"Perhaps he killed the old man the second time he went in?" I suggested.
"_Mais non_, you do not observe. On one of the outgoing footmarks stained with blood there is superimposed an ingoing one. I wonder what he went back for--the little jade figures as an afterthought? It is all ridiculous--stupid."
"Well, he's given himself away pretty hopelessly."
"_N'est-ce pas?_ I tell you, Hastings, it goes against reason. It offends my little gray cells. Let us go into his bedroom--ah, yes; there is the smear of blood on the lintel and just a trace of footmarks--the blood-stained. Robert Grant's footmarks, and his only, near the body--Robert Grant the only man who went near the house. Yes, it must be so."
"What about the old woman?" I said suddenly. "She was in the house alone after Grant had gone for the milk. She might have killed him and then gone out. Her feet would leave no prints if she hadn't been outside."
"Very good, Hastings. I wondered whether that hypothesis would occur to you. I had already thought of it and rejected it. Betsy Andrews is a local woman, well-known hereabouts. She can have no connection with the Big Four; and, besides, old Whalley was a powerful fellow, by all accounts. This is a man's work--not a woman's."
"I suppose the Big Four couldn't have had some diabolical contrivance concealed in the ceiling--something which descended automatically and cut the old man's throat and was afterwards drawn up again?"
"Like Jacob's ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of the most fertile--but I implore of you to keep it within bounds."
I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!
"My dear Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?"
"Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!"
I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.
"But do you not see this--and this--and this--"
He illustrated each "this" with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.
Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.
"It's frozen meat," I explained gently. "Imported, you know. New Zealand."
He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.
"How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything--but everything! How do they say--Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my friend Hastings."
He flung down the leg of mutton onto its dish again and left the larder. Then he looked through the window.
"Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I want to see here." He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, "What is the day of the week, _mon ami_?"
"Monday," I said, rather astonished. "What--?"
"Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake."
Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and glanced at the thermometer.
"Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer's day."
Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.
"You do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?" said Poirot.
The other gave a slow smile.
"It's not my job, you see. I'm a connoisseur of some things, but not of this. So I just stand back and keep out of the way. I've learnt patience in the East."
The Inspector came bustling in, apologising for having been so long away. He insisted on taking us over most of the ground again, but finally we got away.
"I must appreciate your thousand politenesses, Inspector," said Poirot, as we were walking down the village street again. "There is just one more request I should like to put to you."
"You want to see the body, perhaps, sir?"
"Oh, dear me, no! I have not the least interest in the body. I want to see Robert Grant."
"You'll have to drive back with me to Moreton to see him, sir."
"Very well, I will do so. But I must see him and be able to speak to him alone."
The Inspector caressed his upper lip.
"Well, I don't know about that, sir."
"I assure you that if you can get through to Scotland Yard you will receive full authority."
"I've heard of you, of course, sir, and I know you've done us a good turn now and again. But it's very irregular."
"Nevertheless, it is necessary," said Poirot calmly. "It is necessary for this reason--Grant is not the murderer."
"What? Who is, then?"
"The murderer was, I should fancy, a youngish man. He drove up to Granite Bungalow in a trap, which he left outside. He went in, committed the murder, came out, and drove away again. He was bare-headed, and his clothing was slightly blood-stained."
"But--but the whole village would have seen him!"
"Not under certain circumstances."
"Not if it was dark, perhaps; but the crime was committed in broad daylight."
Poirot merely smiled.
"And the horse and trap, sir--how could you tell that? Any amount of wheeled vehicles have passed along outside. There's no mark of one in particular to be seen."
"Not with the eyes of the body, perhaps; but with the eyes of the mind, yes."
The Inspector touched his forehead significantly with a grin at me. I was utterly bewildered, but I had faith in Poirot. Further discussion ended in our all driving back to Moreton with the Inspector. Poirot and I were taken to Grant, but a constable was to be present during the interview. Poirot went straight to the point.
"Grant, I know you to be innocent of this crime. Relate to me in your own words exactly what happened."
The prisoner was a man of medium height, with a somewhat unpleasing cast of features. He looked a jail-bird if ever a man did.
"Honest to God, I never did it," he whined. "Some one put those little glass figures amongst my traps. It was a frame-up, that's what it was. I went straight to my rooms when I came in, like I said. I never knew a thing till Betsy screeched out. S'welp me, God, I didn't."
Poirot rose.
"If you can't tell me the truth, that is the end of it."
"But, guv'nor--"
"You _did_ go into the room--you _did_ know your master was dead; and you were just preparing to make a bolt of it when the good Betsy made her terrible discovery."
The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.
"Come now, is it not so? I tell you solemnly--on my word of honour--that to be frank now is your only chance."
"I'll risk it," said the man suddenly. "It was just as you say. I came in, and went straight to the master--and there he was, dead on the floor and blood all round. Then I got the wind up proper. They'd ferret out my record, and for a certainty they'd say it was me as had done him in. My only thought was to get away--at once--before he was found--"
"And the jade figures?"
The man hesitated.
"You see--"
"You took them by a kind of reversion to instinct, as it were? You had heard your master say that they were valuable, and you felt you might as well go the whole hog. That, I understand. Now, answer me this. Was it the second time that you went into the room that you took the figures?"
"I didn't go in a second time. Once was enough for me."
"You are sure of that?"
"Absolutely certain."
"Good. Now, when did you come out of prison?"
"Two months ago."
"How did you obtain this job?"
"Through one of them Prisoners' Help Societies. Bloke met me when I came out."
"What was he like?"
"Not exactly a parson, but looked like one. Soft black hat and mincing way of talking. Got a broken front tooth. Spectacled chap. Saunders his name was. Said he hoped I was repentant, and that he'd find me a good post. I went to old Whalley on his recommendation."
Poirot rose once more.
"I thank you. I know all now. Have patience." He paused in the doorway and added: "Saunders gave you a pair of boots, didn't he?"
Grant looked very astonished.
"Why, yes, he did. But how did you know?"
"It is my business to know things," said Poirot gravely.
After a word or two to the Inspector, the three of us went to the White Hart and discussed eggs and bacon and Devonshire cider.
"Any elucidations yet?" asked Ingles, with a smile.
"Yes, the case is clear enough now; but, see you, I shall have a good deal of difficulty in proving it. Whalley was killed by order of the Big Four--but not by Grant. A very clever man got Grant the post and deliberately planned to make him the scapegoat--an easy matter with Grant's prison record. He gave him a pair of boots, one of two duplicate pairs. The other he kept himself. It was all so simple. When Grant is out of the house, and Betsy is chatting in the village (which she probably did every day of her life), he drives up wearing the duplicate boots, enters the kitchen, goes through into the living-room, fells the old man with a blow, and then cuts his throat. Then he returns to the kitchen, removes the boots, puts on another pair, and, carrying the first pair, goes out to his trap and drives off again."