DEATH IN A DUFFLE COAT

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Two old ladies, Miss Price and Miss Marsland, lived together in the
Lodge Cottage. Old Miss Price's death looked like a tragic accident: she
must have slipped and fallen in the icy yard of the cottage when,
wearing a duffle coat against the cold, she went to fetch a bucket of
coal. But it transpired that Miss Price had been murdered. Indeed, the
cottage was empty, for Miss Marsland too had mysteriously disappeared,
though in her case no body was found. Desmond Merrion and Inspector
Arnold soon find themselves involved in a case of great complexity.
There are more murders and some strange discoveries, inexplicable and
macabre. Merrion slowly moves towards a solution, impeded and baffled,
as we believe the reader will be too, by the prevalent fashion for
wearing duffle coats. Miles Burton has excelled himself in this most
ingenious and exciting detective story.

CHAPTER ONE

THE INQUEST was held at eleven o'clock on the morning of Friday, February 17th, in the club room of the Horseshoes, in the tiny village of Bruckam. The coroner sat without a jury, and by his side was placed a chair which was occupied by the witnesses in succession. A reporter on the staff of the local paper was present. The only members of the general public were two men, who had arrived together in a car only a few minutes before the coroner took his seat.

The first witness called was a middle-aged woman rather masculine in appearance, and of downright assertive speech. She gave her name as Miss Helena Cray, and her address as Springlease Hall. “You have viewed the body, Miss Cray?” the coroner asked.

“I have,” she replied briskly. “It is that of Miss Phoebe Price, who lived at the Lodge Cottage. I don't know how old she was. Between sixty and seventy I believe.”

The coroner consulted his notes. “Did Miss Price live alone at the Lodge Cottage?” he asked.

The witness shook her head. “Oh no. She lived there with a friend of hers, Miss Marsland. They had been together for a very long time, I can't tell you how long. They had lived in Italy but came to England soon after the last war broke out. Miss Marsland is a distant cousin of my sister, Mrs. Darlaston, and she offered them the use of the Lodge Cottage, which belongs to her.”

I see,” said the coroner. “Is Miss Marsland present?”

“No, she isn't,” the witness replied. “I haven't seen her since the accident.”

“You mean that she is no longer living at the Lodge Cottage?” the coroner asked.

“She's not there now,” Miss Cray replied emphatically. “When I heard what had happened I went to see her. I knew she would be very much upset and I wanted to do what I could for her. But when I got to the Lodge Cottage, she wasn't there.”

“Thank you, Miss Cray,” said the coroner. “That is all I need ask you for the present.” He consulted his notes again. “Mr. Gordon Mackay, please.”

Miss Cray vacated the chair, and a man of about thirty took her place. He was tall and thin, with reddish hair and keen grey eyes. When he spoke it was with a marked transatlantic accent. He stated that his home was in Canada, but that for the last week he had been staying as a paying guest at Springlease Hall.

“It was you, I understand, who found the body, Mr. Mackay,” said the coroner. “Will you tell me the story in full?”

“It was like this,” Mackay replied. “The day before yesterday I left Springlease Hall about half past nine in the morning. I had Miss Cray's permission to measure up the land on the other side of the road, which belongs to the Hall. I had a measuring tape in my pocket, and was going to use it.

“It was a dark, misty morning, and it had been freezing hard all night. As I came down the drive I noticed that there were patches of ice on it. Then when I came to the Lodge Cottage I saw someone lying in the middle of the paved courtyard. A few yards away an empty bucket was lying on its side.

“All I could see from the drive was the clothing, a duffle coat and the legs of a pair of corduroy trousers. I couldn't see the head, for the hood of the coat was drawn up over it, and from the dress I thought it was a man. I called out to ask if he wanted help, but got no reply. So I went through the gateway into the courtyard. Then I found that the person lying on the ground was a woman.”

“One moment, Mr. Mackay,” the coroner interposed. “Can you describe the position in which the body was lying?”

“Flat on its back, with arms and legs quite straight,” Mackay replied. “The courtyard was covered with ice, and so slippery that I nearly fell when I stepped on to it. It looked to me as if the woman had been crossing the yard with the pail in her hand, and that her feet had slipped forward, bringing her down on her back. Looking more closely, I could see blood on the hood of the duffle coat.

“I hardly knew what to do. I had been told that two ladies lived in the Lodge Cottage, and I had seen them once or twice, in the yard or at the door, as I passed by. But I had never spoken to them, and did not know their names. The back door of the Lodge Cottage was open, and I went up to it and called out. But I got no answer.

“Then I heard someone walking along the road. I went to the drive gate, and met the gentleman as he passed. I told him there had been an accident, and asked him if he would lend a hand. He came with me to the yard, and I told him that I couldn't make anyone in the cottage hear.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mackay,” said the coroner with a glance at his notes. “I will call the next witness. Mr. George Blackthorn.”

A middle-aged man, with the face of a scholar, and wearing glasses, took Mackay's place. “You are the gentleman referred to by the last witness, I believe?” the coroner asked.

“That is so,” Blackthorn replied. “I live at Brooks View, about a quarter of a mile from the Lodge Cottage. On Wednesday morning I had intended to take the quarter past nine bus to Raymouth. But I regret to say that I am of unpunctual habits, and as I was finishing my breakfast I saw the bus pass my window. Since I had missed it, I decided to walk, and about half an hour, or perhaps less, after the bus had passed I set out.

“As I reached the Lodge Cottage the last witness called to me. I had not met Mr. Mackay before, and was not then aware that he was staying at Springlease Hall, but I was well acquainted with the ladies at the Lodge Cottage. Mr. Mackay led me to the courtyard, where I found the deceased lying as he has described. I immediately recognised her as Miss Price.

“I told Mr. Mackay that I would go into the cottage and find Miss Marsland. I did so, but though I looked into every room I could not find her. I returned to the yard, and told Mr. Mackay of my failure. We agreed that our best course would be to carry Miss Price into the cottage and lay her on the sofa in the lounge there. We accomplished this task without difficulty. I then said to Mr. Mackay that if he would remain in the cottage, I would go out and telephone for Dr. Graveney.”

“Is there no telephone at the cottage?” the coroner asked.

“No, sir,” Blackthorn replied. “I was unwilling to disturb the inmates of Springlease Hall, and the distance to Brooks View was very little farther. I returned there, and rang up Dr. Graveney. I told him that Miss Price appeared to be gravely injured, and he promised to come immediately. He arrived very shortly after my return to the cottage.”

The coroner called Dr. Graveney. Although comparatively young, he had a highly developed professional air. “I am in practice at Raymouth,” he said in reply to the coroner's invitation to give his evidence. “I received Mr. Blackthorn's message a few minutes before ten o'clock on Wednesday morning. I was acquainted with Miss Price and Miss Marsland, for I had attended them both on more than one occasion. I drove to the Lodge Cottage and arrived there soon after ten. Mr. Blackthorn and Mr. Mackay, whom I had not met. before, were waiting for me. They took me into the lounge and told me what had happened.

“I proceeded to examine the deceased, and at once made the discovery that she was dead. In my opinion, death had occurred no less than an hour previously. My examination revealed extensive injuries to the back of the head, including a fracture of the base of the skull.”

“Could these injuries have been caused by the deceased falling backwards, and striking her head on the paved courtyard?” the coroner asked.

“They could, sir.” Graveney replied. “That was the opinion I formed when I was told the position in which deceased had been found. On the farther side of the yard from the cottage is a coal-shed. The bucket lying near the body suggests that deceased was crossing the yard to fill it and, while doing so, slipped on the icy surface.

“Having ascertained that Miss Marsland was not in the cottage, I drove up to Springlease Hall and informed Miss Cray of what had happened. I then drove back to Raymouth, where I told the police of the accident.”

“I received the information from the police that afternoon,” said the coroner. “As a matter of routine, I sent a note to the County Pathologist, asking him to communicate with you. Has he done so?”

“Dr. Letchworth called on me shortly after ten o'clock this morning, sir,” Graveney replied. “He told me that he had been away, and had only just received your note. I told him the facts and drove him to the Lodge Cottage, where I left him. He told me that he would attend this court as soon as he had carried out his examination.”

“Very well,” said the coroner. “Pending Dr. Letchworth's arrival, I will call Inspector Froyle.”

The inspector took the chair. “I am an inspector of police, stationed at Raymouth. On receiving Dr. Graveney's information I proceeded to the Lodge Cottage. I found there Miss Gray and Mr. Mackay. The latter showed me the spot in the courtyard where the body had been found. The surface of the yard was still icy, and I found on it two parallel scratches. These appeared to me to have been made by the slipping of a pair of narrow heels. Upon being shown the body of the deceased, I found that she was wearing shoes with such heels. From this I inferred that her feet had slipped forward, and that she had fallen on her back.”

While the inspector was giving his evidence, a man, carrying a black bag, entered the room. The coroner glanced at him and nodded. As soon as Froyle had finished speaking, the coroner dismissed him. “Will you come forward, please, Dr. Letchworth?” he asked.

The man who had just entered the room took the chair. “I am the County Pathologist. On reaching my office this morning after a couple of days' absence, I found a note from you, sir. I drove at once to Raymouth and called on Dr. Graveney. He gave me the facts, and told me that the inquest had been fixed for eleven o'clock this morning. As there was no time to be lost, Dr. Graveney drove me to the Lodge Cottage. Having obtained entrance, Dr. Graveney left me there, in order that he might attend this court. In his absence, I proceeded to examine the body.”

“Are you in agreement with Dr. Graveney's opinion as to the cause of death?” the coroner asked.

“Not entirely,” the pathologist replied. “My examination revealed the fracture of the base of the skull which Dr. Graveney had described to me. This by itself would have been sufficient to cause death. There were also certain minor lacerations of the scalp. On further examination, however, I found another major injury. This was that the neck of the deceased was broken.”

“Is it your opinion that these injuries were caused by a fall?” the coroner asked.

“My opinion is this, sir,” the pathologist replied with great deliberation. “The fracture of the skull might well have been caused by a fall backwards, resulting in the head striking the hard surface of the paved yard. This might also have accounted for the minor injuries I have mentioned. But I fail to understand how the neck could have been broken by a fall of that nature.”

“How, in your opinion, could it have been caused?” the coroner asked.

“By a violent blow,” the pathologist replied. “Cases are on record of a neck being broken by an impact under the chin forcing the head suddenly backwards. Having this in mind, I examined the chin of the deceased, but could find no trace of contusion there. On the other hand, the back of the deceased's neck was contused, as was the skull above it. I came to the conclusion that this bruising had been caused by a blow, rather than by a fall.”

“A blow delivered by a weapon of some kind?” the coroner asked.

“Very possibly,” the pathologist replied. “In my opinion this is what may have happened. The deceased may have received a violent blow on the back of her neck. This not only broke her neck, but caused her feet to slip from under her. The consequent fall may have accounted for the fractured skull and the minor injuries.”

Letchworth paused, and after exchanging a glance with his colleague, went on. “Perhaps you will allow me to say, sir, that my opinion casts no reflection upon Dr. Graveney. Having found one injury sufficient to cause death, he very naturally sought no further. In fact, it would be impossible to decide whether the blow or the fall was the actual cause of death.” The coroner did not seem particularly interested in this technical point. “Had the deceased not been struck, she might not have fallen,” he remarked. “The blow must therefore be considered as the action which caused her death. I will ask you a question, Mr. Mackay. You can answer me from where you are sitting. Did you see any object lying beside the body?”

“Only the bucket,” Mackay replied. “That was a few feet away. It was on its side, and I suppose it rolled that distance when she fell.”

