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A COMPANION TO PLAUTUS
BLACKWELL COMPANIONS TO THE ANCIENT WORLD
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A COMPANION
TO PLAUTUS
Edited by

George Fredric Franko

and
Dorota Dutsch
This edition first published 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data
Names: Franko, George Fredric, editor. | Dutsch, Dorota, editor.
Title: A companion to Plautus / edited by George Fredric Franko and Dorota
Dutsch.
Other titles: Blackwell companions to the ancient world.
Description: First edition. | Hoboken : Wiley, 2020. | Series: Blackwell
companions to the ancient world | Includes bibliographical references
and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019045100 (print) | LCCN 2019045101 (ebook) | ISBN
9781118957981 (hardback) | ISBN 9781118957998 (adobe pdf) | ISBN
9781118958001 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Plautus, Titus Maccius–Criticism and interpretation.
Classification: LCC PA6585 .C584 2020 (print) | LCC PA6585 (ebook) | DDC
872/.01–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045100
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045101
Cover Design: Wiley
Cover Image: Courtesy of Filippo Venturi
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Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Contents

Notes on Contributors x
Acknowledgementxv

Introduction: A 2020 Vision of Plautus1

George Fredric Franko and Dorota Dutsch
1 The State of Roman Theater, c. 200 bce 17
Timothy J. Moore
2 Plautus and Greek Drama 31
Sebastiana Nervegna
3 Stages and Stagecraft 47
Anne H. Groton
4 Actors and Audience 61
Isabella Tardin Cardoso
5 Nouo Modo Nouom Aliquid Inuentum: Plautine Priorities 77
David Christenson
6 Plays of Mistaken Identity 93
Costas Panayotakis
7 Plautus and the Marriage Plot 109
Sharon L. James
8 Stock Characters and Stereotypes 123
Shawn O’Bryhim
9 The Servus Callidus in Charge: Plays of Deception 135
Ferdinand Stürner
10 To Hell and Back: Comedy, Cult, and the House of the Meretrix151
Catherine Connors
viii Contents

11 The Wife in Charge, the Husband Humiliated: Stock Characters

in Evolution 165
Barbara K. Gold
12 Archetypal Character Studies: Masculinity and Power 179
Anne Feltovich
13 Plotting the Romance: Plautus’ Rudens, Cistellaria, and Poenulus193
Stavros Frangoulidis
14 Tragicomedy and Paratragedy: Plautus’s Amphitruo, Captivi, and Rudens207
Walter Stockert
15 The Language of Plautus 221
Peter Barrios‐Lech
16 Metatheater and Improvisation in Plautus 237
Christopher Bungard
17 Music and Meter in Plautus 251
T.H.M. Gellar‐Goad
18 Comic Technique in Plautus’s Asinaria and Casina 269
Martin T. Dinter
19 Plautus and the Topography of His World 287
Sophia Papaioannou
20 Warfare and Imperialism in and Around Plautus 301
Paul J. Burton
21 Religion in and Around Plautus 317
Seth A. Jeppesen
22 Gender and Sexuality in Plautus 331
Serena S. Witzke
23 Owners and Slaves in and Around Plautus 347
Amy Richlin
24 Slave Labor in Plautus 361
Roberta Stewart
25 Plautus and His Dramatic Successors in the Republican Period 379
Gesine Manuwald
26 Alii Rhetorica Tongent: Plautus and Public Speech 393
Emilia A. Barbiero
27 The Textual Tradition of Plautus 407
Rolando Ferri
 Contents ix

28 The Medieval Reception of Plautus’s Aulularia: Querolus and

Vitalis Blesensis 419
Antony Augoustakis
29 From Ferrara to Venice: Plautus in Vernacular and Early
Italian Comedy (1486–1530) 429
Gianni Guastella
30 Plautus in Early Modern England 445
George Fredric Franko
31 Reception Today: Theater and Movies 461
Rodrigo T. Gonçalves
32 Trends in Plautus Translation 473
James Tatum

Index489
Index Locorum Plautinorum 495
 Notes on Contributors

Antony Augoustakis is Professor of Latin and in translation, he offers a seminar

Classics and Langan Professorial Scholar at for first‐year students that focuses on humor
the University of Illinois, Urbana‐ across the globe and throughout time. His
Champaign. He is the editor of The Classical research interests include Plautus, especially
Journal and author of Statius, Thebaid 8 the servi callidi, and the ways that ancient
(2016), Motherhood and the Other: drama remains relevant for the modern day
Fashioning Female Power in Flavian Epic through performance, drama, and modern
(2010) and Plautus’ Mercator (2009). He music. His translation of Plautus’ Truculentus
has edited many volumes, most recently was performed by the Butler Theatre
Fides in Flavian Literature (2019), Department.
Campania in the Flavian Poetic Imagination
(2019), and Epic Heroes on Screen (2018). Paul J. Burton is a senior lecturer in
Roman History at the Australian National
Emilia A. Barbiero is Assistant Professor University. He is the author of Friendship
of Classics at New York University. Her and Empire (2011), Rome and the Third
research focuses on Roman republican lit- Macedonian War (2017), and Roman
erature in general and Plautine comedy in Imperialism (2019), as well as numerous
particular, as well as ancient letters. scholarly articles and reviews.

Peter Barrios‐Lech is Associate Professor Isabella Tardin Cardoso is Professor of

of Classics at the University of Classics at the State University of Campinas
Massachusetts, Boston. He is interested in (Unicamp) in Brazil and a Visiting Professor at
the sociolinguistics and pragmatics of Greek the University of Heidelberg in Germany. Her
and Latin and how data‐based approaches principal areas of research are Roman comedy
can help illuminate our understanding of and the idea of the “world as a theater” in
ancient works. He is the author of Linguistic Roman literature. Her publications include
Interaction in Roman Comedy (2016). Estico de Plauto (2006) and Trompe l’oeil:
Philologie und Illusion (2011). She is currently
Christopher Bungard has taught at Butler researching Brazilian reception of Classics and
University since 2008. Along with courses in Roman theater history in the time of Augustus.
 Notes on Contributors xi

David Christenson is Professor of Classics Suspicion (OUP, forthcoming in 2020),

at the University of Arizona. His research and coeditor of Women in Roman
interests, in addition to Greek and Roman Republican Drama, with Sharon James
comedy, include late Republican/early and David Konstan (Wisconsin, 2015);
Imperial Latin literature and culture, and The Fall of Cities in the Mediterranean:
translation studies. He is the author of Commemoration in Literature, Folk-song
Cambridge “green and yellow” commen- and Liturgy, with Mary Bachvarova and
taries on Amphitruo (2000) and Pseudolus Ann Suter (CUP, 2015); Ancient
(2020), and a Bloomsbury Ancient Comedy Obscenities: Their Nature and Use in the
Companion to Casina (2019). His three Ancient Greek and Roman Worlds, with
volumes of translations include Hysterical Ann Suter (University of Michigan Pres,
Laughter: Four Ancient Comedies about 2015); A Handbook to Classical Reception:
Women (2015). Eastern and Central Europe, with Zara
Martirosova Torlone and Dana Munteanu
Catherine Connors is Professor in the (Wiley Blackwell, 2017).
Department of Classics at the University of
Washington, Seattle, where she has been a Anne Feltovich is Assistant Professor of
member of the faculty since 1990. Her cur- Classics at Hamilton College. Her publica-
rent research focuses on ancient literary tions include “The Many Shapes of
representations of nature and geography Sisterhood in Roman Comedy” (in the vol-
and of women and family life. She is the ume Women in Roman Republican Drama,
author of Petronius the Poet (1998) and ed. Dutsch, James, and Konstan) and an
essays on Roman comedy, satire and epic, article in Helios titled “In Defense of
the ancient Greek and Roman novels, and Myrrhina: Friendship between Women in
Strabo. Plautus’ Casina.” She is currently working
on a manuscript on Women’s Social Bonds in
Martin T. Dinter, PhD (Cambridge) is Greek and Roman Comedy.
senior lecturer in Latin Literature and
Language at King’s College London, UK. Rolando Ferri is Professor of Latin
He is the author of Anatomizing Civil Language and Literature at the University
War: Studies in Lucan’s Epic Technique of Pisa. He studied at Pisa, Princeton, and
(2012), co‐editor of A Companion to the London, where he was Momigliano Fellow
Neronian Age (Malden, 2013), and editor in the Arts (1993–1996). He has worked
of The Cambridge Companion to Roman on Augustan and early Imperial Roman
Comedy (2019). He has published on poetry and drama (I dispiaceri di un epicu-
Virgil, Horace, Roman Declamation, reo, 1993; Octavia: a Play Attributed to
Seneca, and Flavian epic and is currently Seneca, 2003) and on bilingual glossaries
preparing a monograph on Cato the Elder. and Hermeneumata. He is generally inter-
ested in the history of the Latin language
Dorota Dutsch is Associate Professor of and on linguistic variation in Latin.
Classics at the University of California
Santa Barbara. She is the author of Feminine Stavros Frangoulidis is Professor of Latin
Discourse in Roman Comedy: Of Echoes at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki.
and Voices (OUP, 2008) and Pythagorean He has written on Roman comedy,
Women Philosophers: Between Belief and Senecan tragedy, and the Latin novel. With
xii Notes on Contributors

