The big clock outside struck 7.30. Early as it was, Inspector Stoddart was already in his room at Scotland Yard.
He looked up impatiently as his most trusted subordinate, Alfred Harbord, entered after a sharp preliminary tap.
"Yes, sir. You sent for me?"
The inspector nodded. "You are detailed for special duty at once. We are starting in the runabout immediately, so if you want to send a message—" He nodded at the telephone.
Harbord grinned. "My people are pretty well used to my irregular habits, thank you, sir."
The inspector rose. "The sooner we are off the better, then." He handed Harbord a typewritten paper. "Wired up," he said laconically, "from the Downs."
Mysterious death at an early hour this morning. Some platelayers on their way to work in the cutting beyond Hughlin's Wood, not far from Tattenham Corner, found the body of a man of middle age in a ditch. He is evidently of the better class and supposed to be a stranger in the district. The body lay face downwards in a foot of water at the bottom of the ditch or dyke. Up to the present it has not been identified. But a card was found in the pocket with the name of—
The corner of the paper had been torn off, evidently on purpose. Harbord read it over.
"Hughlin's Wood," he repeated. "I seem to know the name. But I can't think where the place is."
"Not a great many miles from Epsom," the inspector said, as he locked his desk and dropped the keys into his pocket. "Centuries ago, Hughlin's Wood used to stretch all round and over that part of the Downs, but it has dwindled to a few trees near Hughlin's village. These trees go by the name of Hughlin's Wood still. I can tell you the rest as we go along."
Harbord followed him in silence to the little two-seater in which the inspector was wont to dash about the country. He was an expert driver, but it needed all his attention to steer his car among the whirl of traffic over Westminster Bridge, passing Waterloo and Lambeth.
The inspector glanced at "The Horns" as they glided by it. "We will lunch there on the way back, Harbord."
He put on speed as they got on the Brixton Road and, passing Kennington Church, tore along through Streatham and Sydenham, and across country until they could feel the fresh air of the Downs in their faces. Then the inspector slackened speed and for the first time looked at his companion.
"What do you make of it?"
"What can I make of it?" Harbord fenced. "Except that you would not be going down unless there was more in the summons than meets the eye."
Stoddart nodded.
"The body was found face downwards in the stagnant water of a ditch, but the cause of death was a bullet wound in the head. The man had been thrown into the ditch almost immediately after death. In the pocket have been found a card and a couple of envelopes bearing the name of a man high in the financial world. The markings on the linen, etc., correspond. I know this man fairly well by sight. Therefore I am going down to see whether I can identify the remains. See those Downs—"
Harbord looked where he pointed at the vast, billowy expanse around them, then he looked back inquiringly.
"Yes, sir."
Stoddart waved his hand to the north side. "Over there lie Matt Harker's stables. He has turned out more winners of the classics than any other trainer. His gees get their morning gallops over the Downs."
Harbord's expression changed. "And you connect this dead man at Hughlin's Wood with Harker's stables?"
Stoddart looked at him. "I will tell you that in an hour or so."
As he spoke he turned the car rapidly to the right, and dashing down the road, which was little more than a track, they found themselves at Hughlin's Wood, with Hughlin's village in the immediate foreground.
Harbord thought he had seldom seen a more desolate looking spot, or a more appropriate setting for the crime they had come to investigate. A few stark, upstanding pines, growing in rough, stubbly grass, were all that was left of the once mighty wood; a long, straggly hedge ran between them and the road that led to Hughlin's village. It stood in a cleft in the hill which ran along to the bottom of the Downs. There was a curious cone-like hill just above the Wood. Harbord learned later that it went by the name of Hughlin's Tomb, and was supposed to contain the remains of a giant named Hughlin, from whom the wood derived its name. On the opposite side of the road was some barren pasture-land, and a little back from the track stood a small hut or barn.
By the Wood, apparently, the whole of the little population of Hughlin's village was gathered. A policeman was keeping every one back from the ditch.
The crowd scattered as the car came in sight. Stoddart slowed down and he and Harbord sprang out.
