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, or if she did she has given no sign of having done so.”

“Well, you may be able to pick up something else,” said Arnold. “Just before you came in I was asking Mr. Froyle if he knew of any likely murderer in this town. He told me that he didn't, for it appears that the inhabitants of Raymouth are a remarkably law-abiding community. Isn't that so, Mr. Froyle?”

“It is,” Froyle replied. “At all events, we've had no major crime since I've been here. Or, so far as I am aware, for some time before I came. In fact, I know of only one serious incident, and that was as long ago as the last year of the war.”

“A murder?” Arnold asked.

“No, a bank robbery,” Froyle replied. “And a very carefully planned one, none of your snatch and grab hold-ups. I was a sergeant at the time, stationed at Featherby, so of course I heard all about it.”

“That's it!” Arnold exclaimed. “As soon as I was told to go to Raymouth, the name of the place rang a bell somewhere in my memory. Our people were called in, but I wasn't on the case myself. I heard something about it, but I have forgotten the details. What actually happened?”

“I'll tell you,” Froyle replied. “The bank premises are in the High Street, and adjoining it is an ironmonger's shop. The upper floors of the shop are used for storage, and nobody sleeps on the premises. Adjoining the shop on the other side is the Fleece Hotel, where you stayed last night. At the back of the hotel is a fire escape, a series of steel stages and steps leading down to the courtyard.

“The robbery took place one Sunday night, or early Monday morning, about this time of year. The burglar, for it is believed that only one person was concerned, forced the gate of the Fleece courtyard, which is kept locked at night. He climbed the fire escape, and so got on to the roof of the hotel. From there he crawled along to the roof of the shop, in which there is a skylight.

“It was suggested at the time that only one of the shop assistants could have known that the skylight was there. But it turned out that was not the case. Customers asking for certain articles were frequently taken up to the top floor of the shop to inspect the goods displayed there. Any one of these customers would have seen the skylight for himself.

“The burglar forced open the skylight, and made his way down through the shop to the basement, which adjoins the strong room of the bank. He dislodged the bricks of the basement wall until he came to the steel wall of the strong-room. He blasted a hole in this, big enough for him to crawl through. When the bank people went down to the strong-room in the morning, they found this hole, and something like twenty thousand pounds in notes missing.”

“Didn't anyone hear the blast?” Arnold asked. “Or were the virtuous townsmen too fast asleep to be woken up by it?”

“The bank manager and his wife live above the bank,” Froyle replied. “Their bedroom is on the top floor. During the night the manager heard what he described as a rumble, and felt a slight vibration. He put it down to some blasting operation at the quarries. They do fire charges at night sometimes, especially if they are working on the wall of the quarry close to the road. They choose a time when there will be no traffic about.

“The burglar didn't trouble to do any more roof climbing. He made a simpler getaway than that. He merely unbolted the back door of the shop, which leads into a yard, separated from the courtyard of the Fleece by a low brick wall. He climbed this wall, and went out by the gate of the courtyard, which he had already forced. After that, no trace of him has ever been found.”

“Or of the loot either, I take it,” Arnold suggested.

“No,” Froyle replied. “He got away with that, all right. It was agreed at the time that the affair wasn't a local effort. Only one of the leading experts in that sort of thing could have brought it off.”

“Then there's hope of getting him yet,” said Arnold. “These chaps keep on at their particular game until one day they are caught out. Then they usually ask for half a dozen previous offences to be taken into consideration. They get a reduction on quantity, so to speak. But we're getting away from our present case. You say there are no crooks in Raymouth, Mr. Froyle?”

“I didn't exactly say that,” Froyle replied. “But I don't think there's anyone in the town who would commit murder just for the fun of it. The complete lack of motive is the extraordinary thing about it.”

“The motive certainly wasn't financial,” said Arnold. “Blackthorn gave us to understand that the two ladies had precious little money between them. The cottage didn't suggest any great opulence when Merrion and I went over it. And, now I come to think of it, there was something odd. Not what we found, but what we didn't find. No handbags. And that's where women usually put their money. Eh, Merrion?”

“I think the absence of handbags is easily explained,” Merrion replied. “Miss Marsland took hers with her when she left the cottage. Miss Price's is put away in one of the drawers in her bedroom. We didn't search them, if you remember.”

“Perhaps you're right,” said Arnold. “I think that you and I ought to make a thorough search of the cottage, Mr. Froyle.”

