r
J J.
C ,.
f


I


MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS





MYSTERY AT
LYNDENSANDS
BY
J. J. CONNINGTON
AUTHOR OF
THE CASE WITH NINE SOLUTIONS,
MURDER IN THE MAZE, Etc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK


Copyright, 1928,
By Little, Brown, and Company
All rights reserved
Published August, 1928
Prikted in the United States of America


CONTENTS
I
THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
3
II
A bus-driver's HOLIDAY
23
III
THE POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S
33
IV
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT
55
V
THE DIARY
70
VI
THE BEACH TRAGEDY
83
VII
THE LETTER
100
VIII
THE COLT AUTOMATIC
117
IX
THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE
i45
X
THE ATTACK ON THE AUSTRALIAN
161
XI
MME. LAURENT-DESROUSSEAUX'S EVIDENCE 174
XII
THE FORDINGBRH>GE MYSTERY
199
XIII
CRESSIDA'S NARRATIVE
220
XIV
THE TELEGRAM
241
XV
THE METHOD OF COERCION
253
XVI
THE MAN-HUNT ON THE BEACH
265
XVII
THE THREADS IN THE CASE
284





MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS





CHAPTER I: THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
Paul Fordingbridge, with a faintly reproachful glance
at his sister, interrupted his study of the financial
page of The Times and put the paper down on his
knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses; re-
placed them by his ordinary spectacles; and then
turned to the restless figure at the window of the pri-
vate sitting-room.
"Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your
mind. Would it be too much to ask you to say it—
whatever it is—and then let me read my paper com-
fortably? One can't give one's mind to a thing when
there's a person at one's elbow obviously ready to
break out into conversation at any moment."
Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half
a century in regretting her father's admiration for
Herrick. "I can't see myself as Julia of the Night-
piece," she complained with a faint parade of modesty;
and it was at her own wish that the hated name had
been abbreviated to an initial in family talk.
At the sound of her brother's voice she turned away
from the sea-view.
"I can't imagine why you insisted on coming to this
hotel," she said, rather fretfully. "I can't stand the
place. Of course, as it's just been opened, it's useless
to expect everything to go like clockwork; but there
seems a lot of mismanagement about it. I almost
burned my hand with the hot water in my bedroom this
morning—ridiculous, having tap-water as hot as that!
And my letters got into the wrong pigeon-hole or some-


4 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
thing; I had to wait ever so long for them. Of course
the clerk said he was sorry—but what good does that
do? I don't want his sorrow. I want my letters when I
ask for them."
"No doubt."
"And there was a wasp in my room when I went up
there a few minutes ago. If I'd wanted a double-bedded
room with a wasp as a room-mate, I would have asked
for it when we booked, wouldn't I? And when I rang
the bell and told them to put the thing out, the cham-
bermaid—so it seems—was afraid of wasps. So she
had to go and get hold of someone else to tackle it.
And meanwhile, of course, I had to wait about until
my room was made habitable. That's a nice kind of
hotel!"
"Oh, it has its points," Paul Fordingbridge ad-
vanced soothingly. "One can get quite decent wine;
and this chair's not uncomfortable."
"I don't sit in a chair and drink wine all day," his
sister retorted, querulously. "And that jazz band down-
stairs is simply appalling—I can feel my ear-drums
quiver whenever it starts playing."
"It amuses the children, at least. I haven't heard
Stanley or Cressida complaining about it yet; and they
seem to dance most of the time in the evenings."
"So like the younger generation! They get married
—and they dance. And that's almost all you can say
about them."
"Oh, no. Let's be fair," her brother corrected her
mildly. "They both play bridge a good deal; and Cres-
sida's not bad at golf. I can't say, taking her over all,
that I'm ashamed of her as a niece. And Stanley's a
great improvement on her first husband—that fellow
Staveley."


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS 5
Miss Fordingbridge made a gesture of irritation.
"Oh, of course, everything's simply splendid, by
your way of it. A fascinating niece, a nice-looking
nephew-in-Iaw, and a wonderful hotel to live in for a
month or so; what more could one want? The only
thing I can't understand is what this family party is
doing in an hotel just now, when we've got Foxhills
standing empty almost within a stone's-throw. You
know how I hate hotels; and yet you won't reopen
Foxhills and let us live there. What's the use in com-
ing to Lynden Sands at all, if we don't stay at our own
house and get privacy at least?"
Her brother's brows contracted slightly.
"Foxhills isn't going to be reopened. You know quite
well the size of staff you'd need to run it properly; and
I don't propose to pay on that scale merely in order to
stay at Foxhills for a month or so and then shut it up
again. Besides, Jay, this new golf-course has changed
things a bit. I'm trying to let Foxhills; and if I got
a tenant, we might have to clear out of the place before
we'd got well settled down in it. This hotel and the
new course between them are going to make Lynden
Sands more popular before long. There's a fair chance
of getting Foxhills leased."
Miss Fordingbridge was manifestly taken aback by
this information.
"You're trying to let Foxhills—our old house? Why,
it isn't yours to let! It belongs to Derek."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to be flicked on the
raw. There was a certain asperity in his tone as he re-
plied.
"Whether it belongs to Derek or merely belonged
to Derek is an open question. He hasn't turned up to
let us decide the point one way or the other."


6
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
He glanced at his sister's face and apparently read
something in her expression, for he continued with a
faint rasp in his tone.
"I thought I'd made the position clear enough to
you already, but, as you don't seem to grasp it even
yet, I'll go over it once more. But this must be the last
time, Jay. I'm really tired of making the thing clear
to you when you evidently won't take the trouble to
understand how I'm placed."
He paused for a moment, as though to put his facts
in order before stating his case.
"Since this is the last time I'm going to discuss the
thing with you, I'll go right back to the beginning;
and you'll be good enough to give me your attention,
Jay. I'm tired of the subject; and specially tired of ex-
plaining it to you, as you never listen.
"Under our father's will, the major part of the
family property—including the Foxhills estate—went
to his eldest son, brother John, on a life-tenancy.
After John died, it was all to go without restrictions
to the next eldest—brother Rufus, out in Australia
—or to his son, Derek. Failing Derek, it was to go
to the next eldest—Cressida's father; or, if he died
first, then to Cressida. If she didn't live to come into
it, then it fell to my share; and, finally, if we all died
off, then you were to get it. Of course, he'd left each of
us enough to keep us going comfortably in any case.
Foxhills and the investments that went along with it
were extras, over and above that. You see that part
clearly enough, I suppose?"
Miss Fordingbridge nodded; but it seemed doubt-
ful if she had given the narrative much attention. She
appeared to be treasuring up some thought which
made her brother's statement of little real interest to


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS 7
her. Paul glanced again at her face and seemed to
hesitate slightly. He decided to continue.
"None of us had seen Derek until just before the
war. Then he came to Foxhills for a while with us.
You took to him more than I did. He seemed to me a
very ordinary young fellow. Meanwhile, John came
into his life-rent of the estate and the rest of the prop-
erty, after our father died.
"Then came the war. Derek had a commission in
some Australian regiment. We saw little of him, nat-
urally. I wish we'd seen less. He brought home that
friend of his, Nick Staveley, on leave; and he got
round Cressida and married her—the worst day's work
our family's done for a good while. Lucky for her
that he got wiped out, that day when Derek was cap-
tured."
Miss Fordingbridge winced at the name of her
niece's first husband. Even after all these years, the
very thought of Staveley had its sting for the family.
Apart from this, however, she showed no interest in
her brother's narrative, which was obviously an old
tale to her, and important only as it concerned her
brother's motives of action.
"Meanwhile, Rufus had a paralytic stroke out in
Australia and died. Then, a little later, John got killed
in that motor accident. Under the will, that left Derek
in possession of the estate. I can't claim that I foresaw
that exact state of affairs; but I'd been afraid of some-
thing of the sort happening. During the war, things
needed a careful eye on them; and I didn't care to see
Foxhills in the hands of lawyers. So before Derek went
off to the Front, I got him to give me a power of
attorney to deal with all his affairs. Are you listening,
Jay?"


8 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Miss Fordingbridge nodded absently. She still had
the air of reserving a surprise for her brother.
"You know what happened next," Paul Fording-
bridge went on. "Derek was captured and sent to
Clausthal. Almost immediately, he got away from
there, and nearly scraped over the Dutch frontier. The
Germans caught him there; and as a result he was
sent on to Fort 9, at Ingolstadt. We know he got
away from there—it must have been almost immedi-
ately, as we got no letters from him—and after that
all trace of him was lost. Whether he got shot in try-
ing to get over the frontier, or whether he lost his
memory, or what happened to him, no one can tell.
He's vanished, so far as we're concerned."
Miss Fordingbridge repressed a faint smile, evi-
dently with some difficulty; but her brother failed to
notice the fleeting expression on her face.
"Now I want you to see the position that I'm left
in, with all this muddle," he went on. "Derek may be
alive, or he may be dead, for all we know. If he's
alive, then Foxhills belongs to him; and, until we have
evidence of his death, that's the state of affairs. Mean-
while, with his power of attorney, I have to manage
things, fix up the investments, get the best return
I can on his money, and look after the up-keep of
Foxhills. I daresay we could go to the Courts
and ask leave to presume his death; but I think it's
fairer to wait a while yet, before doing anything in
that direction. He might turn up, in spite of every-
thing."
It was evident from his tone that he thought this
contingency a most unlikely one, though not alto-
gether impossible.
"In any case, I've got to do the best I can for his


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS 9
interests. That's why I propose to let Foxhills if I
can find someone to take it on a short lease. We can't
afford to let Derek's property stand idle—if it is his
property. Besides, a place of that size is far better
occupied. It's more or less all right just now, with old
Peter Hay looking after it and living in the cottage;
but it would be far better if we had someone living
there permanently and keeping it heated. I'm afraid
of dry-rot setting in sometime or other. Now, do you
understand the state of affairs, Jay? Can't you see
that's the best course to take?"
Miss Fordingbridge paid no attention to either
query.
"I've listened to you," she said, perhaps with a slight
lapse from strict accuracy, "and now it's your turn to
listen to me, Paul. It's no use your trying to persuade
me that there's any doubt about Derek at all. I know
perfectly well he's alive."
Paul Fordingbridge made no effort to restrain his in-
voluntary gesture of annoyance. Quite evidently he saw
what was coming.
"Now, Julia, it's no use bringing up this stuff of
yours again. I've told you fifty times already that I
don't believe it in the slightest. Since you went in for
this table-turning, and spirit-rapping, and planchette,
and all the rest of the wretched business, you've hardly
been sane on the subject. I daresay you adored Derek
when he was here. No doubt you think you're justified
in all this siance business, trying to get in touch
with him, and the rest of it. But frankly, it leaves me
as it leaves every other sensible person—completely
sceptical."
Miss Fordingbridge was evidently well-accustomed
to this kind of reception when she broached the topic.


IO MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
She ignored her brother's protest and continued as
though he had not interrupted her.
"I remember quite well how you laughed at me when
I came back from that wonderful siance and told you
how I had been assured that Derek was still alive. That
was five years ago, but I can recall it perfectly. And I
know it was true. And if you had been there yourself,
and had heard it with your own ears, you'd have be-
lieved it too. You couldn't have disbelieved. It was far
too convincing. After the medium went into a trance,
the control spoke to me. And it told me all about
Derek—what regiment he'd been in; when he was cap-
tured; how he'd disappeared; how anxious I'd been
about him; and how we'd lost all trace of him. You'd
have been quite convinced yourself, if you'd been there
and heard it all."
"I am quite convinced," her brother replied drily.
"That's to say I'm quite convinced that they'd looked
up Derek's name in the casualty lists and got together
all the data they could gather beforehand. I expect you
gave away a good deal yourself by your questions, too.
You're about the easiest person to pump, if one goes
about it in the right way."
Miss Fordingbridge smiled in a superior fashion, as
though she knew that she held a trump card still.
"Would it convince you if I said that I'd seen
Derek?"
"Some more of their confounded mummery? No, it
wouldn't convince me. A child could deceive you, Jay.
You want to be deceived. You can't bear the idea that
Derek's dead—that's what vitiates this stuff that you
dignify by the name of evidence."
"Vulgar abuse never hurts a spiritualist. We're used
to it," Miss Fordingbridge replied with simple dignity.


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
II
"But you're wrong as usual, Paul. It wasn't at a stance
that I saw Derek. It was here, at Lynden Sands. And
it was last night."
From the expression on her brother's face it was
clear that he hardly knew how to take this news.
"You saw him here, last night? In a dream, I sup-
pose?"
"No, not in a dream. I met him by appointment
down at that rock on the beach—the one we used to
call Neptune's Seat. And I saw him close enough to
make no mistake—as close as I am to you this moment.
And I talked to him, too. It's Derek; there's no doubt
about it."
Paul Fordingbridge was evidently taken aback. This
latest tale of his sister's seemed to have something more
solid behind it than her earlier ventures.
"You said nothing to me about this. Why was that?"
Miss Fordingbridge recognised that she had scored
a point and had startled her brother out of his usual
scepticism. She had her answer ready.
"Naturally you'd hardly expect me to discuss a thing
like that over the breakfast-table, with half-a-hundred
total strangers sitting round and craning their necks so
as to hear better? If you will insist on staying at hotels,
you must put up with the results. This is the first time
I've been alone with you since I met him."
Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the justice of her
view with a nod.
"Quite so," he admitted. "And you had a talk with
this fellow, had you?"
Miss Fordingbridge's temper showed unmistakably
in her tone as she replied.
"Kindly don't call Derek 'this fellow,' if you please.
It's Derek himself. He talked to me for quite a long


12
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
time—all about things that had happened at Foxhills
when he was here before the War, and other things that
happened at the times he was home on leave. And part
of the time he told me about Clausthal and Fort 9, too."
Her brother's scepticism again made itself evident.
"Plenty of people were in Fort 9 and at Clausthal
besides Derek. That proves nothing."
"Well, then, he mentioned a whole lot of little things
as well. He reminded me of how Cressida dropped her
bouquet when she was signing the register after her
wedding. And he remembered which wedding march
they played then."
"Almost anyone in Lynden Sands could have told
him that."
Miss Fordingbridge reflected for a moment or two,
evidently searching her memory for some crucial piece
of evidence.
"He remembered that we used to bring up some of
the old port from Bin 73 every time he went off to the
Front. He said often he wished he could have had some
of it just before zero hour."
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
"One of the servants might have mentioned that in
the village and he could have got hold of it. If you've
nothing better than this sort of tittle-tattle to prove it's
Derek, it won't go far."
He reflected for a moment, then he asked:
"You recognised his face, of course?"
A flicker of repulsion crossed his sister's features.
"I saw his face," she said. "Paul, he's horribly dis-
figured, poor boy. A shell-burst, or something. It's
dreadful. If I hadn't known it was Derek, I'd hardly
have recognised him. And he was so good-looking, in
the old days. But I know it's Derek. I'm quite sure of


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
13
it. That medium's control never makes a mistake. If
Derek had passed over, she'd have found him and
made him speak to me at that stance. But she couldn't.
And now he's come back in the flesh, it shows there is
something in spiritualism, in spite of all your sneers.
You'll have to admit it, Paul."
Her words had evidently started a fresh train of
thought in her brother's mind.
"Did you recognise his voice?" he demanded.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed to make an effort to re-
call the tones she had heard:
"It was Derek's voice, of course," she said, with a
faint hesitation in her manner. "Of course, it wasn't
quite the voice I'd been expecting. His mouth was hurt
in those awful wounds he got. And his tongue was dam-
aged, too; so his voice isn't the same as it used to be.
It's husky instead of clear; and he has difficulty in
saying some words, I noticed. But at times I could
quite well imagine it was Derek speaking just as he
used to do, with that Australian twang of his that we
used to tease him about."
"Ah, he has the twang, has he?"
"Of course he has. Derek couldn't help having it,
could he, when he was brought up in Australia until
he was quite grown-up? Last night he laughed over the
way we used to chaff him about his accent."
"Anything more about him that you can remember?"
"He's been dreadfully hurt. Two of his fingers were
blown off his right hand. It gave me such a start when
he shook hands with me."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to reflect for a moment
or two on the information he had acquired.
"H'm!" he said at last, "It'll be difficult to establish
his identity; that's clear. Face unrecognisable owing


14 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
to wounds; voice altered, ditto; two fingers gone on
right hand, so his writing won't be identifiable. If only
we had taken Derek's fingerprints, we'd have had some
sort of proof. As it is, there's very little to go on."
Miss Fordingbridge listened scornfully to this cata-
logue.
"So that's all the thanks you give Derek for suffering
so horribly for us all in the war?"
"Always assuming that this friend of yours is Derek.
Don't you understand that I can't take a thing of this
sort on trust? I'm in charge of Derek's property—as-
suming that he's still alive, I can't hand it over to the
first claimant who comes along, and then, if Derek
himself turns up, excuse myself by saying that the first
fellow had a plausible yarn to tell. I must have real
proof. That's simply plain honesty, in my position. And
real proof's going to be mighty hard to get, if you ask
me, Jay. You must see that, surely."
"It is Derek," Miss Fordingbridge repeated, obsti-
nately. "Do you think I can't recognise my own
nephew, when he's able to tell me all sorts of things
that only we in the family could know?"
Her brother regarded her rather ruefully.
"I believe you'd go into the witness-box and take
your oath that it's Derek," he said, gloomily. "You'd
made up your mind that Derek was coming back
sooner or later; and now you're prepared to recognise
anything down to a chimpanzee as your long-lost
nephew, rather than admit you're wrong. Damn this
spiritualism of yours! It's at the root of all the trouble.
It's led you to expect Derek; and you mean to have a
Derek of some sort."
He paused for a moment, as though following out a
train of thought; then he added:


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
15
"And it's quite on the cards that if it ever came be-
fore a jury, some chuckleheads would take your word
for it. 'Sure to know her nephew,' and all that sort of
stuff. They don't know your little fads."
Miss Fordingbridge glanced up at the note of trouble
in her brother's voice.
"I can't see why you're trying to throw doubt on the
thing, Paul. You haven't seen Derek; I have. And yet
you don't wait to see him yourself. You come straight
out with a denial that it is Derek. And you say I've
got a preconceived idea about the affair. It seems to
me that you're the one with a preconceived notion. One
would think you'd made up your mind already on the
subject."
Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the counter-
thrust.
"There's something in what you say, perhaps, Jay.
But you must admit the whole business is a trifle un-
expected. It's hardly taking the line one might expect,
if everything were square and above-board. Let's as-
sume that it is Derek, and then you'll see what a lot's
left unexplained so far. First of all, it's years since the
war. Why hasn't he turned up before now? That's a
strange affair, surely. Then, when he does reappear,
why doesn't he come to me first of all? I'm the person
he left in charge of his affairs, and I should think his
first step would be to communicate with me. But no,
he comes down here unannounced; and he fixes up
some sort of clandestine meeting with you. That's a
rum go, to my mind. And there's more than that in it.
He meets you last night and has a talk with you; but
he doesn't suggest coming to see me. Or did he give
you any message for me?"
"He didn't, as it happens. But you seem to think we


l6 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
were talking as if it was all a matter of business, Paul.
It was a shock to me to have him back again. And I
daresay I did most of the talking, and he hadn't time
to give me any message for you. I was very shaken up
by it all, and he was so kind to me."
Her brother seemed to find little pleasure in the pic-
ture which she drew.
"Yes, I expect you did most of the talking, Jay. He
wouldn't interrupt you much. But, aside from all that,
it's getting near lunch-time now. He's had the whole
morning to break into the family circle; and yet he
hasn't come near. From what I remember of him, shy-
ness wasn't one of his defects. Whatever you may think
about it, that seems to me a bit fishy. Damned strange
in fact. I'm not taking up any definite stand in the
matter; but there are things that need a bit of ex-
plaining."
Miss Fordingbridge seemed for a moment to be stag-
gered by her brother's analysis; but she recovered her-
self almost at once and fastened upon his last point.
"Didn't I tell you that he was horribly disfigured?
Even in the moonlight he was a dreadful sight. Do you
expect him to come marching into this hotel in broad
daylight this morning, so that everyone can stare at
him? You really have very little common sense, Paul.
I think it shows that he wants to spare us all the tittle-
tattle he can. You know what hotels are, and how the
people in them are simply on the look-out for something
to chatter about. And when they got a chance like
this—missing heir returns, and so forth—you can guess
for yourself what it would be like. We'd have no life
of it, with people staring at us and whispering behind
our backs as we passed. And I think Derek has shown
a great deal of tact and common sense in behaving as


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS 17
he has done. Naturally he asked to see me first. He
knows how fond of him I was."
Her brother seemed to consider this fresh view of the
affair for a longer time than he had devoted to any of
her other statements. At last he shook his head doubt-
fully.
"It might be as you say, of course," he conceded
grudgingly. "We must wait and see what turns up. But
you can take it from me, Jay, that I shan't be satisfied
unless I get something a good deal better in the way of
evidence. It looks very like a parcel from a shop in
Queer Street, so far as it's gone."
Miss Fordingbridge seemed content to drop that
side of the matter, at least for the time. But she had
something further to say.
"Of course you'll drop this absurd idea of letting
Foxhills now, Paul?"
Her brother seemed irritated by this fresh turn given
to their conversation.
"Why should I? I've told you often enough that it's
my business to do the best I can for Derek; and the
rent of Foxhills would be worth having, even if Derek
did come back. You're not suggesting that he should
stay there, are you? It's far too big a place for a single
man, even if he wanted to live down here at Lynden
Sands."
Miss Fordingbridge was plainly put out by this sug-
gestion.
"Of course he would stay there. When he went away,
didn't I keep his rooms in order, just as he left them?
He could go back to-morrow and find his study exactly
as it was when he left us. Everything's there just as it
used to be: his books, his pipes, his old diary, his ash-
trays—everything. When we shut up Foxhills, I wanted


l8 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
to have everything ready so that when he came back
from the war he'd find everything in its usual place.
He .could walk straight in and feel that things were just
the same and that we hadn't forgotten him. And now
you want to let Foxhills just at the moment when he
comes back again—rob the poor boy of the only place
on this side of the world that he can call a home. I won't
have it, Paul!"
"Whether you have it or haven't it, Jay, is a matter
of total indifference. Until the power of attorney is re-
voked, I shall do exactly as seems best to me; and
letting Foxhills is one of the things I shall certainly
do."
"But I know Derek doesn't want it," cried Miss
Fordingbridge. "Last night I told him all about how
I'd kept his things for him so carefully; and if you'd
seen how touched the poor boy wasl He said it was
the thing that had touched him most. And he was ever
so grateful to me. And now you propose to spoil it all,
after those years!"
She switched off on to another subject.
"And what do you propose to do about poor old
Peter Hay? If you let Foxhills, it won't need a care-
taker; and I suppose you'll turn poor Peter adrift?
And, if you remember, Peter was one of the people that
Derek liked best when he was here before. He was al-
ways going about with Peter, and he said he found him
companionable. And he's learned a lot from Peter
about beasts and so on—all new to him—since he came
from Australia. But I suppose Peter's to go at a week's
notice? That's a nice way to serve people."
Her brother seemed to consider things before reply-
ing.
"I'll try to find something for Peter. You're quite


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
19
right, Jay. I didn't mean to turn Peter adrift, though.
If I have to sack him from the caretaker business, I'll
pay him out of my own pocket till something else turns
up. Peter's too decent a man to let down, especially
after he's been at Foxhills all his life. If it had been that
last valet we had—that fellow Aird—I'd never have
thought twice about throwing him out at a day's notice.
But you can trust me to look after Peter."
Miss Fordingbridge seemed slightly mollified by this
concession on her brother's part; but she stuck to her
main point.
"Well, you can't let Foxhills in any case. I won't
have it!"
But apparently her brother had wearied of argument,
for he made no reply.
"I shall be going up to Foxhills some time to-day. I
always go up to dust Derek's rooms, you know," she
continued.
"What on earth do you do that for?" her brother
demanded in an exasperated tone. "Are you training for
a housemaid's place? I hear there's a shortage in that
line, but you hardly seem to be a useful kind of re-
cruit, Jay."
"I've always looked after Derek's rooms. When he
was here at Foxhills in the old days, I never allowed
anyone to lay a finger on his study. I knew just how
he liked his things kept, and I wouldn't have maids
fussing round, displacing everything."
"Oh, of course you doted on the boy," her brother
retorted. "But it seems a bit unnecessary at this time
of day."
"Unnecessary? Just when Derek has come
back?"
Paul Fordingbridge made no attempt to conceal his


20
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
gesture of annoyance; but he refrained from reopening
the sore subject.
"Well, if you come across Peter, you can send him
down to me. I haven't seen him since we came here, and
I may as well have a talk about things. Probably there
are one or two repairs that need considering. Perhaps
you could go round by his cottage and make sure of
getting hold of him."
Miss Fordingbridge nodded her assent.
"I'll be quite glad to have a talk with Peter. Hell
be so delighted to know that Derek's back at last.
It was only the other day that we were talking
about Derek together. Peter thinks there's no one like
him."
"All the more reason for saying nothing, then. If it
turns out that it isn't Derek, it would disappoint Peter
badly if you'd raised his hopes."
Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his
sister's temper, he added hastily:
"By the way, how's Peter keeping? Has he had any
more of these turns of his—apoplexy, wasn't it?"
"He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the
other day. Of course, he's got to be careful and not
excite himself; but he seemed to me as if he'd quite
got over the slight attack he'd had in the spring."
"Still got his old squirrel?"
"It's still there. And the rest of the menagerie too.
He insisted on showing me them all, and of course I
had to pretend to be frightfully interested. Poor old
man, they're all he has now, since his wife died. It
would be very lonely for him up there, with no one
within a mile of him. His birds and things are great
company for him, he says."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the con-


THE DEATH AT FOXHILLS
21
versation was edging away from the dangerous subject.
He led it still further out of the zone.
"Have you see Cressida and Stanley this morning?
They'd finished breakfast and gone out before I came
on the scene."
"I think they were going to play golf. They ought to
be back presently."
She went to the window and gazed out for a moment
or two without speaking. Her brother took up The
Times and resumed his study of the share market, with
evident relief.
"This hotel spoils Lynden Sands," Miss Fording-
bridge broke out after a short silence. "It comes right
into the view from the front of Foxhills—great staring
building! And, wherever you go along the bay, you
see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view.
It'll ruin the place. And it'll give the villagers all
sorts of notions, too. Visitors always spoil a small
village."
Her brother made no reply, and when she halted in
her complaints he rustled his newspaper clumsily in an
obvious effort to discourage further conversation. Just
then a knock at the door was heard.
"Come in!" Miss Fordingbridge ordered.
A page-boy appeared.
"Message on the telephone for you, sir."
Paul Fordingbridge rose reluctantly and left the
room. He was absent for a very short time; and when
he came back his sister could see that he was disturbed.
"That was a message from the doctor. It seems poor
old Peter's gone."
"Gone? Do you mean anything's happened to him?"
"He's had another attack—some time in the night
or earlier. They didn't find out about it until the morn-


22
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
ing. The doctor's just been up at the cottage, so there's
no doubt about it."
"Poor Peter! He looked so well when I saw him the
other day. One would have thought he'd live to see
eighty. This will be a dreadful disappointment for
Derek. He was so fond of the old man."
She paused for a moment, as though she could hardly
believe the news.
"Are you sure there's no mistake, Paul?"
"None whatever. It was the doctor himself who rang
up. Peter had no relations, you know, so naturally we'll
need to look after things. He served us well, Jay."
"I remember when he came to Foxhills, and that's
years and years ago. The place won't seem quite the
same without him. Did the doctor tell you anything
about it, Paul?"
"No details. He just rung up to let us know, he
said, as we seemed to be the only people who had any
real connection with the old boy. Now I come to think
of it, that sawbones seemed a bit stuffy over something.
A bit abrupt in his manner over the 'phone. He's a new
man, apparently. I didn't know his name. Perhaps that
was what put him out."


CHAPTER II: A BUS-DRIVER'S HOLIDAY
Sir Clinton Driffield, after a careful examination of
the lie, deliberately put down a long putt on the last
green of the Lynden Sands course. His opponent,
Stanley Fleetwood, stooped and picked up his own ball.
"Your hole and match," he said, handing his putter
back to his caddie.
Sir Clinton nodded.
"Thanks for the game," he said. "We seem to be
fairly even. Much more fun when the thing's in doubt
up to the last green. Yes, you might clean 'em," he
added in reply to his caddie's inquiry. "I shan't want
them until to-morrow."
A girl had been sitting on one of the seats overlooking
the green; and, as the caddie replaced the pin in the
hole, she rose to her feet and came down towards the
players. Stanley Fleetwood waved to her, and then, in
response to her mute question, he made a gesture of
defeat.
"This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Cressida," he ex-
plained, as they met.
Sir Clinton had trained himself to observe minutely
without betraying that he was doing so; and he had a
habit of mentally docketing the results of his scrutiny.
Mannerisms were the points which he studied with most
attention. As Cressida Fleetwood came slowly towards
them, his apparently casual glance took in mechanically
the picture of a dark-haired girl still in her twenties,
slim and graceful; but his attention fastened mainly on
a faint touch of shyness which added to her charm; and


24 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
in the expression of her eyes he believed he read some-
thing more uncommon. It seemed as though a natural
frankness had been overlaid by a tinge of mistrust in
the world.
"I hope I didn't rob you of a game this morning by
taking your husband away, Mrs. Fleetwood," he said,
as they turned up the path leading to the hotel.
Cressida reassured him at once.
"As it happened," she explained, "I didn't feel in-
clined to play to-day, so he was left at a loose end; and
when you took pity on him, I was very glad to have
my conscience cleared."
"Well, it was lucky for me," Sir Clinton answered.
"The friend who's staying with me just now wouldn't
come out this morning. He strained his foot slightly
yesterday. So I was left in the lurch, and I was very
fortunate in finding Mr. Fleetwood free to take me on."
They entered the grounds of the hotel, and, at a turn
in the path, Cressida Fleetwood bowed to a girl who
passed their group. The new-comer was handsome
rather than pretty; and there was a hint of hardness in
her face which detracted a little from her charm. She
was dressed with a finish rather unusual at that time of
day in a golfing hotel; and her walk lacked the free
swing characteristic of the athletic English girl. Written
fairly plainly on her were the signs of a woman who has
had to look after her own interests and who has not
always come out a winner in the game.
When she had passed out of earshot, Cressida turned
to her husband.
"That's the French girl I told you about, Stanley—
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. I found her in some diffi-
culty or other at the hotel desk—her English isn't quite
perfect—so I helped her out a little."


a bus-driver's holiday 25
Stanley Fleetwood nodded without comment; and
Sir Clinton had little difficulty in seeing that he had no
desire for his wife to extend her acquaintance with
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. He could not help specu-
lating as to the cause which had brought the French-
woman into this quiet backwater, where she had no
amusements, apparently, and no acquaintances.
Before he had time to turn the matter over in his
mind, however, his train of thought was interrupted
by the appearance of a fresh figure.
"How's the strain, squire?" he greeted the new-
comer i and, as Wendover came up to the group, he
introduced him to his two companions, r
"I hope you enjoyed your round," said Wendover,
turning to Stanley Fleetwood. "Did he manage to work
off any of his special expertise on you this morning?"
"He beat me, if that's what you mean."
"H'm! He beats me usually," Wendover confessed.
"I don't mind being beaten by play; but I hate to be
beaten by the rules."
"What do you mean, Mr. Wendover? You seem to
have a grievance," Cressida asked, seeing a twinkle in
Wendover's eye.
"The fact is," Wendover explained, "yesterday my
ball rolled up against a large worm on the green and
stopped there. I'm of a humane disposition, so I bent
down to remove the worm, rather than putt across its
helpless body. He objected, if you please, on the ground
that one may not remove anything growing. I don't
know whether it was growing or not—it looked to me
remarkably well grown for a worm, and had probably
passed the growing age. But, when I urged that, he
simply floored me by quoting a recent decision of the
Royal and Ancient on the point."


26
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"If you play a game, you must play that game and
not one you invent on the spur of the moment, squire,"
Sir Clinton warned him, with no sign of sympathy in
his tone. "Ignorance of the law is no excuse."
"Hark to the chief constable!" Wendover com-
plained. "Of course, his mind dotes on the legal aspect
of things, and he's used to keeping all sorts of rules and
regulations in his head. His knowledge of the laws
of golf is worth a couple of strokes on his handicap
on any average round."
Cressida glanced at Sir Clinton.
"Are you really a chief constable?" she asked.
"Somehow you aren't like the idea I had of chief
constables."
"I'm on holiday at present," Sir Clinton answered
lightly; "perhaps that makes a difference. But I'm
sorry to fall below your ideal—especially in my own
district. If you could tell me what you miss, perhaps I
could get it. What's wanted? Constabulary boots, or
beetle-brows, or a note-book ready to hand, or a mag-
nifying glass, or anything of that sort?"
"Not quite. But I thought you'd look more like an
official somehow."
"Well, in a way that's a compliment. I've spent a fair
part of my existence trying hard not to look like an
official. I wasn't born a chief constable, you know. I
was once a mere detective sort of person at the other
end of the world."
"Were you really? But, then, you don't look like my
idea of a detective, either!"
Sir Clinton laughed.
"I'm afraid you're hard to please, Mrs. Fleetwood.
Mr. Wendover's just as bad. He's a faithful reader of
the classics, and he simply can't imagine anyone going


a bus-driver's holiday
27
in for detective work without a steely eye and a mag-
nifying glass. It jars on his finer feelings merely to think
of a detective without either of them. The only thing
that saves me is that I'm not a detective nowadays; and
he salves his conscience by refusing to believe that I
ever was one."
Wendover took up the challenge.
"I've only seen you at work once in the detective
line," he confessed, "and I must admit I thought your
methods were simply deplorable, Clinton."
"Quite right," Sir Clinton admitted: "I disappointed
you badly in that Maze affair, I know. Even the success
in the end hardly justified the means employed in
reaching it. Let's draw a veil, eh?"
They had reached the door of the hotel, and, after a
few words, Cressida and her husband went into the
building.
"Nice pair they make," Wendover remarked,
glancing after them as they went. "I like to see
youngsters of that type. They somehow make you feel
that the younger generation isn't any worse than its
parents; and that it has a good deal less fuss about it,
too. Reinstates one's belief in humanity, and all that
sort of thing."
"Yes," Sir Clinton concurred, with a faint twinkle in
his eye. "Some people one takes to instinctively. It's
the manner that does it. I remember a man I once ran
across—splendid fellow, charm, magnetic personality,
and so on."
His voice died away, as though he had lost interest in
the matter.
"Yes?" Wendover inquired, evidently feeling that
the story had stopped too soon.
"He was the worst poker-sharp on the liner," Sir


28
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Clinton .added gently. "Charm of manner was one of
his assets, you know."
Wendover's annoyance was only half-feigned.
"You've a sordid mind, Clinton. I don't like to hear
you throwing out hints about people in that way. Any-
one can see that's a girl out of the common; and all you
can think of in that connection is card-sharps."
Sir Clinton seemed sobered by his friend's vexa-
tion.
"You're quite right, squire," he agreed. "She's out
of the common, as you say. I don't know anything
about her history, but it doesn't take much to see that
something's happened to her. She looks as if she'd
taken the world at her own measure at first, trusted
everybody. And then she got a devil of a shock one day.
At least, if that isn't in her eyes, then I throw in my
hand. I've seen the same expression once or twice be-
fore."
They entered the hotel and sat down in the lounge.
Wendover glanced from the window across the links.
"This place will be quite good when the new course
has been played over for a year or two. I shouldn't
wonder if Lynden Sands became fairly popular."
Sir Clinton was about to reply when a page-boy
entered the lounge and paraded slowly across it, chant-
ing in a monotonous voice:
"Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Num-
ber eighty-nine!"
The chief constable sat up sharply and snapped his
fingers to attract the page-boy's attention.
"That's the number of my room," he said to
Wendover, "but I can't think of anyone who might
want me. Nobody knows me in this place."
"You number eighty-nine, sir?" the page-boy


a bus-driver's holiday 29
demanded. "There's somebody asking for you. In-
spector Armadale, he said his name was."
"Armadale? What the devil can he be wanting?"
Sir Clinton wondered aloud. "Show him in, please."
In a minute or two the inspector appeared.
"I suppose it's something important, inspector," Sir
Clinton greeted him, "otherwise you wouldn't have
come. But I can't imagine what brings you here."
Inspector Armadale glanced at Wendover, and then,
without speaking, he caught Sir Clinton's eye. The
chief constable read the meaning in his glance.
"This is a friend of mine, inspector—Mr. Wendover.
He's a J. P. and perfectly reliable. You can speak freely
before him, if it's anything official."
Armadale was obviously relieved.
"This is the business, Sir Clinton. This morning we
had a 'phone message from the Lynden Sands doctor.
It seems the caretaker at a big house hereabouts—
Foxhills, they call it—was found dead, close to his
cottage. Dr. Rafford went up to see the body; and at
first he thought it was a case of apoplexy. Then he
noticed some marks on the body that made him sus-
picious, and he says he won't give a death certificate.
He put the matter into our hands at once. There's no-
body except a constable hereabouts, so I've come over
myself to look into things. Then it struck me you were
staying at the hotel here, and I thought I'd drop in on
my way up."
Sir Clinton gazed at the inspector with a very faintly
quizzical expression.
"A friendly call?" he said. "That's very nice. Care
to stay to lunch?"
The inspector evidently had not expected to find the
matter taken in this way.


30 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Well, sir," he said tentatively, "I thought perhaps
you might be interested."
"Intensely, inspector, intensely. Come and tell me
all about it when it's cleared up. I wouldn't miss it."
Faint signs of exasperation betrayed themselves in
the inspector's face.
"I thought, perhaps, sir, that you'd care to come over
with me and look into the thing yourself. It seems a
bit mysterious."
Sir Clinton stared at him in well-assumed amaze-
ment.
"We seem to be rather at cross-purposes, inspector.
Let's be clear. First of all, I'm on holiday just now, and
criminal affairs have nothing to do with me. Second,
even if I weren't on holiday, a chief constable isn't
specially attached to the find-'em-and-grab-'em branch
of the service. Third, it might cause professional jeal-
ousy, heart-burnings, and what not, if I butted into a
detective's case. What do you think?"
"It's my case," Armadale said, abandoning all fur-
ther attempt at camouflage. "The plain truth is, from
all I heard over the 'phone, that it seems a rum busi-
ness; and I'd like to have your opinion on it, if you'd
be so good as to give me it after you've examined
things for yourself."
Sir Clinton's face relaxed.
"Ah," he confessed. "Now I seem to have some
glimmerings of what you're after; and, since there's no
question of my having interfered without being asked,
I might look into the affair. But if I'm doing you a
favour—as you seem to think—then I'm going to lay
down one condition, sine qua non. Mr. Wendover's in-
terested in detective work. He knows all the classics:
Sherlock Holmes, Hanaud, Thorndyke, etc. So, if I


a bus-driver's holiday 31
come in, then he's to be allowed to join us. Agree to
that, inspector?"
The inspector looked rather sourly at Wendover, as
though trying to estimate how great a nuisance he was
likely to prove; but, as Sir Clinton's assistance could
evidently be secured only at a price, Armadale gave a
rather ungracious consent to the proposed arrangement.
Sir Clinton seemed almost to regret his own decision.
"I'd hardly bargained for a bus-driver's holiday," he
said rather ruefully.
A glance at the inspector's face showed that the
expression had missed its mark. Sir Clinton made his
meaning clearer.
"In the old horse-bus days, inspector, it was ru-
moured that when a bus-driver got a holiday he spent
it on somebody else's bus, picking up tips from the
driver. It seems that you want me to spend my holiday
watching you do police work and picking up tips from
your methods."
Inspector Armadale evidently suspected something
behind the politeness with which Sir Clinton had turned
his phrase. He looked rather glumly at his superior as
he replied:
"I see I'm going to get the usual mixture, sir—help
and sarcasm, half and half. Well, my hide's been tanned
already; and your help's worth it."
Sir Clinton corrected him with an air of exactitude
"What I said was that I'd 'look into the affair.' It's
your case, inspector. I'm not taking it off your shoul-
ders, you understand. I don't mind prowling round with
you; but the thing's in your hands officially, and I've
nothing to do with it except as a spectator, remember."
Armadale's air became even gloomier when he heard
this point of view so explicitly laid down.


32 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"You mean it's to be just the same as the Ravens-
thorpe affair, I suppose," he suggested. "Each of us
has all the facts we collect, but you don't tell me what
you think of them as we get them. Is that it, sir?"
Sir Clinton nodded.
"That's it, inspector. Now, if you and Mr. Wendover
will go round to the front of this place, I'll get my car
out and pick you up in a minute or two."


