Goodall shook his head. “A Sergeant Clegg was called to Assynton Lodge this morning—he’s the local man—he’s at Assynton. They ’phoned to ‘the Yard’ this afternoon—felt the case was a nasty one—likely to prove too big for friend Clegg. When the news reached me I told our people of Mr. Linnell’s information which seemed to link up the two cases, and it was decided then and there that I should come down.” He rubbed his cheek with his forefinger. “About twenty-four hours late,” he murmured as a kind of afterthought. “The scent cold—another man—possibly with an assistant or two—done his best to destroy most of the things that might help one—talk about ‘locking the door behind the stolen steed’—can you beat it?”
“Not too helpful, I admit, Inspector,” argued Anthony. “Still, even now there may be something to pick up—you never know—there’s always the ‘human element’ to be considered in every case.”
“All murderers don’t make glaring mistakes, Mr. Bathurst, don’t you run away with that idea—if they did—Scotland Yard would have precious few failures to record. Take my advice—don’t you go relying on the human element for mistakes—always.” He took his hat from the rack and put it on his head. “I fancy we’re running into Assynton.” He looked at his watch. “A little matter of four minutes late!”
Anthony uncoiled his length from the seat. “I didn’t mean that, Inspector! By the ‘human element’ I meant the people in the case—the circle round the dead man—the people we shall encounter—there’s always the factor of their personal psychologies. Do you follow me?”
Goodall grunted as the train drew up. Darkness was beginning to suggest itself. A heavy figure emerged from the recesses of the booking office and presented itself to them—semi-important, yet at the same time—semi-apologetic.
“Detective-Inspector Goodall?” he inquired.
“That’s me,” replied Goodall. “And you?” He peered forward at the man that had met him.
“Sergeant Clegg, Inspector.” He saluted. “And downright glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” said Inspector Goodall.