“I quite agree,” Froyle replied. “We might do it this afternoon. The mention of that handbag has given me an idea. Mr. Merrion has suggested that Miss Cray might have gone to the cottage last night to remove something. It might have been Miss Price's handbag.”

“Why should she have done that?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know,” Froyle replied. “Probably not because there was anything of intrinsic value in it. But it might have contained a letter, or something of the kind, which Miss Gray didn't want anyone to see.”

“There may be something in that,” Arnold agreed. “But what strikes me as one of the oddest features of the case is the disappearance of Miss Marsland. You've heard nothing other, Merrion?”

“Only this,” Merrion replied. “I asked Miss Cray whether the lady Miss Price lived with would be at the funeral. Her answer was that she didn't know where she was, and that she hadn't been seen since it happened. She thought it most extraordinary.”

“And so it is,” said Arnold. “It makes one wonder whether Miss Marsland murdered her life-long friend. But why she should have done so beats me. Can your imagination supply a reason, Merrion?”

“Not a very convincing one,” Merrion replied. “But there's no doubt that the two ladies had a visitor on Tuesday evening. That visitor may, intentionally or otherwise, have said something that infuriated Miss Marsland with her friend. I can't suggest what it might have been, for we know so little of either of them.”

“Would Miss Marsland have found a blunt instrument ready to her hand in the cottage?” Froyle asked.

“There is a set of heavy old-fashioned fire irons in the sitting-room,” Arnold replied. “I didn't see anything else of the kind.”

“There was no poker in the kitchen,” Merrion remarked. “Only a comparatively light hook for raking between the bars.”

“Perhaps there was a kitchen poker, and Miss Marsland took it,” said Froyle. “If so, she would have got rid of it. One of the things we might look for this afternoon, Mr Arnold.”

Merrion threw away the end of his cigarette and got up. “You won't want me any longer,” he said. “I'll get along and leave you to it.”

“When may we hope to see you again, Mr. Merrion?” Froyle asked.

“I'll look in this evening,” Merrion replied. “When you've searched the cottage, you may have something else to ask me. I shan't go back to Springlease Hall before then. I'm supposed to be scouring the country for a likely house, you must remember.”

He went out and drove away. Not by the road by which he had come, but by another which led inland. As soon as he had left the town behind him, he saw that he was heading for the aerodrome. Two or three miles farther on he came to the gates and pulled up at the side of the road. A few machines were on the tarmac, and in the centre of the field was a helicopter. As he watched, it rose into the air, flew round in a wide circle and landed again. In a few minutes it rose once more and repeated the manoeuvre. The pilot might well be Roding, undergoing instruction.

Merrion drove on, not much caring where the road led him to. After a while he came to a fork, with a signpost to Featherby on the left. He took this road, and after passing through a tract of well farmed country, came to a small but busy market town. As he entered the market place, he saw in front of him the sign of the Ram Hotel.

It was getting on for one o'clock, and he thought he might as well lunch here as anywhere. He went in, ordered a pint of bitter, and asked if he could have lunch. The lady behind the counter replied that he could, and that it would be ready in a few minutes. And he could leave his car in the market place. It was a free car-park, except on market day.

The lunch was up to the usual country hotel standard, neither better nor worse. Merrion, having time on his hands, did not hurry over it. His thoughts were occupied with the disappearance of Miss Marsland. It seemed certain that she had not caught the bus to Raymouth on Wednesday morning.

How then had she got away from the cottage? Surely not on foot, for in that case someone would have been sure to see her. And then an idea struck him. Raymouth was not the only escape route from Bruckam. The bus ran in the opposite direction as well. Miss Marsland might have hidden in the wooded grounds of Springlease Hall until half past twelve, then walked to the village, caught the bus from Raymouth which stopped there at a quarter to one, and ridden on it to Featherby. But it hardly seemed likely that she was still in the town.

Merrion paid his bill, went out and got into his car. But he did not drive off at once. He took out the map which he always carried with him, and consulted it. He found marked on it a branch railway running from Featherby to a junction on the main line between Raymouth and London. Miss Marsland could have taken a train at Featherby, and gone anywhere she pleased. And if she had been dressed as conspicuously as she was when Mackay had seen her on her way to Raymouth, she might have been noticed.

However, Merrion reflected, that was Arnold's business, not his. He set off, driving slowly, and taking any road at random. As always, he enjoyed exploring a county that was strange to him. Finally he directed his course towards Raymouth, and reached the police station there between five and six.

