mill. Next the disused mill-wheel there was a little room or shed,

whose gaping walls and roof afforded, nevertheless, sufficient shelter from the weather. A “rustic seat,” made of knobby branches overlaid with dark brown varnish, offered uncomfortable repose. Draughts at the back of your neck, or sudden leakage in the slates above you, would cause you now and again to shift your attitude uneasily; but, since the _Load of Mischief_ did not abound with amenities in any case, they were content with their quarters.

“I confess I’m a little shaken,” admitted Bredon. “Not that I see any logical reason for altering my own point of view; but I don’t _want_ it to be suicide now as much as I did. The Bishop is such a jolly old man; and he could so obviously do with half a million, if only to put in new wall-paper. He might even give his secretary a rise. I tell you, I hate the idea of advising the company not to pay up. It can afford the money so easily. But I suppose I must have a sort of conscience about me somewhere, for I’m still determined to get at the truth. This codicil, you say, was put in less than three weeks ago?”

“Just about that. As nearly as I can calculate it must have been just before, not after, Mottram’s visit to the Indescribable.”

“The thing becomes more confusing than ever. If he did want to endow the Diocese of Pullford, why did he offer to resign his Euthanasia claim on condition that we repaid half his premiums? And if he didn’t want to endow the Diocese of Pullford, why did he take the trouble of altering his will in its favour?”

“Remember, when he drew up the codicil he may not have seen the specialist.”

“That’s true too. Now, look here, supposing he hadn’t put the codicil in, what would have become of the Euthanasia money? Would it have gone, like the rest, into these silly schemes of his about art galleries?”

“No; it wasn’t just a vague will, nothing about ‘all I die possessed of.’ The whole thing was itemized very clearly, and no allowance had been made at all for the disposal of the Euthanasia money. Consequently, if he hadn’t made the codicil, the Euthanasia money would have gone to his next of kin.”

“In fact, to this nephew? Really, I begin to want to see this nephew.”

“You have seen him.”

“Seen him—where?”

“At the inquest. Didn’t you notice a rather seedy little fellow, with a face like a rat, who was standing about in the porch just when it was over? That’s your man; Simmonds his name is, and if you want to get a taste of his quality, nothing’s easier, for he serves in his own shop. On a plea of braces trouble, shortage of cough lozenges, or what you will, his time is yours from ten in the morning to seven at night.”

“Yes, I noticed the little man. I can’t say I was prepossessed. But I must certainly improve the acquaintance. I suppose it’s not fair to ask what you make of him?”

“Oh, personally, I can’t say I’ve made much of him. I had a talk, and his manner and statements seemed to be perfectly straightforward. No nervousness, no embarrassment.”

“There’s one other thing about Mottram’s will that’s clearly important. You got it, I gather, from the solicitors; did you find out from them whether the terms of it were made public in any way?”

“About the main will they thought there was no secret. Mottram seems to have talked it over with members of the Pullford Town Council. Also the lawyers were directed to send a full statement of it to young Simmonds, as a kind of rebuke; Simmonds, you see, had annoyed Mottram at the time. But this codicil was a different affair; it was extremely confidential. Brinkman himself—though of course he may have been lying, or being discreet—professed ignorance of it. I should think it very improbable that anybody knows about it yet, except you and me and Mrs. Bredon and of course the lawyers themselves.”

“Then there’s a chance, I suppose, that Simmonds thought, and still thinks, he is coming in for a windfall from our company? Or do you think he didn’t know Mottram was insured?”

“He must have; because the Euthanasia policy was explicitly mentioned in the earlier will, the one which was cancelled. So you are not the only person who’s interested in young Simmonds. Well, what do you make of it all?”

“Let me tell you one thing; it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t. About three weeks ago Mottram had an argument with the Bishop of Pullford on a matter of theology. Mottram was trying to persuade the Bishop that you were morally justified in doing evil in order that good might come of it.”

“I’m very much obliged for the information, old man, but I’m not much interested in these speculative questions. I’m concerned to hunt out the people who do evil, whether good comes of it or not.”

“But the information doesn’t impress you?”

“Not much.”

“Very well, then. Will you double that bet?”

“Double the bet? You’re mad! Why, I was just going to make the same offer, feeling sure you’d refuse. It’s taking your money.”

