“Well,” he thought, “I should say that Trackfield was right about that.” He even went further, to doubt whether any stress of difficulty would stimulate him to such a crime. He was rather, he thought, of the type of those who, in the extremity of disaster, will find courage to destroy themselves rather than to commit violence against those they may hate or fear. “And that,” he thought, “would be his way out now, if he had done it, and thought discovery near.”
All of which might be true, but it did not appear to approach the facts he already had. There was no evidence that Gerard had been threatened by any extremity of disaster, or had any reason to hate or fear his half-brother, adequate to stir him to the commission of such a crime.
“Well,” he thought at last, “I must see Lady Denton. There may be no more in it than the reluctance which we frequently find among the local police of country districts to arrest those of good social position, unless they’ve got about ten times as much evidence as they’d think necessary to convict a shopman. I dare say, when I’ve talk to her for five minutes, I shan’t need to look further away.”
And with this thought in his mind he succumbed to the oblivion of a particularly comfortable bed.
CHAPTER IV.
Inspector Pinkey sat at breakfast with Lady Denton. They were alone. Mr. Gerard was understood to be having his breakfast in bed.
Lady Denton, after some preliminary courtesies, referred at once to the subject of her husband’s death. “It is not,” she said, “as you will suppose, a pleasant subject for me. It is one I would very gladly forget. But I understand why you are here, and if there’s anything you would like to ask me, I hope you won’t hesitate, whatever it is, if you think it might help to clear up the mystery.”
“May I ask your own opinion, if you have formed one, Lady Denton?”
She paused before she replied, and then said: “I can’t say that I’ve got one definitely. I didn’t think he’d have done such a thing, and then I heard Sir Lionel’s evidence that it wouldn’t have been easy to do; and yet it seems the only solution.”
She looked straightly at the Inspector as she said this. She had very beautiful eyes. She was a woman of fragile appearance, but with small firm lips and a rounded but resolute chin. Not one, he thought, who would have been bullied very easily, even by such as the dead man was said to have been. She added: “I know everyone’s discussing whether I did it myself, and I half thought Inspector Trackfield meant to have me arrested before I heard you were coming. But you see, I happen to know that I didn’t. So in that way I’m in a better position to judge than anyone else, and if I’m more inclined to think it was suicide, it may be a natural consequence.”
Inspector Pinkey felt an awkwardness to which he was unaccustomed as his hostess expressed so plainly the suspicion which she knew to be directed upon her. He said: “Well, you see, in these cases we have to begin by suspecting everybody. You can’t really blame him for that. There was one other question I thought I should like to ask you. Did you know—I mean, was it generally known that the revolver was kept in the desk drawer?”
“Yes, I knew that. Others may have done. I can’t say for sure. I expect Mr. Redwin did, as he had charge of Sir Daniel’s correspondence, and kept his drawers straight.”
“Mr. Gerard?”
“Yes. I expect he would. You see, they both had revolvers of the same pattern, but of course you know that. I mean, he knew that Sir Daniel had it, but I can’t say whether he knew where it was kept.”
“Yes, so I had been told. Do you know whether Sir Daniel was in the habit of keeping it loaded? In an unlocked drawer?”
“I don’t really know. I shouldn’t have thought it was loaded. I don’t think he’d have been so careless. He might leave any of his drawers unlocked. He was very careless about that.”
“And there was a box of cartridges in the same drawer?”
“There was a box of something at the back of the drawer. I don’t really know more than that. I never thought about it particularly. No doubt that’s what it was.”
Inspector Pinkey had an interval of silence. He gave some attention to his breakfast. It was really excellent bacon. He also considered the answers that he had just received. If they were true—and they appeared to be readily and frankly given—he could eliminate her from the enquiry. What remained? Suicide or Gerard Denton? Neither proposition could easily be reconciled with the facts as he knew them. He said: “In accepting a theory of suicide in a doubtful case such as this, it may be of great assistance if we can discover a motive—even one which may seem inadequate to a normal person. It is one of our difficulties that we can discover none here. Sir Daniel was in good health. We have the evidence of the post-mortem and of his own doctor, which you can probably confirm.”
“Yes,” she said, “he used to fuss over himself at times, but I never knew him really ill for a day.”
“So I understand, and he appears to have had no financial troubles. Blackmail, or some other complication of double living, explains some cases, but we can learn of nothing of the kind here. His carelessness regarding keys, of which you have just told me, is consistent with the absence of such worries. I understand that his papers have disclosed nothing. His bank account has no unexplained debits. Only domestic unhappiness remains as a possible explanation of self-destruction. If you could tell me that there was such unhappiness, it might supply the motive for which we are seeking, though there would still be the difficulty of the shot coming from behind.”
It was subtly if not unfairly put. She may or may not have seen that an affirmative answer might be held to inculpate herself as much as it would support a theory of suicide, but she showed no sign of resentment, neither did she reply. She took up his last point only.
“Sir Lionel Tipshift considers it possible, as I have understood?”
“Yes, possible, and no more. But still, a motive of any kind.…”
She was silent, and then said deliberately: “It is a matter which I would rather not discuss, even with you. Inspector Trackfield has led me already to say more than I meant or should. He is dead now, and if there was a little trouble between us at times—it was never much—I only wish to forget.”
He recognized that she meant what she said, and that he could not press it further at that time. Indeed, her refusal to reply was admission enough. Not that he really believed in suicide. He thought it absurd. He said quickly: “How about his brother? Was he on good terms with him?”
“No, nobody was.”
“You mean, no one was on good terms with your husband?”
“Yes, it wasn’t easy.”
“Well,” he said, as Lady Denton rose from the table, “motive or no motive, it looks as though it’s suicide that it’s got to be. I may have to go back this afternoon. I’ll just have a stroll round before I go.”
“I’ve told the servants to give you any information they can, and to do anything you ask. I mayn’t see you again if you’re going back as soon as that.” She shook hands with a slight but sufficient cordiality, and as she left the room, Gerard Denton came in, and when he saw Inspector Pinkey he did not look pleased.
He had come down in the complacent hope that he had allowed sufficient time for that infernal red-headed policeman to clear out. He couldn’t think why Adelaide had allowed him to come to the house at all. Surely there were barracks for such as he! He tried with indifferent success at this second encounter to look the affability which he did not feel, but his ordeal was not prolonged. The Inspector had talked to him last night, and was not a man to waste words. Now he returned nervous civilities with others which were more self-confident, but equally insincere.
Then he went out, as he had told Lady Denton that he had intended to do.
CHAPTER