The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold Page B

have had anything to do with the crime, Inspector. Why, the thing’s fantastic to anyone who knows him!”
    â€œHave you known him long, Mr. Christmas?”
    â€œI first met him at Newtree’s studio about eighteen months ago. He’s a friend of Newtree’s rather than mine. That is to say, although he is a friend of mine, he is not the sort of man with whom one quickly grows intimate.”
    â€œNo?” commented Hembrow impassively.
    â€œI’ll tell you all I know, of course, which isn’t much. He has a practice—not too flourishing—in Swiss Cottage somewhere, and has had it about four years, I believe. He’s unmarried, and lives with his only sister. He’s thirty-seven, and I believe he took his degree at University College. He attended Gordon Frew during an attack of influenza and bronchitis last April, but otherwise I don’t think he knew the man at all. Frew wanted a doctor, and not having been long in England hadn’t got one, and Newtree put him on to Merewether. It was purely by chance that Merewether was called in, and the two men were certainly strangers then...”
    Hembrow, who had been listening with attention, nodded gravely.
    â€œAnd is that all you can tell me, Mr. Christmas? I thought from the way you spoke up for him that the doctor was a friend of yours.”
    â€œWell, so he is,” replied Christmas rather testily, “but one doesn’t know the past history of all one’s friends. And one doesn’t have to know Merewether very intimately to know that he’s the last man in the world to be mixed up in anything shady.”
    Hembrow eyed him gloomily.
    â€œIt’s a pity you feel that way about it, Mr. Christmas, if I may say so. It doesn’t do to feel personal about these things. One has to have an open mind at this game.”
    â€œBut, Hembrow,” objected John, “what possible reason could there be for Merewether to lie about having seen Frew alive at nine o’clock? For if your man is right, Frew died about eight o’clock, and in that case it can’t have been Merewether who killed him. For Merewether came to Madox Court with Sir Marion Steen at about half-past eight, and went straight into Newtree’s flat. And even conceiving it possible that he had paid an earlier, secret visit to the Court, what reason can he have had for wishing to make us believe that Frew was alive at nine o’clock? The murder had to be discovered soon, in any case. And being a doctor he would surely have known that his statement would be contradicted. The whole thing seems so purposeless!
    Hembrow shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œOur business at present is to find out facts, not invent theories,” he reminded John. “But of course there are plenty of theories to fit the fact that Dr. Merewether was lying. There’s the theory of his being an accessory, for  instance. But, as I say, our business at present is with facts. And whatever the reason may be, the fact seems to be that Dr. Merewether was lying.” Hembrow looked up keenly at John’s troubled face. “Didn’t you think yourself, Mr. Christmas, that he was a bit excited last night, for a medical man? Ah, I can see you did!”
    There was a pause, and then the Inspector added gravely:
    â€œAnd there’s another thing, Mr. Christmas. What makes you think Dr. Merewether had never met the deceased before Mr. Newtree introduced them last April?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” responded Christmas, “Merewether told me so himself, one day when I met him at Newtree’s after he had been in to see Frew.”
    â€œWell,” said Hembrow, “it’s a funny thing, Mr. Christmas, but I’ve just seen a copy of the deceased’s will. It’s a queer will altogether, and the queerest thing in it is the clause which makes Dr. Merewether the residuary legatee.”
    â€œWhat?” asked John, hardly able