CHAPTER III: THE POLICE AT THE
CARETAKER'S
Wendover, scanning his friend's face, could see that
all the carelessness had vanished from its expression.
With the prospect of definite work before him, Sir
Clinton seemed to have dropped his holiday mood
completely.
"I think the first port of call should be the doctor," he
suggested as he turned the car into the road leading to
Lynden Sands village. "We'd better start at the begin-
ning, inspector; and the doctor seems likely to have
been the earliest expert on the spot."
They found Dr. Rafford in his garden, tinkering at
a spotless motor-cycle; and Wendover was somewhat
impressed by the obvious alertness of the young medico.
Armadale introduced his companions, and then went
straight to the point.
"I've come over about that case, doctor—the care-
taker at Foxhills. Can you give us something to go on
before we start to look into it up there?"
Dr. Rafford's air of efficiency was not belied when he
told his story.
"This morning, at about half-past eight, young Colby
came hammering at my door in a great state. He does
some of the milk delivery round about here; and Peter
Hay's house is one at which he leaves milk. It seems he
went up there as usual; but when he got to the gate of
the cottage he saw old Hay's body lying on the path up
to the door. I needn't describe how it was lying; you'll


34 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
see for yourself. I didn't disturb it—didn't need to."
Inspector Armadale's nod conveyed his satisfaction
at this news. The doctor continued:
"Young Colby's only a child; so he got a bit of a
fright. His head's screwed on all right, though; and he
came straight off here to get hold of me. Luckily I
hadn't gone out on my rounds as early as that, and he
found me just finishing breakfast. I got my bike out
and went up to Foxhills immediately.
"When I heard young Colby's tale, I naturally
concluded that poor old Hay had had a stroke. I'd been
doing my best to treat him for high blood-pressure, off
and on; but I hadn't been able to do much for him; and
once or twice he'd had slight attacks. He was bound to
go, some time or other; and I concluded that he'd had a
final attack through over-exertion or something of the
sort."
He paused in his narrative for a moment and glanced
from face to face in the group.
"You'll see, from this, foul play was the last thing
that entered my mind. I got up to his cottage and found
him, just as young Colby had said, lying face down on
the garden path. From the look of him he'd obviously
died of congestion. It seemed all plain sailing. In fact, I
was just going to leave him and hunt up some assistance
when my eye caught something. His arms were
stretched out at full length above his head, as if he'd
gone down all of a piece, you know; and his right sleeve
had got rucked up a little, so that it showed a bit of
his arm. And my eye happened to catch a mark on the
skin just above the wrist. It was pretty faint; but
there had evidently been some compression there. It
puzzled me—still puzzles me. However, that's your
affair. It struck me that I might as well have a look


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 35
at the other arm, so I pushed up the coat-sleeve a little
—that's the only thing I did to alter things in any way
around the body—and I found a second mark there,
rather like the first one."
He paused, as if to give the inspector the chance of
putting a question; but, as none came, he went on with
his story.
"The impression I got—of course, I may be wrong—
was that marks of that sort might be important. Cer-
tainly, after seeing them, I didn't care to assert that
poor old Hay's death was due entirely to natural causes.
He'd died of congestion, all right. I'm dead sure that a
P. M. will confirm that. But congestion doesn't make
marks on a man's wrists. It seemed to me worth ring-
ing you up. If it's a mare's nest, then it's a mare's
nest, and I'll be sorry to have troubled you. But I be-
lieve in having things done ship-shape; and I'd rather
trouble you than get into hot water myself, if there's
anything fishy about the affair."
Inspector Armadale seemed rather dubious about
how he should take the matter. To Wendover it almost
looked as though he was regretting the haste with
which he had brought Sir Clinton into the business. If
the whole thing turned out to be a mare's nest, quite
evidently Armadale expected to feel the flick of his
superior's sarcasm. And obviously a couple of marks
on a dead man's wrists did not necessarily spell foul
play, since the man had clearly died of cerebral con-
gestion, according to the doctor's own account.
At last the Inspector decided to ask a question or two.
"You don't know of anyone with a grudge against
Hay?"
Rafford made no attempt to restrain a smile.
"Hay?" he said. "No one could possibly have a


36 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
grudge against Peter. He was one of the decentest old
chaps you could find anywhere—always ready to do a
good turn to anyone."
"And yet you assert that he was murdered?" de-
manded the inspector.
"No, I don't," the doctor retorted sharply. "All I
say is that I don't feel justified in signing a death cer-
tificate. That ends my part. After that, it's your move."
Armadale apparently realised that Rafford was not
the sort of person who could be bluffed easily. He tried
a fresh line.
"When do you think the death took place?"
The doctor considered for a moment.
"It's no good giving you a definite hour," he said.
"You know as well as I do how much the symptoms
vary from case to case. I think it's quite on the cards
that he died some time about the middle of the night or
a little earlier. But you couldn't get me to swear to that
in the box, I warn you."
"I've often heard it said," the inspector commented
in a disconsolate tone, "that you scientific people
make the worst witnesses. You never will say 'yes' or
'no' plainly like ordinary people. You're always hedg-
ing and qualifying."
"Had a training in accuracy, I expect," Rafford
replied. "We don't feel inclined to swear to things until
we're convinced about them ourselves."
Armadale evidently decided not to pursue the subject
further.
"What about the body?" he asked.
"I sent Sapcote up to look after it—the village con-
stable. He's up at Foxhills now. If it was to be left for
your examination somebody had to be there to see it
wasn't disturbed."


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 37
The inspector nodded approvingly.
"Quite right. And I suppose I can get hold of this
youngster—Colby's his name, isn't it?—any time I
need him?"
Rafford gave him the boy's address, which he took
down in his note-book.
"Anything else you can think of that might be use-
ful?" he inquired, putting the book back into his pocket.
The doctor shook his head.
"Nix. I suppose the coroner will want a look in?"
"I expect so," Armadale replied.
He glanced at Wendover and Sir Clinton to indicate
that he now left the field to them. Wendover took ad-
vantage of the tacit permission.
"You didn't see anything that suggested poison, did
you?" he asked the doctor.
Rafford's faint smile put an edge on his reply:
"I believe I said that if it hadn't been for the
marks on the wrists, I'd have certified congestion of
the brain. I don't think poison marks the wrists."
Wendover, feeling that he had hardly shone by his
interposition, refrained from further questions and
glanced at Sir Clinton. The chief constable appeared to
think that further inquiries could be allowed to stand
over for a time.
"I think we'd better be moving on," he suggested.
"Thanks for your help, Dr. Rafford. Once we've seen
the body, perhaps something fresh may turn up, and
we may have to trouble you again. By the way," he
added, "did you notice if there was a heavy dew last
night? I was playing bridge at the hotel and didn't go
out after dinner; but perhaps you were out and can
tell me."
"The dew did come down fairly heavy," Rafford


38 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
said, after a pause for recollection. "I happened to be
out at a case, and I noticed it. Are you thinking about
the possibility of Hay's death being due to exposure?"
"Not exactly," Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly
ironical smile. "As you would say, doctor, exposure
doesn't mark a man's wrist—at least not so quick as
all that."
Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and
accompanied them to the garden gate as they went out.
"I hope I haven't started you on a wild-goose chase,
inspector," he said on parting. "But I suppose that sort
of thing's all in your day's work, anyhow."
Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun
along towards Foxhills; then at last he uttered his
views in a single sentence:
"That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly
jaunty."
And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately
silent until they had reached their destination.
"This is the place, I think," Sir Clinton said a few
minutes later, pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue
at a point where a side-road led off towards a little
cottage among some trees. "I can see the constable in
the garden."
Getting out of the car, they made their way along the
by-lane for a short distance, and, as they came to the
garden gate, Armadale hailed the constable. Sapcote
had been sitting on a wooden chair beside the body,
reading a newspaper to while away the time; but at
the sound of the inspector's voice he rose and came
forward along the flagged path.
"Things have been left just as they were, I suppose?"
Armadale demanded.
Sapcote confirmed this and at once fell into the back-


police At the caretaker's 39
ground, evidently realising that he had nothing to re-
port which would interest the inspector. He contented
himself with following the proceedings of his superior
with the closest interest, possibly with a view to re-
tailing them later to his friends in the village.
Armadale stepped up the paved path and knelt down
beside the body, which was lying—as the doctor had
described it—face downwards with the arms extended
above the head.
"H'm! Looks as if he'd just stumbled and come down
on his face," the inspector commented. "No signs of
any struggle, anyhow."
He cast a glance at the paved path.
"There's not much chance of picking up tracks on
that," he said disparagingly.
Wendover and Sir Clinton had come round to the
head of the body and the chief constable bent down to
examine the wrists. Armadale also leaned over; and
Wendover had some difficulty in getting a glimpse over
their shoulders. Constable Sapcote hovered uncertainly
in the rear, evidently anxious to see all he could, but
afraid to attract the inspector's attention by pushing
forward. Wendover inferred that Armadale must have
a reputation as a disciplinarian.
"There seem to be marks of a sort," the inspector
admitted grudgingly, after a brief study of the skin.
"Whether they mean anything in particular's another
matter. He might have had a fall at the gate and banged
his wrists against a bar; and then he might have got
up and staggered on until he fell here and died."
Sir Clinton had been studying the marks with more
deliberation. He shook his head at the inspector's sug-
gestion.
"The gate-bars are rounded, if you look at them.


40 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Now at one point this mark—see it?—shows a sharp
line on the flesh. It's only at one place, I admit; the
rest of the marking is more like something produced by
general pressure. But still, you can't mistake that bit
there."
Armadale re-examined the mark with more care be-
fore replying.
"I see what you mean," he admitted.
"Then go and try your own arm against the gate-
bars and I think you'll admit it won't work."
The inspector moved off to the gate, slipped his
sleeve up, and pressed his forearm hard against the
most convenient bar. While he was thus engaged,
Wendover stooped down to examine the markings for
himself.
"What made you so ready with gate-bars,
Clinton?" he inquired. "I never noticed what sort of
a gate it was when I came in."
"Obvious enough. Here's a man been falling. Marks
on his wrists. We learned that from the doctor. Natu-
rally when I heard it, I began to wonder if he hadn't
fallen against something; and as soon as we got out
of the car, I kept my eye open for anything that Hay
could have bruised himself on. The gate-bars seemed a
likely thing, so I noted them in passing. One keeps one's
eyes open, squire. But as soon as I saw this"—he in-
dicated the edge on the marking where the indentation
in the flesh was almost straight—"I gave the gate-bars
the go-by. They couldn't have done it."
He glanced up.
"Satisfied, inspector?"
Armadale removed his arm from the bar, examined
the mark left on it by the pressure, and nodded gloom-
fly.


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 41
"This didn't do it. It leaves a mark deep in the
middle and fading out on each side."
He came back to the body and scanned the mark
once more.
"This thing on the wrist hasn't got any middle. It's
fairly even, except for that sharp section."
A thought seemed to strike him and he pulled a mag-
nifying glass from his pocket, adjusted the focus, and
made a minute inspection of the dead man's wrist.
"I thought it might have been a rope," he explained
as he put away his lens with a disappointed air. "But
there's no regular pattern there such as a rope leaves.
What do you think of it, Sir Clinton?"
"Got a piece of chalk in your pocket, inspector?"
the chief constable inquired.
Armadale's face showed some astonishment, which
he endeavoured to conceal as well as he could.
"No, Sir Clinton, I haven't."
"Are you thinking of bringing a photographer up
here to take a souvenir picture?"
The inspector considered for a moment or two.
"No," he said at last. "I don't see much use in that.
The body's lying quite naturally, isn't it?"
"It looks like it; but one never knows."
Sir Clinton's fingers went mechanically to his waist-
coat pocket.
"No chalk, you said, inspector?"
"No, I haven't any."
"Ah, and yet some people tell you that playing pool
is a waste of time; and that the habit of chalking your
cue and then pocketing the chalk is reprehensible. We
now confound them."
He produced a cube of billiard-chalk as he spoke
and, taking out a penknife, trimmed the paper away.


42 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Just chalk around the outline of the body, please,
inspector. This paved path will show the marks ex-
cellently. If we need the marks later on, we can always
lay some boards over them to keep the rain off."
While the inspector, obviously much against the
grain, was chalking his lines, Sir Clinton turned to the
constable.
"Perhaps you could give us some help, constable.
Did you know Peter Hay?"
"Knew him well, sir."
"You can't throw any light on this business?"
"No, sir. It's amazing to me, sir, if there's anything
in what the doctor says."
"Ah! And what does the doctor say?"
"Swears it's foul play somehow, sir."
"Indeed? He didn't go so far as that when he spoke
to me about it."
The constable seemed rather confused to find himself
taken so literally.
"Didn't quite mean that, sir. What I meant was I
could see from his manner that something's amiss."
Sapcote, conscious that he had let his tongue run
away with him, glanced anxiously at Sir Clinton's face.
The expression on it reassured him. Evidently this
wasn't the kind of a man who would eat you if you
made a slip. The chief constable rose considerably in
his subordinate's estimation.
"Nice little garden, this," Sir Clinton remarked,
casting his eyes round the tiny enclosure. "A bit on
the shady side, perhaps, with all these trees about. Did
you ever come up here to visit Peter Hay, constable?"
"Often and often, sir. Many's the time we've sat on
that seat over there when I've been off duty; or else in
the house if it got too cold for my rheumatism."


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 43
"Suffer from rheumatism, constable? That's hard
lines. One of my friends has some stuff he uses for it;
he swears by the thing. I'll write down the name for you
and perhaps it'll do you some good."
Sir Clinton tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, jotted
a name on it, and handed the paper over to the con-
stable, who seemed overwhelmed by the attention.
Decidedly this superior of his was a "real good
sort."
"Peter Hay was getting on in like," Sir Clinton went
on, with a glance at the silvering hair of the body be-
fore him. "I suppose he had his troubles too. Rheuma-
tism, or something like that?"
"No, sir. Nothing of the kind. Barring these strokes
of his, he was sound as a bell. Used to go about in all
weathers and never minded the rain. Never seemed to
feel the cold the way I do. Kept his jacket for the
church, they used to say about here. Often in the
evenings we'd be sitting here and I'd say to him: 'Here,
Peter, shirt-sleeves must keep you warmer than my
coat keeps me, but it's time to be moving inside.' And
then in we'd go and he'd begin fussing about with that
squirrel of his."
"What sort of a man was he?" Sir Clinton asked.
"Stiff with strangers, or anything like that? Suppose
I'd come wandering in here, would he have been grumpy
when he came to turn me out?"
"Grumpy, sir? That's the last thing you'd have
called him. Or stiff. He was always smiling and had a
kind word for everyone, sir. One of the decentest men
you could ask for, sir. Very polite to gentlefolk, al-
ways; and a nice kindly manner with everyone."
"Not the sort of man to have a bad enemy, then?"
"No, indeed, sir."


44 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Inspector Armadale had finished his work with the
chalk and was now standing by, evidently impatient to
get on with the task in hand. His face betrayed only
too plainly that he thought Sir Clinton was wasting
time.
"Finished?" the chief constable inquired.
"Quite," Armadale replied, in a tone which hinted
strongly that there was much more to be done.
"In that case, we can turn the body over." Sir
Clinton said, stepping forward as he spoke and beckon-
ing to the constable.
Handling him gently, they turned the dead man on
his back; and, before rising, Sir Clinton ran his hand
over the front of the body. As he stood up, he motioned
to Armadale to follow his example.
"His waistcoat and trousers are a bit damp," the
inspector said, after he had felt them. "Is that what
you mean?"
Sir Clinton nodded in confirmation. An expression of
comprehension flitted across the inspector's face.
"So that was why you asked about the dew last
night?" he observed. "I wondered what you were
after, sir."
"Something of the sort was in my mind," the chief
constable admitted. "Now have a look at the face,
inspector. Has there been any bleeding at the nose?
Or do you see anything else of any interest?"
Armadale bent down and inspected the dead man's
face closely.
"Nothing out of the common that I can see," he
reported. "Of course, the face is congested a bit. That
might be the stroke, I suppose."
"Or else the settling of the blood by gravity after
death," Sir Clinton pointed out. "Well, I hadn't ex-


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER*S 45
pected to find any nose-bleeding. If he'd bled at the
nose it might have saved him from apoplexy."
Armadale looked up inquiringly.
"You think it's merely apoplexy, sir?"
"I'm afraid this is a 'place' within the meaning of
the Act, inspector; otherwise I'd be quite ready to bet
you a considerable sum that if Dr. Rafford carries out a
post mortem, he'll report that death was due to con-
gestion of the brain."
The inspector seemed to read some hidden meaning
into Sir Clinton's words, for he nodded sagely without
making any vocal comment.
"What next, sir?" he asked. "Shall we take the body
into the cottage and go over it there?"
Sir Clinton shook his head.
"Not yet. There's just one thing I'd like to be sure
about; and it may not be easy to see. There's a better
light out here. Turn up the trousers from the ankle,
inspector, and have a good look for marks—probably
on the front of the shins. It's a long shot, but I've a
notion you'll find something there."
Armadale did as he was bidden.
"You're right, sir. There's a very faint mark—far
fainter than the ones on the wrists—on the front of
each shin, just as you said. It's more like a very faint
bruise than a mark made by stumbling against any-
thing. The skin's not broken. Of course it shows up
after death, otherwise I'd hardly have seen it."
Sir Clinton nodded without making any comment.
He was stooping over the dead man's face, examining
it closely. After a moment or two, he signed to Wend-
over to come to his side.
"Smell anything peculiar, squire?"
Wendover sniffed sagaciously once or twice; his face


4.6 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
lighted up; and then a look of perplexity came over
his features.
"I know that smell, Clinton. I recognise it well
enough; but I can't put a name to it somehow."
"Think again," the chief constable advised. "Go
back to your early days and you'll probably recall it."
Wendover sniffed several times, but remained baf-
fled. A look of interest passed over Sapcote's face. He
came forward, bent down, and sniffed in his turn.
"I know what it is, sir. It's pear-drops—these sweets
the children eat. Peter always had a bag of sweets in
the place for youngsters that came to see him."
"That's it," Wendover exclaimed with some relief.
"I knew I hadn't smelt that perfume for ages and ages;
and yet it used to be familiar once upon a time."
Sir Clinton seemed to have passed to an earlier line
of thought. He turned to the constable.
"Peter Hay suffered from apoplexy, the doctor told
me. Had he any other troubles? Bad digestion?
Asthma? Anything you can think of?"
Sapcote shook his head decidedly.
"No, sir," he said without hesitation. "Peter was as
sound as a bell, barring these turns of his. I never heard
tell of his having anything else wrong with him these
last ten years."
The chief constable nodded, as though the informa-
tion had satisfied him, but he refrained from comment.
"I think we'd better get him carried into his own bed
now," he suggested with a glance at the body. "After
that, we can look round the place and see if there's
anything worth noting."
They carried the remains of Peter Hay into the cot-
tage and laid the body on the bed, which had not been
slept in.


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 47
"You'd better examine him, inspector," Sir Clinton
suggested.
As the inspector set to work, the chief constable
invited his companions to come into the second room of
the cottage; and he left the bedroom door open, so that
the inspector could hear anything of interest while he
made his examination.
To Wendover, the tiny room seemed to offer little of
interest. It was obviously kitchen and living-room in
one. An oil cooking-stove; a grate; a sink; a dresser;
two chairs and a table—these made up the more ob-
vious contents. His eye wandered upwards and was
caught by the movement of a tame squirrel in its cage
on one of the walls.
"I heard he kept some pets," he remarked to the
constable who had gone across to inspect the squirrel
with a rather gloomy expression on his face.
"Yes, sir," Sapcote answered. "He took a lot of
pleasure in the beasts. Some of them are in cages out
behind the cottage."
He reflected for a moment, then added:
"Somebody'll have to look after the poor beasts, now
he's gone. Would there be any objection to my taking
them away, sir? They'll have to be fed."
Sir Clinton, to whom the question was obviously
addressed, gave permission at once.
"We mustn't let the beasts starve. You'll have to take
the cages too, of course?"
"Yes, sir. I can put them in my backyard at
home."
The constable paused for a moment, then, a little
shamefacedly, he added:
"Peter was a good friend to me; and I wouldn't like
to see his pets fall into anybody's hands that might be


48 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
cruel to them or neglect them. He was real fond of
them."
Wendover's eye fell upon a small white paper bag on
one of the dresser shelves. He stepped across, opened
the parcel, sniffed for a moment, and then handed the
thing to Sir Clinton.
"Here's where the perfume comes from, Clinton—a
bag of pear-drops, just as the constable said. He must
have been eating some just before he died."
The chief constable looked at the crumbled paper.
"Not much chance of getting any fingerprints on
that, even if we wanted them. You'd better hand the
bag over to the inspector. We may as well get them
analysed. Poison's always a possibility Ah, in-
spector, you haven't been long over that."
Inspector Armadale emerged from the bedroom and
stolidly made his report.
"Nothing that I can see on the body, sir, except the
marks we noted already. No wounds of any sort, no
bruises—nothing suspicious whatever. It almost looks
like a mare's nest, except for these four marks."
Sir Clinton nodded as though he had received con-
firmation of some very doubtful hypothesis. He moved
across the room and seemed to become engrossed in a
study of the squirrel's antics. In a few moments he
turned to the constable.
"You knew Peter Hay well, constable. I want some
notions about his habits and so forth. What did he do
with himself all day?"
The constable scratched his ear, as though to stimu-
late his memory by the action.
"To tell you the truth, sir, he didn't do much. He
was only caretaker here, you understand? When the
weather was fine, he'd go up to Foxhills and open some


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 49
of the windows in the morning, to air the rooms. Then
he'd take a look round the grounds, likely, just to see
that all was as it should be. He might have to go down
to the village for tea, or butter, or something like that.
Then he'd come home and take his dinner. In the after-
noon he'd have a bit of a sleep for a while—he was get-
ting on in years—and then perhaps he'd dig a while in
his garden here; look after his flowers; then he'd have
his tea. Some time or other, he'd go up and look round
Foxhills again and shut any windows he'd opened. And
then he'd come back here; water his garden, most
likely, if it needed it. And perhaps some of us would
drop in for a chat with him. Or else he might take a
walk down to see me or somebody else in the village. Or
sometimes he'd read."
Sir Clinton threw a glance round the barely furnished
room.
"He had books, then? I don't see any."
"He read his Bible, sir. I never saw him read any-
thing else."
"There's a Bible in the bedroom, Sir Clinton,"
Armadale confirmed.
"An uneventful life, apparently," the chief constable
commented, not unkindly. "Now I want to hear some-
thing about what sort of man he was. Polite in his
manners, you said?"
"Very polite," Sapcote insisted. "I remembered hear-
ing some visitor once saying that Peter was a natural
gentleman, sir."
"They do exist, here and there, even nowadays," Sir
Clinton admitted. "Now let's come down to dots, con-
stable. I want to get a picture of him in my mind and
you seem to have known him well enough to help. Let's
see, now. Suppose I'd met him somewhere and offered


50 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
to come and see him—or that he'd asked me here. What
would happen? I suppose I'd knock at the door and he'd
come and let me in. Which chair would he give me?"
"Whichever you liked best, sir. They're much the
same. If there'd been any difference he'd have given
you the best one."
"Quite so. I'm beginning to see him better. Now go
on, constable. He'd have been easy and natural, too, if
I can gauge him. He'd just have met me in his shirt-
sleeves as he used to meet you? No fuss?"
"He'd have made no fuss, sir. But he'd have put
on his jacket for you, you being a strange gentleman
coming to his house on a special visit; and perhaps
he'd have offered you a cup of tea if the time was
right for- it."
"And if it was later in the evening? Some whiskey,
if he had any?"
"No, sir. Peter was a strong teetotaller."
Sir Clinton glanced over the dresser on which all the
idishes were neatly stacked.
"He was a tidy man, I see?"
"Very, sir. Always had everything ship-shape. He
never could bear to have things lying about. Sometimes
he used to anger me because he'd wash up his tea-things
when I wanted to talk to him. Of course, if it had been
you, I expect he'd wait till you'd gone. It wouldn't have
been polite to wash up with a stranger there."
"You're helping me a great deal, constable," said Sir
Clinton encouragingly. "Now, another thing. I suppose
he must have saved some money. He seems to have
lived very simply—no expenses to speak of?"
"That's right, sir. He put all he could spare into the
savings-bank at the post office. All he kept in the house
was what he needed to buy things in the village."


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 51
"So I expected. You see how well you've pictured
him, constable. Now where did he keep his money—
his loose cash?"
"In that drawer in the dresser," the constable said,
pointing to one of the larger drawers which had a lock
on it. "He carried the key about with him."
"See if you can get the key, inspector, please. You'll
find it in his pocket, I expect."
Armadale produced the key almost at once, and Sir
Clinton opened the drawer. As he did so, the constable
uttered a cry of astonishment. Wendover, leaning for-
ward, saw that the drawer held more than a little money
—some silver articles were in it as well.
Sir Clinton warned them back with a gesture.
"Don't touch. We may have to look for fingerprints
here. These things seem to have a crest on them," he
continued, after scrutinising them.
"That's the Foxhills' mark, sir," the constable has-
tened to explain. "But it beats me what Peter Hay
was doing with these things. That one there"—he
pointed it out—"comes from the Foxhills' drawing-
room. I remember seeing it, one time Peter and I went
round the house when he was shutting the windows for
the night. It's valuable, isn't it, sir? Peter told me these
things were worth something—quite apart from the
silver in them—and I suppose he'd learned that from
somebody or other—one of the family, most like."
Sir Clinton left the silver articles alone and picked
up the money which lay in one corner of the drawer.
"One pound seven and four pence ha'penny. Would
that be more or less what you'd expect to see here, con-
stable?"
"Somewhere round about that, sir, seeing it's this
time in the week."


52 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Sir Clinton idly picked up the savings-bank book,
looked at the total of the balance, and put the book
down again. Evidently it suggested nothing in particu-
lar.
"I think you'd better take charge of these orna-
ments, inspector, and see if you can make anything out
of them in the way of fingerprints. Handle them care-
fully. Wait a moment! I want to have a look at them."
The inspector moved forward.
"I may be short of chalk, sir, but I've a pair of
rubber gloves in my pocket," he announced with an
air of suppressed triumph. "I'll lift the things out on
to the table for you, and you can look at them there."
Slipping on his gloves, he picked up the articles
gingerly and carried them across to the table. Sir
Clinton followed and, bending over them, subjected
them to a very careful scrutiny.
"See anything there?" he demanded, giving way at
last to the inspector.
After Armadale had examined the silver surfaces
from every direction, Wendover had his turn. When he
raised himself again, he shook his head. Sir Clinton
glanced at the inspector, who also made a negative
gesture.
"Then we all see the same," Sir Clinton said finally.
"One might assume from that, without overstraining
probability, one thing at least."
"And that is?" demanded Wendover, forestalling the
inspector.
"That there's nothing there to see," Sir Clinton
observed mildly. "I thought you'd have noticed that
for yourself, squire."
Behind Wendover's back the inspector enjoyed his
discomfiture, thanking providence the while that he


POLICE AT THE CARETAKER'S 53
had not had time to put the question himself. The
chief constable turned to Sapcote.
"I suppose Peter Hay kept the keys of Foxhills—
those that he needed, at any rate—somewhere handy?"
"He kept them in his pocket, always, sir; a small
bunch of Yale keys on a ring, I remember."
"'You might get them, inspector, I think we'd better
go up there next and see if we can find anything worth
noting. But, of course, we can't go rushing in there
without permission."
He turned back to Sapcote:
"Go off now, constable, as soon as we've locked up
this place, and get hold of some of the Foxhills people
who are staying at the hotel. Ask them to come up here.
Tell them we want to go over Foxhills on account of
something that's been taken from the house. Explain
about things, but don't make a long yarn of it, re-
member. Then leave a message for Dr. Rafford to say
that we'll probably need a P. M. When you come up
here again, you'd better bring a cart to take away these
beasts in their cages."
He gave Sapcote some further instructions about the
disposal of Peter Hay's body, then he turned to the
inspector.
"I suppose, later on, you'd better take Peter Hay's
fingerprints. It's only a precaution, for I don't think
we'll need them; but we may as well have them on
record. There's nothing more for us to do here at
present so far as I can see."
He led the way out of the cottage. The constable
locked the door, pocketed the key, produced a bicycle
from behind the house, and cycled off in haste down
the avenue.
Sir Clinton led his companions round to the back of


54 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
the cottage; but an inspection of the dead man's me-
nagerie yielded nothing which interested any of them, so
far as the matter in hand was concerned.
"Let's sit down on the seat here," the chief con-
stable suggested, as they returned to the front garden.
"We'll have to wait for these people from the hotel;
and it won't do any harm to put together the facts
we've got, before we pick up anything further."
"You're sure it isn't a mare's nest then?" Arma-
dale inquired cautiously.
"I'm surprised that Dr. Rafford didn't go a bit
further with his ideas," Sir Clinton returned indiffer-
ently. "In any case, there's the matter of that Fox-
hills' silver to be cleared up now."


CHAPTER IV: WHAT HAPPENED IN THE
NIGHT
Sir Clinton took out his cigarette-case and handed
it to his companions in turn.
"Let's have the unofficial view first," he suggested.
"What do you make of it all, squire, in the light of the
classics?"
Wendover shook his head deprecatingly.
"It's hardly fair to start with the amateur, Clinton.
According to the classical method, the police always
begin; and then, when they've failed ingloriously, the
amateur steps in and clears the matter up satisfactorily.
You're inverting the order of Nature. However, I don't
mind telling you what I think are the indisputable
points in the affair."
"The very things we want, squire," declared Sir
Clinton gratefully. "Indisputable points will be no end
of use to us if the case gets into court. Proceed."
"Well, to begin with, I think these marks on his
wrists and round about his ankles show that he was
tied up last night. The wrist-marks are deeper than the
marks on the shins; and that's more or less what one
would expect. The ligatures would rest on the bare
flesh in the case of the wrists; but at the ankles the
cloth of his trousers and his socks would interpose and
make the pressure less direct."
Inspector Armadale nodded approvingly, as though
his opinion of Wendover had risen a little.


$6 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Suppose that's correct, then," Wendover continued,
"it gives the notion of someone attacking Peter Hay
and tying him up. But then Peter Hay wasn't a normal
person. He suffered from high blood-pressure, the doc-
tor told us; and he'd had one or two slight strokes.
In other words, he was liable to congestion of the brain
'Mf he over-exerted himself. Suppose he struggled hard,
then he might quite well bring on an attack; and then
his assailant would have a corpse on his hands without
meaning to kill him at all."
Armadale nodded once more, as though agreeing to
this series of inferences.
"If the assailant had left the body tied up, then
the show would have been given away," Wendover
proceeded, "so he untied the bonds, carried the corpse
outside, and arranged it to look as if death had been
caused by a heart attack."
He paused, and Sir Clinton put a question.
"Is that absolutely all, squire? What about the silver
in the drawer, for instance."
Wendover made a vague gesture.
"I see nothing to connect the silver with this affair.
The assailant may have been after it, of course, and got
so frightened by the turn things took that he simply
cleared out without waiting for anything. If I'd gone to
a place merely to rob a man, I don't think I'd wait to
rob him if I saw a chance of being had up on a murder
charge. I'd clear out while I was sure I was safe from
discovery."
"Nothing further, then? In that case, inspector, it's
your turn to contribute to the pool."
Armadale had intended to confine himself strictly to
the evidence and to put forward no theories; but the
chance of improving on the amateur's results proved


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 57
too much of a temptation, as Sir Clinton had antici-
pated.
"There's not much doubt that he was tied up," the
inspector began. "The marks all point that way. But
there was one thing that Mr. Wendover didn't account
for in them. The marks on the legs were on the front
only—there wasn't a mark on the back of the legs."
He halted for a moment and glanced at Wendover
with subdued triumph.
"So you infer?" Sir Clinton inquired.
"I think he was tied up to something so that his legs
were resting against it at the back and the bands were
round the legs and the thing too. If it was that way,
then the back of the legs wouldn't have any marks of
the band on them."
"Then what was he tied up to?" asked Wendover.
"One of the chairs inside the cottage," the inspector
went on. "If he'd been sitting in the chair, with each
leg tied to a leg of the chair, you'd get just what we
saw on the skin."
Sir Clinton acquiesced with a nod.
"Anything more?" he asked.
"I'm not quite through," Armadale continued. "As-
sume he was tied up as I've explained. If it had been
a one-man job, there would have been some signs of a
struggle—marks on his wrists or something of that sort.
Peter Hay seems to have been a fairly muscular person,
quite strong enough to put up some sort of show if
he got a chance; certainly he'd have given one man
enough trouble to leave some marks on his own skin."
"More than one man, then?" Sir Clinton suggested.
"Two, at least. Suppose one of them held him in talk
while the other took him by surprise, and you get over
the difficulty of there being no struggle. One man would


58 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
pounce on him and then the other would join in; and
they'd have him tied up before he could put up any
fight that would leave marks on him."
"That sounds all right," Wendover admitted.
Sir Clinton put an innocent question.
"If it had been a one-man affair and a big struggle,
then surely Peter Hay would have had his attack while
the fight was going on, and if he'd died during the
struggle there would have been no need to tie him up?
Isn't that so, squire?"
Wendover considered the point and grudgingly
agreed that it sounded probable.
"Go on, inspector," Sir Clinton ordered, without
taking up the side-issue any further.
"I can't quite see what they did when they'd got him
tied up," the inspector acknowledged. "They don't
seem to have done much in the way of rummaging in
the cottage, as far as I can see. Whatever it was that
they were after, it wasn't the cash in the drawer; and
it wasn't the two or three bits of silver, for they left
them intact, although they could easily have got them
if they'd wanted them. That part of the thing beats me
just now."
Wendover showed a faint satisfaction at finding the
inspector driven to admit a hiatus in his story.
"However it happened, Peter Hay died in his chair,
I think," Armadale went on. "Perhaps it was the
excitement of the affair. Anyhow, they had a dead man
on their hands. So, as Mr. Wendover pointed out, they
did their best to cover their tracks. They untied him,
carried him outside, laid him down as if he'd fallen
unconscious and died there. But they forgot one thing.
If he'd come down all of a heap, as they wanted to
suggest, his face would have been smashed a bit on


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 59
the stones of the path. They arranged him with his
hands above his head, as if he'd fallen at full length.
In that position, he couldn't shield his face as he fell.
Normally you fall with your hands somewhere be-
tween your face and your chest—under your body,
anyhow. But his hands were above his head; and yet
his face hadn't a bruise on it. That's not natural."
"Quite clear, inspector."
"Then there's another point. You called my attention
to the moisture on the front of his clothes, under the
body. Dew couldn't have got in there."
"Precisely," Sir Clinton agreed. "That dates the
time when they put the body down, you think?"
"It shows it was put down on top of the dew, there-
fore it was after dew-fall when they brought him out.
And at the other side you've got the fact that his bed
wasn't slept in. So that limits the time of the affair to
a period between dew-fall and Peter Hay's normal bed-
time."
"Unless he'd sat up specially late that night," Wend-
over interposed.
Armadale nodded a rather curt acknowledgment of
this suggestion, and continued:
"Two points more. They've just occurred to me, sir.
The silver's the first thing."
"Yes," Sir Clinton encouraged him, since the in-
spector seemed to feel himself on doubtful ground.
"I'm not sure, sir, that robbery can be ruled out,
after all. It may be a case of one crime following on
another. Suppose Peter Hay had been using his posi-
tion as caretaker to get away with any silver left at
Foxhills, and had got it stored up here for removal at
a convenient time. The men who did him in last night
might quite well have nailed the main bulk of it and


60 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
overlooked those stray bits that he'd put away in his
cash-drawer. For all we can tell, they may have made
a good haul."
"And the next point, inspector?"
"The next point's the marks on the skin. They
weren't made by ropes. Well, you can tie a man up with
other things—strips of cloth, handkerchiefs, or sur-
gical bandages. The edge of a surgical bandage would
leave a sharp line on the flesh if it was pulled tight
enough, or if the man struggled against it once he'd
been tied in the chair. You understand what I mean?"
Wendover interposed:
"You mean a rope leaves its mark mainly at the
middle, because it's a cylinder and the convex curve
cuts into the flesh; whereas a flat bandage gives even
pressure all over except at the edge, where the flesh can
bulge up alongside the fabric?"
"That's what I mean," the inspector confirmed.
Sir Clinton volunteered no immediate criticism of
either of the inspector's points. Instead, he seemed to
be considering his course of action. At last he made up
his mind.
"We've got a bit away from our original agreement,
inspector. But, since you've put your cards on the
table, I'll do the same, so that we're still level. But
you're not to take this as a precedent, remember. I
don't care about expounding airy theories formed as we
go along. It's much better to go on the old lines and
consider the evidence as we pick it up, each of us
from his own point of view. Pooling our views simply
means losing the advantage of three different view-
points. You and Mr. Wendover came to slightly dif-
ferent conclusions about the basic factor in the busi-
ness; and, if you hadn't put your ideas into words,


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 6l
then he'd have gone forward looking for one criminal,
whilst you'd have been after two or more men; and so
we'd have had both possibilities covered. Now, I think,
the chances are that you've come round to the in-
spector's view, squire?"
"It seems to fit the facts better than mine," Wend-
over admitted.
"There you arel" Sir Clinton said. "And so we've
lost the services of one man keeping his eye on the—
always possible—case that it was a single-handed job.
That's why I don't like pooling ideas. However, in-
spector, it wouldn't be fair to take your views and to
say nothing about my own, so I'll give you mine. But
it's no precedent, remember."
Armadale made a gesture of grudging agreement.
"Then here's what I make of things, so far," Sir
Clinton continued. "First of all, one at least of the men
mixed up in this affair was a better-class fellow. And he,
at any rate, did not come on Peter Hay unexpectedly.
He was paying a friendly call, and Peter knew he was
coming."
"How do you make that out?" Wendover demanded.
"Easy enough. Hasn't the body a jacket on? I
knew that when the doctor told us he had to push up
the sleeves to see the marks; and, of course, when we
saw the body, there was the coat, right enough. Now
men of Peter Hay's class don't wear jackets as much
as we do. They like to feel easy when they sit down
after work's done—take off their collars and ties and so
forth in the evening. The question was, whether Peter
Hay varied from type. Hence my talk with the con-
stable, inspector. I saw your disapproving eye on me
all through it; but out of it I raked the plain fact that
Peter Hay would never have had a jacket on unless he


62 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
expected a visitor—and, what's more, a visitor of a
class higher than his own. See it now?"
"There might be something in it," the inspector
conceded reluctantly.
Sir Clinton showed no particular sign of elation, but
went on with his survey.
"The next point that struck me—I called your at-
tention to it—was the nature of the marks: the sharp
edge. There's no doubt in my mind that some strip of
cloth was used in tying him up. Now, one doesn't find
strips of cloth on the spur of the moment. A handker-
chief would answer the purpose; but here you had
each leg tied to the chair and a fetter on the wrists as
well. Unless there were three people in the attack,
they'd only be able to rake up two handkerchiefs on
the spur of the moment, since most people normally
content themselves with a handkerchief apiece. Strips
torn off a bed-sheet might answer; but I can't quite
see Peter Hay standing idly by while they tore up his
sheets in order to tie him up later on. Besides, his bed-
clothes were intact, so far as I could see—and he
doesn't use sheets."
"I see what you're driving at, Clinton," Wendover
interrupted. "You want to make out that it was a pre-
meditated affair. They brought the apparatus in their
pockets ready for use, and didn't tie the old man up
on the spur of the moment with the first thing that
came handy?"
"Things seem to point that way, don't they?" Sir
Clinton continued. "Then there's the question of how
it was done. I agree with you, inspector, that it was a
job for more than one man. Quite evidently they had
force enough to pin Peter Hay almost instantaneously,
so that he hadn't a chance of struggling; and it would


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 63
take two men—and fairly powerful fellows—to do
that successfully. Also, if there were two of them, one
could hold him in talk whilst the other sauntered round
—perhaps to look at the squirrel—and got into posi-
tion to take him unawares from the rear."
Armadale's face showed a certain satisfaction at
finding the chief constable in agreement with him on
his point.
"Now we'll assume that they had him overpowered.
If it was a case of simple robbery, the easiest thing to
do would be to tie his hands together and fetter his
ankles, and then leave him on the floor while they
looted the place. But they tied him in a chair—which
isn't so easy to do, after all. They must have had some
reason for that, or they wouldn't have gone to the ex-
tra trouble."
"Even if you tie a man's hands and feet, he can
always roll over and over and make himself a nuisance,"
the inspector suggested. "If you tie him in a chair you
have him fast."
"Quite true," Sir Clinton admitted. "But would you
go to the extra trouble yourself, inspector, if the case
happened to be as I've stated it? No? Neither should
I. It seems as if there might be a likelier solution. Ever
visit a sick friend?"
"Yes," said Armadale, obviously puzzled by the
question.
"Did you ever notice, then, that it's easier to talk to
him if he's sitting up in bed and not lying down?"
"There's something in that," the inspector admitted.
"I've never paid any attention to it; but, now you
mention it, sir, I believe you're right. One gets more
out of a talk with a man when he's not lying down in
bed. I suppose one's unaccustomed to it."


