“Selden crossed to the bed and laid them down.
“âThat's his father's watch,' he said. âI remember the chain. And that's a ring of his mother's
â
at least, I think it is. And that's his handwriting.'
“On the envelope was written,
To be burned, unopened, in the event of my death
.
“âI'm sorry,' I said, âbut I'll have to open that. You never know, Major Selden.'
“Selden thought for a moment. Then
â
“âYou're right,' he said. âBut if it doesn't help, you'll burn it at once.'
“âIndeed, I will. And I think we might keep it to ourselves. I'll give you a receipt, if you like.'
“âNot on your life. I haven't seen the thing.'
“âBut you do understand, Major Selden?'
“Selden looked at me.
“âLook here, Superintendent. All my hope is in you. Somebody did Jo in
â
the finest gentleman in England, and my familiar friend. If you could show me the â, he'd never get as far as the gallows. He'd never come to be tried. You'd never get me off him, until he was dead.'
“âNow I know where I am,' I said. âAnd now I'll be very frank. I'm doing my level best. But it's a hell of a case. And I must have everyone's help. I know I can count on yours. But Bolton may know something which he feels he should keep to himself. You might have a word with him, and tell him that I shan't talk.'
“âBy God, I will. D'you want to see him now?'
“âAfter luncheon, please. First James and then him. And now have a look at this.' I took out St Amant's wrist-watch. âD'you know how he came by that?'
“âI've no idea. Had it as long as I've known him. New straps, of course.'
“âDuring the war?'
“âI rather think so. I can't be sure of that.'
“I put it back in my pocket.
“âWell, don't forget I've got it, if anyone asks. I've his note-case and cheque-book, too. And, by the way, his suitcase is in my car. I don't want to upset poor Bolton, so I'll have it put in the hall. Oh, one thing more. This is his ring.' Selden looked and nodded. âI think we might put it in the wall-safe.'
“âGood idea.'
“I put the envelope into my pocket. The watch and chain and the rings, I put into the safe. Then I locked this up.
“âBolton might put the clothes back.'
“âI'll tell him to.'
“I glanced at my watch.
“âWhat time d'you lunch, Major Selden?'
“âAbout one o'clock.'
“âThen I think I'll go through his desk.'
“âYou won't want me for that.'
“âNo. But I'd like the lawyer's clerk. I'll put aside any papers on which I want your advice.'
“âRight. Anything you want, call James.'
“âI may want to speak to the Yard.'
“âHe'll get you through.'
“He showed me the way to the study and sent for the clerk.
“The study was really a miniature library. Luxurious, leather armchairs on either side of the hearth. A leather sofa to match. A pedestal-table. Shoulder-high bookcases full of sporting books
â
an original edition of Surtees, Beckford's
Thoughts on Hunting
and other famous works. A number of well-known novels stood in a case by themselves. On the walls above the cases, a number of sporting prints.
“There was nothing in the papers that I could see. The locked drawer held personal letters, all to do with horses and racing, many from well-known men. One note was signed with a very well-known name.
Dear Lord St Amant. It was more than kind of you to write as you did. I must confess that I, too, believed that my horse had won: but nobody can dispute what the camera says. (I sometimes wonder how many wrong decisions have been given in the years that are past.) And pray don't think that I feel badly about the result. I might have, if the race had not gone to you: but, if I am to be beaten, I would sooner lose to you than to any man that I know. Yours very sincerely, â.
Another was signed with another well-known name.
My lord, I'm properly upset about this afternoon. I wouldn't mind so much, if I hadn't been riding for you. I don't think it was my fault, but I can't bear letting you down. Yours respectfully
â. Pencilled on this was a note in St Amant's hand.
Dear â , You are not to reproach yourself. You rode a beautiful race: but the filly wasn't quite good enough. Yours, St A.”
Falcon paused there and looked round.
“I particularly noted those letters, because I think they show how justly beloved and respected the dead man was.”