“Then the deceased cannot have been struck by any flying object,” said the coroner. “Had that been the case, the object would have been found near the body. Can you form any idea, Dr. Letchworth, of the type of weapon with which such a blow could have been inflicted?”

“Certainly not a sharp weapon,” the pathologist replied. “A blunt instrument, such as an iron bar, used as a club, I should imagine.”

Until Dr. Letchworth had given his evidence, the reporter's expression had been one of complete boredom. He had to record a fatal accident, of no particular interest to anyone except those immediately concerned. But now his eyes were wide open in excitement, and he was scribbling frantically in his notebook. His report would no doubt be highly sensational. The coroner glanced at him and frowned. “Have you anything to add to what you have said, Dr. Letchworth?” he asked.

“I have nothing to add to the opinion I have expressed, sir,” the pathologist replied.

“Then you may leave the chair,” said the coroner.

He studied his notes for a while before he continued. “The evidence I have just heard casts a very sinister light upon the matter. The police will no doubt take action in accordance with the opinion they have heard expressed. However, I see no reason for adjourning this inquiry pending their investigations. I shall record a verdict that the deceased died as the result of injuries inflicted by some agency unknown.”

The two men who had taken no part in the proceedings remained in their seats until the coroner had left the room. Then one of them approached Froyle. “Let me introduce myself,” he said. “I am Inspector Arnold from the Yard. And this is my friend, Mr. Merrion, who was kind enough to drive me down.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Arnold,” Froyle replied as they shook hands. “And you too, Mr. Merrion. We shall be very glad of your help in this case, Mr. Arnold.”

“I'll do what I can,” said Arnold. “What I can't understand is why you asked the Yard to send someone down to attend the inquest. Until the pathologist gave his evidence, it looked like a very ordinary accident. I suppose you knew rather more than you said just now?”

Froyle shook his head. “I didn't. But I had my suspicions that it mightn't have been so accidental as it looked. A queer thing, which has never been explained, happened near the Lodge Cottage quite recently. I thought that if it turned out not to have been an accident, it would be just as well that the Yard should be in it from the start. And yesterday evening I persuaded my Chief to agree with me.”

“I was with Mr. Merrion when I was told to attend the inquest,” said Arnold. “And he very kindly offered to drive me down here. I should tell you that he has very considerable experience of Intelligence work, and that he has a passion for inquests.”

Merrion laughed. “Well, hardly a passion. But I have often found that an inquest leads to very interesting developments.”

“It looks as if this one would,” Arnold remarked. “If the pathologist's opinion is to be relied upon, it seems to be a pretty clear case of murder. Do you know of anyone who might have had a motive for bumping off this unfortunate woman, Mr. Froyle?”

“I didn't know her well enough for that,” Froyle replied. “I met her, and the other woman who lives at the Lodge Cottage, for the first time about a fortnight ago. I told you that a queer thing had happened. Shall we go along, and I'll show you where?”

“By all means,” Arnold replied. “Do you mind if Mr. Merrion comes with us?”

“Not in the least,” said Froyle. “The affair is no secret, and perhaps Mr. Merrion may be able to throw some light upon it. The place I want to show you is about half a mile from here.”

“My car is standing outside,” Merrion remarked. “I may as well drive you there.”

Froyle agreed to this, and they left the club room. By this time all the other people concerned in the inquest had gone, and only two cars stood outside the Horseshoes, Merrion's and Froyle's. The two policemen got into the back of the former, and Merrion took the wheel. “Which way?” he asked.

“Back towards Raymouth,” Froyle replied. Merrion turned the car and started off. While the two men in the back chatted together, he had leisure to survey his surroundings. He already knew, from observation of his mileage recorder when he had driven Arnold to the inquest, that Bruckam was rather more than three miles from Raymouth.

As he glanced round, he could see that the place was no more than a hamlet. It consisted of the Horseshoes, a general shop which was also a post office, a minute chapel, and a few scattered houses. It stood almost at the head of a shallow valley, a delightful, sheltered region of meadowland, criss-crossed with little streams, with clusters of trees here and there. The road running through the valley appeared to carry little traffic. At the head of the valley, it disappeared over a gentle rise.

Merrion drove quietly down the valley in the direction of Raymouth. He had covered about a quarter of a mile when he came to a bungalow, standing in a neat garden on the right of the road. “That's where Mr. Blackthorn lives,” said Froyle. “He calls it Brooks View, I suppose because this is known as Brooks Valley. The place I'm taking you to is about another quarter of a mile farther on.”

They passed no other houses until a building appeared ahead of them on the left of the road. “That's the Lodge Cottage,” said Froyle. “The entrance gate of Springlease Hall is just beyond it. If you'll stop outside the cottage, Mr. Merrion, we can get out there.”

Merrion obeyed this instruction, and the three of them got out of the car. Froyle led the way across the road and through a narrow gateway. They found themselves confronted by the high wire fence surrounding a hard tennis court. Merrion, whose first instinct it was to observe the lie of the land, saw that the tennis court had been laid on the side of a fair-sized meadow, surrounded by an irregular line of trees. Looking back, in the direction from which they had come, he saw in the distance, between the trees, the chimneys of Mr. Blackthorn's bungalow.

Looking across the road he could see, beside the Lodge Cottage, the entrance gate of which Froyle had spoken. From it, an avenue ran in a straight line for four or five hundred yards. At the head of it stood Springlease Hall, a medium-sized manor house, with the usual accretion of stabling and outbuildings.

While he was looking about him, Merrion overheard what Froyle was saying to Arnold. “This meadow we're in belongs to the Hall. I suppose it was what Mr. Mackay meant when he said he had Miss Cray's permission to measure up the land on the other side of the road. Now let me show you that hard court.”

There was a gateway in the wire fencing, and they passed through it. A slight distance inside, and slightly to the right, the surface of the court had been damaged. There was a shallow depression, from which radiated cracks, like the spokes of a wheel.

“I'll tell you how that happened,” Froyle went on. “I must explain that no constable is stationed at Bruckam. A man from Raymouth patrols the neighbourhood at intervals. A fortnight ago yesterday, this man came here. When he got back he made a report to me. He had met Mr. Blackthorn, who had told him that there had been an explosion on the hard tennis court about dusk the previous evening.

“This seemed to me to be a matter for investigation. I thought it just possible that an unexploded bomb, dropped during the war, had gone off. Anyhow, it was my duty to look into the matter. I drove over, and since the Lodge Cottage was the nearest house to the tennis court, I called there.

“Both ladies were at home, and told me their names were Miss Marsland and Miss Price. I asked them if they had heard the explosion, and they assured me that they had. They had been sitting in the lounge, which looks on to the road, when there was what one of them described as a terrific bang, and a flash which they could see, though the curtains were drawn across the window. They discovered later that a pane in the window of the room above had been broken, and that the glass was scattered over the bed. That room, they told me, was Miss Price's bedroom.

“They had naturally been alarmed, but they plucked up the courage to investigate. It was a wet evening, and they put on their duffle coats and overshoes before they went out. They told me that it must have been about five minutes after the explosion when they left the house. As soon as they reached the road they saw a light close at hand and a voice hailed them. Mr. Blackthorn was there, holding a torch. He told them that he had heard the explosion from Brooks View, and that as it seemed to come from the direction of the Lodge Cottage, he had hurried along to see that they were all right.”

“Mr. Blackthorn seems to have the knack of being on the spot when anything out of the way happens,” Arnold remarked.

Froyle nodded. “That very thought struck me last Wednesday morning. I'd better say at once that I know nothing about Mr. Blackthorn. I was appointed to Raymouth only last October, and I haven't yet got to know the folk living round about.

“Well, to get on with my story. The noise of the explosion collected quite a crowd, for it had been clearly heard in Bruckam. The people from Springlease Hall came along too. But nobody seems to have explored this hard court, then or later. It was getting pretty dark, and the crowd dispersed, without anyone having located the source of the explosion. After I left the cottage I had a good look round, and it was then that I discovered the damage to the tennis court. But what it was that went off I can't imagine. What do you make of it, Mr. Arnold?”

“Not a lot,” Arnold replied. “You've had a lot to do with explosives, Merrion. What do you say?”

Merrion had been examining the depression and the cracks radiating from it. “There's no question of the explosion having occurred below the ground,” he replied. “It was entirely superficial. The appearances suggest that something like this happened. A charge of high explosive, such as a stick of gelignite, or part of one, was laid on the surface of the court, where the depression is. It was then exploded, probably by means of a slow match and a detonator. The charge was not tamped in any way, by which I mean that nothing solid was laid on top of it. If it had been tamped, the damage to the court would have been far greater than it is. There would probably have been a sizeable crater. As it was, the main force of the explosion was upwards, into the air. And that would account for the intensity of the flash.”

“But what was the idea?” Froyle asked. “Whoever laid the charge couldn't have supposed that it would blow down the cottage across the road.”

“Perhaps he thought that the shock would prove fatal to the ladies in it,” Arnold suggested. “Did either of them suffer from a weak heart?”

“That I couldn't say,” Froyle replied. “I daresay Dr. Graveney could tell us. You spoke of a stick of gelignite, Mr. Merrion. There's a stone quarry not far from Raymouth, where they're always blasting. Maybe that's where it came from.”

“I can't say definitely that gelignite was the explosive used,” said Merrion. “But it was that or something similar. Such as gun-cotton, for instance.”

“Well, it's no immediate concern of ours,” said Arnold. “Now that we're here, I should like to see the yard where the body was found.”

They left the tennis court and crossed the road. The cottage stood back a little way, with a front garden between it and the road, from which a gate and a pathway led to the front door. But Froyle led the way through the entrance at the end of the avenue, and a few yards up it. This brought them to another gate, opening into the yard at the back of the cottage. From the spot which they, had reached, the whole of the yard, and the back door of the cottage were visible.

They passed through the gateway. Froyle walked a few paces across the yard and stopped. “This is about where I found the marks on the ice,” he said. “There's been a thaw since then, and you can't see them. Just about half-way between the back door and that coal-shed yonder.

“The bucket suggests that Miss Price was going to fetch some coal,” Arnold replied. “When she reached the spot where you're standing, she would have had her back turned to the gate. Mr. Mackay said that she was wearing a duffle coat with the hood drawn over her head. It would have covered her ears, and she might not have heard anyone coming up behind her.”

“I daresay that was about it,” Froyle agreed. “Would you like to look into the cottage while we're here?” He went up to the back door, tried it, and found it locked. “That's rather what I expected,” he said. “I saw the pathologist give the key to Dr. Graveney, who passed it on to Miss Cray. We could run up to the Hall and ask her for it.”

“Not just now,” Arnold replied. “I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to feel it's time to have something to eat. Is there anywhere round here one can get a spot of lunch?”

“You might get a snack at the Horseshoes,” said Froyle. “But if you want a proper meal, you'll have to run into Raymouth. That's where I'm going.”

Arnold caught Merrion's eye. “The Horseshoes will suit us,” he replied. “I daresay Mr. Merrion will run us back there, and you can pick up your car.”

They drove back to the Horseshoes. “I shall have to make a report to my Chief,” said Froyle. “I expect he'll want to see me, so I shall stay in Raymouth. If you want me for anything, you've only got to ring up.”

He got into his car and drove off. “Now we can have a chat by ourselves,” said Arnold.

CHAPTER TWO

MERRION GLANCED at the inscription over the door of the Horseshoes. It read, ' Micah L. Hartlip. Licensed to sell wine, beer or spirits, to be consumed on or off the premises.' “I always like to know the name of the landlord before I go into a strange pub,” he remarked. “Go ahead.”

