“Let me see, haven’t I heard Tollie—Sir Bartholomew—speak of her? She was a friend of his as well as a patient, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t think so, Sir Charles. At least the doctor never said so. She has recently arrived from the West Indies—really, it was very funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult name for a servant to remember—the parlourmaid here is rather stupid. She came and said to me, ‘Mrs. West India has come,’ and of course I suppose Rushbridger does sound rather like West India—but it was rather a coincidence her having just come from the West Indies.”
“Rather—rather—most amusing. Her husband over, too?”
“He’s still out there.”
“Ah, quite—quite. I must be mixing her up with someone else. It was a case the doctor was specially interested in?”
“Cases of amnesia are fairly common, but they’re always interesting to a medical man—the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom alike.”
“Seems all very odd to me. Well, thank you, Matron, I’m glad to have had a little chat with you. I know how much Tollie thought of you. He often spoke about you,” finished Sir Charles mendaciously.
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.” The Matron flushed and bridled. “Such a splendid man—such a loss to us all. We were absolutely shocked—well, stunned would describe it better. Murder! Who ever would murder Dr. Strange, I said. It’s incredible. That awful butler. I hope the police catch him. And no motive or anything.”
Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they took their departure, going round by the road to the spot where the car awaited them.
In revenge for his enforced quiescence during the interview with the Matron, Mr. Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in the scene of Oliver Manders’ accident, plying the lodge keeper, a slow-witted man of middle age, with questions.
Yes, that was the place, where the wall was broken away. On a motorcycle the young gentleman was. No, he didn’t see it happen. He heard it, though, and come out to see. The young gentleman was standing there—just where the other gentleman was standing now. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Just looking rueful-like at his bike—and a proper mess that was. Just asked what the name of the place might be, and when he heard it was Sir Bartholomew Strange’s he said, “That’s a piece of luck,” and went on up to the house. A very calm young gentleman he seemed to be—tired like. How he come to have such an accident, the lodge keeper couldn’t see, but he supposed them things went wr
ong sometimes.
“It was an odd accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
He looked at the wide straight road. No bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to cause a motor cyclist to swerve suddenly into a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident.
“What’s in your mind, Satterthwaite?” asked Sir Charles curiously.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “nothing.”
“It’s odd, certainly,” said Sir Charles, and he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in a puzzled manner.
They got into the car and drove off.
Mr. Satterthwaite was busy with his thoughts. Mrs. de Rushbridger—Cartwright’s theory wouldn’t work—it wasn’t a code message—there was such a person. But could there be something about the woman herself? Was she perhaps a witness of some kind, or was it just because she was an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange had displayed this unusual elation? Was she, perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love at the age of fifty-five did (Mr. Satterthwaite had observed it many a time) change a man’s character completely. It might, perhaps, make him facetious, where before he had been aloof—
His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles leant forward.
“Satterthwaite,” he said, “do you mind if we turn back?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took up the speaking tube and gave the order. The car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur began to reverse into a convenient lane. A minute or two later they were bowling along the road in the opposite direction.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“I’ve remembered,” said Sir Charles, “what struck me as odd. It was the ink stain on the floor in the butler’s room.”
Six
CONCERNING AN INK STAIN
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at his friend in surprise.
“The ink stain? What do you mean, Cartwright?”
“You remember it?”
“I remember there was an ink stain, yes.”