Sir Clinton took it, skimmed over the pages, and put it down.
“It's a calendar diary—blank. A book of stamps, with some stamps missing, in the cover. Not much help there. Go ahead.”
The inspector continued his search.
“Other upper pocket—a pencil and fountain-pen. Lower waistcoat pocket, left hand, a silver match-box with monogram—S and N intertwined. Right-hand pocket—a penknife and a cigar-cutter. Trouser side-pockets—some money, mostly silver, and a nail-trimmer, and a couple of keys. Hip-pocket—a cigar-case.”
He handed the various articles to the chief constable.
“Nothing in the ticket-pocket. Outside jacket pockets. Left-hand pocket—there's a pipe and a tobacco-pouch. Right-hand pocket—ah, here's something more interesting! Letter-card addressed to ‘N. Staveley, Esq., ℅ Billingford, Flatt's Cottage, Lynden Sands.’ So his name was Staveley? That fits the S on the monogram. And here's another bit of paper; looks like a note of some sort. No envelope to it.”
He held out the two papers to Sir Clinton, who examined the letter-card first.
“Posted two days ago in London—W.1. H'm! Nothing much to take hold of here, I'm afraid. ‘Dear Nick,—Sorry to miss you on Tuesday. See you when you get back to town.’ No address, and the signature's a scrawl.”
He turned to the single sheet of note-paper, and as he unfolded it Wendover saw his eyebrows raised involuntarily. For a moment he seemed in doubt; then, with a glance at the two fishermen, he carefully refolded the paper and stowed it away in his pocket-book.
“That will keep for the present,” he said.