many ways,” he continued. “I may tell you at once that I have come to the conclusion that the affair is not nearly so simple a one as it appeared when Drayton was brought before the magistrates and committed for trial.”
“Not so simple,” Andrew repeated, a little uneasily.
“Not by any means,” was the detective’s impressive declaration. “As a matter of fact, it has become necessary to deal with the matter on an entirely different basis. In the first place, I should like to have what I ought to have asked for on your first visit—a list of your guests that evening.” Andrew reflected.
“Well, we weren’t a very full house,” he confided. “There was Cotton, of course—Sir Richard Cotton —the criminal lawyer chap who’s making all the trouble. There was my sister, Lady Susan Amagay, Rodney Haslam, an old pal home on leave from West Africa, Manfield and his wife—Manfield’s Lord Lieutenant of the county—Bobby Grindells— he’s a young barrister—and a couple of fellows and a guest from the barracks who weren’t staying in the house, but came over only for the evening. Wait a moment, there was the Doctor—Doctor Meadows— of course, and poor De Besset himself, the fellow who rushed in to warn my wife and got it from the burglar.”
“What about those guests for the evening only?”
“Well, the soldier chaps were a Major Fraser and a Captain Philipson, and they brought over with them a young Russian, Prince Charles of Suess, I think his name was. Queer sort of lives those Russians seem to lead. I suppose they’re hard up against it. That fellow De Suess, for instance, is dancing now as a professional at the Legation.”
The detective had been scribbling on a piece of paper by his side.
“The five younger men of the party then,” he remarked—“leaving out the Comte de Besset—were these two officers, Major Fraser and Captain Philipson, Prince Charles, Mr. Grindells and Mr. Haslam?”
“That’s right,” Andrew assented. “Roddie Haslam’s no chicken, but I suppose he’s round about forty.”
“May I ask whether any one of these five was on particular terms of friendship with her ladyship?”
“With my wife?”
“Yes, with Lady Glenlitten.”
“Haslam and she were rather pals,” Andrew acknowledged, “but, as a matter of fact, all the rest were entire strangers to her. The two men from the barracks came over in response to a general invitation and had never been in the house before. Prince Charles was invited to dine at Mess with them that night, and they telephoned to ask if they could bring him. He too was a complete stranger to us all. Grindells was paying his first visit to the house since my marriage.”
The detective paused to scratch his chin thoughtfully.
“Were either or any of these young men acquainted with De Besset?” he enquired.
Glenlitten considered the matter for a moment.
“Only Haslam. They saw something of each other at Deauville, where we were all staying.”
“Were they on friendly terms?”
“Now that you come to mention it,” Andrew admitted, “I don’t think they were, particularly. You see, Haslam was rather an old-fashioned sort of a chap, and before De Besset turned up, he and my wife and I spent a lot of time together. De Besset’s people lived down in the part of France my wife came from. He was more her age, spoke her language, and was keen on all the games she liked. He had a yacht too, and a box at the races, and generally made things very pleasant for us. He was very civil to Haslam, but of course it wasn’t quite the same thing.”
“So that there was a certain amount of bad blood between Haslam and De Besset?” Felix Main surmised.
“I shouldn’t say that it amounted to that,” his client objected. “Haslam is a queer fellow, of course, t as these colonial administrators who’ve been alone for long periods of time sometimes are, but I’m sure he’d no animosity towards De Besset—irritation occasionally perhaps.”
“Prince Charles danced a good deal with your wife that night, I believe.”
“He may have done,” was the indifferent reply. “In fact, now I come to think of it, I am sure he did. I remember my wife saying how well he danced. As you know, however, she was all in that night, and as soon as our principal guests had departed, she went upstairs and left my sister in charge.”
The little man leaned back in his chair. He took off his gold pince-nez and swung them upon the cord. He was not at all a pleasant-looking person. There was a cunning gleam in his weak and watery eyes. Andrew, watching him idly, reflected how thoroughly he conformed to the popular idea of the sneak detective.
“You will forgive me, my lord, if I speak plainly,” he begged. “We are on a serious subject and we can’t get at the truth if we mince words.”
“Good heavens, yes, man,” his client assented with some impatience. “Say whatever you want to.”
“You have never noticed anything in the shape of a flirtation between your wife and De Besset, or Haslam, or Prince Charles?”
Glenlitten laughed softly; he had expected a more disconcerting question.
“Not likely!” he replied. “As I told you, my wife had never met Prince Charles before these fellows brought him over that night. We saw a good deal of De Besset at Deauville, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it that my wife isn’t that sort at all. She had a very quiet time in France before I married her, shut up with a dour old lady, and she is only just beginning to realise what amusement is. She’s naturally light-hearted and gay, but every one whom she likes at all she treats in the same way. As for dear old Roddie Haslam, why, I’ve never known him address a serious word to a woman in my life. He could have got a much better job, as a matter of fact, if only he’d been a married man, but he wouldn’t face it at any price.”
Mr. Felix Main had a peculiar habit of relapsing into short silences during which he kept his eyes averted from his client and scribbled meaningless things upon the paper by his side. Andrew began to get annoyed.
“Tell me what you’re driving at, Mr. Main?” he insisted. “You haven’t been stumbling into any mare’s-nest down at Glenlitten, I hope?”
“No, I don’t think so,” was the cautious reply. “I have conducted all my enquiries with the utmost circumspection, and the few people who knew of my presence in the neighbourhood believed that I was working on behalf of the police. I have gone so far, however, Lord Glenlitten, as to assure myself of this,” the detective continued, speaking more slowly and with his eyes furtively fixed upon his client— “there is an impression amongst the servants that when De Besset left to go to his room that night—a very unfortunate departure that of his— he was followed by one of the other young gentlemen.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem to lead us anywhere in particular,” Andrew observed, a little puzzled. “De Besset’s room, as you know, would be only three doors from her ladyship’s boudoir,” Mr. Felix Main went on. “I think it was understood at the inquest—in fact, it was proved by the fact that De Besset was able to reach her ladyship’s bedchamber —that the communicating doors between her sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom were unlocked. It would therefore have been quite easy for the young man who followed De Besset, whoever he may have been, to have concealed himself in Lady Glenlitten’s room whilst the Comte de Besset was visiting his own bedchamber.”
“But why on earth should he?” Andrew demanded. “If you’re thinking of Roddie Haslam, he’s the shyest man on earth. If he found himself in a lady’s bedroom even by accident, he’d have a fit.”
“I have been working upon the theory you yourself passed on to me, that there was a third person in Lady Glenlitten’s room who shot De Besset,” the detective explained, glancing up at the dusty ceiling.
“But that wasn’t my theory at all,”