Arnold opened the door, and they entered a small public bar in which two or three men were sitting at a long table, each with a mug of beer in front of him. Behind the counter a cheerful-looking middle-aged woman was standing, talking to her customers. Arnold went up to her. “Good morning. Could you let us have something to eat?”

“Why yes,” she replied readily. “What would you like, I wonder? I've got some very nice pork pies. They're fresh in this morning.”

“Nothing could be better,” said Arnold. “And a couple of pints of bitter to wash them down with?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “Would you like to go into the parlour? There's a fire in there, and I'll bring you the pies and the beer in half a minute.”

A cosy little parlour opened off the bar. Arnold and Merrion went in, to find that no one else was there. A bright fire was burning, and a bowl of snowdrops stood on the table. “Snug enough,” said Merrion appreciatively. “We couldn't have done better.”

A few seconds later Mrs. Hartlip came in with a tray. “There you are,” she said as she laid it on the table. “You'll enjoy those pies, I'm sure. They're made locally, and they're fresh as a daisy. And if there's anything else you want, you've only got to open the door and call.”

She went out, shutting the door behind her. “Excellent! ” said Merrion. “Now, as you remarked a minute ago we can have a chat by ourselves. What line are you taking? Murder by some person unknown?”

“That pathologist chap wouldn't have said what he did if he hadn't been pretty sure of that.” Arnold replied.

“It was a dramatic moment,” said Merrion. “It looked just like an accident until he cut in with that story of a broken neck. But even before then I had begun to wonder. What has become of the other woman who lived at the Lodge Cottage? Was she there when Miss Price started out to fetch the coal?”

Arnold cut into his pork pie and tasted it. “Jolly good,” he said. “I was feeling so ravenous that my brain wouldn't work. The answer to your question is that we've got to find out a lot more about those two women. I'm inclined to start by talking to Miss Cray. She said that the missing woman was a distant cousin of her sister's. If that's the case, she must be a distant cousin of hers.”

“I'm not sure that that's the line I should take,” Merrion replied. “Relatives are apt to be prejudiced, not always in favour of one another. Why not start with Mr. Blackthorn? He said that he was well acquainted with the ladies at the Lodge Cottage.”

“I don't know how far he's to be trusted,” said Arnold. “What if it turns out that he was mixed up in the affair?”

“By questioning him, you might find out,” Merrion replied. “I know what's in your mind. Not only did he come along directly after Mr. Mackay had found the body, but he was there or thereabouts when the two women went out to look for the cause of the explosion. Which brings us to another question. Do you suppose that there is any connection between the death of Miss Price and the explosion a fortnight previously?”

Arnold shook his head. “I can't make out that explosion. The only effect it seems to have had was to crack up a perfectly good hard court.”

“And that not very seriously,” Merrion agreed. “There's one point that struck me while we were there. Whoever was responsible for it needn't have used the road. He could have come and gone by the meadow. However, that's by the way. We're not concerned with the explosion, but with the murder, assuming that it was one. Let's piece together the times, as they were stated at the inquest.

“Mackay said that he left Springlease Hall about half past nine. You may be able to verify that. It would have taken him at least five minutes to walk down the avenue until he came to the cottage. That puts the time of his discovery of the body not earlier than five and twenty minutes to ten.

“Next we come to Dr. Graveney. He got to the cottage soon after ten. That's pretty vague, but we may put it as not later than ten minutes past. He formed the opinion that death had taken place not less than an hour previously. Again pretty vague, but we may say somewhere about nine. Miss Price must have been dead for at least half an hour before her body was found.”

“You've finished your pork pie,” said Arnold. “Have another? I'm going to.”

“Not for me, thanks,” Merrion replied. “But you have another, by all means. The absorption of pig's flesh, not to say pastry, may act as a stimulus to your brain. Have you been listening to what I was saying?”

Arnold laughed. He went to the door and called out to Mrs. Hartlip, asking her to bring him another pie. “I'm beginning to feel better already,” he said as he resumed his seat. “Yes, I've been listening. Plenty of time for the murderer to get away.”

“How did he, or she, if you prefer it, get away?” Merrion asked. “Wait till I've had a word with our excellent landlady.”

Mrs. Hartlip came in with a plate on which was another pie, “Here you are, sir. I'm glad you enjoyed the first. Wouldn't your friend like another? There's plenty in the larder.”

Merrion shook his head. “I find one quite enough for a meal. But you can tell us something. What time does the first bus leave here for Raymouth?”

“There are only two,” Mrs. Hartlip replied. “One in the morning and one in the afternoon. They run between Raymouth and Featherby, about eight miles along the road from here. The morning bus stops outside our door at a quarter past nine, and it's usually pretty punctual.”

“Would it stop to pick up anyone on the road?” Merrion asked.

“No, they're very strict about that,” Mrs. Hartlip replied. “If anyone wants to catch the bus, they've got to go to one of the regular stopping places. And there's only one other between here and Raymouth. At Sandy Cross, a good two miles from here.”

Merrion thanked her and she left the room. “You remember what Mr. Blackthorn said about meaning to catch the bus,” said Merrion. “It passed his door, but wouldn't have stopped there. This being the nearest stopping place, he would have had to come here, leaving his bungalow not later than ten minutes past nine.

“Now suppose that someone who was at the Lodge Cottage at nine o'clock that morning had wanted to catch the bus. Consider the distance first. From here to the Lodge Cottage is exactly half a mile. That would make the distance from the Lodge Cottage to Sandy Cross not less than a mile and a half.

“Now turn from distances to times. The bus leaves here at nine fifteen. Assuming that it travels at thirty miles an hour, it should reach Sandy Cross at nine nineteen, say nine twenty. Our supposed passenger could board it either here or at Sandy Cross. If here, fifteen minutes would be available in which to cover half a mile, a walking speed of two miles an hour. If at Sandy Cross, twenty minutes would be available in which to cover a mile and a half, a walking speed of four and a half miles an hour, which is remarkably good going.”

“Where is all this arithmetic leading us to?” Arnold asked.

“I'm thinking about the means by which the murderer got away,” Merrion replied. “It doesn't follow that he went by bus, but on the whole it seems probable that he did. I say he, but we can't exclude the possibility that the murderer was a woman. The disappearance of Miss Marsland is certainly curious. I don't believe that an elderly woman, leaving the cottage at nine o'clock, could have caught the bus at Sandy Cross. Did Miss Marsland catch it here?”

“If she did, someone in the place would have seen her.” Arnold replied.

“No doubt,” Merrion agreed. “But could that person swear to which day it was? The bus runs every morning, and no doubt Miss Marsland is a familiar figure in the village. Would anyone have made a mental note of the morning on which she caught the bus? Whereas, had a stranger been seen to catch it, more attention would have been paid to him, or her.”

“Well, there's something in that,” said Arnold. “But I don't think it's very likely that a stranger murdered Miss Price.”

“A stranger to the village need not necessarily have been a stranger to his victim,” Merrion replied.

“That's true enough,” said Arnold. “I'm ready to get down to work again. And it seems to me that the first thing to do is to get the key of the Lodge Cottage and have a look round there.”

They left the parlour and went into the bar. The men sitting at the table had gone, and Mrs. Hartlip was talking to another man who was standing at the counter. “He won't be able to this afternoon, Mr. Blackthorn,” she was saying. “It'll take him all his time to put the club room to rights after the inquest this morning. But I'll speak to him and ask him if he can put in an hour or two to-morrow.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hartlip,” Mr. Blackthorn replied. “I shall be very much obliged to your husband if he can do that.” He turned and, after an inquisitive glance at Arnold and Merrion, left the house.

Merrion paid the bill, a very modest one, and he and Arnold went out. “There he is,” said Merrion, “strolling off down the road. It seems to me that Providence has put him in your way. If I were you, I shouldn't miss the chance of a chat with him. We'll follow him in the car, and offer him a lift when we catch up with him.”

“That's not at all a bad idea,” said Arnold. They got into the car, and Merrion drove off. In a few seconds they overtook the walker. Merrion put his head out of the window and called out. “Would you care for a lift home, Mr. Blackthorn?”

Mr. Blackthorn accepted the invitation with alacrity. “That is extremely kind of you,” he replied. He got into the back of the car, and Merrion started off again slowly. “I saw you two gentlemen at the inquest this morning,” said Mr. Blackthorn. “And I allowed myself to wonder who the strangers might be.”

“We weren't there out of mere curiosity,” Arnold replied. “My name is Arnold, and I come from Scotland Yard. And this is my friend, Mr. Merrion.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Blackthorn exclaimed. “I am most happy to learn that steps are already being taken to unravel this terrible mystery. I was completely staggered by the pathologist's evidence. I could never have believed that such a thing could happen in a quiet spot like this.”

“Unexpected things do happen here, I'm told,” Arnold replied. “Wasn't there an explosion about a fortnight ago? I'd like you to tell me about that, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“I'd be glad to,” said Blackthorn. “Here we are. That bungalow on the right, if you will be so good, Mr. Merrion. I hope you will both come in?”

Merrion stopped the car, and the three of them got out. Mr. Blackthorn led them into the bungalow, to a room furnished in a fashion between a study and a lounge. All round the walls stood glass cases containing stuffed birds.

Seeing that his visitors glanced at these with some curiosity. Blackthorn explained. “My hobby is ornithology. Quite in an amateur way, and entirely local. All the birds you see are to be found in the valley here. I amuse myself by bird-watching, or it would be more correct to say bird-listening, for it is the nocturnal birds in which I am most interested. The valley is full of them. Nightingales are a commonplace, and we have many rare birds. For instance nightjars and the less common varieties of owls. I have even heard the booming of a bittern. But am letting my hobby run away with me. Pray sit down.”

There was a bright log fire smouldering in the grate. Blackthorn gave this a poke and arranged three chairs round it. “If you gentlemen care to smoke, please do so,” he said. “It is a habit I have never acquired myself, but I like to see my friends enjoying it.”

Merrion lighted a cigarette, while Arnold filled his pipe. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Blackthorn,” said Arnold. “I shall be very grateful if you will tell us what you can about that explosion.”

“I can't tell you very much,” Blackthorn replied. “On Thursday evening, a fortnight ago, I was in my garden, talking to Hartlip, who keeps the Horseshoes. He is a very keen gardener, and he works for me in his spare time. He had been digging in my garden all the afternoon, and had only knocked off when it was getting too dark for him to see.

“I was paying him for the time he had put in, when there was a flash and a violent explosion which rattled the windows. It was far too loud for a firework, or anything like that. It seemed to come from the direction of the Lodge Cottage, and my first thought was for the two ladies who lived there. I came indoors, picked up a torch, and started off down the road as fast as I could.

“When I reached the Lodge Cottage I was greatly relieved to see both Miss Marsland and Miss Price standing outside. They admitted that the explosion had scared them, but they told me that it had not been in the cottage. In the roadway where we were standing, they thought.

“While we were talking, people began to arrive on the scene. The folk from the Hall, and several villagers from Bruckam. The explosion must have been audible for miles around. Being reassured as to the safety of the ladies, I felt that there was no more I could do, and I went home. Next day I met the constable who patrols the village, and I told him of the occurrence. It was not until later that I heard that the hard tennis court opposite the Lodge Cottage had been damaged.”

“Did either of the ladies suffer from a weak heart?” Arnold asked.

“Oh, dear me, no,” Blackthorn replied. “They were both extremely strong and active for their age. Miss Marsland is well on in the seventies, and Miss Price some ten years younger. They have never employed any domestic help, and have done all the work themselves.”

“You can tell us something about them, perhaps?” Arnold suggested.

