It appears that Davenant used to toy with this peculiar sport, and Miss Rendall-Smith occasionally helped him. On the Sunday before the murder she sent him the answer, as far as she could decipher it, on a full sheet of note-paper, and he tore off half of this when he wanted to write the cipher message to Brotherhood. The writing was Miss Rendall-Smith’s own, and I fancy it was purely through that, with the help of the Post Office, that the police got on her track.
The sleeper-coupon was the most misleading clue of all. It appears certain that Brotherhood himself did not know of his impending bankruptcy when he applied for it, and merely intended a business visit to Glasgow; indeed, he was expected there. The correction was quite a genuine one, necessitated by an error on the part of the clerk. And that, I think, finishes the list of enigmas. It was, of course, Miss Rendall-Smith who sent the other wreath. And it was Marryatt (I found out by tactful questioning) who took the copy of Momerie from Reeves’ shelves—he was looking for material for his evening sermon.
The only problem that remains to me is this—Do we really know in full the part which Miss Rendall-Smith plays in the story? Davenant’s excessive anxiety to keep her out of the whole business looks to me, I confess, suspicious. But I know how you distrust theories; and perhaps since Davenant was content to die in silence it would be ungenerous to probe further. The police, certainly, have made no attempt to do so. Reeves has never called on Miss R.-S., or heard from her.
Reeves himself, meanwhile, is entirely changed for the better. He has forsworn detective work, and succeeded in doing the ninth in four. The other day I actually heard him start a sentence with the words “When I was a limpet in the War Office,” so I think there is hope for him yet. I call him “Mordaunt Reeves, the Converted Detective.”
I hope you will excuse my typewriting this letter; its inordinate length must be my apology. I hope we shall see you here again before long, and have less stirring times together. My wife wishes to be remembered to you very kindly; her rheumatism has almost disappeared.
Yours sincerely,
William Carmichael
Endnote
¹ To the Reader—This chapter may be omitted if the book be thought too long. [↩︎]