64 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Or else that when he's sitting up you can follow
the play of expression on his face," Sir Clinton sup-
plied, as an alternative.
Wendover evidently saw the drift of the chief con-
stable's remark.
"So you think he was tied up that way, Clinton, be-
cause they wanted to talk to him; and they wanted
to see his face clearly while they talked?"
"Something of that sort might account for things. I
don't press the point. Now we come to the next item—
the smell of pear-drops."
"But that's accounted for all right, surely. I found
the bag of sweets on the dresser myself," Wendover
protested. "Peter Hay had been eating them. There's
nothing in that, Clinton."
Sir Clinton smiled a little sardonically.
"Not so fast, squire. You found a bag of pear-drops,
I admit. But who told you that Peter Hay bought them
and put them there?"
"It stands to reason that he did, surely," Wendover
protested. "The constable told you he kept a bag of
sweets in the house for children."
"Quite so. And there wasn't a second bag there, I'll
admit. But let's confine ourselves to the pear-drops for
a moment. One can't deny that they've got a distinctive
perfume. Can you think of anything else that smells
like that?"
Inspector Armadale's face lighted up.
"That stuff they use for covering cuts—New-Skin,
isn't it? That stuff smells like pear-drops."
The look of comprehension faded slowly as he added:
"But I don't see how New-Skin comes into the af-
fair, sir."
"No more do I, inspector," Sir Clinton retorted


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 65
blandly. "I should think New-Skin had nothing what-
ever to do with it."
"Then what's the point?" Armadale demanded.
"It's plain enough, if you'd keep your ears open.
When I encouraged the constable to babble at large
about Peter Hay, I was on the look-out for one thing.
I found out that he didn't suffer from asthma."
"I don't see it yet, sir," the inspector admitted in
perplexity.
Wendover had the information which Armadale
lacked.
"Now I see what you're after, Clinton. You're think-
ing of amyl nitrite—the stuff asthmatics inhale when
they get a bad turn? You wanted to know if Peter Hay
ever used that as a drug? And, of course, now I come
to think of it, that stuff has the pear-drop odour also."
"That's it, squire. Amyl nitrite for asthma; the
solvent that evaporates and leaves the collodion be-
hind when you use New-Skin; and the perfume of pear-
drops—they're all derived from a stuff called amyl
alcohol; and they all have much the same smell.
Eliminate New-Skin, as it doesn't seem to fit into this
case. That leaves you with the possibilities that the
body smelt of pear-drops or of amyl nitrite."
Inspector Armadale was plainly out of his depth.
"I don't see that you're much further forward, sir.
After all, there are the pear-drops. What's the good of
going further? If it's poison you're thinking of Is
this amyl nitrite poisonous, and you think it might have
been used in the pear-drops so that their perfume would
cover its smell?"
"It's a bit subtler than that, inspector. Now I admit
quite frankly that this is all pure hypothesis; I'm
merely trying it out, so to speak, so that we can feel


66
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
certain we've covered all the possibilities. But here it
is, for what it's worth. I'll put it in a nutshell for you.
Amyl nitrite, when you inhale it, produces a rush of
blood to the brain."
"And Peter Hay suffered from high blood-pressure in
any case," Wendover broke in, "so an extra flood of
blood rushing to the head would finish him? Is that
what you mean?"
"Well, it's always a possibility, isn't it?" Sir Clinton
returned. "Even a slight dose—a couple of sniffs—will
give you a fair headache for the rest of the afternoon.
It's beastly stuff."
Inspector Armadale ruminated for a moment or two.
"Then you think that when they'd done with him
they dosed him with this stuff and gave him an apoplec-
tic stroke, sir?"
"It could be done easily enough," Sir Clinton said
cautiously. "A teaspoonful of the stuff on a bit of
cotton-wool under his nose would do the trick, if he
was liable to a stroke. But they didn't do it in the
cottage. They must have carried him out here, chair
and all, and dosed him in the open air, or else we'd
have smelt the stuff strongly in the room, even after
this time. Perhaps that's what suggested leaving him
outside all night, so that the stuff would evaporate from
him as far as possible. We'll know for certain after the
P. M. His lungs ought to have a fair amount of the
nitrite in them, at any rate, if that notion's correct."
He paused for a time, then continued:
"Now I don't say that it is correct. We don't know
for certain yet. But let's assume that it is, and see if
it takes us any further. They must have procured the
amyl nitrite beforehand and brought it here on pur-
pose to use it. Now amyl nitrite won't kill an ordinary


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 6j
man. Therefore they must have known the state of
Peter Hay's health. And they must have known, too,
that he kept some sweets in the house always. My im-
pression is that they brought that bag of pear-drops
with them and took away Peter's own bag—which
probably hadn't pear-drops in it. You'd better make
a note to look into Peter's sweet-buying in the
village lately, inspector. Find out what he bought
last."
Sir Clinton pitched his cigarette-end over the hedge
and took out his case.
"You see what these things point to?" he inquired,
as he lit his fresh cigarette.
"It's easy enough to see, when you put it that way,"
Wendover replied. "You mean that if they knew about
Peter's health and Peter's ways to that extent, they
must be local people and not strangers."
"If one works from the premises, I think that's so,"
Sir Clinton confirmed. "But remember, the premises
are only guesses so far. We need the P. M. to confirm
them. Now, there are just three more points: the time
of death; the lack of wounds on the face or anywhere;
and the matter of the silver in the drawer. As to the
first two, the amyl nitrite notion fits in quite well. The
murderers, if it was murder, made their first slip when
they laid him down so carefully and forgot to arrange
the hands under the body. I suppose they thought they
were giving a suggestive turn to things by the attitude
they chose—as though Peter Hay had collapsed under
a thunderbolt attack. As to the time of the assumed
murder, all we really know was that it was after dew-
fall. They may have talked for hours before they fin-
ished the old man, for all we can tell; or they may have
given him the nitrite almost as soon as they got him


68
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
tied up. We can't tell, and it's not so very important,
after all."
He flicked some ash from his cigarette.
"Now we come to the real thing that a jury would
want to know about: the motive. What were they
after?"
He glanced at his two companions, as if inviting an
opinion.
"I suggested a possible motive, sir," the inspector
reminded him.
"Yes, but from the jury point of view you'd have to
do two things to make that convincing. You'd have to
prove that Peter Hay was helping himself to stuff from
Foxhills; and you'd have to establish that the murder-
ers got away with the bulk of it. That's almost a case in
itself. If you ask me, inspector, I think that silver
represents the usual thing—the murderer's attempt to
make things too darned convincing."
Armadale's face betrayed some incredulity.
"Don't you see the slip?" Sir Clinton continued.
"What sort of man was Peter Hay? You heard me
pumping the constable, didn't you? And what did I
get? That Peter Hay was a simple old chap who read
his Bible and practically nothing else. Now, just recall
the fact that there wasn't a fingerprint on any of those
things; and silver will take a fingerprint more clearly
than most surfaces. Whoever handled these ornaments
knew all about the fingerprint danger. He wore gloves,
whoever he may be. You'll hardly persuade me—after
hearing the constable's report of Peter Hay—that he
was a person likely to think of a precaution of that
sort."
The inspector looked doubtful.
"Perhaps not, sir; but you never can tell."


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 69
"Well, my guess is that Peter Hay never handled the
stuff at all. It was put there by his murderers; and they
took good care not to leave their visiting-cards on it.
Doesn't its presence suggest something else to you
people?"
"You mean," said Wendover, "that they may have
burgled Foxhills themselves, Clinton, and put these
things into Peter Hay's drawer to lay the scent in his
direction, while they got away with the main bulk of
the stuff?"
Sir Clinton seemed disinclined to endorse this heart-
fly.
"It's a possibility, squire. We needn't brood over it
just yet, however. When we get into Foxhills, we'll see
if anything's missing except these things."
He glanced at his wrist-watch.
"Time's getting on. These people might be here any
minute, if the constable didn't waste time. Let's finish
up this symposium. Suppose we eliminate robbery as a
motive, then"
He broke off abruptly in the middle of the sentence as
a car came along the avenue and drew up at the en-
trance to the lane which led down to the cottage. Paul
Fordingbridge was driving, and his sister sat beside
him. Followed by his two companions, Sir Clinton
walked down the lane to where the car had halted.


CHAPTER V: THE DIARY
"1 suppose the constable explained things more or less,
Mr. Fordingbridge?" Sir Clinton asked, as he came
abreast of the car.
Miss Fordingbridge did not wait for her brother's
reply.
"It's really dreadful, Sir Clinton," she broke out. "I
can hardly believe that it's true. And who could want
to kill poor Peter Hay, who hadn't an enemy in the
world, is beyond me altogether. I simply can't imagine
it. And what made them do it? I can't guess. I must
try at my next stance to see if I can get any light on it.
Perhaps you've found out all about it already."
Sir Clinton shook his head.
"We've found out next to nothing, I'm sorry to say."
Miss Fordingbridge regarded him with marked dis-
approval.
"And aren't you going to arrest the man who killed
him?"
"In the end, I hope," Sir Clinton answered patiently.
Then he turned to Paul Fordingbridge. "These are the
keys of Foxhills that Peter Hay kept. I haven't a
search-warrant; but we must get into the house, if
you'll let us go over it. Would you mind showing us
round the place? You see, you know all about it, and
your help would be of value to us in case there's any-
thing wrong up there."
At the word "search-warrant," Paul Fordingbridge
seemed to prick up his ears; and there was a percepti-


THE DIARY 71
ble pause before he answered the chief constable's in-
quiry.
"Certainly, if you wish it," he replied smoothly. "I
shall be only too glad to give you any assistance that I
can. But what makes you think there's anything wrong
at Foxhills? The constable told us that Peter Hay was
found at his own cottage."
At a gesture from Sir Clinton, the inspector went
over to the chief constable's car and, first drawing on
his rubber gloves, he brought back one of the silver
ornaments taken from Peter Hay's drawer.
"You recognise that?" Sir Clinton asked.
"Yes, indeed," Miss Fordingbridge replied, without
hesitation. "That's one of the things we left behind
when we shut up Foxhills. It's of no great value, and
so we didn't send it to the bank strong-room with the
rest of the stuff."
"Peter Hay told someone it was valuable," the in-
spector broke in.
"Oh, so it was, in a way," Miss Fordingbridge re-
plied. "It was a present to me from an old friend, and
so it had a sentimental value. But in itself it's worth
next to nothing, as you can see."
Evidently Peter Hay had misunderstood something
which he had heard. Armadale, rather disgusted by the
news, carried the article back to the chief constable's
car. x
"We'll need to keep that and the other things in our
charge for a time," Sir Clinton said apologetically.
"They were found at Peter Hay's cottage. Perhaps you
could suggest some reason for their removal from
Foxhills?"
"There's no reason whatever that I can see," Miss
Fordingbridge replied promptly. "Peter Hay had noth-


72 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
ing to do with them, and he'd no right to take them
out of the house. None at all."
"Possibly he mistook them for things of value, and
thought they'd be safer in his cottage," Wendover
suggested.
"He had no right to touch anything of mine," Miss
Fordingbridge commented decidedly.
"Suppose we go up to the house?" Paul Fording-
bridge suggested in a colourless voice. "You'll take
your own car? Good. Then I'll go ahead."
He pressed the self-starter and took his car up the
avenue. Sir Clinton and his companions got into their
own car and followed.
"You didn't get much out of him," Wendover com-
mented to the others.
Sir Clinton smiled.
"I don't think he got much chance to volunteer in-
formation," he pointed out.
They reached Foxhills as Paul Fordingbridge was
opening the main door of the house; and he invited
them with a gesture to come in.
"I suppose you merely wish to have a general look
round?" he asked. "Do just as you like. I'll go round
with you and answer any questions that I can for
you."
Miss Fordingbridge attached herself to the party,
and they went from room to room. Sir Clinton and the
inspector examined the window-catches without finding
anything amiss. At last Miss Fordingbridge noticed
something out of the common.
"We left a few silver knick-knacks lying about. I
don't see any of them."
Inspector Armadale made a note in his pocket-
book.


THE DIARY 73
"Could you give me a list of them?" he asked.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed taken aback.
"No, I couldn't. How could you expect me to re-
member all the trifles we left about? I daresay I could
remember some of them. There was a silver rose-bowl;
but it was very thin, and I'm sure it wasn't worth much.
And a couple of little hollow statuettes, and some other
things. They weren't of any value."
"What room is this?" Sir Clinton inquired, cutting
her eloquence short, as they paused before a fresh
door.
"The drawing-room."
She went in before the others and cast a glance round
the room.
"What's that?" she demanded, as though her com-
panions were personally responsible for a sack which
stood near one of the windows.
Armadale went swiftly across the room, opened the
mouth of the sack and glanced inside.
"It looks like the missing loot," he remarked. "I can
see something like a rose-bowl amongst it, and the head
of one of your statuettes. You might look for yourself,
Miss Fordingbridge."
He stood aside to let her inspect the contents of the
sack.
"Yes, these are some of the things," she confirmed
at once.
Sir Clinton and Wendover in turn examined the find.
The chief constable tested the weight of the sack and
its contents.
"Not much of a haul," he said, letting it settle to the
floor again. "Taking pure silver at eight shillings an
ounce, and allowing for alloy, there's less than twenty
pounds' worth there—much less."


74 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"I suppose this means that the thieves must have
been disturbed, and left their swag behind them," Paul
Fordingbridge suggested.
Sir Clinton seemed intent on an examination of
the window-fastenings; but Inspector Armadale curtly
agreed with Paul Fordingbridge's hypothesis.
"It looks like it."
The chief constable led the way to a fresh room.
"What's this?" he asked.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed suddenly to take a keener
interest in the search.
"This is my nephew's room. I do hope they haven't
disturbed anything in it. I've been so careful to keep it
exactly as it used to be. And it would be such a pity if
it were disturbed just at the very moment when he's
come back."
Sir Clinton's eye caught an expression of vexation on
Paul Fordingbridge's face as his sister spoke of her
nephew.
"He's been away, then?" he asked.
It required very little to start Miss Fordingbridge on
the subject; and in a few minutes of eager explanation
she had laid before them the whole matter of her miss-
ing relation. As her narrative proceeded, Sir Clinton
could see the expression of annoyance deepening on
her brother's features.
"And so you understand, Sir Clinton, I kept every-
thing in his room just as it used to be; so that when he
comes back again he'll find nothing strange. It'll just
be as if he'd only left us for a week-end."
Wendover noticed something pathetic in her attitude.
For a moment the normal angularity and fussiness
seemed to have left her manner.
"Poor soul!" he reflected. "Another case of unsatis-


THE DIARY 75
fied maternity, I suppose. She seems to have adored
this nephew of hers."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed to think that enough time
had been spent on the family's private affairs.
"Is there anything more that you'd care to see?" he
asked Sir Clinton, in an indifferent tone.
The chief constable seemed to have been interested
in Miss Fordingbridge's tale.
"Just a moment," he said half-apologetically to Paul
Fordingbridge. "I'd like to be sure about one or two
points."
He crossed the room and examined the window-
catches with some care.
"Now, Miss Fordingbridge," he said, as he turned
back after finding the fastenings intact like the others,
"this is a room which you're sure to remember ac-
curately, since you say you looked after it yourself.
Can you see anything missing from it?"
Miss Fordingbridge gazed from point to point, check-
ing the various objects from her mental inventory.
"Yes," she said suddenly, "there's a small silver
inkstand missing from his desk."
"I saw an inkstand in the sack," Armadale con-
firmed.
Sir Clinton nodded approvingly.
"Anything else, Miss Fordingbridge?"
For a time her eyes ranged over the room without
detecting the absence of anything. Then she gave a cry
in which surprise and disappointment seemed to be
mingled. Her finger pointed to a bookshelf on which a
number of books were neatly arranged.
"Why," she said, "there's surely something missing
from that! It doesn't look quite as full as I remember
it."


THE DIARY 77
"We shall do our best, Miss Fordingbridge. I never
care to promise more than that, you understand. Now,
can you see anything else that's gone a-missing from
here?"
Miss Fordingbridge pulled herself together with an
effort. Clearly the loss of the diary had been a severe
blow to her sentiment about her nephew's study. She
glanced round the room, her eyes halting here and there
at times when she seemed in doubt. At last she com-
pleted her survey.
"I don't miss anything else," she said. "And I don't
think there's anything gone that I wouldn't miss if it
had been taken away."
Sir Clinton nodded reflectively, and led the way in
an examination of the rest of the house. Nothing else
of any note was discovered. All the window-fastenings
seemed to be intact; and there was no sign of any
means whereby thieves could have entered the prem-
ises. An inspection of the contents of the sack in the
drawing-room yielded no striking results. It was filled
with a collection of silver knick-knacks evidently picked
up merely because they were silver. Neither Paul
Fordingbridge nor his sister could recall anything of
real intrinsic value which might have been stolen.
"Twenty pounds' worth at the most. And they didn't
even get away with it," Sir Clinton said absent-
mindedly, as he watched the inspector, in his rubber
gloves, replacing the articles in the sack in prepara-
tion for transporting them to the car.
"Is that all we can do for you?" Paul Fordingbridge
asked, with a certain restraint in his manner, when the
inspector had finished his task.
Sir Clinton answered with an affirmative nod. His
thoughts seemed elsewhere, and he had the air of


78 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
being recalled to the present by Paul Fordingbridge's
voice.
"Then, in that case, we can go, Jay. I'm sure Sir
Clinton would prefer things left untouched at present,
so you mustn't come about here again, shifting any-
thing, until he gives permission. Care to keep the
keys?" he added, turning to the chief constable.
"Inspector Armadale had better have them," Sir
Clinton answered.
Paul Fordingbridge handed over the bunch of keys,
made a faint gesture of farewell, and followed his sister
to the car. Sir Clinton moved across to the window and
watched them start down the avenue before he opened
his mouth. When they had disappeared round a bend
in the road, he turned to his two companions again.
Wendover could see that he looked more serious even
than at Peter Hay's cottage.
"I may as well say at once, inspector, that I do not
propose to extend my bus-driver's holiday to the ex-
tent of making a trip to Australia."
Armadale evidently failed to follow this line of
thought.
"Australia, sir? I never said anything about Aus-
tralia."
Sir Clinton seemed to recover his good spirits.
"True, now I come to think of it. Shows how little
there is in all this talk about telepathy. I'd made cer-
tain I'd read your thoughts correctly; and now it turns
out that you weren't thinking at all. A mental blank,
what? Tut! Tut! It's a warning against rushing to
conclusions, inspector."
"I don't see myself rushing to Australia, anyhow,
sir."
"H'm! Perhaps we'll get along without that, if we're


THE DIARY 79
lucky. But think of the platypus, inspector. Wouldn't
you like to see it at home?"
The inspector gritted his teeth in an effort to restrain
his temper. He glanced at Wendover, with evident an-
noyance at his presence.
"It's going to be a pretty problem, evidently," Sir
Clinton continued in a more thoughtful tone. "Now,
what about the evidence? We'd better pool it while
it's fresh in our minds. Civilians first. What did you
see in it all, squire?"
Wendover decided to be concise.
"No signs of entry into the house. Bag of silver odds
and ends in drawing-room, as if ready for removal. Set
of volumes of diary removed from nephew's study.
Strange story of missing nephew turning up. That's all
I can think of just now."
"Masterly survey, squire," said Sir Clinton cordially.
"Except that you've left out most of the points of
importance."
He nodded to Armadale.
"See anything else, inspector? The credit of the
force is at stake, remember."
"Mr. Fordingbridge didn't seem overmuch cut up
by Peter Hay's death, sir."
"There's something in that. Either he's a reserved
person by nature, or else he'd something of more im-
portance to himself on his mind, if one can judge from
what we saw. Anything more?"
"Mr. Fordingbridge and Miss Fordingbridge seemed
a bit at cross-purposes over this nephew."
"That was more than obvious, I admit. Anything
else?"
"Whoever packed up that silver must have come in
with a key."


8o
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"I think that goes down to Mr. Wendover's score,
inspector. It follows directly from the fact that the
house wasn't broken into in any way."
"The silver here and the silver at Peter Hay's link
up the two affairs."
"Probably correct. Anything further?"
"No more evidence, sir."
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment.
"I'll give you something. I was watching Mr. Ford-
ingbridge's face when the loss of the diary was dis-
covered. He was more than usually annoyed when that
turned up. You weren't looking at him just then, so I
mention it."
"Thanks," Armadale responded, with some interest
showing in his voice.
"That missing diary would be a useful weapon," Sir
Clinton continued. "You could check statements by it;
or you could produce false statements from it, if you
were a swindling claimant."
"That's self-evident," Wendover interjected.
"So it is," Sir Clinton admitted blandly. "I suppose
that's why you didn't mention it yourself, squire. To
continue. There's one point which strikes me as inter-
esting. Supposing that Miss Fordingbridge hadn't come
up here to-day, do you think we'd have discovered that
the diary was missing at all?"
"No, unless Mr. Fordingbridge had noticed the loss."
"Naturally. Now I'll give you a plain hint. What is
there behind Mr. Fordingbridge's evident annoyance?
That seems to me a fruitful line for speculation, if
you're thinking of thinking, as it were."
Wendover reflected for a moment.
"You mean that the diary would be invaluable to a
claimant, and hence Fordingbridge may have been


THE DIARY
angry at its loss. Or else you mean that Fordingbridge
was mad because the loss had been discovered. Is that
what you're after, Clinton?"
Sir Clinton's gesture in reply seemed to deprecate any
haste.
"I'm not after anything in particular, squire," he
assured Wendover. "I simply don't see my way through
the business yet. I merely recommend the subject for
you to browse over. As they say about Shakespeare,
new perspectives open up before one's eyes every time
one examines the subject afresh. And, by the way,
hypophosphites are said to be sustaining during a long
spell of intense cogitation. I think we'll call at the
druggist's on the way home and buy up his stock.
There's more in this affair than meets the eye."
The inspector picked up the sack. Then, apparently
struck by an after-thought, he laid it on the floor again
and took out his note-book.
"Would you mind giving me any orders you want
carried out immediately, sir?" he asked. "Anything
in the way of information you need from the village?"
Sir Clinton looked at him in mock surprise, and
answered with a parody of the "Needy Knifegrinder":
"Orders! God bless you! I have none to give, sir.
This is your case, inspector, not mine."
Armadale succeeded in finding a form of words to
turn the flank of his superior's line:
"Well, sir, suppose you were in my place, what would
you think it useful to find out?"
"A deuce of a lot of things, inspector. Who killed
Peter Hay, for one. Who stole the diary, for another.
When I'm likely to get any lunch, for a third. And so
on. There's heaps more of them, if you'll think them
up. But, if I were in your shoes, I'd make a beginning


82
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
by interviewing young Colby, who found the body;
then I'd investigate the sweet-shop, and find out who
bought pear-drops there lately; I'd make sure there
are no fingerprints on any of the silver; I'd get the
P.M. done as quickly as possible, since amyl nitrite
is volatile, and might disappear if the body's left too
long; and I think I'd make some very cautious inquiries
about this long-lost nephew, if he's anywhere in the
vicinity. And, of course, I'd try to find out all I could
about Peter Hay's last movements yesterday, so far
as one can discover them from witnesses."
Inspector Armadale had been jotting the chief con-
stable's advice down in shorthand; and, when Sir
Clinton finished speaking, he shut his note-book and
put it back in his pocket.
"Peter Hay puzzles me," Wendover said thought-
fully, as they made their way to the car.
"Perhaps Peter Hay knew too much for his own
safety," Sir Clinton answered, as he closed the door of
Foxhills behind them.
A fresh line of thought occurred to Wendover.
"This missing nephew came from Australia, Clinton.
I'm playing golf to-morrow morning with that Aus-
tralian man who's staying at the hotel. He isn't the
missing heir by any chance, is he?"
"I shouldn't think so, from Miss Fordingbridge's
story. This claimant was pretty badly disfigured,
whereas CargilFs rather a nice-looking chap. Also,
she's sure to have come across Cargill in the hotel; he's
been here for a week at least; but the claimant-man
only presented himself to her last night, if you re-
member."


CHAPTER VI: THE BEACH TRAGEDY
Wakened abruptly by the trilling of a bell beside his
bed, Sir Clinton bitterly regretted the striving of the
Lynden Sands Hotel towards up-to-dateness, as repre-
sented by a room telephone system. He leaned over and
picked up the receiver.
"Sir Clinton Driffield speaking."
"I'm Armadale, sir," came the reply. "Can I see
you? It's important, sir, and I can't very well talk about
it over the 'phone."
Sir Clinton's face betrayed a natural annoyance.
"This is an ungodly hour to be ringing anyone up in
his bed, inspector. It's barely dawn. However, since
you're here, you may as well come up. My room's No.
89."
He laid down the receiver, got out of bed, and put
on his dressing-gown. As he moved across the room and
mechanically began to brush his hair, a glance through
the window showed him that the rain of the previous
night had blown over and the sky was blue. The sun
had not yet risen, and a pale full moon was low on
the western horizon. A murmur of the incoming tide
rose from the beaches; and the white crests of the
waves showed faintly in the half-light.
"Well, inspector, what is it?" Sir Clinton demanded
testily. "You'd better be brief, be businesslike, and be
gone, as they say. I want to get back to bed."
"There's been another murder, sir."
Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his surprise.


84 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Another murder! In a place this size? They must
be making a hobby of it."
The inspector observed with satisfaction that his
superior had given up any thoughts of bed, for he was
beginning to dress himself.
"This is what happened, sir," Armadale continued.
"Shortly after midnight a man appeared at the house
of the local constable—Sapcote, you remember—and
hammered on the door till Sapcote came down. He
began some confused yarn to the constable, but Sap-
cote very wisely put on his clothes and brought the fel-
low round to me. I've got a room in a house near by,
where I'm staying till this Hay affair is cleared up."
Sir Clinton nodded, to show that he was paying atten-
tion, but went on swiftly with his dressing.
"I examined the man," Armadale continued. "His
name's James Billingford. He's a visitor here—he's
rented old Flatt's cottage, on the point between here
and Lynden Sands village. It seems he sometimes suf-
fers from sleeplessness; and last night he went out
rather late, hoping that a walk would do him some good.
He strolled along the beach in this direction, not paying
very much attention to anything. Then he heard the
sound of shooting farther along the beach."
"Does that mean one shot or several?" Sir Clinton
demanded, turning from the mirror in front of which
he was fastening his tie.
"He was a bit doubtful there," Armadale explained.
"I pressed him on the point, and he finally said he
thought he heard two. But he wasn't certain. He seems
to have been mooning along, not paying attention to
anything, when he heard something. It wasn't for some
seconds that he identified the sound for what it was;
and by that time he was quite muddled up as to what


THE BEACH TRAGEDY
85
he had really heard. He doesn't seem very bright," the
inspector added contemptuously.
"Well, what happened after the Wild West broke
loose on the beach?" Sir Clinton demanded, hunting
for his shoes.
"It appears," pursued Armadale, "that he ran along
the beach close to the water's edge. His story is that he
couldn't see anything on the beach; but when he came
level with that big rock they call Neptune's Seat he
saw a dead man lying on it."
"Sure he was dead?"
"Billingford was quite sure about it. He says he
was in the R.A.M.C. in the war and knows a dead 'un
when he sees one."
"Well, what next?"
"I didn't question him much; just left him in charge
of Sapcote till I came back. Then I hunted up a couple
of fishermen from the village and went off myself along
with them to Neptune's Seat. I made them stick to the
road; and when I got within a couple of hundred yards
of the rock, I left them and went down to the very edge
of the water—below Billingford's marks, as the tide
was still falling—and kept along there. There was
enough moonlight to save me from trampling over any-
one's footmarks and I took care to keep clear of any-
thing of that sort."
Sir Clinton gave a nod of approval, but did not
interrupt the story by any verbal comment.
"The body was there all right," Armadale continued.
"He'd been shot through the heart—probably with a
small-calibre bullet, I should think. Dead as a door-
nail, anyhow. There was nothing to be done for him, so
I left him as he was. My main idea was to avoid mud-
dling up any footprints there might be on the sand."


86
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Again Sir Clinton mutely showed his approval of the
inspector's methods. Armadale continued his narrative:
"It was too dim a light to make sure of things just
then, a bit cloudy. So the best thing seemed to be to put
the men I had with me to patrol the road and warn
anyone off the sands. Not that anyone was likely to be
about at that hour of the morning. I didn't think it
worth while to knock you up, sir, until it got a bit
brighter; but as soon as there seemed any chance of
getting to work, I came up here. You understand, sir,
the tide's coming in; and it'll wash out any tracks as
it rises. It's a case of now or never if you want to see
them. That's why I couldn't delay any longer. We've
got to make the best of the time we have between dawn
and high tide."
Armadale paused, and looked at Sir Clinton doubt-
fully.
"I understand, inspector." The chief constable an-
swered his unspoken query. "There's no room for
fooling at present. This is a case where we're up
against time. Come along!"
As he stood aside to let the inspector leave the room
in front of him, Sir Clinton was struck by a fresh idea.
"Just knock up Mr. Wendover, inspector. He's next
door—No. 90. Tell him to dress and follow on after
us. I'll get my car out, and that will save us a minute
or two in getting to the place."
Armadale hesitated most obviously before turning
to obey.
"Don't you see, inspector? All these tracks will be
washed out in an hour or two. We'll be none the worse
of having an extra witness to anything we find; and
your fishermen pals would never understand what was
important and what wasn't. Mr. Wendover will make


THE BEACH TRAGEDY
87
a useful witness if we ever need him. Hurry, now!"
The inspector saw the point, and obediently went to
wake up Wendover, whilst Sir Clinton made his way to
the garage of the hotel.
In a few minutes the inspector joined him.
"I waked up Mr. Wendover, sir. I didn't wait to
explain the thing to him; but I told him enough to make
him hurry with his dressing. He says he'll follow in less
than five minutes."
"Good! Get in."
Armadale jumped into the car, and, as he slammed
the door, Sir Clinton let in the clutch.
"That tide's coming in fast," he said anxiously. "The
Blowhole up there is beginning to spout already."
Armadale followed in the direction of the chief con-
stable's glance, and saw a cloud of white spray hurtling
up into the air from the top of a headland beside the
hotel.
"What's that?" he asked, as the menacing fountain
choked and fell.
"Sort of thing they call a souffleur on the French
coast," Sir Clinton answered. "Sea-cave gets filled with
compressed air owing to the rise of the tide, and some
water's blown off through a landward vent. That's
what makes the intermittent jet."
About a mile from the hotel the inspector motioned
to Sir Clinton to stop at a point where the road ran
close to the beach, under some sand-dunes on the in-
land side. A man in a jersey hastened towards them as
the car pulled up.
"Nobody's come along, I suppose?" the inspector
demanded when the new-comer reached them. Then,
turning to Sir Clinton, he added: "This is one of the
men who were watching the place for me."


88
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Sir Clinton looked up with a smile at the intro-
duction.
"Very good of you to give us your help, Mr.?"
"Wark's my name, sir."
". . . Mr. Wark. By the way, you're a fisherman,
aren't you? Then you'll be able to tell me when high
tide's due this morning."
"About half-past seven by God's time, sir."
Sir Clinton was puzzled for a moment, then he re-
pressed a smile slightly different from his earlier one.
"Half-past eight by summer time then?" he que-
ried.
He glanced at his wrist-watch, and then consulted a
pocket diary.
"Sunrise is due in about a quarter of an hour. You
gauged it neatly in waking me up, inspector. Well,
we've a good deal less than two hours in hand. It may
keep us pretty busy, if we're to dig up all the available
data before the tracks are obliterated by the tide coming
in."
He reflected for a moment, and then turned to the
fisherman.
"Would you mind going into Lynden Sands village
for me? Thanks. I want some candles—anything up
to a couple of dozen of them. And a plumber's blow-
lamp, if you can lay your hands on one."
The fisherman seemed taken aback by this unex-
pected demand.
"Candles, sir?" he inquired, gazing eastward to
where the golden bar of the dawn hung on the horizon.
"Yes, candles—any kind you like, so long as you
bring plenty. And the blow-lamp, of course."
"The ironmonger has one, sir."
"Knock him up, then, and quote me for the price—


THE BEACH TRAGEDY 89
Sir Clinton Driffield—if he makes any difficulty. Can
you hurry?"
"I've got a bicycle here, sir."
"Splendid! I know you won't waste time, Mr.
Wark."
The fisherman hurried off in search of his cycle; and
in a very short time they saw him mount and ride away
in the direction of the village. The inspector was ob-
viously almost as puzzled as Wark had been, but he
apparently thought it best to restrain his curiosity
about the candles and blow-lamp.
"I think we'll leave your second patrol to watch the
road, inspector, while we go down on to the beach. I
suppose that's the rock you were speaking about?"
"Yes, sir. You can't see the body from here. The
rock's shaped rather like a low chesterfield, with its
back to this side, and the body's lying on what would
be the seat."
Sir Clinton glanced towards the bar of gold in the
east which marked the position of the sun below the
horizon.
"I don't want to go blundering on to the sands at
random, inspector. What about a general survey first
of all? If we climb this dune at the back of the road, we
ought to get some rough notion of how to walk without
muddling up the tracks. Come along!"
A few seconds took them to the top of the low
mound. By this time the dawn-twilight had brightened,
and it was possible to see clearly at a fair distance.
Sir Clinton examined the beach for a short time without
making any comment.
"That must be my own track, coming along the
beach from the village, sir. The one nearest the water.
I kept as close to the waves as I could, since the tide


90 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
was falling and I knew I was sticking to ground that
must have been covered when Billingford came along."
"What about the fishermen?" Sir Clinton asked.
"I made them keep to the road, so as to leave no
tracks."
Sir Clinton approved with a gesture, and continued
his inspection of the stretch of sand below.
"H'ml" he said at last. "If clues are what you want,
inspector, there seem to be plenty of them about. I
can make out four separate sets of footprints down
there, excluding yours; and quite possibly there may be
others that we can't see from here. It's lucky they
aren't all muddled up together. There's just enough
crossing to give us some notion of the order in which
they were made—in three cases at least. You'd better
make a sketch of them from here, now that there's light
enough to see clearly. A rough diagram's all you'll have
time for."
The inspector nodded in compliance, and set about
his task. Sir Clinton's eye turned to the road leading
from the hotel.
"Here's Mr. Wendover coming," he announced.
"We'll wait till he arrives, since you're busy, inspec-
tor."
In a few moments Wendover clambered up the dune.
"Did you turn back to the hotel for anything?" he
inquired, as he came up to them.
"No, squire. Why?"
"I noticed a second track of motor-wheels on the
road at one point as I came along. It faded out as I
got nearer here, so I thought you might have gone
back for something or other."
"That would have made three tracks, and not two;
one out, one back, and a final one out again."


THE BEACH TRAGEDY
91
"So it would," Wendover admitted, evidently vexed
at having made a mistake.
"We'll have a look at that track later on," Sir
Clinton promised. "I took care not to put my own
tracks on top of it as we came along."
"Oh, you saw it, did you?" said Wendover disap-
pointedly. "Confound you, Clinton, you seem to notice
everything."
"Easy enough to see the track of new non-skids on a
wet road, especially as I didn't see my own track while
I was making it. We'll have no trouble in disentangling
them, even if they do cross here and there, for my tyres
are plain ones, and a bit worn at that. I think I ought
to mention that our patrols report no traffic on the
road since they came on to it; and, as I remember
that there was no rain in the early evening, that gives
us some chance of guessing the time when that car
made its tracks in the mud."
"The rain came down about half-past eleven," the
inspector volunteered as he finished his sketch. "I
heard it dashing on my window just after I'd gone to
bed, and I went up stairs about twenty past eleven."
Sir Clinton held out his hand for the inspector's note-
book, compared the diagram with the view before him,
and passed the book to Wendover, who also made a
comparison.
"Better initial it, squire," the chief constable sug-
gested. "We may need you to swear to its accuracy
later on, since we'll have no visible evidence left after
this tide's come in."
Wendover obeyed, and then returned the note-book
to the inspector as they began to descend from the
dune towards the road. Halfway down, Sir Clinton
halted.


92 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"There's another set of tracks which we couldn't see
from the place we were," he said, pointing. "Behind
that groyne running down towards the rock. The
groyne was in the line of sight up above, but we've
moved to the left a bit and you can just see one or two
footprints. Over yonder, inspector. You'd better fill
them in when we get to the road and have a clear
sight of them."
The inspector completed his diagram, and handed it
to his companions in turn for verification.

