The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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      "It has for a fact. The poor soul had been having buttered crumpets for tea."

      "Have the Tangye's a dog?"

      "No, sir." Haviland looked puzzled.

      "Is there a cat in the house?"

      "No, sir." Haviland wondered how many more animals would be suggested, but he looked with wrinkled brows at Pointer.

      "Those scratches seem recent. What made them?"

      "Tangye thinks they must have happened in France. The revolver was always kept in its box at Riverview. You'll notice her fingerprints are over the scratches, so the latter can't mean anything, sir."

      Pointer noticed more than that. He gave the weapon another long look before he straightened up.

      "I should like the usual photographs and enlargements of that made at once, please." Then the Chief Inspector turned away. "It's a problem!" he said, studying his boot tips.

      "You mean the explanation as to whether it was suicide or accident? I can't make up my own mind definitely." Wilmot spoke in a surprised tone. It was true that he was not often afflicted with doubt.

      "No. I mean the explanation of the facts."

      Haviland pricked up his ears.

      "Why, sir, even the fact, which had first seemed puzzling, that, though Mrs. Tangye was considered right-handed like most of the world, the weapon lay beneath her left hand, and carries its finger-prints, was explained by an old friend. Mrs. Tangye had been left-handed in her girlhood, and though she had trained herself out of the habit, yet in moments of great excitement she was liable to 'revert.' Inquiries made in her father's parish—he's been dead these fifteen years nearly—corroborated this. To my mind, there's no question but that it was either suicide or accident. Judging by the facts, that is."

      Superintendent Haviland always judged by what he considered facts. And by them alone. "Those finger-prints on her revolver, sir. They're Mrs. Tangye's right enough. It isn't as if there were any reason to suspect they're faked. They're uncommonly clear ones."

      "They're uncommon from more points of view than one," the Chief Inspector murmured, with that air of detachment that was so marked a characteristic of his, and so deceptive.

      "What in the world are you driving at, Pointer?" Wilmot asked curiously. "Quite apart from her finger-prints, foul play seems an absolute impossibility. Surely no woman would have sat still and let herself be shot down like a mad dog, without a struggle. Without ringing that bell beneath her very fingers!"

      "As a matter of fact, sir,"—Haviland was so bewildered that he had some difficulty in finding his voice,—"I very carefully looked even at the cushion on which her feet were resting. I photographed it specially, though it doesn't come out well. Those marks on it could only have been made by a pair of resting feet. She hadn't pressed them in, or tried to rise. Her slippers were a bit dampish from that stroll in the garden which she'd taken just before tea. Yet they hadn't done more than dust the velvet with sand, as you might say."

      "How does the woman's death strike you, Wilmot?" Pointer asked abruptly. He was a great admirer of the newspaper man's articles.

      "Like Haviland, I think, on the whole, that it was suicide. Though since hearing the evidence just now, I shouldn't be amazed if the husband were right, and it turned out an accident. Certainly the effect of tranquillity in Mrs. Tangye's face and pose struck me very much when I was taken to see her yesterday. I think it was more marked in reality than it is in the photographs of the scene. What intrigues me most in the case, I confess, is that Chief Inspector Pointer should have thought it worth his while to come down about it."

      Haviland wondered too.

      Pointer did not explain.

      "As I said, I'll go on up to Riverview with you, after lunch, Superintendent, if that time will suit you. I want to ask a few questions. The answers may clear up some of the items that puzzle me."

      "You interest me tremendously, Pointer. By Jove, you do interest me!" Wilmot was not flattering the other. He really was glad now that Newnes had caught him—Wilmot—yesterday. The whole affair was exceptional as far as he was concerned. Newnes had dragged him out of the evening boat-train at Victoria, where he had been on the point of dashing across the Narrows with three other newspaper men of his own standing to investigate a rumour. A rumour which had only reached well-informed circles as yet, and which very guardedly hinted at regicide. It came from a state where such incidents do occasionally lend a mediaeval touch to court life. The special correspondents were all keen as so many unhooded falcons, but Newnes, breathless, dashing up with the effect of long legs floating behind him, had seized Wilmot by the arm.

      "Couldn't find you—wanted—stay—Vibart—letter." He gasped. While well-meaning porters draped themselves hastily upon him.

      Wilmot, snatching up a bag from between his feet, had sprung out as the wheels began to turn. The two other men were half inclined to follow. If the great Wilmot found it well to stay, where lay the point of their going on? But they thought better of it. Even newspaper men may once in their lives, have relations. It was possible that W. W. had been fetched home for some overwhelming family disaster.

      Newnes had handed the man beside him a letter. Tearing it open, Wilmot—in a vile temper—for he had had to make a dash to catch that train, had read:

      Dear Wilmot,

      Rumour unfounded. H.M. was merely having a private week-end. Want you to ring me up on the 'phone immediately.

      Yours,

      Vibart.

      Within five minutes Wilmot was connected with his temporary Chief, editor and permanent friend, Lord Vibart, the owner of the Daily Courier. To him the other spake winged words. Since the affair which Wilmot had been commissioned to undertake had fizzled out, Vibart had another suggestion to make. It seemed that the Courier's youngest reporter had just had a stroke of beginner's luck by being the first outsider to find a Mrs. Tangye, wife of a member of a well-known county family, sitting dead beside her afternoon tea-table. The police thought it was suicide. Would Wilmot take a look at the case, and send along one of his special articles.

      "Of course, I quite understand, my dear chap, that you're above any suicides except royal ones," Vibart said dryly (Wilmot's high opinion of himself was well known) "but I particularly want the spot light to play on Twickenham just now."

      Wilmot knew that, and knew why. Vibart was backing a new helicopter, and the trials were to be staged there next month. But he failed to see why he should alter his plans for the sake of the other's pocket.

      "It's not in my line," he said unyieldingly. Nor was it. Outside of the realms of politics, murders, difficult and involved, were Wilmot's province. He had no superior in laying bare the psychology of the criminal. And he did it, not with the scalpel, but with the pitying touch of one who saw something beautiful dragged through the mire, something fine blunted. No man living could surpass him in investing the most sordid crime with a touch of the Inner, of the Noble. He was a master in the art of suggestion. Like some marvellous chemist Wilmot could extract 'atmosphere' from a poker and a bottle of stout.

      "Anything's in your line, if you'll undertake it," Vibart said placatingly. "Look here, there's no other chap can handle it as you can. Stir up the public to run a special bus out to see the house where it happened."

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