“I have known them ever since they came to live at the Lodge Cottage,” Blackthorn replied. “And they have often spoken to me of their past. Miss Tryphena Marsland and Miss Phoebe Price, whom her friend always called Poppy, had shared a home for many years. Miss Price had at one time been on the stage, but had long since retired.

“For some years before the war they had been running a bridge club for the benefit of English people living in Alassio, in Italy. This of course came to an end when war broke out. They were compelled to leave Italy, and came to England, more or less as refugees. Miss Marsland is a distant cousin of Mrs. Darlaston, and having nowhere else to go, they sought shelter at Springlease Hall.

“Walter Darlaston was alive then, and a more good-hearted fellow never breathed. He and his wife welcomed the homeless fugitives with open arms. And a permanent arrangement was made for them. The gardener's lodge was empty, for the gardener, Carlake was his name, I remember, was a reservist, and had rejoined his regiment. His wife had gone to live with relatives in London. So the lodge, re-christened the Lodge Cottage, was equipped with some spare furniture from the Hall, and the two ladies were installed there.

“I very soon got to know them, and we became very good friends. They had odd mannerisms, which I personally found amusing, but which did not always appeal to other people. Miss Cray, for example, who is nothing if not downright and practical, found their affectation of cosmopolitan worldliness profoundly irritating. Her niece Julie, on the other hand, was genuinely fond of the old dears.”

Mr. Blackthorn paused and smiled. “From my point of view, it was as though a pair of exotic birds had settled in the valley, and I liked to study them. They were given to drinking toasts to absent friends, in sparkling cider, which they drank from Venetian glasses, all they had salvaged from their Italian villa. They were always introducing Italian phrases into their conversation, another thing which annoyed Miss Cray, who knows no language but her own.

“Their indoor clothing defies my description. I can only say that the colours they wore dazzled me, and that I was almost deafened by the jangling of beads when they moved. In contrast to this was their dress when they worked out-of-doors, as they frequently did. Then they wore duffle coats with hoods, trousers, and very often gum-boots. They might have been mistaken for industrious gnomes.”

“They had means of some kind, I take it?” Arnold asked.

Blackthorn shook his head. “That is more than I can tell you. I have often wondered what they lived on, for they told me that they had had to leave almost everything they possessed in Italy. But they seemed to be able to afford the necessities of life, and a few extras as well. Miss Price, for instance, confided in me that she could not resist gambling, and that she backed horses. Only a shilling or two at a time, but she was very lucky, and rarely lost.”

“They can hardly have lived on Miss Price's winnings,” Arnold remarked.

“We exist in a Welfare State,” Blackthorn replied. “They may have drawn the old age pension, or received public assistance. If they did, they were far too proud to let their friends know. In fact, they never discussed their financial affairs, at all events with me.”

“When did you last see Miss Marsland?” Arnold asked.

“Last Tuesday evening,” Blackthorn replied. “I had some letters to post, and as I reached the post office Miss Marsland was coming out. She told me that she had been to buy a postal order for Poppy, who was busy doing some ironing. We started back together, and when we reached this door I asked Miss Marsland to come in and have a rest. But she refused, saying that she felt she must get back and help Poppy. I have seen nothing of Miss Marsland since then.”

“She said nothing to you about going away?” Arnold asked.

“Nothing whatever,” Blackthorn replied. “I feel sure that she had no intention of going away, at all events not immediately. She told me that she had met Julie that morning, and had asked her to come to tea next day, which she had promised to do. I find Miss Marsland's disappearance most disquieting, in view of the evidence I heard this morning.”

“You have no theory to account for it?” Arnold asked.

Blackthorn hesitated. “You may think me an alarmist, Mr. Arnold. But this is how I see it. Until this morning I supposed, as others did, that Miss Price had been the victim of an unfortunate accident. Now there appears to be a strong possibility that she was murdered. Was she the only victim?”

“You mean that Miss Marsland may have been murdered too?” Arnold asked. “If that was so, how is it that her body has not been found?”

“It may have been concealed,” Blackthorn replied darkly. “Concealment would be easy. The grounds of the Hall surround the Lodge Cottage, and extend as far as the boundary of this bungalow. They are mostly woodland, with clearings here and there. A path leads through them, and comes out on to the road beside this house. It is little used, and probably nobody but myself strays far from it.”

“You are given to exploring the grounds, then?” Arnold asked.

“Well, hardly that,” Blackthorn replied. “But I have permission to enter them when I please. They are a favourite haunt of nocturnal birds, and at the appropriate season I often stroll through them after dark. But not at this time of year, I assure you. I have not been into them since last autumn.”

“Tell us about Springlease Hall, and the people who live there,” said Arnold.

“Willingly,” Blackthorn replied. “I should say that I have lived here for twenty-five years, during which I have seen many changes. The Hall has been in the possession of the Darlaston family for generations. When I first came here, the head of the family was Walter Darlaston. He lived at the Hall with his wife Letitia, his son Cecil, and his daughter Julie. The establishment was run on a fairly extensive scale, with indoor and outdoor servants. The Darlastons entertained freely, and there were nearly always visitors staying in the house. I have wondered since whether Walter Darlaston's generosity did not lead him to live beyond his means.

“Then came the war, which altered everything. The head gardener was the first to go, as I have told you. Cecil was called up, and joined the Navy. Walter Darlaston was given an administrative post in London. The domestic staff drifted away in various capacities, until Mrs. Darlaston and Julie were left alone.

“Tragedy followed swiftly. Walter Darlaston was killed in an air raid on London. A few weeks later, the ship in which Cecil was serving was torpedoed, and he was drowned. These bereavements completely broke up Mrs. Darlaston, and she became a semi-invalid. She has never recovered, and rarely leaves her suite in the Hall. Julie has always looked after her, keeping her warm and comfortable, and filling her rooms with flowers.

“It was during the last year of the war that Miss Helena Cray, Mrs. Darlaston's elder sister, came to reside permanently at the Hall. She had often stayed there previously, but only for short periods at a time. I can tell you nothing of her life prior to her coming here, but I believe she had a flat in London. The truth is that I avoid Miss Cray whenever possible. I find her personality rather too formidable. Only very rarely do I go to the Hall nowadays, and then it is to call on Mrs. Darlaston and Julie.

“I do not know what financial arrangement was come to between Miss Cray and her sister and niece. But I gather that Miss Cray put such capital as she possessed into what has now become a business. Miss Cray is not the sort of person to have any illusions about family pride. Springlease Hall has descended to the level of what I believe is called a guest-house. At all events, paying guests are welcomed. My imagination boggles at the idea of what Walter Darlaston would have thought of it.

“Mrs. Darlaston takes no part in these activities. She remains in her suite, thinking, or choosing to think, that the strangers about the house are just friends come to stay. Miss Cray and Julie run the establishment. Miss Cray doing the managing and Julie most of the work. There are usually three or four paying guests at the Hall. Nearly always men, since Miss Cray is of the opinion that they give less trouble than women.

“I have reason to know that Miss Cray has always disapproved of the two ladies living at the Lodge Cottage rent free. She believes that if the cottage were vacant, it could be let to advantage. She would like to have turned them out long ago, but Mrs. Darlaston would hear of no such thing. So they have been allowed to remain.”

“Have you ever become acquainted with the paying guests, Mr. Blackthorn?” Arnold asked.

Blackthorn shrugged his shoulders slightly. “They and go. I suppose I must have seen most of them at one time or another. But I have never really got to know any of them. I had never seen Mr. Mackay until he called to me that terrible morning. As I tell you, my visits to the Hall are infrequent.

“The only one of the paying guests with whom I have ever formed even a nodding acquaintance is a young fellow who has been staying there for some little time, of the name of Roding. He came here one morning and asked most apologetically, if he might use my telephone. The instruments at both the Hall and the post office were out of order, and he had an urgent call to make. I told him that he might and he was extremely grateful. Since then we have spoken to one another whenever we chanced to meet.”

“What does a young man like that find to do in a place like this?” Arnold asked.

Blackthorn smiled. “He is staying at the Hall for a very definite purpose. But you would never guess what that purpose is. Believe it or not, he is learning to fly a helicopter. He has a motor cycle, and almost every day he rides to the airport near Raymouth. He flies his beastly machine over here sometimes. I'm always afraid that he'll scare the birds away, but he hasn't so far, I'm thankful to say. He told me not long ago that when he was sufficiently proficient he would be able to land the thing on the hard tennis court.”

“On the tennis court?” Arnold asked. “I suppose he didn't drop a bomb on it the other evening?”

“He would never have dreamed of playing such a prank,” Blackthorn replied. “He is a very pleasant young man, with charming manners.”

“And to drop a bomb would be grossly ill-mannered,” said Arnold. “Are there any other paying guests at the Hall at the present time?”

“I know of only one other,” Blackthorn replied. “And I forget his name, if I have ever heard it. He has some occupation in Raymouth, and goes there every morning by bus. I travel on the bus once a week as a rule, and I always see him on it.”

“You meant to go into Raymouth by bus on Wednesday morning, you said?” Arnold remarked.

“I did,” Blackthorn replied. “I wanted to go to the bank, and to fetch a pair of glasses that I had left for repair. But I was reading a magazine while I was having breakfast, and I became engrossed in a most interesting article dealing with the habits of owls. I looked up just in time to see the bus go past the window. A minute later Thelma came into the room and was very much surprised to find me there. She said that she thought I had gone to catch the bus. I told her that I had intended to, but that as I had missed it, I should have to walk.”

“May I ask who Thelma is?” said Arnold.

“Thelma Kersey,” Blackthorn replied. “She is the daughter of the couple who keep the general shop in the village, and a most conscientious girl. She comes here every morning to get my meals ready and do the housework. I should be very sorry to lose her.”

“You were on your way to Raymouth when you reached the Lodge Cottage and Mr. Mackay called to you?” Arnold asked.

Blackthorn nodded. “That is so. I left here at half past nine. I am a fairly rapid walker, and I expected to reach Raymouth within the hour. But of course I never got there. After what I had experienced, I did not feel inclined to go any farther. The death of my old friend Miss Price was a great shock to me.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion and both rose. “Thank you for what you have told us, Mr. Blackthorn,” said Arnold. “We will not trespass upon your hospitality any longer. We shall meet again, no doubt.”

CHAPTER THREE

ARNOLD AND MERRION left the bungalow and got into the car. “Mr. Blackthorn is well provided with alibis,” Merrion remarked. “He was talking to Hartlip when whatever it was that caused the explosion went off. Thelma Kersey can testify that he was at home when the bus went past on Wednesday morning, which must have been shortly after a quarter past nine.”

“He told us a lot of interesting things,” Arnold replied. “But nothing that throws much light upon the motive for the murder. True, Miss Cray would have liked the Lodge Cottage to be vacant. But I can hardly imagine that she would have gone to such lengths to achieve her end. And his idea that Miss Marsland may have been murdered too, and her body concealed strikes me as rather fantastic. Why should any murderer have left one body where it was and concealed the other?”

“My imagination can provide an answer to that,” Merrion replied. “Miss Marsland's body was concealed in order to create the impression that she had committed the murder and bolted.”

“I'm not at all sure that that isn't what actually happened,” said Arnold. “I don't believe in that hidden body. It's quite likely that those two women had a violent quarrel about something or other. One of them hit the other over the back of the head and cleared out.

“And that brings me to something else. That chap Blackthorn told us about a man who goes to Raymouth every morning by bus. If he caught the bus on Wednesday morning, he may be able to tell us who else boarded it.”

“He may,” Merrion agreed. “If he took all that much notice. We'd better be getting along to Springlease Hall, if you want that key.”