— BUlingford Woman's Golf Shoes
+ + + + + Muidered Man — + — + — + Woman's light Shoes
—. Man's Shoes
"We may as well start with this track," Sir Clinton
suggested. "It's a fairly short one, and seems isolated
from all the others by the groyne."
He stepped down on to the sand, taking care to keep
well away from the footmarks; and his companions
followed his track. They walked on a line parallel to
the footprints, which ran close under the groyne. At
first the marks were hardly defined; but suddenly
they grew sharp.
"This is where he hit the sand wetted by the tide,


THE BEACH TRAGEDY
93
obviously," said Wendover. "But the trail looks a bit
curious—not quite like a normal man's walk."
"Suppose he'd been crouching under the groyne as
he went along," Sir Clinton suggested. "Wouldn't that
account for it? Look!"
He moved on to a piece of untouched sand, bent
almost double, and began to move cautiously along.
Wendover and the inspector had to admit that his
tracks were very like those of the trail beside the
groyne.
"Somebody spying on the people on the rock?"
Wendover hazarded. "If you can get hold of him,
Clinton, he ought to be a useful witness."
The inspector stooped over the footprints and
scanned them closely.
"It's a clear impression. A man's shoe with a
pointed toe, it seems to be," he announced. "Of course,
if he was creeping along behind the groyne we can't get
his ordinary length of step, so we haven't any notion of
his height."
Sir Clinton had moved on to the end of the trail.
"He evidently crouched down here for quite a
while," he pointed out. "See the depth of these im-
pressions and the number of times he must have shifted
the position of his feet to ease his muscles. Then he
turned back again and went back to the road, still
crouching."
He swung slowly round, looking about him. The
beach was empty. Farther along it, towards the hotel,
a group of bathing-boxes had been erected for the use
of hotel visitors. Less than ten yards from the turning-
point of the footprints, on the other side of the groyne,
Neptune's Seat jutted up from the surrounding sand. It
was, as the inspector had said, like a huge stone settee


94 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
standing with its back to the land; and on the flat part
of it lay the body of a man. Sir Clinton bent down and
scrutinised the surface of the sand around the turning-
point of the track for some minutes, but he made no
comment as he completed his survey. When he rose to
his full height again, he saw on the road the figure of
the fisherman, Wark; and he made a gesture forbidding
the man to come down on the sand.
"Just go up and see if he's got the candles and the
blow-lamp, inspector, please. We may as well finish off
here if he has."
Armadale soon returned with the articles.
"Good fellow, that," Sir Clinton commented. "He
hasn't wasted time!"
He turned and gazed across at the advancing tide.
"We'll have to hurry up. Time's getting short.
Another half-hour and the water will be up near that
rock. We'll need to take the seaward tracks first of all.
Hold the blow-lamp, will you, inspector, while I get
a candle out."
Wendover's face showed that even yet he had not
grasped the chielfcconstable's object. Sir Clinton ex-
tracted a candle and lit the blow-lamp.
"Plaster of Paris gives a rotten result if you try to
take casts of sand-impressions with it," he explained.
"The classics pass rather lightly over the point, but it
is so. Therefore we turn to melted wax or tallow, and
by dropping it on very carefully in a thin layer at first,
we get something that will serve our purpose. Hence the
candles and the blow-lamp. See?"
He suited the action to the word, making casts of
the right and left footprints in the sand from the
sharpest impressions he could pick out.
"Now we'll take Mr. Billingford's track next," he


THE BEACH TRAGEDY
95
said, as he removed the two blocks of wax from their
beds. "His footmarks will be the first to be swamped by
the tide, so we must get on to them in a hurry."
He led his companions back to the road and turned
round the landward end of the groyne.
"This is where he landed on the road, evidently. Now
step in my tracks and don't wander off the line. We
mustn't cut up the ground."
He moved along the trail, and soon reached the tidal
mark, after which the footprints grew sharper. A little
farther on, he reached a point where Billingford's
marks crossed an earlier track—the prints of a woman's
nail-studded shoes.
"Golfing-shoes, by the look of them," he pointed out
to his companions. "We can leave them alone just now.
The tide won't reach here for long enough yet, so we've
plenty of time to come back. Billingford's the impor-
tant thing at present."
Billingford's track ran down to Neptune's Seat,
where it was lost on the hard surface of the rock. Sir
Clinton, without halting, directed his companions' at-
tention to a second trail of male footprints running up
towards the rock from the road, and crossed just at
the landward side of Neptune's Seat by the traces of
Billingford.
"There's no return track for these, so far as I can
see," he pointed out, "so it looks as if the murdered
man made them." 1
Without a glance at the body, he stepped up on to the
rock, picked up the farther trail of Billingford, and be-
gan to follow it as it led along the beach towards
Lynden Sands village. The footprints ran along the top
of a series of slight whale-backs of sand, behind which
lay a flatter zone running up towards the high-tide


96 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
mark. Nearer the sea, a track showed the inspector's
line of advance during the night. After following the
trail for nearly a quarter of a mile, Sir Clinton pointed
to a change in its character.
"This is where he began to run. See how the pace
shortens beyond this."
Rather to the surprise of his companions, he con-
tinued to follow the trail.
"Is it really necessary to go as far as this?" Wend-
over demanded after a time. "You've come the best
part of three-quarters of a mile from the rock. What
are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to find out the earliest moment when
Billingford could have reached the rock, of course,"
Sir Clinton explained, with a trace of irritation.
A few yards farther on, Billingford's track was
neatly interrupted. For twenty feet or so there were no
tracks on the sand; then the footprints reappeared,
sharply defined as before. At the sight cf the gap Sir
Clinton's face brightened.
"I want something solid here," he said. "Stakes
would be best, but we haven't any. A couple of cairns
will have to do. Bring the biggest stones you can lift;
there are lots up yonder above the tide-mark."
He set them an example, and soon they had collected
a fair number of heavy stones. Sir Clinton, with an
anxious eye on the tide, built up a strong cairn along-
side the last of Billingford's footprints which was
visible.
"Now the same thing on the other side of the gap,"
the chief constable directed.
Wendover suppressed his curiosity until the work in
hand was over; but as soon as the second cairn had
been erected at the point where Billingford's footprints


THE BEACH TRAGEDY 97
reappeared on the sand he demanded an explanation.
"I'm trying to estimate when Billingford passed that
point last night," Sir Clinton answered. "No, I haven't
time to explain all about it just now, squire. We're too
busy. Ask me again in twelve hours or so, and I'll tell
you the answer to the sum. It may be of importance or
it mayn't; I don't know yet."
He turned and glanced at the rising tide.
"Jove! We'll need to look slippy. The tide's getting
near that rock. Look here, inspector. Get hold of one
of these fishermen and ask them to pounce on the near-
est boat and bring it round to the rock. Then we can
leave everything on the rock to the last moment and
spend our time on the sands, which haven't got per-
manent traces and must be cleared up first of all. If we
get cut off by the tide, we can always get the body away
on a boat, if we have one handy."
The inspector hurried off, waving to attract the at-
tention of the fishermen. In a few moments he was
back again.
"They say, sir, that the nearest boat is at Flatt's
cottage, just on the point yonder. They're off to bring it
round. By the way, they warned me against going near
that old wreck there, farther along the bay. It seems
there's a patch of bad quick-sand just to the seaward
side of it—very dangerous."
"All right, inspector. We're not going any farther
along in this direction for the present. Let's get back to
the rock where the body is. We've still got the other
trails of footmarks to examine."
They hurried off towards Neptune's Seat, and at the
edge of the rock Sir Clinton halted.
"Here's a set of prints—a neatly-shod woman, by the
look of them," he pointed out. "She's come down to the


§8 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
rock and gone back again almost on the same line.
Take a cast of good ones, inspector, both left and right
feet. Be careful with your first drippings of the wax."
Wendover inspected the line of prints with care.
"They don't tell us much," he pointed out. "Billing-
ford's tracks don't cross them, so there's no saying
when they were made. It might have been a visitor com-
ing down to the beach yesterday afternoon."
"Hardly," interrupted Sir Clinton. "High tide was
at half-past eight; and obviously they must have been
made a good while after that or else this part of the
sands would have been covered. But it was a moon-
light night, and it's quite possible someone came down
here to look at the sea late in the evening."
"It's a small shoe," Wendover pursued, without
answering the criticism.
"Size or thereabouts," Armadale amended,
glancing up from his work. "I shouldn't make it bigger
than a 3}4, and it might be even smaller."
Wendover accepted the rectification, and continued.
"The step's not a long one either. That looks like a
rather small girl with a neat foot, doesn't it?"
Sir Clinton nodded.
"Looks like it. Have you a tape-measure, inspector?
We ought to make a note of the length of the pace, I
think. It might turn out useful. One never knows."
The inspector fished a tape-measure from his pocket;
and, with the help of Wendover, Sir Clinton made
measurements of various distances.
"Just twenty-four inches from one right toe-mark to
the next," he announced. "And it seems a very regu-
lar walk. Now if you're ready, inspector, we'll go on to
the next trail. It's the single one, so it's probably the
murdered man's."


THE BEACH TRAGEDY 99
They moved round the rock a little. The inspector's
face lighted up at the sight of the footprints.
"Rubber soles, sir; and a fairly well-marked set of
screws to check anything with. If they do belong to the
murdered man, we'll have no trouble in identifying
them."
Sir Clinton agreed.
"Don't bother taking casts of them yet. We may not
need them. Let's go on to the next tracks."
They had to cut across Billingford's trail and walk
to the far end of the rock before they reached their
objective.
"This is the other end of the track we noticed be-
fore," Wendover pointed out. "It's the woman in
golfing-shoes who came down from the road near the
groyne."
The inspector fell to work on his casting, whilst Sir
Clinton took another series of measurements of the
length of pace shown by the footprints.
"Twenty-six and a half inches," he reported, after
several trials of comparison. "Now, once the inspector's
finished with his impression-taking, we can have a look
at the body. We've just done the business in time, for
the tide's almost washing the base of the rock now."


CHAPTER VII: THE LETTER
Followed by Wendover and the inspector, Sir Clinton
mounted the platform of Neptune's Seat, which formed
an outcrop some twenty yards long and ten in breadth,
with the landward part rising sharply so as to form a
low natural wall. The body of the murdered man lay on
the tiny plateau at the end nearest the groyne. It rested
on its back, with the left arm slightly doubled up under
the corpse. Blood had been welling from a wound in
the breast.
"Anybody claim him?" inquired Sir Clinton. "He
isn't one of the hotel guests, at any rate."
Armadale shook his head.
"I don't recognise him."
Sir Clinton lifted the head and examined it.
"Contused wound on the back of the skull. Probably
got it by falling against the rock as he came down."
He turned to the feet of the body.
"The boots have rubber soles with a pattern corre-
sponding to the tracks up yonder. That's all right," he
continued. "His clothes seem just a shade on the flashy
side of good taste, to my mind. Age appears to be some-
where in the early thirties."
He bent down and inspected the wound in the breast.
"From the look of this hole I guess you're right,
inspector. It seems to have been a small-calibre bullet
—possibly from an automatic pistol. You'd better make
a rough sketch of the position before we shift him.


THE LETTER
101
There's no time to get a camera up here before the
tide swamps us."
Armadale cut one or two scratches on the rock as
reference points, and then, after taking a few measure-
ments, he made a rough diagram of the body's posi-
tion and attitude.
"Finished?" Sir Clinton asked; and, on getting an
assurance from the inspector, he knelt down beside the
dead man and unfastened the front of the raincoat
which clothed the corpse.
"That's interesting," he said, passing his hand over a
part of the jacket underneath. "He's been soaked to
the skin by the feel of the cloth. Did that rain come
down suddenly last night, inspector?"
"It sounded like a thunder-shower, sir. Dry one
minute and pouring cats and dogs the next, I remem-
ber."
"That might account for it, then. We proceed. I can
see only one wound on him, so far as the front's con-
cerned. No indication of robbery, since his raincoat was
buttoned up and the jacket also. Help me to lift him up,
inspector, so that we can get his arm free without
scraping it about too much. If he wore a wrist-watch, it
may have stopped conveniently when he fell, for he
seems to have come rather a purler when he dropped."
Armadale raised the left side of the body slightly,
and Sir Clinton levered the twisted arm gently into a
more normal position.
"You're right, sir," the inspector exclaimed, pointing
to the strap on the dead man's wrist. He bent forward
as though to turn the hand of the body, but the chief
constable stopped him with an imperative gesture.
"Gently, inspector, gently. We may need to be
cautious."


102 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Very carefully he manoeuvred the dead man's wrist
until they cpuld see the face of the watch.
"It's stopped at 11.19," Armadale pointed out. "That
gives us the moment when he fell, then. It doesn't
seem of much use to us yet, though."
Wendover detected a flaw in the inspector's assump-
tion.
"Some people forget to wind up their watches now
and again. Perhaps he did, the night before last; and
it might have stopped of its own accord at 11.19, be-
fore he was shot at all."
"Dear me, squire! This is a break-away from the
classics with a vengeance. I thought it was always
taken for granted that a watch stopped conveniently
at the very moment of the murder. But perhaps you're
right. We can always test it."
"How?" demanded Wendover.
"By winding it up now, counting the clicks of the
rachet as we do it; then let it run fully down and wind
up again, also counting the clicks. If the two figures
tally, then it's run down naturally; if they don't it's
been forcibly stopped. But I doubt if we'll need to
bother about that. There must be some better evidence
than that somewhere, if we can only lay hands on it."
Wendover's eyes had been ranging over the surface
of the rock; and, as Sir Clinton finished his exposition,
Wendover drew his attention to a shiny object lying at
the other end of Neptune's Seat.
"Just have a look at it, squire, will you? I'm busy
here just now. Now, inspector, it seems to me as if
some of this watch-glass is missing. There doesn't seem
enough to cover the dial. Let's have a look under the
body and see if the rest's there."
Armadale raised the dead man sufficiently to enable


THE LETTER
103
Sir Clinton to examine the spot where the watch had
struck the rock.
"Yes, here's the rest of the glass," the chief con-
stable reported. "And there's a faint scrape on the
rock surface to show that he must have come down with
a bit of a thud. Thanks, inspector, you can let him
down again."
When Armadale had let the body drop back into its
original position, Sir Clinton knelt down and un-
strapped the wrist-watch, after which he wrapped it
carefully in his handkerchief. The fragments of glass
he handed to the inspector, who stowed them away in
an envelope.
Meanwhile Wendover had made a discovery.
"Come here, Clinton. That yellow thing was the
brass case of a discharged cartridge."
Sir Clinton stepped across the rock and picked up the
tiny object, marking its position as he did so by scoring
a cross on the stone with his penknife.
"It's a .38 calibre, apparently," he commented, after
a glance at it. "You'd better keep it, inspector. Hullo!
Here's the boat coming in."
A rowing-boat manned by the two fishermen was
approaching Neptune's Seat.
"That's good. We can finish our examination on the
spot now. The tide won't rise to the level of the rock
for a while yet; and it doesn't matter if we do get cut
off, now that the boat's here. Bring her close in, please,
if there's water enough."
The fishermen, nothing loath to get a closer view of
the proceedings, brought the boat's bow up to the nat-
ural quay formed by the rock; and then, shipping their
oars, they sat down to watch what was going on.
"We may as well go through his pockets next," Sir


THE LETTER 105
He held out the two papers to Sir Clinton, who ex-
amined the letter-card first.
"Posted two days ago in London—W.i. H'm! Noth-
ing much to take hold of here, I'm afraid. 'Dear Nick,
—Sorry to miss you on Tuesday. See you when you
get back to town.' No address, and the signature's a
scrawl."
He turned to the single sheet of note-paper, and as he
unfolded it Wendover saw his eyebrows raised involun-
tarily. For a moment he seemed in doubt; then, with
a glance at the two fishermen, he carefully refolded the
paper and stowed it away in his pocket-book.
"That will keep for the present," he said.
Over the chief constable's shoulder, Wendover
caught a glimpse of a figure advancing along the sands
from the direction of the hotel bathing-boxes. A towel
over its shoulder showed the reason for the appearance
of the stranger on the beach before breakfast. As it
approached, Wendover recognised the gait.
"Here's Cargill, that Australian who's staying at the
hotel, Clinton. He's come down for a bathe, evidently.
You'd better do the talking for us."
Cargill had evidently recognised them, for he has-
tened his steps and soon reached the groyne.
"I shouldn't come any farther, Mr. Cargill," Sir
Clinton said politely. "There are some tracks there
which we may want to look at if we have time; and I'd
rather not have them mixed up with yours, if you
don't mind."
Cargill halted obediently, but looked inquisitively at
the group on the rock.
"Is that where the murder happened?" he inquired.
"How do you know about it?" Sir Clinton replied,
giving question for question.


106 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Oh, the news came up to the hotel with the
milk, I expect," the Australian answered. "I heard it
from a waiter as I came through on my way to
bathe. The whole staff's buzzing with it. I say, who
is it?"
"Couldn't say yet," Sir Clinton returned with an air
of candour. Then he added: "I'm sorry we haven't
time to talk it over just now, Mr. Cargill. This tide will
be all round us in a minute, if we don't get a move
on."
He turned to the fishermen.
"We'll shift the body into your boat now, and then
you can row slowly along towards the village. Don't
hurry; and don't go ashore till you see Inspector
Armadale there. He'll take the body off your hands.
You understand? Thanks."
The boat was brought close alongside the natural
quay and the body of Staveley put aboard without mis-
hap. At a sign from Sir Clinton, the boat put out into
the bay. Armadale seemed a little at a loss over the
procedure; but he made no audible protest. Cargill re-
mained on the other side of the groyne, obviously taking
the keenest interest in the whole affair.
Sir Clinton gave a last glance round the rock pla-
teau; then, followed by his companions, he retreated
to the upper sands. Cargill, thus left alone, hovered un-
certainly for a moment or two, and finally sat down on
the groyne, looking idly at the sand around his feet.
Evidently he understood that he was not wanted, but it
looked as though he had still some faint hopes of being
allowed to join the party.
"We must carry all this stuff up to the car," Sir
Clinton reminded his companions. "I'll take some of the
casts; you can manage the rest, inspector. Wendover,


THE LETTER
107
the blow-lamp and the rest of the candles are your
share, if you don't mind."
When they reached the car, he motioned Wendover
into the driving-seat and signed to the inspector to get
in also.
"I'm going for a short walk along the road towards
the hotel," he explained. "Let me get a bit ahead,
squire, and then follow on, slowly. I'm going to have a
look at that extra wheel-track at close quarters. It
won't take more than a moment or two."
He moved along the road to a point just before the
groyne, and halted there for a few moments, examining
the faint track left by the turning of a car. Then he con-
tinued his walk towards the hotel, scrutinising the
ground as he went. At the end of a few hundred yards
he halted; and, when Wendover brought up his car, Sir
Clinton got into it, taking the seat in front.
"There are really two tracks there," he explained, as
he closed the door. "Down by the beach, both of them
are very faint, and I noticed rain-marks on top of them.
Then, just a few dozen yards back from here, one of
the tracks is strongly marked, while the second track
remains faint. It's so lightly marked that I expect you
missed it this morning, squire. Now what do you make
of that?"
Wendover considered for a few moments.
"Somebody came down the road in a car before the
rain and made the light track," he suggested. "Then he
turned and came back in this direction; and when he
had got this length the rain came on, and his tracks
after that were in mud and not in dry dust, so they'd
be heavier. That it?"
"I expect so," Sir Clinton acquiesced. "No, don't
go on yet. I've something to show you before we go


108 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
farther. I didn't care to produce it before all that audi-
ence down at the rock."
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the
piece of note-paper found on Staveley's body. Wendover
leaned over and examined it as the chief constable un-
folded it.
"Hullo! The hotel heading's on the paper, Clinton,"
he exclaimed. "This is getting a bit near home,
surely."
"It is," said Sir Clinton drily. "I'll read it, inspector.
It's short and very much to the point, apparently. The
date on it is yesterday. This is how it goes. There's no
'Dear So-and-so' or anything of that sort at the be-
ginning.
"'Your letter has come as a complete surprise, as you ex-
pected, no doubt. You seem to know all about what has hap-
pened, and I suppose you will do all you can to make the
worst of things—at least I can't take any other meaning out
of what you have written. I shall come to Neptune's Seat to-
night at 11 p. M. to hear what you have to say. But I warn
you plainly that I will not submit to being blackmailed by
you, since that seems to be what is in your mind.'
And the signature," Sir Clinton concluded, "is Cressida
Fleetwood."
The inspector leaned forward and took the letter.
"Now we've got something to go on!" he exclaimed
jubilantly. "That name, coupled with the hotel note-
paper, ought to let us lay our hands on her within half
an hour, if we've any luck at all."
Wendover had been thunder-struck by the revelation
of the signature. His mind involuntarily called up a
picture of Cressida as he had seen her less than twenty-
four hours earlier, frank and care-free, and so evidently


IIO MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
scale in a case of doubt. Almost with surprise, he found
himself disliking Armadale intensely; a great, coarse-
fibred creature who cared nothing for the disaster which
he was about to unchain within an hour.
Wendover awoke from his thoughts to find Sir Clin-
ton looking at him with an expressionless face.
"Care to step off here, squire? Your face gives you
away. You don't like the way things are trending?
Better leave us to finish the job alone."
Wendover's brain could work swiftly when he chose.
Almost in a moment he had gauged the situation. If he
dropped out, then the two officials would go forward
together and there would be no human feelings among
the hunters. If he stayed with them, he could at least
play the part of critic and shake the inspector's con-
fidence in any weak links of the chain which he was
forging. Further than that he could not go, but at least
he could hold a watching brief for Cressida. His mind
was made up at once.
"No," he answered. "If you don't mind, since I'm
in the thing now, I'll stay in. You may need an im-
partial witness again, and I may as well have the
job."
The inspector made no attempt to conceal his dis-
gust. Sir Clinton showed neither approval nor objec-
tion, but he evidently thought it right to give a warn-
ing.
"Very well, squire. It's your own choice. But, re-
member, you're only a witness. You're not to go put-
ting your oar in when it's not wanted."
Wendover indicated his acquiescence by a curt nod.
Sir Clinton restarted his car and drove along with his
eyes fixed on the clearly marked tracks of the non-skid
tyres. At the hotel entrance the studded print turned


THE LETTER
III
inward, and was lost on the gravel of the sweep up to
the hotel.
As he noticed this, the inspector made an involuntary
gesture of satisfaction, whilst Wendover felt that the
net had been drawn yet tighter by this last piece of
evidence.
"That's a clincher, sir," Armadale pointed out with
a frank satisfaction which irritated Wendover intensely.
"She took a car down and back. This is going to be as
easy as falling off a log."
"I suppose you noticed that that car never stopped
at all on the road home," Sir Clinton remarked cas-
ually. "The tracks showed no sign of a stop and a re-
start once the machine had got going."
Only after he had run his car into the hotel garage
did he speak again.
"We don't want any more chatter than we can help
at present, inspector. There's no real case against any-
one yet; and it won't do to rush into the limelight. I
suggest that Mr. Wendover should ask to see Mrs.
Fleetwood. If you inquired for her, every tongue in the
place would be at work in five minutes; and by the
time they'd compared notes with each other, it'll be
quite impossible to dig out anything that one or two
of them may really happen to know. Everything will
have got mixed up in their minds, and they won't re-
member whether they saw something themselves or
merely heard about it from someone else."
Wendover saw the force of the argument; but he
also realised clearly the position into which he was
being pushed.
"I'm not so sure I care about that job, Clinton," he
protested. "It puts me in a false position."
The chief constable interrupted him brutally.


112 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Five minutes ago I offered you the chance to get
off the bus. You preferred to stay with us. Therefore
you do as you're told. That's that."
Wendover understood that his only chance of keeping
in touch with the hunters now depended on his obeying
orders. Gloomily he made his submission.
"All right, Clinton. I don't like it; but I see there
are some advantages."
Accompanied by the others, he entered the hotel and
made his way to the desk, while the two officials
dropped into the background.
"Mrs. Fleetwood?" the clerk repeated, when Wend-
over had made his inquiry. "Yes, sir, she's upstairs.
Didn't you know that Mr. Fleetwood broke his leg last
night? The doctor's set it now. I think Mrs. Fleetwood's
up in his room with him."
"What's the number?" Wendover asked.
"No. 35, sir. Shall I 'phone up and ask if you can see
her? It's no trouble."
Wendover shook his head and turned away from the
desk. As he crossed the hall, the other two rejoined
him.
"It's on the first floor. We'll walk up," said Sir
Clinton, turning towards the stairs. "You can do the
talking, inspector."
Nothing loath, Armadale knocked at the door of No.
35, and, on receiving an answer, he turned the handle
and entered the room. Sir Clinton followed him, whilst
Wendover, acutely uncomfortable, hovered on the
threshold. On the bed, with his features pale and drawn,
lay Stanley Fleetwood. Cressida rose from an arm-
chair and threw a startled glance at the intruders.
The inspector was no believer in tactful openings.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said gruffly, "but I


THE LETTER 113
understand you can give me some information about the
affair on the beach last night."
Wendover, despite his animus against Armadale,
could not help admiring the cleverness of this sentence,
which took so much for granted and yet had a vague-
ness designed to lead a criminal into awkward difficul-
ties in his reply. But his main interest centred in Cres-
sida; and at the look on her face his heart sank sud-
denly. Strain, confusion, and desperation seemed to
have their part in it; but plainest of all was fear. She
glanced from her husband to Armadale, and it was
patent that she understood the acuteness of the dan-
ger.
"Why," he admitted to himself in dismay, "she looks
as if she'd really done it! And she's deadly afraid that
Armadale can prove it."
Cressida moistened her lips automatically, as if she
were about to reply; but, before she could say a word,
her husband broke in.
"What makes you come here with inquiries? I sup-
pose you've some authority? Or are you a reporter?"
"I'm Inspector Armadale."
Stanley Fleetwood made an evident effort to keep
himself in hand, in spite of the physical pain which
he was obviously suffering. He nodded in acknowledg-
ment of the inspector's introduction, and then repeated
his question.
"What makes you come to us?"
Armadale was not to be led into betraying anything
about the extent of his information.
"I really can't go into that, Mr. Fleetwood. I came
to ask a few questions, not to answer any. It's to your
interest to answer frankly."
He turned to Cressida.


Il6 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
which suggested that Sir Clinton's intervention had
been a mere waste of time.
"When'll your lawyer be here?' he demanded
brusquely.
Stanley Fleetwood paused to consider before reply-
ing.
"IH wire him to-day; but most likely the wire will
lie in his office until Monday. I expect Monday after-
noon will be the earliest time he could get here, and
perhaps he won't turn up even then."
Inspector Armadale looked from husband to wife and
back again.
"And you'll say nothing till he comes?"
Stanley Fleetwood did not think it worth the trouble
to answer.
"I think you'll regret this, sir. But it's your own
doing. I needn't trouble you further just now."
Armadale stalked out of the room, suspicion and
indignation written large in every line of his figure.
Sir Clinton followed. As Wendover closed the retreat,
he saw Cressida step swiftly across to her husband's
side and slip to her knees at the edge of the bed.


CHAPTER VIII: THE COLT AUTOMATIC
At the foot of the stairs, Armadale excused himself.
"Better have some breakfast, inspector," Sir Clinton
suggested. "You've been up all night, and you must be
hungry."
Rather to Wendover's relief, Armadale rejected the
implied invitation.
"I'll pick up a sandwich, probably, later on, sir; but
I've something I want to make sure about first, if you
don't mind. Will you be ready again in half an hour or
so?"
Sir Clinton glanced at his watch.
"We'll hurry, inspector. After all, it's about time that
we took Billingford out of pawn. The constable may be
getting wearied of his society by this stage."
Inspector Armadale seemed to have no sympathy in
stock so far as either Billingford or Sapcote was con-
cerned.
"Staveley's body has to be collected, too," he pointed
out. "I've a good mind to 'phone for some more men.
We really can't cover all the ground as we are."
"I should, if I were you, inspector. Get them sent
over by motor; and tell them to meet us at Lynden
Sands. A sergeant and three constables will probably
be enough."
"Very good, sir."
The inspector went off on his errand, much to the
relief of Wendover, whose antagonism to Armadale had


Il8 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
in no way cooled. Sir Clinton led the way to the
breakfast-room, and impressed oil his waiter the neces-
sity for haste. As they sat down, Wendover saw inquisi-
tive glances shot at their table by other guests in distant
parts of the room. Evidently the news of the tragedy
on the beach was common property by now.
"I don't think Armadale made much of that busi-
ness," Wendover commented in a voice low enough
to be inaudible to their nearest neighbours. "There's
nothing so undignified as a bit of bullying when it
doesn't quite come off."
Sir Clinton never allowed a criticism of a subordi-
nate to pass unanswered.
"Armadale did his best, and in nine cases out of ten
he'd have got what he wanted. You're looking at the
thing from the sentimental standpoint, you know. The
police have nothing to do with that side of affairs.
Armadale's business is to extract all the information he
can and then use it, no matter where it leads him. If
an official had to stop his investigations merely because
a pretty girl breaks down and cries, we shouldn't be a
very efficient force in society."
"He met his match in young Fleetwood," Wendover
pointed out, with hardly concealed satisfaction.
Sir Clinton gazed across the table with a curious
expression on his face.
"For a J.P. you seem to be strangely out of sym-
pathy with the minions of the law. If you ask me, young
Fleetwood will have himself to thank for anything that
happens now. Of course, he's gained two or three days
in which he can discuss everything in detail with his
wife, and they can concoct between them just what they
propose to tell us eventually. But I never yet saw a
faked-up yarn that would stand the test of careful in-


THE COLT AUTOMATIC
119
vestigation and checking. And you may take it that,
after the way Armadale was received, he'll put every
word he gets from them under a microscope before he
accepts it as true."
Wendover nodded a gloomy assent to this view.
"I expect he will," he agreed. "Perhaps it's a pity
that young Fleetwood took that line."
"I gave him his chance to make a clean breast of it,
if he'd any reasonable tale to tell," Sir Clinton pointed
out with a trace of impatience. "All I got was a piece
of guttersnipe insolence. Obviously he thinks he can
get the better of us; but when it comes to the pinch, I
think"
He broke off abruptly. Wendover, glancing round,
saw that Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux had come into
the room and was moving in the direction of their table.
As she came towards them, he compared her, half
unconsciously, with Cressida Fleetwood. Both of them
would have been conspicuous in any group; but Cres-
sida's looks were a gift of Nature, whereas Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux was obviously a more artificial
product. Everything about her proclaimed that the
utmost care had been spent upon her appearance; and
even the reined-in manner of her walk suggested a
studied movement in contrast to Cressida's lithe and
natural step. Wendover noted that the wave in her red-
brown hair was a permanent one, obviously too well
designed to be anything but artificial.
"Now, why the deuce does one say 'foreigner' as
soon as one sees her?" he inquired of himself. "Heaps
of English girls wear dresses like that in the morning,
though they may not carry them so well. And they have
their hair waved, too. And her face isn't particularly
Continental-looking; I've seen types like that often
■


120 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
enough in this country. It must be the way she moves,
or else the way she looks at one."
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux gave him a brilliant
smile of recognition as she passed; then, seating herself
at the next table, she took up the menu and studied it
with a look of distaste on her features. Quite evidently
the English breakfast was not much to her liking. After
some consideration she gave her order to the waiter by
pointing to the card, as if she mistrusted her pronun-
ciation of some of the words.
Sir Clinton obviously had no desire to discuss police
affairs any further, with a possible eavesdropper at his
elbow. He went on with his breakfast, and, as soon as
Wendover had finished, he rose from the table with a
glance at his wrist-watch.
"We'd better pick up the inspector and get off to
Lynden Sands. I'll bring the car round."
At the hotel door, a few minutes later, Armadale
for some reason or other seemed to be in high spirits;
but he gave no indication of the cause of his cheerful-
ness.
A few minutes' run along the coast brought them to
Lynden Sands village, and the inspector directed Sir
Clinton to Sapcote's house. The constable was evidently
on the look-out, for as they were about to knock at the
door he appeared and invited them into a room where
Billingford was sitting. At the first glance, Wendover
was prejudiced against the man. Billingford had the air
of someone trying to carry off an awkward situation by
a forced jauntiness; and, in the circumstances, this
jarred on Wendover. But, on reflection, he had to ad-
mit to himself that Billingford's position was an awk-
ward one, and that an easy demeanour was hardly to
be expected under these conditions.


THE COLT AUTOMATIC
121
"Now, Mr. Billingford," the inspector began at once,
"I've one or two questions to ask you. First of all, why
didn't you tell the constable immediately that Staveley
was a friend of yours? You must have recognised him
whenever you saw the body on the rock."
Billingford's surprise was either genuine or else must
have been very well simulated.
"Staveley, is it?" he exclaimed. "I didn't know it
was Staveley! There was a cloud over the moon when I
got to the body, and I couldn't see the face. It was quite
dark then for a while—so dark that on the way there I
splashed through a regular baby river on the beach.
My trousers are all wet still round the boot-tops.
Staveley, is it? Well, well!"
Wendover could make nothing of the man. For all he
could see, Billingford might be genuinely surprised to
hear of Staveley's death. But, if he were, his emotion
at the loss of a friend could hardly be called excessive.
The inspector put his next question.
"Did you know if Staveley had gone out to meet
anyone last night?"
Billingford's eyes contracted momentarily at this
question. Wendover got the impression of a man on his
guard, and thinking hard while he talked.
"Meeting anyone? Staveley? No, I can't say I
remember his saying anything about it to me. He went
out some time round about ten o'clock. But I thought
he'd just gone for a turn in the fresh air. We'd been
smoking a lot, and the room was a bit stuffy."
The inspector jotted something in his note-book be-
fore asking his next question.
"What do you do for a living, Mr. Billingford?"
Billingford's face assumed a bland expression.
"Me? Oh, I'm a commission agent."


122
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Do you mean a commercial traveller?" Armadale
demanded.
A faint smile crossed Sir Clinton's face.
"I think Mr. Billingford means that he lives by his
wits, inspector. Am I correct?" he asked, turning to
Billingford.
"Well, in a way, yes," was the unashamed reply.
"But commission agent sounds rather better if it gets
into the papers."
"A very proper tribute to respectability," Sir Clinton
commented drily.
"What did you know about Staveley?" the inspector
went on.
"Staveley? Nothing much. Used to meet him now
and again. The two of us did business together at
times."
"Was he a commission agent too?" the inspector
inquired ironically.
"Well, sometimes he said he was that, and other
times he put himself down as a labourer."
"On the police charge-sheet, you mean?" Sir Clinton
asked.
Billingford grinned openly.
"Never saw the inside of a gaol in my life," he
boasted. "Nor did Staveley either, that I know about."
"I've no doubt my colleagues did their best," Sir
Clinton said amiably.
The inspector came back to his earlier question.
"Is that all you can tell us about him?"
"Who? Staveley? Well, sometimes we worked to-
gether. But it's not likely I'd tell you much about that,
is it?"
"What was he doing down here?"
"Staying with me for a day or two. I was getting a


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 123
bit jaded with rush-work in the City, so I came down
here for a rest. And Staveley, he said he'd join me and
we'd work out a new scheme for benefiting some mem-
bers of the public."
The inspector nodded.
"Some easy-money business, I suppose. Now come
to last night, and be careful what you say. Tell me ex-
actly what you can remember. Begin about dinner-
time."
Billingford reflected for a moment or two before
answering.
"After dinner, things were a bit dull, so the three of
us started to play poker to pass the time."
"Three of you?" Armadale interrupted. "Who was
the third man?"
"Oh, he's an Australian by the twang. Derek Ford-
ingbridge, he calls himself. Staveley brought him down.
There was something about his having an estate round
about here, and wanting to take a look at it."
"You hadn't met him before?"
"Me? Oh, only once or twice. I thought he was just
another labourer in the vineyard, if you take me."
"A competitor of yours in the commission agent
business? What was he doing in that line if he had an
estate?"
"Search me!" Billingford answered guardedly. "I'm
not one for asking too many questions about people's
affairs. 'Do unto others as you'd be done by' is my
motto."
Armadale evidently realised that he would get noth-
ing by persisting on this line.
"You played poker, then. Anything further happen?"
Billingford seemed to be considering carefully be-
fore he ventured further. At last he made up his mind.


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 125
""That's all I want to ask you just now," he said.
"You'll be needed at the inquest, of course. I suppose
you're staying on for a while at Lynden Sands?"
"Oh, yes," Billingford replied carelessly. "If you
want me at any time, I'll be handy. Always pleased to
play 'Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?' with you any
time you like, inspector."
"I daresay you've had plenty of practice," Arma-
dale growled. "Well, you can go now. Hold on, though 1
You can show us the way up to Flatt's cottage. I'll
need to see this friend of yours, Fordingbridge."
"Meaning to check up my story?" Billingford sug-
gested, unabashed. "I've met this sort of sceptical
spirit before. Somehow it always seems to develop in
people who've worn a constable's helmet in their youth.
Compression of the credulity lobe of the brain, or
something like that, perhaps."
Armadale made no reply, but led the way out of the
house. Before they had gone more than a few yards,
a police-sergeant came forward and accosted the in-
spector. After a few words, Armadale turned to Sir
Clinton.
"Now we've got the constables, sir, I think we'd bet-
ter get the body ashore and notify Dr. Rafford that
we'll need a P. M. done. If you don't mind going round
by the beach, I can put the sergeant here in charge; and
then we can go on to Flatt's."
The chief constable made no objection; and the
inspector paid no attention to Billingford's humorous
protest against a further waste of his time. The whole
party made their way down to the shore, where they
found most of the idlers of the village assembled, await-
ing the putting in of the boat.
Armadale signalled to the two fishermen; and very


126
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
soon they rowed their craft to the little pier. The police
kept the crowd back while the body was being landed.
Then the inspector gave the sergeant some instructions;
and under the guidance of Sapcote the squad set off
into the village with the body.
Suddenly Billingford seemed to recognise the rowing-
boat.
"Snaffled my boat, have you, inspector? Well, I like
the nerve of that! If I'd borrowed your handkerchief
without asking you, there'd have been a bit of a stir in
official circles. But when you take and steal my boat,
everybody seems to think it's just the sort of thing you
would do. Well, brother, we'll say no more about it. /
never care to rub things in. Live and let live's my
motto."
Armadale refused to be drawn.
"We'll clean up the boat and return it in the after-
noon," he said shortly. "Now come along. I haven't
time to waste."
A short walk took them to Flatt's cottage, which
stood near the point of the promontory between the
village and the bay in which Staveley's body had been
found. The road up to it was hardly better than a rough
track, and pools of water stood here and there which
evidently dated farther back than the rain of the prev-
ious night. The cottage itself was neatly kept, and
seemed fairly roomy.
"Call your friend," Armadale ordered, as they
reached the door.
Billingford complied without protest, and almost at
once they heard steps approaching. As the door opened,
Wendover received a shock. The man who stood before
them was almost faceless; and his eyes looked out from
amid a mass of old scars which gave him the appearance


128 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my
cousin Cressida during the war."
Armadale's face lighted up as he heard this.
"Then how do you account for her being the wife of
Mr. Stanley Fleetwood?" he asked abruptly.
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently.
"Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn't turn
up after the war, so I expect she wrote him down as
dead. She'd hardly grieve over him, from what I know
of his habits."
"Ah." the inspector said thoughtfully. "That's in-
teresting. Had she come across him by any chance
since he came down here?"
"I couldn't say. I'm hardly in touch with the rest of
my family at present."
The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the
claimant to the Foxhills estate, did not think it neces-
sary to pursue the matter further. He turned back to
the more immediate question.
"Can you tell me anything about Staveley's move-
ments last night?"
"Nothing much. We played poker after dinner.
Someone interrupted us—a friend of Staveley's. Then
we played some more. Then I went to bed early. That's
all."
"What about this friend of Staveley's? Was it a man
or a woman?"
"A woman, I believe; but I didn't see. Staveley went
to the door himself. That would be between nine and
ten o'clock."
"When did Staveley go out?"
"I can't say. After ten o'clock, at any rate, for I
went to bed, then. I'd a headache."
"When did you hear about the murder?"


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 129
"Before I got out of bed. I was told that two men
wanted to borrow the boat."
The inspector paused before continuing his inquiry.
When he spoke again, it was on a different point.
"I shall need to go through his luggage, of course.
Can I see it?"
Derek Fordingbridge led the way into the cot-
tage.
"It's in there," he said, indicating one of the rooms.
"He'd only a suit-case with him."
The inspector knelt down and turned out the suit-
case's contents with some care.
"Nothing here of any use," he said disappointedly
when he had finished. "One or two odds and ends.
No papers."
He rummaged in the drawers of the room-furniture
with the same lack of success. As he rose to his feet, Sir
Clinton turned to Fordingbridge.
"I'd like to see the fourth man of the party," he said
thoughtfully. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind getting hold
of him for me if he's here."
Wendover and Armadale showed some surprise; but
Fordingbridge seemed to see nothing in it.
"That's rather sharp of you. It's just as well we
aren't up against you. You mean the man who told me
about the boat being wanted? Sorry I can't get him for
you. He was a handy-man we brought down with us.
Billingford had a row with him last night and fired
him, so he took himself off this morning."
"What was his name?"
Billingford's look of innocence was intentionally
overdone.
"His name? Well, I called him Jack."
"Jack what?"


130 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Just Jack. Or at times: 'Here! You!' He answered
to either."
Inspector Armadale's temper began to show signs of
fraying.
"You must know something more about him. Hadn't
he a character when you employed him?"
"Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my
whiskey."
"Don't be funny," snapped Armadale. "Didn't you
get any references from an earlier employer?"
Billingford's eyes twinkled.
"Me? No. I've a charitable nature. Where would any
of us be if we had our characters pawed over? Forgive
and for get's my motto. It's easy enough to work on till
someone does you in the eye."
"So you say you know nothing about him?"
"I don't quite like the way you put it, inspector. It
seems almost rude. But I don't know where he is
now, and I'll kiss the Book on that for you if you want
it."
Armadale's expression showed clearly that he
thought little would be gained by accepting Billing-
ford's offer. He warned Derek Fordingbridge that his
evidence might be needed at the inquest; then, with a
cold nod to Billingford, he led the way out of the
cottage. Sir Clinton maintained silence until they were
beyond earshot of the door, then, as though addressing
the world at large, he said pensively:
"I wonder why they brought such a large card-
index down with them from town."
Armadale was taken aback.
"Card-index, sir? Where was it?"
"I noticed it in their sitting-room as we passed the
open door. It's one of these small cabinet affairs."


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 131
The inspector had no suggestion to offer; and Sir
Clinton did not seem to be anxious to pursue the mat-
ter. A few yards farther on he halted, and pointed to
something at the edge of one of the puddles.
"Doesn't that footprint seem a bit familiar, inspec-
tor? Just measure it, will you?"
Armadale's eyes widened as he looked.
"Why, it's that 3J4 shoe!" he exclaimed, stooping
over the mark. •
"I noticed it as we were coming up, but it didn't
seem to be the best time for examining it," Sir Clinton
explained. "Now, inspector, that's a permanent kind
of puddle. The chances are that this mark was made
before last night's rain. It's on the very edge of the
water now, not the place where a girl would step if
she could help it. The puddle's filled up a bit since she
made it."
"So she was Staveley's visitor last night?"
"It looks like it," Sir Clinton agreed. "Now meas-
ure it carefully, inspector."
Armadale produced his tape-measure and took var-
ious dimensions of the mark. When he had risen to his
feet again, Sir Clinton looked back at the cottage.
Billingford and his companion were on the doorstep,
eagerly gazing towards the police party.
"Give it a good scrub with your foot now, inspector,
if you've quite finished with it. We may as well give
Mr. Billingford something to guess about. He's a gen-
ial rascal, and I'd like him to have some amusement."
The inspector grinned broadly as he rubbed his
boot vigorously over the soft mud, effacing the print
completely.
"I'd like to see his face when he comes down to look
at it," he said derisively, as he completed the work of


132 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
destruction. "We couldn't have got much of a cast of
it, anyhow."
When they reached Sir Clinton's car, Armadale took
leave of them.
"There's one or two things I've got to look into," he
explained, "and I'll get some food between whiles.
I'll come along to the hotel in about an hour or so, if
you don't mind waiting there for me, sir. I think I'll
have something worth showing you by then."
He threw a triumphant glance at Wendover, and
went off up the street. Sir Clinton made no comment
on his subordinate's remark, but started the car and
drove towards the hotel. Wendover saw that nothing
was to be got out of the chief constable, and naturally
at the lunch-table the whole subject was tabooed.
Armadale did not keep them waiting long. They had
hardly left the lunch-table before he presented himself;
and Wendover noted with dismay the jubilant air with
which the inspector came forward to meet them. He
carried a small bag in his hand.
"I'd rather be sure that nobody overhears us, sir,"
he said as he came up to them. "And I've some things
to show you that I don't want talked about in public
yet."
He tapped the bag as he spoke.
"Come up to my room, then, inspector. We'll be
free from interruption there."
They took the lift up; and, when they entered the
room, the inspector turned the key in the door behind
them as an extra precaution.
"I've got the whole case cut and dried now, sir," he
explained with natural exultation in his voice. "It was
just as I said this morning—as easy as falling off a log.
It simply put itself together of its own accord."


