“Any sinister motive?” he repeated after a long pause.
“Of course I don’t wish to cast any suspicions on Mr. Marsland,” she said looking at the police officer steadily. “But it has already occurred to you, Sergeant, that Mr. Marsland, in kindly keeping my name out of it, had to depart from the truth in the story he told you about his presence at Cliff Farm, and that he may have thought it advisable to depart from the truth in some other particulars as well.”
The sergeant’s mental process would not have carried him that far without assistance, but there was no conscious indication of assistance in the emphasis with which he said:
“I see that.”
“Let me tell you exactly what happened so far as I am concerned,” she went on.
“Yes, certainly.” He sat down in his chair and vaguely seized his pen. “I’ll write it down, Miss Maynard, and get you to sign it. Don’t go too fast for me; and it will be better for you if you take time—you will be able to think it over as you go along. This promises to be most important. Detective Gillett of Scotland Yard will be anxious to see it. I am sorry he’s not here now; he has been recalled to London, but I expect him down again to-morrow.”
“On Friday, the night of the storm, I left my house about dusk—that would be after five o’clock—with the intention of taking a walk,” she began. “I walked along the downs in the direction of Cliff Farm, intending to return along the sands from the cliff pathway. I was on the downs when the storm began to gather. I thought of retracing my steps, but the storm gathered so swiftly and blew so fiercely that I was compelled to seek shelter in the only house for miles around—Cliff Farm.
“The wind was blowing hard and big drops of rain were falling when I reached the door. I knocked, but received no answer. Then I noticed that the key was in the door. Owing to the darkness, which had come on rapidly with the storm, I had not seen it at first. The door had a Yale lock and the key turned very easily. I was wearing light gloves, and when I turned the key in the lock I noticed it was sticky. I looked at my glove and saw a red stain—it was blood.”
“Ah!” interrupted Sergeant Westaway. “A red stain—blood? Just wait a minute while I catch up to you.”
“I was slightly alarmed at that,” she continued, after a pause; “but I had no suspicion that a cruel murder had been committed. In my alarm I took the key out of the lock and closed the door. I felt safer with the door locked against any possible intruder. I went into the sitting-room and sat down, after lighting a candle that I found on the hallstand. Then it occurred to me that Mr. Lumsden might have left the key in the door while he went to one of the outbuildings to do some work. The blood might have got on it from a small cut on his hand.”