They drove to the entrance of the avenue beside the Lodge Cottage, and thence up to the house. Arnold got out, rang the front-door bell, and after a short interval was admitted. It was a few minutes before he came out again and got into the car beside Merrion. “When Blackthorn said he found Miss Cray formidable, he wasn't far out,” he said. “A girl opened the door to me. She must have been Julie Darlaston, for when I said that I wanted the key to the Lodge Cottage she replied that she would have to ask her aunt. She went off, and after a while came back with Miss Cray, who looked at me witheringly and asked me if I was the undertaker's man. I had to show her my official card before I could convince her who I was. Even then, she didn't seem to want to trust me with the key. But I got it out of her at last, and here it is.”

Merrion drove back down the avenue, and pulled up a few yards short of the gate leading into the yard of the cottage. “Just a moment before we go in,” he said. “Go to the back door, and stay there till you hear me call. Then walk across the yard to the coal-shed and back again.”

Arnold went through the gateway, while Merrion walked on to the road. He stopped just outside the entrance gate, and turned round. From where he stood the back door was hidden from him, but he could see part of the yard and the coal-shed at the farther end of it. “Right away!” he called.

In a few seconds Arnold appeared from behind the cottage. He walked to the coal-shed, turned, and went back again. Merrion joined him at the back door. “That settles one small point,” he said. “Miss Price could have been seen going to the coal-shed by anyone passing along the road. You came into my sight when you reached just about the spot where her body was found. By the way, I suppose we'd better verify that it is a coal-shed.”

They walked up to it, and found that the door had no lock but was secured by a latch. Opening the door revealed that the shed did indeed contain a few hundredweights of coal and some garden tools. Beside the shed was an exceptionally large dustbin. Merrion lifted the lid to find that it was nearly empty, with only a thin layer of potato peelings and tea leaves covering the bottom. “Well, now that my curiosity is satisfied, let's go indoors,” he said.

They returned to the back door, which Arnold unlocked with the key he had procured. They entered, to find themselves in the kitchen. The first thing that struck Merrion was the untidiness of it. The range was out, and on it was a kettle which had boiled dry. On the table were the remains of a frugal breakfast. A large carton, half full of some cereal, a teapot, with the leaves still in it, a jug, in which was a little milk which had gone sour. In addition, two tea cups, soup plates and spoons, all of which showed signs of having been used.

“Two people, presumably Miss Marsland and Miss Price, had breakfast in here on Wednesday morning,” said Merrion. “When they had finished, Miss Price went out to fetch some coal before they washed up. If you look into that scuttle beside the range, you'll see that it is empty. As a scuttle is an awkward thing to carry, she took a bucket to fetch the coal in. But she never got as far as the coal-shed.”

“Breakfast for two,” Arnold remarked. “That means that Miss Marsland can't have been far away when her friend was murdered.”

“It looks very like it,” Merrion agreed. “And if she was in this room, and Miss Price had shut the door behind her, as she probably did. Miss Marsland wouldn't have seen what happened. The window looks over the yard, but as you may observe, the curtain is drawn across it. We are told that it was a dark morning, and this seems to confirm the fact. The ladies had breakfast by the light of the lamp hanging over the table.”

“Mr. Mackay says he found the back door open,” said Arnold.

“It doesn't follow that Miss Price left it open,” Merrion replied. “Miss Marsland may have done that when she left the house. There's not much more to see here. We'll go on to the living-room.”

The inner door of the kitchen opened into a narrow passage, at the farther end of which was the front door. Arnold examined this, to find that it was locked and bolted. On either side of the passage was a door. The first they opened led into a small room furnished as a dining-room. The thin layer of dust on the table suggested that it was little used.

The other door led into the lounge. At one end of the room was a sofa, on which lay the body of Miss Price, covered with a sheet. The outer clothing she had been wearing at the time of her death was piled roughly on a nearby chair. Duffle coat, corduroy trousers, and a pair of well worn shoes.

The room was equipped with shabby, old-fashioned furniture. There was even a marble-topped console-table, with gilt legs. The carpet was of the best possible quality, but faded and worn. “You remember what Blackthorn told us?” Merrion remarked. “Stuff out of the lumber room at the Hall, no doubt. And there, on that console-table, are the Venetian glasses he told us about.”

But Arnold was staring at what was perhaps the most conspicuous object in the room. Standing on the mantelpiece was a piece of bright red cardboard, cut in the shape of a heart, with a miniature arrow stuck through the middle of it. “Look at that! ” Arnold exclaimed. “What the dickens do you suppose they stuck that up there for? It's the queerest ornament for a mantelpiece I've ever seen.”

Merrion smiled. “Don't you know what it is? Have you overlooked the fact that last Tuesday was St. Valentine's Day? Somebody sent the ladies, or one of them, a valentine. Take it down and look on the back. You may find the name of the sender.”

But the back of the card was blank. Arnold put it back, and he and Merrion examined the room. Everything in it was in order, except that the fire had died out and the ashes had not been swept up. On either side of the fireplace was an arm-chair, turned towards the warmth of the fire. Between these was another smaller chair, on the seat of which was a soft cushion. This was indented in such a way as to show that it had been sat on.

“That chair didn't normally stand there,” said Merrion. “Nobody arranges a room so that one of the chairs blocks the whole of the hearth. It was drawn up for a third person to sit on. Very soon before the cottage became empty, for the cushion hasn't been shaken since that person sat on it. What do you make of that?”

“Why, that the ladies had a visitor,” Arnold replied. “They did sometimes. Blackthorn, for instance, used to call on them.”

“Yes, but when did they have this visitor?” Merrion asked. “Not before breakfast on Wednesday, I'll warrant. For one thing, the fire wouldn't have been lighted then. On Tuesday evening, I don't doubt. And I shouldn't wonder if it was the visitor who brought the valentine. It would be an awkward thing to pack and send by post. Who was the visitor, I wonder?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter? Miss Price wasn't murdered on Tuesday evening, that's quite certain.”

“Well, never mind,” Merrion replied. “Shall we go upstairs?”

A narrow staircase led from the passage to a landing on the first floor. Here there were two doors, both of them ajar. Over the dining-room was a bedroom, where the bed had been slept in and not remade. Otherwise the room was tidy. The window was closed, and the putty round one of the panes was smooth and had not been painted.

“This was Miss Price's room,” said Merrion. “We were told that one of the panes in the window of her room had been broken by the explosion. A new pane has been put in since then. Now let's look in the other room, which must have been Miss Marsland's.”

They crossed the landing to the second bedroom. The state of this was in striking contrast to the first, for everything was in disorder. This bed also had been slept in and not remade. The drawers of the chest and the door of the wardrobe were wide open, and brightly coloured garments littered the floor. A cup and saucer had been swept off the bedside table and lay smashed to pieces on the floor.

Arnold surveyed this with deep interest. “Why this room and not the other? Has this one been ransacked in a search for valuables?”

“I hardly think so,” Merrion replied. “It must have been fairly common knowledge that the ladies didn't possess any valuables. The only things I've seen worth much are those Venetian glasses downstairs, and they're still there. It seems to me far more likely that Miss Marsland made all this litter herself.”

“Whatever for?” Arnold asked.

“Oh, not intentionally,” Merrion replied. “It was just that she was in too great a hurry to put things back where she had taken them from. She rummaged through her things looking for what she wanted to take with her. When she cleared out, which she must have done soon after nine o'clock, she would naturally want to take a few things with her.”

“You don't think she was murdered, then?” Arnold asked.

“I never did,” Merrion replied. “In spite of Blackthorn's opinion. And now I'm sure of it. Nor do I think it's very likely that she murdered her friend. She may have panicked, and bolted because she was afraid she would be suspected of the murder.”

“Perhaps your imagination can suggest where she bolted to.” Arnold remarked.

“There appears to be only one means of escape from this place,” Merrion replied. “And that is to take the bus to Raymouth. From there I suppose one can get anywhere, by rail or bus. But let's see what else there is on this floor.”

There was nothing else but a bathroom and lavatory, neither of which showed any sign of disorder. “There's nothing to keep us here any longer,” said Merrion. “I'll drive you back to the Hall, and you can return the key. And what then?”

“I'll get you to drive me into Raymouth,” Arnold replied. “I want to talk to Froyle about what we've seen and heard this afternoon. You'll be going back to your rooms in London, I suppose?”

Merrion shook his head. “I've nothing to do in London for the next few days. And I don't feel inclined to go home to High Eldersham. Mavis will be away for the next week or so, staying with friends, and I always feel lonely at home without her. Do you propose to stay in Raymouth?”

“I expect so,” Arnold replied. “As you know, I brought a suitcase with me, in case I had to.”

“So did I, not knowing what our expedition would lead to,” said Merrion. “But I don't mean to stay in Raymouth. Why should I, while there is a guest-house on the spot?”

“What?” Arnold exclaimed. “You mean to stay at Springlease Hall as a paying guest?”

“That's what I intend to do,” Merrion replied. “But I don't for a moment suggest that you should. It would cramp everyone's style to have Scotland Yard in the house. Miss Cray already knows who you are, but she doesn't know who I am. I shall give as my reason for staying at the Hall that I'm looking for a house to buy in this neighbourhood. That will give me a pretext for going out when and where I like. And I may be able to pick up a few bits of information that will be useful to you.”

“That's true enough,” Arnold agreed. “You'll keep in touch with me?”

“Of course,” Merrion replied. “I shall have the car, and I'll run into Raymouth at least once a day. But we won't ring one another up, that would give the game away. Come along, let's get going.”

They left the cottage, Arnold locking the back door behind them. Then they drove to the Hall, where Arnold returned the key. From there they drove to Raymouth police station, where Merrion dropped his passenger. He returned to Springlease Hall, alighted from the car, and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a pleasant-faced young woman, whom Merrion guessed to be Julie Darlaston. “Good afternoon,” he said, “I was told in Raymouth that you take paying guests here. I trust that I have not been misinformed?”

“No, that's right,” Julie replied. “We do take paying guests.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” said Merrion. “My name is Desmond Merrion, and I am particularly anxious to stay in this neighbourhood for a while. Would it be possible for you to accommodate me?”

“Yes, I think so,” Julie replied. “I will ask my aunt to see you. Will you come in?”

She led him to a big lounge, which was unoccupied, and left him there. The room felt chilly, for the fire had been banked up with cinders. As a measure of economy, Merrion supposed. He began to have his doubts whether he could keep secret his association with Arnold. Miss Cray might recognise him as the man who had been sitting with Arnold at the inquest.

He had not long to wait before Miss Cray came in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” she said briskly. “My niece tells me that you would like to come and stay with us. We have a vacant room, and I will take you to see it. But first of all, I expect you would like to know what our terms are.”

She proceeded to explain these terms, which to Merrion seemed reasonable enough. He gathered that if he wished to have lunch, it would be charged as an extra. The other guests were out all day, and lunch was served only on Sundays. Merrion hastened to assure her that he too would be out all day, looking at any houses that might be for sale.

They came to an agreement, and Miss Cray took her new guest upstairs. Leading off the first floor landing was a long straight corridor, with doors opening off it on either side. She led Merrion along the corridor to one of the doors, which she opened. “This is one of our nicest rooms,” she said. “We call it the rose room. I'm sure you will find it comfortable. When you come down, if you will ring the bell in the hall, my niece will show you where you can put your car.”

Merrion had brought up his suitcase with him, and when Miss Cray had left him, he proceeded to unpack it. This done, he looked round the room. The wallpaper was old-fashioned and faded, but the festoons of pink roses which formed the pattern were still clearly visible. There was a profusion of chintz everywhere. The bed had once been a four-poster, but the posts had been sawn off and the canopy removed.