Inside the space which was being kept free two men were standing. One was easily recognized by his uniform as a superintendent of police. The other, a tall, clean-shaven man of military appearance, Harbord identified as Major Vincent, the chief constable of the county.
Major Vincent came to meet them. "Glad to see you, Inspector Stoddart. I hardly hoped that you could be here so soon."
Stoddart jerked his head at his run-about. "She is a tidy sort of little bus, sir. This is a terrible job!"
"It is," Major Vincent assented. "This is where the body was found—was flung, I should say—just over here."
The inspector walked forward and glanced down into the rather deep ditch. Long grasses fringed the edges, broken down and trampled upon now; the bottom was full of evil-smelling water.
Stoddart's quick, glancing eyes looked round. "Anything found here?"
The superintendent answered:
"Not so far, but we have made no very vigorous search. We waited till you came."
Stoddart nodded. "Quite right. The body?"
"Over there." The superintendent pointed to the barn in the field opposite. "Temporary mortuary," he explained. "The inquest will be opened tomorrow at the Crown Inn down in the village. In the meantime—"
"The body is here, I understand," the inspector finished. "We will have a look at that first, please, sir."
He made an imperceptible sign to Harbord as he glanced at Major Vincent.
"Any more evidence as to identity?" he questioned, as they walked across the rough grass together.
Major Vincent shook his head. "You will be able to help us about that, I understand, inspector."
"I may be able to. I ought to be if your suspicions are well founded," the inspector answered. "You rang up the house, of course."
"Of course! Answer, 'Not at home.' Said then we were afraid Sir John had met with an accident. His valet is coming down, should be here any minute now."
"Good!" the inspector said approvingly.
The Major opened the door of the barn. "I will stop out here, and have a cigarette, if you don't mind," he said apologetically. "I have been in two or three times already and it has pretty well done for me. It is a ghastly sight."
Stoddart's glance spoke his comprehension as he went inside; the doctor and the superintendent followed with Harbord.
Inside was, as Major Vincent had said, "a ghastly sight." The light was dim, little filtering through, except what came from the open door. The place was evidently used for cattle fodder. The floor was strewn with straw, trodden down and begrimed. The dead man lay on a hastily improvised stretcher of hurdles raised on a couple of others in the middle of the barn.
Stoddart and Harbord instinctively stepped forward softly. The superintendent took off the covering some kindly hand had laid over the distorted face. Then, used though they were to scenes of horror, both Stoddart and Harbord with difficulty repressed an exclamation, so terrible was the sight. A momentary glance was enough to show that the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. The head had lain in the water of the ditch for some time face downwards. It was swollen and livid and grazed, but was not impossible of recognition. Yet, as Stoddart gazed on the figure, still in evening-dress, over the strong-looking hands with their manicured almond nails that had made marks on the palms as they clenched in the death agony, a certain look that Harbord well knew came into the inspector's eyes. He held out his hand. "The card—'Sir John Burslem,'" he read aloud. He looked at the dead man's wrist-watch, turned it over and looked at the monogram, glanced at a letter that was peeping out of the pocket—
"Sir John Burslem, 15 Porthwick Square."
The postmark was that of the previous morning.
The superintendent watched him in silence for a few minutes. At last he said:
"Well, inspector, what do you say—is it Sir John Burslem?"
"I believe so," the inspector said without hesitation. "It is Sir John Burslem, I firmly believe. But I only had a casual acquaintance with him."
And, hardened though he was, Stoddart turned aside and blew his nose as his mind glanced from the twisted, broken thing before him to the prosperous financial magnate of whom he retained so vivid a recollection. He replaced the covering over the shattered head and looked at his watch.
"The valet should be here directly. It seems to me we must await more positive identification from him. Until he comes, I should like a few words with you, doctor. How long had death taken place when you first saw the body?"
The doctor coughed. "It is difficult to say with precision. I reached here about half-past seven this morning. I should say the man had been dead at least five hours when I saw him, possibly more, certainly not less."
"The cause of death?"
"Evidently the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. For anything more we must wait for the post-mortem." He added a few technical details.
Harbord waited outside with Major Vincent and the superintendent.
"Sir John Burslem," he repeated thoughtfully. "A financier, you say. I seem to remember this name in some other connection."