He was shown into the same room as before. Arnold and Froyle were sitting at a table, with a newspaper spread out before them. “Ah, here you are, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “Perhaps you can help us with the puzzle we've got here. It's only a minor one, but in a case like this nothing's too trifling to be taken into account.”

“What is the puzzle?” Merrion asked. “This newspaper,” Froyle replied. “It's a copy of our weekly local paper, the Raymouth Intelligencer, which is published on Fridays. This copy is dated February 3rd, so that it is a fortnight old. We found it folded up and put away in the chest of drawers in Miss Price's room at the cottage.

“The queer thing about it is that it had been sent through the post. Folded up, with a band of paper round it. We didn't find the paper band, which no doubt had been torn up and thrown away. But the cancellation stamp overlapped the band, and part of it was impressed on the newspaper.”

He folded up the newspaper and showed it to Merrion. “You can see the wavy lines of the cancellation stamp for yourself. Now the Raymouth Intelligencer can be bought almost anywhere. Not only in the town, but in the villages round about. It's pretty sure to be on sale at the shop in Bruckam, We know that the ladies at the cottage took it, for we found half a dozen copies, including one of this issue, in a cupboard in the kitchen. No doubt when they had read them, they put them aside for lighting the fire.

“Now the puzzle is this. Why should anyone have posted them a copy? Mr. Arnold and I have been through this one, and we can't find anything in it that could be of any particular interest to them. There is no mention of Bruckam, or of anyone living there. And yet, if there was nothing of interest to them, why did Miss Price put the paper away in her chest of drawers, instead of adding it to the collection in the cupboard?”

“I don't suppose it's a matter of the slightest importance,” Arnold remarked. “But perhaps your imagination can furnish the answer?”

“Not off hand,” Merrion replied. “If you care to lend me the paper, I'll look through it. It will be something for me to read after supper this evening. Did you find anything else at the cottage?”

“Nothing of very great interest,” Arnold replied. “I couldn't see that anything you and I found there yesterday was missing. We couldn't find Miss Price's handbag or, for that matter, any handbag at all. And another thing. We looked in the teapots and under the mattresses and in all the favourite places, but we found no money. There isn't so much as a penny piece in the place.”

“Miss Marsland may have collected all there was, before she left,” said Merrion. “Including her friend's handbag and its contents. But I don't suppose it amounted to much.”

“Our most interesting find was outside the cottage,” Froyle remarked. “As you probably noticed, the flower garden is in front of the cottage, between it and the road. And at the side of the cottage, the one farther from the avenue leading to the Hall, is a small vegetable patch. It is surrounded by a privet hedge, in which is a narrow gateway.

“On the other side of the hedge are the wooded grounds of the Hall. I daresay that at one time there was a path through them from the gate, but if there was it is now completely overgrown. It is, however, possible for anyone to pick their way between the bushes.

“We were told that on Wednesday morning the surface of the yard was covered with ice, from which we may assume that the ground was frozen hard. That is probably why we found no footprints anywhere in the garden. But on the farther side of the gate, and a few yards from it, is a depression sheltered by trees. In this is a patch of snow, the remains of a fall we had a week ago. The snow has since gone, except in a few sheltered places. This patch I'm telling you about is only about a yard wide.

“In it we found what is undoubtedly a footprint. It was made some days ago, for the outlines are indistinct, the snow having melted slightly since it was made. Mr. Arnold and I came to the conclusion that it was the print of a gum-boot, and a pretty big one at that. Certainly a man's.”

“May a country dweller offer a few remarks about footprints in the snow?” Merrion asked. “You people who live in towns don't have a chance of noticing these things, for the snow is cleared away or trodden down too quickly. At home, my wife and I have often had occasion to trudge through the snow this winter.”

Arnold laughed. “Go ahead. Give us the benefit of your experience.”

“Here it is,” Merrion replied. “We have a bird-table on the lawn, a few yards from the house. Snow or no snow, my wife insists on putting food on it every day. If there is snow on the ground, she puts on gum-boots. She has rather a small foot, and while the temperature remains below freezing point, the prints of her boots are clear and distinct, just as they were made.

“But if a thaw, however slight, sets in, a curious effect appears. The snow begins to disappear, often so slowly that where it has not been disturbed its disappearance can hardly be noticed. But the prints of my wife's boots, while roughly retaining their shape, grow in size. Until, after a while, depending on the rate of thaw, it looks as though a giant had crossed the lawn.”

