–” he smiled and added, “Well, I knew you wanted a drink.”

“You are a devil,” said Bill, staring at him. “And your interest when I told you that a woman had been staying there–“

“Well, it was only polite to be interested when you’d taken so much trouble.”

“You brute! You–you Sherlock! And then you keep trying to steal my matches. Well, go on.”

“That’s all. My x fitted.”

“Did you guess Miss Norris and all that?”

“Well, not quite. I didn’t realize that Cayley had worked for it from the beginning–had put Miss Norris up to frightening Mark. I thought he’d just seized the opportunity.”

Bill was silent for a long time. Then, puffing at his pipe, he said slowly, “Has Cayley shot himself?”

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

“Poor devil,” said Bill. “It was decent of you to give him a chance. I’m glad you did.”

“I couldn’t help liking Cayley in a kind of way, you know.”

“He’s a clever devil. If you hadn’t turned up just when you did, he would never have been found out.”

“I wonder. It was ingenious, but it’s often the ingenious thing which gets found out. The awkward thing from Cayley’s point of view was that, though Mark was missing, neither he nor his body could ever be found. Well, that doesn’t often happen with a missing man. He generally gets discovered in the end; a professional criminal; perhaps not–but an amateur like Mark! He might have kept the secret of how he killed Mark, but I think it would have become obvious sooner or later that he had killed him.”

“Yes, there’s something in that …. Oh, just tell me one thing. Why did Mark tell Miss Norbury about his imaginary brother?”

“That’s puzzled me rather, too, Bill. It may be that he was just doing the Othello business–painting himself black all over. I mean he may have been so full of his appearance as Robert that he had almost got to believe in Robert, and had to tell everybody. More likely, though, he felt that, having told all of you at the house, he had better tell Miss Norbury, in case she met one of you; in which case, if you mentioned the approaching arrival of Robert, she might say, ‘Oh, I’m certain he has no brother; he would have told me if he had,’ and so spoil his joke. Possibly, too, Cayley put him on to it; Cayley obviously wanted as many people as possible to know about Robert.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

“Yes, I suppose they’ll have to know. Cayley may have left another confession. I hope he won’t give me away; you see, I’ve been a sort of accessory since yesterday evening. And I must go and see Miss Norbury.”

“I asked,” explained Bill, “because I was wondering what I should say to–to Betty. Miss Calladine. You see, she’s bound to ask.”

“Perhaps you won’t see her again for a long, long time,” said Antony sadly.

“As a matter of fact, I happen to know that she will be at the Barringtons. And I go up there to-morrow.”

“Well, you had better tell her. You’re obviously longing to. Only don’t let her say anything for a day or two. Ill write to you.”

“Righto!”

Antony knocked the ashes out of his pipe and got up.

“The Barringtons,” he said. “Large party?”

“Fairly, I think.”

Antony smiled at his friend.

“Yes. Well, if any of ’em should happen to be murdered, you might send for me. I’m just getting into the swing of it.”