"He was a big gun in what is called high finance," Major Vincent told him. "It is said that no international deal, no great scheme of Government stock was launched without his advice. For himself, he was head of the great firm of Burslem & Latimer, the iron and jute merchants, Wellmorton Street, and of Burslem & Co., diamond merchants of South Africa, besides being director of Heaven knows how many companies. Sir John Burslem's name spelt success to any undertaking."
"And will this"—Harbord jerked his head backward—"mean failure?"
The major shrugged his shoulders. "Heaven knows! One's imagination fails to picture the world of speculation without Jack Burslem, as he was generally known. But here's the valet, Ellerby, I expect," as a car stopped.
An elderly man got out and came towards them. He was looking white and shaken.
"Gentlemen," he began in a quaking voice as he got near them, "they say that he—that Sir John has had an accident. He—he can't be—dead!"
"That is what we have brought you here to ascertain, Mr. Ellerby," Major Vincent said, a touch of pity in his tone as he thought of the ordeal that lay before the man. "You will be able to tell us definitely. The clothes at any rate you will be able to recognize. The face has been—in the water for some time and is terribly swollen."
The man looked at him, his mouth twitching. "I should know Sir John anywhere, sir," he said, his manner becoming more composed. "I couldn't be deceived about him. It is an impossibility."
Stoddart went in with him. Harbord stood with the other three at the door. They heard a cry of horror, then a hoarse sob, and Ellerby's voice, broken now:
"Oh, it is Sir John, sure enough! Oh, yes, his poor face is all swollen, but I could swear to him anywhere. There is the dress coat I put on him yesterday evening, and his shoes, and his eyeglass on his cord, and his wrist-watch. Oh, it is Sir John safe enough. And what are we going to do without him? And her poor young ladyship—and Miss Pamela?"
He came out wiping his eyes openly.
"You identify the body positively as that of Sir John Burslem?" Major Vincent questioned authoritatively.
"Oh, yes, sir, there is not no doubt possible." Ellerby's careful, rather precise grammar was forgotten now in his excitement and his own real grief. "I could tell without looking at his face," he went on, "for there's just the things I put out for him last night, little thinking. And her poor ladyship with a big party today going to the races!"
"The races—by Jove!" Stoddart looked at his watch and then at Harbord. "Of course that accounts for all the traffic on the road; it's Derby Day!"
"You are right, sir."
The valet put away his handkerchief and steadied his voice. "It seems but the other day that poor Sir John was telling us to put our shirts on Peep o' Day—'Best colt Matt Harker ever trained,' he says, 'and a dead cert for the Derby; maybe the last we'll have before the tote comes in,' Sir John said, 'so get the best you can beforehand.' And we did, all of us, at Sir John's own bucket shop."
Stoddart's face altered indefinably. "I hope you didn't build on the colt winning, Mr. Ellerby."
"That I have, sir." The man looked at him half fearfully. "All my own savings and my wife's I have put on, and I borrowed my sister's too. It is a tidy lot I stand to win when Peep o' Day passes the winning-post! Though poor Sir John will never lead her in now."
"Nor anyone else as the winner of the Derby," Stoddart said gravely. "Don't you realize what that"—with a nod at the barn—"means to all of you who have put your money on Peep o' Day?"
Ellerby began to tremble. "No, sir, I don't. But we got our money on right enough. Sir John, he said it was as safe as if it was in the bank."
"So he may have thought, though in a gamble there is often a slip betwixt the cup and the lip," Stoddart said dryly. "But don't you know that an owner's death renders void all his horses' nominations and entries. Peep o' Day is automatically scratched. If Sir John Burslem had died one minute before the race was run, and, not knowing, Peep o' Day's number had gone up, he would be disqualified. Today will be a grand day for the bookies. The favourite scratched at the last minute. You get your money back though, but we must wire at once for the sake of the poor devils who are putting on, on the course. Harker's the trainer, you said."
"Yes, sir," Ellerby stammered, his face working painfully. "Matt Harker said that Peep o' Day was the best three-year-old he had ever had in training. He carried all the stable money."
