CHAPTER XVIII.
That Leads Round the Mulberry-Bush
“What do you mean, exactly?” queried Sergeant Godfrey.
“If you cast your mind back, Godfrey,” enlarged Bannister, “Branston’s evidence was pretty much as follows. When he was released from the work-room by his housekeeper after his unexpected imprisonment he rushed to the room where he found Miss Delaney lying dead. Then he described what happened afterwards as a ‘schemozzle.’ That was the actual word used. When I asked him if the gentleman arrived whom he was expecting at half-past two he stated that he never gave him another thought—he lost all sense of the impending appointment as it were. ‘I clean forgot him,’ he said. ‘If he came he probably went away’—that was the gist of what Branston said, and it struck me as being perfectly natural.” Godfrey nodded, affirmatively.
“Ay! That’s so. I remember now—that’s what Branston did say—quite right.” Bannister turned to Willoughby. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Willoughby. But you quite understand by now that it was vitally necessary for me to obtain it? You will see also that I must now interview this Mr. Jacob Morley—immediately. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I should be obliged if you would explain to Morley.”
“Don’t worry on that point,” responded Bannister with grim earnestness, “I’ll explain everything all right. You needn’t lose any sleep.” He made his exit, the Sergeant following upon his heels.
Macbeth Court Mansions were about half-a-mile distant from the “Cassandra.” They were of an imposing appearance. It was obvious at the quickest and most cursory of glances that they were inhabited exclusively by the affluent. Speculating builders, bookmakers and master butchers almost monopolised the possession of them. Number nine looked as prosperous as any but neither Bannister nor Godfrey felt any surprise at that fact. They had been guardians of the country’s law long enough to realise the Midas touch of a really successful and enterprising “Turf Accountant.” Stable form has a habit of being so unstable. Bannister rang the bell. It was answered by a smart maid whose ancestors had undoubtedly seated themselves disconsolately and tearfully by the waters of Babylon. A few minutes later and they were conducted into the presence of the master of the house. Judging by the satisfied expression of his face more than one equine celebrity had recently rolled up “for the book.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
If the allusion to the maid’s ancestry were anything like correct it was equally discernible to the careful onlooker that Mr. Jacob Morley’s ancestors had lent assistance towards the hanging up of the harps.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morley. Your maid told you who we were, I presume?”