gate and went up the stone-flagged path. He knocked at the front door and waited for some time.
Sally followed him up the path, stooping to smell the old-fashioned stocks and wallflowers.
‘The old boy doesn’t seem to be in after all,’ said Wyatt, knocking again.
‘He may have gone down to the shore,’ said Sally.
‘It can’t be more than a few minutes since Linder was here.’
Wyatt knocked again and stood listening intently. He imagined he heard a slight movement inside, but could not be certain.
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sally.
‘I don’t know. I should like to have seen Tyson before we leave Shorecombe and—’
The unmistakable sound of a revolver shot cut him short.
‘Lionel!’ Sally clutched his arm.
‘It came from inside the cottage – the room at the back,’ he said quickly. ‘You stay here, Sally. Stand clear of the door, just in case …’
Sally moved along to the corner of the cottage, and Wyatt vanished round the back.
He was not very surprised to find the back door half-open. He stopped for a moment and listened, but all seemed to be quiet inside. He moved up to the door and slowly put his head inside.
The back room was a kitchen-scullery, with a sink under the window. A door opposite led into the front room; this was closed, but across the table near it lay the shirt-sleeved figure of an elderly man. Wyatt walked over to the table and saw that the man had been shot through the forehead. Wyatt picked up his left hand, felt the pulse, then let it fall again. The man was dead.
A revolver lay on the floor, and Wyatt carefully picked it up with his handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He replaced the weapon in the exact spot where he had found it, and looked round the room. There was nothing that looked in any way unusual, and he went through into the front room and opened the door, having carefully closed the connecting door behind him.
‘You’d better come inside, Sally,’ he called, and she came running along the front of the cottage.
‘What was it?’ she demanded rather breathlessly.
‘It’s a nasty business,’ he replied tersely. ‘I’m afraid Tyson’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ repeated Sally wonderingly, gazing at the scullery door.
‘I’d rather you didn’t see him,’ said Wyatt, interpreting her thoughts. ‘He isn’t exactly a pleasant spectacle.’
‘What happened?’
‘He’s been shot through the head; he must have committed suicide.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Everything seems to point to it.’
‘Was that the shot we heard?’
‘Yes. And if it was fired by anyone but Tyson, then he made a very quick getaway.’
‘He might still be in the house,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes … there’s just a chance. Wait here, Sally …’
He opened a third door beside the fireplace, which led upstairs, and mounted the narrow stairs as silently as possible. But both the bedrooms were empty, and showed no trace of an intruder. He came down slowly, to find Sally sitting on a rocking-chair and staring at the scullery door.
‘Is he in there?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’s sprawled across the table. Don’t go in, darling; it’ll only upset you.’
‘You’re quite sure it’s suicide?’ she insisted in a pensive tone.
Wyatt walked slowly to the window.
‘You’re thinking of Linder?’
‘I can’t help it. We’d only just met him; I’ll admit he didn’t look like a man who’s out to commit a murder, but one can’t be absolutely certain …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘But we heard the shot, Sally, as we stood at the front door. There’s no one else in the place, and no one came out.’
‘All right, darling,’ she agreed, with a little sigh. ‘It must be suicide. We’d better get the police, hadn’t we?’
‘I’d just like to take a last look round in there. You stay where you are; I won’t be five minutes.’
He went into the scullery and closed the door.
After methodically examining the room for some minutes his eye suddenly caught a scrap of white paper which was partly hidden by the dead man’s sleeve. Wyatt moved the arm slightly so that he could see the paper. The red ink was a trifle smudged, but he had no difficulty in deciphering the sentence:
‘With the compliments of Mr Rossiter.’
The subsequent police inquiries detained Wyatt and Sally until the late afternoon, so they were unable to catch the 3.45 from Whitby. Wyatt stayed to see that fingerprint impressions were taken in every likely place inside the cottage, and arranged for the photos to be sent to Scotland Yard by express delivery. The local police apparently had no suspicion of foul play, particularly when the only prints on the revolver proved to be Tyson’s own.
Having caught a train in the early evening, it was just after one a.m. when Wyatt and Sally arrived at Paddington. Luckily they were able to get a room at the station hotel and enjoyed the seven hours’ sound sleep they badly needed. Sally refused to accompany her husband to the Yard that morning, pleading that she had some shopping to do, and would meet him for lunch.
When Wyatt arrived at the Yard soon after ten that morning, Perivale and Lathom were busily engaged in reading the reports and examining the fingerprint impressions which had already reached them from Shorecombe. Perivale was looking more worried than ever, but Wyatt could see from the gleam in Lathom’s eye that he had already made up his mind about the Tyson affair.
After Wyatt had given them a brief account of his trip to Shorecombe, Perivale paced up and down, then went over to the window and gazed unseeingly at the tugs ploughing past on the Thames below him.
‘I’m damned if I can make head or tail of it, Wyatt,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t understand it myself,’ declared Wyatt quite equably. ‘Maybe the inspector here has a theory.’ He could see that Lathom was bursting to expound.
The inspector swung round towards his chief.
‘If