"Well, it is to be hoped Harker hedged a bit," Stoddart said slowly. "For Peep o' Day won't run to-day. And I wonder, I wonder—"
Surely, surely, no hour had ever been so long! Sophie Burslem twisted herself round in bed once more. It was morning. Of course it was morning. The sun was streaming through her open window. She could hear the pleasant, familiar sounds of everyday life, but the sound for which she was waiting and watching did not come. At last she caught the echo of voices, distant at first, then nearer. One of the gardeners was talking on the terrace beneath the window.
"Ay! if Peep o' Day brings it off and I ain't no manner of doubt that he will, seeing Sir John himself he said to me, 'You like a bit of a gamble sometimes, I know, Germain. Well, you will have the safest gamble of your life if you put your shirt on Peep o' Day. Best colt I've ever had,' Sir John said. Well, my missus and me we drawed our nest-egg out o' the post office, an' we put it on Peep o' Day, months ago, and we got 100 to 8 then. I reckon we will be made folks tomorrow."
"I am wishing I had done the same," another voice chimed in, "but I thought there's many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, and so I waited until this morning, and now I'll only get starting price, and they're saying it will be odds on. So 'tain't any good backing Perlyon for a place as I had reckoned on doing. 'Tis sure to be place betting."
"Ay, ay," the first speaker assented. "I had a tip for Perlyon myself, but—"
The voices died away in the distance. As Sophie Burslem lay for a moment perfectly still on her pillow, two tears welled up in her eyes and rolled miserably down her cheeks. Peep o' Day! Peep o' Day! Those poor men had put their savings on Peep o' Day. And now Peep o' Day would never win the Derby!
A minute more and there came the sound for which she had been waiting—a tap at the door. She pulled the lever that raised the latch and her maid came in with her tea. She set it on the table beside the bed.
"It's a lovely morning, my lady. And Sir John was saying yesterday that fine weather was all that Peep o' Day wanted. He likes to hear his hoofs rattle, Sir John said. And if it had been heavy going it would have been all against him."
"Yes," said Sophie Burslem faintly.
She was stretching herself lazily while from beneath her half-closed eyelids her eyes were keenly watching every moment of the maid's. Had she not been called a good amateur actress in the days that were gone? She would have to act today if she had never acted in her life before.
"I have put all my savings on Peep o' Day," the maid went on. "My young man, he has done the same. We shall have something to talk about tonight, I expect, my lady."
Beneath the silken counterpane Sophie Burslem's hands were twisting themselves together in an agony. Then came another of the sounds she was dreading. In the adjoining room some one was moving about opening and shutting drawers; then came silence; then a loud knocking at the door of her room. She made herself speak quietly:
"What is that, Forbes? Just see, will you?" Then she waited again in that blank, awful expectancy. There was a murmured colloquy at the door; strain her ears as she might she could only catch a word or two.
At last Forbes came back. "It is James, my lady; he wants to know if you can tell him where Sir John is?"
"Sir John! I don't know. Has he gone out?"
"I suppose so, my lady. Somebody wants to see him on important business, and he is not in his room. They are saying he has not slept there, my lady."
"What?" Sophie Burslem raised herself on one elbow. Then she laughed. "Nonsense! Really for a moment you quite frightened me, Forbes. I expect Sir John has gone out to put a little more on Peep o' Day. He went over to Oxley last night, you know. Mr. Harker said he had never had a colt he felt so confident about. He is a beauty, Forbes!"
"Yes, my lady."
But the maid still hesitated. Was she really watching her furtively, Sophie wondered, or was it just her own fancy? Was she always going to be fanciful now?
"James says—please what is he to say to the man on the phone, my lady? He has rung up twice before this morning, James says, and it's from Scotland Yard, my lady."
"Scotland Yard!" For one moment Sophie Burslem's heart seemed to stop beating; then went on again with great suffocating throbs. This time she was sure that her laugh did her credit. So had she laughed on the stage in the old days at Elmhurst. "Poor Forbes! You really look quite frightened. Don't you know that detectives are down at Oxley watching Peep o' Day? It is something to do with that, of course. But why is James up here? Where is Ellerby?"
