“Look here,” Crofts broke in. He had gradually been sliding to the edge of his chair again. “Why can’t you give up beating about the bush and tell us out and out?”
“I’d have to go over it all anyhow,” returned Miss Lebetwood. “I’m wondering if these straws seem to you to point the way I think they do. You must let me tell this in my own way. There isn’t much more, and for that I have to thank Mr. Bannerlee also.”
“You mean my visit to the tower?” I asked. “The Superintendent could help you there. He must have scoured the place long before me.”
“He did, as it happens. But he left matters there as he found them, and it was through reading your diary that I heard of the variegated lot of objects which probably belonged to the Parson. For instance, you found shavings from the pencil which had written the placards. You also saw some splashes, unquestionably the blood of the little pig. Then there were fragments of wood and scraps of crêpe, left over from the construction of the head. Another thing was a pungent smell that you couldn’t identify. I think that was all except a torn-off corner of the title-page of a book; something ending in ‘CATTI.’ I would have telegraphed for information about that, too, this morning, but when I asked the Superintendent, he was able to tell me right away what the book is. It’s been quite a common one in Wales for generations: ‘The Adventures and Vagaries of Twm Shon Catti,’ who is described as a wild wag of Wales. He was a real person two hundred years ago, Mr. Salt told me, and a great many legends have sprung up about him, so that his exploits as a highwayman and a hero and a man of chivalry make up quite a readable book. It was borrowed from your library, Crofts, but I noticed this morning that it was back in its place.”
Our host now seemed sunk in meditative gloom. “What of it?”
“Well, suppose I recapitulate. As I see it, the night before Mr. Bannerlee came, the Parson intended to invade the House, but his plans were awry. Although the head was made, he didn’t bring it with him; this was to be an experimental sortie. He came by way of the kitchen yard, and took down the clothes-line that was hanging there and brought it with him. He made a loop, a lasso, with one end of the rope and flung it up the side of the House until he succeeded in drawing it tight about one of the merlons of the battlement. Then he began shouting through a megaphone, and even if you had heard his voice previously you wouldn’t have recognized it then. And he was still shouting while he commenced to walk up the wall of the House.”
I thought Crofts was going to levitate from his chair. “A megaphone!”
“But, my dear young lady,” objected Aire, “the man must have had a hand too many. I grant you, he might have hauled himself up the outside of the House, but he’d need both hands for it; where does the megaphone come in?”
“You people will interrupt,” said the American girl. “The explanation is simple. The megaphone came from old Watts’ storeroom, of course. Don’t you remember that there are relics in there of early days of sport—even some oars and a sliding seat from a shell? A rowing coxswain uses a megaphone, doesn’t he, and there’s an attachment for keeping it tight against his mouth while both hands are occupied with the rudder chains. Parson Lolly, I imagine, can manage as well as most coxswains. Anyhow, he was climbing, and he was shouting when his foot slipped and there he dangled. Instead of letting go the rope, he held on, and the result was that he began to sway back and forth. Of course he tried to steady himself by reaching one foot out to the wall, but instead of checking his momentum he kicked away from the wall, and his pendulum swing carried him neatly through the window of the conservatory. He wasn’t as much as scratched.”
“Unbelievable,” declared Crofts. “And supposing by a miracle he wasn’t cut to pieces, what became of him?”