‘Well—er—yes.’
Lombard, who had been staring at Blore, said suddenly:
‘Look here, I’ve just thought of something—’
The judge lifted a hand.
‘In a minute—’
‘But I—’
‘We will take one thing at a time, Mr Lombard. We are at present inquiring into the causes which have resulted in our being assembled here tonight. General Macarthur?’
Pulling at his moustache, the General muttered:
‘Got a letter—from this fellow Owen—mentioned some old pals of mine who were to be here—hoped I’d excuse informal invitation. Haven’t kept the letter, I’m afraid.’
Wargrave said: ‘Mr Lombard?’
Lombard’s brain had been active. Was he to come out in the open, or not? He made up his mind.
‘Same sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Invitation, mention of mutual friends—I fell for it all right. I’ve torn up the letter.’
Mr Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr Blore. His forefinger stroked his upper lip and his voice was dangerously polite.
He said:
‘Just now we had a somewhat disturbing experience. An apparently disembodied voice spoke to us all by name, uttering certain precise accusations against us. We will deal with those accusations presently. At the moment I am interested in a minor point. Amongst the names recited was that of William Henry Blore. But as far as we know there is no one named Blore amongst us. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr Davis?’
Blore said sulkily:
‘Cat’s out of the bag, it seems. I suppose I’d better admit that my name isn’t Davis.’
‘You are William Henry Blore?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I will add something,’ said Lombard. ‘Not only are you here under a false name, Mr Blore, but in addition I’ve noticed this evening that you’re a first-class liar. You claim to have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and Natal and I’m prepared to swear that you’ve never set foot in South Africa in your life.’
All eyes were turned on Blore. Angry suspicious eyes. Anthony Marston moved a step nearer to him. His fists clenched themselves.
‘Now then, you swine,’ he said. ‘Any explanation?’
Blore flung back his head and set his square jaw.
‘You gentlemen have got me wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my credentials and you can see them. I’m an ex-CID man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was put on this job.’
Mr Justice Wargrave asked:
‘By whom?’
‘This man Owen. Enclosed a handsome money order for expenses and instructed me as to what he wanted done. I was to join the house-party, posing as a guest. I was given all your names. I was to watch you all.’
‘Any reason given?’
Blore said bitterly:
‘Mrs Owen’s jewels. Mrs Owen my foot! I don’t believe there’s any such person.’
Again the forefinger of the judge stroked his lip, this time appreciatively.
‘Your conclusions are, I think, justified,’ he said. ‘Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss Brent’s letter, though the signature of the surname is a mere scrawl the Christian names are reasonably clear—Una Nancy—in either case you notice, the same initials. Ulick Norman Owen—Una Nancy Owen—each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!’
Vera cried:
‘But this is fantastic—mad!’
The judge nodded gently.
He said:
‘Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a madman—probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.’
I
There was a moment’s silence. A silence of dismay and bewilderment. Then the judge’s small clear voice took up the thread once more.
‘We will now proceed to the next stage of our inquiry. First however, I will just add my own credentials to the list.’
He took a letter from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.
‘This purports to be from an old friend of mine, Lady Constance Culmington. I have not seen her for some years. She went to the East. It is exactly the kind of vague incoherent letter she would write, urging me to join her here and referring to her host and hostess in the vaguest of terms. The same technique, you will observe. I only mention it because it agrees with the other evidence—from all of which emerges one interesting point. Whoever it was who enticed us here, that person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a good deal about us all. He, whoever he may be, is aware of my friendship for Lady Constance—and is familiar with her epistolary style. He knows something about Dr Armstrong’s colleagues and their present whereabouts. He knows the nickname of Mr Marston’s friend and the kind of telegrams he sends. He knows exactly where Miss Brent was two years ago for her holiday and the kind of people she met there. He knows all about General Macarthur’s old cronies.’
He paused. Then he said:
‘He knows, you see, a good deal. And out of his know-ledge concerning us, he has made certain definite accusations.’
Immediately a babel broke out.
General Macarthur shouted:
‘A pack of dam’ lies! Slander!’
Vera cried out:
‘It’s iniquitous!’ Her breath came fast. ‘Wicked!’
Rogers said hoarsely:
‘A lie—a wicked lie… we never did—neither of us…’
Anthony Marston growled:
‘Don’t know what the damned fool was getting at!’
The upraised hand of Mr Justice Wargrave calmed the tumult.
He said, picking his words with care:
‘I wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me of the murder of one Edward Seton. I remember Seton perfectly well. He came up before me for trial in June of the year 1930. He was charged with the murder of an elderly woman. He was very ably defended and made a good impression on the jury in the witness-box. Nevertheless, on the evidence, he was certainly guilty. I summed up accordingly, and the jury brought in a verdict of Guilty. In passing sentence of death I concurred with the verdict. An appeal was lodged on the grounds of misdirection. The appeal was rejected and the man was duly executed. I wish to say before you all that my conscience is perfectly clear on the matter. I did my duty and nothing more. I passed sentence on a rightly convicted murderer.’
Armstrong was remembering now. The Seton case! The verdict had come as a great surprise. He had met Matthews, KC on one of the days of the trial dining at a restaurant. Matthews had been confident. ‘Not a doubt of the verdict. Acquittal practically certain.’ And then afterwards he had heard comments: ‘Judge was dead against him. Turned the jury right round and they brought him in guilty. Quite legal, though. Old Wargrave knows his law. It was almost as though he had a private down on the fellow.’
All