“Well, you know what caddies are—it’s a demoralizing profession. Not that I believe much in boys going to school myself, but it does keep them out of mischief. Those two boys, I think, went through the pockets on their own.”
“They left four bob there,” suggested Gordon.
“Yes, boys are frightened of stealing money; they connect it with going to prison. But they don’t mind stealing other things; I think they could tell you why the pouch was empty, and why there was only one cigarette left in the case—they were too clever to clear both completely. After all, you know, it isn’t very long since people gave up ‘wrecking’ in Cornwall. I remember a very interesting conversation I had with a man down there in the Lugger Inn at Fowey——”
“You were going to tell us something about a clue,” said Gordon gently.
“Ah yes: one of them came up to me afterwards—it was the one they call Ginger. I wonder why are boys with red hair called Ginger? Ginger is of a greenish-yellow tinge, if you come to think of it. Where was I? Yes, he came up to me with a photograph, and told me that it had fallen out of one of the pockets as they carried the body. That is almost impossible, you know, for a man always carries photographs in his breast pocket, and a thing can’t fall out of a man’s breast pocket unless you turn him upside down and shake him. Ginger was obviously scared at the thought that he might be concealing a clue—he referred to it as a ‘clue’ himself—and did not care to give it to the police; so he handed it over to me.”
“And you?”
“I have it here in my pocket—the breast pocket, observe. To tell the truth, I am a little absent-minded, and it was only during the inquest that I remembered the photograph; it seemed to me too late then to mention anything about it in public.”
“Carmichael,” said Gordon very seriously, “if you don’t produce that photograph it will, I gather, be necessary to turn you upside down and shake you.”
“Of course, of course.” Carmichael fumbled in his pocket, and from a voluminous pocket-book produced with great deliberation the object of their impatience. It represented the head and shoulders of a young woman: the features were refined, and might in real life have been beautiful. The camera cannot lie, but the camera of the local “artist” generally finds it difficult to tell nothing but the truth: and this was the work of a Mr. Campbell, whose studio was no further off than Binver. Meanwhile the photograph was not in its first youth; and the style of coiffure represented suggested (with what could be seen of the dress) a period dating some ten years back. It was not signed or initialled anywhere.
“Well,” said Reeves, when the trove had been handed round, “that doesn’t prove that we’re much further on. But it looks as if we had come across a phase of Brotherhood’s life that wasn’t alluded to at the inquest.”