CHAPTER V.

Mr. Gillingham Chooses a New Profession

As Cayley went over to the bell, Antony got up and moved to the door.

“Well, you won’t want me, I suppose, inspector,” he said.

“No, thank you, Mr. Gillingham. You’ll be about, of course?”

“Oh, yes.”

The inspector hesitated.

“I think, Mr. Cayley, it would be better if I saw the servants alone.

You know what they are; the more people about, the more they get

alarmed. I expect I can get at the truth better by myself.”

“Oh, quite so. In fact, I was going to ask you to excuse me. I feel

rather responsible towards these guests of ours. Although Mr.

Gillingham very kindly—” He smiled at Antony, who was waiting at the

door, and left his sentence unfinished.

“Ah, that reminds me,” said the Inspector. “Didn’t you say that one of

your guests—Mr. Beverley was it?—a friend of Mr. Gillingham’s, was

staying on?”

“Yes; would you like to see him?”

“Afterwards, if I may.”

“I’ll warn him. I shall be up in my room, if you want me. I have a room

upstairs where I work—any of the servants will show you. Ah, Stevens,

Inspector Birch would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes, sir,” said Audrey primly, but inwardly fluttering.

The housekeeper’s room had heard something of the news by this time,

and Audrey had had a busy time explaining to other members of the staff

exactly what _he_ had said, and what _she_ had said. The details were

not quite established yet, but this much at least was certain: that Mr.

Mark’s brother had shot himself and spirited Mr. Mark away, and that

Audrey had seen at once that he was that sort of man when she opened

the door to him. She had passed the remark to Mrs. Stevens. And Mrs.

Stevens—if you remember, Audrey—had always said that people didn’t go

away to Australia except for very good reasons. Elsie agreed with both

of them, but she had a contribution of her own to make. She had

actually heard Mr. Mark in the office, threatening his brother.

“You mean Mr. Robert,” said the second parlour-maid. She had been

having a little nap in her room, but she had heard the bang. In fact,

it had woken her up—just like something going off, it was.

“It was Mr. Mark’s voice,” said Elsie firmly.

“Pleading for mercy,” said an eager-eyed kitchen-maid hopefully from

the door, and was hurried out again by the others, wishing that she had

not given her presence away. But it was hard to listen in silence when

she knew so well from her novelettes just what happened on these

occasions.

“I shall have to give that girl a piece of my mind,” said Mrs. Stevens.

“Well, Elsie?”

“He said, I heard him say it with my own ears, ‘It’s my turn now,’ he

said, triumphant-like.”

“Well, if you think that’s a threat, dear, you’re very particular, I

must say.”

But Audrey remembered Elsie’s words when she was in front of Inspector

Birch. She gave her own evidence with the readiness of one who had

already repeated it several times, and was examined and cross-examined

by the Inspector with considerable skill. The temptation to say, “Never

mind about what _you_ said to _him_,” was strong, but he resisted it,

knowing that in this way he would discover best what _he_ said to

_her_. By this time both his words and the looks he gave her were

getting their full value from Audrey, but the general meaning of them

seemed to be well-established.

“Then you didn’t see Mr. Mark at all.”

“No, sir; he must have come in before and gone up to his room. Or come

in by the front door, likely enough, while I was going out by the

back.”

“Yes. Well, I think that’s all that I want to know, thank you very

much. Now what about the other servants?”

“Elsie heard the master and Mr. Robert talking together,” said Audrey

eagerly. “He was saying—Mr. Mark, I mean—”

“Ah! Well, I think Elsie had better tell me that herself. Who is Elsie,

by the way?”

“One of the housemaids. Shall I send her to you, sir?”

“Please.”

Elsie was not sorry to get the message. It interrupted a few remarks

from Mrs. Stevens about Elsie’s conduct that afternoon which were

(Elsie thought) much better interrupted. In Mrs. Stevens’ opinion any

crime committed that afternoon in the office was as nothing to the

double crime committed by the unhappy Elsie.

For Elsie realized too late that she would have done better to have

said nothing about her presence in the hall that afternoon. She was bad

at concealing the truth and Mrs. Stevens was good at discovering it.

Elsie knew perfectly well that she had no business to come down the

front stairs, and it was no excuse to say that she happened to come out

of Miss Norris’ room just at the head of the stairs, and didn’t think

it would matter, as there was nobody in the hall, and what was she

doing anyhow in Miss Norris’ room at that time? Returning a magazine?

Lent by Miss Norris, might she ask? Well, not exactly lent. Really,

Elsie!—and this in a respectable house! In vain for poor Elsie to plead

that a story by her favourite author was advertised on the cover, with

a picture of the villain falling over the cliff. “That’s where _you’ll_

go to, my girl, if you aren’t careful,” said Mrs. Stevens firmly.

