This in turn he cut open, taking care not to disturb the bunch of keys, which, attached to a chain, lay on the thigh, a little to the left.
The others watched him with wide-eyed interest, the inspector breathing heavily.
Having assured himself that the keys would not slide off, Malcolm
Sage rose and turned to Dawkins:
"I want a plate from the right, the left, the front, and from behind and above. Also an exposure showing the position of the legs, and another of the keys."
Dawkins inclined his head. He was a grey, bald-headed little man who had only one thought in life, his profession. He seldom spoke, and when he did his lips seemed scarcely to part, the words slipping out as best they could.
Happy in the knowledge that his beloved camera was once more to be one of the principal witnesses in the detection of a crime, Dawkins set himself to his task.
"When Dawkins has finished," said Malcolm Sage, turning to the inspector, who had been watching the proceedings with ill-disguised impatience, "you can remove the body; but leave the pistol. Give Mr. Challoner's keys to Sir James. And now I think we might lunch," he said, turning to Sir James.
Malcolm Sage's attitude towards the official police was generally determined by their attitude towards him. In the Department Z days, he had been known at Scotland Yard as "Sage & Onions." What the phrase lacked in wit was compensated for by the feeling with which it was frequently uttered. The police officers made no effort to dissemble the contempt they felt for a department in which they saw a direct rebuke to themselves. Later, however, their attitude changed, and Malcolm Sage was brought into close personal touch with many of the best-known officers of the Criminal Investigation Department.
He had never been known to speak disparagingly, or patronisingly, of Scotland Yard. On the other hand, he lost no opportunity of emphasising the fact that it was the head-quarters of the most efficient police force in the world. He did not always agree with its methods, which in many ways he regarded as out-of-date.
As Malcolm Sage left the room, the inspector shrugged his shoulders.
The whole thing was so obvious that, but for the presence of Sir
James Walton, he would have refused to delay the removal of the body.
The doctor had pronounced the wound self-inflicted, and even if he
had not done so, the circumstantial evidence was conclusive.
Luncheon was eaten in silence, a constrained and uncomfortable meal. Malcolm Sage ate as he always ate when his mind was occupied, with entire indifference as to what was on the plate, from which his eyes never lifted.
Sir James made several ineffectual efforts to draw Dane into conversation; but at each remark the young man started violently, as if suddenly recalled to his surroundings. Finally Sir James desisted, and the meal concluded in abysmal silence.
Malcolm Sage then announced that he would examine the various members of the household, and Dane and Peters left the room.
One by one the servants entered, were interrogated, and departed. Even the gardener and his wife, who lived at the lodge by the main-gates, were cross-questioned.
Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, was incoherent in her voluble anxiety to give information. The maids were almost too frightened to speak, and from none was anything tangible extracted.
No one had any reason for being near the library late at night.
When Peters' turn came, he told his story with a clearness and economy of words that caused Malcolm Sage mentally to register him as a good witness. He was a superior kind of man, who had been in his present position only some six months; but during that time he had given every satisfaction, so much so that Mr. Challoner had remarked to Sir James that he believed he had found a treasure.
According to Peters' account, at a quarter-past eleven on the previous evening he had gone to the library, as was his custom, to see if there were anything else that Mr. Challoner required before he locked up for the night. On being told there was nothing, he had accordingly seen to the fastenings of doors and windows and gone to bed.
"What was Mr. Challoner doing when you entered the room?" enquired Malcolm Sage, intent upon a design he was drawing upon the surface of the salt.
"He was sitting at the table where I found him this morning."
"What was he actually doing?"
"I think he was checking his bankbook, sir."
"Did you notice anything strange about his manner?"
"No, sir."
"When you found that his bed had not been slept in were you surprised?"
"Not greatly, sir," was the response. "Once before a similar thing happened, and I heard from the other servants that on several occasions Mr. Challoner had spent the night in the library, having fallen asleep there."
"When you told Mr. Dane that his uncle had not slept in his room, and that the library door was locked on the inside, what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good Lord! Peters, something must have happened.'"
"Mr. Dane knew that on previous occasions his uncle had spent the night in his study?" enquired Malcolm Sage, smoothing out the design upon which he had been engaged and beginning another.
"I think so, sir," was the response.
"The pistol was the one he used at target-practice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did he keep it?"
"In the third right-hand drawer of his table, sir."
"He was a good shot, I think you said?" Malcolm Sage turned to Sir
James.
"Magnificent," he said warmly. "I have often shot with him."
"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Challoner should commit suicide?"
Malcolm Sage enquired of Peters.
"None whatever, sir; he always seemed very happy."
"He had no domestic worries?"
Peters hesitated for a moment.
"He never mentioned any to me, sir."
"You have in mind certain events that occurred during the last few days, I take it?" said Malcolm Sage.
"That was in my mind, sir," was the response.
"You know of no way by which anyone could have got into the library and then out again, other than through the door or the window?"
Malcolm Sage had relinquished the salt-spoon and was now meditatively twirling a wineglass by its stem between his thumb and first finger.
"There is no other way, sir."
"Who has access to the library in the ordinary way? Tell me the names of everybody who is likely to go in at any time."
"Outside Mr. Challoner and Mr. Dane, there is myself, Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, and Meston, the housemaid."
"No one else?"
"No one, sir, except, of course, the guests who might be staying in the house."
"I shall want the finger-prints of all those you have named,
including yours, Sir James." Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir James
Walton. "I can then identify those of any stranger that I may find."
Sir James nodded.
"It would be quite easy for Mr. Challoner to let anyone in through the French-windows?" enquired Malcolm Sage,