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 133
"Well, let's hear it, inspector," Sir Clinton suggested
as soon as he could edge a word into the current of
the inspector's paean.
"I'll give you it step by step," the inspector said
eagerly, "and then you'll see how convincing it is. Now,
first of all, we know that the dead man, Staveley, mar-
ried this Fleetwood woman during the war."
Wendover flinched a little as he identified "this
Fleetwood woman" as Cressida. This was evidently
a foretaste of the inspector's quality.
"From what we've heard, one way and another,
Staveley was nothing to boast about," Armadale went
on. "He was a bad egg, evidently; and especially in
the way that would rasp a wife."
"That's sound," Sir Clinton agreed. "We needn't
dwell on it."
"He disappears; and she thinks he's dead," the in-
spector pursued. "She's probably mighty glad to see
the end of him. After a bit, she falls in with young
Fleetwood and she marries him. That's bigamy, as it
turns out; but she doesn't know it then."
"One can admit all that without straining things
much," Sir Clinton agreed. "Go on, inspector."
"The next thing is that Staveley turns up again. I
don't suppose he appeared in public. That wouldn't be
his game. These Fordingbridges have money; and,
from what we've heard, Staveley wasn't scrupulous
about transferring other people's money to his own
pocket."
"Nothing that could be shaken, so far," Sir Clinton
encouraged him. "Go ahead."
"Very well," the inspector went on. "He writes her
a letter evidently trying to put the screw on her, and
asking for an appointment on the quiet. She must have


134 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
been taken a bit aback. She'd been living with young
Fleetwood for the best part of a year. It's quite on the
cards that she's"
He broke off, glanced at Wendover's stormy coun-
tenance, and evidently amended his original phrase:
"That perhaps young Fleetwood and she weren't the
only people who might be hit by the business when it
came out."
"So that's your notion of the motive, is it?" Sir
Clinton commented. "Well, it's ingenious, I admit. I
didn't quite see how you were going to work up a case
on the strength of a mere accidental bigamy, for no-
body would think much about that. But one can't tell
how it might look from the point of view of a mother,
of course. Anything's possible, then. Go ahead."
"She writes him a letter making an appointment at
an out-of-the-way place—Neptune's Seat—at a time
when it's sure to be quiet—11 p. m. That was the note
we found on the body. Secrecy's written all over it, as
any jury would see."
He paused for a moment, as though he were not quite
sure how to put his next piece of the case.
"She takes an automatic pistol with her; probably
her husband had one. I'm not prepared to say that she
meant definitely to murder Staveley then and there.
Perhaps she only took the pistol as a precaution.
Probably her barrister will try to pretend that she took
it for self-defence purposes, Staveley being what he
was. I don't think that. Why? Because she took her
husband along with her; and he could have looked after
Staveley for her."
Wendover was about to interpose, but the inspector
silenced him.
"I'll give you the evidence immediately, sir. Let me


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 135
put the case first of all. She puts on her golfing-shoes,
because she's going on to the sand. She takes down her
golf-blazer and puts it on over her evening dress. Then
she goes out by the side-door and meets the car that her
husband has brought round from the garage for her.
That must have been close on eleven o'clock. Nobody
would miss her in a big place like the hotel."
With unconscious art, the inspector paused again
for a moment. Wendover, glancing at Sir Clinton's face
in the hope of reading his thoughts, was completely
baffled. The inspector resumed, still keeping to the
historical present in his narrative.
"They reach the point of the road nearest to Nep-
tune's Seat. Perhaps they turn the car then, perhaps
later. In any case, she gets out and walks down towards
the rock. Fleetwood, meanwhile, slips in behind the
groyne and keeps in the lee of it as he moves parallel
with her. That accounts for the kind of prints we saw
this morning.
"She gets to the rock and meets Staveley. They talk
for a while. Then she loses her temper and shoots him.
Then the fat's in the fire. The Fleetwoods go back to
their car and drive off to the hotel again. They don't
take the car to the garage straightway. She gets out,
goes round by the entrance leading to place where the
guests keep their golfing togs. She takes off her golfing-
shoes, strips off her blazer and hangs it up, and slips
into the hotel, without being spotted."
Wendover had listened to this confident recital with
an ever-increasing uneasiness. He comforted himself,
however, with the hope that the inspector would find it
difficult to bring adequate proof of his various points;
but he could not deny that Armadale's reconstruction
manifested a higher gift of imagination than he had


136 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
been expecting. It all sounded so grimly probable.
"Meanwhile," the inspector resumed, "young Fleet-
wood leaves the car standing and goes into the hotel.
What he was after I can't fathom—perhaps to establish
some sort of alibi. In any case, he comes hurrying down
the stairs at 11.35 p.m., catches his foot, takes a
header, and lands at the bottom with a compound frac-
ture of his right leg. That's the end of him for the night.
They ring up Rafford, who patches him up and puts
him to bed."
Armadale halted again, and threw a superior smile
towards Wendover.
"That's my case stated. I think there's enough in it
to apply for a warrant against the woman as principal
and young Fleetwood as accessory."
Wendover took up the implied challenge eagerly, now
that he knew the worst. This was the part for which he
had cast himself, and he was anxious to play it well.
"There's a flaw at the root of your whole case,
inspector," he asserted. "You make out that it was fear
of exposure that acted as the motive. Well, by this
murder exposure became inevitable—and under its
worst form, too. How do you get round that difficulty?"
Armadale's air of superiority increased, if anything,
as he heard the objection advanced.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Wendover, that you haven't had
much experience of real murder cases. In books, of
course, it may be different," he added, with an evident
sneer. "Your real murderer may be stupid and unable
to forsee the chain of events that the murder's going
to produce. Or else you may have an excitable clever
type that's carried away by strong feelings on the spur
of the moment, so that all the cleverness goes for noth-
ing and the murderer does the work in a frame of


THE COLT AUTOMATIC
137
mind that doesn't give much heed to the possible con-
sequences."
"And, of course, the murderers who are neither stu-
pid nor excitable are the ones who never get caught,
eh?" Sir Clinton interjected in an amused tone. "That
accounts for us police being at fault now and again."
Wendover considered Armadale's thesis with care.
"Then, as Mrs. Fleetwood isn't stupid," he said
frigidly, "you're assuming that she lost her head under
some strong provocation?"
"It's quite likely," Armadale insisted. "No jury
would turn down that idea simply because we can't
state what the precise provocation was. They wouldn't
expect a verbatim report of the conversation on the
rock, you know."
Wendover could hardly deny this in his own mind;
and his heart sank as he heard the inspector's confident
declaration. He tried a fresh point of attack.
"You said you'd definite evidence to support this
notion of yours, didn't you? Well, how do you propose
to prove that Mrs. Fleetwood was there at all last
night?"
Armadale's smile had a tinge of triumph in it. He
bent over his bag and drew from it one of the wax casts,
which he laid on the table. A second dip brought to
light a pair of girl's golfing-shoes. He selected the
proper one and placed it, sole upward, alongside the
cast. Wendover, with a sinking heart, compared cor-
responding parts of the two objects. Even the most
carping critic could not deny the identity.
"These are the woman Fleetwood's golfing-shoes,
sir," the inspector announced a trifle grimly. "I found
them in the lady golfers' dressing-room. I can bring a
witness or two who'll swear to them, if need be."


138 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Suddenly Wendover detected a possible flaw in the
inspector's case; but, instead of unmasking his battery
immediately, he made up his mind to lead Armadale
astray, and, if possible, to put him off his guard. He let
his full disappointment show clearly in his face, as if
the evidence of the shoes had shaken his beliefs. Drop-
ping the matter without further discussion, he took up
a fresh line.
"And the golf-blazer? What about it? That left no
tracks on the sands."
Armadale's smile of triumph became even more
marked. He turned once more to his bag, slipped his
hands into his rubber gloves, and then, with every
precaution, lifted a dusty-looking Colt automatic into
view.
"This is a .38 calibre pistol," he pointed out. "Same
calibre as the cartridge-case we picked up on the rock,
and probably the same as the bullet'll be when we get it
from the body. I've examined the barrel; there's been
a shot fired from it quite recently. I've looked into the
magazine; it lacks one cartridge of a full load."
He paused dramatically before his final point.
"And I found this pistol in the pocket of the woman
Fleetwood's golf-blazer which was hanging on her peg
in the lady golfers' dressing-room."
After another pause, meant to let the fact sink home
in Wendover's mind, Armadale added:
"You'll admit, sir, that a toy of this sort is hardly the
kind of thing an ordinary lady carries about with her."
Wendover thought he saw his way now, and he
prepared to spring his mine.
"Let's be quite clear about this, inspector. I take it
that you went into that ladies' dressing-room, hunted
around for Mrs. Fleetwood's coat-peg, and found the


THE COLT AUTOMATIC
139
blazer hanging on it and the shoes lying on the floor
below."
"Exactly, sir. Mrs. Fleetwood's card was there,
marking the peg. I'd no difficulty."
Wendover made no attempt to repress the smile
which curved his lips.
"Just so, inspector. Anyone else could have found
the things just as easily. They were lying there, open
to anyone; not even a key to turn in order to pick them
up. And after dark that dressing-room is left very much
to itself. No one goes there except by accident."
In his turn he paused before launching his attack.
Then he added:
"In fact, some other woman might have gone there
instead of Mrs. Fleetwood; worn her shoes and her
blazer; and misled you completely. Anyone could take
the blazer from its peg and the shoes from the floor,
inspector. Your evidence is all right up to a point, I
admit; but it doesn't incriminate the owner of the
articles, since they were accessible to anybody at that
time of night."
Wendover had expected to see a downfall of the
inspector's pride; but instead, Armadale's face showed
clearly that the shot had missed its mark. With a slight
gesture, the inspector drew Wendover's eyes to the pis-
tol.
"There are some fingerprints on this—quite clear
ones, sir. I've dusted them, and they're perfectly good
as a means of identification."
"But you don't suppose Mrs. Fleetwood will let you
take her fingerprints if they're going to tell against
her, do you?"
Armadale's face showed the pleasure which he felt in
having forestalled criticism. He gingerly replaced the


I40 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
pistol in some receptacle in his bag, and then drew
out, with all precaution, a table-knife which Wendover
recognised as the pattern used in the hotel.
"This is the knife that the woman Fleetwood used
to-day at lunch. The waiter who served her was told
to keep it for me—he brought it on the plate without
handling it. When I dusted it some of her fingerprints
came up, of course. They're identical with those on the
pistol. Any reply to that, sir?"
Wendover felt the ground cut away from under his
feet. He could think of nothing to urge against the
inspector's results. But, even then, Armadale seemed to
have something in reserve. He put the knife back in his
bag, searched the contents again, and produced a pair
of pumps, which he placed on the table.
"I got the chambermaid to lift these while she was
tidying up Fleetwood's room this morning. Put your
finger on the soles: they're still quite damp. Naturally;
for you know how water oozes from sand if you stand
long on the one spot. What's more, if you look at the
place between the soles and the uppers—at the join—
you'll see some grains of sand sticking. That's good
enough for me. Fleetwood was the man behind the
groyne. Now you won't persuade me that Fleetwood
was off last night helping anyone except his wife—any
woman, I mean—in that affair at the rock."
Wendover scrutinised the pumps minutely and had
to admit that the inspector's statements were correct.
Armadale watched him scornfully and then concluded
his exposition.
"There's the evidence you asked for, sir. Fleetwood
was there. His pumps are enough to prove that. I
haven't checked them with the cast yet, for there's
enough already; but I'll do it later on. His wife was


THE COLT AUTOMATIC
there—golf-shoes, blazer, pistol, fingerprints, they all
prove it up to the hilt, when you take in the empty
cartridge-case we found on the rock. Then there's the
car left standing out all night. Probably he meant to
bring it in and broke his leg before he could come
back to do the work. That's enough to satisfy any
jury, sir. There's nothing to do now except apply for a
warrant and arrest the two of them."
Sir Clinton had listened to the inspector's recapitula-
tion of the evidence with only a tepid interest; but the
last sentence seemed to wake him up.
"It's your case, Inspector," he said seriously, "but if
I were in your shoes I don't think I'd be in a hurry with
that warrant. It may not be advisable to arrest either
of the Fleetwoods—yet."
Armadale was plainly puzzled; but it was equally
evident that he believed Sir Clinton to have sound
reasons for his amendment.
"You think not, sir?" he asked, a shade apprehen-
sively.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
"I think it would be a mistake to act immediately,
inspector. But, of course, I'll take the responsibility
off your shoulders. I'll put it in writing for you now if
you wish it."
Armadale in turn shook his head.
"No need for that, sir. You never let any of us
down. But what's your objection?"
Sir Clinton seemed undecided for a moment.
"For one thing, inspector," he said at last, "there's a
flaw in that case of yours. You may be right in es-
sentials; but you've left a loose end. And that brings
me to another thing. There are far too many loose ends
in the business, so far as it's gone. Before we do any-


142 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
thing irrevocable in the way of bringing definite
charges, we must get these loose ends fixed up."
"You mean, sir?"
"I mean we'll have to eliminate other possibilities.
Billingford is one. I hope to throw some light on that
point to-night, inspector, about midnight. And that
reminds me, you might get the light ready to throw—a
couple of good flash-lamps will be enough, I think.
Bring them along here about 11.30 p.m. and ask for
me. Then there's the dame with the neat shoe. She's a
loose end in the tangle. . . ."
"I've been looking into that, sir."
Sir Clinton's approval was obviously genuine.
"Really, inspector, you've done remarkably well in
the short time you've had. That's good work indeed.
And what are the results?"
The inspector's face showed they had not been al-
together satisfactory.
"Well, sir, that footprint wasn't made by any of the
hotel visitors. I've gone into it fully. Only three ladies
here wear 3^'s: Miss Hamilton, Mrs. Rivel, and Miss
Staunton. The footprint in the mud up at the cottage
was made between nine and ten o'clock last night.
Between those hours, Miss Hamilton was dancing—
I've even a note of her partner's name. She's the best
dancer, it seems; and a lot of people were watching
her for the pleasure of it. So she's cleared. Mrs. Rivel
was playing bridge from immediately after dinner until
half-past eleven; so it couldn't be her. And Miss
Staunton twisted her ankle on the links yesterday and
had Dr. Rafford up to look at it. She's hobbling about
with a stick, sir; and as there was no sign of a limp on
the tracks, that clears her."
Sir Clinton considered the evidence without vocal


THE COLT AUTOMATIC 143
comment. The inspector, anxious to prove his zeal,
continued:
"Just to make sure, I went over all the small-sized
shoes. About half a dozen ladies wear 4's: Miss Aus-
ton, Mrs. Wickham, Mrs. Fleetwood, Miss Fairford,
that foreign lady with the double-barrelled name, Miss
Leighton, and Miss Stanmore—the younger Miss Stan-
more, I mean. But as it's a il/2 shoe by the measure-
ments I took, they're all out of it. I'm making some quiet
inquiries in the village, sir. It looks as if it might have
been some local girl, from what we heard about Stave-
ley's habits. I'll report as soon as anything turns up."
Sir Clinton had listened patiently to the inspector's
recital, but his next speech seemed to suggest that his
attention had been wandering.
"I think you'd better get some more constables over,
inspector. Let 'em come in plain clothes and don't
advertise them. And you can turn Sapcote on to watch
that crowd at Flatt's cottage. I've just developed an
interest in the fourth man—'who would answer to
"Hi!" or to any loud cry,' as it says in The Hunting of
the Snark. It's the merest try-on; but I shouldn't be
surprised to learn that he's back again at the cottage.
And, by the way, the two fishermen must have seen him
when they went to borrow the boat. You might get a
description of him from them."
"Very good, sir."
"And there's a final point, inspector. I don't want to
overburden you, but what about the Peter Hay case?
Anything further?"
Armadale's face showed that he thought he was be-
ing over-driven.
"Well, sir," he protested, "I really haven't had much
time."


CHAPTER IX: THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-
CASE
The chief constable had a fresh task on his hands as
soon as Armadale took his leave. It seemed to him
essential to get the body of the dead man identified by
someone in addition to the group at Flatt's cottage.
Stanley Fleetwood was unable to move, even if he had
wished to do so; and Sir Clinton had no particular
desire to confront Cressida with her late husband's
corpse. Paul Fordingbridge had known Staveley well;
and it was to him that the chief constable turned in
this difficulty.
To his relief, Paul Fordingbridge showed no annoy-
ance at the state of affairs. He consented at once to go
with the chief constable to inspect the body and give
his evidence as to its identity. Wendover accompanied
them in the car; and in Lynden Sands village the
formalities were soon over. Fordingbridge had no hesi-
tation in the matter; he recognised Staveley at the first
glance.
Until they were clear of the village again, Sir Clinton
made no attempt to extract any further information;
but when the car crossed the neck at Flatt's cottage
and was running beside the bay, he slowed down and
turned to Fordingbridge.
"There's a point you might be able to throw light
on, Mr. Fordingbridge," he said tentatively. "Quite
obviously, Staveley was supposed to have been killed in


146 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
the war. Could you give me any information about his
earlier history? You came in contact with him at times,
I understand."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed in no way put out by
the request.
"I can tell you all I know about the fellow easily
enough," he answered readily. "You'll have to go else-
where for any real information about his past; but,
so far as I'm concerned, I met him here. My nephew,
Derek, brought him home to spend his leave with us at
Foxhills. That was in 1916. In the spring of '17, he was
slightly wounded; and we asked him down again to stay
with us when he was convalescent. He married my
niece in April 1917. The marriage wasn't a success—
quite the other thing. The fellow was a scoundrel of
the worst brand. In September 1917 we learned pri-
vately that he had got into the black books of the
military authorities; and my private impression—it's
only that, for I really don't know—my private impres-
sion was that he ran the risk of a firing-party. What
I heard was a rumour that he'd been given a chance
to rehabilitate himself in the field. There was a big at-
tack being mounted at the moment, and he was sent in
with the rest. That was the last we heard of him. After
the attack, he was posted as missing; and a while later
still the War Office returned some of his things to my
niece. It seems they'd found a body with his identity
disc on it. Naturally we were relieved."
He halted for a moment; then, seeming to feel that
he had put the matter in an unnecessarily callous way,
he added:
"He was a thoroughly bad lot, you understand? I
caught him once trying to forge my name to a cheque
for a good round figure."


I48 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
from 1914. He was captured on the West Front in the
same battle as the one I've been speaking about. We
learned later on that he'd been sent to the prisoners'
camp at Clausthal. He got away from there almost at
once and made a good try to get over the Dutch fron-
tier; but they got hold of him at the last moment. Then
he was sent to Fort 9, Ingolstadt. He hadn't been there
a week before he got away again. My impression is that
most probably he was shot in trying to get across the
Swiss frontier, if not earlier; and they failed to identify
him. We heard no more about him, anyhow; and when
the prisoners were released after the Armistice, he
wasn't among them. If this fellow were really my
nephew, it's hard to see why he's let so long a time go
by without communicating with us. If he really is my
nephew, there's a lot of money waiting for him; and
he's an enterprising chap, as you can see from his
escape attempts. And yet we've had no word from him
of any sort since before the attack in which he was
captured."
"Lost his memory, perhaps?" Wendover suggested.
"It might be possible," Paul Fordingbridge answered
in a frigid tone which damped further speculation on
Wendover's part. Turning to Sir Clinton, he added:
"Unless there's any further information you want, I
think I'll get down here and walk back to the hotel.
I'd be glad of a chance to stretch my legs."
As Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him, he
stepped out of the car; and they soon left him behind.
"Barring the girl," Wendover confided to Sir Clinton
as they drove on, "that Fordingbridge family seem a
damned rum crew."
"You surprise me, squire. You even capture my
interest. Proceed."


THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE 149
"Well, what do you make of it all?"
"I'll admit that my vulgar curiosity is piqued by
their highly developed faculty of reticence. Miss Ford-
ingbridge seems the only one of them who has a normal
human desire to talk about her own affairs."
"Did you see anything else?"
"They seem a bit at sixes and sevens. But you've a
much acuter mind than I have, so I suppose you spotted
that quite a long time ago."
"I had a glimmering of it," Wendover retorted sar-
castically. "Anything more?"
"Oh, yes. For one thing, Mr. Paul Fordingbridge
seems to have a singularly detached mind. Why, even
you, squire, with your icy and well-balanced intellect,
seem to be more affected by his niece's troubles than the
wicked uncle is. Quite like the Babes in the Wood,
isn't it?—with you in the role of a robin. All you need
are some leaves and a red waistcoat to make the thing
go properly."
"It's hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton."
"I'm not laughing," Sir Clinton said soberly. "Hang-
ing's no joke. Remember the Ballad of Sam Hall—
"Then the parson he will come . . .
and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be
a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by
mistake."
Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up be-
fore the front of the hotel.
"You can get out here, squire. There's no need to go
round with me to the garage."
But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw
the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had


150 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the
look-out for their arrival.
"I've been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir
Clinton," he explained as he came up to the car. "I
missed you at lunch-time; and when I tried to get hold
of you, I found you'd gone off. I've got something that
seems important to show you."
He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny
glittering object which he handed over to the chief
constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to
hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.
"I've seen things of this sort before," Sir Clinton said
indifferently as he glanced at it. "I doubt if the loser's
likely to offer a reward."
Cargill seemed taken aback.
"Can't you see its importance?" he demanded. "I
found it down on the beach this morning."
"How was I to know that until you told me?" Sir
Clinton asked mildly. "I'm not psychic, as they call it.
I just have to be told things plainly. But I shouldn't
shout them, Mr. Cargill, if they really are important."
Cargill dropped his voice at the implied rebuke.
"You remember I was down bathing this morning
before breakfast? And you warned me off the premises
—wouldn't let me come nearer than the groyne. I sat
down on the groyne and watched you for a while; then
you went away. I wasn't in a hurry to bathe just then,
so I sat for a bit on the groyne, just thinking things over
and trying to put two and two together from what I
could see of the footmarks on the sands. I suppose I
must have sat there for a quarter of an hour or so.
When I got up again, I found I'd been kicking up the
sand a bit while I was thinking—shuffling about with-
out noticing what I was doing with my feet. And when


THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE 151
I looked down—there was this thing shining on the
sand at my toes. It was half hidden; and until I
picked it up I didn't spot what it was. By that time
your party had cleared out. So I made a careful note
of the spot, put the thing in my pocket, and set off to
look for you. Unfortunately, you weren't to be found
just then; so I've been waiting till I could get hold
of you."
He looked at the chief constable eagerly as though
expecting some display of emotion as a reward for his
trouble; but Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing as he
thanked Cargill.
"Would you mind getting aboard?" he asked imme-
diately. "I'd like to see just where you found this
thing."
Then, as a concession to Cargill's feelings, he added:
"You must have pretty sharp eyes. I thought I'd
been over that ground fairly carefully myself."
"Probably the thing was buried in the sand," the
Australian pointed out. "I saw it only after I kicked
about a while."
Sir Clinton turned the car and took the road leading
down to Neptune's Seat.
"What do you make of it, Mr. Cargill?" he inquired,
after a moment or two.
"I haven't thought much about it," Cargill answered.
"It seems straightforward enough. Somebody must
have been behind the groyne and fired a shot. It's
within easy shooting distance of the rock where the
body was found."
Wendover opened his mouth as if to say something.
Then, thinking better of it, he refrained.
When they reached the shore, the tide was sufficiently
far out to allow Cargill to show them the spot at which


152 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
he had picked up the cartridge-case. Wendover still
had a mental map in his head, and he recognised that
the shot must have been fired by the man behind the
groyne at the time when he was nearest to Neptune's
Seat. If Stanley Fleetwood was even a moderate shot
with an automatic, he could hardly have missed Stave-
ley's figure at the distance.
Sir Clinton seemed to become more keenly interested
when they reached the shore. His detached manner
thawed markedly, and he thanked Cargill again for
having brought the evidence to light.
"Oh, it was only an accident," the Australian pro-
tested. "I wasn't looking for anything. It just chanced
to catch my eye. Does it throw any light on things?"
Sir Clinton obviously resented the question.
"Everything helps," he said sententiously.
Cargill saw that he had been indiscreet.
"Oh, I'm not trying to stick my oar in," he hastened
to assure the chief constable. "I just asked out of
mere curiosity."
He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have
appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he
changed the subject completely.
"By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel
that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying some-
where hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came
across somebody of that name in the war."
"He's staying at that cottage across the bay," Wend-
over explained, pointing out Flatt's cottage as he spoke.
"What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance,
I mean."
"Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair
darkish, if I remember right."
"This looks like your man, then," Wendover assured


THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE 153
him. "But you'll probably find him a bit altered. He's
had some bad wounds."
"Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I'll just go across
the bay now and see if he's at home. I'm half-way there
already."
Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on
finding that it would be taking them out of their way,
Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across
the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a
warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he
should stumble into it unawares.
"That's an interesting find," Wendover volunteered
as they climbed the beach. "I didn't say anything in
front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-
case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence."
"You mean that Billingford couldn't tell the in-
spector whether there was a single shot or a pair?" Sir
Clinton inquired.
"Yes. That looked funny at first sight; but if the
two shots were fired almost simultaneously, then it
would have been a bit difficult to say whether there
was a double report or not."
"That's so squire. You're getting devilish acute these
days, I must admit."
But, from his friend's tone, the compliment did not
sound so warm as the words suggested. Wendover
imagined that he detected a tinge of irony in Sir
Clinton's voice; but it was so faint that he could not
feel certain of it.
"I'm getting too much into a groove," the chief
constable went on. "This was supposed to be holiday;
and yet I'm spending almost every minute of it in rush-
ing about at Armadale's coat-tails. I really must have
some relaxation. There's some dancing at the hotel to-


THE SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE 157
the rivulet confined to a channel between the two
cairns.
"I make it five past twelve," Sir Clinton said, lift-
ing his eyes from his watch. "Now I'm going over to
Neptune's Seat. You stay here, inspector; and when
you see my flash-lamp, run your hardest to the rock
and join me."
He disappeared in the darkness, leaving the others
rather puzzled as to the meaning of these manoeuvres.
At last Wendover thought he saw the point.
"I see what he's getting at."
But just as he was about to explain the matter to the
inspector, they saw the flash of Sir Clinton's lamp and
Armadale set off at a lumbering trot across the sands
with Wendover hurrying after him.
"It's simple enough," Sir Clinton explained when all
three had gathered at Neptune's Seat. "You remember
that Billingford's track was broken where the cairns
are—no footprints visible for several yards. That was
the place where he crossed the runnel last night. All
we need to do is to note when the runnel is the same
breadth at that point to-night—which we've just done—
and then make a correction of about forty minutes for
the tide being later this evening. It's not exact, of
course; but it's near enough, perhaps."
"I thought you were after something of the sort,"
Wendover interjected. "Once I got as far as the runnel
I tumbled to the idea."
"Well, let's take the results," Sir Clinton went on.
"The runnel was in the right state to-night at five past
twelve. Make the forty-one minute deduction—since
the tide's forty-one minutes later to-night than it was
last night—and you get 11.25 p.m. as the time when
Billingford crossed that rivulet last night. Now the


T ft E SECOND CARTRIDGE-CASE 159
"Don't be in too much of a hurry, inspector. How are
you getting along with the shoe question?" Sir Clinton
inquired a trifle maliciously.
"To tell you the truth," the inspector replied guard-
edly, "I haven't been able to get at the root of it yet,
sir. Only two of the village girls take that size of shoe.
One of them's only a kiddie; the other's away on a
visit just now. It doesn't look like either of them."
"And the Hay case?" the chief constable demanded.
The inspector made an inarticulate sound which sug-
gested that he had nothing fresh to recount on this
subject.
"And the P.M. on Staveley's body?" pursued Sir
Clinton.
Here the inspector had something to report, though
not much.
"Dr. Rafford's gone into it, sir. The contused wound
on the back of the head's nothing to speak of. The base
of the skull's intact. That blow had nothing to do with
his death. At the most, it might have stunned him for
a minute or two. According to the doctor, Staveley was
killed by the shot; and he thinks that the shot wasn't
fired at absolutely close quarters. That fits in with the
fact that I could find no singeing of the cloth of his
rain-coat or his jacket round about the bullet-hole. Dr.
Rafford found the bullet, all correct. Death must have
been practically instantaneous, according to the doc-
tor's view. These are the main results. He's written a
detailed report for reference, of course."
Sir Clinton made no direct comment.
"I think that'll do for to-night, inspector. Come up to
the car and I'll run you into the village. By the way, I
want some of your constables to-morrow morning for a
bit of work; and you'd better hire some labourers as


l60 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
well—say a dozen men altogether. Tell them to dig up
the sand between Neptune's Seat and the sea to the
depth of about a foot, and shift it up into a pile above
high-tide mark."
"And how far are they to carry their diggings?"
Wendover inquired.
"I really doubt if they'll be able to dig much below
low-tide mark. What do you think?"
"And what do you expect to find there?" Wendover
persisted.
"Oh, a shell or two, most likely," Sir Clinton retorted
caustically. "Would you like to bet on it, squire?"
Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not
intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing
would be gained by further persistence.


CHAPTER X: THE ATTACK ON THE
AUSTRALIAN
Next morning, before going to the links, Sir Clinton
went to the shore and superintended the start of the
excavating work there; but when once the actual dig-
ging had begun, he seemed to lose interest in the matter.
It was not until late in the afternoon that he paid his
second visit, accompanied by Wendover. Even then he
contented himself with the most casual inspection, and
soon turned back towards the hotel.
"What are you after with all this spade-work?"
Wendover demanded as they sauntered up the road.
Sir Clinton turned and made a gesture towards the
little crowd of inquisitive visitors and natives who had
congregated around the diggers.
"I've heard rumours, squire, that the Lynden Sands
public thinks the police aren't busy enough in the
sleuth-hound business. Unofficial opinion seems divided
as to whether we're pure duds or merely lazy. They
want to see something actually being done to clear up
these mysteries. Well, they've got something to talk
about now, you see. That's always gain. So long as
they can stand and gape at the digging down there, they
won't worry us too much in the things we really have
to do."
"But seriously, Clinton, what do you expect to find?"
Sir Clinton turned a bland smile on his companion.
"Oh, shells, as I told you before, squire. Shells,
almost certainly. And perhaps the brass bottle that the


MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
genie threw into the sea after he'd escaped from it—
the Arabian Nights tale, you remember. Once one starts
digging in real earnest one never can tell what one may
not find."
Wendover made a gesture of impatience.
"I suppose you're looking for something."
"I've told you exactly what I expect to find, squire.
And it's no good your going off to pump these diggers,
or even the inspector, for they don't know what they're
looking for themselves. The general public can ask
questions till it's tired, but it won't learn much on the
beach. That'll tend to keep its excitement at fever-
heat and prevent it looking any farther for points of
interest."
As they neared the hotel they overtook Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux, who was walking leisurely up
the road. Sir Clinton slowed down to her pace, and
opened a brisk conversation as he came abreast of her.
Wendover, feeling rather out of it, inspected Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux covertly with some disfavour.
"Now, what the devil does Clinton see in that
vamp?" he asked himself as they moved on together.
"He's not the usual idiot, by a long chalk. She'll get no
change out of him. But what does he expect to get out
of her? It's not like him. Of course, she's a bit out of
things here; but she doesn't look the sort that would
mind that much, somehow. And he's evidently lay-
ing himself out to get her good graces. It's a bit
rum."
He could not deny that the personal attractions of
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux were much above the
average; and, despite himself, he felt a tinge of uneasi-
ness in his mind. After all, even the cleverest men get
caught occasionally; and it was plain enough that Sir


ATTACK ON THE AUSTRALIAN 163
Clinton was doing his best to make friends with the
Frenchwoman.
They had just entered the hotel grounds when
Wendover saw approaching them down the drive the
figure of Gargill. The Australian seemed to have some-
thing to say to them, for he quickened his pace when he
caught sight of Sir Clinton.
"I've come across something else that might be of
importance," he said, addressing the chief constable
without a glance at the others. "It's a"
He broke off abruptly, with a glance at Mme.
Lauront-Desrousseaux. It seemed almost as though he
had not seen before that she was there, or as if he had
just recognised her.
"I'll let you see it later on," he explained rather
confusedly. "I'll have to hunt it out. I find I've left it
in the pocket of another jacket."
Sir Clinton successfully repressed any signs of a
curiosity which he might have felt.
"Oh, any time you like," he suggested, without be-
traying much interest in the matter.
By an almost imperceptible manoeuvre he broke the
group up into two pairs, and moved on towards the
hotel entrance with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, leav-
ing Wendover and the Australian to follow if they
chose. It was almost dinner-time as they entered the
building; and Wendover took the opportunity of shak-
ing off Cargill, who seemed inclined to cling to him
more than he wished.
Rather to Wendover's surprise, Sir Clinton showed no
inclination, after dinner, to plunge into further investi-
gations.
"We mustn't be greedy, squire," he argued. "We
must leave the inspector a fair share of the case, you


164 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
know. If amateurs like ourselves bustle around too
much, the professional would have no practice in his
art at all."
"If you ask me," Wendover retorted, "the profes-
sional's spending all his time barking furiously at the
foot of the wrong tree."
"You think so? Well, if the cats up the tree insist on
making a noise like a murderer, you can't blame him,
can you?"
"I don't like his damned flat-footed way of going
about his job," Wendover protested angrily. "One al-
ways supposed that people were treated as innocent
until they were convicted; but your inspector inter-
viewed that girl as if he were measuring her for a rope."
"He's built up a wonderfully convincing case, squire;
don't forget that."
"But you admitted yourself that there's a flaw in it,
Clinton. By the way, what is the flaw?"
But Sir Clinton did not rise to the bait.
"Think it over, squire. If that doesn't do the trick,
then think again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and
try a third dose. It's one of these obvious points which
I'd hate to lay before you, because you'd be covered
with confusion at once if I explained it. But remember
one thing. Even if the inspector's case breaks down in
one detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation
than the Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to
the present. That's obvious. And now, what about pick-
ing up a couple of men and making up a table of
bridge?"
Wendover's play that evening was not up to its usual
standard. At the back of his mind throughout there was
the picture of Cressida and her husband upstairs,
weighed down by the burden of the unformulated


ATTACK ON THE AUSTRALIAN 165
charge against them and preparing as best they could
against the renewal of the inquisition which could not
be long delayed. He could picture to himself the almost
incessant examination and re-examination of the evi-
dence which they must be making; the attempts to slur
over points which would tell heavily against them;
the dread of the coming ordeal at the hands of Arma-
dale; and the terror of some masked battery which
might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He
grew more and more determined to put a spoke in the
inspector's wheel if it were at all possible.
Late in the evening he was aroused to fresh fears
by the entry of a page-boy.
"Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Num-
ber"
"Here, boy!" Sir Clinton signalled to the page.
"What is it?"
"You Sir Clinton Driffield, sir? Message from Mr.
Cargill, sir. He wants you to go up and see him. His
number's 103, sir."
Sir Clinton was obviously annoyed.
"Tell him I'm here if he wishes to see me. Say I'm
playing bridge."
The boy seemed to enjoy springing a sensation on
them.
"Beg y'r pardon, sir, but he can't come. He's upstairs
in bed. He's been shot. Mrs. Fleetwood brought him
back in her car, sir, a few minutes ago; and they had
to carry him up to his room. The doctor's been sent
for."
Sir Clinton laid down his cards, and made a brief
apology to the others for interrupting the game.
"You'd better come along with me, squire. We have
to break up the table, in any case."


166 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Followed by Wendover, he ascended to the Aus-
tralian's room. They found Cargill lying on his bed
with some rough bandages round his ankle, and evi-
dently in considerable pain.
"Sorry to hear you've had an accident," Sir Clin-
ton said sympathetically, as he bent down and in-
spected the dressings. "That seems good enough to
serve until the doctor comes. Who put it on for
you?"
"Mrs. Fleetwood," Cargill answered. "She seemed
to know a bit about first aid work."
Sir Clinton, rather to Wendover's surprise, asked no
leading question, but awaited Cargill's explanation.
The Australian did not keep them in suspense.
"I sent a message down for you because you're the
Lord High Muck-a-muck in the police hereabouts; and
the sooner the police get hold of the beggar who tried
to do me in, the better I'll be pleased. It's no advertise-
ment for a new hotel to have one of its guests half
murdered within a week of his arrival."
"True. Suppose you explain what happened."
Cargill seemed to see that he had hardly approached
the matter in a tactful manner.
"I'm a bit sore at present, and perhaps I sounded
peevish. But it's enough to make one lose one's rag a
bit, I think. Here's what happened. This evening,
after dinner, I strolled across the bay to pay a visit to
my friend Fordingbridge at Flatt's cottage. We sat
there for a while, playing cards; and then I thought
I might as well be getting home again. So I said good-
bye to them"
"Who was there?" Sir Clinton interjected.
"Fordingbridge and Billingford," Cargill replied. "I
said good-bye to them, and set off for home"


ATTACK ON THE AUSTRALIAN 171
about at the first glance. She got me on board and was
off to the doctor's before you could say: 'Snap!' we
picked him up and she drove us both up here. On the
way she told me her side of the business."
"And that was?"
"By her way of it, she'd wanted to make sure of
catching the first post in the morning—an important
letter, she said. She'd taken her car and driven in to
Lynden Sands post office to post it, for fear of the hotel
post not catching the first collection. Then she was
driving back again when she heard someone calling,
just as she came to the corner at Flatt's cottage. She
turned on her horn and came round the corner; and
almost at once she saw, in the beam of her head-lights,
Cargill lying on the road. So she stopped and got down.
In a minute or so, up came the gang from Flatt's cot-
tage; and between the lot of them they got Cargill into
the car and she brought him home."
"Did she see anyone on the road except Cargill?"
"I asked her that, sir. She says she saw no one there.
No one was on the road between Cargill and the corner."
"Slipped off the road, evidently. There are a lot of
rocks by the roadside thereabouts, and a man could
hide "himself quick enough among them, if he were put
to it," Sir Clinton pointed out.
The inspector seemed to find the suggestion un-
satisfying.
"There's just one point you've overlooked, I think,
sir," he criticised. "Remember what Cargill told you.
With the light as it was, he couldn't tell whether it was
a man or a woman who shot him."
Wendover flamed up at the inspector's insinuation.
"Look here, inspector," he said angrily, "you seem
to be suffering from an idie fixe about Mrs. Fleetwood.


172 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
First of all you insist that she murdered Staveley. Now
you want to make out that she shot Cargill; and you
know perfectly well the thing's absurd. You haven't
got a shred of evidence to make your ideas hang to-
gether in this last affair—not a shred."
"I'm not talking about evidence just now, Mr.
Wendover. There's been no time to collect any as yet.
I'm just taking a look at possibilities; and this is quite
within the bounds of possibility, as you'll see. Suppose
Mrs. Fleetwood came out of Lynden Sands village and
drove up the road towards Flatt's cottage. She could
see the door of it as she came up the hill to the corner.
You'll not deny that, I suppose?"
"No," Wendover admitted contemptuously. "That's
quite possible."
"Then suppose, further," the inspector went on,
"that just before she reached the corner the door of
Flatt's cottage opened and a man came out. In the light
from the open door he'd be fairly plain to anyone in
her position—but not too plain."
"What's that got to do with it?" Wendover de-
manded brusquely. "Haven't you CargilPs own evi-
dence that he knows nobody hereabouts except Derek
Fordingbridge? Why should Mrs. Fleetwood want to
shoot a total stranger? You're not suggesting that she's
a homicidal maniac, are you?"
"No," Armadale retorted, "I'm suggesting that she
mistook Cargill's figure for somebody else—somebody
whom she'd a good reason for putting out of the way.
She'd only get a glimpse of him as he opened and shut
the cottage door. A mistake's quite on the cards. Is
that impossible, so far?"
"No, but I shouldn't say that it mattered a rap, if
you ask me."