Theodore Papanghelis, Gesine Manuwald, Rodrigo T. Gonçalves is Professor of

and Stephen Harrison he has edited vol- Classics at the Federal University of Paraná
umes on Latin Literature for Trends in (UFPR) in Brazil, where he received his
Classics‐Supplementary Volumes. His PhD. He completed his postdoctoral
books include: Handlung und research at the Centre Léon Robin, Paris
Nebenhandlung: Theater, Metatheater und (ENS‐Sorbonne‐CNRS). His recent work
Gattungsbewusstein in der römischen deals with poetic and rhythmic translations
Komödie (1997); Roles and Performances of the classics, the reception of Roman
in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (2001); and comedy (especially in Brazil), and the phi-
Witches, Isis and Narrative: Approaches to losophy of language and translation. He is
Magic in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (2008). currently working on a full hexametric
translation of Lucretius’s De Rerum
George Fredric Franko is Professor of Natura.
Classical Studies at Hollins University,
where he holds the Berry Professorship in Anne H. Groton is Professor of Classics
Liberal Arts for excellence in teaching lit- and Chair of the Department of Classics at
erature. He has a PhD in Classical Studies St. Olaf College, where she has taught since
and an MLitt in Shakespeare and 1981. Besides publishing articles on
Performance. In addition to publishing in Menander, Aristophanes, Plautus, Caecilius
classics, he has directed productions of Statius, and Terence, she has directed more
Plautus in Latin and acted in plays of than 20 student productions of Plautus,
Shakespeare. each performed in a musical mixture of
English and Latin.
T.H.M. Gellar‐Goad is Assistant Professor
of Classical Languages at Wake Forest Gianni Guastella is professor of Latin
University. He specializes in Latin poetry, Language and Literature at the University
especially the funny stuff: Roman comedy, of Siena. His most recent publication is
Roman erotic elegy, Roman satire, and – if the book Word of Mouth: Fama and Its
you believe him – the allegedly philosophi- Personifications in Art and Literature
cal poet Lucretius. from Ancient Rome to the Middle Ages
(2016).
Barbara K. Gold is Edward North
Professor Emerita at Hamilton College. Sharon L. James is Professor of Classics at
She has published widely on satire, lyric the University of North Carolina, Chapel
and elegy, feminist theory, sex and gen- Hill. She published Learned Girls and Male
der, comedy, and late antiquity. Her Persuasion: Gender and Reading in Roman
books include: Literary Patronage in Love Elegy (2003) and articles on elegy,
Greece and Rome; A Companion to New Comedy, rape, gender, and women in
Roman Love Elegy (ed.); Roman antiquity. She co‐edited the Blackwell
Literature, Gender and Reception (co‐ Companion to Women in Antiquity (2011)
ed.); and Sex and Gender in Medieval and and Women in the Classical World (2017).
Renaissance Texts: The Latin Tradition She co‐directed the NEH 2012 Summer
(co‐ed.). Her latest book is Perpetua: Institute, “Roman Comedy in Performance”
Athlete of God (2018); A Guide to Latin and has a forthcoming book, Women in
Elegy and Lyric is forthcoming. New Comedy.
 Notes on Contributors xiii

Seth A. Jeppesen is assistant professor of and Catullus. He is the editor of Greek and
Classical Studies at Brigham Young Roman Comedy (University of Texas Press).
University. His research deals primarily
with the intersection of Roman religious Costas Panayotakis is Professor of Latin at
performance and Roman drama, especially the University of Glasgow and himself an
in the comedies of Plautus. identical twin. Author of Theatrum Arbitri:
Theatrical Elements in the Satyrica of
Gesine Manuwald is Professor of Latin at Petronius (1995), Decimus Laberius: The
University College London (UCL) and has Fragments (2010), and of annotated trans-
published widely on early Roman drama, lations (into Modern Greek) of select plays
including Roman Drama: A Reader of Plautus and Terence, he is currently pre-
(2010), Roman Republican Theatre paring critical editions (with facing transla-
(2011), and an edition of the fragments of tion and commentary) of the fragments of
Ennius (2012). Atellane comedy, the moral maxims associ-
ated with the mimographer Publilius, and
Timothy J. Moore is John and Penelope Petronius’s “Dinner at Trimalchio’s.”
Biggs Distinguished Professor of Classics at
Washington University in St. Louis. His Sophia Papaioannou is Professor of Latin
publications include Artistry and Ideology: literature at the National and Kapodistrian
Livy’s Vocabulary of Virtue (1989); The University of Athens. Her publications
Theater of Plautus (1998); Music in Roman include Terence and Interpretation (2014),
Comedy (2012); Roman Theatre (2012); a the first translation of Miles Gloriosus in
translation of Terence’s Phormio (in Greek Greek, and the first annotated edition of
and Roman Comedy, ed. O’Bryhim, 2001); the play in any language since 1963 (2nd
articles on Latin literature, the teaching of 2010). She has coedited (with A.K.
Greek and Latin, ancient music, American Petrides) New Perspectives on Postclassical
musical theater, and Japanese comedy; and Comedy (2009), is coediting (with C.
a database of the Meters of Roman Comedy Demetriou) Plautus Doctus: New Insights
(http://romancomedy.wulib.wustl.edu). into Cultural and Literary Aspects of
Plautine Comedy, and is preparing a com-
Sebastiana Nervegna is a Future Fellow mentary on Plautus’ Curculio.
funded by the Australian Research Council,
and she currently works at Monash Amy Richlin is Distinguished Professor of
University, in Melbourne. She is the author Classics at UCLA. She has published widely
of several works on ancient drama and its on history and theory, Roman sexuality,
afterlife, including Menander in Antiquity: Roman women, and Plautus, and is the
The Contexts of Reception (2013) and a author of Slave Theater in the Roman
forthcoming monograph on the theatrical Republic: Plautus and Popular Comedy
reception of Greek tragedy. (2017). Her translations of Curculio, Persa,
and Poenulus appeared in 2005 as Rome
Shawn O’Bryhim is Professor of Classics and the Mysterious Orient: Three Plays by
at Franklin & Marshall College. He has Plautus (University of California Press).
published on Greek and Roman comedy,
Near Eastern and Greek religion, Ovid’s Roberta Stewart is Professor of Classics at
Metamorphoses, and animal behavior in Livy Dartmouth College. She has authored two
xiv Notes on Contributors

books, Public Office in Early Rome: Ritual Comedy (Monologe bei Plautus, 2011),
Procedure and Political Practice (1998) and Flavian Epic, and Neo‐Latin Literature.
Plautus and Roman Slavery (2012). She
has published articles on Roman religion, James Tatum is Aaron Lawrence Professor
Roman numismatics, Latin literature, and of Classics Emeritus at Dartmouth. In col-
Latin lexicography (for the Thesaurus laboration with William W. Cook he pro-
Linguae Latinae in Munich). duced his translations of six Plautus
comedies that were performed at
Walter Stockert, born in 1940 in Vienna, Dartmouth and elsewhere. His translations
Austria, studied Latin and Greek under the of Truculentus, Casina, and Bacchides were
direction of Walther Kraus, Albin Lesky, published by Johns Hopkins in 1983
and others. He was teacher of Latin at (Plautus: The Darker Comedies) and remain
Viennese gymnasia. He secured his permis- in print to the present day.
sion to teach at the University of Vienna
with a Commentary on Euripides’s Serena S. Witzke received her PhD in
Iphigenia in Aulis. Besides Greek Tragedy Classics, specializing in New Comedy, from
he has also done substantial work on the University of North Carolina at Chapel
Plautus, including editions and commentar- Hill. Her article “Harlots, Tarts and Hussies?”
ies on Aulularia (1983) and Cistellaria on terminology for sex labor in comedy won
(2012). the Women’s Classical Caucus prize for Best
Published Article in 2016. Witzke’s research
Ferdinand Stürner teaches Classics at focuses on ancient comedy, gender and sexu-
Julius‐Maximilian‐University of Würzburg, ality in antiquity, and classical reception. She
Germany. He has published on Roman teaches at Wesleyan University.
 Acknowledgement

We wish to thank the contributors for the many conversations that the chapters in this
volume reflect and hope that readers will find them as engaging as we have. Our warmest
thanks to the team at Wiley Blackwell: to Haze Humbert for commissioning the volume;
to Veronica Visentin, Todd Green, and Skylar Van Valkenburg for guiding us through the
publication process; and to Christine McKnight, Ajith Kumar and Sakthivel Kandaswamy
for their kind and attentive assistance in production. Thanks also to the Plautus Festival of
Sarsina, Italy, for the use of the cover image.
Fred would like to thank his wife, Claudia Flores de Franko, for her patience and good
humor. Dorota would like to thank her husband François Zdanowicz and her daughter
Sophie Dutsch-Zdanowicz for all the questions they have asked about this project.
GFF DMD
 Introduction: A 2020 Vision
of Plautus
George Fredric Franko and Dorota Dutsch

huic Graece nomen est Thesauro fabulae:

Philemo scripsit, Plautus vortit barbare,
nomen Trinummo fecit, nunc hoc vos rogat
ut liceat possidere hanc nomen fabulam.

