“He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she was put in the river.”
“Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of looking for signs of any injury of that sort.”
Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably justified the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so unnerved by it that the two policemen had gone before he could frame another question.
Once they were in the open road, and well away from The Hollies, Robinson ventured to open his mouth.
“He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. “You handled him a bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you everything he knew, not by long chalks.”
The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke, his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion.
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking very slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should listen to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down what you hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when weighed subsequently. But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no occasion for that—yet.”
Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the potential lawyer. P. C. Robinson, though unable to describe his chief’s erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not quite sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to “take his own line,” and stick to it.
Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the tragedy which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life. He could not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer had been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place like Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine that he was one of the residents.
Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C. Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in regard to his own association with the crime.