“A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter.”
“Anyway, it wasn’t suicide,” said Crome with a touch of curtness. “Now I believe, Mr. Clarke, that it was your brother’s habit to go for a stroll every evening?”
“Quite right. He always did.”
“Every night?”
“Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally.”
“And everyone in the house knew of this habit?”
“Of course.”
“And outside?”
“I don’t quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may have been aware of it or not, I don’t know.”
“And in the village?”
“Strictly speaking, we haven’t got a village. There’s a post office and cottages at Churston Ferrers—but there’s no village or shops.”
“I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?”
“On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers. They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is Elbury Cove—it’s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they didn’t! You’ve no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and the beginning of July.”
“So you don’t think a stranger would be noticed?”
“Not unless he looked—well, off his head.”
“This man doesn’t look off his head,” said Crome with certainty. “You see what I’m getting at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your brother’s habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?”
“Not that I know of—but we’ll ask Deveril.”
He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.
“No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn’t notice anyone hanging about the house either. No more did the maids, because I’ve asked them.”
The butler waited a moment, then inquired: “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, Deveril, you can go.”
The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass.
Franklin Clarke rose as she came in.
“This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother’s secretary.”
My attention was caught at once by the girl’s extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had the almost colourless ash hair—light-grey eyes—and transparent glowing pallor that one finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as efficient as she was decorative.
“Can I help you in any way?” she asked as she sat down.
Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.
“Did you deal with Sir Carmichael’s correspondence?” asked Crome.
“Yes, all of it.”
“I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A B C?”