“They seem to me,” said Mansel, “to emphasize two things. The first is that such a man's enemies must have been very few: the second is that the man who murdered St Amant must have been bold indeed.”
“Or round the bend,” said I.
There was a moment's silence. Then Falcon went on.
“I locked up the drawer again, gave the bunch of keys to the clerk and bade him make out a receipt. While he was doing that
â
“âThat's the key of a wall-safe,' I said. âThe valet will show the executors where it is.'
“It was half past twelve by then, so I left the house for a stroll. Selden was just coming in, so he offered to show me round.
“To one who knows nothing of horses, it's still a showplace. Coach-houses all one side of the stable-yard by the house. The doors were all wide open, so I could see the cars. Two Rolls
â
the smaller model
â
one black and one grey; two station-wagons, three horse-boxes and two trucks; all of them polished and shining and looking as good as new.
“I pointed to the Rolls.
“âHis cars?'
“âYes. I had the use of them
â
if I wanted to go to London or a meeting or something like that.'
“âChauffeurs?'
“âTwo regular ones. Do nothing else, I mean. And Bolton can drive. I never drive myself, but Jo very often did. Not always, you know.'
“âWhen were they used last?'
“âThe Rolls? Not since he went away. He drove himself to the Home and Bolton brought the car back.'
“Here a third station-wagon pulled into the yard.
“âFirst chauffeur,' said Selden.
“âI thought it was Bolton,' I said.
“âTwin-brother. We call him Fred.'
“âKeys of the cars?'
“âIn his charge.'
“We left the stable-yard and came to the stables proper, further on. There wasn't time to see much. Loose-box after loose-box, name after name. Sick bay, farrier's shop, home paddocks and the rest. Of course I was out of my depth, but really racehorses are the most lovely things. Then we went back to the house.
“A simple, English luncheon, beautifully cooked and served.
“After luncheon, I sent for Welcome and told him I'd take him to London the following day. Gave him the afternoon off, to do as he pleased. Then I thought things over and made some notes. Selden, I think, was dozing
â
a habit, perhaps, of his on a Sunday afternoon.
“At three I saw the butler
â
an excellent type of servant, very precise.
“âA sad business this, James.'
“âMost shocking, sir. For us that lived with his lordship, it seems like some dreadful dream. I shall never forget when the Major broke the news. He was so much upset that he couldn't speak the words. So he took a pencil and paper and wrote them down. Excuse me, sir.' He took a case from his pocket, and drew out a sheet of notepaper, folded in four. âThat's what he gave me, sir.'
“The writing was very shaky.
“
His lordship found dead this morning. They seem to suspect foul play. Anyway Scotland Yard has been called in. Better tell the others â they've got to know.
“I handed it back.
“âI'm very sorry for him.'
“âHe's taking it very hard, sir. But so are we all.'
“âI've no doubt of that. I'm taking it hard myself. Who d'you think did it, James?' The butler stared. âYou're thinking that that's the question which you should be asking me. Well, I hope to be able to tell you before very long. But just now I want your guess.'
“âWell, sir, since you ask me, I'll tell you I'm properly beat. I've been over the last eight years, for I came to Curfew Place in 1946. I've thought of all the people that's come and gone. But I can't think of one that might have wished him ill. High and low, sir, they liked and respected his lordship
â
as well they might.'
“âWere you ever told that if somebody came to the house, he was to be sent away?'
“âNever once, sir.'
“âDid his lordship ever say that if so-and-so rang up, you were to say he was out?'
“âNever, sir. He'd never speak, if he could help it. I'd bring him the message and take another one back.'
“âYou got to know the technique.'
“âPrecisely, sir. Some calls I knew he would wish to deal with himself.'
“âVery well. I'm afraid poor Bolton is very much upset.'
