CHAPTER XVIII.

Guess-work

The inquest was at three o’clock; thereafter Antony could have no claim

on the hospitality of the Red House. By ten o’clock his bag was packed,

and waiting to be taken to ‘The George.’ To Bill, coming upstairs after

a more prolonged breakfast, this early morning bustle was a little

surprising.

“What’s the hurry?” he asked.

“None. But we don’t want to come back here after the inquest. Get your

packing over now and then we can have the morning to ourselves.”

“Righto.” He turned to go to his room, and then came back again. “I

say, are we going to tell Cayley that we’re staying at ‘The George’?”

“You’re not staying at ‘The George,’ Bill. Not officially. You’re going

back to London.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. Ask Cayley to have your luggage sent in to Stanton, ready for you

when you catch a train there after the inquest. You can tell him that

you’ve got to see the Bishop of London at once. The fact that you are

hurrying back to London to be confirmed will make it seem more natural

that I should resume my interrupted solitude at ‘The George’ as soon as

you have gone.”

“Then where do I sleep to-night?”

“Officially, I suppose, in Fulham Place; unofficially, I suspect, in my

bed, unless they’ve got another spare room at ‘The George.’ I’ve put

your confirmation robe—I mean your pyjamas and brushes and things—in my

bag, ready for you. Is there anything else you want to know? No? Then

go and pack. And meet me at ten-thirty beneath the blasted oak or in

the hall or somewhere. I want to talk and talk and talk, and I must

have my Watson.”

“Good,” said Bill, and went off to his room.

An hour later, having communicated their official plans to Cayley, they

wandered out together into the park.

“Well?” said Bill, as they sat down underneath a convenient tree. “Talk

away.”

“I had many bright thoughts in my bath this morning,” began Antony.

“The brightest one of all was that we were being damn fools, and

working at this thing from the wrong end altogether.”

“Well, that’s helpful.”

“Of course it’s very hampering being a detective, when you don’t know

anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you’re doing

detection, and you can’t have people up to cross-examine them, and you

have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries; and, in

short, when you’re doing the whole thing in a thoroughly amateur,

haphazard way.”

“For amateurs I don’t think we’re doing at all badly,” protested Bill.

“No; not for amateurs. But if we had been professionals, I believe we

should have gone at it from the other end. The Robert end. We’ve been

wondering about Mark and Cayley all the time. Now let’s wonder about

Robert for a bit.”

“We know so little about him.”

“Well, let’s see what we do know. First of all, then, we know vaguely

that he was a bad lot—the sort of brother who is hushed up in front of

other people.”

“Yes.”

“We know that he announced his approaching arrival to Mark in a rather

unpleasant letter, which I have in my pocket.”

“Yes.”

“And then we know rather a curious thing. We know that Mark told you

all that this black sheep was coming. Now, why did he tell you?”

Bill was thoughtful for a moment.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that he knew we were bound to see him,

and thought that the best way was to be quite frank about him.”

“But were you bound to see him? You were all away playing golf.”

“We were bound to see him if he stayed in the house that night.”

“Very well, then. That’s one thing we’ve discovered. Mark knew that

Robert was staying in the house that night. Or shall we put it this

way—he knew that there was no chance of getting Robert out of the house

at once.”

Bill looked at his friend eagerly.

“Go on,” he said. “This is getting interesting.”

“He also knew something else,” went on Antony. “He knew that Robert was

bound to betray his real character to you as soon as you met him. He

couldn’t pass him off on you as just a travelled brother from the

Dominions, with perhaps a bit of an accent; he had to tell you at once,

because you were bound to find out, that Robert was a wastrel.”

“Yes. That’s sound enough.”

“Well, now, doesn’t it strike you that Mark made up his mind about all

that rather quickly?”

“How do you mean?”

