Tarling shook his head. He was nearer a solution to the latter mystery than either of them knew.
His search of the flat completed, he drove to Hyde Park and, guided by Whiteside, made his way to the spot where the body was found. It was on a gravelled sidewalk, nearer to the grass than to the road, and Whiteside described the position of the body. Tarling looked round, and suddenly uttered an exclamation.
“I wonder,” he said, pointing to a flowerbed.
Whiteside stared, then laughed.
“That curious,” he said. “We seem to see nothing but daffodils in this murder!”
The big bed to which Tarling walked was smothered with great feathery bells that danced and swayed in the light spring breezes.
“Humph!” said Tarling. “Do you know anything about daffodils, Whiteside?”
Whiteside shook his head with a laugh.
“All daffodils are daffodils to me. Is there any difference in them? I suppose there must be.”
Tarling nodded.
“These are known as Golden Spurs,” he said, “a kind which is very common in England. The daffodils in Miss Rider’s flat are the variety known as the Emperor.”
“Well?” said Whiteside.
“Well,” said the other slowly, “the daffodils I saw this morning which were found on Lyne’s chest were Golden Spurs.”
He knelt down by the side of the bed and began pushing aside the stems, examining the ground carefully.
“Here you are,” he said.
He pointed to a dozen jagged stems.
“That is where the daffodils were plucked, I’d like to swear to that. Look, they were all pulled together by one hand. Somebody leaned over and pulled a handful.”
Whiteside looked dubious.
“Mischievous boys sometimes do these things.”
“Only in single stalks,” said Tarling, “and the regular flower thieves are careful to steal from various parts of the bed so that the loss should not be reported by the Park gardeners.”
“Then you suggest—”
“I suggest that whoever killed Thornton Lyne found it convenient, for some reason best known to himself or herself, to ornament the body as it was found, and the flowers were got from here.”
“Not from the girl’s flat at all?”
“I’m sure of that,” replied Tarling emphatically. “In fact, I knew that this morning when I’d seen the daffodils which you had taken to Scotland Yard.”
Whiteside scratched his nose in perplexity.
“The further this case goes, the more puzzled I am,” he said. “Here is a man, a wealthy man, who has apparently no bitter enemies, discovered dead in Hyde Park, with a woman’s silk nightdress wound round his chest, with list slippers on his feet, and a Chinese inscription in his pocket — and further, to puzzle the police, a bunch of daffodils on the chest. That was a woman’s act, Mr. Tarling,” he said suddenly.
Tarling started. “How do you mean?” he asked.
“It was a woman’s act to put flowers on the man,” said Whiteside quietly. “Those daffodils tell me of pity and compassion, and perhaps repentance.”
A slow smile dawned on Tarling’s face.
“My dear Whiteside,” he said, “you are getting sentimental! And here,” he added, looking up, “attracted to the spot, is a gentleman I seem to be always meeting — Mr. Milburgh, I think.”
Milburgh had stopped at the sight of the detective, and looked as if he would have been glad to have faded away unobserved. But Tarling had seen him, and Milburgh came forward with his curious little shuffling walk, a set smile on his face, the same worried look in his eyes, which Tarling had seen once before.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, with a flourish of his top hat. “I suppose, Mr. Tarling, nothing has been discovered?”
“At any rate, I didn’t expect to discover you here this morning!” smiled Tarling. “I thought you were busy at the Stores.”
Milburgh shifted uneasily.
“The place has a fascination for me,” he said huskily, “I — I can’t keep away from it.”
He dropped his eyes before Tarling’s keen gaze and repeated the question.
“Is there any fresh news?”
“I ought to ask you that,” said Tarling quietly.
The other looked up.
“You mean Miss Rider?” he asked. “No, sir, nothing has been found to her detriment and I cannot trace her present address, although I have pursued the most diligent inquiries. It is very upsetting.”
There was a new emphasis in his voice. Tarling remembered that when Lyne had spoken to Milburgh before, and had suggested that the girl had been guilty of some act of predation, Milburgh had been quick to deny the possibility. Now his manner was hostile to the girl — indefinitely so, but sufficiently marked for Tarling to notice it.
“Do you think that Miss Rider had any reason for running away?” asked the detective.
Milburgh shrugged his shoulders.
“In this world,” he said unctuously, “one is constantly being deceived by people in whom one has put one’s trust.”
“In other words, you suspect Miss Rider of robbing the firm?”
Up went Mr. Milburgh’s plump hands.
“I would not say that,” he said. “I would not accuse a young woman of such an act of treachery to her employers, and I distinctly refuse to make any charges until the auditors have completed their work. There is no doubt,” he added carefully, “that Miss Rider had the handling of large sums of money, and she of all people in the business, and particularly in the cashier’s department would have been able to rob the firm without the knowledge of either myself or poor Mr. Lyne. This, of course, is confidential.” He laid one hand appealingly on Tarling’s arm, and that worthy nodded.
“Have you any idea where she would be?”
Again Milburgh shook his head.
“The only thing—” he hesitated and looked into Tarling’s eyes.
“Well?” asked the detective impatiently.
“There is a suggestion, of course, that she may have gone abroad. I do not offer that suggestion, only I know that she spoke French very well and that she had been to the Continent before.”
Tarling stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“To the Continent, eh?” he said softly. “Well, in that case I shall search the Continent; for on one thing I am determined, and that is to find Odette Rider,” and, beckoning to his companion, he turned on his heel and left the obsequious Mr. Milburgh staring after him.
X. The Woman at Ashford
Tarling went back to his lodgings that afternoon, a puzzled and baffled man. Ling Chu, his impassive Chinese servant, had observed those symptoms of perplexity before, but now there was something new in his master’s demeanour