The room was at the back of the house. Beneath the window was a wide lawn surrounded by herbaceous borders, in which here and there snowdrops and aconites were showing. Beyond the lawn was a belt of trees, now leafless. And beyond these again a tract of meadowland, rising gently up the side of the valley.

Merrion went downstairs again. A hand bell was standing on the hall table, and he rang this, rather diffidently. Almost immediately Julie appeared through a doorway at the back of the hall. “You want me to show you where to put your car, Mr. Merrion?” she asked.

“If it would not be putting you to too much trouble, Miss—er?” Merrion replied.

“Oh, I'm so sorry! ” she exclaimed. “I ought to have told you our names. I am Julie Darlaston, and my aunt is Miss Helena Cray. The coachhouse where our guests keep their cars is in the old stabling. It's only a hundred yards from the front door.”

“Then if you won't mind coming with me, I'll drive the car there,” said Merrion. They got into the car, and Julie directed him. A weed-grown drive led from the front door, past a neglected shrubbery to a block of buildings which must have once housed a number of horses and carriages. The buildings were in a dilapidated state, and had not had a coat of paint for years. Windows were broken, and in places tiles were missing from the roof. A vast coachhouse stood wide open, for the doors had disappeared. And the surrounding woodland had encroached until it threatened to swallow up the buildings.

Julie pointed to the yawning mouth of the coachhouse. “You can drive in here. And you can leave the car where you like, for none of the other guests who are with us now have cars, and we don't keep one ourselves. There is only Mr. Roding's motor cycle, and that doesn't take up much room. And now, if you'll excuse me I must run back.”

Merrion did not much care for leaving his car where anyone had access to it. However, he locked all the doors and put the key in his pocket. Then he strolled out on to the cobbled courtyard. From there, the evidence of neglect was still more obvious. The door of the harness room was wide open, apparently so rusted on its hinges that it could not be closed. He looked in, to find that all the fittings were rotten with age. It was growing dusk, and beyond that he could see nothing very clearly. But at the back of the room he could make out a flight of steps, which no doubt led up to the hayloft above.

As he walked back towards the house, Merrion noticed a path diverging from the drive through the shrubbery which bordered it. The general direction of the path seemed to be towards the road, and he guessed it to be the one of which Blackthorn had spoken. He followed it, to find that it ran through dense and overgrown woodland, with a small glade here and there. The path eventually reached the road, close beside Blackthorn's bungalow.

He returned by the way he had come. It was getting too dark to explore, and he felt no inclination to search the tangled undergrowth for a body which he was pretty certain wasn't there. He entered the house and went into the lounge.

A man, whom he recognised instantly as Gordon Mackay, was sitting at a table there, writing a letter. He looked up as Merrion came in. “Good evening,” he said. “Miss Darlaston has just told me that another guest has joined our party. She didn't tell me the name?”

Merrion told him. “I expect to be here for a few days.”

Mackay was looking at him intently. “I've seen your face before, Mr. Merrion. Weren't you sitting at the back of the room with another man while the inquest was on this morning?”

It would be useless to deny the fact. “I was,” Merrion replied. “But I should be obliged if you would not tell the people here that I was there. Any reference to the inquest might be painful to them.”

“Trust me! ” Mackay exclaimed heartily. “I know how to hold my tongue. You aren't in the furniture line by any chance, are you, Mr. Merrion?”

“Well, no, I'm not,” Merrion replied. “What makes you ask?”

“Because I am,” said Mackay. “That's why I'm here. My Dad runs a big furniture factory over in Canada, and he's sent me over to find a place in the old country where we can start manufacturing. It'll be a new idea over here, for ours isn't just ordinary furniture. It's adjustable.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Merrion asked.

“I'll tell you,” Mackay replied, obviously delighted to find a listener. “All our furniture is made in pieces, which can be screwed together. The pieces are of different sizes and are interchangeable. 'Furnish to Fit' is our slogan.

“You buy a house, and you want furniture that will fit into it properly. You go to our nearest agent, and tell him exactly how much space you have for each article of furniture you want. He lets us know, and we fit together pieces of the required size. Within a few days your furniture is delivered, and each article fits exactly into the place where you want to put it.”

“It sounds a wonderful idea,” Merrion remarked admiringly.

“You bet it is,” Mackay replied. “It's going like hot cakes, and we get as many orders as we can cope with. But that's not the whole idea, not by any manner of means. I'll tell you.

“After some time, you sell your house and buy another one, bigger, shall we say. The furniture you've got is too small, but you've grown used to it, and you don't want to sell it and buy another lot. So you go to our agent again and tell him what size you want the furniture for the new house to be. Our man comes along, and adjusts your furniture to the new sizes.

“Take a wardrobe, for instance. The one you've got already wants to be two feet wider and six inches taller. The depth will do as it is, and so will the doors. As I told you, all our parts are interchangeable. All our man has to do is to fit a new back, a panel on either side of the doors, and another over the top of them. You've still got your old wardrobe, but it has grown to fit your new room.”

“That's highly ingenious,” said Merrion.

“All my Dad's idea,” Mackay replied proudly. “He's got a thinking box on his shoulders, take my word for it. As I say, he wants to start over here. I've been looking round for a likely place, and last week I came to Raymouth. The town is growing rapidly, and advertising for people to set up light industries. We could build a factory there quite cheaply. The fact that Raymouth is some distance from the big centres of population doesn't matter in the least. Our furniture isn't bulky, like the ordinary stuff. It is transported in pieces, and put together where it's wanted.”

“So you've decided on Raymouth for your English factory?” Merrion asked.

“It's for Dad to decide,” Mackay replied. “I'm just writing to give him my views. I expect he'll want to come over and see the place for himself before anything's settled.”

He lowered his voice before he went on. “And there's another thing. It's always been our policy to look after our workers. The ones we employ over here will want a recreation ground of their own, and land in Raymouth is expensive. The hard tennis court over the road was damaged in some mysterious way not long ago, and Miss Cray says she doesn't want to spend money on having it repaired. I've asked her to let me have an option, not only on the court, but on the whole of the meadow it stands in. But somehow she doesn't seem very keen.”

“Perhaps she doesn't like the idea of having a recreation ground so close to the Hall,” Merrion suggested.

“I don't think that's it,” Mackay replied. “It's just that she's holding out for the highest price she can get. It seems that one of the other chaps staying here wants it for a caravan site, and she's trying to play one of us off against the other. But I'm not bidding. If she won't give me the option of purchase at a reasonable price, I can find another plot of land, I don't doubt. But you'll excuse me if I finish my letter to Dad, won't you? The mail goes out from the village at six o'clock, and I've only just time to catch it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE FINISHED his letter and went out with it. Within a few minutes Merrion heard the sound of a motor cycle, and shortly afterwards its owner came into the lounge. Merrion introduced himself. “I hope you didn't find my car in the way when you put your motor cycle away just now?”

“Not a bit,” the other replied. “There's plenty of room. My name is Charles Roding, by the way. I'm staying here because it's within reasonable distance of the airport. I'm learning to fly a helicopter.”

“Do you find it difficult?” Merrion asked.

“Getting off the ground and flying the machine is easy enough,” Roding replied. “It's landing that takes some doing. One has to be careful not to come down with a bump and smash the thing up. But my instructor tells me that I'm not getting on too badly. I hope to pass out in a week or two.”

“When you've got your certificate, you'll join one of the civil aviation companies, I suppose,” said Merrion.

Roding shook his head. “No, I shan't do that. Unless I don't make a success of what I'm setting out to do, then I might. My hobby is photography, and I want to go in for taking aerial photographs for publicity purposes. The trouble with most aerial photographs is that they are taken from too high up. You don't get a proper idea of what a place looks like. Now, with a helicopter, you can come down to within only a few feet above ground level, and stay there.

“Take this place, for instance. I've flown over here once or twice to have a look at it. The best view of the house is from the wood that the path runs through, but of course you can't see that from the ground. By hovering just over the tops of the trees you could get a perfect photograph, which you couldn't get in any other way. And it would be sure to be the same with any other place that wanted a photograph for advertisement.”

The guests at Springlease Hall seemed to be well supplied with novel ideas, Merrion thought. It was not until supper time that he met the remaining guest. Supper was an informal meal, served in the dining-room. Miss Cray sat at one end of the table, and Julie at the other. Merrion, sitting on Miss Cray's left, found himself next to the man he had not yet met. Julie introduced him as Mr. Bartram Cooden. Facing Merrion was Gordon Mackay, and beside him Charles Roding.

There appeared to be no domestic staff employed at Springlease Hall. Merrion learnt later that in the background was an elderly cook, who had been in the service of the Darlaston family for years. On the immense sideboard that occupied nearly the whole of one side of the room were set a tureen of soup and various cold dishes. Everyone helped him or her self. The food, though plain, was plentiful and well cooked.

But the atmosphere of restraint was overwhelming. From time to time one or other of the company tried to start a conversation, but it invariably petered out after a few exchanges. Merrion got the impression that everyone present was thinking about the tragedy at the Lodge Cottage, but that no one cared to mention it.

Supper came to an end, and the four guests trooped into the lounge. Neither Julie nor her aunt accompanied them. They were, presumably, busy with their domestic duties. The lounge was chilly, and as they arranged themselves in a semicircle round the fire, Cooden picked up the poker and stirred it. “That may improve it,” he said. “But these people seem to buy the cheapest coal they can get. How did you get on at that inquest this morning, Mackay?”

“All I had to do was to tell the coroner what I saw and did,” Mackay replied. “And that didn't take very long.”

“The verdict was accidental death, I suppose?” Roding asked.

“No, it wasn't,” Mackay replied. “Everyone thought it would be until a pathologist chap blew in at the last moment. He gave evidence that Miss Price's injuries showed that she must have been attacked.”

“You mean that the woman was murdered?” Cooden asked incredulously.

“The coroner returned an open verdict,” Mackay replied. “But it was pretty obvious from what the pathologist said that it wasn't an accident.”

“I don't believe it,” said Cooden. “What had anyone to gain by attacking a woman like Miss Price?”

“I shouldn't know that,” Mackay replied. “I know nothing about her, and had never even spoken to her. Mr. Blackthorn and I couldn't find anyone in the cottage. And it came out at the inquest that the other lady hasn't been seen since the accident, or whatever it was.”

“Old Tryphena Marsland?” Cooden asked. “What's become of her, then?”

“Again, I can't tell you that,” Mackay replied. “What I can't understand is how it came about that I was the first to find the body. The doctor said that Miss Price must have been killed about nine o'clock. She must have been lying in the yard from then until I came along soon after half past. Both of you chaps left here before I did.”

“I left here a few minutes before nine,” said Roding. “I got my motor bike and started off for the aerodrome. I didn't see anything or anybody as I rode down the drive. And if Miss Price had been lying in the yard of the cottage I shouldn't have seen her. It's a blind turning from the drive into the road, and I was concentrating upon looking out for what might be crossing ahead of me.”

“Pity you didn't start a bit earlier,” Cooden remarked. “If you'd been flying about in that helicopter of yours, you might have seen what happened. I left here a few minutes after you did and caught the bus outside the Horseshoes.”

“Didn't you see anything as you passed the cottage?” Mackay asked.

“I might have if I had passed the cottage,” Cooden replied. “But I didn't. I don't go all that way round to get to the Horseshoes. I take the path through the wood, and come out by Blackthorn's bungalow. It saves at least three or four minutes.”

“Are there usually many passengers on the bus to Raymouth?” Merrion asked.

“About a dozen or so by the time it gets to Bruckam,” Cooden replied. “They come from Featherby, I suppose. I'm often the only passenger to get on at Bruckam. I was that morning, as far as I remember.”