"I don't know, my lady. He went out ever so early this morning; we are wondering when he will be back, my lady."
"Rather an extraordinary proceeding on Ellerby's part," Sophie commented dryly. "Get my bath ready, please, Forbes, and tell James Sir John will be in directly, I expect."
She slipped on the side of the bed as she spoke and sat there watching Forbes as she went into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
Sophie Burslem looked very young this morning—too young to be Sir John's wife. She was a dainty vision in her soft, silken night-robe, with her pretty rounded neck and arms bare. Her shingled, chestnut hair was ruffled, it needed no permanent waving. The pink and white skin was as clear as ever, only the great, appealing brown eyes had altered indefinably. In the big pier-glass opposite she fancied that others could see the terrible fear that lurked in them, the dark circles round them. Long ago some one used to tell her that she had laughing eyes. Would anybody ever say that again? she asked herself. Just now they seemed to move of their own volition, glancing here and there into every corner fearfully. Suddenly they were caught by a tumbled heap of white by the sofa near the window. It was the frock she had worn last night just as she had thrown it down. She stared at it in a species of fascinated horror. Surely she was not mistaken. Across one fold there was an ugly, dark stain!
She got up and went over to it, her bare feet pattering over the polished boards between.
Forbes came back. "My lady, my lady, your slippers."
Sophie turned round and stood before the heap on the floor, her hands behind her, her breath coming quick and fast.
"Nonsense! I don't want slippers. You can go, Forbes. I will ring when I am ready."
Thus dismissed the maid had no choice but to depart. When the door had closed behind her, Sophie turned, and swiftly, noiselessly, almost threw herself on the tumbled white frock! Yes, she had made no mistake. Right in front, just where the silver girdle was caught up by a buckle of brilliants, a reddish brown stain ran almost down to the hem. She put out one finger and touched it—it was dry, quite dry. But there wasn't one minute to lose. At all hazards that ghastly stain must be done away with. She tore at it with her small, strong hands, but though the silk was soft it was tough, and she could make no impression on it. She caught up a pair of nail-scissors and cut and jagged ruthlessly. Then when she held the long, ragged strip in her hand, she gazed at the remains of what had been one of her prettiest gowns, in despair.
What on earth would Forbes say? But there was no time to think of that now. She caught up the remains of the frock and running into her dressing-room thrust it deep down into the well of the great wardrobe that took up all one side of the room. Then she crammed other things on the top and shut the door firmly. Later on she must think of something to tell Forbes, for now there was nothing to be done but to go on as usual until—She went into her bathroom, crushing up the piece of silk she had torn off in her hand.
She splashed in and out of the warm, scented water, then, when she had rubbed herself down, she lighted a match and tried to set the silk on fire. In vain, it would do nothing but smoulder and make a pungent, acrid smell of burning. What in Heaven's name was she to do? She dashed open the windows as far as they would go; she unstoppered one of the great bottles of scent on the dressing-table and flung the contents about bathroom and bedroom. Then a sudden inspiration came to her.
Inside the dressing-case, with its wonderful gold and jewelled fittings, which had been one of her husband's wedding presents, there was a secret drawer. She ran across, put the silk in the drawer, fastening it with a catch of which she alone knew the secret.
She rang for Forbes. The maid came in, wrinkling up her nose.
"Such a smell of burning, my lady!" Her beadlike, inquisitive eyes glanced round the room.
"I don't notice it," said Sophie. "Perhaps the gardeners are burning weeds outside. Give me my things quickly, Forbes; I must not be late for breakfast. Sir John means to start early."
The maid said nothing, but her sniff became accentuated as she went on with her mistress's toilet, set the soft shingled hair, and finally brought out the gown of grey marocain which Lady Burslem had decided to wear for the races.
Sophie let herself be dressed as if she had been a lay figure. All the while she was listening, listening. At last she was dressed, and her maid clasped a short string of pearls round her neck in place of the long necklace she generally wore.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. So she had seen herself look a hundred times—and yet would not the first person she met see the horror shadowing her eyes?
