same sentiment, yet it came unexpectedly from Furneaux's lips; because Furneaux never said the obvious thing.
"Clarke believes," – Winter loathed the necessity for this constant reference to Clarke – "Clarke believes that she was killed by one of two people, either a jealous husband or a dissatisfied lover."
"As usual, Clarke is wrong."
"He may be."
"He is."
In spite of his prior agreement with Furneaux's estimate of their colleague's intelligence, Winter felt nettled at this omniscience. From the outset, his clear brain had been puzzled by this crime, and Furneaux's extraordinary pose was not the least bewildering feature about it.
"Oh, come now," he said, "you cannot have been here many minutes, and it is early days to speak so positively. I have been hunting you the whole afternoon – in fact, ever since I saw what a ticklish business this was likely to prove – and I don't suppose you have managed to gather all the threads of it into your fingers so rapidly."
"There are so few," muttered Furneaux, looking down on the carpet with the morbid eyes of one who saw a terrible vision there.
"Well, it is a good deal to have discovered the instrument with which the crime was committed."
Furneaux's mobile face instantly became alive with excitement.
"It was a long, thin dagger," he cried. "Something in the surgical line, I imagine. Who found it, and where?"
Some men in Winter's shoes might have smiled in a superior way. He did not. He knew Furneaux, profoundly distrusted Clarke.
"There is some mistake," he contented himself with saying. "Miss de Bercy was killed by a piece of flint, shaped like an ax-head – one of those queer objects of the stone age which is ticketed carefully after it is found in an ancient cave, and then put away in a glass case. Clarke searched the room this morning, and found it there – tucked away underneath," and he turned round to point to the foot of the boudoir grand piano, embellished with Watteaux panels on its rosewood, that stood in the angle between the door and the nearest window.
The animation died out of Furneaux's features as quickly as it had appeared there.
"Useful, of course" he murmured. "Did you bring it?"
"No; it is in my office."
"But Mi – Mademoiselle de Bercy was not killed in that way. She was supple, active, lithe. She would have struggled, screamed, probably overpowered her adversary. No; the doctor admits that after a hasty examination he jumped to conclusions, for not one of the external cuts and bruises could have produced unconsciousness – not all of them death. Miss de Bercy was stabbed through the right eye by something strong and pointed – something with a thin, blunt-edged blade. I urged a thorough examination of the head, and the post mortem proved the correctness of my theory."
Winter, one of the shrewdest officials who had ever won distinction in Scotland Yard, did not fail to notice that curious slip of a syllable before "Mademoiselle," but it was explained a moment later when Furneaux used the English prefix "Miss" before the name. It was more natural for Furneaux to use the French word, however. Winter spoke French fluently – like an educated Englishman – but Furneaux spoke it like a native of Paris. The difference between the two was clearly shown by their pronunciation of "de Bercy." Winter sounded three distinct syllables – Furneaux practically two, with a slurred "r" that Winter could not have uttered to save his life.
Moreover, he was considerably taken aback by the discovery that Furneaux had evidently been working on the case during several hours.
"You have gone into the affair thoroughly, then," he blurted out.
"Oh, yes. I read of the murder this morning, just as I was leaving Kenterstone on my way to report at the Yard."
"Kenterstone!"
He was almost minded to inquire if the local superintendent was a fat man.
"Sir Peter and Lady Holt left town early in the day, so I went to Kenterstone from Brighton late last night… The pawnbroker who held Lady Holt's diamonds was treating himself to a long weekend by the sea, and I thought it advisable to see him in person and explain matters."
A memory of the Finchley Road station-sergeant who thought that he had seen Furneaux get on a 'bus at 6 p.m. in North London the previous evening shot through Winter's mind; but he kept to the main line of their talk.
"Do you know who this Rose de Bercy really is?" he suddenly demanded.
For a second Furneaux seemed to hesitate, but the reply came in an even tone.
"I have reason to believe that she was born in Jersey, and that her maiden name was Mirabel Armaud," he said.
"The Rose Queen of a village fête eight years ago?"
Perhaps it was Furneaux's turn to be surprised, but he showed no sign.
"May I ask how you ascertained that fact?" he asked quietly.
"It is published in one of the evening papers. A man who happened to photograph her in Jersey recognized the likeness when he saw the Academy portrait of Rose de Bercy. But if you have not seen his statement already, how did you come to know that Miss de Bercy was Mirabel Armaud?"
"I am a Jersey man by birth, and, although I quitted the island early in life, I often go back there. Indeed, I was present at the very fête you mention."
"I suppose the young lady was in a carriage and surrounded by a crowd? It would be an odd thing if you figured in the photograph," laughed Winter.
"There have been more unlikely coincidences, but my early sight of the remarkable woman who was killed in this room last night explains my intense desire to track her murderer before Clarke had time to baffle my efforts. It forms, too, a sort of excuse for my departure from official routine. Of course, I would have reported myself this evening, but, up to the present, I have been working hard to try and dispel the fog of motive that blocks the way."
"You have heard of Rupert Osborne, then?"
Furneaux was certainly not the man whom Winter was accustomed to meet at other times. Usually quick as lightning to grasp or discard a point, to-night he appeared to experience no little difficulty in focusing his attention on the topic of the moment. The mention of Rupert Osborne's name did not evoke the characteristically vigorous repudiation that Winter looked for. Instead, there was a marked pause, and, when the reply came, it was with an effort.
"Yes. I suppose Clarke wants to arrest him?"
"He has thought of it!"
"But Osborne's movements last night are so clearly defined?"
"So one would imagine, but Clarke still doubts."
"Why?"
Winter told of the taxicab driver, and the significant journey taken by his fare. Furneaux shook his head.
"Strange, if true," he said; "why should Osborne kill the woman he meant to marry?"
"She may have jilted him."
"No, oh, no. It was – it must have been – the aim of her life to secure a rich husband. She was beautiful, but cold – she had the eye that weighs and measures. Have you ever seen the Monna Lisa in the Louvre?"
Winter did not answer, conscious of a subtle suspicion that Furneaux really knew far more of the inner history of this tragedy than had appeared hitherto. Clarke, in his own peculiar way, was absurdly secretive, but that Furneaux should want to remain silent was certainly baffling.
"By the way," said Winter with seeming irrelevance, "if you were in Brighton and Kenterstone yesterday afternoon and evening, you had not much time to spare in London?"
"No."
"Then the station-sergeant at Finchley Road was mistaken in thinking that he saw you in that locality about six o'clock – 'jumping on to a 'bus' was his precise description of your movements."
"I was there at that time."
"How did you manage it? St. John's Wood is far away from either Victoria or Charing Cross, and I suppose you reached Kenterstone