This play in Greek is called The Treasure.

Philemon wrote it, Plautus spun a barbarian version,
gave it the name Trinummus, and now asks you
that this play may keep this name. (18–21)1

These verses from the prologue of Trinummus communicate bundles of information to

audiences and readers. We learn that the plot is adapted from a Greek ancestor; that a
certain Philemon wrote the Greek script; that Plautus renovates the story by making a
Roman “barbarian version”; and that Plautus renamed the play with an ambiguous joke,
for the Tri‐ prefix in Tri‐nummus could suggest both a modest “Three Penny Opera” and
a grandiose “Super‐Bitcoin” (cf. Fontaine 2010, p. 20, n. 29). To open our Companion,
let’s unpack these bundles more carefully, starting with the identity of the Roman
playwright.
Titus Maccius Plautus? Other prologues – four from Plautus, three from Terence – call
him “Plautus”; Asinaria calls him Maccus; and Mercator calls him Titus Maccius. The
tripartite Roman name familiar to us from later aristocrats, such as “Gaius Julius Caesar,”
sounds lofty and contrived for a third‐century bce playwright, especially if Plautus came
from upland Umbria rather than urbanizing Rome. Two parts of the name suggest a pseu-
donym derived from theater: Maccus the clown; and Plautus the mime‐actor. Moreover,
“Titus,” like “Dick,” was slang for “penis.” So perhaps the name “Titus Maccius Plautus”
is a saucy pen name for an individual or even a collaborative team, not unlike “Monty

A Companion to Plautus, First Edition. Edited by George Fredric Franko and Dorota Dutsch.
© 2020 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
2 George Fredric Franko and Dorota Dutsch

