at chadwell heath it was found that a first-class return ticket to stratford had been taken just before the 10.54 train left on the last night abel pullin was seen alive, and that the return half had been given up by a passenger who arrived by the first train soon after six in the morning the porter who took the ticket remembered the circumstance, because first-class tickets were rare at that time in the morning, but he did not recognise the passenger, who was muffled up.
“but i think there’s enough for an arrest without a warrant, at any rate,” truscott said. “we shall be able to walk round and pick up a little more evidence after that. i am off to scarby lodge. can’t afford to waste any more time. he was foolish to take a first-class ticket, any way. that singles a man out, and he might easily have been recognised. he was smart enough not to use his season ticket, though. that would have done him clean.”
scarby lodge was a rather pretentious house, standing in about three acres of ground. the path to the front door was well shaded, and it was arranged that truscott should wait aside till hewitt had sent in a message asking to see mr. roofe on a matter of urgent business, and that then both should follow the servant to his room. this was done, and as the parlourmaid was knocking at the bedroom door she was astonished to find hewitt and the police inspector behind her. truscott at once pushed open the door, and the two walked in.
it was a large, well-lighted room, and at the far end a man sat in his dressing-gown near a table, on which stood several medicine bottles. he was a man apparently of about thirty-eight, well built, and with sharp features. he frowned as truscott and hewitt entered, but betrayed no sign of emotion, carelessly taking one of the small bottles from the table at his side. “what do you want here?” he said.
“sorry to be so unceremonious, mr. roofe,” truscott said, advancing up the long room, “but i am a police officer, and it is my duty to arrest you on a serious charge—a charge of murder on the person of—— stop, sir! let me see that!”
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“‘stop, sir! let me see that!’”
but it was too late. before truscott could reach him, roofe had swallowed the contents of the small bottle, and, swaying once, dropped to the floor as though shot. a faint smell as of bruised almonds rose in the air.
hewitt stooped over the man. “dead,” he said; “dead as abel pullin. it is prussic acid. he had arranged for instant action if by any chance the game went against him.”
but inspector truscott was troubled. “this is a nice thing,” he said, “to have a prisoner commit suicide in front of my eyes. it’ll be an unpleasant job for me, i’m afraid. but you can testify that i hadn’t time to get near him, can’t you? indeed he wasn’t a prisoner at the time, for i hadn’t arrested him, in fact.”