“And I suppose the bus doesn't pick up any more passengers before it gets to Raymouth?” Merrion suggested.

“It stops at a place called Sandy Cross,” Cooden replied. “Three or four of the passengers from Featherby get off there. There's a mill of some kind not far up the road, and I suppose they work there. But it isn't often that anyone boards the bus at Sandy Cross.”

“I turn off to the left there on my way to the aerodrome,” Roding remarked. “There never seems to be anyone about.”

“Wait a minute! ” Cooden exclaimed. “Now I come to think of it, a passenger did board the bus at Sandy Cross on Wednesday morning. A little shrimp of a man wearing a duffle coat and carrying something that looked like a roll of newspapers. His eyes were staring out of his head and he was panting heavily. I haven't an idea who he was or where he came from. He was still on the bus when I got off it.”

“Does the bus go farther than Raymouth?” Merrion asked.

Cooden shook his head. “No. But it stops in the centre of the town and that's where I get off. Then it goes on to the railway station, but no farther than that.”

The conversation had drifted away from the affair at the cottage and Merrion, not wishing to appear inquisitive, did not care to revive the subject. Cooden turned to Roding. “Well, are we going to have our usual game of nap?”

“I'm quite ready,” Roding replied. “You won sixpence off me last night, and I'm going to try to get my own back.”

Cooden unfolded the card-table which stood in a corner, and set it up by the fire. He produced a pack of cards from a drawer in the table at which Mackay had been writing, and very soon he and Roding were engaged upon their game. This left Mackay and Merrion sitting in front of the fire.

They were silent for some minutes, then Mackay spoke abruptly. “I suppose it's really none of my business, Mr. Merrion. But, ever since the inquest, in spite of the other things I've got to think about, I can't get that unfortunate woman out of my mind. It's clear enough that some thug came along and bashed her. But who could it have been?”

“We're neither of us in a position to answer that question,” Merrion replied.

“That's true enough,” Mackay agreed. “I've only been here a week, and all I know about the ladies at the Lodge Cottage is that they lived there together. I've seen them, more than once, pottering about round the cottage in those duffle coats of theirs. I couldn't tell one from the other, for they looked exactly alike until one saw their faces. I didn't even know that one of them was a relation of Miss Cray, till she said so at the inquest.”

“You have never known either of them come here?” Merrion asked.

Mackay shook his head. “Never. But then I've always been out most of the day. Looking round for a site where we could put our factory. But I did see the two ladies going out one day. It was last Monday. I'd come back from Raymouth before lunch, by the bus that gets to Bruckam at a quarter to one. And as they don't give one lunch here, I dropped into the Horseshoes and had a snack there.”

“Do you always go to and from Raymouth by bus?” Merrion asked.

“Sometimes,” Mackay replied. “But I often walk. I like walking. But on Monday I came back by the bus. I wanted to look round here in the afternoon. That idea of the recreation ground had just occurred to me. As I came out of the Horseshoes two ladies came along the road from this direction. I didn't recognise them, for they weren't wearing duffle coats, but I thought they might be the ladies from the Lodge Cottage.”

He smiled. “I'm bound to say they looked a bit strange to me. But then I don't know much about ladies' fashions over here. One of them was wearing a bright green coat, and the other a bright red one. And they both had queer little hats perched on top of their heads. One of them, the one wearing a green coat, went into the village shop and I went in after her, for I wanted a packet of cigarettes. The lady bought a two-shilling postal order, and as she went out the woman in the shop said, ' Good afternoon, Miss Price.' So I knew I was right about them being the ladies from the cottage. And just then the afternoon bus to Raymouth came along, and they both got into it.”

“What time does that bus leave?” Merrion asked.

“At a quarter past two,” Mackay replied. “It gets out again at a quarter past six. I suppose the ladies came back by it, but I didn't see them, for I wasn't there. That would give them three hours in Raymouth for their shopping, or whatever they wanted to do.”

“Do you remember seeing them next day?” Merrion asked.

“I saw one of them,” Mackay replied. “I don't know which of them it was, for she was wearing a duffle coat again. I hadn't caught the bus that morning, and was starting to walk to Raymouth. As I passed the cottage I heard a clatter and looked round to see whichever of the ladies it was emptying a bucket into the garbage can. Whether the other one was about, I can't say. I didn't see her.”

He paused for a moment, then went on earnestly. “I don't know what you think, Mr. Merrion. I can't believe that some hobo chanced along and bashed Miss Price. I don't see what he had to gain by it. So far as I could tell, nothing in the cottage had been disturbed when Mr. Blackthorn and I went into it. And it's queer that the other lady wasn't there. You don't think she could have done it, do you?”

Merrion glanced at the two men playing cards. They seemed far too intent upon their game to be listening to the conversation. “It hardly seems likely to me,” he replied.

“Nor does it to me,” said Mackay. “I can't help feeling that someone round about must know who did it. I shall be here for a while yet, until I know what Dad means to do. And I shan't rest until I've found out more about it. It's the only decent thing to do.”

“The police will be getting busy,” Merrion remarked. “Hadn't you better leave it to them?”

“Well, I don't know,” Mackay replied. “It seems to me that anyone living near the spot is just as likely to pick up a clue as the police are. Of course, if I suspected anything, I should tell them.”

“Naturally,” said Merrion. “Oh, by the way, I'm a newcomer, and there's something you can tell me. What are the breakfast arrangements here?”

“You can have breakfast any time between eight and nine,” Mackay replied. “You'll find Miss Cray in the dining-room, and she'll get your breakfast for you. Or Miss Julie. She always takes a tray up to her mother sharp at nine. You know about Mrs. Darlaston?”

“I can't say that I know very much,” said Merrion.

“She's Miss Cray's sister, and she's an invalid. She stops all day in her rooms on the top floor and never comes down. Or if she does, she never has while I've been about, and I've never met her. Miss Julie looks after her, takes her her meals and all that.”

“What time did you have breakfast on Wednesday morning?” Merrion asked.

“Not until a few minutes before nine,” Mackay replied. “I knew that the others would have finished by then, and I wanted to catch Miss Cray by herself, to talk to her about that land across the road. She said I was welcome to measure it up, but she wouldn't promise to give me the option on it. She said she would have to consult her sister, and that she didn't want to worry her with a business matter just then. And on the stroke of nine, while I was talking to Miss Cray, Miss Julie came in for some marmalade to put on her mother's tray. I remember her telling Miss Cray that her mother fancied some that morning.”

Not very long afterwards Merrion left the lounge and went up to his room. In it was an electric fire, fitted with a slot meter. He found a shilling and put it in. The fire responded with a cheerful glow.

Merrion drew a chair up to it and lighted a cigarette. He felt that his decision to stay at Springlease Hall had already been justified. He had picked up two useful pieces of information. That a breathless little man carrying a roll of newspapers had boarded the bus at Sandy Cross on Wednesday morning. And the situation at Springlease Hall at nine o'clock.

Taking the little man first. His breathlessness had no doubt been due to his having hurried to catch the bus. If he had come from the Lodge Cottage, he would have had to hurry to cover the mile and a half in twenty minutes. And a roll of newspapers would have been an excellent thing in which to conceal a blunt instrument such as an iron bar.

But why should this little man have murdered Miss Price? That question was obviously unanswerable. Again, if he had murdered her, why had Miss Marsland vanished from the scene and remained invisible? It seemed unlikely that she and the little man had acted in collusion. One point concerning her was established. She had not caught the bus that morning, either at Bruckam or Sandy Cross. If she had, Cooden could hardly have failed to notice her.

Then, the situation at Springlease Hall at nine o'clock that morning. Roding had been the first to leave. He must have passed the cottage not very long before nine, perhaps just before Miss Price was killed. Or, seeing her crossing the yard, did he get off his motor cycle and kill her? Apart from any imaginable reason why he should have done so, there seemed to Merrion a grave objection. Although the hood of her duffle coat was drawn up over her head, she would have heard the approach of the motor cycle, and would have looked round to see who was riding it. She could not have been caught unawares, as she undoubtedly had been.

Cooden had been the next to leave the Hall. But he had walked to Bruckam by the path through the wood, and had, therefore, not passed the cottage. Even if he had, the same absence of motive made it unlikely that he would have committed the crime.

By nine o'clock, three people had remained at the Hall. If Mackay was to be believed, and Merrion felt confident that he was, none of these three could have been at the cottage. And that put out the only person who could be imagined to have had a motive for the crime. Blackthorn had said that Miss Cray wanted the cottage to be vacated. But, in pursuit of this desire, would she have murdered one of the occupants, and then have awaited her opportunity of murdering the other? Determined woman though she appeared to be, this hardly seemed likely.

While Merrion was sitting there, considering the problem, he heard the sound of voices in the corridor outside his room, and the slamming of doors. Evidently the party in the lounge had broken up, and his fellow guests were going to bed. He looked at his watch to find that the time was just after eleven.

He felt himself wide awake, for his restless imagination refused to relinquish its search. He sat on, smoking cigarette after cigarette, seeking some rational explanation of events. It was close upon midnight when his senses suddenly sprang into alertness. He had heard a very faint movement overhead. Then, the sound of slow footsteps. Mackay had said that Mrs. Darlaston's rooms were on the second floor. Perhaps Miss Cray and Julie slept on that floor too. Anyhow, it seemed that someone was wakeful besides himself. There came a sound as of a door being opened. The footsteps became distant and died away.

It seemed to Merrion that these nocturnal movements were rather strange. Something impelled him to turn out the light in his room and go to the window. He did not open it, but drew the curtain a crack and looked out. The night was pitch dark, and he could see nothing. He had stood there for perhaps a couple of minutes when another sound came to him, this time from below. A sharp clank, as of a bolt being drawn. It seemed to come from almost directly beneath his window.

Surely no one could be going out at this time of night? If they were, they could not possibly see their way without a light of some kind. The window was of the sash type, and Merrion opened it noiselessly, sufficiently far for him to put his head out. But no light was visible, nor was there any sound of movement. After a minute or two, he shut the window and drew the curtain.

He would have to go to bed sooner or later, and it might as well be now. He had been in bed about a quarter of an hour, and was doing his best to get off to sleep, when he heard the same noise again, and from the same direction. The peculiar grating and clank of a bolt being shot or drawn. And then, a couple of minutes later, the sound of footsteps above his head, this time rather less slow than before. He listened for a while till the footsteps ceased. After that was silence.

There could be only one explanation of what he had heard. Someone had gone out and returned, not by the front door, for that was on the other side of the house, but by a door which he had not yet seen. How that person could have seen his or her way about without a light baffled his imagination. And what had been the purpose of the errand? He reckoned that twenty minutes or thereabouts had elapsed between the first and second drawing of the bolt. Ample time for anyone to get to the Lodge Cottage and back. The key of the cottage was in Miss Cray's possession. But what could have taken her there in the middle of the night?

Merrion tried to stop thinking about it. It was certainly no business of his. He might have been giving his imagination too much rein. The sounds he had heard might not have been caused by the drawing of a bolt, but by something else. Old houses were usually full of strange noises. The footsteps might have been those of someone suffering from insomnia. The invalid Mrs. Darlaston, most likely. Alternatively, the house was haunted, and it had been the activities of the ghost that he had heard. With this final comforting explanation, he at last fell off to sleep.

But when he woke up in the morning the recollection of what he had heard returned in all its vividness. Remembering what Mackay had told him, he timed his appearance in the dining-room at ten minutes to nine. Miss Cray was there and greeted him in her usual abrupt manner. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion. The others have had their breakfast and gone out.”