“Never mind that. Are you on?”

“On? Why, I’m prepared to redouble if you like.”

“Done! That’s twenty pounds each way. Now, would you like to hear my reading of the story?”

“By all means. And then I shall have the pleasure of putting you wise.”

“Well, from the first, the whole thing smelled of suicide to me. Every step Mottram took seemed to be the calculated step of a man who was leading up to some deliberate _dénouement_. He was mysterious, he was excited, when he went round the other night to the Cathedral house. When he came here, he made the most obvious attempts to try to behave as if everything was going on just as usual. He made fussy arrangements about being called in the morning; he pretended to have left a letter half-finished; he put a novel down by the bedside, wound up his watch, put studs in his shirt—he did everything to create the surface impression, good enough (he thought) for the Coroner, that whatever else was the truth suicide was out of the question. He made one or two slips there—writing down his name in the visitors’ book with a blank for his date of departure, as if any guest ever did that; putting the flies ready on his rod, but (so Pulteney tells me) the wrong kind of flies. To make sure that there was not a verdict of suicide, he even made arrangements—through Brinkman, through Mrs. Davis, I don’t know how—to have the gas in his bedroom turned off again after it had done its work. Then he tossed off his sleeping draught, turned the gas on, and got into bed. I was sure of all that, even before I went over to Pullford, before you got the telegram from London. What I couldn’t understand was the motive; and now that’s as plain as daylight. He was determined to endow the Pullford Diocese with half a million, so as to be sure of having his nest well lined in the next world. He knew that Christian morality doesn’t permit suicide, but he thought he was all right, because he was only doing evil in order that good might come of it. And so he got rid of the spectre of a painful death from disease, and at the same time made sure, he thought, of a welcome on the other side, if there should prove to be an eternity.”

“Well, that’s your idea. I don’t deny it hangs together. But it comes up against two things—fatally, I think. If Mottram was so set upon endowing the Pullford Diocese, why did he bequeath most of his fortune to a footling Town Council and only leave the diocese the one bit of money which, if a verdict of suicide was given, could never be touched? And granted that he was at pains to get some one to turn off the gas for him, so as to avoid the appearance of suicide, why did he tell that person to lock the door, and leave the key on the wrong side? That’s the problem you’ve set yourself.”

“Oh, God knows, I don’t see my way clear yet. But there’s the outlines of the thing. Now let’s hear the _proxime accessit_ solution.”

“I feel inclined to apologize. I feel ashamed of being so right. But you’ve asked for it. Look here, the thing which has complicated this case so badly is the appearance of bluff. At one moment it looked like suicide pretending to be accident or murder; at another time it looked like murder pretending to be suicide. But the great mountainous fact that stands out is the turning off of the gas. In the event of suicide, that was impossible; in the event of murder, it was curiously needless. For it entirely removed the possibility of a suicide verdict. It was only as I was getting into bed last night that the truth flashed upon me. The gas was turned off by a murderer deliberately, and, mark this, in order to shew that the murder was not suicide. It was a deliberate protest, an advertisement. Make what you like of this case (it seemed to say); but do not call it suicide; that at least is outside the scheme of possibilities.”

“Well, my solution was rather by way of allowing for that.”

“To be sure. But, you see, you involve yourself in a hopeless psychological improbability. You make a man commit suicide, leaving behind him an accomplice who will turn off the gas. Now, it’s an extraordinary thing, our human love of interference; but I don’t believe it possible to have an accomplice in suicide. Except, of course, for those ‘death pacts’ which we are all familiar with. Tell any one that you mean to commit suicide and that person will not only try to dissuade you but will scheme to prevent your bringing the thing off. Suicide here would involve an accomplice; therefore it was not suicide. It was murder; and yet the murderer, so far from wanting to make it appear suicide, was particularly anxious to make it clear that it was _not_ suicide. There is a strange situation for you.

“The strange situations, the mysterious situations, are not those which are most difficult to unravel. You can proceed in this case to look for the murderer in the certainty that he is some one who would stand to lose if a verdict of suicide were brought in. Puzzling it over last night I was unable to conceive such a person. Between you and me, I had been inclined to suspect Brinkman; but there did not seem to be any possible reason why he should want to murder Mottram; and, if he did, there was no conceivable reason why he should want to make it appear that Mottram did not commit suicide. Brinkman was not the heir; the Euthanasia policy did not affect him.