Python” (Gratwick 1973; character names in Plautus do convey jokes or thematic signifi-
cance, see López López 1991). The second‐century ce scholar Aulus Gellius claimed that
130 scripts circulated under Plautus’s name; while not impossible, the claim suggests
exaggeration or shared attributions as much as it proves Plautus’s popularity. His tradi-
tional dates (born 254, active from c.210 till death in 184; all ancient dates bce unless
noted) seem reliable enough. His purported home of Sarsina seems reasonable, especially
since most Latin authors of the Republic were not born in Rome itself, and the tradition
will likely be cemented by Sarsina’s recent support of productions and studies in Plautus’s
honor (the 1998–2017 Lecturae Plautinae Sarsinates, ed. R. Raffaelli and A. Tontini,
published by QuattroVenti). Other biographical data found in later ancient sources have
little independent authority. The anecdote that Plautus had experience as an actor or
stagehand is plausible, for his scripts historically have fared better on the stage than on the
page. That he lost all his money and worked in a mill is less credible and probably a fanciful
reconstruction based upon threatened punishment of slaves in his comedies.
Greek fabula, Philemon scripsit? Fabula, not unlike Greek “mythos,” has a wide range
of meanings that include “play,” “story,” “narration,” “scene,” and “myth,” as well as the
English derivative “fable.” Plautus uses fabula to mean both specifically the “play being
staged” and also more generally the “story.” Plautus lifted the script (scripsit) from an
earlier Greek playwright, Philemon. Philemon (c.362–262) wrote dramas not in the genre
of fantastic and salty Aristophanic “Old Comedy” of fifth‐century Athens but in the
smoother and cosmopolitan “New Comedy” of the Hellenistic age. We do not have any
of the scripts Philemon wrote. From his more famous peer Menander (342–291) we have
one complete script unearthed in 1959 (Dyskolos), one almost complete (Samia), and
substantial papyrus fragments of a half dozen others. Our corpus of Menander, though
still probably less than 5% of his total output, is now large enough to enable substantive
rather than speculative exploration of his dramaturgy, stagecraft, reception, and interac-
tion with social contexts (Sommerstein 2013). The study of Menander has dominated our
perception of Greek New Comedy, but that dominance must not obscure the fact that we
have lost hundreds of scripts from dozens of other Greek playwrights in that genre. For
decades Plautus and his fellow Roman dramatists plundered that treasury of Greek New
Comic scripts and boasted of the thievery. Where plagiarism attempts to hide the theft of
an earlier work, intertextuality celebrates the theft and renovations, encouraging audi-
ences and readers to appreciate the interplay between the earlier work and the new ver-
sion. Plautus’ bold statement demands that we ponder the process by which all “mature
poets steal” and sometimes even appropriate another culture’s classics, from Vergil to Bob
Dylan (Thomas 2017, pp. 193–225).
Vortit barbare? Plautus touts his transformation of the original Greek script, inviting us
to evaluate both the process (vortit) and product (barbare) of his renovations.
Unfortunately, scholars could not assess his process through direct, detailed comparison
of Roman adaptation and Greek original for Trinummus or any other play because we had
no Greek scripts that Plautus adapted. An opportunity emerged in 1968 with the discov-
ery and publication of about a hundred lines from Menander’s Dis Exapaton, the model
for Plautus’s Bacchides (Handley 1968; Gaiser 1970; Anderson 1993). Comparison of the
parallel passages exploded some earlier theories of Plautus’s relations to his originals and
largely confirmed the insights of Eduard Fraenkel (1922, 1960, 2007), who identified
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arm, and Wendover and Armadale got out and walked down the
beach.
“This is Inspector Armadale, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux,” the
chief constable said, as they came up. “He wants to ask you some
questions about Friday night, when you were at that rock over
there.”
He pointed to Neptune's seat as he spoke. Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux seemed completely taken by surprise. For a moment
or two she stood glancing uneasily from one to another; and her
eyes showed something more than a tinge of fear.
“I am much surprised, Sir Clinton,” she said at last, her accent
coming out more markedly than usual in her nervous voice. “I had
supposed that you were friendly to me; and now it appears that,
without making a seeming of it, you have been leading me into what
you call an English police-trap, isn't it? That is not good of you.”
Armadale had picked up his cue from Sir Clinton's words.
“I'm afraid I must ask you to answer my questions, ma'am,” he
said, with a certain politeness. Obviously he was by no means sure
of his ground.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux eyed him in silence for some
moments.
“What is it that you desire to know?” she demanded finally.
Before Armadale could formulate a question, Sir Clinton
intervened.
“I think, madame, that it will make things easier for us all if I tell
you that the inspector is preparing a case against someone else. He
needs your deposition to support his charge. That is the whole truth,
so far as he is concerned. You need not have any fears, provided
that you tell us all that you know about Friday night.”
Wendover noticed the double meaning which might be attached
to Sir Clinton's words; but he could not feel sure whether the chief
constable wished to deceive or merely to reassure his witness. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux's face cleared slightly as she grasped the
meaning of Sir Clinton's speech.
“If such is the case,” she said cautiously, “I might recall to myself
some of the things which happened.”
 Armadale seemed a trifle suspicious at this guarded offer, but he
proceeded to put some questions.
“You knew this man Staveley, ma'am?”
“Nicholas Staveley? Yes, I knew him; I had known him for a long
time.”
Sir Clinton interposed again.
“Perhaps you would prefer to tell us what you know of him in
your own words, madame. It would be easier for us if you would do
so.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux nodded her agreement. She seemed
to have conquered her nervousness.
“It was during the war, messieurs, in 1915. I was Odette Pascal
then, a young girl, an honest girl—what you English call straight,
isn't it? It was later that I became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux, you
understand? I encountered this Nicholas Staveley in Paris, where I
was employed in a Government office. He was very charming, very
caressing; he knew how to make himself loved.”
She made a gesture, half cynical, half regretful, and paused for a
moment before she continued in a harder tone:
“It did not last long, that honeymoon. I discovered his character,
so different from that which I had believed it. He abandoned me,
and I was very rejoiced to let him go; but he had taught me things,
and forced me to work for him while he had me. When we separated
ourselves, in fact, I was no longer the gentle, honest little girl that I
had been. All that was finished, you understand?”
Wendover saw that the inspector was taking notes in shorthand.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux paused for a time to allow Armadale to
catch up.
“The rest is without importance. I became Aline Laurent-
Desrousseaux, and I had not any need of Nicholas Staveley. During a
long time I had no need of him; but from time to time I heard speak
of him, for I had many friends, and some of them could tell a little;
and always he was the same. Then is come the report that he was
killed at the Front.”
She paused again, with her eye on the inspector's pencil.
 “The time passed,” she resumed, “and I desired only to forget
him. I believed him well dead, you understand? And then, from one
of my friends, I learned that he had been seen again after the war. I
disinterested myself from the affair; I had no desire to see him. But
suddenly it became of importance to me to satisfy myself about him.
It is much complicated, and has nothing to do with him—I pass on.
But it was most necessary that I should see him and get him to
consent to some arrangements, or an affair of mine would be
embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed,” Armadale repeated, to show that he was ready to
continue.
“I have consulted my friends,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
pursued. “Some among them have been able to help me, and I have
discovered where he was living in London. It was most necessary for
me to speak with him. Thus I came over to England, to London. But
he is no longer there; he is gone to Lynden Sands, one says. So I
procure his address—at Flatt's cottage—and I come myself to
Lynden Sands Hotel.”
Armadale's involuntary upward glance from his note-book
betrayed the increase in his interest at this point.
“I arrive here; and at once I write him a letter saying I go to
Flatt's cottage to see him on Friday night. There is no response, but
I go to Flatt's cottage as I had planned. When I knocked at the door,
Staveley appeared.”
“What time on Friday night was that?” Armadale interposed.
“In my letter I had fixed a rendezvous at half-past nine. I was
exact—on time, you say, isn't it? But it seemed that this Staveley
could not see me alone there; others were in the cottage. Then he
said that he would meet me later—at half-past ten—at some great
rock beside the sea, the rock one calls Neptune's Seat.”
“So you came away, and he went back into the cottager”
Armadale demanded.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux assented with a slight bow.
“I came away,” she continued. “To pass the time, I walked on the
road, and perhaps I walked too far. It was late—after the hour of the
rendezvous—when I arrived opposite the rock, this Neptune's Seat. I
went down on to the sands and attained to the rock. Staveley was
there, very angry because I was ten minutes late. He was much
enraged, it appears, because he had a second rendezvous at that
place in a few minutes. He would not listen to me at all at the
moment. I saw that it was no time for negotiating with him, he was
so much in anger and so anxious to deliver himself of me. I fixed
another rendezvous for the following day, and I left him.”
“What time did you leave him on the rock?” Armadale interjected.
“Let us see.” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux halted for a moment to
consider. “I passed some minutes with him on the rock—let us put
ten minutes at the least.”
“That would mean you left the rock very shortly before eleven
o'clock, then?”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed with a gesture.
“I went away from the rock by the same road as I had come,”
she went on. “I was much agitated, you understand? It was a great
disappointment that I had attained to no arrangement at that
moment, I had hoped for something better, isn't it? And that
Staveley had been very little obliging—unkind, isn't it? It was very
desolating.
“As I was crossing the sands, a great automobile appeared on
the road, coming from the hotel. It stopped whilst I was waiting for
it to pass; and the chauffeur extinguished its projectors. Then a
woman descended from the automobile, and walked down on to the
sands towards the rock.”
Wendover could read on Armadale's face an expression of
triumph. The inspector was clearly overjoyed at getting some direct
evidence to support his case against Cressida; and Wendover had to
admit, with considerable disquietude, that Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux's narrative bore out Armadale's hypothesis very neatly.
“When I again regarded the automobile, the chauffeur also had
vanished. He was not on the road. Perhaps he also had gone down
to the rivage.”
“Shore,” Sir Clinton interjected, seeing Armadale's obvious
perplexity at the word.
 “I was standing there for some minutes,” Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux continued. “Against one like that Staveley one must
utilise all weapons, isn't it?—even espionage. I had a presentiment
that something might eventuate. Staveley and a woman, you
understand? I was hoping that something, anything, might arrive to
give me an advantage over him.
“I have forgotten to say that the sky was obscured by great
clouds. It was a little difficult to see clearly. On the rock they
discussed and discussed, but I could hear nothing; and in the end I
grew tired of attending.”
“How long did you stand there?” Armadale asked.
“It would be difficult to say, but perhaps it was about a quarter-
hour. I was quite tired of attending, and I walked—quite slowly—
along the road away from the hotel. I avoided the automobile, you
