‘The Knightsbridge Shooting Affray’ occupied the contents bills of most of the London evening newspapers the next day. There was damning evidence against the dead man in the shape of a pistol found in his pocket, and obviously discharged recently.
Brian’s evidence at the inquest did not help to dissipate the belief that Caggley was the culprit. The punter enjoyed a little unenviable notoriety during the days that followed. He was held for trial, though it was certain that the jury would return a verdict of justifiable homicide.
He was released from custody on a heavy bail, and returned to Knightsbridge after the police-court proceedings, to find Mr Callander and Gladys awaiting him.
As he came into the room, dispirited, out of conceit with himself, she came toward him, both hands outstretched. There and then, in the presence of her father, he took her into his arms, and found comfort in her nearness and fragrance. Mr Callander accepted the surprising happening with admirable self-restraint, turning discreetly to watch the stream of motor traffic which flowed through the park.
“My dear,” she whispered, “I have told father everything.”
He stooped, and kissed her gently, smiling into her troubled eyes.
Mr Callander turned as she slipped from his arms. “Brian,” he said, clearing his throat, “Gladys has given me to understand that you are—that she is—in fact, that you are not indifferent to one another.”
“That is true,” said Brian quietly. “I love her very dearly.”
“Hum!” said Mr Callander, as he coughed again, “of course—at present—under a cloud—very embarrassing for me—but you may be sure” He held out his hand. Brian was touched by the emotion of the old man and wrung the proffered hand.
“I want a word with you,” said Mr Callander.
They stepped up to the window.
“Horace has told me,” Mr Callander went on, dropping his voice, “everything.”
His voice shook, and he raised his hand to his trembling lip. This uninteresting son of his was the apple of his eye.
“I cannot expect you to believe,” he said, “that he knew nothing of the infamous plot: yet I am convinced”
“No more convinced than I am,” said Brian heartily; “in fact, I have absolute proof that Horace knew nothing whatever about the matter.”
The old man nodded. He opened his pocketbook and took out a cheque for two thousand pounds.
“You were good enough to lend this to my son,” he said. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your goodness; it has placed you in an entirely new light. I am an old man, Brian, a prejudiced and narrow old man, I fear, and not over-generous. I have set myself up as a critic—neglecting to rectify faults in my own life which have been worthy of criticism, but I—I”
He blew his nose with some energy.
It was some time before they sat down to a calm discussion of the position.
He did not say that it might drag the name of Gladys into the case, and, incidentally, that of Mr Callander. He saw, by the gratitude in the old man’s eyes, that his reticence was approved.
“I believe that Caggley was sent here with a cock-and-bull story about the Manchester races in order to throw the guilt on him for my murder. Pinlow intended shooting him to ensure his silence.”
“Has the ownership of the revolver been established?” asked Mr Callander.
Brian shook his head.
“It is next to impossible. The pistol is of Belgian make—obviously purchased abroad.”
The two stayed to lunch, which was half-way through when the servant brought in a card.
Brian read it.
“Chief Inspector Valance, C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”
On the back was scribbled, “I have some good news for you.”
“Show him in,” said Brian; “good news is for all hearing.”
The Inspector was a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man of fifty. He greeted the party with a little bow.
“Sit down, Inspector,” said Brian, with a smile. “Well, what are the glad tidings?—this is my uncle, and this is my cousin,” he introduced.
“The best news for you, Mr Pallard,” he said. “The Crown does not intend proceeding with the case. There was a little flaw in the evidence at the inquest; the Home Office expert has proved beyond doubt that the bullet which killed Caggley was fired from a pistol of a larger calibre than yours.”
“I am glad,” said the girl impulsively, holding out her hands, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“On that fact,” the Inspector proceeded, “there can be no question of a prosecution. Now, Mr Pallard, just as soon as your release is granted, I want you to help me to find the man that did it.”
“I am afraid—” began Brian, when interruption came from an unexpected quarter.
It was from Mr Callander.