Poole felt that this might prove to be the most useful information that he had yet received, though it still left him in the dark as to how Sir Garth had come by his injury. His last remaining witness, who had written from an address in Paddington Square and wished to be interviewed there, was a clerk employed in the Chief Whip’s office at the House of Commons. Probably Mr. Coningsby Smythe did not wish it to get about in the House that the police had been interrogating him—perhaps he feared that it might damage the credit of the Government, but Poole did not feel inclined to wait till a late hour and journey all the way up to Paddington when his information was waiting for him so close at hand. Accordingly he made his way to the House and, by the good offices of one of the officials, obtained a few minutes’ conversation with Mr. Smythe in a corner of the Visitors’ Lobby.
Mr. Smythe, it appeared, had been returning to the House after delivering an important note to a Minister (Mr. Smythe was very discreet) at the Carlton Club. As he walked down the Duke of York’s Steps, he had noticed two gentlemen in top-hats about to cross the Mall. He had wondered, such was the rarity of the “topper” in these degenerate days (Mr. Smythe was unconsciously echoing the hat-lusher) whether the two gentlemen were Members, and had hurried his steps in order to satisfy his curiosity. They had checked on an island in the middle of the Mall and he was within ten or fifteen yards of them when they crossed the second half. His view of them had been interrupted for a moment by a passing car and the next he saw of them, the taller of the two was just sinking to his knees, and so to the ground, while the shorter—Mr. Hessel, it now appeared—tried to hold him up. Mr. Smythe had hurried to the spot—had, in fact, been the first there—but Sir Garth had not spoken, nor even moved again. Mr. Hessel was evidently deeply distressed, and kept wringing his hands and calling his friend’s name. He, Mr. Smythe, had suggested calling a doctor, but at that moment a gentleman had offered a car and he had helped to lift Sir Garth into it.
Poole was getting impatient, but concealed his feeling.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “But what about the accident; did you see that?”
“But I’ve just told you, Inspector!”
“No, sir; I don’t mean that. The accident on the Steps, when Sir Garth was knocked into.”
“Oh, no, Inspector, I didn’t see that. I saw Sir Garth practically die—I thought you would wish to know about it.”
Smothering his annoyance, the detective thanked Mr. Coningsby Smythe for his information and released him to his important duties. As he left the House, Poole remembered that there was one name that he had not got on his list—that of the woman who had caused a disturbance at the Inquest. It was a hundred to one against her having anything of importance to say—probably she was one of the many half-witted people whose object in life is to draw attention to themselves; still, Poole had been in the Force long enough to learn that it was never safe to turn one’s back upon the most unpromising source of information.
Returning to the Yard, he obtained the name and address which the woman had given to the Coroner’s Officer: Miss Griselda Peake, 137 Coxon’s Buildings, Earl’s Court. It was now nearly five o’clock and Poole felt that the lady would almost certainly be at home for the sacred office of tea-drinking. He proved to be right; Miss Peake was at home—in a small room on the seventh floor (no lift) of Coxon’s Buildings, and received him with great dignity and the offer of refreshment.
“I have been expecting to hear from Scotland Yard, Officer,” she said. “I have important information to give and I should have been heard by the Coroner. I thought him an ill-mannered official, but still I understand that red-tape is red-tape and I am prepared to meet the wishes of the authorities.”