“My discoveries of this morning put me on an entirely different track. There was one man in the world, and only one, whose interest bade him murder Mottram, and murder him in such a way that no suspicion of suicide could rest over the event. I mean, of course, young Simmonds. It was in his interest, as he must have thought, to murder Mottram, because if Mottram lived to be sixty-five the Euthanasia policy would run out. This was Simmonds’s last chance but one, assuming that Mottram’s yearly visits to Chilthorpe were the best chance of doing away with him. In two years from now Mottram would have turned sixty-five and the half-million would have vanished into the air. Moreover, there was much to be said for haste: who could tell when Mottram might not take it into his head to draw up a new will? As it seemed to Simmonds, he had only to get rid of this lonely, crusty old bachelor by a painless death, and he, as the next of kin, would walk straight into five hundred thousand. Meanwhile, there must be no suspicion of suicide, for any such suspicion might mean that your company would refuse to pay up and the half-million would have disappeared once more.

“To young Simmonds, as he let himself in by the ground-floor casement into the _Load of Mischief_, only one fear presented itself—the fear of a false verdict. He was of the type that cannot commit cold-blooded murder. The more civilization advances the more ingenious does crime become; meanwhile, it becomes more and more difficult for one man to kill another with his hands. Simmonds might have been a poisoner; as it was, he had discovered a safer way: he would be a gasser. But there was this defect about the weapon he was using—it might create a false impression on the jury. Imperative, then, not merely to kill his man but to prove that he had killed him. That is why, after turning on the gas in the sleeping man’s room, he waited for two hours or so outside; then came back, flung open the window to get air, and turned the gas off again, only pausing to make sure that his victim was dead.

“How he worked the door trick I don’t know. We shall find out later. Meanwhile, let me tell you that one of the friends I made last night in the bar parlour told me he had seen Simmonds hanging round the hotel just after closing time, although (for the fellow is a teetotaller) he had not been drinking there. This was on the very night of the murder. That was a point in which I was in a position to score off you. There was another point, over which you had the same opportunities of information, but neglected them. You remember the letter which Mottram left lying about in his bedroom? It was in answer to a correspondent who signed himself ‘Brutus.’ I took the trouble to get from the offices of the _Pullford Examiner_ a copy of the issue in which that letter appeared. It is a threatening letter, warning Mottram that retribution would come upon him for the bloodsucking methods by which his money had been made. And it was signed ‘Brutus.’ You’ve had a classical education; you ought to have spotted the point; personally I looked it up in an encyclopædia. Brutus wasn’t merely a demagogue; he led the revolt in Rome which resulted in the expulsion of his own maternal uncle, King Tarquin. The same relation, you see, that there was between Simmonds and Mottram.

“Well, I’ve applied for a warrant. I’m in no hurry to use it; for, as long as Simmonds is off his guard, he’s all the more likely to give himself away. Meanwhile, I’m having him watched. If you go and talk to him, just to form your own impressions, I know you’ll be careful not to say anything which would give away my suspicions. And I can wait for that twenty pounds too.”

Bredon sat spellbound. He could see the whole thing happening; he could trace every calculation in the mind of the criminal. And yet he was not convinced. He was just about to explain this, when a fresh thought struck him and interfered with their session. “Leyland,” he said, in a very quiet voice, “you aren’t smoking, and I’ve had my pipe out these last ten minutes. Can you tell me why there should be a smell of cigarette smoke?”

Leyland looked round, suddenly on the alert. It was only as he looked round that he noticed how insecure was their privacy. The rain had stopped some time since, and there was no reason why an interloper should not be standing outside, listening through one of the numerous chinks in the wall behind them. Gripping Bredon’s arm, he darted out suddenly, and rounded the corner of the building. There was nobody there. But close to the wall lay a cigarette-end, flattened and soiled as if it had been trodden by a human foot. And as Leyland picked it up a faint spark and a thin stream of smoke shewed that it had been trodden on only a moment before, not quite successfully. “Callipoli,” he read, examining the stump. “Not the sort of cigarette one buys in the village. It looks to me, Bredon, as if we were on the track of something fresh here. We’ll leave that cigarette-stump exactly where we found it.”