“Will you tell me something of Mr. Sackville’s daily routines?” he asked Mrs. Cornish.
Mrs. Cornish did so readily. On an ordinary summer day, Mr. Sackville would have taken his morning cup of cocoa in bed at half past six. Then he bathed and dressed. At quarter past seven he rode. Breakfast was at half past eight, when he returned. He liked to spend some time in his study after breakfast. Luncheon was at one. He often went for a long walk afterward, returning home to take tea at half past four, and dinner at eight. Twice a month he traveled to London after luncheon and didn’t return until tea time the next day.
Inspector Treadles knew about the London trips from the preliminary report—Constable Perkins of the Devon Constabulary had been thorough at his task. He also knew that the visits were a source of curiosity in the village. Some thought he went to visit friends, some speculated that he gambled, and a few more were of the opinion that Mr. Sackville simply wished to get away regularly—that they would, too, if they had his wealth and freedom of movement.
“Do you happen to know, Mrs. Cornish, what had been his purpose for those trips?”
“Not at all, Inspector.”
“He did not speak of them when he returned?”
She shook her head. And of course a self-respecting servant would never think to interrogate her employer on his private affairs.
“Which train did he take?”
“The 3:05 from Barton Cross.”
Barton Cross was the next nearest village. Treadles had studied the local railway timetable. The 3:05 from Barton Cross didn’t arrive on a mainline until almost four o’clock in the afternoon. And even if Mr. Sackville caught the next express to London, it would be well past business hours by the time he pulled into Paddington Station.
Not the kind of itinerary a man would choose, if his primary intention was to see his agents or solicitors.
“Did he always leave on the same days?”
“The second and fourth Thursday of each month.”
The London theatrical season ran from September to the end of July. But the regularity of Mr. Sackville’s visits didn’t suggest the jaunts of a theater lover. It also seemed unlikely that he went to see friends—members of his social class congregated in London during the Season and spent the rest of the year in the country, where the air was far more salutary.
“You are certain London was his destination, Mrs. Cornish?”
“Mr. Hodges said so. He went through Mr. Sackville’s pockets before his clothes were sent out for laundering. And he always found punched tickets issued from Paddington Station, from Mr. Sackville’s return trips.”
Mrs. Cornish blushed slightly, as if embarrassed that she’d gossiped about her employer with the valet.
“I see. I understand Mr. Sackville’s London trips became a little more irregular in the weeks before his passing.”
“Gastric attacks,” Mrs. Cornish replied with great authority. “They happened twice in April. Once he never left the house, the next time he began to feel poorly while he was on the train. He got off at the next station and spent the night at the railway hotel.”
This was in accordance with what the ticket agent at the Barton Cross railway station remembered.
“A fortnight after that he did go.”
“He did, but he came back the next morning, earlier than usual. And two weeks after that he didn’t go at all, even though he was well.”
“Were those two times in April the only occasions he suffered from gastric attacks?”
“No, Inspector. He’d had them for as long as I’ve worked for him. I think there was once before when he didn’t go to London because he wasn’t feeling up to it.”
Once in seven years and then twice in a month. Curious. Not curious enough to suggest outright foul play—the nature of random events was that they were random—but noteworthy, nevertheless. “Did he say anything about why he came back early that time in May?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How did he appear when he arrived back at Curry House?”
“He kept to himself that day and didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“He also went to church, I understand, before he returned home that day. The vicar saw him, as well as some other villagers.”
This for a man who had never attended service the entire time he had resided at Curry House.
“I heard the same.”
“Were you surprised the Thursday a fortnight later, when he didn’t head for London at all?”
“I . . . I was, but not terribly so.”
“Why not?”
“He had a resigned air about him.”
This had not been part of the village gossip. Inspector Treadles frowned slightly. “How resigned?”