CHAPTER I

“Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon

I want him, and be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I’ll put you through to him at once.”

Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the letters formed words, and the words read:

SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT

WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK

HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART

“Hallo!”

“Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?”

“Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out your way?”

“Can’t say that I have. Have you?”

“Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered—shot.”

“Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot—murdered!” Inspector Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then he added, after a moment’s reflection, “There must be some mistake. He is away.”

“Away where?”

“In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth—when the shooting season opened.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on his house while he was away.”

There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector

Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard.

“We may have been hoaxed,” he said at length. “But I have been ringing up his house and can get no answer. You had better send up a couple of men there at once—better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may require tactful handling. Let me know, and I’ll come out immediately if there is anything wrong. Stay! How long will it take you to get up to the house?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes—in a taxi.”

“Well, I’ll ring you up at the house in half an hour. Should our information be correct see that everything is left exactly as you find it till I arrive.”

Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his telephone, bundled up the papers scattered on his desk, closed it, and stepped out of his office into the next room.

“Anyone about?” he hurriedly asked the sergeant who was making entries in the charge-book.

“Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago.”

“Get him at once and call a taxi. Scotland Yard’s rung through to say they’ve received a report that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen interest. “Who told

Scotland Yard that?”

“I don’t know. Who was on that beat last night?”

“Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own house? I thought he was in Scotland.”

“So did I, but he may have returned—ah, here’s the taxi.”

Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for the appearance of a cab from the rank round the corner in response to the shrill blast which the sergeant had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the door of the station leading into the yard and sharply called:

“Flack!”

In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, came running up the steps from the basement, which was used as a gymnasium.

“Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as you can. He is in a devil of a hurry.”

Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when Flack appeared. He had been impatiently drumming his fingers on the door of the cab.

“Jump in, man,” he said angrily. “What has kept you all this time?”

Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been running and was out of breath, but he made no reply to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon turned to him and remarked severely:

“Why didn’t you let me know that Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned from

Scotland?”

Flack looked astonished.

“But he hasn’t returned, sir,” he said. “He’s away for a month at least,” he ventured to add.

“Who told you that?”

“The housemaid at Riversbrook—before he went away.”

“H’m.” The inspector’s next question contained a moral rebuke rather than an official one. “You’re a married man, Flack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the housemaid told you he was going away for a month. Well, she ought to know. When did she tell you?”

“A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the servants except the butler were going down to Dellmere the next day—that is Sir Horace’s country place—and that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the shooting season was over.”

“And are you sure he hasn’t returned?”

“Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday morning, and he told me that his master was sure to be in Scotland for at least a month longer.”

“It’s very strange,” muttered the inspector, half to himself. “It will be a deuced awkward situation to face if Scotland Yard has been hoaxed.”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong about Sir Horace?”

“Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he has been murdered.”

Flack’s surprise was so great that it lifted the lid of official humility which habitually covered his natural feelings.

“Murdered!” he exclaimed. “Sir Horace Fewbanks murdered? You don’t say so!”

“But I do say so. I’ve just said so,” retorted Inspector Seldon irritably. He was angry at the fact that the information, whether true or false, had gone direct to Scotland Yard instead of reaching him first.

“When was he murdered, sir?” asked Flack.

“Last night—when you were on that beat.”

Flack paled at this remark.

“Last night, sir?” he cried.

“Don’t repeat my words like a parrot,” ejaculated the inspector peevishly. “Didn’t you notice anything suspicious when you were along there?”

“No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?”

“His dead body is supposed to be lying there now in the library,” said

Inspector Seldon. “How Scotland Yard got wind of it is more than I know.

We ought to have heard of it before them. How many times did you go along

there last night?”

“Twice, sir. About eleven o’clock, and then about three.”

“And there was nothing suspicious—you saw no one?”

“I saw Mr. Roberts and his lady coming home from the theatre. But he lives at the other end of Tanton Gardens. And I saw the housemaid at Mr. Fielding’s come out to the pillar-box. That was a few minutes after eleven. I didn’t see anybody at all the second time.”

“Nobody at the judge’s place—no taxi, or anything like that?”

“No, sir.”

The taxi-cab turned swiftly into the shady avenue of Tanton Gardens, where Sir Horace Fewbanks lived, and in a few moments pulled up outside of Riversbrook. The house stood a long way back from the road in its own grounds. Inspector Seldon and Flack passed rapidly through the grounds and reached the front door of the mansion. There was nobody about; the place seemed deserted, and the blinds were down on the ground-floor windows. Inspector Seldon knocked loudly at the front door with the big, old-fashioned brass knocker, and rang the bell. He listened intently for a response, but no sound followed except the sharp note of the electric bell as Flack rang it again while Inspector Seldon bent down with his ear at the keyhole. Then the inspector stepped back and regarded the house keenly for a moment or two.

“Put your finger on that bell and keep on ringing it, Flack,” he said suddenly. “I see that some of the blinds are down, but there’s one on the first floor which is partly up. It looks as though the house had been shut up and somebody had come back unexpectedly.”

“Perhaps it’s Hill, the butler,” said Flack.

“If he’s inside he ought to answer the bell. But keep on ringing while I knock again.”

The heavy brass knocker again reverberated on the thick oak door, and Inspector Seldon placed his ear against the keyhole to ascertain if any...