ATTACK ON THE AUSTRALIAN 173
"That's as it may be," the inspector returned, ob-
viously nettled by Wendover's cavalier manner. "What
happens after that? She shuts off her lights; gets down
off the car; follows Cargill along the road, still mistak-
ing him for someone else. She steals up behind him and
tries to shoot him, but makes a muddle of it owing
to the bad light. Then Cargill shouts for help, and she
recognises that she's made a mistake. Off she goes, back
to her car; switches on her lights and sounds her horn;
and then pretends to have been coming up the hill in
the normal way and to have arrived there by pure
accident at that time. Is that impossible?"
- "Quite!" said Wendover bluntly.
"Come now, squire," Sir Clinton interposed, as the
tempers of his two companions were obviously near the
danger-point. "You can't say anything's impossible
except a two-sided triangle and a few other things of
that sort. What it really amounts to is that you and
the inspector differ pleasantly as to the exact degree of
probability one can attach to his hypothesis. He thinks
it probable; you don't agree. It's a mere matter of the
personal equation. Don't drag in the Absolute; it's out
of fashion in these days."
Wendover recovered his temper under the implied
rebuke; but the inspector merely glowered. Quite
evidently he was more wedded to his hypothesis than
he cared to admit in plain words.
"There isn't much chance of our getting the bullet,"
he admitted. "It went clean through Cargill's leg, it
appears. But if we do get it, and if it turns out to be
from a pistol that a girl could carry without attracting
attention, then perhaps Mr. Wendover will reconsider
his views."


CHAPTER XI: MME. LAURENT-DESROUS-
SEAUX'S EVIDENCE
"I shan't be able to give you a game this morning,
squire," Sir Clinton explained at breakfast next day.
"I've got another engagement."
He glanced towards Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's
empty seat at the adjoining table, and suppressed a
grin as he saw the expression on Wendover's face.
"Need you advertise yourself quite so much in that
quarter, Clinton?" Wendover demanded, rather put out
by the turn of events.
Sir Clinton's features displayed an exaggerated ex-
pression of coyness, as though he were a boy half in-
viting chaff on the subject of a feminine conquest.
"I find her interesting, squire. And good-looking.
And charming. And, shall we say, fascinating? It's a
very rare combination, you'll admit; and hence I'd be
sorry not to profit by it when it's thrust upon me."
Wendover was somewhat relieved by the impish ex-
pression in Sir Clinton's eye.
"I've never known you to hanker after semi-society
ladies before, Clinton. Is it just a freak? Or are you
falling into senile decay? She's fairly obvious, you
know, especially against this background."
Sir Clinton failed to suppress his grin.
"Wrong both times, squire, making twice in all. It's
not a freak. It's not senile decay. It's business. Sounds
sordid, doesn't it, after your spangled imaginings?


MME. DESROUSSEAUX'S EVIDENCE 175
'Chief Constable Sacrifices All for Love,' and that sort
of thing. It's almost a pity to disappoint you."
Wendover's relief was obvious.
"Don't singe your wings, that's all. She's a dangerous
toy, by the look of her, Clinton. I shouldn't play with
her too long, if I were you. What she's doing down here
at all is a mystery to me."
"That's precisely what I intend to find out, squire.
Hence my devotion. There were more brutal ways of
finding out; but I don't share the inspector's views
about how to elicit evidence. You see, she's studied in
the best school of fascination, and she knows a woman
can always get into a man's good graces by leading him
on to talk about his work. So she's secured a num-
ber of horrific details about the dreadful powers of
the police in this land of freedom from me. I think
she'll part with the information I want when I ask
for it."
Wendover shook his head disapprovingly.
"Seems a bit underhand, that," he commented.
"The finer graces do get shoved aside in a murder
case," Sir Clinton admitted. "One regrets it; but there
it is. You can't wear a collar and tie when you're going
to be hanged, you know."
"Get on with your breakfast, you gruesome devil,"
Wendover directed, half in jest and half in earnest. "I
expect the next thing will be your luring all your
suspects on to the hotel weighing-machine, so as to have
the right length of the drop calculated beforehand
Constant association with that brute Armadale has cor-
rupted you completely."
Sir Clinton stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a mo-
ment or two before speaking again.
"I've got a job for you to do, squire," he announced


MME. DESROUSSEAUX'S EVIDENCE 177
"And, from what I've seen of her feet, her shoes are
a perfect fit."
"I've noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably,
squire."
"Well, she couldn't wear a 3)4 shoe."
"No. That's admitted. She hasn't such a thing in her
possession; I'm sure of that. Give it up, squire. The
fishing's very poor in this district. I'm not going to tell
you anything just now."
Wendover recognised that he could not hope to ex-
tract any further information from the chief constable,
and he consoled himself with the thought that a couple
of hours at most would see this part of the mystery
cleared up. After breakfast he went into the lounge,
and passed the time in smoking and reviewing the state
of affairs. He became so engrossed in this exercise that
it was almost with a start that he realised the time had
come to take out the car and pick up Armadale.
As he and the inspector drove slowly back from the
village, they saw the figures of Sir Clinton and Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux sauntering across the sands just
below high-tide mark; and in a few moments the car
came level with the walkers. Sir Clinton waved his arm,
and Wendover and Armadale got out and walked down
the beach.
"This is Inspector Armadale, Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux," the chief constable said, as they came
up. "He wants to ask you some questions about Friday
night, when you were at that rock over there."
He pointed to Neptune's seat as he spoke. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux seemed completely taken by sur-
prise. For a moment or two she stood glancing uneasily
from one to another; and her eyes showed something
more than a tinge of fear.


178 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"I am much surprised, Sir Clinton," she said at last,
her accent coming out more markedly than usual in her
nervous voice. "I had supposed that you were friendly
to me; and now it appears that, without making a
seeming of it, you have been leading me into what you
call an English police-trap, isn't it? That is not good
of you."
Armadale had picked up his cue from Sir Clinton's
words.
"I'm afraid I must ask you to answer my questions,
ma'am," he said, with a certain politeness. Obviously
he was by no means sure of his ground.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux eyed him in silence for
some moments.
"What is it that you desire to know?" she demanded
finally.
Before Armadale could formulate a question, Sir
Clinton intervened.
"I think, madame, that it will make things easier for
us all if I tell you that the inspector is preparing a case
against someone else. He needs your deposition to
support his charge. That is the whole truth, so far as he
is concerned. You need not have any fears, provided
that you tell us all that you know about Friday night."
Wendover noticed the double meaning which might
be attached to Sir Clinton's words; but he could not
feel sure whether the chief constable wished to deceive
or merely to reassure his witness. Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux's face cleared slightly as she grasped the
meaning of Sir Clinton's speech.
"If such is the case," she said cautiously, "I might
recall to myself some of the things which happened."
Armadale seemed a trifle suspicious at this guarded
offer, but he proceeded to put some questions.


MME. DESROUSSEAUx's EVIDENCE 179
"You knew this man Staveley, ma'am?"
"Nicholas Staveley? Yes, I knew him; I had known
him for a long time."
Sir Clinton interposed again.
"Perhaps you would prefer to tell us what you know
of him in your own words, madame. It would be easier
for us if you would do so."
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux nodded her agreement.
She seemed to have conquered her nervousness.
"It was during the war, messieurs, in 1915. I was
Odette Pascal then, a young girl, an honest girl—what
you English call straight, isn't it? It was later that I
became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux, you understand?
I encountered this Nicholas Staveley in Paris, where I
was employed in a Government office. He was very
charming, very caressing; he knew how to make him-
self loved."
She made a gesture, half cynical, half regretful, and
paused for a moment before she continued in a harder
tone:
"It did not last long, that honeymoon. I discovered
his character, so different from that which I had be-
lieved it. He abandoned me, and I was very rejoiced
to let him go; but he had taught me things, and forced
me to work for him while he had me. When we sep-
arated ourselves, in fact, I was no longer the gentle,
honest little girl that I had been. All that was finished,
you understand?"
Wendover saw that the inspector was taking notes in
shorthand. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux paused for a
time to allow Armadale to catch up.
"The rest is without importance. I became Aline
Laurent-Desrousseaux, and I had not any need of
Nicholas Staveley. During a long time I had no need of


l80 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
him; but from time to time I heard speak of him, for
I had many friends, and some of them could tell a
little; and always he was the same. Then is come the
report that he was killed at the Front."
She paused again, with her eye on the inspector's
pencil.
"The time passed," she resumed, "and I desired only
to forget him. I believed him well dead, you under-
stand? And then, from one of my friends, I learned that
he had been seen again after the war. I disinterested
myself from the affair; I had no desire to see him. But
suddenly it became of importance to me to satisfy my-
self about him. It is much complicated, and has noth-
ing to do with him—I pass on. But it was most neces-
sary that I should see him and get him to consent to
some arrangements, or an affair of mine would be em-
barrassed."
"Embarrassed," Armadale repeated, to show that he
was ready to continue.
"I have consulted my friends," Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux pursued. "Some among them have been
able to help me, and I have discovered where he was
living in London. It was most necessary for me to speak
with him. Thus I came over to England, to London.
But he is no longer there; he is gone to Lynden Sands,
one says. So I procure his address—at Flatt's cottage—
and I come myself to Lynden Sands Hotel."
Armadale's involuntary upward glance from his note-
book betrayed the increase in his interest at this point.
"I arrive here; and at once I write him a letter saying
I go to Flatt's cottage to see him on Friday night.
There is no response, but I go to Flatt's cottage as I
had planned. When I knocked at the door, Staveley
appeared."


MME. DESROUSSEAUX's EVIDENCE l8l
"What time on Friday night was that?" Armadale
interposed.
"In my letter I had fixed a rendezvous at half-past
nine. I was exact—on time, you say, isn't it? But it
seemed that this Staveley could not see me alone there;
others were in the cottage. Then he said that he would
meet me later—at half-past ten—at some great rock
beside the sea, the rock one calls Neptune's Seat."
"So you came away, and he went back into the
cottage?" Armadale demanded.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux assented with a slight
bow.
"I came away," she continued. "To pass the time,
I walked on the road, and perhaps I walked too far. It
was late—after the hour of the rendezvous—when I
arrived opposite the rock, this Neptune's Seat. I went
down on to the sands and attained to the rock. Staveley
was there, very angry because I was ten minutes late.
He was much enraged, it appears, because he had a
second rendezvous at that place in a few minutes. He
would not listen to me at all at the moment. I saw that
it was no time for negotiating with him, he was so much
in anger and so anxious to deliver himself of me. I fixed
another rendezvous for the following day, and I left
him."
"What time did you leave him on the rock?" Arma-
dale interjected.
"Let us see." Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux halted for
a moment to consider. "I passed some minutes with
him on the rock—let us put ten minutes at the least."
"That would mean you left the rock very shortly
before eleven o'clock, then?"
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed with a gesture.
"I went away from the rock by the same road as I


l82 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
had come," she went on. "I was much agitated, you
understand? It was a great disappointment that I had
attained to no arrangement at that moment, I had
hoped for something better, isn't it? And that Staveley
had been very little obliging—unkind, isn't it? It was
very desolating.
"As I was crossing the sands, a great automobile
appeared on the road, coming from the hotel. It stopped
whilst I was waiting for it to pass; and the chauffeur
extinguished its projectors. Then a woman descended
from the automobile, and walked down on to the sands
towards the rock."
Wendover could read on Armadale's face an expres-
sion of triumph. The inspector was clearly overjoyed at
getting some direct evidence to support his case against
Cressida; and Wendover had to admit, with consider-
able disquietude, that Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's
narrative bore out Armadale's hypothesis very neatly.
"When I again regarded the automobile, the chauf-
feur also had vanished. He was not on the road. Per-
haps he also had gone down to the rivage."
"Shore," Sir Clinton interjected, seeing Armadale's
obvious perplexity at the word.
"I was standing there for some minutes," Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux continued. "Against one like
that Staveley one must utilise all weapons, isn't it?—
even espionage. I had a presentiment that something
might eventuate. Staveley and a woman, you under-
stand? I was hoping that something, anything, might
arrive to give me an advantage over him.
"I have forgotten to say that the sky was obscured
by great clouds. It was a little difficult to see clearly.
On the rock they discussed and discussed, but I could
hear nothing; and in the end I grew tired of attending."


MME. DESROUSSEAUx's EVIDENCE 183
"How long did you stand there?" Armadale asked.
"It would be difficult to say, but perhaps it was
about a quarter-hour. I was quite tired of attending,
and I walked—quite slowly—along the road away from
the hotel. I avoided the automobile, you understand?
I desired no embarrassments. It was not my affair—
isn't it?—to discover the identity of this woman. All
that I desired was an arm against Staveley. There was
nothing else at all.
"A little after, I returned; it seemed to me longer,
perhaps, than it really was; and I was believing that
they must be gone, those two. Then, all at once, I heard
the report of a firearm down at the rock"
"A single shot?" Sir Clinton questioned. "Un seul
coup de feu?"
"One only," Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux answered
definitely. "I hastened back along the road in the di-
rection of the automobile. I had the idea of an accident
in my head, you understand? It was very sombre; great
clouds were passing on the moon. I could see with dif-
ficulty the woman's figure hasten up from the rock
towards the automobile; and almost at once the chauf-
feur rejoined her. When they were getting into the
automobile I was quite close; I could hear them speak,
although it was too dark to see them except most dimly.
The woman spoke first, very agitated."
Her three listeners were intent on her next words.
Armadale looked up, his pencil poised to take down
her report. Wendover felt a catch in his breath as he
waited for the next sentences which would either make
or break the inspector's case.
"She said," Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued,
"She said these very words, for they were stamped on
my memory since they meant so much to me: 'I've


184 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
shot him, Stanley.' And the chauffeur demanded: 'Have
you killed him?' And you can understand, messieurs,
that I listened with all my ears. The woman responded:
'I think so. He fell at once and lay quite still. What's
to be done?' And to that the chauffeur made the reply:
'Get you away at once.' And he made some movement
as if to put the motor in march. But the woman stopped
him and demanded: 'Aren't you going down to look
at him—see if anything can be done?' And to that the
chauffeur made the response in anger: 'It's damn well
likely, isn't it?' Just like that. And he pursued: 'Not
till I've seen you in safety, anyhow. I'm not running
any risks.'"
Wendover felt that his last shred of hope had been
torn away. This reported conversation might have been
concerted between Mme. Laurent-Desrousseux and
Armadale beforehand, so neatly did it fit into its place
in the inspector's case. He glanced up at Sir Clinton's
face, and saw there only the quiet satisfaction of a man
who fits a fresh piece of a jig-saw puzzle into position.
"Then," Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued,
"the chauffeur set his motor in march and reversed the
automobile. I stepped aside off the road for fear that
they should see me; but they went off towards the hotel
without illuminating the projectors."
She stopped, evidently thinking that she had told all
that was of importance. Armadale suggested that she
should continue her tale.
"Figure to yourselves my position," she went on.
"Staveley was lying dead on the rock. The automobile
had gone. I was left alone. If one came along the road
and encountered me, there would be suspicion; and
one would have said that I had good reason to hate
Staveley. I could see nothing but embarrassments be-


186 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
His words seemed to remove her disinclination.
"In this case, I reveal nothing which you ignore?
Then I say that it was the voice of the young Madame
Fleetwood which I have heard in the night."
Armadale bestowed a glance on Wendover, as much
as to say that his case was lock-fast. Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux, now that she had got her narrative off
her mind, seemed to be puzzled by something. She
turned to Sir Clinton.
"I am embarrassed to know how you came to
discover that I was at the rock on that night. May I
ask?"
Sir Clinton smiled, and with a wave of his hand he
indicated the trail of footmarks across the sands which
they had made in their walk.
"Ah, I comprehend! I had forgotten the imprints
which I must have left when I went down to the rock.
It was dark, you understand?—and naturally I did not
perceive that I was leaving traces. So that was it, Sir
Clinton?"
Armadale was obviously puzzled. He turned to Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux.
"What size of shoe do you wear, madame?"
She glanced at her neatly shod feet.
"These shoes I have bought in London a few days
ago. The pointure—the size, you call it, isn't it?—was
No. 4."
Armadale shrugged his shoulders, as though to ex-
press his disbelief.
"Measure these prints on the sand here, inspector,"
Sir Clinton suggested.
Armadale drew out his tape-measure and took the
dimensions of the footmarks left by Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux.


MME. DESROUSSEAUx's EVIDENCE 187
"And the length of step also, inspector," Sir Clinton
suggested.
"They correspond with the tracks down to the rock,
true enough," the inspector admitted, when he com-
pleted his task. "But only a 2>y2 shoe could have made
them."
Sir Clinton laughed, though not sneeringly.
"Would you lend me one of your shoes for a moment,
madame?" he asked. "You can lean on me while it's
off, so as not to put your foot on the wet sand."
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux slipped off her right
shoe and held it out.
"Now, inspector, there's absolutely no deception.
Look at the number stamped on it. A four, isn't it?"
Armadale examined the shoe, and nodded affirm-
atively.
"Now take the shoe and press it gently on the sand
alongside a right-foot print of Mme. Laurent-Desrous-
seaux—that one there will do. See that you get it square
on the sand and make a good impression."
The inspector knelt down and did as he was told. As
he lifted the shoe again, Wendover saw a look of aston-
ishment on his face.
"Why, they don't correspond!" he exclaimed. "The
one I've made just now is bigger than the other."
"Of course," the chief constable agreed. "Now do
you see that a No. 4 shoe can make an impression
smaller than itself if you happen to be walking in sand
or mud? While you were hunting for people with
shoes, I was turning my attention to No. 4's. There
aren't so many in the hotel, as you know. And it so
happened that I began with Mme. Laurent-Desrous-
seaux. She was good enough to go for a walk with me;
and by counting her steps I gauged the length of her


188 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
pace. It corresponded to the distance on the tracks."
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux was examining Sir
Clinton with obvious admiration, not wholly unmixed
with a certain uneasiness.
"You seem to be very adroit, Sir Clinton," she
observed. "But what is this about the length of my
pace?"
"The inspector is accustomed to our English girls,
madame, who have a free-swinging walk and therefore
a fairly long step. From the length of the steps on the
sand he inferred that they had been made by someone
who was not very tall—rather under the average height.
He forgot that some of you Parisians have a differ-
ent gait—more restrained, more finished, shall we
say?"
"Ah, now I see!" Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux ex-
claimed, not at all unsusceptible to the turn of Sir
Clinton's phrase. "You mean the difference between
the cab-horse and the stepper?"
"Exactly," Sir Clinton agreed with an impassive face.
Armadale was still puzzling over the two footprints.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, evidently wearying of
standing with one foot off the ground, recovered her
shoe from him and slipped it on again. Sir Clinton took
pity on his subordinate.
"Here's the explanation, inspector. When you walk
in sand, you put down your heel first. But as the sand's
soft, your heel goes forward and downward as you plant
your foot. Then, as your body moves on, your foot be-
gins to turn in the sand; and when you've come to the
end of your step, your toe also is driven downwards;
but instead of going forward, like your heel, it slips
backward. The result is that in the impression the heel
is too far forward, whilst the toe is in the rear of the


MME. DESROUSSEAUx's EVIDENCE 189
true position—and that means an impression shorter
than the normal. On the sand, your foot really pivots
on the sole under the instep, instead of on heel and toe,
as it does on hard ground. If you look at these impres-
sions, you'll find quite a heap of sand under the point
where the instep was; whilst the heel and toe are deeply
marked owing to each of them pivoting on the centre
of the shoe. See it?"
The inspector knelt down, and Wendover followed
his example. They had no difficulty in seeing Sir Clin-
ton's point.
"Of course," the chief constable went on, "in the
case of a woman's shoe, the thing is even more exag-
gerated owing to the height of the heel and the sharp-
ness of the toe. Haven't you noticed, in tracks on the
sand, how neat any woman's prints always look? You
never seem to find the impression of a clumsy foot,
simply because the impression is so much smaller than
the real foot. Clear enough, isn't it?"
"You are most ingenious, Sir Clinton," Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux commented. "I am very glad
indeed that I have not you against me."
Sir Clinton turned the point.
"The inspector will bring you a copy of the evidence
you have so kindly given us, madame, and you will do
us the favour to sign it. It is a mere formality, that; but
we may need you as a witness in the case, you under-
stand?"
Rather ungraciously, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
agreed. It was evident that she had hoped to escape giv-
ing evidence in court.
"I do not desire to offer testimony against the young
Madame Fleetwood if it could be averted," she said
frankly. "She was good to me once or twice; very


190 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
gentle, very kind—not like the others in the hotel."
The inspector shrugged his shoulders, as though
the matter were out of his hands; but he made no re-
ply.
"You will, of course, say nothing about this to any-
one, madame," Sir Clinton warned her, as they walked
across the sands to the car.
At the hotel, Sir Clinton was met by a message from
Cargill asking him to go up to his room. Wendover
accompanied him, and when they had inquired about
his wound and been reassured by a good report from
the doctor which Cargill was able to repeat, the Austra-
lian plunged into the matter which he wished to lay
before the chief constable.
"It's that thing I told you about before," he ex-
plained. "This is how it happened. I was so sore last
night that I forgot all about it."
He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled
envelope.
"I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was
writing something at one of the tables. She made a
muddle of her addressing of the thing, and flung a
spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket beside her.
Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her
letter, and went out.
"I happened to have some jottings to make; and,
as her waste-paper basket was just at my elbow, I
leaned over and fished out the old envelope, to save
myself the bother of getting out of my chair for a piece
of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make,
put the envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It
wasn't for a while after that—yesterday—that I needed
the jottings I'd made. I fished the envelope out, and was


MME. DESROUSSEAUX's EVIDENCE 191
reading my notes, when suddenly my eye was caught
by the spoiled address on the envelope."
He handed the paper across to Sir Clinton, who read:
Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,
Flatt's Cotage,
Lynden. Sands.
"You see, she'd spelt 'cottage' with one't,'" Cargill
pointed out unnecessarily. "That's what made her
throw away the envelope, I expect."
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it care-
fully.
"That's extremely interesting," he said. "I suppose
I may keep this? Then would you mind initialling it,
just in case we need it for reference later on?"
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian
scribbled his initials on one corner of the envelope. The
chief constable chatted for a few minutes on indifferent
matters, and then retired, followed by Wendover.
"Why didn't you tell him he was a day after the
fair?" Wendover demanded, as they went down the
stairs. "The only value that envelope has now is that
it further confirms Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evi-
dence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of
importance."
"I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire," Sir Clin-
ton answered. "Remember that we owe the second
cartridge-case to CargilFs industry. If I had damped
him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to give
us any more assistance; and one never knows what
may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for
him? He thought he was doing splendidly."
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Ford-
ingbridge coming along the corridor towards the stairs.


192 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Here's someone who can perhaps give us more
valuable information," Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the
stairs.
"By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge," he asked, glancing
round to see that there was no one within earshot,
"there's just one point I'd like you to clear up for me,
if you don't mind."
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless
face.
"Very glad to do anything for you," he said, without
betraying anything in his tone.
"It's nothing much," Sir Clinton assured him. "All
I want is to be clear about this Foxhills estate and its
trimmings. Your nephew owns it at present?"
"If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer
no opinion on that point, you understand."
"Naturally," Sir Clinton acquiesced. "Now, sup-
pose your nephew's death were proved, who are
the next heirs? That's what I'd like you to tell me, if
you don't mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset
House, but if you'll save me the trouble it will be a
help."
"Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs.
Fleetwood."
"And if anything happened to her?"
"It falls to me in that case."
"And if you weren't there to take it by then?"
"My sister would get it."
"There's no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance,
couldn't step in front of you owing to his having mar-
ried your niece?"
"No," Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. "The
will took account of seven lives, and I suppose that was


MME. DESROUSSEAUx's EVIDENCE 193
sufficient in the ordinary way. My sister, if she gets it,,
can leave it to anyone she chooses."
Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a'
slight pause that he took up a fresh line of questions.
"Can you tell me anything about the present manage-
ment of the thing? You have a power of attorney, I
believe; but I suppose you leave matters very much in
the hands of lawyers?"
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
"I'm afraid I'm no great believer in lawyers. One's
better to look after things oneself. I'm not a busy man,
and it's an occupation for me. Everything goes through
my hands."
"Must be rather a business," Sir Clinton criticised.
"But I suppose you do as I would myself—get a firm of
auditors to keep your books for you."
Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the
suggestion.
"No. Do you suppose I can't draw up a balance-
sheet once a year? I'm not quite incompetent."
It was evident that Sir Clinton's suggestion had
touched him in his vanity, for his tone showed more
than a trace of pique. The chief constable hastened to
smooth matters over.
"I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of
a head for figures myself, and I shouldn't care to have
that kind of work thrust on my hands."
"Oh, I manage very well," Paul Fordingbridge an-
swered coldly. "Is there anything else you'd like to
know?"
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
"I think that's everything. Oh, there's one other
matter which you may know about, perhaps. When does
Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to turn up?"


MME. DESROUSSEAUX's EVIDENCE 195
"Well, let's assume that her yarn is mostly lies, and
see where that takes us," Wendover went on. "We
know she was at the cottage all right; we've got the
footprint to establish that. We know she was on the
rock, too, for her footprints were on the sands, and she
doesn't contest the fact of her presence either. These
are the two undeniable facts."
"Euclidian, squire. But it leaves the story a bit bare,
doesn't it? Go on; clothe the dry bones with flesh, if
you can."
Wendover refused to be nettled. He was struggling,
not too hopefully, to shift the responsibility of the mur-
der from the shoulders of Cressida to those of another
person; and he was willing to catch at almost any straw.
"How would this fit, then?" he demanded. "Suppose
tha Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux herself was the mur-
deress. She makes her appointment with Staveley at the
cottage as she told us; and she goes there, just as she
said she did. She meets Staveley, and he refuses to see
her. Now assume that he blurts out the tale of his ap-
pointment at 11 p. m. at Neptune's Seat with Mrs.
Fleetwood, and makes no appointment at all with Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux for that evening. That part of
her tale would be a lie, of course."
Sir Clinton flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the
seat beside him, and seemed engrossed in brushing it
away.
"She goes to the shore near lip. m.," Wendover con-
tinued, "not to meet Staveley, as she told us, but to
eavesdrop on the two of them, as she confessed she
did in her tale. She waits until Mrs. Fleetwood goes
away; and then she sees her chance. She goes down to
the rock herself then and she shoots Staveley with her
own hand for her own purposes. She leaves the body on


I98 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,"
Wendover commiserated her. "That reminds me, had
Staveley his coat on—his overcoat, I mean—or was he
carrying it over his arm when you met him at the
rock?"
Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing
to consider.
"He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain."
Wendover, having nothing else to ask, steered the talk
into other channels; and in a short time they left Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own affairs. When they
were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at Wendover.
"Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the
classic? You're getting on, whichever it was. Armadale
will be vexed. But kindly keep this to yourself. The last
thing I want is to have any information spread round."


200
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"Here's the point," he explained. "I can't be ex-
pected to stand aside while you try to make the police
ridiculous. I'll admit that Armadale hasn't been tactful
with you; and perhaps you're entitled to score off him
if you can. If you do your scoring in private, between
ourselves, I've nothing to say; but if you're bent on a
public splash—why, then, I shall simply enlighten the
inspector myself and spike your gun. That will save him
from appearing a fool in public. And that's that. Now
what do you propose to do?"
"I hadn't looked at it in that way," Wendover ad-
mitted frankly. "You're quite right, of course. I'll tell
you what. You can give him a hint beforehand to be
cautious; and I'll show him the flaw afterwards, if he
hasn't spotted it himself by that time."
"That's all right, then," Sir Clinton answered. "It's a
dangerous game, making the police look silly. And the
inspector's too good a man to hold up to ridicule. He
makes mistakes, as we all do; but he does some pretty
good work between them."
Wendover reflected that he might have expected
something of this sort, for Sir Clinton never let a sub-
ordinate down. By tacit consent they dropped the
subject.
Half-way through breakfast they were interrupted
by a page-boy with a message.
"Sir Clinton Driffield? Miss Fordingbridge's com-
pliments, sir, and she'd like to see you as soon as pos-
sible. She's in her private sitting-room upstairs—No.
28, sir."
When the boy had retired, Sir Clinton made a wry
face.
"Really, this Fordingbridge family ought to pay a
special police rate. They give more trouble than most of


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 201
the rest of the population of the district lumped to-
gether. You'd better come up with me. Hurry up with
your breakfast, in case it happens to be anything im-
portant."
Wendover obviously was not much enamoured of the
prospect opened up by the chief constable's suggestion.
"She does talk," he said with foreboding, as though
he dreaded the coming interview.
They found Miss Fordingbridge waiting for them
when they went upstairs, and she broke out immedi-
ately with her story.
"Oh, Sir Clinton, I'm so worried about my brother.
He went out last night and he hasn't come back, and I
don't really know what to think of it. What could he
be doing out at night in a place like Lynden Sands,
where there's nothing to do and where he hasn't any
reason for staying away? And if he meant to stay away,
he could have left a message for me or said something
before he went off, quite easily; for I saw him just a few
minutes before he left the hotel. What do you think
about it? And as if we hadn't trouble enough already,
with that inspector of yours prowling round and sus-
pecting everyone! If he hasn't more to do than spy on
my niece, I hope you'll set him to find my brother at
once, instead of wasting his time."
She halted, more for lack of breath than shortage of
things to say; and Sir Clinton seized the chance to ask
her for some more definite details.
"You want to know when he went out last night?"
Miss Fordingbridge demanded. "Well, it must have
been late—after eleven, at any rate, for I go to bed at
eleven always, and he said good night to me just before
I left this room. And if he had meant to stay away, he
would have told me, I'm sure; for he usually does tell


204 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
the footprints of two men stretching clean-cut along the
beach until they grew small in the distance.
"We'll go down there and see what we can make of
it," Sir Clinton suggested. "I've telephoned to Arma-
dale to come out from Lynden Sands and meet us. It's
handy that these tracks stretch out in that direction and
not into the other bay."
They descended a steep flight of steps cut on the face
of the cliff for the convenience of hotel visitors; and
when they reached the sands below, they found the
footprints starting out from the bottom of the stair.
Sir Clinton opened his attache-case and pulled out Paul
Fordingbridge's shoes, which he had procured at the
hotel.
"The boots told me that Fordingbridge had two pairs
of shoes, both of the same pattern and both fairly new;
so it should be easy enough to pick out his tracks, if
they're here," he said, taking one shoe and pressing it
into the sand to make an impression of the sole. "That
looks all right, squire. The nail pattern's the same in the
shoe and the right-hand set of footmarks."
"And the mark you've just made is a shade larger
than the footprint," Wendover commented, to show
that he had profited by Sir Clinton's lesson of the
previous day. "That fits all right. By the way, Clinton,
it's clear enough that these two fellows met up at the
top of the stairs and came down together. If they'd
met here, there would have been a second set of tracks
for Man No. 2, which he'd have made in coming to-
wards the foot of the stairway."
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this inference,
put the shoes back in his attache-case, and set out to
follow the tracks across the sands. In a short time they
passed Neptune's Seat, where Sir Clinton paused for


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 205
a few moments to inspect the work of his diggers.
"That seems an interminable job you've set them,"
Wendover commented as they walked on again.
"The tides interfere with the work. The men can only
work between tides, and each incoming tide brings up
a lot of sand and spreads it over the places they've dug
out already."
"What are you looking for, Clinton, damn it? It
seems an awful waste of energy."
"I'm looking for the traces of an infernal scoundrel,
squire, unless I'm much mistaken; but whether I'll find
them or not is another question altogether. It's a pure
grab in the dark. And, as I suspect I'm up against a
pretty smart fellow, I'm not going to give any informa-
tion away, even to you, for fear he infers something that
might help him. He's probably guessed already what
I'm after—one can't conceal things on the open beach—
but I want to keep him guessing, if possible. Come
along."
The tracks ran, clearly marked, across the sands of
the bay in the direction of the old wreck which formed
a conspicuous landmark on the shore. The chief
constable and his companion followed the trail for
a time without finding anything which called for com-
ment.
"They don't appear to have been hurrying," Sir
Clinton said, examining the tracks at one point. "They
seem just to have sauntered along, and once or twice
they've halted for a moment. I expect they were talk-
ing something over."
"The second man must have been a pretty big fellow
to judge by the size of the footmarks," Wendover ven-
tured cautiously. "Apart from that, there's nothing
much to see."


206
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"No?" Sir Clinton retorted. "Only that his impres-
sions are very shallow—much shallower than Fording-
bridge's ones. And his stride's not longer than friend
Paul's, either. Also, the impression of the sole's quite
smooth—looks like crepe-rubber soles or something of
that sort. If so, there's nothing to be got out of them.
That kind of shoe's sold by the thousand."
Wendover made no reply, for at this moment he
caught sight of the inspector plodding along the road
above the beach. Sir Clinton whistled shrilly, and
Armadale, catching sight of them, left the road and de-
scended to the sands. In a few minutes he reached them,
and Sir Clinton gave him a summary of the facts which
had come to light since he had telephoned.
"There's just one thing that's turned up since I saw
you last, sir," the inspector reported in his turn. "I've
had Flatt's cottage watched, as you ordered; and
there's a third man there now. He keeps himself under
cover most of the time; but I gave Sapcote a pair of
good field-glasses, and he recognised the fellow as soon
as he saw him—knew him quite well. His name's Simon
Aird. He used to be valet at Foxhills, but he got fired
for some cause or other, and hasn't been near Lynden
Sands since. Then I asked the fishermen if they'd rec-
ognised the man who opened the door to them when
they went to borrow the boat, and they recalled that it
was Aird. They hadn't thought anything about it, of
course, until I questioned them."
"Now, that's something worth having," Sir Clinton
said appreciatively. "But let's get on with the job in
hand. That tide's coming in fast; and, if we don't
hurry, it'll be all over these tracks. We never seem to
get any time to do our work thoroughly in this place,
with all that water slopping up and down twice a day."


Mystery at lynden sands
then they turned right round, as if they intended to
retrace their steps. It looks as though they'd come to the
end of their walk and meant to turn back. But they
seem to have stood there for a while; for the prints are
indistinct—which is just what happens if you stand long
enough on wet sand. The water oozes, owing to the
long displacement of the sand particles, and when you
lift your foot it leaves simply a mass of mushy stuff
where you stood, with no clean impression."

He glanced again over the tracks before continuing.
"I'd read it this way. While they were standing there,
with their backs to the wreck, No. 3 started into activ-
ity. He came out from the cover of the hull and walked
up to where they were standing. He must have gone
quietly, for they don't seem to have turned to meet
him. You see that, squire? Do you see anything else?"
Wendover was staring at the tracks with a puzzled
look on his face. The inspector, who had just reached
this point in his diagram, gave a smothered exclama-
tion of surprise as he examined the sand below him.
Wendover was the first to find his voice.


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 20<)
"Where's the rest of Fordingbridge's track?" he de-
manded. "It simply stops short there. He didn't turn;
he didn't walk away; and—damn it, he can't have
flown away. Where did he go to?"
Sir Clinton ignored the interruption.
"Let's take the tracks as we find them. After No. 3
came up behind the others, it's clear enough that No. 2
and No. 3 went off side by side, down towards the sea.
Even from here you can see that they were in company,
for sometimes the tracks cross, and No. 2 has his prints
on top of No. 3, whereas farther on you see No. 3
putting his feet on top of No. 2's impression. Have you
finished with that jotting of yours, inspector? Then
we'll go and follow these tracks down the beach to the
tide edge."
He dropped neatly down from the wreck as he spoke,
and waited for the others to rejoin him.
"Both No. 2 and No. 3 must have been wearing
crepe-rubber shoes or something of that sort," the in-
spector remarked, stooping over the tracks. "And
they've both got fairly big feet, it seems."
"No. 3 seems to have been walking on his toes,"
Wendover pointed out. "He seems to have dug deeper
with them than with his heels. And his feet are fairly
parallel instead of having the toes pointing outwards.
That's how the Red Indians walk," he added in-
formatively.
Sir Clinton seemed more interested in the general
direction of the tracks. Keeping to one side of them, he
moved along the trail, scanning the prints as he went.
Armadale, moving rather more rapidly on the other side
of the route, came abruptly to a halt as he reached the
edge of the waves. The rest of the trail had been ob-
literated by the rising tide.


2IO MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"H'm! Blank end!" he said disgustedly.
Sir Clinton looked up.
"Just as well for you, inspector, perhaps. If you'd
hurried along at that rate at low tide you'd have run
straight into the patch of quicksand, if I'm not mis-
taken. It's just down yonder."
"What do you make of it, sir?"
"One might make a lot of it, if one started to con-
sider the possibilities. They may have walked off along
the beach on the part that's now swamped by the tide.
Or they may have got into a boat and gone home that
way. All one really knows is that they got off the
premises without leaving tracks. We might, of course,
hunt along the water-line and try to spot where they
came up on to high-and-dry ground; but I think they're
fairly ingenious, and most likely they took the trouble
to walk on shingle above the tide-mark if they came
ashore. It's not worth wasting time on, since we've little
enough already. Let's get back to the meeting-point."
He led the way up the beach again.
"Reminds one a bit of Sam Lloyd's 'Get off the
Earth' puzzle, doesn't it?" he suggested, when they
came back to the point where the three tracks met.
"You can count your three men all right, and then—
flick!—there are only two. How do you account for it,
squire?"
Wendover scrutinised the tracks minutely.
"There's been no struggle, anyhow," he affirmed.
"The final tracks of Fordingbridge are quite clear
enough to show that. So he must have gone voluntarily,
wherever he went to."
"And you explain his going—how?"
Wendover reflected for a moment or two before an-
swering.


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 211
"Let's take every possibility into account," he said,
as his eyes ranged over the sand. "First of all, he didn't
sink into the sand in any normal way, for the surface
isn't disturbed. Secondly, he didn't walk away, or he'd
have left tracks. That leaves only the possibility that he
went off through the air."
"I like this pseudo-mathematical kind of reasoning,
squire. It sounds so convincing," Sir Clinton com-
mented. "Go ahead. You never fail to combine inter-
est with charm in your expositions."
Wendover seemed untouched by the warmth of this
tribute.
"If he went off through the air, he must have man-
aged it either by himself or with the help of the other
two; that's self-evident. Now it's too far for him to have
jumped backwards on to the wreck and climbed up it;
we can rule that out. And it's hardly likely that he was
enough of a D. D. Home to manage a feat of levitation
and sail up into the air off his own bat. So that excludes
the notion that he vanished completely, without any ex-
traneous assistance, doesn't it?"
"'He who has truth at his heart need never fear the
want of persuasion on his tongue'—Ruskin," quoted
Sir Clinton, with the air of reading from a collection
of moral maxims. "You've made the thing crystal-clear
to me, squire, with the exception of just one or two
trifling points. And these are: First, why did that very
solid and unimaginative Mr. Paul Fordingbridge take
to romping with his—presumably—grown-up pals?
Second, why didn't he return home after these little
games? Third, where is he now? Or, if I may put it
compendiously, what's it all about? At first sight it
seems almost abnormal, you know, but I suppose we
shall get accustomed to it."