She went down to the breakfast-room. Everything was just as usual. A pile of letters lay beside her plate. Sir John's letters and The Times, folded as he liked it, lay by his. She went round the table and sat down. The very orderly, everyday aspect of the room held something sinister, some suggestion of evil to her jaundiced mind.
Though she drank a cup of tea feverishly and played with an omelette, she could not really eat anything. Presently she heard a knock and a ring at the front door.
She caught the echo of a voice in the hall. It sounded like that of her sister Clare—Mrs. Aubrey Dolphin. She was going with them to the races, of course, but She listened again. Another moment Clare came quickly into the room. With a word to the manservant she closed the door behind her. One look at her face told Lady Burslem that the supreme moment for which she had been waiting was here at last.
Clare came swiftly across the room and caught her sister in her arms.
"Sophie, darling, I bring you terrible news. You must be brave, dear, for all our sakes."
Sophie tried to free herself from the encircling arms. "What is it?" she questioned hoarsely. "Not Dad!"
Mrs. Dolphin would not let her go.
"No, no, my darling. It is John—"
"John—"
If there had been one drop of colour left in Sophie's face it was all drained away now.
"Ill," came slowly from between her stiffening lips. "Ill, Clare, not—not—"
"Ah, dearest, he would want you to be brave for his sake. He—he met with a terrible accident last night, Sophie, dear. And, you see, he was not quite a young man, he could not rally—"
"Why did they not send for me?" Sophie gasped.
"Dear, there was not time. He—he died before they could do anything!"
"He died—John died—"
This time all Mrs. Dolphin's strength could not hold her sister up. A dead weight, Lady Burslem sank through her arms and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Meanwhile from all parts of England a great crowd was making its way to Epsom. It was the people's holiday and the people were bent on making the most of it. All night long, gipsies and parties of nomads had picnicked near the course. This morning the tipsters were busy. For threepence you could learn the winner of every race. Not of the Derby itself. Nobody wanted a tip for that! It was Peep o' Day's Derby. Had not owner and trainer and jockey all agreed that Peep o' Day could not lose the Derby?
Peep o' Day! Peep o' Day! You heard it on all sides. Peep o' Day, the most popular favourite since the war! Peep o' Day! the crowd exulted.
And over by Peep o' Day's box his trainer, Matt Harker, was standing with bowed shoulders, and Howard Williams leaning up against the door would not have been ashamed to confess that there were tears in his eyes. Champion jockey though he was, he had never yet ridden a Derby winner; Matt Harker, though all the other classics had been taken by his stable, had never yet trained a Derby winner! All of them had been confident that today their ambitions would be realized.
And now Peep o' Day was scratched for the Derby!
The inquest on the body of Sir John Burslem had been opened at the Crown Inn at Hughlin's village, but only formal evidence of identity and medical evidence had been taken, and it had been adjourned until the following week, so that the police might have time for further inquiry. Stoddart and Harbord came out last. Stoddart's brows were drawn together in a heavy frown. Looking at him, his assistant felt sure that the case was troubling him more than he would have cared to confess. Somewhat curtly he declined the local superintendent's offer of hospitality, and motioned! Harbord into the run-about.
He did not speak until they had left Hughlin's Wood far behind, and were rapidly nearing London. Then he tossed an envelope over to Harbord.
"Think that can throw any light on the mystery?" Harbord opened the envelope and took out the contents. They consisted of various cuttings from newspapers. He read the first:
"Burslem, Sir John, first baronet, born 18—, eldest son of John Victor Burslem; married first Emma, daughter of Robert Somerville, by whom he had issue one daughter—Pamela Mary; married secondly the Honourable Sophie Charlotte Ann, younger daughter of the fourth Viscount Carlford. Residences: Greystone Hall, Meadshire, and 15 Porthwick Square. Clubs: Carlton Junior; Arts; St. James's."
Harbord put this back in the envelope and took out the smaller one; this was marked "From the Morning Herald":
"A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between Captain Charles Stanyard, second son of Sir William Stanyard of Wilton Hall, and Sophie Charlotte Ann, youngest daughter of Viscount Carlford."
Clipped with this was another:
"The marriage arranged between Captain Charles Stanyard and Miss Sophie Carlford will not take place."
