Bredon hastily effected the necessary introductions. “You know something, then, after all?”
“Oh, you mustn’t think I’ve been playing you false, Mr. Bredon. The evidence I’m referring to only came to hand last night. But such as it is, it’s decisive; it proves that poor Mottram met his death by suicide.”
Chapter XXIV.
Mottram’s Account of It All
“Rapid adjustment of the mental perspective,” said Mr. Pulteney, “is an invaluable exercise, especially at my age. But I confess there is a point at which the process becomes confusing. Are we now to understand that Mr. Brinkman, so far from being a murderer, is simply an innocent man with a taste for motoring late at night? I have no doubt there is a satisfactory explanation of it all, but it looks to me as if there had been an absence of straightforwardness on somebody’s part.”
“Possibly on that of Mr. Eames,” said the Bishop. “I have to confess, on his behalf, that he has been concealing something, and to take the blame for his conduct—if blame attaches to it—unreservedly upon myself. However, I do not think that any earlier disclosure could have helped forward the cause of justice; and I have lost no time in putting it all before you.”
“You mean that letter which was left about in the gorge,” suggested Bredon, “addressed to the Bishop of Pullford? With a confession of suicide in it?”
“Goodness, Mr. Bredon, you seem to know as much about it as I do myself! Well, that is the long and short of it. When Mr. Eames was with you last night, Mr. Leyland, he told you that he had followed Brinkman along the gorge, and that Brinkman had disappeared in a motor. He did not tell you that, half way through the gorge, he saw Brinkman leaping up under a ledge in the rock, as if to put something on it or take something down from it. The something which he was putting up or taking down was, I make no doubt, the document which I now hold in my hand. Mr. Eames found it after Brinkman had left, and, seeing that it was addressed to me with an intimation that it was private and confidential, thought it best to carry it straight to me without informing you of its existence. I understood him to say that he did not mention its existence to you, Mr. Bredon, either.”
“Nor did I,” put in Eames.
“How jolly of you, Mr. Eames,” said Angela. “You can’t think what a lot of trouble we’ve been having with my husband; he thinks he knows all about the mystery, and he won’t tell us; isn’t it odious of him? And I’m so glad to think that you managed to keep him in the dark about something.”
“Not entirely,” protested Bredon. “Cast your eye over that, Mr. Eames.” And a document was handed, first to Eames, then to the rest of the company, which certainly seemed to make Eames’s caution unnecessary. It was a plain scrap of paper, scrawled over in pencil with the handwriting of a man who is travelling at thirty-five miles an hour over bumpy roads in a badly sprung car. All it said was, “Make Eames shew you what he found in the gorge. I thought it was you. F. Brinkman.”