But, of course, there was no need to confess all these crimes to

Inspector Birch. All that interested him was that she was passing

through the hall, and heard voices in the office.

“And stopped to listen?”

“Certainly not,” said Elsie with dignity, feeling that nobody really

understood her. “I was just passing through the hall, just as you might

have been yourself, and not supposing they was talking secrets, didn’t

think to stop my ears, as no doubt I ought to have done.” And she

sniffed slightly.

“Come, come,” said the Inspector soothingly, “I didn’t mean to

suggest—”

“Everyone is very unkind to me,” said Elsie between sniffs, “and

there’s that poor man lying dead there, and sorry they’d have been, if

it had been me, to have spoken to me as they have done this day.”

“Nonsense, we’re going to be very proud of you. I shouldn’t be

surprised if your evidence were of very great importance. Now then,

what was it you heard? Try to remember the exact words.”

Something about working in a passage, thought Elsie.

“Yes, but who said it?”

“Mr. Robert.”

“How do you know it was Mr. Robert? Had you heard his voice before?”

“I don’t take it upon myself to say that I had had any acquaintance

with Mr. Robert, but seeing that it wasn’t Mr. Mark, nor yet Mr.

Cayley, nor any other of the gentlemen, and Miss Stevens had shown Mr.

Robert into the office not five minutes before—”

“Quite so,” said the Inspector hurriedly. “Mr. Robert, undoubtedly.

Working in a passage?”

“That was what it sounded like, sir.”

“H’m. Working a passage over—could that have been it?”

“That’s right, sir,” said Elsie eagerly. “He’d worked his passage

over.”

“Well?”

“And then Mr. Mark said loudly—sort of triumphant-like—‘It’s _my_ turn

now. You wait.’”

“Triumphantly?”

“As much as to say his chance had come.”

“And that’s all you heard?”

“That’s all, sir—not standing there listening, but just passing through

the hall, as it might be any time.”

“Yes. Well, that’s really very important, Elsie. Thank you.”

Elsie gave him a smile, and returned eagerly to the kitchen. She was

ready for Mrs. Stevens or anybody now.

Meanwhile Antony had been exploring a little on his own. There was a

point which was puzzling him. He went through the hall to the front of

the house and stood at the open door, looking out on to the drive. He

and Cayley had run round the house to the left. Surely it would have

been quicker to have run round to the right? The front door was not in

the middle of the house, it was to the end. Undoubtedly they went the

longest way round. But perhaps there was something in the way, if one

went to the right—a wall, say. He strolled off in that direction,

followed a path round the house and came in sight of the office

windows. Quite simple, and about half the distance of the other way. He

went on a little farther, and came to a door, just beyond the broken-in

windows. It opened easily, and he found himself in a passage. At the

end of the passage was another door. He opened it and found himself in

the hall again.

“And, of course, that’s the quickest way of the three,” he said to

himself. “Through the hall, and out at the back; turn to the left and

there you are. Instead of which, we ran the longest way round the

house. Why? Was it to give Mark more time in which to escape? Only, in

that case—why _run?_ Also, how did Cayley know then that it was Mark

who was trying to escape? If he had guessed—well, not guessed, but been

afraid—that one had shot the other, it was much more likely that Robert

had shot Mark. Indeed, he had admitted that this was what he thought.

The first thing he had said when he turned the body over was, ‘Thank

God! I was afraid it was Mark.’ But why should he want to give _Robert_

time in which to get away? And again—why _run,_ if he did want to give

him time?”

Antony went out of the house again to the lawns at the back, and sat

down on a bench in view of the office windows.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s go through Cayley’s mind carefully, and see

what we get.”

Cayley had been in the hall when Robert was shown into the office. The

servant goes off to look for Mark, and Cayley goes on with his book.

Mark comes down the stairs, warns Cayley to stand by in case he is

wanted, and goes to meet his brother. What does Cayley expect? Possibly

that he won’t be wanted at all; possibly that his advice may be wanted

in the matter, say, of paying Robert’s debts, or getting him a passage

back to Australia; possibly that his physical assistance may be wanted

to get an obstreperous Robert out of the house. Well, he sits there for

a moment, and then goes into the library. Why not? He is still within

reach, if wanted. Suddenly he hears a pistol-shot. A pistol-shot is the

last noise you expect to hear in a country-house; very natural, then,

that for the moment he would hardly realize what it was. He listens—and

hears nothing more. Perhaps it wasn’t a pistol-shot after all. After a

moment or two he goes to the library door again. The profound silence

makes him uneasy now. _Was_ it a pistol-shot? Absurd! Still—no harm in

going into the office on some excuse, just to reassure himself. So he

tries the door—and finds it locked!

What are his emotions now? Alarm, uncertainty. Something is happening.