212
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Armadale had been examining the tracks on the sand
without paying Wendover even the courtesy of listening
to him. He now broke in.
"If you'll look at No. 3's tracks, sir, you'll find that
they're quite light up to the point where he came
directly behind Fordingbridge; and then they get
deeply marked on the stretch leading down to the
sea."
"That's quite correct, inspector," Sir Clinton agreed.
"And if you look again you'll find that when they're
light, the toes turn out to a fair extent; but on the
heavier part of the track No. 3 walked—as Mr. Wend-
over pointed out—like a Red Indian. Does that interest
you?"
The inspector shook his head.
"I don't quite get it, sir."
"Ever been in France, inspector?"
"Just for a trip, sir."
"Ah, then you may not have chanced to come across
Pere Francois, then. If you met him, he might have
helped you a bit in explaining these levitation affairs."
Wendover pricked up his ears.
"Who's your French friend, Clinton?"
"Pere Francois? Oh, he was one of the pioneers of
aviation, in a way; taught men to fly, and all that.
'Get off the Earth' was his motto."
"There's not much of the strong, silent man about
you, Clinton," said Wendover glumly. "I never heard
anyone to beat you for talking a lot and saying nothing
while you're doing it."
"Pere Francois not mentioned in the classics? Well,
well. One can't drag in everything, of course. But don't
let's dwell on it. What about the business in hand? We
must have a theory to work on, you know. How do you


THE F O R D I N G B R I D G E MYSTERY 111,
account for Mr. Paul Fordingbridge's quaint behaviour,
squire? That's really of some importance."
Wendover pondered for a time before taking up his
friend's implied challenge.
"Suppose that No. 3 had a chloroformed pad in his
hand when he came up behind Fordingbridge," he sug-
gested at last, "and that he clapped it over Fording-
bridge's mouth from behind; and then, once he was
unconscious, they both carried him down to a boat."
"You can chloroform a sleeping man without any
struggle," the inspector commented acidly, "but you
can't chloroform a normal man without his making
some sort of struggle. There's no trace of a struggle
here."
Wendover had to admit the flaw.
"Well, then," he amended, "I suppose one must
assume that he voluntarily allowed himself to be lifted
down to the boat."
Armadale hardly troubled to conceal his sneer.
"And what earthly good would that be?" he de-
manded. "Here are his tracks stretching back for the
best part of a mile over the sands. Lifting him for
twenty yards or so at the end of that doesn't seem much
use. Besides, as I read the tracks, that's an impossibil-
ity. No. 2's tracks are mixed up with No. 3's in the
second part of the trail, and sometimes one was ahead
and sometimes the other of them. Two men don't waltz
round like that when they're carrying anyone, usually.
It's impossible, for their footmarks show they were both
walking straight ahead all the time; and if they were
carrying a man between them they'd have had to re-
verse somehow if the front man changed round to the
rear. That's no good, Mr. Wendover."
"What do you propose then, inspector?" Wendover


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 215
odds against that happening by accident are a bit too
heavy for probability, aren't they?"
"Obviously," Wendover admitted.
"Then it's reasonable to look to the Foxhills affairs
for motives, isn't it?" Sir Clinton continued. "What's
the big thing in the Foxhills group about which they
might come to loggerheads? It stares you in the face—
that old man's will. You've seen already that it's led to
friction. Paul Fordingbridge won't recognise the claim
of this nephew of his—we'll call him the claimant
for short. He sat tight with his power of attorney
and refused to abdicate. That suggests a few bright
thoughts to me; and probably you feel the same
about it."
He glanced at his watch, and with a gesture invited
them to walk over the sands.
"By the way, though," he suggested, just as they
were moving off, "you might note on your diagram, in-
spector, the difference between the light and heavy
tracks of No. 3's feet. Make the trail of the deep foot-
prints a bit darker." [see diagram on page 208]
The inspector did as he was requested.
"If you start with that assumption," Wendover
pointed out, as they began to move across the sands,
"then it ought to lead you to the idea of two camps in
the Fordingbridge lot."
"Who's in your camps?" Sir Clinton asked.
"The claimant, Staveley, and Miss Fordingbridge
would be in the one, since Staveley was living at the
cottage and Miss Fordingbridge identifies the claimant.
The other camp would be Paul Fordingbridge, with Mr.
and Mrs. Fleetwood."
Sir Clinton nodded thoughtfully, and put a further
question.


THE FORDINGBRIDGE MYSTERY 217
interrupted, with more than a tinge of approval in his
tone. "As I said before, everything points the same
way. You find Mrs. Fleetwood mixed up in the whole
affair from start to finish."
Sir Clinton ignored this view of the case, and turned
to Wendover.
"Doesn't it seem rather out of proportion when you
assume that Paul Fordingbridge would go the length
of murder merely in order to keep the claimant out of
the money and out of Foxhills?" he inquired gently.
"It really seems carrying things a bit too far when you
take that as a premise."
"Well, what better can you suggest?" Wendover
demanded.
"If I were set to make a guess, I think I'd hazard
something of this sort," the chief constable returned.
"Suppose that friend Paul has been up to some hanky-
panky under his power of attorney—malversation of
some kind. He wouldn't dare to sell Foxhills; but he
might safely dispose of securities. There was no audit,
remember; the competent fellow managed it all him-
self. And so long as no claimant turned up he was all
right; for none of the rest of them seemed to need
money badly, and no one protested against the estate
being left hanging in the wind. But, as soon as this
claimant hove in sight, friend Paul looked like being
'for it' if the claimant could establish his case. Every-
thing would come out then. That would be a good
enough motive, wouldn't it?"
"There's more in it than that, sir," the inspector
broke in. "If he'd got himself into Queer Street, it
might be handy if he could disappear when things
looked like getting too hot for him. Perhaps the whole
of this"—he turned and waved his hand towards the


218
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
mysterious footprints—"is simply a blind to cover bis
get-away. Perhaps it's just something left for us to
scratch our heads over while he gets under cover, sir."
Sir Clinton seemed slightly amused by the picture
the inspector had drawn.
"I never held with head-scratching, inspector. It's a
breach of good manners, and not even friend Paul shall
tempt me to make a habit of it. I don't think he's very
far away; but I doubt if you'll get your hands on him
in a hurry. My impression is that he's gone to ground
in a very safe hole."
The inspector seemed to be reminded of something.
"By the way, sir, that new fellow who's turned up at
Flatt's cottage must have come down by car, probably
during the night. They've got the car in the boat-house
beside the cottage; I saw its bonnet sticking out as I
passed this morning."
"Very sensible of Mr. Aird, inspector, since he seems
to shun being recognised by his old friends round about
here. If he'd come by train, someone would have
spotted him at the station."
Without paying further attention to the matter, Sir
Clinton changed the subject.
"When we get back to the hotel, inspector, I think
we'll interview the Fleetwood family. They've had
quite long enough to polish their speeches by this time.
But I'll give you one hint—and I mean it, inspector.
Don't be too sure about that case of yours. And don't
let your zeal run away with you when you come to
question the Fleetwoods. You're on very slippery ice;
and, if you get their backs up too much, we may fail
to get a piece of evidence out of them which is essen-
tial."
The inspector considered this in silence for a few


THE F O R D I N G B R I D G E MYSTERY 219
moments. Quite obviously he did not like being han-
dled in this fashion.
"Well, sir," he conceded at last, "if you think I'm
likely to bungle something because I don't know what
it is, why not give me a hint?"
"Mr. Wendover could do that, I think, if you cared
to ask him, inspector."
Armadale turned round to Wendover with ill-
concealed sulkiness.
"Have you something up your sleeve, sir?"
Wendover took no notice of the ungracious tone. He
saw his way to achieve his end without the difficulties
he had feared.
"You've got no case at all, inspector," he said
roundly. "Sir Clinton told you long ago that there was
a flaw in it. The whole thing's a wash-out. Now I don't
want to have you walking straight into a mess, you
understand; and you'll do that if you aren't careful.
Suppose we let Sir Clinton do the talking at this inter-
view? He'll get what he wants. You and I can ask any
questions we choose after he's done. And after it's all
over I'll show you the flaw in your case. Agree to that?"
"I really think Mr. Wendover's suggestion is sound,
inspector," Sir Clinton interposed, as Armadale hesi-
tated over accepting the situation. "It's a fact that you
can't prove your case on the evidence available."
"Oh, very well, then," Armadale agreed, rather
resentfully. "If you want it handled so, sir, I've no
objection. But it seems to me that case will take a lot
of breaking."
"It's quite on the cards that this interview will
stiffen you in your opinions, inspector; but you're
wrong for all that," Sir Clinton pronounced, in a voice
that carried conviction to even the inspector's mind.


CHAPTER XIII: CRESSIDA'S NARRATIVE
Reassured by the knowledge that Sir Clinton had
taken the examination of Cressida out of the inspec-
tor's hands, Wendover was eager to know if anything
fresh would be elicited from the Fleetwoods which
might help him to carry his theories to a further stage.
Feeling sure that he could clear Cressida from the
murder charge, he had difficulty in restraining his im-
patience during the half-hour which elapsed before
they were shown into the Fleetwood suite.
His first glance at Cressida showed him that the
strain of the last day or two had told heavily upon her.
Her darkened eyes and the weariness of her whole atti-
tude spoke for themselves of the long hours of tension
and anxiety; and on her face he could read clearly the
apprehension which she was vainly striving to conceal.
What puzzled him most was an impression of conscious
guilt which he sensed in some mysterious way without
being able to analyse it clearly.
Stanley Fleetwood, lying on a couch with his leg in
splints, seemed to present almost as difficult a problem.
On his face also the strain had left its traces; and his
whole expression inevitably suggested the bearing of
an accomplice who, seeing that all is lost, still deter-
mines to brazen things out in the hope that some turn of
the wheel may yet bring him into a safer position.
The third occupant of the room was the lawyer, a
pleasant, keen-faced man, who was seated at a table


cressida's narrative
221
with some papers before him. His face betrayed noth-
ing whatever as to his views on the case.
"Mr. Wendover has no locus standi here, of course,"
Sir Clinton explained when the lawyer had been in-
troduced to them, "but I think it might be advan-
tageous to have a witness at this interview who is not
officially concerned in the case. Have you any objec-
tion, Mr. Calder?"
The lawyer mutely consulted Cressida and her hus-
band, and then gave his consent without ado. Stanley
Fleetwood nodded his assent.
"I've consulted Mr. Calder," he said, when this
matter had been settled, "and we've come to the con-
clusion that frankness is the best policy. We've noth-
ing to conceal. Now, what is it that you want to know?"
Wendover's glance, travelling from one to the other,
reached Cressida's face; and he could see plainly that
she was in dread of the coming ordeal. It seemed as
though she had made up her mind for the worst, and
could see no hope of coming safely through the in-
quisition.
"Perhaps Mrs. Fleetwood could tell us what she
knows about this affair?" Sir Clinton suggested. "Then,
after we've had her account, Mr. Fleetwood could
amplify her story wherever he came into the matter
directly."
Cressida nerved herself for the task, but she seemed
to find difficulty in controlling her voice. At last she
pulled herself together with an obvious effort and be-
gan.
"If I'm to make the thing clear to you," she said,
looking distrustfully from one to another in the group,
"I'll need to go back a bit, so that you can understand
the state of affairs properly. You know, of course, that


222 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
I married Nicholas Staveley in 1917, when he was con-
valescing after a wound he got. It's common property
that my marriage was a complete failure. It couldn't
have been worse. In less than a month he'd shattered
almost every ideal I had; and I loathed him more than
I'd thought it possible for one person to loathe another.
And he terrified me, too.
"He went back to the Front again; and the next we
heard was that he'd been reported killed in action. It
sounds dreadful to say it, I know, but I can't pretend I
was anything but glad when I heard the news. He was
a horrible creature, horrible in every way. Life with
him, even for that short time, had been a waking night-
mare; and it was an infinite relief to find myself free
of him. Then, in 1926, I married Mr. Fleetwood."
She paused and glanced at the lawyer, as though to
draw some encouragement from him. Evidently the
sequence of her narrative had been concerted between
them beforehand. Wendover's glance passed from her
to Stanley Fleetwood; and he could see from the ex-
pression on Fleetwood's face how much he must have
hated the dead man on Cressida's account.
"Last week," Cressida continued, in a slightly more
controlled tone, "I got a letter signed 'Nicholas Stave-
ley.' It was a dreadful shock to see that handwriting
again. It seems that the report of his death had been
a mistake; but he had let it pass for purposes of his
own. It had suited him to disappear then. Now it
suited him to reappear—so far as I was concerned.
You can guess what that meant to me. It invalidated
my second marriage; and it threw me into the hands
of that brute. Or, at least, if it didn't actually put me
into his hands, it gave him a weapon against me which
he could use for his own ends. He was a selfish beast,


cressida's narrative 223
and vindictive, too; and I saw that he meant to stir up
all the trouble he could. His letter hinted quite plainly
that blackmail was his object in reappearing at this
moment. He knew I'd married again, and he saw his
chance."
The lawyer produced a paper and handed it across
to Sir Clinton.
"This is the letter," he explained.
Sir Clinton glanced through it and then put it down
on the table.
"That's a pretty production," he commented. "I can
understand your feelings, Mrs. Fleetwood. Please go
on."
Cressida glanced across at the couch.
"Naturally I consulted Mr. Fleetwood," she contin-
ued. "We decided that the best thing to do was to ar-
range a meeting with the man and try to get him to let
us put matters on some bearable kind of footing."
"What we wanted," Stanley Fleetwood interrupted,
"was to persuade him to allow a divorce to go through
quietly. Then we could have regularised matters with
as little fuss as possible. From what I'd heard of him,
he didn't seem the sort who would refuse a bribe, if it
was big enough"
He caught the lawyer's warning eye and halted
abruptly.
"I understand," Sir Clinton interposed smoothly.
"You wished to come to some agreement with him.
We needn't discuss the terms. Will you go on, please,
Mrs. Fleetwood?"
"I wrote him a letter," Cressida pursued, with
rather more courage in her tone as she saw that Sir
Clinton was obviously not directly hostile, like the in-
spector. "Mr. Fleetwood took it across to Flatt's cot-


224 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
tage that afternoon—Friday afternoon—and dropped
it into the letter-box. You'll understand in a moment
that I didn't wish Mr. Fleetwood to meet this man face
to face."
The inspector looked up from the note-book in
which he was making a shorthand report of the inter-
view.
"You might identify the letter we found on the
body," he suggested.
Sir Clinton produced the letter, and Cressida ex-
amined it.
"Yes, that's it. I arranged to meet him at Neptune's
Seat late in the evening, when no one was likely to
be on the beach. I didn't want to have him coming
about the hotel, naturally."
She halted for a moment or two, as though she felt
she was coming to the difficult point in her tale.
"Perhaps you won't understand what I've got to say
next. If I could let you know what sort of man he was,
you'd understand better. There are some things one
can't tell. But I want you to know that I was really in
physical fear of him. I'm not easily frightened; but
during the month or so that I lived with him he
stamped fear into me—real physical fear, downright
terror of personal violence, I mean. He drank; and
when he had been drinking he seemed to grow almost
inhuman. He terrified me so much that I left him, even
before he went back to the Front."
Her face showed even more clearly than her words
what it had meant to her. She halted for a space,
unintentionally letting her effect sink home on her
audience.
"When it came to meeting him," she went on, "Mr.
Fleetwood insisted on going with me."


cressida's narrative 225
"Naturally," Stanley Fleetwood broke in. "I wanted
to go alone to meet the fellow; but she wouldn't let
me go either alone or along with her."
Cressida nodded.
"If they had met, nothing could have prevented a
quarrel; and that man would stick at nothing. I was
afraid of what he might do. Anything was better than
letting them meet. But I was horribly afraid of meet-
ing him alone, without any protection. I'd had enough
experience of him already. So I borrowed a pistol from
Mr. Fleetwood and took it with me to Neptune's Seat.
I thought it would serve to frighten that man if he
showed any signs of going over the score."
"What sort of pistol was it?" Armadale interjected,
looking across at Stanley Fleetwood.
"A Colt .38. I have the number of it somewhere."
"I'll get you to identify it later on," Armadale said;
and with a gesture he invited Cressida to continue.
"Mr. Fleetwood gave in about going with me to meet
the man," Cressida went on, "but he insisted on taking
me down to the shore in our car. I let him do that. I
was glad to know that he'd be at hand. But I made
him promise not to interfere in any way. He was to
stay with the car while I went down alone to Nep-
tune's Seat."
"I think the inspector would like to know exactly
what you did before you left the hotel," Sir Clinton
intervened.
"Mr. Fleetwood went round to the garage to get out
the car. Meanwhile I went down to the ladies' dressing-
room, where I keep my golfing things. I changed my
slippers for my golfing-shoes—I was in an evening
frock—and I slipped on my golfing-blazer. Then I
went out through the side-entrance and joined Mr.


226 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
Fleetwood in the car. He drove me down to the point
on the road nearest Neptune's Seat. I left him there,
got out of the car, and went across the sands to the
rock.
"The man was there, waiting for me; and at the
first glance I could see he'd been drinking. He wasn't
drunk, you understand, but he wasn't normal. When I
saw that, I was terrified. I can't explain these things,
but he Oh, I used to shiver at times even at the
very thought of what he'd been like in that state;
and when I met him down there, face to face, I was
really in terror of him. I pulled the pistol out of my
pocket and held it in my hand, without letting him
see it.
"Then I spoke to him and tried to persuade him to
come to some arrangement with me. It was no use—
none whatever. You've no idea of the kind of man he
was. He wanted money to keep his mouth shut. He
wouldn't hear of any divorce, because that would loosen
his hold on me if it went through, he said, and he meant
to keep me in his grip. And then he said—oh, I'm not
going to repeat what he said about Mr. Fleetwood and
myself—horrible things, meant to hurt me and degrade
me in my own eyes. And the worse he got in that way,
the angrier he grew. You know what a drunken man's
like? I know it only too well."
She made an involuntary gesture which betrayed even
more than her words.
"At last he went beyond all bounds. I was trembling
all over, partly from fear and partly from pure rage
at the things he said. It was quite clear that I could
do nothing with him in that state; so I turned to go.
Then he muttered something—I'm not going to re-
peat it; you can imagine it for yourselves—and he


cressida's narrative 229
Stanley Fleetwood looked suspiciously at his inter-
locutor.
"As it happened, I didn't," he admitted, rather with
an ill grace. "It was bad enough to let my wife meet
that scoundrel at all. You couldn't expect me to stand
off at a distance, could you? I'd promised her not to
interfere; but that didn't hinder me from getting as
near them as I could, just in case of accidents. I went
down to the shore, keeping behind a groyne that runs
down towards Neptune's Seat."
"So we supposed," Sir Clinton commented. "You
haven't a second Colt pistol, have you?"
"No. One's all I have."
"So you didn't fire a shot from behind the groyne,
by any chance?"
Both Fleetwood and Cressida seemed completely
taken aback by this question. They glanced at each
other; and then Stanley Fleetwood answered:
"No, of course I didn't. How could I, when I hadn't
a pistol?"
"Of course not," Sir Clinton admitted. "Occasion-
ally one has to ask questions as a matter of form, you
know. Now, what happened after Mrs. Fleetwood's
pistol went off? I mean, what did you yourself do?"
"I saw her hurrying up the beach towards the road,
where she expected to find me; so naturally I bolted
up the way I'd come and joined her at the car."
"And then?"
"She told me she'd shot Staveley. I shed no tears
over him, of course; but I wanted to get my wife away
as quick as I could, in case anyone came along, at-
tracted by the noise of the shot. So I drove up towards
the hotel. I didn't put on the lights of the car, because
they might have been noticed by someone in the dis-


23O MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
tance; and I didn't want to be traced through the car if
I could help it. I'm being quite frank with you, you
see."
"I wish we could persuade everybody to be quite
frank," Sir Clinton confessed. "It would lighten police
work considerably. What happened next, please?"
"As I was driving up, it suddenly struck me that
we'd left all these tracks on the sand, and that when
everything came out our footprints would be evidence
connecting us with the business. So I made up my
mind—I'm being perfectly frank with you—I made
up my mind that after I'd dropped my wife at the hotel
I'd take the car back again and see if Staveley was
alive, If he wasn't, then I'd make hay of our tracks—
rub 'em out somehow and get clear away if possible.
Then it occurred to me that Staveley alive would be
better than Staveley dead. If he was only hurt, then the
whole affair might be hushed up somehow. Apart from
that, frankly, I'd rather have had him dead. Anyhow,
when I got to the hotel I bolted upstairs to my room to
get a flask of brandy I keep for emergencies. I meant
to revive him if he was alive, you see? And in sprinting
downstairs again I slipped and crocked myself, and
that finished any chance of getting down to the beach
again. I'd left the car outside, of course, meaning to
take it to the garage later on, after I'd been down to
fix things up on the beach."
"That seems clear enough," Sir Clinton said in a
tone which suggested that he had got all the informa-
tion he wanted. "Have you any questions to ask, in-
spector?"
"There's just one point," Armadale explained. "Did
you see anyone except Staveley between the hotel and
the rock, either going or coming?"


cressida's narrative
Stanley Fleetwood shook his head.
"I saw nobody at all. Naturally I kept a sharp look-
out on the way home."
Sir Clinton indicated that, so far as he was con-
cerned, the matter was ended. As if to make this still
clearer, he turned to the lawyer, Calder, who had taken
practically no part in the proceedings.
"Are you by any chance Mr. Fordingbridge's
lawyer?"
Calder seemed somewhat surprised by the question.
"My firm has had charge of the legal affairs of the
Fordingbridge family for more than a generation,"
he explained a little stiffly. "But I don't see what that
has to do with this business."
Sir Clinton ignored the stiffness.
"We're investigating Mr. Fordingbridge's disappear-
ance just now," he explained, "and I would like you to
give us some information which might help us. Can
you spare a moment or two?"
Calder, though evidently not prepared for the move,
made no objection; and, when Sir Clinton and his com-
panions left the room, the lawyer followed them.
As soon as they had reached a place where there was
some chance of privacy, Sir Clinton made his purpose
clear.
"One possible explanation of Mr. Fordingbridge's
disappearance has been suggested, Mr. Calder. He had
large funds belonging to other people within his con-
trol under a power of attorney. Unless we can learn
the state of these funds, we are rather at a loss to
know what we're looking for. Now, quite unofficially,
have you any information on the point, or can you
make a guess as to the state of affairs? Every mo-
ment may count, you understand; and we don't want


236 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
the point when the pistol went off. It so happened that,
as she fired, Staveley slipped or tripped on the rock,
and came down on the back of his head. You remem-
ber the contused wound there? That happened in this
first fall of his."
The inspector paid Wendover the compliment of
listening intently to his theory. The old air of faint
contempt was gone; and it was clear that Armadale
was now seriously perturbed about the solidity of his
case.
"Go on, sir," he requested.
"Staveley came down hard on the rock with his head
and was stunned," Wendover explained. "He lay like
a log where he had fallen. It wasn't a good light, re-
member. Now, just think what Mrs. Fleetwood could
make of it. Her pistol went bang; Staveley dropped at
that very instant; and there he was, to all appearance,
dead at her feet. Naturally she jumped to the con-
clusion that she'd shot him, and probably killed him.
She went off instantly to consult her husband, whom
she'd left in the car. Not at all unnatural in the cir-
cumstances, I think."
The inspector's face showed that he was beginning
to feel his case cracking; but he said nothing.
"Meanwhile," Wendover continued, "all her hus-
band had seen was some sort of scuffle on the rock—
in a dim light, remember—and he'd heard her pistol
explode. Perhaps he'd seen Staveley fall. Then his
wife cut back towards the car, and he ran up along
the groyne to rejoin her. What could he think, except
that his wife had shot Staveley? And she thought so
herself; you've got Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evi-
dence for that, in the report she gave you of the Fleet-
woods' conversation before they started the car."


238 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
at the crestfallen inspector. "Certainly not until I was
sure of my ground, you understand?"
Armadale was so engrossed in a reconsideration of
the evidence that apparently Wendover's mockery
escaped his attention.
"Then your case is that the wrist-watch stopped at
11.19, when he fell the first time, but that the glass
wasn't broken until he was shot down, later on?"
"That's what seems to fit the facts," Wendover
averred, though without letting himself be pinned down
definitely.
"It's one way of looking at the business, certainly,"
the inspector was forced to admit, though only grudg-
ingly. "I can't just see a way of upsetting your no-
tions right away. I'll think it over."
Sir Clinton had been listening with a detached air
to the whole exposition. Now he turned to Wendover.
"That was very neatly put together, squire, I must
admit. The handling of the watch-stopping portion of
the theme showed how well you've profited by your
study of the classics. I wish I had time to read detec-
tive stories. Evidently they brighten the intellect."
Wendover was not deceived by this tribute to his
powers.
"Oh, of course I know well enough that you spotted
the flaw long before I did. You told us, days ago, that
there was one. It was when the inspector produced the
pistol from Mrs. Fleetwood's blazer, I remember."
"There's a flaw in almost every case that depends
purely on circumstantial evidence, squire; and one can
never guess how big that flaw is till one has the whole
of the evidence together. It's safest to wait for all the
evidence before publishing any conclusions; that's what
I always bear in mind. Mistakes don't matter much, so


cressida's narrative 239
long as you keep them to yourself and don't mislead
other people with them."
He turned to Armadale, who was still in deep cogita-
tion.
"I'm going up to town this afternoon, inspector, to
look into that end of the Fordingbridge business. In
the meantime, I want you to do two things for me."
"Very good, sir," said the inspector, waking up.
"First of all, put all that sand-heap we've collected
through fairly fine sieves, and see that you don't miss
a .38 cartridge-case if it happens to be there. Quite
likely it may not be; but I want it, if it should chance
to turn up."
"So that's what you were looking for all the time?"
Wendover demanded. "I must say, Clinton, you came
as near lying over that as I've known. You said you
were looking for shells, or the brass bottle with the
genie in it; and you insisted you were telling the
truth, too; and that makes it more misleading still."
"Not a bit of it, squire. I told you the plain truth;
and if you take the wrong meaning out of my words,
whose blame is it? Did you never hear an American
use the word 'shell' for an empty cartridge-case? And
the genie's brass bottle, too. Could you find a neater
description of a cartridge-case than that? Didn't the
genie come out in vapour, and expand till no one
would have supposed he could ever have been in the
brass bottle? And when you fire a cartridge, doesn't
the gas come out—far more of it than you'd ever sup-
pose could be compressed into the size of the cartridge?
And wasn't the genie going to kill a man—same as a
pistol cartridge might do? I really believed that I'd
produced a poetical description of a cartridge-case
which would be fit to stand alongside some of Shake-


240 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
speare's best efforts; and all you can say about it was
that it misled you! Well, well! It's sad."
Wendover, now that he saw the true interpretation,
could hardly protest further. He had to admit the in-
genuity which had served to mislead him.
"Then there's another thing, inspector, which is
much more important. You'll go at once to a magis-
trate and swear information against Mrs. Fleetwood
on a charge of murder, and you'll get a warrant for
her arrest. That's to be done immediately, you under-
stand. You'll hold that warrant ready for execution;
but you won't actually arrest her until I wire to you:
'Take Fleetwood boat on Thursday.' As soon as you
get that message, you'll execute the warrant without
any delay whatsoever. That's vital, you understand?
And, of course, there mustn't be a whisper about this
until the moment of the arrest."
As he heard these instructions, the inspector glanced
at Wendover with the air of one who has pulled a rub-
ber out of the fire at the last moment. Wendover,
thunderstruck, stared at Sir Clinton as though he could
hardly believe his ears.


THE TELEGRAM
243
prosecution down to the period when she met Staveley
on the rock; but Wendover had been thoroughly
alarmed by Sir Clinton's instructions to Armadale;
and he feared that he had missed some vital link in the
chain of evidence which might overturn his whole
case for the defence.
Then there was the alternative hypothesis: that
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux had been the one to shoot
Staveley. Again there seemed to be the double solu-
tion open, with no way of deciding which answer to
choose. And, to make the matter still more complex,
there was the second cartridge-case found at the
groyne, which Stanley Fleetwood denied having used.
Finally, Sir Clinton most obviously expected to find
yet another empty cartridge-case somewhere on the
sands. Wendover gave it up. Then a fresh thought
struck him. Staveley, as the inspector had hinted,
would be a good witness for the claimant; and there-
fore, making the same assumptions as before, Paul
Fordingbridge had an interest in silencing him. But
there was no evidence connecting Paul Fordingbridge
with the matter at all. That seemed to be a blank end,
like all the others.
The next link in the chain of events was the attack
on Cargill. The more Wendover considered the matter,
the clearer it seemed to him that Cargill had been
shot in mistake for the claimant. The two men were
very much alike, except for the awful mutilation of the
claimant's face; and, of course, that would not show
in the dark. Once the claimant was out of the way,
then Paul Fordingbridge would be free from the im-
pending disclosure of his malversations, if these had
really occurred.
And, suddenly, a light flashed on Wendover's mind


244 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
from a fresh angle. The claimant, Cressida, Paul Ford-
ingbridge—that was the order of inheritance. If by
some manoeuvre Paul Fordingbridge could clear out of
his way, not the claimant only, but his niece as well,
then he himself would come into the estate, and no one
could ask any questions whatever. Cressida had been
twice involved—once in the affair of Staveley; again
when her car came up just after Cargill had been
shot. Was it possible that Paul Fordingbridge had tried
to kill two birds with one stone in the last crime? The
inspector would have been a willing tool in his hands,
since he believed Cressida quite capable of murder.
Then there was the disappearance of Paul Fording-
bridge himself, with all the puzzle of the footprints. A
man didn't fly; nor did he hand himself over to en-
emies without some sort of struggle. Had he a couple
of confederates who had helped him to stage the whole
wilfully mysterious affair on the sands? And what
did Sir Clinton mean by his hints about Pere Francois
and Sam Lloyd's "Get off the Earth" puzzle? Wend-
over recalled that puzzle: two concentric discs with
figures on them, and when one disc was revolved *on
the central pivot, you could count one Chinaman more
or less according to where you stopped the disc. Three
men when the discs were in one position; two men
when you gave a twist to one of the bits of cardboard.
Had Sir Clinton some hanky-panky of that sort in his
mind, so that the third man on the sands had no real
existence? Wendover gave it up.
He returned to the hotel for dinner, and spent as
much time as possible in his own room rather than run
the gauntlet of inquisitive guests. It was not until after
dinner on Wednesday that he was again drawn directly
into the game. He was just putting on his coat to go


THE TELEGRAM
245
out, in order to escape his inquisitors, when the in-
spector appeared, evidently in a state of perturba-
tion.
"I've just had a wire from Sir Clinton, sir. My old
landlady's let me down badly. I'd warned the post
office people to send me any message immediately, but
I was out when it came, and the old fool put it behind
her kitchen clock and forgot all about it. It wasn't
till I asked her that she remembered about it and gave
it to me. Net result: hours wasted."
He handed a telegram form to Wendover, who read:
"Heavy defalcations take Fleetwood boat on Thurs-
day meet last train with car."
"Well, have you carried out your instructions?" he
demanded.
"No, worse luck!" Armadale confessed. "Owing to
that old fool's bungling, she's slipped through my
fingers."
Wendover's whole ideas of the case were overturned
by the inspector's admission. He had refused to allow,
even in his own mind, that Cressida could be guilty;
but this sudden flight could hardly be squared with
innocence by any stretch of probability.
"Tell me what happened, inspector."
Armadale was obviously very sore. It was clear
enough from his face that he felt he had muddled things
just at the point when his own original theory was
going to be vindicated.
"I'd put a man on to watch her here. He couldn't do
much except hang about in plain clothes and attract as
little attention as possible; so he chose the entrance-
hall as his look-out post, where he could keep an eye
on the lifts and the stairs together. To-night, after dia-


248 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
on one side of the fireplace; and he pulled out a drawer
at random, lifted one of the cards, and examined it.
"11-2-16.—Left for France. At dinner: Cressida, J. For-
dingbridge, P. Fordingbridge, Miss Kitty Glenluce (age 23,
fair-haired, dispatch-rider; told some stories about her
work). . . ."
He picked out another card at random and read:
"15-4-17.—Staveley's wedding. Bride dropped bouquet
when signing register. Wedding march Mendelssohn. Bride
given away by P. Fordingbridge. Bridesmaids were. . . ."
He had no time to read further. Sir Clinton and the
inspector were back again, having found no one else
on the premises. The chief constable had a bottle in
his hand, which he handed to Wendover, pointing to
the label.
"Amyl nitrite?" Wendover asked involuntarily.
"So that's where the stuff came from that killed Peter
Hay?"
Sir Clinton nodded. His eye fell on the table, on
which a manuscript book was lying. He picked it
up and opened it, showing the page to his compan-
ions.
"Derek Fordingbridge's diary, isn't it?" the inspec-
tor inquired.
"Yes. And there's their card-index, with everything
entered up in chronological order—every bit of infor-
mation they could collect about the Foxhills crowd
from any source whatever. That made sure that if
they had to meet any questions from a particular per-
son about his dealings with the real Derek Fording-
bridge, they could turn up their index and know ex-
actly what to say. It was far safer than trusting to any
single man's memory on the spur of the moment. I ex-


THE TELEGRAM 249
pect they've been copying out entries from the stolen
diary and putting them into the filing-cabinet. We
haven't time to waste. Come along. The police, next.
Sapcote must collect them for us and bring them along,
inspector."
As Wendover drove, it was hardly more than a mat-
ter of seconds before Sapcote had been instructed to
collect all the available constables and bring them to
the hotel.
"That's our next port of call, squire. Drive like the
devil," Sir Clinton ordered, as he ended his instruc-
tions to the constable.
But they had hardly cleared the village before he
gave a counter-order.
"Stop at the cottage again, squire."
Wendover pulled up the car obediently, and all three
jumped out.
"Get the oars of that boat," Sir Clinton instructed
them. "And hurry!"
The oars were soon found and carried down to the
car, which Wendover started immediately. A few hun-
dred yards along the road, Sir Clinton pitched the oars
overboard, taking care that they did not drop on the
highway.
Wendover, intent on his driving, heard the inspector
speak to his superior.
"We found that cartridge-case you wanted, sir,
when we put that sand through the sieves. It's a .38,
same as Mrs. Fleetwood's pistol. I have it safe."
Sir Clinton brushed the matter aside.
"That's good, inspector. We'll have that gang in our
hands before long. But Lord knows what damage they
may do in the meanwhile. I'd give a lot to have them
under lock and key at this minute."


250 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
At the hotel, Sir Clinton wasted no time on cere-
mony, but darted up the stairs to the Fleetwoods'
room. As they entered, Stanley Fleetwood looked up
in surprise from a book which he was reading.
"Well "he began in an angry tone.
Sir Clinton cut him short.
"Where's Mrs. Fleetwood?"
Stanley Fleetwood's eyebrows rose sharply.
"Really, Sir Clinton"
"Don't finesse now," the chief constable snapped.
"I'm afraid something's happened to Mrs. Fleetwood.
Tell us what you know, and be quick about it. Why
did she leave the hotel to-night?"
Stanley Fleetwood's face showed amazement, with
which fear seemed to mingle as Sir Clinton's manner
convinced him that something was far wrong. He
pulled himself up a little on the couch.
"She got a letter from her uncle making an appoint-
ment at the Blowhole."
Sir Clinton's face fell.
"That's worse than I thought," he said. "Let's see
the letter."
Stanley Fleetwood pointed to the mantelpiece; and
the chief constable searched among two or three papers
until he found what he wanted.
"H'm! There's no date on this thing. It simply says,
'Meet me at the Blowhole to-night at'"—he paused
and scrutinised the letter carefully—" 'at 9 p. m. Come
alone.' It is 9 p. m., isn't it?"
He passed the letter to the inspector.
"It seems to be 9 p. m.," Armadale confirmed,
"but it's a bit blotted. This is Mr. Fordingbridge's
writing, I suppose?" he added, turning to Stanley
Fleetwood.


252 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
He reflected again before concluding.
"It's a mere chance, but Foxhills and Peter Hay's
are the only two empty places here. But Miss Ford-
ingbridge sometimes goes up to Foxhills, so Peter
Hay's is more likely. We'll go there on the chance.
Come along."
At the hotel, they found that Sapcote had assembled
all the available constables and dispatched them along
the road. He had telephoned a message to this effect
before leaving himself. Armadale got his headquarters
on the telephone and ordered a watch to be kept for
any suspicious car; but, as he was unable to supply
even the most general description of the wanted motor,
the chance of its discovery seemed of the slightest.
He came out of the telephone-box to find Sir Clinton
and Wendover waiting for him in Sir Clinton's car.
"Get in," the chief constable ordered. "We've got to
waste a minute or two in going down the road to meet
that gang of constables and giving them orders to
follow on. Put both feet on the accelerator, squire, and
do anything else short of spilling us in the ditch. Every
minute may count now."
Wendover needed no urging. They flashed down the
road towards Lynden Sands, pulled up as they met the
body of police, and were off again as soon as Sir Clin-
ton had given the constables their orders to make di-
rect for Foxhills. A very few minutes brought the car
to the Foxhills gate, where Wendover, at a sign from
Sir Clinton, stopped the car. The chief constable
jumped out and examined the road surface with his
pocket flash-lamp.
"Thank the Lord! A car's gone up the avenue. We
may be in time to nab them yet."


254 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
lady golfers' dressing-room, with its convenient door
to the outside of the hotel, and a method of evasion
suggested itself. She took the lift down; walked boldly
past the watcher; turned down the passage and en-
tered the dressing-room. Then, picking up her hat,
blazer, and golfing-shoes, she slipped out of the side-
entrance and hurried down one of the paths till she
reached a place where she could change her slippers
for her outdoor shoes.
Leaving the slippers to be picked up on her way
back, she crossed the hotel gardens and made her way
out on to the headland where the Blowhole lay. The
night was clear enough, but the moon was still very
low, and the light was dim. As she came up towards
the Blowhole, a figure came forward to meet her.
"Is that you, uncle?" she asked.
As soon as she spoke she was aware of someone who
had risen behind her from an ambush. An arm came
round her from the rear, pinning her hands to her
sides; and a soft, wet pad was brought down on her
face. She felt a burning liquid on her lips, and, as she
gasped under the mask, a sickly, sweet-scented vapour
seemed to penetrate down into her lungs. As she
struggled to free herself and to cry out, the man before
her stepped forward and helped his companion to hold
her.
"Don't choke her altogether, you fool!" she heard
her new assailant say, but his voice sounded faint; and
in a minute she had lost consciousness.
When she came to herself once more, it was to find
herself lying on a bed from which all the bed clothes
had been removed. Her head swam at the slightest
movement, and she felt deadly sick. With complete in-
curiosity, she noticed some figures in the room, and


THE METHOD OF COERCION 259
"but you're going to do as you're told. Make no mis-
take about that."
He drew back slightly, allowing Aird to come nearer.
"Aird will take the gag out and let you speak; but
he'll keep his hand on your throat, and the first at-
tempt you make to cry out you'll get throttled pretty
sharply. Understand?"
Aird obeyed instructions, and Cressida passed her
tongue over her bruised lips. She was in deadly ter-
ror now, and her mind was working swiftly. A glance
at the three men bending over her was sufficient to
show her that she need expect no mercy from them. She
was completely in their power; and if she refused to
give in to them, they might But she thrust to the
back of her mind all the possibilities which she could
read so clearly on the face of Aird.
Then, as a thought shot through her mind, she strove
her hardest to keep out of her expression the relief that
she felt. If she submitted immediately, and promised to
carry out the order, that would perhaps save her for
the time being; and, when it came to implementing
her promise, the marriage ceremony would have to be
performed in public, or at least in the presence of some
clergyman or official; and there would be nothing to
prevent her refusing then. They could not coerce her
in a church or before a registrar. Nowadays forced
marriages are found only in books.
The pressure of the gag had hurt her mouth, and
she had some difficulty in framing words in which to
make her submission.
"I can't help myself. But you're not my cousin
Derek."
The faceless creature laughed.
"That's a quick courting!" he sneered. "But one


26o MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
doesn't need to be a psycho-what-d'ye-call-it, as Aird
says, to see what's in your mind."
His voice became tinged with a menace beside which
Aird's seemed childish.
"You think you've only got to say 'Yes' now; then,
when it comes to the point, you'll turn on us and give
the show away? We're not such fools as all that. I've
got a string that I'm going to tie to your leg. It'll bring
you running back to me and no questions asked."
He paused for a moment, as though expecting her
to speak; but, as she said nothing, he continued in the
same tone:
"You think that the worst we could do to you would
be to hand you over to Aird, there, or to share you
amongst us. You can make your mind easy. It's not
going to be that."
The wave of relief which passed over Cressida at
this hint was followed by a chill of apprehension as she
realised the full implication of his words. He did not
keep her on tenterhooks long.
"Ever heard of hydrophobia? Know much about it?
No? Well, then, I'll tell you something. You get bit-
ten by a mad dog. First of all you feel tired and rest-
less; and naturally you can't help being worried a bit.
Then, after a day or two, things get a bit more definite.
You can't swallow, and you get a thirst that torments
you. Then, they say, you get spasms even at the
thought of drinking; and you get into a state of devil-
ish funk—unspeakable terror, they say in the books.
After that you get fits—frothing at the mouth, and all
the rest of the jolly business. And, of course, eventually
you die after considerable agony, if you get the proper
dose. I'd hate to see a pretty girl like you afflicted in
that way. Dreadful waste of good material."