understand? I desired no embarrassments. It was not my affair—
isn't it?—to discover the identity of this woman. All that I desired
was an arm against Staveley. There was nothing else at all.
“A little after, I returned; it seemed to me longer, perhaps, than it
really was; and I was believing that they must be gone, those two.
Then, all at once, I heard the report of a firearm down at the rock
——”
“A single shot?” Sir Clinton questioned. “Un seul coup de feu?”
“One only,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux answered definitely. “I
hastened back along the road in the direction of the automobile. I
had the idea of an accident in my head, you understand? It was very
sombre; great clouds were passing on the moon. I could see with
difficulty the woman's figure hasten up from the rock towards the
automobile; and almost at once the chauffeur rejoined her. When
they were getting into the automobile I was quite close; I could hear
them speak, although it was too dark to see them except most
dimly. The woman spoke first, very agitated.”
Her three listeners were intent on her next words. Armadale
looked up, his pencil poised to take down her report. Wendover felt
a catch in his breath as he waited for the next sentences which
would either make or break the inspector's case.
 “She said,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “She said
these very words, for they were stamped on my memory since they
meant so much to me: ‘I've shot him, Stanley.’ And the chauffeur
demanded: ‘Have you killed him?’ And you can understand,
messieurs, that I listened with all my ears. The woman responded: ‘I
think so. He fell at once and lay quite still. What's to be done?’ And
to that the chauffeur made the reply: ‘Get you away at once.’ And he
made some movement as if to put the motor in march. But the
woman stopped him and demanded: ‘Aren't you going down to look
at him—see if anything can be done?’ And to that the chauffeur
made the response in anger: ‘It's damn well likely, isn't it?’ Just like
that. And he pursued: ‘Not till I've seen you in safety, anyhow. I'm
not running any risks.’ ”
Wendover felt that his last shred of hope had been torn away.
This reported conversation might have been concerted between
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux and Armadale beforehand, so neatly did
it fit into its place in the inspector's case. He glanced up at Sir
Clinton's face, and saw there only the quiet satisfaction of a man
who fits a fresh piece of a jig-saw puzzle into position.
“Then,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “the chauffeur
set his motor in march and reversed the automobile. I stepped aside
off the road for fear that they should see me; but they went off
towards the hotel without illuminating the projectors.”
She stopped, evidently thinking that she had told all that was of
importance. Armadale suggested that she should continue her tale.
“Figure to yourselves my position,” she went on. “Staveley was
lying dead on the rock. The automobile had gone. I was left alone. If
one came along the road and encountered me, there would be
suspicion; and one would have said that I had good reason to hate
Staveley. I could see nothing but embarrassments before me. And
the chauffeur had suggested that he might return later on. What
more easy, if he found me there, than to throw suspicion on me to
discredit me? Or to incriminate me, even? In thinking of these
things, I lost my head. My sole idea was to get away without being
seen. I went furtively along the road, in trembling lest the
automobile should return. No one met me; and I regained the
gardens of the hotel without being encountered. As I was passing
one of the alleys, I noticed standing there the great automobile, with
its lights extinguished. I passed into the hotel without misfortune.”
“What time did you get back to the hotel, madame?” Armadale
asked, as she halted again.
“Ah! I am able to tell you that, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, and exactly.
I noted the hour mechanically on the clock in the hall. It was
midnight less five minutes when I arrived.”
“It's a twenty to twenty-five minute walk,” Armadale commented.
“That means you must have left the beach somewhere round about
half-past eleven. Now, one more question, madame. Did you
recognise the voices of the man and the woman?”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux hesitated before replying.
“I should not wish to say,” she answered at last unwillingly.
A frown crossed Armadale's features at the reply, and, seeing it,
she turned to Sir Clinton, as though to appeal to him.
“The automobile has already been identified, madame,” the chief
constable said, answering her unspoken inquiry. “You can do no one
any harm by telling us the truth.”
His words seemed to remove her disinclination.
“In this case, I reveal nothing which you ignore? Then I say that
it was the voice of the young Madame Fleetwood which I have heard
in the night.”
Armadale bestowed a glance on Wendover, as much as to say
that his case was lock-fast. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, now that
she had got her narrative off her mind, seemed to be puzzled by
something. She turned to Sir Clinton.
“I am embarrassed to know how you came to discover that I was
at the rock on that night. May I ask?”
Sir Clinton smiled, and with a wave of his hand he indicated the
trail of footmarks across the sands which they had made in their
walk.
“Ah, I comprehend! I had forgotten the imprints which I must
have left when I went down to the rock. It was dark, you
understand?—and naturally I did not perceive that I was leaving
traces. So that was it, Sir Clinton?”
 Armadale was obviously puzzled. He turned to Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux.
“What size of shoe do you wear, madame?”
She glanced at her neatly shod feet.
“These shoes I have bought in London a few days ago. The
pointure—the size, you call it, isn't it?—was No. 4.”
Armadale shrugged his shoulders, as though to express his
disbelief.
“Measure these prints on the sand here, inspector,” Sir Clinton
suggested.
Armadale drew out his tape-measure and took the dimensions of
the footmarks left by Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“And the length of step also, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“They correspond with the tracks down to the rock, true enough,”
the inspector admitted, when he completed his task. “But only a 3½
shoe could have made them.”
Sir Clinton laughed, though not sneeringly.
“Would you lend me one of your shoes for a moment, madame?”
he asked. “You can lean on me while it's off, so as not to put your
foot on the wet sand.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux slipped off her right shoe and held it
out.
“Now, inspector, there's absolutely no deception. Look at the
number stamped on it. A four, isn't it?”
Armadale examined the shoe, and nodded affirmatively.
“Now take the shoe and press it gently on the sand alongside a
right-foot print of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—that one there will
do. See that you get it square on the sand and make a good
impression.”
The inspector knelt down and did as he was told. As he lifted the
shoe again, Wendover saw a look of astonishment on his face.
“Why, they don't correspond!” he exclaimed. “The one I've made
just now is bigger than the other.”
“Of course,” the chief constable agreed. “Now do you see that a
No. 4 shoe can make an impression smaller than itself if you happen
to be walking in sand or mud? While you were hunting for people
with 3½ shoes, I was turning my attention to No. 4's. There aren't
so many in the hotel, as you know. And it so happened that I began
with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. She was good enough to go for a
walk with me; and by counting her steps I gauged the length of her
pace. It corresponded to the distance on the tracks.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux was examining Sir Clinton with
obvious admiration, not wholly unmixed with a certain uneasiness.
“You seem to be very adroit, Sir Clinton,” she observed. “But
what is this about the length of my pace?”
“The inspector is accustomed to our English girls, madame, who
have a free-swinging walk and therefore a fairly long step. From the
length of the steps on the sand he inferred that they had been made
by someone who was not very tall—rather under the average height.
He forgot that some of you Parisians have a different gait—more
restrained, more finished, shall we say?”
“Ah, now I see!” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux exclaimed, not at
all unsusceptible to the turn of Sir Clinton's phrase. “You mean the
difference between the cab-horse and the stepper?”
“Exactly,” Sir Clinton agreed with an impassive face.
Armadale was still puzzling over the two footprints. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux, evidently wearying of standing with one foot
off the ground, recovered her shoe from him and slipped it on again.
Sir Clinton took pity on his subordinate.
“Here's the explanation, inspector. When you walk in sand, you
put down your heel first. But as the sand's soft, your heel goes
forward and downward as you plant your foot. Then, as your body
moves on, your foot begins to turn in the sand; and when you've
come to the end of your step, your toe also is driven downwards;
but instead of going forward, like your heel, it slips backward. The
result is that in the impression the heel is too far forward, whilst the
toe is in the rear of the true position—and that means an impression
shorter than the normal. On the sand, your foot really pivots on the
sole under the instep, instead of on heel and toe, as it does on hard
ground. If you look at these impressions, you'll find quite a heap of
sand under the point where the instep was; whilst the heel and toe
are deeply marked owing to each of them pivoting on the centre of
the shoe. See it?”
The inspector knelt down, and Wendover followed his example.
They had no difficulty in seeing Sir Clinton's point.
“Of course,” the chief constable went on, “in the case of a
woman's shoe, the thing is even more exaggerated owing to the
height of the heel and the sharpness of the toe. Haven't you noticed,
in tracks on the sand, how neat any woman's prints always look?
You never seem to find the impression of a clumsy foot, simply
because the impression is so much smaller than the real foot. Clear
enough, isn't it?”
“You are most ingenious, Sir Clinton,” Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux commented. “I am very glad indeed that I have not
you against me.”
Sir Clinton turned the point.
“The inspector will bring you a copy of the evidence you have so
kindly given us, madame, and you will do us the favour to sign it. It
is a mere formality, that; but we may need you as a witness in the
case, you understand?”
Rather ungraciously, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed. It was
evident that she had hoped to escape giving evidence in court.
“I do not desire to offer testimony against the young Madame
Fleetwood if it could be averted,” she said frankly. “She was good to
me once or twice; very gentle, very kind—not like the others in the
hotel.”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were
out of his hands; but he made no reply.
“You will, of course, say nothing about this to anyone, madame,”
Sir Clinton warned her, as they walked across the sands to the car.
At the hotel, Sir Clinton was met by a message from Cargill
asking him to go up to his room. Wendover accompanied him, and
when they had inquired about his wound and been reassured by a
good report from the doctor which Cargill was able to repeat, the
Australian plunged into the matter which he wished to lay before the
chief constable.
 “It's that thing I told you about before,” he explained. “This is
how it happened. I was so sore last night that I forgot all about it.”
He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled envelope.
“I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was writing something at
one of the tables. She made a muddle of her addressing of the
thing, and flung a spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket
beside her. Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her
letter, and went out.
“I happened to have some jottings to make; and, as her waste-
paper basket was just at my elbow, I leaned over and fished out the
old envelope, to save myself the bother of getting out of my chair
for a piece of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make,
put the envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It wasn't for a while
after that—yesterday—that I needed the jottings I'd made. I fished
the envelope out, and was reading my notes, when suddenly my eye
was caught by the spoiled address on the envelope.” He handed the
paper across to Sir Clinton, who read:

Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,

Flatt's Cotage,
Lynden Sands.

“You see, she'd spelt ‘cottage’ with one ‘t,’ ” Cargill pointed out
unnecessarily. “That's what made her throw away the envelope, I
expect.”
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully.
“That's extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep
this? Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for
reference later on?”
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials
on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few
minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by
Wendover.
“Why didn't you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover
demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that
envelope has now is that it further confirms Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux's evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of
importance.”
“I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered.
“Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill's
industry. If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel
disinclined to give us any more assistance; and one never knows
what may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He
thought he was doing splendidly.”
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge
coming along the corridor towards the stairs.
“Here's someone who can perhaps give us more valuable
information,” Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.
“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see
that there was no one within earshot, “there's just one point I'd like
you to clear up for me, if you don't mind.”
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face.
“Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying
anything in his tone.
“It's nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be
clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns
it at present?”
“If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on
that point, you understand.”
“Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew's
death were proved, who are the next heirs? That's what I'd like you
to tell me, if you don't mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset
House, but if you'll save me the trouble it will be a help.”
“Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“And if anything happened to her?”
“It falls to me in that case.”
“And if you weren't there to take it by then?”
“My sister would get it.”
“There's no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance, couldn't
step in front of you owing to his having married your niece?”
 “No,” Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. “The will took
account of seven lives, and I suppose that was sufficient in the
ordinary way. My sister, if she gets it, can leave it to anyone she
chooses.”
Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a slight pause
that he took up a fresh line of questions.
“Can you tell me anything about the present management of the
thing? You have a power of attorney, I believe; but I suppose you
leave matters very much in the hands of lawyers?”
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I'm afraid I'm no great believer in lawyers. One's better to look
after things oneself. I'm not a busy man, and it's an occupation for
me. Everything goes through my hands.”
“Must be rather a business,” Sir Clinton criticised. “But I suppose
you do as I would myself—get a firm of auditors to keep your books
for you.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the suggestion.
“No. Do you suppose I can't draw up a balance-sheet once a
year? I'm not quite incompetent.”
It was evident that Sir Clinton's suggestion had touched him in
his vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief
constable hastened to smooth matters over.
“I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for
figures myself, and I shouldn't care to have that kind of work thrust
on my hands.”
“Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is
there anything else you'd like to know?”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
“I think that's everything. Oh, there's one other matter which you
may know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her
lawyer to turn up?”
“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand
that they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe
they'll make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for to-
morrow.”
 Sir Clinton's eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further
delay; but he made no audible comment. Paul Fordingbridge, with a
stiff bow, left them and went on his way downstairs. Sir Clinton
gazed after him.
“I'd hate to carry an automatic in my jacket pocket continuously,”
he remarked softly. “Look how his pocket's pulled all out of shape by
the thing. Very untidy.”
With a gesture he stopped the comment that rose to Wendover's
lips, and then followed Fordingbridge downstairs. Wendover led the
way out into the garden, where he selected a quiet spot.
“There's one thing that struck me about Mme. Laurent-
Desrousseaux's evidence,” he said, as they sat down, “and that is: It
may be all lies together.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette before
answering.
“You think so? It's not impossible, of course.”
“Well, look at it squarely,” Wendover pursued. “We know nothing
about the woman. For all we can tell, she may be an accomplished
liar. By her own showing, she had some good reason for wanting
Staveley out of the way.”
“It wouldn't be difficult to make a guess at it,” Sir Clinton
interjected. “I didn't want to go beyond our brief this morning, or I'd
have asked her about that. But I was very anxious not to rouse her
suspicions, and the matter really didn't bear directly on the case, so
I let it pass.”
“Well, let's assume that her yarn is mostly lies, and see where
that takes us,” Wendover went on. “We know she was at the cottage
all right; we've got the footprint to establish that. We know she was
on the rock, too, for her footprints were on the sands, and she
doesn't contest the fact of her presence either. These are the two
undeniable facts.”
“Euclidian, squire. But it leaves the story a bit bare, doesn't it?
Go on; clothe the dry bones with flesh, if you can.”
Wendover refused to be nettled. He was struggling, not too
hopefully, to shift the responsibility of the murder from the shoulders
of Cressida to those of another person; and he was willing to catch
at almost any straw.
“How would this fit, then?” he demanded. “Suppose that Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux herself was the murderess. She makes her
appointment with Staveley at the cottage as she told us; and she
goes there, just as she said she did. She meets Staveley, and he
refuses to see her. Now assume that he blurts out the tale of his
appointment at 11 p.m. at Neptune's Seat with Mrs. Fleetwood, and
makes no appointment at all with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux for
that evening. That part of her tale would be a lie, of course.”
Sir Clinton flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the seat beside
him, and seemed engrossed in brushing it away.
“She goes to the shore near 11 p.m.,” Wendover continued, “not
to meet Staveley, as she told us, but to eavesdrop on the two of
them, as she confessed she did in her tale. She waits until Mrs.
Fleetwood goes away; and then she sees her chance. She goes
down to the rock herself then and she shoots Staveley with her own
hand for her own purposes. She leaves the body on the rock and
returns, as her footmarks show, to the road, and so to the hotel.
What's wrong with that?”
“Nothing whatever, squire, except that it omits the most damning
facts on which the inspector's depending. It leaves out, for instance,
the pistol that he found in Mrs. Fleetwood's golf-blazer.”
Wendover's face showed that his mind was hard at work.
“One can't deny that, I suppose,” he admitted. “But she might
quite well have let off her pistol to frighten Staveley. That would
account for——”
He broke off, thought hard for a moment or two, then his face
cleared.
“There were two cartridge-cases: one at the rock and one at the
groyne. If Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux killed Staveley, then the
cartridge-case on the rock belongs to her pistol; and any other shot
fired by the Fleetwoods—at the groyne. That means that Stanley
Fleetwood, behind the groyne, fired a shot to scare Staveley. Then,
when the Fleetwoods had gone, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux went
down and shot him on the rock. That accounts for everything,
doesn't it?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Just think what happens when you fire an automatic. The
ejector mechanism jerks the empty case out to your right, well clear
of your shoulder, and lands it a yard or two behind you. It's a pretty
big impulse that the cartridge-case gets. Usually the thing hops
along the ground, if I remember rightly. You can take it from me that
a shot fired from where Fleetwood crouched wouldn't land the
cartridge-case at the point where Cargill showed us he'd picked it
up.”
Wendover reflected for a while.
“Well, who did it, then?” he demanded. “If the shot had been
fired on the rock, the cartridge-case couldn't have skipped that
distance, including a jump over the groyne. And there were no other
footmarks on that far side of the groyne except Fleetwood's.”
Again he paused, thinking hard.
“You said there was a flaw in the inspector's case. Is this it, by
any chance?”
Looking up, he saw the figure of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
crossing the lawn not far from them.
“That's very opportune,” he said, glancing after her. “Any
objection to my asking your witness a couple of questions, Clinton?”
“None whatever.”
“Then come along.”
Wendover managed matters so that it appeared as though they
had encountered Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux by a mere accident;
and it was only after they had talked for a few minutes on indifferent
matters that he thought it safe to ask his questions.
“You must have got drenched before you reached the hotel on
Friday night, madame, surely? I hope there have been no ill-
effects?”
“Yes, indeed!” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux answered readily. “It
was a real rain of storm—how do you say that in English?”
“Thunderstorm; heavy shower,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“Yes? Une pluie battante. I was all wetted.”
 “When did the rain start, do you remember?” Wendover asked
indifferently.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux showed no hesitation whatever.
“It was after the automobile had started to return to the hotel—a
few minutes only after that.”
“You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,” Wendover
commiserated her. “That reminds me, had Staveley his coat on—his
overcoat, I mean—or was he carrying it over his arm when you met
him at the rock?”
Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing to consider.
“He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain.” Wendover,
having nothing else to ask, steered the talk into other channels; and
in a short time they left Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own
affairs. When they were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at
Wendover.
“Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the classic?
You're getting on, whichever it was. Armadale will be vexed. But
kindly keep this to yourself. The last thing I want is to have any
information spread round.”
 Chapter XII.
The Fordingbridge Mystery
“Tuesday, isn't it?” Sir Clinton said, as he came in to breakfast
and found Wendover already at the table. “The day when the
Fleetwoods propose to put their cards on the table at last. Have you
got up your part as devil's advocate, squire?”
Wendover seemed in high spirits.
“Armadale's going to make a fool of himself,” he said, hardly
taking the trouble to conceal his pleasure in the thought. “As you
told him, he's left a hole as big as a house in that precious case of
his.”
“So you've seen it at last, have you? Now, look here, squire.
Armadale's not a bad fellow. He's only doing what he conceives to
be his duty, remember; and he's been wonderfully good at it, too, if
you'd only give him decent credit for what he's done. Just remember
how smart he was on that first morning, when he routed out any
amount of evidence in almost less than no time. I'm not going to
have him sacrificed on the Fleetwood altar, understand. There's to
be no springing of surprises on him while he's examining these
people, and making him look a fool in their presence. You can tell
him your idea beforehand if you like.”
“Why should I tell him beforehand? It's no affair of mine to keep
him from making an ass of himself if he chooses to do so.”
Sir Clinton knitted his brows. Evidently he was put out by
Wendover's persistence.
“Here's the point,” he explained. “I can't be expected to stand
aside while you try to make the police ridiculous. I'll admit that
Armadale hasn't been tactful with you; and perhaps you're entitled
to score off him if you can. If you do your scoring in private,
between ourselves, I've nothing to say; but if you're bent on a public