“âHe's beside himself, sir. He was so close to his lordship
â
went with him everywhere. He couldn't bear his lordship being away at the Home. Out of his charge, you see. He wanted to stay in the village, but his lordship wouldn't have that. And now he seems to feel that it would never have happened if he'd been there.'
“âPoor fellow,' I said. âWell, James, I'm much obliged. Don't think you haven't helped me, because you have. Get hold of Bolton, will you? I'd like to see him now.'
“âCertainly, sir.'
Two minutes later the valet entered the room.
“I looked him full in the eyes.
“âNow, Bolton, you've got to help me. I'm doing my very best to help all of you. I can't bring his lordship back, but I think we shall all feel better, if I can bring this crime home.'
“âThat's very true, sir.'
“âWhen his lordship went to the Home, you drove him there.'
“âNo, sir. He drove the car there, and I brought it back.'
“âI see. Did you know the way?'
“âNo, sir. Nor did his lordship. But it was easy to find.'
“âYou made for Ne'er-do-well?'
“âYes, sir. And there I asked.'
“âIf you'd known where it was, you needn't have gone through the village.'
“âThat is so, sir. We had to come back to cross roads, two miles off.'
“âThat's the way you drove back?'
“âYes, sir.'
“âNow this is very important. Did you take your brother with you when you drove there on Monday night?'
“The man recoiled, and a hand went up to his mouth.
“âIt's quite all right,' I said. âI only want to know if you went alone.'
“The poor man's eyes were starting.
“âIt
â
it was Monday night, sir. Not Tuesday.'
“âI know it was Monday,' I said. âDid you go alone?'
“âI went alone, sir,' said Bolton. âMy brother gave me the keys.'
“âYou took the grey Rolls.'
“âYes, sir.'
“âAnd parked her a little way off.'
“âYes, sir.'
“âAnd then walked back.'
“âYes, sir.'
“âDid you enter the grounds?'
“âNo, sir. It was easy enough to get in, but I thought there might be a watchman, and so I stayed outside.'
“âDid you know where his lordship was lodged?'
“âNot for certain, sir. But we saw the terrace, as we come up to the Home. And his lordship said, I'd like a room on that terrace. I hope they give me one. And somehow I thought they would.'
“âWhat time did you get there, Bolton?'
“âTo the Home itself, sir?'
“âYes.'
“âIt must have been just about eleven o'clock.'
“âDid you see any lights? In the rooms on the terrace, I mean.'
“âOne room was lighted, sir. But only just. A table lamp, I should say.'
“âCould you say which room it was?'
“âI'd say it was near the middle. I can't be sure.'
“âYou wondered if it was his?'
“âYes, sir.'
“âDid you see the light of a torch?'
“âI can't say I did, sir. But this was Monday night, sir.'
“âI know. Did you see the light go out
â
the light in the room, I mean?'
“âYes, sir. It must have been half past eleven. So then I went back to the car.'
“âYou're sure you saw nothing else?'
“âI saw a flicker, sir, just as I was turning to go. But it wasn't a torch. I don't know what it was.'
“âWhat d'you mean by a flicker?'
“âA very faint light indeed. It seemed to be higher somehow.'
“âDid it come and go?'
“âIt stayed for a moment or two: and then it went out.'
“âYou'd put that at half past eleven?'
“âThereabouts, sir. When I got back to the car, the clock said twenty to twelve.'
“âDid you go to the Home more than once?'
“âTwice, sir. The first time on Friday.'
“âWhy did you go, Bolton?'
“The poor man's look made me think of a beaten dog.
“âI know I shouldn't have done it: but I couldn't bear, sir, him lying sick without me.'
“âI quite understand, Bolton. It made things better if you could be close to him.'
“âThat's right, sir. I wanted to stay in the village, but his lordship said no.' Then he burst out. âIf only I'd gone on Tuesdayâ¦'
“âIt wouldn't have made any difference. Take that from me. And now let's look back. You always accompanied his lordship, if ever he stayed away.'