Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes

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      The inspector waited a moment.

      "Well," he said slowly at last, "Rufford Square, like most of the streets in this neighbourhood, is built on clay. The roads, of course, have been macadamized far past any recognition of this fact. But some repairs to the water main have been going on the north side of Rufford Square. The ground is strewn with red clay. In Dr. Bastow's consulting-room, by the door and behind his chair, I found tiny fragments of red clay—particles, perhaps I should say, but perfectly visible under the magnifying-glass. Dr. Bastow's murderer came across the north side of Rufford Square, for it is the only place in this neighbourhood where any red clay is to be found. So Turner's story is corroborated, you see, Sir Felix."

      Skrine nodded.

      "I see what you mean. Yes, it is strong corroboration. Now we have to find this man—which seems about as hopeful as looking for the proverbial needle in a bundle of hay."

      "The man with the dark beard—and the woman," the inspector corrected. "I am by no means hopeless, Sir Felix."

      Skrine shrugged his shoulders.

      "On the face of it you seem to have only a slender clue to work upon. But you have done some wonderful work, inspector, and I think—more, I believe, that this case will be one of your successes."

      "I think it will be," the inspector said confidently. "'It was the Man with the Dark Beard'; that didn't seem much of a clue when we found those words written, did it, Sir Felix? But see how it is developing. It mightn't have anything to do with the murder, we both thought at first. But now here comes a witness who actually saw a man with a dark beard go into the doctor's garden on the very night of his death."

      The great lawyer's brow was furrowed, he passed his hand over it wearily. Since his friend's death he had begun to look his real age.

      "With Turner's evidence we ought to be able to find him. Not, as I have said before, that he will be a satisfactory witness. Still, it is not as if every second man you meet wore a beard nowadays. Bar the King, and a few members of the admiring aristocracy who follow his lead, nearly everybody is clean-shaven nowadays. The beard is certainly a clue. But it may be shaved off now."

      "Yes," assented the detective. "The shaving may help ultimately to identify our man too. But what makes me more hopeful than anything else is that some one knows who he is, Sir Felix."

      "What?" Skrine stared at him. "I don't seem able to follow you this morning, Stoddart. Perhaps it's because it is my greatest friend who has been foully done to death. You mean that there is more than one in it—that this woman—"

      "I don't know." The detective hesitated. "No, I think not. But I am certain that some one knows who the man with the dark beard is. And I am pretty sure also that that some one is living or at any rate is some one; who comes in and out of this house."

      "Why? What ground have you for making; such an assertion?" Sir Felix had resumed his best cross-examination manner now. His blue eyes were focused upon the detective as though they would wring the truth out of him.

      "Well, Sir Felix, I only heard this morning, so there has not been much chance of telling you yet," the detective began slowly.

      Sir Felix made an impatient sound.

      "Telling me what? Make haste, Stoddart. This man has got to be found, and his accomplices too, if he has any."

      Stoddart hesitated.

      "I don't know about accomplices, Sir Felix! I don't think, as I said a moment ago, that anyone was concerned in the actual murder except probably the man with the dark beard. But some one knows who he is and that someone we have got to find—"

      "Yes, you said that before. But your reasons?" interrupted Sir Felix.

      "The paper with the words 'It was the Man with the Dark Beard' that was found on the desk," Stoddart went on with exasperating slowness. "It has been taken for granted that it was Dr. Bastow's writing, but I thought it better to make certain, and I sent it to Thornbow. I had his report this morning."

      "What is it?" Sir Felix questioned eagerly. "Well, as you will have guessed, he says the words were not written by Dr. Bastow. They are a forgery—have been intentionally forged. There can be no doubt of that. But the question is, who wrote them? Thornbow gives it as his opinion that the writer was a woman."

      "A woman!" Sir Felix repeated in surprise. "That seems to me most unlikely. And my experience has taught me not to place too much reliance on expert evidence. Who was it who said there were three kinds of liars—liars, damned liars and experts? I am inclined to stick to my opinion that the words are in Dr. Bastow's writing. And I am as familiar with it as most people. Besides, what object could anyone else have had in writing just that?"

      "The object of giving us a clue to the murderer. The writer knew who he was."

      "Pity not to have been a bit more definite about it, then," said Skrine.

      "Guess she had her own reasons for not wanting to come out in the open," said Stoddart with an emphasis on the pronoun that made the lawyer look at him.

      "Have you any idea who she is?"

      The inspector permitted himself a sardonic smile.

      "Well, rather. Though how she managed to place the paper on the desk I can't say. Who could it be but that girl who has decamped—Mary Ann Taylor?"

      "Out of the question," Skrine said sharply.

      Chapter VI

       Table of Contents

      There was dead silence for a few minutes; broken at last by Stoddart.

      "Don't you think it is time to speak out, Sir Felix? Was the secret of which Dr. Bastow spoke connected with this girl?"

      "I don't know," Skrine said slowly. "I have guessed—I have thought that perhaps it was. But I really know nothing."

      "But you had some reason for thinking it might be, I expect."

      Stoddart was in a difficult position. He held a very responsible post at Scotland Yard; but Skrine was one of the greatest—some said the greatest—criminal lawyers of his day. Stoddart dared not deal with him as he would have liked—could not force from him the secret which he expected had led to Dr. Bastow's death, as he would have done from a different man.

      Skrine had been leaning against the mantelpiece. Instead of answering the detective's question at once, he dropped the arm with which he had been supporting himself, pulled himself together and began to pace up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent, his blue eyes thoughtful. At last he came to a stop before Stoddart.

      "When I first saw Mary Ann Taylor as the parlourmaid here I recognized that I had met her in very different circumstances some years before. Do you remember the Carr case?"

      "Tried in Edinburgh five years ago," the inspector rejoined eagerly. "It was out of our jurisdiction. But I always regretted it did not occur in London. I think we should have brought Major Carr's murder home to his wife. To allow that verdict of 'Not proven' is a tremendous mistake."

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