“The next stage in the proceedings took the late Mr. Whalley by surprise, it seems,” Sir Clinton went on. “Leaving the girl where she was, young Hassendean left the room for a minute or two. When he came back, he had a pistol in his hand. This was not at all what the late Mr. Whalley had been expecting. Least of all did he expect to see young Hassendean go up to the girl, and shoot her in the head at close quarters. I'm sure you'll appreciate the feelings of the late Mr. Whalley at this stage, Dr. Markfield.”
“Surprising,” Markfield commented abruptly.
Sir Clinton nodded in agreement.
“What must have been even more surprising was the sequel. The glass of the front window broke with a blow, and from behind the curtains a man appeared, who fell upon Hassendean. There was a struggle, a couple of shots from Hassendean's pistol, and then Hassendean fell on the ground—dead, as Whalley supposed at the time.”
Flamborough stared hard at Markfield, but at that moment the chemist again turned in his chair, ran the remainder of the liquid from the funnel into his flask, and then refilled the funnel from the bottle on the tray. This done, he turned once more with an impassive face to Sir Clinton.
“By this time, the late Mr. Whalley seems to have seen all that he wanted. Just as he was turning away from the window, he noticed the new-comer take some small object from his waistcoat pocket and drop it on the floor. Then Mr. Whalley felt it was time to make himself scarce. He stepped back on to the path, made his way round the bungalow, hurried down the approach to the gate. There he came across a car—evidently the one in which the assailant had arrived. The late Mr. Whalley, even at this stage, was not quite free from his second idea: ‘What is there in it for me?’ He took the number of the car, and then he made himself scarce.”
Sir Clinton stopped for a moment or two and gazed across at Markfield with an inscrutable face.
“By the way, Dr. Markfield,” he added in a casual tone, “what was the pet name that Mrs. Silverdale used to call you when you were alone together—the one beginning with ‘B’?”
This time, it was evident to the Inspector, Sir Clinton had got home under Markfield's guard. The chemist glanced up with more than a shade of apprehension on his face. He seemed to be making a mental estimate of the situation before he replied.
“H'm! You know that, do you?” he said finally. “Then there's no use denying it, I suppose. She used to call me ‘Bear’ usually. She said I had the manners of one, at times; and perhaps there was something in that.”