“He got this letter at breakfast. He read it; and directly he had read

it he began to confide in you all. That is to say, in about one second

he thought out the whole business and came to a decision—to two

decisions. He considered the possibility of getting Robert out of the

way before you came back, and decided that it was impossible. He

considered the possibility of Robert’s behaving like an ordinary decent

person in public, and decided that it was very unlikely. He came to

those two decisions instantaneously, as he was reading the letter.

Isn’t that rather quick work?”

“Well, what’s the explanation?”

Antony waited until he had refilled and lighted his pipe before

answering.

“What’s the explanation? Well, let’s leave it for a moment and take

another look at the two brothers. In conjunction, this time, with Mrs.

Norbury.”

“Mrs. Norbury?” said Bill, surprised.

“Yes. Mark hoped to marry Miss Norbury. Now, if Robert really was a

blot upon the family honour, Mark would want to do one of two things.

Either keep it from the Norburys altogether, or else, if it had to come

out, tell them himself before the news came to them indirectly. Well,

he told them. But the funny thing is that he told them the day before

Robert’s letter came. Robert came, and was killed, the day before

yesterday—Tuesday. Mark told Mrs. Norbury about him on Monday. What do

you make of that?”

“Coincidence,” said Bill, after careful thought. “He’d always meant to

tell her; his suit was prospering, and just before it was finally

settled, he told her. That happened to be Monday. On Tuesday he got

Robert’s letter, and felt jolly glad that he’d told her in time.”

“Well, it might be that, but it’s rather a curious coincidence. And

here is something which makes it very curious indeed. It only occurred

to me in the bath this morning. Inspiring place, a bathroom. Well, it’s

this—he told her on Monday morning, on his way to Middleston in the

car.”

“Well?”

“Well.”

“Sorry, Tony; I’m dense this morning.”

“In the car, Bill. And how near can the car get to Jallands?”

“About six hundred yards.”

“Yes. And on his way to Middleston, on some business or other, Mark

stops the car, walks six hundred yards down the hill to Jallands, says,

‘Oh, by the way, Mrs. Norbury, I don’t think I ever told you that I

have a shady brother called Robert,’ walks six hundred yards up the

hill again, gets into the car, and goes off to Middleston. Is that

likely?”

Bill frowned heavily.

“Yes, but I don’t see what you’re getting at. Likely or not likely, we

know he did do it.”

“Of course he did. All I mean is that he must have had some strong

reason for telling Mrs. Norbury at once. And the reason I suggest is

that he knew on that morning—Monday morning, not Tuesday—that Robert

was coming to see him, and had to be in first with the news.

“But—but—”

“And that would explain the other point—his instantaneous decision at

breakfast to tell you all about his brother. It wasn’t instantaneous.

He knew on Monday that Robert was coming, and decided then that you

would all have to know.”

“Then how do you explain the letter?”

“Well, let’s have a look at it.”

Antony took the letter from his pocket and spread it out on the grass

between them.

_“Mark, your loving brother is coming to see you to-morrow, all the way

from Australia. I give you warning, so that you will be able to conceal

your surprise but not I hope your pleasure. Expect him at three or

thereabouts.”_

“No date mentioned, you see,” said Antony. “Just to-morrow.”

“But he got this on Tuesday.”

“Did he?”

“Well, he read it out to us on Tuesday.”

“Oh, yes! he read it out to you.”

Bill read the letter again, and then turned it over and looked at the

back of it. The back of it had nothing to say to him.

“What about the postmark?” he asked.

“We haven’t got the envelope, unfortunately.”

“And you think that he got this letter on Monday.”

“I’m inclined to think so, Bill. Anyhow, I think—I feel almost

certain—that he knew on Monday that his brother was coming.”

“Is that going to help us much?”

“No. It makes it more difficult. There’s something rather uncanny about

it all. I don’t understand it.” He was silent for a little, and then

added, “I wonder if the inquest is going to help us.

“What about last night? I’m longing to hear what you make of that. Have

you been thinking it out at all?”