splash—why, then, I shall simply enlighten the inspector myself and
spike your gun. That will save him from appearing a fool in public.
And that's that. Now what do you propose to do?”
“I hadn't looked at it in that way,” Wendover admitted frankly.
“You're quite right, of course. I'll tell you what. You can give him a
hint beforehand to be cautious; and I'll show him the flaw
afterwards, if he hasn't spotted it himself by that time.”
“That's all right, then,” Sir Clinton answered. “It's a dangerous
game, making the police look silly. And the inspector's too good a
man to hold up to ridicule. He makes mistakes, as we all do; but he
does some pretty good work between them.”
Wendover reflected that he might have expected something of
this sort, for Sir Clinton never let a subordinate down. By tacit
consent they dropped the subject.
Half-way through breakfast they were interrupted by a page-boy
with a message.
“Sir Clinton Driffield? Miss Fordingbridge's compliments, sir, and
she'd like to see you as soon as possible. She's in her private sitting-
room upstairs—No. 28, sir.”
When the boy had retired, Sir Clinton made a wry face.
“Really, this Fordingbridge family ought to pay a special police
rate. They give more trouble than most of the rest of the population
of the district lumped together. You'd better come up with me. Hurry
up with your breakfast, in case it happens to be anything important.”
Wendover obviously was not much enamoured of the prospect
opened up by the chief constable's suggestion.
“She does talk,” he said with foreboding, as though he dreaded
the coming interview.
They found Miss Fordingbridge waiting for them when they went
upstairs, and she broke out immediately with her story.
“Oh, Sir Clinton, I'm so worried about my brother. He went out
last night and he hasn't come back, and I don't really know what to
think of it. What could he be doing out at night in a place like
Lynden Sands, where there's nothing to do and where he hasn't any
reason for staying away? And if he meant to stay away, he could
have left a message for me or said something before he went off,
quite easily; for I saw him just a few minutes before he left the
hotel. What do you think about it? And as if we hadn't trouble
enough already, with that inspector of yours prowling round and
suspecting everyone! If he hasn't more to do than spy on my niece,
I hope you'll set him to find my brother at once, instead of wasting
his time.”
She halted, more for lack of breath than shortage of things to
say; and Sir Clinton seized the chance to ask her for some more
definite details.
“You want to know when he went out last night?” Miss
Fordingbridge demanded. “Well, it must have been late—after
eleven, at any rate, for I go to bed at eleven always, and he said
good night to me just before I left this room. And if he had meant to
stay away, he would have told me, I'm sure; for he usually does tell
me when he's going to be out late. And he said nothing whatever,
except that he was going out and that he meant to take a walk up
towards the Blowhole. And I thought he was just going for a breath
of fresh air before going to bed; and now it turns out that he never
came back again. And nobody in the hotel has heard anything about
him, for I asked the manager.”
“Possibly he'll put in an appearance shortly,” Sir Clinton suggested
soothingly.
“Oh, of course, if the police are incompetent, there's no more to
be said,” Miss Fordingbridge retorted tartly. “But I thought it was
part of their business to find missing people.”
“Well, we'll look into it, if you wish,” Sir Clinton said, as she
seemed obviously much distressed by the state of things. “But really,
Miss Fordingbridge, I think you're taking the matter too seriously.
Quite possibly Mr. Fordingbridge went for a longer walk than he
intended, and got benighted or something; sprained his ankle,
perhaps, and couldn't get home again. Most probably he'll turn up
safe and sound in due course. In the meantime, we'll do what we
can.”
But when they had left the room, Wendover noticed that his
friend's face was not so cheerful.
 “Do you notice, squire,” the chief constable pointed out as they
went downstairs, “that everything we've been worried with in this
neighbourhood seems to be connected with this confounded
Fordingbridge lot? Peter Hay—caretaker to the Fordingbridges;
Staveley—married one of the family; and now old Fordingbridge
himself. And that leaves out of account this mysterious claimant,
with his doubtful pack of associates, and also the suspicious way the
Fleetwoods are behaving. If we ever get to the bottom of the affair,
it'll turn out to be a Fordingbridge concern entirely, either directly or
indirectly. That's plain to a village idiot.”
“What do you propose to do in this last business?” Wendover
demanded.
“Get hold of a pair of old Fordingbridge's shoes, first of all. We
might need them; and we might not have time to come back for
them. I'll manage it through the boots, now. I could have got them
from Miss Fordingbridge, I expect, but she might have been a bit
alarmed if I'd asked her for them.”
With the shoes in an attaché-case, Sir Clinton set out for the
Blowhole, accompanied by Wendover.
“Not much guidance, so far,” he commented, “so we may as well
start at the only place she could mention.”
When they reached the Blowhole, out on the headland which
formed one horn of the bay, it was only too evident that very little
trace was to be expected there. The turf showed no marks of any
description. Sir Clinton seemed rather resentful of the expectant
manner of Wendover.
“Well, what do you expect me to do?” he demanded brusquely.
“I'm not an Australian tracker, you know. And there don't seem to be
any cigar-butts or cigarette-ash or any of these classical clues lying
around, even if I could use them if I'd found them. There's just one
chance—that he's gone down on to the sands.”
As he spoke, he stepped to the cliff-edge and gazed down on the
beach.
“If those tracks on the sand happen to be his,” he said, “then
we've got at least one bit of luck to start with.”
 Wendover, coming to the chief constable's side, saw the
footprints of two men stretching clean-cut along the beach until they
grew small in the distance.
“We'll go down there and see what we can make of it,” Sir Clinton
suggested. “I've telephoned to Armadale to come out from Lynden
Sands and meet us. It's handy that these tracks stretch out in that
direction and not into the other bay.”
They descended a steep flight of steps cut on the face of the cliff
for the convenience of hotel visitors; and when they reached the
sands below, they found the footprints starting out from the bottom
of the stair. Sir Clinton opened his attaché-case and pulled out Paul
Fordingbridge's shoes, which he had procured at the hotel.
“The boots told me that Fordingbridge had two pairs of shoes,
both of the same pattern and both fairly new; so it should be easy
enough to pick out his tracks, if they're here,” he said, taking one
shoe and pressing it into the sand to make an impression of the
sole. “That looks all right, squire. The nail pattern's the same in the
shoe and the right-hand set of footmarks.”
“And the mark you've just made is a shade larger than the
footprint,” Wendover commented, to show that he had profited by
Sir Clinton's lesson of the previous day. “That fits all right. By the
way, Clinton, it's clear enough that these two fellows met up at the
top of the stairs and came down together. If they'd met here, there
would have been a second set of tracks for Man No. 2, which he'd
have made in coming towards the foot of the stairway.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this inference, put the
shoes back in his attaché-case, and set out to follow the tracks
across the sands. In a short time they passed Neptune's Seat, where
Sir Clinton paused for a few moments to inspect the work of his
diggers.
“That seems an interminable job you've set them,” Wendover
commented as they walked on again.
“The tides interfere with the work. The men can only work
between tides, and each incoming tide brings up a lot of sand and
spreads it over the places they've dug out already.”
 “What are you looking for, Clinton, damn it? It seems an awful
waste of energy.”
“I'm looking for the traces of an infernal scoundrel, squire, unless
I'm much mistaken; but whether I'll find them or not is another
question altogether. It's a pure grab in the dark. And, as I suspect
I'm up against a pretty smart fellow, I'm not going to give any
information away, even to you, for fear he infers something that
might help him. He's probably guessed already what I'm after—one
can't conceal things on the open beach—but I want to keep him
guessing, if possible. Come along.”
The tracks ran, clearly marked, across the sands of the bay in the
direction of the old wreck which formed a conspicuous landmark on
the shore. The chief constable and his companion followed the trail
for a time without finding anything which called for comment.
“They don't appear to have been hurrying,” Sir Clinton said,
examining the tracks at one point. “They seem just to have
sauntered along, and once or twice they've halted for a moment. I
expect they were talking something over.”
“The second man must have been a pretty big fellow to judge by
the size of the footmarks,” Wendover ventured cautiously. “Apart
from that, there's nothing much to see.”
“No?” Sir Clinton retorted. “Only that his impressions are very
shallow—much shallower than Fordingbridge's ones. And his stride's
not longer than friend Paul's, either. Also, the impression of the
sole's quite smooth—looks like crêpe-rubber soles or something of
that sort. If so, there's nothing to be got out of them. That kind of
shoe's sold by the thousand.”
Wendover made no reply, for at this moment he caught sight of
the inspector plodding along the road above the beach. Sir Clinton
whistled shrilly, and Armadale, catching sight of them, left the road
and descended to the sands. In a few minutes he reached them, and
Sir Clinton gave him a summary of the facts which had come to light
since he had telephoned.
“There's just one thing that's turned up since I saw you last, sir,”
the inspector reported in his turn. “I've had Flatt's cottage watched,
as you ordered; and there's a third man there now. He keeps himself
under cover most of the time; but I gave Sapcote a pair of good
field-glasses, and he recognised the fellow as soon as he saw him—
knew him quite well. His name's Simon Aird. He used to be valet at
Foxhills, but he got fired for some cause or other, and hasn't been
near Lynden Sands since. Then I asked the fishermen if they'd
recognised the man who opened the door to them when they went
to borrow the boat, and they recalled that it was Aird. They hadn't
thought anything about it, of course, until I questioned them.”
“Now, that's something worth having,” Sir Clinton said
appreciatively. “But let's get on with the job in hand. That tide's
coming in fast; and, if we don't hurry, it'll be all over these tracks.
We never seem to get any time to do our work thoroughly in this
place, with all that water slopping up and down twice a day.”
They hurried along the beach, following the trail. It seemed to
present nothing of particular interest until, as they drew near the old
wreck, Sir Clinton's eye ranged ahead and picked up something
fresh.
“See that new set of tracks—a third man—coming out from
behind the old wreck's hull and joining the other two?” he asked,
pointing as he spoke. “Keep well to the landward side as we come
up to them, so as not to muddle them up with our own footprints. I
think our best line would be to climb up on top of the wreck and
make a general survey from above.”
They followed his advice; and soon all three had climbed to the
deck of the hulk, from which vantage-point they could look down
almost straight upon the meeting-point of the three trails.
“H'm!” said Sir Clinton reflectively. “Let's take No. 3 first of all. He
evidently came down from the road and took up a position where
the hull of the wreck concealed him from the other two. The moon
must have risen three or four hours before, so there would be light
enough on the beach. You'd better make a rough sketch of these
tracks, inspector, while we're up here. We shan't have much time
before that tide washes everything out.”
The inspector set to work at once to make a diagram of the
various tracks on the sand below, while Sir Clinton continued his
inspection.
 “No. 3 evidently hung about behind the wreck for a long while,”
the chief constable pointed out. “You can see how the sand's
trampled at random as he shuffled around trying to keep himself
warm during his waiting. Now we'll suppose that Fordingbridge and
No. 2 are coming up. Look at their tracks, squire. They came up
almost under the lee of the wreck; and then they turned right round,
as if they intended to retrace their steps. It looks as though they'd
come to the end of their walk and meant to turn back. But they
seem to have stood there for a while; for the prints are indistinct—
which is just what happens if you stand long enough on wet sand.
The water oozes, owing to the long displacement of the sand
particles, and when you lift your foot it leaves simply a mass of
mushy stuff where you stood, with no clean impression.”