As Harbord put these back in the envelope he saw that there was yet one more. He picked it out: "A marriage has been arranged between Sir John Burslem, the well-known financier and racehorse owner, and the Honourable Sophie Charlotte Ann Carlford, younger daughter of Viscount Carlford. The marriage will take place early next month at St. Margaret's Westminster."
Harbord put it with the other and gave them to Stoddart.
The inspector looked at him. "You read a story there?"
"Yes and no," Harbord said slowly. "You don't mean—"
"I mean nothing, I think nothing," the inspector interrupted him. "How often am I to tell you that. It is my business to look for facts and to find them. Did you hear what won the Derby yesterday?"
Used as he was to the rapid workings of his superior's mind, Harbord looked his surprise at this change of subject.
"I don't take much interest in racing, sir, except that I have been hearing of nothing but Peep o' Day since we came here yesterday. But I did hear last night—yes, wasn't this Derby won by Perlyon, the second favourite. I thought I heard folks say he would not have stood a chance against Peep o' Day had he run."
"That's as it may be," the inspector observed sententiously. "I have known these hot-pots run nowhere more than once. But do you know who owns Perlyon?"
Harbord shook his head. "Haven't the slightest idea."
The inspector looked at him. "Sir Charles Stanyard, Captain Charles Stanyard—the sporting baronet, they call him. He came into the title on his father's death last year. His elder brother was killed a few months before in the hunting-field."
Neither of the men spoke again for a few minutes; at last Harbord said:
"Peep o' Day's scratching must have meant a good deal to him. But—"
"Thousands," said the inspector laconically. "Heard there was a row between two men at Wilton's the other night?"
"No. I was hard at work at the Barber-Astley case," Harbord answered, his interest growing.
"Well, there was a jolly row," Stoddart informed him. "And the two men who had it were Sir John Burslem and Sir Charles Stanyard, the sporting baronet. Ostensibly the quarrel was over the merits of their respective racehorses—Peep o' Day and Perlyon. In reality, rumour has whispered that the cause was very different. Therefore there are two things we must do to-day. First, we must ascertain, if we can, something of Sir Charles Stanyard's movements on the night of June 2nd and the early morning of June 3rd. Secondly, we must see Lady Burslem and hear what she can tell us of that night's tragedy; or perhaps we had better reverse the proceedings and see the lady first. We will drive straight to Porthwick Square."
He did not speak again as he steered the car carefully through the crowded roads as they entered London and made their way with all speed to Porthwick Square.
Drawn blinds shrouded the inhabitants of No. 15 from the public eye, but the inspector frowned as he saw the crowd outside. That the police were moving people on apparently made no difference. They merely went round and walked back another way.
The butler came forward when the door was open.
"Lady Burslem has promised us an interview this afternoon," Stoddart said, entering and beckoning to Harbord.
"Yes, her ladyship is expecting you, inspector," the butler said at once. "I was to take you to her directly you came. But I heard nothing of this—this—"
He glanced at Harbord as though hesitating as to what description must apply to him.
"That is quite right—I am answerable," the inspector said shortly. "Please to inform Lady Burslem that we are here."
The butler departed, looking as though the foundations of the earth must indeed be shaken when he had to take orders from a mere policeman. He returned immediately.
"Will you come this way, please."
He led them to a small room on the first floor.
Lady Burslem came to them at once. She walked very slowly; her slim shoulders were bent as if under an intolerable burden of grief. There was not one touch of colour in her face—cheeks and lips were alike ashen. There were great blue half-circles beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves looked only about half their usual size. The eyelids were swollen, and drooped as though the young widow had cried until she did not know how to open them.
There was a great pity in the inspector's eyes as he watched her. He drew forward one of the big easy chairs and she sank into it wearily. Was it force of habit that made him place her so that the light fell on her face, Harbord wondered.
"You—you wanted to see me?" she said, her eyes not looking at him but wandering to the window which looked on to the Square garden and so was without the concealing blind.
"If you please, Lady Burslem."
The inspector went over and stood by the mantel piece, one arm resting on the shelf. Harbord waited; nearer the door.