“Last night,” said Antony thoughtfully to himself. “Yes, last night

wants some explaining.”

Bill waited hopefully for him to explain. What, for instance, had

Antony been looking for in the cupboard?

“I think,” began Antony slowly, “that after last night we must give up

the idea that Mark has been killed; killed, I mean, by Cayley. I don’t

believe anybody would go to so much trouble to hide a suit of clothes

when he had a body on his hands. The body would seem so much more

important. I think we may take it now that the clothes are all that

Cayley had to hide.”

“But why not have kept them in the passage?”

“He was frightened of the passage. Miss Norris knew about it.”

“Well, then, in his own bedroom, or even, in Mark’s. For all you or I

or anybody knew, Mark might have had two brown suits. He probably had,

I should think.”

“Probably. But I doubt if that would reassure Cayley. The brown suit

hid a secret, and therefore the brown suit had to be hidden. We all

know that in theory the safest hiding-place is the most obvious, but in

practice very few people have the nerve to risk it.”

Bill looked rather disappointed.

“Then we just come back to where we were,” he complained. “Mark killed

his brother, and Cayley helped him to escape through the passage;

either in order to compromise him, or because there was no other way

out of it. And he helped him by telling a lie about his brown suit.”

Antony smiled at him in genuine amusement.

“Bad luck, Bill,” he said sympathetically. “There’s only one murder,

after all. I’m awfully sorry about it. It was my fault for—”

“Shut up, you ass. You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, you seemed awfully disappointed.”

Bill said nothing for a little, and then with a sudden laugh confessed.

“It was so exciting yesterday,” he said apologetically, “and we seemed

to be just getting there, and discovering the most wonderful things,

and now—”

“And now?”

“Well, it’s so much more ordinary.”

Antony gave a shout of laughter.

“Ordinary!” he cried. “Ordinary! Well, I’m dashed! Ordinary! If only

_one_ thing would happen in an ordinary way, we might do something, but

_everything_ is ridiculous.”

Bill brightened up again.

“Ridiculous? How?”

“Every way. Take those ridiculous clothes we found last night. You can

explain the brown suit, but why the under clothes. You can explain the

underclothes in some absurd way, if you like—you can say that Mark

always changed his underclothes whenever he interviewed anybody from

Australia—but why, in that case, my dear Watson, _why_ didn’t he change

his collar?”

“His collar?” said Bill in amazement.

“His collar, Watson.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And it’s all so ordinary,” scoffed Antony.

“Sorry, Tony, I didn’t mean that. Tell me about the collar.”

“Well, that’s all. There was no collar in the bag last night. Shirt,

socks, tie—everything except a collar. Why?”

“Was that what you were looking for in the cupboard?” said Bill

eagerly.

“Of course. ‘Why no collar?’ I said. For some reason Cayley considered

it necessary to hide all Mark’s clothes; not just the suit, but

everything which he was wearing, or supposed to be wearing, at the time

of the murder. But he hadn’t hidden the collar. Why? Had he left it out

by mistake? So I looked in the cupboard. It wasn’t there. Had he left

it out on purpose? If so, why?—and where was it? Naturally I began to

say to myself, ‘Where have I seen a collar lately? A collar all by

itself?’ And I remembered—what, Bill?”

Bill frowned heavily to himself, and shook his head.

“Don’t ask me, Tony. I can’t—By Jove!” He threw up his head, “In the

basket in the office bedroom!”

“Exactly.”

“But is that the one?”

“The one that goes with the rest of the clothes? I don’t know. Where

else can it be? But if so, why send the collar quite casually to the

wash in the ordinary way, and take immense trouble to hide everything

else? Why, why, why?”

Bill bit hard at his pipe, but could think of nothing to say.

“Anyhow,” said Antony, getting up restlessly, “I’m certain of one

thing. Mark knew on the Monday that Robert was coming here.”