Bell crossed the room to him, but he started up with a cry. “Where did you get that knife?”
“It was found in your rooms,” said Lomas.
Lindsay laughed. “If it was, Faustine put it there - or Florian. You fool, don’t you see that?”
“Did they put your jacket there?” Reggie asked.
“The jacket? What’s the matter with the jacket?” Lindsay said hoarsely.
“That’s enough. Take him away,” Lomas ordered, and Bell hustled him out.
“Well, well,” Reggie sighed. “So that is that. Quite clear. Quite conclusive. And kind of tragic. Wasteful world.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! No probable possible shadow of doubt. He killed poor Dodd. Saxifrage from this garden in Dodd’s wound. Saxifrage also in pocket of Lindsay’s jacket there. Which is the jacket he was wearing last night. Quite clear what happened - and how - and why. Lindsay was hungry for the wretched Faustine. Like the other two men. He knew Faustine had Florian here last night to show him off to her mother. He was comin’ round afterwards to see how it had gone. It didn’t go well. They had a row. Faustine insufferable, Florian impossible. Mother couldn’t stand it; mother’s weak head gave and she took one of her husband’s daggers and cut her throat out there in the summer - house. Then Lindsay came along for his polite enquiries and saw her dead and the dagger - saw his chance - took the dagger to plant it on Florian and get him hanged good and proper. Had to wipe it first. Inevitable error. When he came out, Dodd was coming along on his way to Faustine. Lindsay saw him, and suspected Dodd had seen him. That looked like hanging him instead of Florian. Therefore he waited for Dodd outside Faustine’s, and talked to him, and made sure Dodd had seen him comin’ out of the Rooks’ garden. So he killed Dodd and nipped off again to dump the dagger in Florian’s studio. But with a bit of the saxifrage stickin’ in his pocket.”
“That’s all very well. I agree the saxifrage in the jacket’s conclusive. But why should he put the dagger into Florian’s place? How could it get to his?”
“First question - jealousy and hate. That’s obvious. He showed it to us. Second question - you remember Faustine went to Florian’s place this morning and then to Lindsay’s. She found the dagger in one and took it to the other. That’s what she was tellin’ the wretched Florian. That’s what drove him mad.”
“I dare say,” Lomas said dubiously.
“My dear chap! It’s certain. Couldn’t have happened any other way. Only reason for Lindsay removin’ the dagger was to get the suicide taken for murder and Florian for the murderer. Nasty fellow. Nasty case. Waste! Waste! Because that sharp, pretty girl has a kink of cravin’ for sensation. Father and mother get harried to death; sound, conscientious young doctor gets murdered; and that little artist with a bit of genius in him goes to the devil. And all we can do is to hang the clever, useless Lindsay.”
“I hope we shall,” said Lomas. “But it’s a tangle of a case to put up to a jury. If you could say Mrs. Rook was murdered, then we’d have him cold.”
“But I can’t,” Reggie murmured. “She wasn’t.”
“Pity. All the same, I dare say the jury will think he did murder her,” said Lomas cheerfully… .
And the judge summed up that they had better think so and it is believed they did.
This is one of Mr. Fortune’s favourite examples of the inadequacy of the legal mind to judge evidence.
FIFTH OBJECTION
THE LONG DINNER
“I DISLIKE YOU,” said Mr. Fortune. “Some of the dirtiest linen I’ve seen.” He gazed morosely at the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Quite,” Lomas agreed. “Dirty fellow. What about those stains?”
“Oh, my dear chap!” Mr. Fortune mourned. “Paint. All sorts of paint. Also food and drink and assorted filth. Why worry me? What did you expect? Human gore?”
“I had no expectations,” said Lomas sweetly.
A certain intensity came into Mr. Fortune’s blue eyes. “Yes. I hate you,” he murmured. “Anything else you wanted to know?”
“A lot of things,” Lomas said. “You’re not useful, Reginald. I want to know what sort of fellow he was, and what’s become of him.”
“He was an artist of dark complexion. He painted both in oils and water - colours. He lived a coarse and dissolute life, and had expensive tastes. What’s become of him, I haven’t the slightest idea. I should say he was on the way to the devil. What’s it all about? Why this interest in the debauched artist?”
“Because the fellow’s vanished,” said Lomas. “He is a painter of sorts, as you say. Name - Deny Farquhar. He had a talent and a bit of a success years ago, and he’s gone downhill ever since. Not altogether unknown to the police - money under false pretences and that sort of thing - but never any clear case. Ten days ago a woman turned up to give information that Mr. Derry Farquhar was missing. He had some money out of her - a matter of fifty pounds - three months ago. She don’t complain of that. She was used to handing him donations - that kind of woman and that kind of man. What worries her is that, since this particular fifty pounds, he’s faded out. And it is a queer case. He’s lived these ten years in a rat - hole of a flat in Blooms - bury. He’s not been seen there for months. That’s unlike him. He’s never been long away before. A regular London loafer. And his own money - he’s got a little income from a trust - has piled up in the bank. August and September dividends untouched. That’s absolutely unlike him. Besides that: one night about a fortnight ago - we can’t fix the date - somebody was heard in the flat making a good deal of noise. When Bell went to have a look at things, he found the place in a devil of a mess, and a heap of foul linen. So we sent that to you.”
“Hoping for proof of bloodshed,” Reggie murmured. “Hopeful fellow. Shirts extremely foul, but affordin’ no evidence of foul play. Blood is absent. Almost the only substance that is.”
“So you don’t believe there’s anything in the case?”