"You will understand that, while we are anxious to spare you in every possible way, it is absolutely necessary that we should hear all that you can tell us of what took place the night before last."
"Yes, of course?"
Lady Burslem looked at him with wistful, tragic eyes. "Only there is so little I can tell you," she said, feverishly. "I can't understand it, and wonder and wonder until I think my brain will turn and that the mystery of it will drive me mad."
Her words, slow at first, began to come faster, her breathing grew more rapid; she twisted her hands together.
"I understand," the inspector said soothingly. "And that is where we want to help you. Now, if you would just tell us when you saw Sir John last!"
"Why, when we came home," Sophie Burslem said quickly. "We—we had been over to Oxley, you know. It was a lovely night and we had nothing particular on. At least, we had dances and receptions and things, but we made up our minds to go over to Oxley in the two-seater and see how Peep o' Day was getting on. So—so—"
Her voice failed. She fumbled in her bag, bringing out a small handkerchief, and began to dab her eyes.
"Yes?" the inspector prompted, after a pause. "Matt Harker has told us about your Oxley visit. You found Peep o' Day at the top of his form, I think? 'Fit as a fiddle,' Harker said."
"Yes, he was," Lady Burslem assented, apparently controlling her voice by a supreme effort. "Sir John was so proud of him. He used to say that when Peep o' Day won the Derby his greatest ambition would be realized. Now—now—"
The inspector coughed. "When you left Oxley, where did you go?"
"Why, we came straight home," Sophie said simply. "It was late, of course. We had stayed so long at Oxley, but we had told Ellerby and Forbes, my husband's man and my maid, not to sit up for us. We were never people who wanted a lot of waiting on. We always liked to do things for ourselves."
"What time was it?"
"I do not know—exactly." Sophie hesitated. "I should think it was between one and two. I know Sir John wanted James, the second footman, who sat up for us to sign some paper and he said it must be dated June 3rd."
"To sign a paper?" For once the inspector was betrayed into showing some surprise. "What sort of a paper?"
"Oh, I don't know." Lady Burslem let her hands drop helplessly on her lap. "He signed it too—Sir John. Then he gave it to me and told me to take care of it."
The inspector did not speak for a minute. He took out his notebook and made a hieroglyphic entry.
Lady Burslem leaned back in her chair motionless, her hands lying very still before her. And yet the inspector had an odd fancy that from beneath the heavy, swollen lids the brown eyes were furtively watching him.
At last he spoke:
"Could we see the paper, Lady Burslem? It might help us—might throw some light on the mystery."
"You can't see it just now," Lady Burslem said apathetically, "because I have not got it here. Mr. Weldon, the lawyer, came in this morning and took it away with him. He said it might be important."
The inspector drew his brows together. "I must see Mr. Weldon. In the meantime, when the paper was signed what did Sir John do?"
"As I told you, he gave me the paper," Lady Burslem said tonelessly. "Then we went into the library and we both had some of the things they had put ready for us. Then—then"—the tears sounded vibrant in the sweet voice—"he—Sir John—went out to take the car to the garage. I thought he would be only a few minutes; but now I shall never see him again."
"Why did Sir John take the car to the garage himself, instead of sending one of the men?" the inspector inquired brusquely.
For a moment he fancied that a faint smile glimmered on the pale lips.
"He—he would not have trusted any of them. He was so proud of the two-seater. It had all the latest improvements. He would not let anyone drive it but himself."
The inspector nodded. That there were men and women too who would not let anyone else drive their car, as there were people who would not allow their pet horse, their bicycle to be ridden by anyone else, he knew. But it seemed to him rather a curious fancy on the part of a millionaire, like Sir John Burslem, to insist on taking the car to the garage himself.
"But he did not take it to the garage," he said, rather as if he were answering his own thoughts. "He never went near the garage. The car has been found, you know, Lady Burslem."
"No, I did not," Lady Burslem said, with a momentary accession of interest. "I never heard anything about it. Where was it? Where—where he was?"
"No," the inspector answered bluntly. "It was found on a piece of waste ground on the other side of the river that is used as a parking ground sometimes."
"How did it get there?" Lady Burslem's voice dropped almost to a whisper.