“I hope I'm not too late. Miss Cray,” Merrion replied apologetically.

“Oh no,” she said. “It's only when guests come down after nine that they're a nuisance. Sit down, and I'll get you your breakfast.”

She went out, to return with a pot of tea, egg and bacon and a rack of toast. “Thank you, Miss Cray,” said Merrion. “As I was dressing just now I looked out of the window and saw that you had a very fine herbaceous border running round the lawn. I'm a very keen gardener, and I should very much like to look at it more closely. May I?”

“There's nothing to stop you,” Miss Cray replied. “My niece looks after the garden, for I've other things to do. I daresay she'd show you round if you asked her. She's just going to take up her mother's tray, and she'll be down again presently. I'm afraid I can't stop and talk to you now, for I'm more than usually busy this morning.”

She went out, leaving Merrion to eat his breakfast in solitude. He had just finished when Julie came in. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” she said pleasantly. “I hope you had a comfortable night?”

“I couldn't have had a better one,” Merrion replied untruthfully. “I have been telling your aunt that I should like to look at the herbaceous border round the lawn. She told me that you might have time to show it to me.”

“With pleasure,” Julie said readily. “There's not very much to be seen at this time of year, of course. Except the snowdrops, and they're rather special. I'll take you out there as soon as you've finished your breakfast, if you like.”

“I've finished now,” Merrion replied. “It would be more than kind of you, if you can spare the time.”

“I've nothing particular to do until I go up and fetch Mother's tray,” said Julie. “We'll go out by the garden door. It'll save walking all round the house.”

Merrion followed her into the hall. She opened the door at the back, and they entered a short passage. Julie pointed to a door leading off it to the left. “That used to be the morning room. We use it as an office. The one on the other side was my father's study, and is very rarely used now. And this is what we call the garden door. It leads out on to the lawn.”

The door she indicated was at the end of the passage. Merrion noticed that it was secured by a single bolt at the top. “The lock has been broken for a long time, and won't work,” said Julie. “In summer we keep the door open, for our guests like to go out and sit on the lawn. But at this time of year nobody wants to go out this way, so we keep it bolted.”

As she spoke, she drew the bolt. The sound was so familiar that Merrion could hardly restrain a smile. Undoubtedly what he had heard in the night was the bolt being drawn and later shot to again. Julie turned the handle. The door opened noiselessly, and they passed out on to the lawn.

As they walked towards the border at the farther side, Merrion stopped and turned round. “I'm a great admirer of old houses,” he said. “If I'm not taking up too much of your time, I should like to look at this one from this side. I didn't realise before that it had a central block with a wing at either end.”

“You can't see that from the other side,” Julie replied. “The entrance is at the back of the house, and this is really the front. It is rather a lovely old house, isn't it?”

“It is indeed,” Merrion replied as he gazed at it admiringly. Before he left his room he had unfastened two of the hooks of one of the curtains so that it hung crookedly across the window. This enabled him to identify the room, which he now saw was almost directly above the door by which they had left the house. “Are the wings occupied now?” he asked.

“The one on the right is,” Julie replied. “Aunt Helena and I have our quarters there, and so does Mrs. Nadder, the cook. And the kitchen premises are on the ground floor. The other wing isn't used now. There is a vast servants' hall and several storerooms below, and a dozen servants' bedrooms above. Mother has her own suite of rooms on the second floor in the main block. You must let me show you all over the house some time, Mr. Merrion. I'm sure it would interest you.”

“I should be very grateful if you would,” Merrion replied. “Your mother is an invalid, I understand, Miss Darlaston?”

“Mother doesn't like getting about more than she can help,” Julie replied. “She prefers spending nearly all her time in her rooms, reading or sewing. But as a rule she seems quite well, and sometimes has an astonishing appetite. This morning, for instance, she asked for porridge as well as her boiled egg, and toast and marmalade afterwards.”

“A sign of good health I should imagine,” Merrion remarked, “Mrs. Darlaston does not require constant nursing, I gather?”

“Oh dear no,” Julie replied. “I go and see her last thing at night and first thing in the morning, and Aunt Helena or I look in several times during the day to see if she wants anything. But she's quite happy to be alone at night, and usually sleeps very well. She has a bell-push by her bedside, connected to a bell which rings in my room. But she has never used it.”

They turned from their survey of the house, and strolled round the herbaceous border, Julie pointing out such plants as were already showing. “You will excuse me, won't you, Mr. Merrion?” said Julie after a while. “I must go up and bring down Mother's breakfast tray.”

“Of course, Miss Darlaston,” Merrion replied. “And I must be getting along to Raymouth. I have to call on two or three house agents there.”

“If you want to fetch your car, you needn't go through the house,” said Julie. “You can go round the right hand wing, past the back door, and you'll find yourself in the drive. And now I really must run along.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE WENT OFF in the direction of the garden door. Merrion walked across the lawn to the corner of the right hand wing, where he found the beginning of a gravel path. Following this, he passed the back door, and so through a gap in the shrubbery to the drive leading to the stables.

He found his car in the coachhouse, just as he had left it. He started up, and drove slowly towards the house. As he approached the front door it opened, and Miss Cray came out, wearing a coat and hat. He pulled up and spoke to her. “Can I give you a lift anywhere, Miss Cray?”

“Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” she replied. “Only as far as the Lodge Cottage.”

Merrion opened the door for her, and she got in beside him. “The undertakers have just rung up,” she said. “They are coming along at once, and I must be at the cottage to let them in.”

“When is Miss Price to be buried?” Merrion asked.

“On Monday,” she replied. “At the cemetery in Raymouth. It will be a very quiet funeral, of course. Julie and I shall be there, and I expect Mr. Blackthorn, who lives nearby, will come. I don't suppose anybody else will be there.”

“Not the lady Miss Price lived with?” Merrion asked innocently.

“Tryphena?” Miss Cray replied sharply. “I don't know where she is. We've none of us seen her since it happened. It's really most extraordinary. Would you mind dropping me here, Mr. Merrion?”

They had reached the gate leading into the yard of the cottage. Merrion pulled up, and Miss Cray got out, with a curt word of thanks. He drove on towards Raymouth, and when he had covered a mile and a half came to a crossroads, at which was a notice, 'Bus Stop.' This must be Sandy Cross.

He stopped the car just short of the crossroads and got out. Some little way along the road to the right was a square building with a tall chimney. No doubt the mill of which Cooden had spoken. The road to the left rose gently towards the aerodrome, the control tower of which Merrion could see in the distance.

He returned to his car, and drove on to Raymouth police station. He asked for Inspector Arnold, and was shortly shown into a room where Arnold and Froyle were sitting. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle genially. “Sit down and make yourself as comfortable as this room allows. Mr, Arnold tells me that you've become a paying guest at Springlease Hall. I hope you find it comfortable there?”

“It's not too bad,” Merrion replied. “But I'm bound to say I have lived more luxuriously in my time. And I find the conversation of my fellow guests not uninteresting.”

“What have you heard?” Arnold asked.

“Two pieces of information, to start off with.” Merrion replied. He repeated Mackay's account of the conditions at Springlease Hall on Wednesday morning, and what Cooden had said of the little man who had boarded the bus at Sandy Cross.

“You haven't wasted your time,” Arnold remarked. “If what you've been told is right, none of the people at the Hall can have been at the cottage at the time of the murder. So they're cut out. What have you to say about the little chap with the roll of newspapers, Mr. Froyle? Have you any idea who he might have been?”

Froyle shook his head. “I haven't. But I haven't been here long enough to know everyone in the town. I'll pass the word on to my chaps, some of whom have been here for years. But it's not a very detailed description to make guesses on. Do you think your friend could tell us rather more about this man, Mr. Merrion?”

“I doubt it,” Merrion replied. “There was no reason why he should have noticed him particularly. At that time Cooden didn't know of the incident at the Lodge Cottage. He didn't get off the bus in the centre of the town, but went on, presumably to the railway station.”

“That bus connects with the nine forty-five train from here to London,” said Froyle. “The little man may have travelled by that. In which case he becomes your bird, Mr. Arnold.”

“There are quite a few little men in London,” Arnold replied. “However, we'll do our best. Have you heard anything else since you have been at Springlease Hall, Merrion? By the way, I'm sure Mr. Froyle won't mind if you light one of those cigarettes of yours.”

“I certainly shan't,” said Froyle. “Light up by all means, Mr. Merrion.”

Merrion lighted a cigarette and went on. “Have I heard anything else? Well, yes, I have. Last night I heard something rather curious, and I'm not at all sure about the explanation of it. It has probably nothing to do with the case you're on, but I'll tell you about it, if you like.”

“Tell us,” Froyle replied. “Anything that happens at the Hall must be interesting. I'm not so satisfied as Mr. Arnold seems to be that no one there knows anything about the crime.”

Merrion described in exact detail his experience of the previous night. “This morning, Miss Darlaston took me out by what is known as the garden door,” he continued. “That door is almost exactly beneath my bedroom window. It is kept bolted, but not locked, for the lock is broken. As soon as she drew the bolt, I recognised the sound that I had heard. I am quite sure that the bolt was drawn back just before midnight, and that it was shot into place again some twenty minutes later.”

“That suggests that someone went out by the garden door and returned by it,” Froyle remarked.

“Exactly,” Merrion replied. “But who was it? I heard footsteps above my head before the bolt was drawn back, and again after it was shot to. Mrs. Darlaston's rooms are above my bedroom. Her daughter tells me that she doesn't like getting about more than she can help. It seems to me that she is most unlikely to have embarked upon a nocturnal excursion.”

“Perhaps she isn't such an invalid as she pretends to be,” said Arnold.

“That may be so,” Merrion agreed. “But I've thought of another explanation. It was Miss Cray who went out. Before she did so, she went to her sister's room and told her what she was going to do. When she returned, she told her that she had done it. And one imagines that since Miss Cray's errand was at midnight, it must have been of a secret nature.”

“Where do you suppose Miss Cray went to?” Arnold asked.

“I have wondered whether she might have gone to the Lodge Cottage,” Merrion replied. “But if she did, why did she use the garden door? To reach the cottage from there, she would have had to walk all round the house, and that on a pitch-dark night. Surely it would have been simpler for her to have used the front door, from which she could have walked straight down the avenue.”

“Why should Miss Cray have gone to the cottage secretly?” Froyle asked.

“Perhaps to remove something that was there, the significance of which was not apparent to Arnold and myself,” Merrion replied. “But how she found her way passes my comprehension. I want to make that point quite clear. The night was so dark that I could not have seen anyone walking on the lawn. I might not have heard the sound of footsteps on the soft turf. But if I could not see her, how could Miss Cray have seen where she was going? She hadn't a light of any kind, that I'll swear.”

“She may have had a torch,” said Arnold. “But she didn't switch it on till she was well clear of the house.”

Merrion shook his head. “That won't do. You were probably in bed and snoring at the time, so you can have no idea how dark the night was. You literally couldn't have seen your hand before your face. And the way from the garden door round to the drive is by no means plain sailing. You have to dodge the herbaceous border, and the path past the back door and through the gap in the shrubbery is far from straight. I don't believe that anyone, however familiar with it, could have navigated it by night without a light.”

“Have you told anyone at the Hall about this, Mr. Merrion?” Froyle asked.

“No, for I don't want to appear inquisitive,” Merrion replied. “I'm supposed to be a harmless house-hunter, with no interest whatever in the concerns of the Springlease Hall establishment. Or for that matter, in the affair at the Lodge Cottage. The only person at the Hall who recognised me as having been at the inquest is Mackay, and I think he can be trusted to keep his knowledge to himself. Miss Cray didn't recognise me,