“You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the superintendent, almost reproachfully.
“In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have little practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?”
“What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions pointing directly to murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth must come out at the inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though, if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that which is at present lacking—a clew, shall I term it, to the motive which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?”
P. C. Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal fencing-match. It was not that he admired his superior’s skill, because such finesse was wholly beyond him, but his suspicious brain was storing up Grant’s admissions “to be used in evidence” against him subsequently. His own brief record of the conversation would have been:—“The prisoner, after being duly cautioned, said he kept company with the deceased about three years ago, but quarreled with her on hearing that she was a married woman.”
The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was determined to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his confidence by describing the probable course to be pursued by the coroner’s inquest. But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to his nature. He was both an idealist and a stubborn fighter, and ideality had been shattered for many a day by that grewsome object hauled in that morning from the depths of the river.
“I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that Miss Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have never, to my knowledge, met her husband.”
“He may be dead.”
“Possibly. You may know more about him than I.”
“Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.”
Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track.