The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

only came out just now at the inquest—"

      "No, sir. As a matter of fact I mentioned her name here, in the report I sent in last night." Haviland bent over the sheets.

      "It's not the visitor's name. It's the fact that she was expected. Known to be coming..."

      "Coming by a boat-train," Pointer spoke slowly, with a curious look in his eyes, "so the parlour-maid says she was told by her mistress. No boat-train could get in in time enough to let Mrs. Cranbourn have four o'clock tea with Mrs. Tangye at Riverview. Then why was it ordered at four? And Florence was not to bother to come in again until Mrs. Cranbourn should come." Pointer looked down at his boot-tips meditatively.

      "Getting into touch with Mrs. Cranbourn should clear up many difficulties! But even as it is, what became of her?"

      "Florence—that's the parlourmaid—thinks she hurried off without waiting, when she saw what had happened. Natural enough under the circumstances." Haviland spoke rather stubbornly.

      "But where to? Which way did she go? Straight on up to Heaven? Remember, Newnes saw only the running maid, the standing Miss Saunders, and no one else. You arrived before he left, and found no sign of her."

      "When you put it like that, it sounds odd, for a fact." Haviland bit his lip.

      The caller had not been seen since. It was believed that she must have slipped away in the general confusion. The Coroner, though he regretted her absence, did not think that her evidence would have been of more use than that of the numerous other friends available. For she had not found Mrs. Tangye alive. Mrs. Cranbourn was a barrister's widow, living in Malaga, and was unknown to the maid by sight. The police had had a cable from the consul there, saying that the lady had left the town a week ago.

      "Her visit seems a big trump in Tangye's hand—it certainly points to accident rather than suicide," Wilmot murmured.

      Haviland grunted, non-committally.

      "Why don't you believe Mrs. Tangye's death an accident, Haviland?" Pointer asked.

      "How could it have been one, sir? Apart from the fact of the trigger working uncommon stiff, the safety-bolt acts perfectly, and Mrs. Tangye was used to that particular revolver. Then look at the tearing up of her papers, and the packing off of her duds."

      "Tangye explained that, you know," Wilmot reminded him.

      "But Mrs. Tangye wasn't going abroad for Another month. And why not leave her papers? To my mind, her desk and her wardrobe were as good as a signed confession that she had made away with herself."

      There was a short silence.

      "Personally my belief hasn't been changed by the verdict," Haviland murmured after a pause, "though it ends the case as far as we are concerned."

      "Unless, of course you, sir—" he turned to Pointer and left the sentence unfinished.

      "Any special reason you know of which isn't given in the reports for her to've killed herself?" was his only answer.

      "Well, there's Mrs. Bligh. She's just left for Cannes this morning. Colonel's widow. Lives in Cadogan Square. Belongs to a very smart set. She and Mr. Tangye..." Haviland's tone was full of meaning. "The fact is, though there's nothing to prove it, I think Mrs. Tangye got wind of the affair, and got fed up. Lost her grip of things, and decided to end it all."

      "If every woman whose husband goes off the rails at times were to shoot herself, the surplus of females over males in the British Isles would soon be a thing of the past," Wilmot pointed out dryly. Haviland grinned, but stuck to his guns.

      "I don't pretend I mayn't be wrong. As a matter of fact, I've got two headings in my notebook, same as you say you have in your head, Mr. Wilmot, and I enter things accordingly. Most of 'em, so far, go on both pages. I can't think you'll want me to add another headline, sir."

      Haviland finished with his eyes on Pointer. The Chief Inspector was skimming through the life story of the dead woman.

      "Mable Headly. Only child of the Rev. Charles Headly, rector of Over Wallop for twenty years, and Nether Wallop for thirty," he read out.

      "Sounds peaceful!" murmured Wilmot. Haviland took up the tale:

      "Miss Headly taught at the Holland Park High School till war broke out. Then went to France as an officer in the Waacs. She married Clive Branscombe, the architect. He built the Chelsea war memorial, I think?"

      Haviland turned to Wilmot.

      "May he rest in peace, in spite of that and other crimes of a like nature," breathed the newspaper man.

      "They lived in Cheyne Walk for some five years. A year after he died, she married Tangye. That was three years ago now."

      "Any children?"

      "None all round, sir," was the comprehensive reply. There followed another short silence.

      "Only one will known," Pointer mused aloud, "leaving everything to her husband. Made on her marriage to him. Contents familiar to every one. How much did she have to leave?"

      "She had nothing when she married Branscombe, but he left her ten thousand in cash, which she promptly invested in Tangye's firm. There's a belief in some quarters in fact, that that was why he married her. The sum came in very handy just then, they do say. And besides that ten, she had some nice bits of property here and there in Worcestershire that were rated for death duties at another ten thousand. Of course, I don't know how much of the land she's sold. You see, she'd destroyed all her memos."

      Pointer stood up.

      "I'd like to see the revolver."

      Haviland brought it from the safe. It would have to be returned within an hour or two to Tangye anyway, he thought. Pointer lifted out the weapon on its slung carrier, puffed some bright coloured powder over it, and blowing gently, studied the result intently with his glass.

      "Seems to've taken the marks of her grip very well."

      "It has for a fact. The poor soul had been having buttered crumpets for tea."

      "Have the Tangye's a dog?"

      "No, sir." Haviland looked puzzled.

      "Is there a cat in the house?"

      "No, sir." Haviland wondered how many more animals would be suggested, but he looked with wrinkled brows at Pointer.

      "Those scratches seem recent. What made them?"

      "Tangye thinks they must have happened in France. The revolver was always kept in its box at Riverview. You'll notice her fingerprints are over the scratches, so the latter can't mean anything, sir."

      Pointer noticed more than that. He gave the weapon another long look before he straightened up.

      "I should like the usual photographs and enlargements of that made at once, please." Then the Chief Inspector turned away. "It's a problem!" he said, studying his boot tips.

      "You mean the explanation as to whether it was suicide or accident? I can't make up my own mind definitely." Wilmot spoke in a surprised tone. It was true that he was not often afflicted with doubt.

      "No. I mean the explanation of the facts."

      Haviland pricked up his ears.

      "Why, sir, even the fact, which had first seemed puzzling, that, though Mrs. Tangye was considered right-handed like most of the world, the weapon lay beneath her left hand, and carries its finger-prints, was explained by an old friend. Mrs. Tangye had been left-handed in her girlhood, and though she had trained herself out of the habit, yet in moments of great excitement she was liable to 'revert.' Inquiries made in her father's parish—he's been dead these fifteen years nearly—corroborated this. To my mind, there's no question but that it was either suicide or accident. Judging by the facts, that is."

      Superintendent Haviland always judged by what he considered facts. And by them alone. "Those finger-prints on her revolver, sir. They're Mrs. Tangye's right enough. It isn't as if there were any reason to suspect they're