Incredible though it seems, it must have been a pistol-shot. He is

banging at the door and calling out to Mark, and there is no answer.

Alarm—yes. But alarm for whose safety? Mark’s, obviously. Robert is a

stranger; Mark is an intimate friend. Robert has written a letter that

morning, the letter of a man in a dangerous temper. Robert is the tough

customer; Mark the highly civilized gentleman. If there has been a

quarrel, it is Robert who has shot Mark. He bangs at the door again.

Of course, to Antony, coming suddenly upon this scene, Cayley’s conduct

had seemed rather absurd, but then, just for the moment, Cayley had

lost his head. Anybody else might have done the same. But, as soon as

Antony suggested trying the windows, Cayley saw that that was the

obvious thing to do. So he leads the way to the windows—the longest

way.

Why? To give the murderer time to escape? If he had thought then that

Mark was the murderer, perhaps, yes. But he thinks that Robert is the

murderer. If he is not hiding anything, he _must_ think so. Indeed he

says so, when he sees the body; “I was afraid it was Mark,” he says,

when he finds that it is Robert who is killed. No reason, then, for

wishing to gain time. On the contrary, every instinct would urge him to

get into the room as quickly as possible, and seize the wicked Robert.

Yet he goes the longest way round. Why? And then, why _run?_

“That’s the question,” said Antony to himself, as he filled his pipe,

“and bless me if I know the answer. It may be, of course, that Cayley

is just a coward. He was in no hurry to get close to Robert’s revolver,

and yet wanted me to think that he was bursting with eagerness. That

would explain it, but then that makes Cayley out a coward. Is he? At

any rate he pushed his face up against the window bravely enough. No, I

want a better answer than that.”

He sat there with his unlit pipe in his hand, thinking. There were one

or two other things in the back of his brain, waiting to be taken out

and looked at. For the moment he left them undisturbed. They would come

back to him later when he wanted them.

He laughed suddenly, and lit his pipe.

“I was wanting a new profession,” he thought, “and now I’ve found it.

Antony Gillingham, our own private sleuthhound. I shall begin to-day.”

Whatever Antony Gillingham’s other qualifications for his new

profession, he had at any rate a brain which worked clearly and

quickly. And this clear brain of his had already told him that he was

the only person in the house at that moment who was unhandicapped in

the search for truth. The inspector had arrived in it to find a man

dead and a man missing. It was extremely probable, no doubt, that the

missing man had shot the dead man. But it was more than extremely

probable, it was almost certain that the Inspector would start with the

idea that this extremely probable solution was the one true solution,

and that, in consequence, he would be less disposed to consider without

prejudice any other solution. As regards all the rest of them—Cayley,

the guests, the servants—they also were prejudiced; in favour of Mark

(or possibly, for all he knew, against Mark); in favour of, or against,

each other; they had formed some previous opinion, from what had been

said that morning, of the sort of man Robert was. No one of them could

consider the matter with an unbiased mind.

But Antony could. He knew nothing about Mark; he knew nothing about

Robert. He had seen the dead man before he was told who the dead man

was. He knew that a tragedy had happened before he knew that anybody

was missing. Those first impressions, which are so vitally important,

had been received solely on the merits of the case; they were founded

on the evidence of his senses, not on the evidence of his emotions or

of other people’s senses. He was in a much better position for getting

at the truth than was the Inspector.

It is possible that, in thinking this, Antony was doing Inspector Birch

a slight injustice. Birch was certainly prepared to believe that Mark

had shot his brother. Robert had been shown into the office (witness

Audrey); Mark had gone in to Robert (witness Cayley); Mark and Robert

had been heard talking (witness Elsie); there was a shot (witness

everybody); the room had been entered and Robert’s body had been found

(witness Cayley and Gillingham). And Mark was missing. Obviously, then,

Mark had killed his brother: accidentally, as Cayley believed, or

deliberately, as Elsie’s evidence seemed to suggest. There was no point

in looking for a difficult solution to a problem, when the easy

solution had no flaw in it. But at the same time Birch would have

preferred the difficult solution, simply because there was more credit

attached to it. A “sensational” arrest of somebody in the house would

have given him more pleasure than a commonplace pursuit of Mark Ablett

across country. Mark must be found, guilty or not guilty. But there

were other possibilities. It would have interested Antony to know that,

just at the time when he was feeling rather superior to the prejudiced

inspector, the Inspector himself was letting his mind dwell lovingly

upon the possibilities in connection with Mr. Gillingham. Was it only a

coincidence that Mr. Gillingham had turned up just when he did? And Mr.

Beverley’s curious answers when asked for some account of his friend.

An assistant in a tobacconist’s, a waiter! An odd man, Mr. Gillingham,

evidently. It might be as well to keep an eye on him.