He glanced again over the tracks before continuing.

“I'd read it this way. While they were standing there, with their
backs to the wreck, No. 3 started into activity. He came out from the
cover of the hull and walked up to where they were standing. He
must have gone quietly, for they don't seem to have turned to meet
him. You see that, squire? Do you see anything else?”
Wendover was staring at the tracks with a puzzled look on his
face. The inspector, who had just reached this point in his diagram,
gave a smothered exclamation of surprise as he examined the sand
below him. Wendover was the first to find his voice.
“Where's the rest of Fordingbridge's track?” he demanded. “It
simply stops short there. He didn't turn; he didn't walk away; and—
damn it, he can't have flown away. Where did he go to?”
Sir Clinton ignored the interruption.
“Let's take the tracks as we find them. After No. 3 came up
behind the others, it's clear enough that No. 2 and No. 3 went off
side by side, down towards the sea. Even from here you can see
that they were in company, for sometimes the tracks cross, and No.
2 has his prints on top of No. 3, whereas farther on you see No. 3
putting his feet on top of No. 2's impression. Have you finished with
that jotting of yours, inspector? Then we'll go and follow these
tracks down the beach to the tide edge.”
He dropped neatly down from the wreck as he spoke, and waited
for the others to rejoin him.
“Both No. 2 and No. 3 must have been wearing crêpe-rubber
shoes or something of that sort,” the inspector remarked, stooping
over the tracks. “And they've both got fairly big feet, it seems.”
“No. 3 seems to have been walking on his toes,” Wendover
pointed out. “He seems to have dug deeper with them than with his
heels. And his feet are fairly parallel instead of having the toes
pointing outwards. That's how the Red Indians walk,” he added
informatively.
Sir Clinton seemed more interested in the general direction of the
tracks. Keeping to one side of them, he moved along the trail,
scanning the prints as he went. Armadale, moving rather more
rapidly on the other side of the route, came abruptly to a halt as he
reached the edge of the waves. The rest of the trail had been
obliterated by the rising tide.
“H'm! Blank end!” he said disgustedly.
Sir Clinton looked up.
“Just as well for you, inspector, perhaps. If you'd hurried along at
that rate at low tide you'd have run straight into the patch of
quicksand, if I'm not mistaken. It's just down yonder.”
“What do you make of it, sir?”
 “One might make a lot of it, if one started to consider the
possibilities. They may have walked off along the beach on the part
that's now swamped by the tide. Or they may have got into a boat
and gone home that way. All one really knows is that they got off
the premises without leaving tracks. We might, of course, hunt along
the water-line and try to spot where they came up on to high-and-
dry ground; but I think they're fairly ingenious, and most likely they
took the trouble to walk on shingle above the tide-mark if they came
ashore. It's not worth wasting time on, since we've little enough
already. Let's get back to the meeting-point.”
He led the way up the beach again.
“Reminds one a bit of Sam Lloyd's ‘Get off the Earth’ puzzle,
doesn't it?” he suggested, when they came back to the point where
the three tracks met. “You can count your three men all right, and
then—flick!—there are only two. How do you account for it, squire?”
Wendover scrutinised the tracks minutely.
“There's been no struggle, anyhow,” he affirmed. “The final
tracks of Fordingbridge are quite clear enough to show that. So he
must have gone voluntarily, wherever he went to.”
“And you explain his going—how?”
Wendover reflected for a moment or two before answering.
“Let's take every possibility into account,” he said, as his eyes
ranged over the sand. “First of all, he didn't sink into the sand in any
normal way, for the surface isn't disturbed. Secondly, he didn't walk
away, or he'd have left tracks. That leaves only the possibility that he
went off through the air.”
“I like this pseudo-mathematical kind of reasoning, squire. It
sounds so convincing,” Sir Clinton commented. “Go ahead. You never
fail to combine interest with charm in your expositions.”
Wendover seemed untouched by the warmth of this tribute.
“If he went off through the air, he must have managed it either
by himself or with the help of the other two; that's self-evident. Now
it's too far for him to have jumped backwards on to the wreck and
climbed up it; we can rule that out. And it's hardly likely that he was
enough of a D. D. Home to manage a feat of levitation and sail up
into the air off his own bat. So that excludes the notion that he
vanished completely, without any extraneous assistance, doesn't it?”
“ ‘He who has truth at his heart need never fear the want of
persuasion on his tongue’—Ruskin,” quoted Sir Clinton, with the air
of reading from a collection of moral maxims. “You've made the
thing crystal-clear to me, squire, with the exception of just one or
two trifling points. And these are: First, why did that very solid and
unimaginative Mr. Paul Fordingbridge take to romping with his—
presumably—grown-up pals? Second, why didn't he return home
after these little games? Third, where is he now? Or, if I may put it
compendiously, what's it all about? At first sight it seems almost
abnormal, you know, but I suppose we shall get accustomed to it.”
Armadale had been examining the tracks on the sand without
paying Wendover even the courtesy of listening to him. He now
broke in.
“If you'll look at No. 3's tracks, sir, you'll find that they're quite
light up to the point where he came directly behind Fordingbridge;
and then they get deeply marked on the stretch leading down to the
sea.”
“That's quite correct, inspector,” Sir Clinton agreed. “And if you
look again you'll find that when they're light, the toes turn out to a
fair extent; but on the heavier part of the track No. 3 walked—as Mr.
Wendover pointed out—like a Red Indian. Does that interest you?”
The inspector shook his head.
“I don't quite get it, sir.”
“Ever been in France, inspector?”
“Just for a trip, sir.”
“Ah, then you may not have chanced to come across Père
François, then. If you met him, he might have helped you a bit in
explaining these levitation affairs.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“Who's your French friend, Clinton?”
“Père François? Oh, he was one of the pioneers of aviation, in a
way; taught men to fly, and all that. ‘Get off the Earth’ was his
motto.”
 “There's not much of the strong, silent man about you, Clinton,”
said Wendover glumly. “I never heard anyone to beat you for talking
a lot and saying nothing while you're doing it.”
“Père François not mentioned in the classics? Well, well. One
can't drag in everything, of course. But don't let's dwell on it. What
about the business in hand? We must have a theory to work on, you
know. How do you account for Mr. Paul Fordingbridge's quaint
behaviour, squire? That's really of some importance.”
Wendover pondered for a time before taking up his friend's
implied challenge.
“Suppose that No. 3 had a chloroformed pad in his hand when he
came up behind Fordingbridge,” he suggested at last, “and that he
clapped it over Fordingbridge's mouth from behind; and then, once
he was unconscious, they both carried him down to a boat.”
“You can chloroform a sleeping man without any struggle,” the
inspector commented acidly, “but you can't chloroform a normal man
without his making some sort of struggle. There's no trace of a
struggle here.”
Wendover had to admit the flaw.
“Well, then,” he amended, “I suppose one must assume that he
voluntarily allowed himself to be lifted down to the boat.”
Armadale hardly troubled to conceal his sneer.
“And what earthly good would that be?” he demanded. “Here are
his tracks stretching back for the best part of a mile over the sands.
Lifting him for twenty yards or so at the end of that doesn't seem
much use. Besides, as I read the tracks, that's an impossibility. No.
2's tracks are mixed up with No. 3's in the second part of the trail,
and sometimes one was ahead and sometimes the other of them.
Two men don't waltz round like that when they're carrying anyone,
usually. It's impossible, for their footmarks show they were both
walking straight ahead all the time; and if they were carrying a man
between them they'd have had to reverse somehow if the front man
changed round to the rear. That's no good, Mr. Wendover.”
“What do you propose then, inspector?” Wendover inquired,
without troubling to repress a nettled tone in his voice.
 “I propose to take casts of their footprints and hunt up shoes to
match, if I can.”
“I shouldn't trouble, inspector,” Sir Clinton interposed. “Look at
the marks. They seem to me to be about the biggest size of shoe
you could buy. The impressions are light; which seems to suggest a
medium weight distributed over an abnormally large foot-area. In
other words, these shoes were not fits at all; they were probably
extra-sized ones padded to suit or else, possibly, put on above
normal shoes. Compare the lengths of the steps, too. If these men
had heights anything in proportion to the size of their shoes, they
would be six-footers on any reasonable probability, whereas their
pace is no longer than mine. There's no certainty, of course; but I'm
prepared to bet that you'll get nothing by shoe-hunting. And by this
time these shoes have been destroyed, or thrown away in some
place where you'll never find them. These fellows are smarter lads
than you seem to think.”
Rather mollified by the inspector's failure, Wendover tried to
draw the chief constable.
“What do you make of it yourself, Clinton?”
Somewhat to the surprise of both his hearers, Sir Clinton
extended the range of the subject under discussion.
“Motive is what interests me at present,” he confessed. “We've
had the Peter Hay case, the Staveley affair, the shooting of Cargill,
and this vanishing trick of Fordingbridge's. There must have been
some incentive at the back of each of them. Eliminate Cargill's affair
for the present, and the other three are all concerned with one or
other of the Foxhills people. The odds against that happening by
accident are a bit too heavy for probability, aren't they?”
“Obviously,” Wendover admitted.
“Then it's reasonable to look to the Foxhills affairs for motives,
isn't it?” Sir Clinton continued. “What's the big thing in the Foxhills
group about which they might come to loggerheads? It stares you in
the face—that old man's will. You've seen already that it's led to
friction. Paul Fordingbridge won't recognise the claim of this nephew
of his—we'll call him the claimant for short. He sat tight with his