XLI
Puttler, unshaven and weary-eyed, dragged himself to the study and poured out a large cup of tea that the butler had brought in, and drank it at a gulp.
“Scotland Yard has given me charge of this case, for which you may thank your stars!” he said. “Considering we’ve had to do all our work between eleven and four, I think I’ve set up a record in investigation. Thomas’s monkish attire was hired, as you thought, from a theatrical costumier’s in Wardour Street——”
“I saw him coming out with a bundle under his arm and wondered what use he could find for fancy dress,” interrupted Dick.
“That is fact No. 1,” counted Puttler. “Fact No. 2 is that he was making ready for a getaway. He even tried to open your local letter box, probably earlier in the evening. Do you send money by post?”
“My brother does, frequently. It’s a habit I’ve tried to cure, without success.”
“That is fact No. 2,” said Puttler. “He couldn’t open the box, but we found the key on him. He had moved everything of value from Gilder’s house. I found his portmanteau packed and cached in the field where you say Gilder parks his car. And obviously he was coming to relieve your brother of any loose cash he might find in the library. I found his tools scattered on the flower bed under one of the library windows.”
“How was he killed?” asked Dick.
Puttler scratched his head.
“By a regiment of soldiers, to judge from the appearance of him!”
They talked till the sleepy-eyed Mr. Glover staggered in and asked permission to go to bed, and then they walked out into the cold morning and joined the party of police that were searching the grounds.
“I suppose the best thing we can do is to go to bed also,” said Dick, and at that instant Puttler stooped and picked something from the long grass.
It was a long dagger, its steel hilt black with age, the blade coated with something that was still wet. They looked at one another.
“Do you know this?”
Dick nodded mutely.
“What is it?” asked Puttler.
“It is the dagger that once belonged to the Black Abbot’s slayer,” said Dick.
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Where does it come from?”
Dick shook his head.
“The last time I saw it,” he said slowly, “it was hanging in the hall of Arthur Gwyn’s house.”