THE METHOD OF COERCION
26l
He paused deliberately, letting this picture sink into
her mind, and scanning her face to see the effect which
he had produced.
"No mad dogs here, of course; but they have them
in France. I've a French medical friend who's kindly
supplied me with some extract taken from one of them."
Again he paused, to let anticipation do its work.
"If you get injected with this extract, or whatever
it is, there's only one hope. Within a certain number of
days you've got to get to a Pasteur Institute and put
yourself under treatment there. Nothing else is any
good. And, if you overshoot the time, even the Pasteur
Institute can do nothing for you. You just go on till
you froth at the mouth, get cramp in the throat, and
die that rather disgusting death."
He looked down at Cressida's face, with its eyes dark
with horror; and something which might have been
a smile passed over his shattered countenance.
"My French medical friend supplied me with both
the bane and the antidote—at least, enough of the
antidote for a first dose. You see the point? Perhaps
I'd better be precise. Here's a hypodermic syringe."
He produced a little nickel case from his pocket, and
drew from it a tiny glass syringe, to which he fitted a
hollow needle.
"I'm going to fill this with some of the mad dog
extract and inject it into your arm. Once that's done,
your only chance is to get Pasteur Institute treatment
within a certain time or else rely on me to give you a
first dose of the antidote before the time's up. Once
the time's past without treatment, nothing can save
you. I couldn't do it myself, even with the antidote.
You'd simply go through all the stages I've told you
about, and then die."


262 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
He fingered the tiny syringe thoughtfully.
"Now do you see the ingenuity of my plan? I'm go-
ing to inject some of the stuff into your veins now.
Then we'll keep you here until the very last moment
of your safety. Then you'll come with me and get
spliced by special license. By that time it'll be too
late to get to an institute; you'll have no chance what-
ever except the dose of antidote that I've got. And
you won't get that from me until we're safely married
without any fuss. You'll stand up in public and say:
T will!' without any objection, because it'll be your
one chance of escaping the cramps and all the rest of it.
Ingenious, isn't it? Shall I repeat it, in case you've
missed any of the points? It's no trouble, I assure you."
Cressida glanced from face to face in the hope of
seeing some signs of relenting; but none of the three
showed the faintest trace of pity.
"Be sensible, miss," said Aird, with the air of one
reasoning with a wayward child. "A pretty girl like you
wouldn't want to be seen frothin' at the mouth and
runnin' round bitin' people. It wouldn't be nice."
His unctuous tone brought up all Cressida's reserves
of strength.
"You'd never dare do it," she gasped.
"You think so?" the faceless man inquired indif-
ferently. "Well, you'll see in a moment or two."
He rose with the hypodermic syringe in his hand and
went out of the room. She could hear him doing some-
thing with a sink, and the sound of water. At that her
nerve gave way.
"Oh, don't do it! Please, please don't! Anything but
that! Please!"
For the first time she realised that this hideous
scheme was seriously meant; and the pictures which


THE MAN-HUNT ON THE BEACH 269
disabling the fugitives' car. They had shot him in the
hand, flung him down, and escaped in the car before
he had time to do anything to hinder them. His entry
into the cottage had failed to enlighten him as to what
had been going on; and Sir Clinton had hurried him
off again almost before he had time to get his bearings.
"That's as far as we can go with the car," Sir Clin-
ton announced, opening the door and getting out.
The moon shone out just at that moment, as a pass-
ing cloud slipped away from its face; and Sir Clinton,
gazing along the shore, uttered an exclamation of
satisfaction.
"We're in luck, inspector! See him? Yonder, just
under the cliff. He hasn't been able to get far."
He pulled out his automatic.
"I've often wondered how far these things carry. I
don't want to hurt him, and it seems safe enough at
this range. A scare's all we need, I think. He's making
for the mouth of the cave below the headland."
He lifted the pistol and fired in the direction of the
figure. At the sound of the shot, the fugitive turned
and, seeing his pursuers, ran stumblingly over the rocks
where the edge of the tide was washing close up against
the cliff.
"No hurry," Sir Clinton pointed out, as Armadale
and the constable quickened their steps. "We've got
him trapped by the tide. There's only one bolt-hole—
the cave. And I hope he takes it," he added, with
something of sinister enjoyment in his tone which
surprised the inspector.
They moved leisurely in the direction of the cave-
mouth; and, as they did so, the fugitive gave one back-
ward glance and then splashed waist-deep through the
water which was foaming into the entrance. He ducked


270 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
under the low arch and vanished. As he did so, Sir
Clinton halted, and then, after a careful inspection
of the incoming tide, he led the way back to the car.
"It's as cheap sitting as standing," he commented,
settling himself comfortably in the driving-seat. "We'll
need to wait here until the tide shuts the door on him
by filling that tunnel he's gone through. After that,
I suspect he'll be the most anxious of the lot of us."
"But there's another exit from that cave," Armadale
pointed out. "He's probably climbing up the tube of
the Blowhole just now, sir. He might get clean away
by the top of the headland."
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette in
a leisurely fashion.
"I'm sure I hope he does," he replied, much to the
inspector's surprise. "Just wait a moment and you'll
see."
He smoked for a minute or two without troubling to
make his meaning clear; and then the souffleur itself
gave the answer. Armadale's ear caught the sound of
a deep gurgle from the heights above their head; then
came a noise like a giant catching his breath; and at
last from the Blowhole there shot up the column of
spray, towering white and menacing in the moonlight.
As it fell, Sir Clinton pressed the self-starter.
"That bolts the back door, you see, inspector. I only
hope he's been caught on the threshold. Now, I think,
we can go back to the hotel and see if we can pick up
one or two useful things."
He turned the car on the last strip of sand before the
rocks and swung it round towards Neptune's Seat.
After a little searching, he found a spot from which he
could ascend to the road without straining his springs.
"I had the curiosity to examine that Blowhole cave


THE MAN-HUNT ON THE BEACH 275
figure on the ground, and, followed by Wendover,
turned his steps towards the hotel.
"I suppose he calculated on being able to climb to
the top before the jet began to play," he continued.
"Well, he seems to have paid for his mistake," he
concluded grimly.
At the hotel door, Wendover expected that they
would go straight to the" Fleetwood suite; but, rather
to his surprise, Sir Clinton summoned one of the con-
stables and gave him some instructions in a low voice.
Then, accompanied by Wendover, he ascended the
stairs.
"I want to see Cargill for a moment," he explained,
as they passed the first floor. "I've something to say
to him."
Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Aus-
tralian's room.
"I happened to be passing," he said, as he entered
in response to Cargill's permission, "and I dropped in
to see how you've been getting on. Leg all right now?"
"It's a bit better," Cargill replied. "Won't you sit
down?"
"Got enough to read?" Sir Clinton inquired, step-
ping over a pile of books which lay near Cargill's
couch and picking up one of them. "I've got one or
two I can lend you."
Wendover was taken completely by surprise; for,
without altering the tone of his voice, Sir Clinton bent
suddenly forward and imprisoned Cargill's wrists.
"See if you can find a pistol anywhere near, squire.
It's as well to be on the safe side."
He whistled shrilly; and, before the Australian had
recovered from the surprise of the attack, two con-
stables had rushed into the room and made any attempt


276 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
at a struggle impossible. Sir Clinton relaxed his
grip.
"I shouldn't kick about, if I were you, Cargill. All
you'll succeed in doing is to reopen that wound of
yours. The game's up, you see; and you may as well
take it quietly. We've got some of your friends."
Cargill's face showed an eagerness at the words.
"Has my brother got off?"
"You mean the pseudo-Derek, I suppose? Yes, he's
gone to ground"—Cargill's expression showed a relief
which was quenched as Sir Clinton continued—"in the
same place as you put Paul Fordingbridge."
Cargill's head sank at the news.
"I'm afraid I can't stay," Sir Clinton said, with
almost ironical politeness. "You've given me such a
lot of work to do, you know, lately. I shan't trouble
you with questions, because I think we shall get all
we want from your confederates. If you need any-
thing we can give you, please ask the constables for it.
Good evening."
In the corridor, Wendover broke into a flood of
questions; but Sir Clinton brushed them aside.
"There's time enough for that by and by," he said
brusquely. "I must get to the bottom of this business
first. We'll go along and ask if Mrs. Fleetwood can see
us for a moment or two."
Wendover was glad to find, when they entered the
Fleetwood suite, that Cressida seemed to be getting
over the worst of the shock. Her face lighted up as she
saw them come in, and she began at once to thank
them. Sir Clinton brushed the thanks aside.
"There's nothing in it," he said. "I only wish we'd
been sooner."
At the words, Cressida's expression changed, as


THE MAN-HUNT ON THE BEACH 277
though some dreadful thing had been recalled to her.
Sir Clinton put his hand into his pocket and drew out
the glass syringe.
"What part did this thing play?" he asked gently.
The sight of it brought back all Cressida's terrors.
"Oh, you were too late!" she exclaimed despairingly.
"I'm still dazed by it all, and that brings it back."
Under Sir Clinton's sympathetic interrogation, she
was soon able to tell them of the ordeal she had gone
through. When she had finished, the chief constable
bent forward and took up the hypodermic syringe from
the table.
"You can sleep quietly to-night," he said. "There
was nothing in this affair except tap-water. I saw the
fellow filling it at the sink as I passed the window. I'd
have stopped him then, but there were only two of us
against three of them, and I had to wait till they were
all in one room. I must say the hypodermic puzzled me.
I couldn't make out what they were after, unless it was
more drugging. But there was nothing in the syringe.
I saw him washing it out under the tap before he filled
it. At the worst you may have a sore arm; but the only
germs in the syringe were some that might be in tap-
water. The whole affair was a piece of bluff from start
to finish. But it's no wonder it took you in. They must
have staged it well. Be thankful it's no worse, Mrs.
Fleetwood."
"Oh, I am! You don't know what a relief it is, Sir
Clinton. I meant to go off first thing to-morrow to the
Pasteur Institute for treatment. I wasn't very fright-
ened, once I got out of the hands of these horrible men,
because I knew I could be saved if I got treatment in
time."
"That's very sensible of you. But you need have no


278 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
fears about hydrophobia, at any rate. It was simply a
bluff and nothing more."
Cressida thanked them again, and, in order to escape
from her gratitude, Sir Clinton said good night, prom-
ising to return next morning to tell her anything that
she might wish to know.
Wendover had been horrified by the story; and he
began to wish that after all they had left Aird to his
fate in the tunnel.
"Brutes like that aren't fit to live," he declared
bitterly, when the door had closed behind them.
"Some of them won't live much longer, squire, if I
can manage it," Sir Clinton assured him, in a tone that
left no doubt in the matter.
In the hall below, they encountered Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux, and at the sight of Sir Clinton her face
showed something more than the mere pleasure of
meeting an acquaintance. She came forward and inter-
cepted them.
"I am most fortunate," she explained, with a smile
which betrayed her real gratification at their meet-
ing. "I depart to-morrow morning by the first train,
and I was fearing that I might not encounter you to
make you my adieux. That would have been most im-
polite to friends so cordial as you have been. And,
besides, I am so very happy that I would wish to be
very amiable to all the world. All the embarrassments
that I feared have been swept away, and everything
has arranged itself happily."
Sir Clinton's face lost the hard expression which it
had borne a few moments before.
"I hope that it is my good fortune to be the first to
congratulate you on your approaching marriage, ma-
dame. You have all my wishes for great happiness."


28o
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
better than documents; and, of course, the documents
will be forthcoming if they're required in future. Evi-
dently those three scoundrels didn't know this latest
twist in the affair, or they wouldn't have tried the trick
they did last night. They'd have done worse, probably,
when they got hold of her. If she'd been dead and out
of the way, there would have been no one except old
Miss Fordingbridge to contest that impostor's claim—
and she was so besotted with him that she'd never have
dreamed of doing so."
He paused for a moment or two, as though consider-
ing the case; but when he spoke again it was on a
different point.
"You sometimes jeer at me for playing the mystery-
man and refusing to tell you what I infer from the facts
that turn up. It's sometimes irritating, I admit; and
now and again I suppose it makes me look as if I were
playing the superior fellow. But it's really nothing of
the sort. In affairs of this kind, one never can tell what
the next turn of the wheel may be; and one might
quite well blurt out something which would give the
cue to the very people you want to keep in the dark."
"You do irritate me often enough, Clinton," Wend-
over admitted. "I can't see why you shouldn't put
your cards on the table. A fact's a fact, after all."
"I'll give you just one example," said Sir Clinton
seriously. "Suppose I had blurted out the fact which
I'd inferred about Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's mar-
riage. It was implicit in the story she told us; but luck-
ily no one spotted the key except myself. Now, just
think what would have happened to-night if that had
been common property. These scoundrels would have
known that Mrs. Fleetwood was legally married to
young Fleetwood, since the ceremony with Staveley


THE MAN-HUNT ON THE BEACH 28l
was illegal. Therefore, instead of trying the business
of the forced marriage, they'd simply have pitched her
over the cliff at the Blowhole. She'd have been dead by
this time; for their only interest in keeping her alive
was to force this marriage with the claimant and side-
track difficulties in that way. Suppose I'd blurted out
my inference, and sent that girl to her death by my
carelessness, how should I be feeling at this moment?
None too comfortable, so far as I can see."
Wendover had to admit that the secrecy policy had
justified itself.
"It would have been a dreadful business," he con-
fessed.
Inspector Armadale's figure appeared from one of
the corridors, and, catching sight of Sir Clinton, he
came over to where they were standing. His face
showed that he had good news to tell.
"I've got practically the whole business out of them,
sir. Billingford gave everything away that he knew
about; and the other chap's nerve was completely
gone, so that he couldn't resist questioning. It's as
clear a case as one could wish for."
He paused, as though puzzled by something, and
then added:
"It beats me how you tumbled to the fact that
Cargill was one of the gang, though."
Sir Clinton ignored the underlying inquiry.
"Was he the brains of the show?" he asked. "I've
only a suspicion to go on there."
"Yes, he did the planning for them."
"And the gentleman with no face collaborated with
Aird in the actual murders? That's a guess, I may say,
so far as the Staveley affair's concerned, though I'm
fairly sure of my ground in the other cases."


282 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
"You're right in that case too, sir. Aird and the im-
postor fellow were the actual murderers. Aird'U hang
for certain."
"It'll make a very nice case for you, inspector; and
I'm sure you'll work it up well for the Public Prosecu-
tor. I can seen a laurel wreath somewhere in the back-
ground."
"But it's you who did most of it, sir. Nobody under-
stands that better than I do," the inspector objected,
evidently afraid lest Sir Clinton thought him capable
of accepting the credit without protest.
"I came into the thing on a strict understanding that
I was to be a pure spectator, you remember. I'm afraid
that at times I got a shade too zealous, perhaps; but
it's your case and not mine. If we'd made a mess of it
between us, you'd have had to stand the racket; so
obviously a success goes down to your account. The
subject's closed."
Wendover, seeing the inspector's difficulty in fram-
ing a suitable reply to this, intervened to change the
subject.
"I see the main outlines of the affair easily enough,
Clinton," he said, "but I'd like to hear just how you
worked it out as you went along. Any objections to
telling me? It'll go no farther, of course."
The chief constable's face betrayed a tinge of bore-
dom.
"You've lived with this case for the best part of
a week. Haven't you had enough of it by this
time?"
Wendover persisted in his demand; but Sir Clinton,
instead of complying, glanced at his watch.
"There's one detective story I'm very fond of, squire:
The Hunting of the Snark. I rank it high in the scale,


CHAPTER XVII: THE THREADS IN THE
CASE
"This hasn't been a tidy case, in the strict meaning of
the words," Sir Clinton mused, as he chose a com-
fortable spot on Neptune's Seat and settled down on it.
"It's really an omnium gatherum. It began long before
we appeared on the scene; and the inspector has the
facts about the earlier stages, whilst I've nothing better
than guesswork."
"What we're interested in, chiefly, is what you
thought about it at different stages in the game,"
Wendover pointed out. "If you start with the Peter Hay
case and go on from there, you can tell us what you saw
and what we missed. And at the tail end you can give us
your guesses about the earlier stage. The inspector can
check them from the confessions he got."
Sir Clinton agreed with a gesture, and began without
more ado. It was evident that he was by no means eager
to recapitulate, and was doing so merely out of good
nature.
"The Peter Hay case was crystal clear so far as one
side was concerned. It required no marvellous insight
to see what had happened. It wasn't by any possibility
a one-man murder. At least two men must have been on
the spot to overpower Peter and tie him up. They—
or at least one of them—was a better-class fellow, or
Peter Hay would have been in his shirt-sleeves instead
of having his jacket on. And the jacket implied that he
knew they were coming that evening, too. Further, the


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 285
fact that they had amyl nitrite ready in their pockets is
enough to prove two things. They weren't casual
strangers, for they knew about his liability to cerebral
congestion. And they premeditated killing him in cer-
tain circumstances. We worked out pretty definitely the
course of events which led to his death, so I needn't
go over that again. I suppose we were right in the main
points, inspector?"
Armadale, primed with the information he had ex-
tracted from Aird, was able to confirm this.
"They used surgical bandages because they hoped to
leave no marks on the skin, I suppose?" Sir Clinton
inquired.
"That was the idea, Aird admitted, sir. He thought
they'd succeeded, and he was surprised to find they'd
made a mess of it."
Sir Clinton smiled, apparently at the thought of
Aird's discomfiture.
"Well, if they bungled one side of the affair, they
certainly managed to leave us in the dark about the
second side: the motive behind the murder. It wasn't
robbery, obviously. It wasn't bad feeling—everyone we
examined had a good word for Peter Hay. It couldn't
be homicidal mania—not with two of them mixed up
in it. That left, so far as I could see, only one probable
motive at the back of the thing. Either they wanted
to force Peter Hay into something he didn't like, or
else he knew something about them which they were
afraid of.
"Peter Hay wasn't the blackmailing type, from all we
learned about him. That notion wouldn't hold water for
a moment. So, if he had to be silenced, then the in-
formation he had must have been something he'd come
across quite innocently. What it was I couldn't guess.


288
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
of the diary and the silencing of Peter Hay would fit
in very neatly.
"On the other hand, suppose the boot's on the other
foot. Assume that Paul Fordingbridge had some very
strong reason for wishing to retain control over the
funds, and see where that leads you. Remember that he
showed no desire whatever to investigate this claim. He
simply denied straight off that the claimant was his
nephew, without waiting for any evidence on the point.
That seemed to me a curious attitude in a trustee;
perhaps it struck you in the same way. And he appeared
to be very little put out by Peter Hay's death, if you
remember—treated it very much as a matter of course.
It doesn't take much thinking to see that what holds
good for a fraudulent claimant would hold good for a
fraudulent trustee also. The diary and Peter Hay would
be two weak spots for him too. They'd help a genuine
nephew to establish an almost irrefutable case if he
could pass tests applied both by the diary and by Peter
Hay's recollections.
"So, whichever way one looked at it, there seemed to
be something to be said. And, consequently, I got no
further at that stage than being able to say that three
things were possible. First, the claimant might be a
fraud, and Paul Fordingbridge merely an obstinate old
beggar. Second, the claimant might be genuine, and
Paul might be a dishonest trustee. Or, third, both the
claimant and Paul might be wrong 'uns.
"Miss Fordingbridge had known her nephew inti-
mately, and she had identified him straight off, it's true.
But we've heard of that kind of thing before. You
remember how Roger Tichborne's mother identified
Arthur Orton as her son, and stuck to it through thick
and thin. Hallucinations of that sort do occur. And one


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 293
nised him as an ex-valet at Foxhills, I felt I was getting
on to fairly sure ground.
"Well, there were four of them to share in the loot if
they pulled it off. But a third's better than a quarter-
share any day. If they had pumped Staveley dry of his
information, and had got notes of it all on that card-
index, what further need had they for friend Nicholas?
None whatever.
"And suppose they could involve the Fleetwoods in a
murder case and get them hanged, wouldn't that remove
one possible set of objectors to the claimant dropping
into the funds? So I didn't exclude the possibility that
they knew—although they denied it—that Staveley was
going to meet Mrs. Fleetwood at Neptune's Seat that
night. When I say 'they,' I really mean the faceless
fellow and Aird.
"There was a further long shot possible. I'm not
sure if it really entered into their plans; but I give it
you for what it's worth. Suppose they suggested a walk
along the sands to Billingford that evening, and ar-
ranged matters so that he would reach the rock just
after the murder had been committed and they had
cleared out. Wouldn't that have been a tight corner for
Master Billingford? With any luck he might have been
hung for the murder, since he'd no evidence but his own
to rely on to prove he wasn't on the spot when the shot
was fired. And then there would be only two of them,
instead of four, to share out the loot if they got it.
"You see now how I was beginning to look at the
affair. But I was considerably worried by the woman
with the neat shoe. Her part in the business would have
to be cleared up eventually; but for the moment I had
to put it aside.
"And then our friends made their second blunder—


294 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
trying to prove too much, as usual. Friend Cargill came
on the scene, innocently going down to bathe. He sat
down on the groyne and proceeded to dig up a .38
cartridge-case, which he presented to me like an honest
fellow anxious only to help the police. Well, all three of
us had been over that particular bit of sand and had
seen no cartridge-case before he arrived on the scene.
Also, as I pointed out to you, squire, an automatic
ejects its cartridge-case sharply and jerks it well be-
hind you, especially on hard sand where the thing can
jump along. It was obvious that no one could fire a shot
from Fleetwood's position at the groyne and leave his
ejected shell lying close under the groyne, where Cargill
assured me he'd kicked it up. So naturally I began
to look at Mr. Cargill with more than common in-
terest; and, as you saw yourselves, he's got a build
rather like the claimant's, so I wondered if they were
related.
"Then our friend Cargill told us his yarn about
meeting Derek Fordingbridge in the war; and off he
went to meet his dear old friend. And later on he vol-
unteered eagerly that he'd had a talk with the dear old
fellow. By that time I was more than a bit suspicious of
the dear old friend; and naturally some of that sus-
picion spilled over on to Cargill. If the claimant was an
impostor, then the man who recognised him was a liar;
and, as I had no use for aimless liars in a case of this
sort, I inferred that Master Cargill was one of the gang,
posted at the hotel for intelligence purposes—to keep
an eye on the Fordingbridge group. And that cleared up
one of the main difficulties I'd had—namely, how the
murderer had known to use a .38 automatic so as to
match the Fleetwood pistol. Of course, if you assume
that Cargill had taken the opportunity of rummaging


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 295
in Fleetwood's room, or had drawn him into talk about
pistols, they would be sure of their ground on that
point. That had been a troublesome point to me; for I
didn't like to stretch coincidence to the extent of as-
suming it was mere accident that made the Fleetwood
pistol and the bullet in the body both of the same
calibre.
"It remained to check Billingford's story as far as
possible, and you know how the runnel helped us in
that. What the facts of the case proved beyond any
reasonable doubt was that at 11.19 p.m. Billingford
was about three-quarters of a mile from Neptune's
Seat. With the sound of the sea in his ears, it's most un-
likely that he could hear a pistol-shot at that distance.
And his tracks showed him walking along quite steadily
there. Then, at a point far nearer the rock—a point that
I suppose he may have reached about 11.35 p.m.—
the trail showed that he began to run. Now that fitted in
with his story. At that second point he might quite well
have heard a shot fired on the rock, just as he said he
did. He coudn't possibly, on the facts we established,
have reached the rock before about 11.37 or 11.38; and
by that time the murder was done and the murderer
had got away.
"By that time I felt fairly sure of my ground; and I
got that digging in the sand started, just on the off-
chance that we might get hold of the shell of the cart-
ridge which really did kill Staveley. It wasn't absolutely
necessary for the case; but, if it turned up, then it
would help to confirm my notions. As it was bound to
be below tide-mark, there was no point in trying to lo-
cate its exact position, since it might have been washed
about by the waves in the falling tide after the shot was
fired. So I simply had the whole strip of sand dug up


296
MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
and dumped down above the high-water mark for future
examination.
"Meanwhile, I'd been on the hunt for the dame with
the neat shoe—a No. 4, as you remember. There were
several of the guests wearing shoes of that size; but I
picked out Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux first of all be-
cause she seemed likeliest. Staveley had served in
France; she was a Frenchwoman; she was at Lynden
Sands Hotel, where she most obviously was out of
place and knew no one. It seemed best to find out some-
thing about her.
"I talked to her. She was a bit lonely, it seems, and
quite ready to go for a walk now and again. I know my
own length of pace; so, by counting hers in a given
distance and comparing with the numbers of my own,
I made a fair guess at her step-measurement. It fitted in
with the prints of the neat shoe on the sands. Gentle
treatment did the rest, as you saw. She told us her story
quite honestly, and it threw a good deal of light on the
affair. I inferred from it just what you yourself inferred
later on, squire: the shot fired by Mrs. Fleetwood at
11.19; Staveley's fall on the rock; and the bolt in the
car to the hotel. And, in turn, this checked Billingford's
story quite neatly, because he couldn't have heard the
shot at 11.19, being so far away. It was the second shot,
about 11.35, that he heard.
"Now, let's reconstruct what really happened; and
remember that, although it was full moon, it was a
cloudy night, and the light was bad all through. We'll
begin with Staveley leaving the cottage. He's in a bad
temper; been drinking as well as playing poker. He gets
to the rock and waits for Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux.
She's late; and his temper gets worse. She arrives and
tells him she wants to get a divorce arranged. Between


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 299
knew it, by the look of his jacket, I began to think
furiously.
"I didn't blame Paul for carrying arms. In his posi-
tion, with that gang at the cottage in the offing, I think
it was a wise precaution; for he must have known that
he was the main stumbling-block in the claimant's road.
But I don't think that he kept within the limits of
precaution. I think he decided to get ahead of them by
knocking out the claimant—and after that he would be
able to live in peace as heretofore.
"However, I never had time to probe that matter any
further, for the next business was the disappearance of
friend Paul. I think I have a fair notion how that was
managed.
"They approached him and asked for an interview.
He sent the claimant a scrap of paper:
'Meet me at the Blowhole to-night at 11 p. m. Come alone.'
The last two words give you the key to friend Paul's
feelings about them. One man he could keep an eye on,
and he didn't propose to have any more present. Of
course, they filed that note and used it again later, as
you'll remember.
"Probably the claimant met him at the Blowhole
and suggested a walk over the open sands as a good way
of avoiding eavesdroppers. Paul would feel safer in the
open. By the time they reached the old wreck the
claimant would have got him interested, or else his
natural fears would be dissipated. At the hulk the
claimant obviously turned, as though to go back across
the sands, and Paul turned with him. Then, from be-
hind the hull, Aird stole out and did le coup du Pere
Francois"
"What's that?" Wendover demanded. "You talked


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 301
of a case against Cargill beyond suspicion; and I
wanted him too, if it could be managed.
"The next thing was the arrival of the Fordingbridge
lawyer; and from him I learned that we might get on
the track of any malversations by Friend Paul if I went
up to London. I wanted to know definitely where I
stood in that matter, because, if I was wrong there, then
the whole latter part of my notions would collapse. So
I made up my mind to go to town.
"But I was very uneasy. Now that Paul Fording-
bridge was out of the road for good, Mrs. Fleetwood
was the only person between the claimant and the cash..
If she disappeared in her turn, then Miss Fording- /
bridge would have welcomed her long-lost nephew with
pure joy and gratitude for his preservation, and there
would have been no one left alive to object to his com-
ing into Foxhills and the rest. Therefore, I was inclined
to take some steps to see that she came to no harm
while I was away.
"The obvious thing to do would have been to warn
her. But that would have meant giving my case away
to the Fleetwoods; and I don't feel inclined to chuck
confidences around if it can be avoided, as I've pointed
out before. Further, the police were not altogether in
good odour with the Fleetwoods; and I wasn't sure if
I'd make much impression on them by a mere warning,
with nothing to back it. So I hit on the notion of putting
a man on to watch Mrs. Fleetwood; and, as a further
precaution, I fixed up that code-wire so that if I wanted
it I could have her arrested at a moment's notice, and
then she'd be safe in police hands and out of reach of
the gang.
"I went up to London and found, as I'd expected,
that friend Paul had been playing ducks and drakes


302 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
with all the securities he could handle without exciting
too much suspicion. He seems to have been speculating
right and left, most unsuccessfully. So I'd been right
about his motives, anyhow.
"But I couldn't get out of my mind the risk I was
letting that girl run; and at last—I suppose Miss Ford-
ingbridge would say it was telepathy or something—
I got the wind up completely, and wired to have her
arrested. After that I felt safer.
"As you know, they'd been too quick for me. They
fished out the note that Paul Fordingbridge wrote to
the claimant and they sent it to her as if it came from
Paul himself, after altering the hour on it. She thought
her uncle was in trouble; went to help him; dodged the
constable; and fell straight into the trap they'd set for
her. You know all the rest. And probably by now you
understand why I was quite content to let Mr. Aird
have his full dose in the funnel of the souffleur. There's
nothing like a confession for convincing a jury, and I
meant him to hang if it could be managed. I didn't want
to run any risk of his getting off merely because it was
all circumstantial evidence."
"Thanks," said Wendover, seeing that the chief con-
stable had finished his outline. "To quote from that
favourite detective story of yours:
In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been
Enveloped in absolute mystery.
There's just one point I'd like to hear you on. What
about Staveley's resuscitation after his being killed in
the war? Did you get to the bottom of that by any
chance?"
Sir Clinton hesitated a little before answering.
"I don't much care about pure guesswork, squire;


THE THREADS IN THE CASE 303
but, if you'll take it as that, then I don't mind saying
what I think. Suppose that is what happened. Staveley
and Derek Fordingbridge went into action together;
and Staveley was under a cloud at the time. He'd
probably had enough of the war, and was looking for a
way out. Derek Fordingbridge gets killed in that battle,
and is probably badly damaged in the process—made
unrecognisable we may suppose. Staveley sees him
killed, and grasps at the chance offered. He takes
Derek's identity disc off the body and leaves his own
instead. Probably he takes the contents of the pockets
too, and puts his own papers into the dead man's pock-
ets. They were friends; and, if anyone saw him at work,
he'd have his excuse ready. No one would think he
was robbing the dead. Then he goes on—and simply
hands himself over to the enemy. He's a prisoner of
war—under Derek's name.
"He manages to escape, and the escape is put down
to Derek's credit. But, of course, Derek never turns up
again; and naturally people suppose that he must have
died of exposure in his last attempt, or been shot at the
frontier, or something of that sort. Meanwhile Staveley,
once out of Germany, drops his borrowed identity,
probably changes his name, and disappears. I suspect
he was in very hot water with the military authorities,
and was only too glad of the chance to vanish for good.
"After the war, he evidently got in amongst a queer
gang, and lived as best he could. Billingford's evidence
points to that. And somewhere among this shoal of
queer fish he swam up against our friend Cargill. My
reading of the thing is that somehow Staveley gave
away—perhaps in his cups—something of what I've
given you as my guess; and Cargill, remembering his
disfigured brother, saw a grand scheme to be worked


304 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
by putting forward his brother as claimant to the Fox-
hills property.
"It wasn't half so wild a plan as the Tichborne busi-
ness, and you know how that panned out at the start.
So the three of them set to work to see the thing
through. Staveley, I suspect, got hold of Aird, who had
invaluable information about all the affairs at Foxhills
in the old days. Then they went to work systematically
with their card-index and noted down everything that
Aird and Staveley could remember which would bear
on the case.
"That accounts for the delay in the claimant turning
up. It probably was quite recently that Staveley fell in
with Cargill. And evidently the delay points to the fact
that Staveley wasn't the originator of the notion, else
he'd have got to work much earlier. It was only when he
fell in with Cargill, who had a brother suitable to play
the part of the claimant, that anything could be done.
Then they must have spent some time in unearthing
Aird.
"Well, at last they're ready. They come down to
Lynden Sands with their card-index handy. Now, the
claimant doesn't want to appear in public more than he
can help, for every stranger is a possible danger to him.
He might fail to recognise some old friend, and the fat
might be in the fire. Nor does Staveley want to show
himself; for his presence might suggest the source of
the claimant's information. Aird's in the same position.
And when they learn that the Fordingbridges are at the
hotel, Cargill is detached there to keep an eye on them.
Thus they need a go-between; and Billingford is
brought down to serve that purpose. Also, as soon as
the claimant makes his first move there will be sure to
be a lot of gossip in the village, anecdotes of the claim-


306 MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS
The inspector made no attempt to suppress the ad-
miration in his tone.
"It's wonderfully accurate, sir. You're right on every
point of importance—even down to what happened in
the war."
"That's a relief," the chief constable admitted with a
laugh. "I was rather afraid that I'd
. . . Summed it so well that it came to far more
Than the witnesses ever had said!
And now I think I'll go back to the hotel and try to
make my peace with the Fleetwoods. I like them, and
I'd hate to leave a false impression of my character on
their minds. Care to come along, squire?"
THE END


MYSTERY AND DETECTIVE STORIES
May be had wherever books ara sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's List
The following list of novels by masters of the art
of mystery and detective story writing is qualified to
satisfy the most discriminating of readers.
S. S. VAN DINE
The "Canary" Murder Case
The Greene Murder Case
The Bishop Murder Case
KAY CLEAVER STRAHAN
The Desert Moon Mystery
Footprints
MARY ROBERTS R1NEHART
Two Flights Up
The Bat
The Man in Lower Ten
The Circular Staircase
K. the Unknown
ANNE AUSTIN
The Black Pigeon
BAYARD VE1LLER
The Trial of Mary Dugan
CYRIL McNElLE
Bulldog Drummond
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The Mystery of the Blue Train
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
The Big Four
The Seven Dials Mystery
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
EDGAR WALLACE
The Feathered Serpent
The Double
EARL DERR BIGGERS
Behind That Curtain
Seven Keys to Baldpate
The House Without a Key
The Chinese Parrot
Fifty Candles
BRAM STOKER
Dracula
A CONAN DOYLE
BuUdog Drunvnond's Third Round Tales of Sherlock Holmes
Temple Tower
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK


PERCIVAL C. WREN'S NOVELS
May be had wkerevar kMfcs art WML Ask to Graasat and Daaiae's list
This brilliant chronicler of the French Foreign Legion is an
Englishman born in DeTonshire and educated at Oxford. He is a
veteran of three armies, the crack British Cavalry Corps, the French
Foreign Legion and the Indian Army in East Africa.
BEAU IDEAL
A man running desperate risks to save the husband of the woman
he loves—a soldier's heroism in a barbarous and terrible country.
BEAU GESTE
Mystery, courage, love, self sacrifice, adventure on the burning
sands of North Africa—in the tanks of the French Foreign Legion.
BEAU SABREUR
A sequel to Beau Gestc in which the age old spell of the desert
is the background for a tale of mystery.
STEPSONS OF FRANCE
A book of short stories whose scenes are laid in the same fascin-
ating and desolate country as Beau GesU—Northern Africa—and
whose characters are fighters in the Legion.
WAGES OF VIRTUE
A modern Enoch Arden reappears and goes back to remain
"dead" in the Legion of the Condemned, but his story comes out
at last.
FATHER GREGORY
Mystery and Father Gregory play a desperate game on a pictur-
esque background of Hindustan. Written with gusto by the author
of "Beau Geste."
THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD
Another romance of the East by the author of the Foreign Legion
stories. The fascinating mystery of Kipling's India is the back-
ground for a strange love.
DRIFTWOOD SPARS
The soul of a man in whose soul the East and West has met—
his father of Fathan birth, his mother of Scotch. Laid in India, it
is a romance of mystery and tragedy.
DEW AND MILDEW
A story built around a series of coincidences—East of Suez coin-
cidences flourish and sometimes attains a remarkably fine growth.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers,~NEW YORK


STIRRING TALES OF THE GREAT WAR
May be bad wherever books are sots'. Ask for Groeset and Ountap's Hat,
ABOVE THE BRIGHT BLUE SKY ..EKot White Springs
More stories of War Birds in the air, on the ground, A. W. O. L. and at
the front, flyers who thought the war ended too soon.
THE TOP KICK Leonard Nason
Infantry, cavalry, artiM*ry, Intelligence—Private ftghts and Public
fights—Wine no women, and cuss words— France in lflffc*.
SQUAD James B. Wharton
The war chronicle of eigat men out of whose flesh and blood the small
est of military units—-a squad—is made.
WAR BTRDS The Diary of an Unknown Aviator
Soaring, loosing, zooming, spitting harls of leaden death, planes every-
where in a war darkened sky. WAR BIRDS is a tale of youth, loving,
fighting, dying.
SERGEANT EAD1E Leonard Nason
This is the private history of the hard luck sergeant whose exploits in
CHEVRONS made that story one of the most dramatic and thrflnng of
war books.
WINGS J«>hn Monk Saunders
Based on the g*eat Paramount picture, WINQS ts the Big Parade of the
air, the gallant, fascinating story of an American air pilot.
LEAVE ME WITH A SMILE EE* W. Springs
Henry Win-ton, a famous ace, thrice decorated, twice wounded and
many times disillusioned returns after the war to meet Phyllis, one of the
new order of hard-drinking, unmoral girls.
NOCTURNE MILITAIRE Eftbtt Wkite Springs
War, with wine and women, tales of love, madness, heroism; flyers
reckless in their gestures toward life and death.
CHEVRONS Leo«a>d Nason
One of the sensations of the post-war period, CHEVRONS discloses the
whole pageantry of war with grim truth flavored with the breezy -wul-
garity of soldier dialogue.
THREE LIGHTS FROM A MATCH. .Leonard Nason
Three long short stories, each told with a racy vividness, the real terror
in war with the sputter of machine guns.
TOWARD THE FLAME Hewey ABen
A maelstrom of tremendous incident along the American Front during
the memorable summer of 191$. Magnificent and real.
THE LEGION OF THE CONDEMNED
A thriller of the eagles of the air, full of romance, chivalry and madcap
bravery.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK


DETECTIVE STORIES BY J. S. FLETCHER
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset &. Dunlap's list
J. S. Fletcher's mystery detective stories of the puzzle
variety have made him the generally acknowledged suc-
cessor to Conan Doyle in this field.
THE BLACK HOUSE IN HARLEY STREET
THE PASSENGER TO FOLKESTONE
MARCHESTER ROYAL
THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER
EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE
THE MISSING CHANCELLOR
GREEN INK
FALSE SCENT
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK
S


THE NOVELS OF
EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
May be had wherever books are told. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
TARZAN, LORD OF THE JUNGLE
TARZAN OF THE APES
TARZAN AND THE JEWELS OF OPAR
TARZAN AND THE ANT MEN
TARZAN AND THE GOLDEN LION
TARZAN THE TERRIBLE
TARZAN THE UNTAMED
THE BEASTS OF TARZAN
THE RETURN OF TARZAN
THE SON OF TARZAN
JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN
THE MASTER MIND OF MARS
THE PRINCESS OF MARS
THE WARLORD OF MARS
THE GODS OF MARS
THUVIA, MAID OF MARS
THE CHESSMAN OF MARS
THE MONSTER MEN
THE WAR CHIEF
THE OUTLAW OF TORN
THE MAD KING
THE MOON MAID
THE ETERNAL LOVER
THE CAVE GIRL
THE BANDIT OF HELL'S BEND
THE LAND THAT TIME FORGOT
AT THE EARTH'S CORE
PELLUCIDAR
THE MUCKER
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK


PETER B. KYNE'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dun lap's list
THE THUNDER GOD
A romance of big business, men fighting for enormous stakes and of
the brilliant projects of one man, a scientist.
THEY ALSO SERVE
The story of a cowboy's horse that served in France with the artillery. 1
THE UNDERSTANDING HEART
Men said Monica Dale had the understanding heart of a woman and the
soul of a gallant gentleman.
MONEY TO BURN
The exciting adventures of Elmer Clarke with his suddenly acquired
million.
THE ENCHANTED HILL
The struggle for honor and the Enchanted Hill Ranch in the Southwest.
NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET
A romance of California and the South Seas.
THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR
When two men clash and the under-dog has Irish blood in his veins—a
tale Kyne can tell.
CAPPY RICKS
Cappy Ricks gave Matt Peasley the acid test because he knew it was
good for his soul.
CAPPY RICKS RETIRES
Cappy retires but the romance of the sea and business kept calling him
back and he comes back strong.
KINDRED OF THE DUST
Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire lumber king, falls in
love with " Nan of the Sawdust pile."
THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS
The fight of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the valley of the giants
against treachery.
WEBSTER, MAN'S MAN
The adventures of a man and woman in a Central American revolution
A r»al soldier of fortune story.
CAPTAIN SCRAGGS
This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscallion seafaring men.
THE LONG CHANCE
Marley P-'Henna&e is a gambler, the best and worst man of San Pasqual,
and there is the lovely Donna.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




I