“I think the story seems clear enough,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Battle. “I don’t think we’ll be handing out any handcuffs this morning.”
“Any questions, Battle?”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know. What was this manuscript?”
He looked across at George, and the latter replied with a trace of unwillingness:
“The Memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch. You see—”
“You needn’t say anything more,” said Battle. “I see perfectly.”
He turned to Anthony.
“Do you know who it was that was shot, Mr. Cade?”
“At the Jolly Dog it was understood to be a Count Stanislaus or some such name.”
“Tell him,” said Battle laconically to George Lomax.
George was clearly reluctant, but he was forced to speak:
“The gentleman who was staying here incognito as Count Stanislaus was His Highness Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
Anthony whistled.
“That must be deuced awkward,” he remarked.
Superintendent Battle, who had been watching Anthony closely, gave a short grunt as though satisfied of something, and rose abruptly to his feet.
“There are one or two questions I’d like to ask Mr. Cade,” he announced. “I’ll take him into the Council Chamber with me if I may.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Lord Caterham. “Take him anywhere you like.”
Anthony and the detective went out together.
The body had been removed from the scene of the tragedy. There was a dark stain on the floor where it had lain, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest that a tragedy had ever occurred. The sun poured in through the three windows, flooding the room with light, and bringing out the mellow tone of the old panelling. Anthony looked round him with approval.
“Very nice,” he commented. “Nothing much to beat old England, is there?”
“Did it seem to you at first it was in this room the shot was fired?” asked the superintendent, not replying to Anthony’s eulogium.
90