“I see what you mean, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “The print we found this afternoon has grown in that way. It may not have been a man's, after all?”

“It seems to me quite likely that it was a woman's,” Merrion replied. “While I was having lunch I was thinking about the disappearance of Miss Marsland. And I'll tell you of an idea which came to me.”

Arnold and Froyle listened to the theory of Miss Marsland having gone by bus to Featherby. “That's certainly a possibility,” said Froyle. “I'll get on to my opposite number in Featherby and ask him to have inquiries made. Mr. Arnold and I hunted through the woodland, but we didn't find a blunt instrument of any kind.”

“Perhaps the murderer of Miss Price didn't make off that way,” said Merrion. “Well, I'd better be getting back to Springlease Hall, or they'll be wondering what has become of me.”

CHAPTER SIX

MERRION DROVE BACK to Springlease Hall. It was dark by now, and he had his headlights switched on. As he reached the house and turned towards the stabling, the figure of a man crossed the cobbled yard in front of the coachhouse. Probably Roding, putting away his motor cycle, Merrion thought.

He drove on into the coachhouse, switched off his lights and got out of the car. As he was making sure that it was securely locked, a voice accosted him. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion.”

He knew by the accent who it was. “Good evening, Mr. Mackay,” he replied. “What brings you this way?”

“I saw your lights coming along,” said Mackay. “But I slipped out of the way and didn't say anything till I knew who it was. The police were here this afternoon. They went into the Lodge Cottage and scouted about in the wood, but they didn't come as far as this. So I thought I would have a look round for myself.”

Merrion was amused by Mackay's urge to distinguish himself as an amateur detective. “And did you find anything very startling?” he asked.

“Well, I don't know,” Mackay replied diffidently. “I'd like you to come and have a look, Mr. Merrion. I've got a torch.”

“Two will be better than one,” said Merrion. He unlocked the car and took out the torch which he always carried in the cubby hole. He switched it on and cast the light round the coachhouse. Roding's motor cycle was not there. “Now I'm ready. Lead on, Mr. Mackay.”

Mackay had already switched on his torch. Followed by Merrion, he left the coachhouse, crossed the cobbled yard and entered the harness room. “It's up there,” he said, pointing to the flight of steps.

Merrion examined the steps. They were thick with dust in which footprints were clearly visible. “Did you look for footprints before you went up?” he asked.

“I'm afraid I didn't,” Mackay replied apologetically. “But then, you see, I didn't really expect to find anything up there.”

“Well, never mind,” said Merrion. “Up you go, and I'll follow you.”

As Merrion ascended he looked at each step. But Mackay's prints had obliterated any others there might have been. They reached the loft, the floor of which was littered with mouldy straw. Against one of the walls stood a bin, rotten with age. On what remained of the lid stood three tins, and beside them a tin opener.

“That's just as I found them,” said Mackay proudly. “After I'd had a good look at them I put them back. One of them is half full of baked beans. They smell quite fresh, so the tin can't have been opened very long. The other two are empty, but the labels show that they had some sort of luncheon meat in them.”

Merrion felt that it would be unkind to point out that by handling the tins Mackay had made it impossible for the fingerprints of whoever had opened them to be found. “It looks as though someone had been picnicking up here,” he remarked.

“That's just it,” Mackay replied. “And who can it have been but the chap who bumped off Miss Price? He lay up here, waiting for his opportunity. And then, when he'd done the job, he bolted, of course.”

Merrion nodded, although he found this idea hardly convincing. He looked round the loft, to find that it had a window looking up the drive towards the house. Against the opposite wall lay three or four broken bales of hay, almost black with damp and age. As he cast the light of his torch on these, something glistened. Closer inspection showed him that this was a pink cut-glass bead.

He said nothing of his discovery to Mackay, and turned away. “Don't you think you ought to tell the police all this?” he asked.

“It's a bit late to do that this evening,” Mackay objected. “Besides, I want to look round a bit further. I was just going to when you came along. I told them at the Hall I shouldn't be in to supper. I shall go along to the Horseshoes when I feel like it and have a snack there.”

“Well, I'll leave you to it,” said Merrion. “I shouldn't talk about what you have found, if I were you.”

“Trust me for that,” Mackay replied. “I haven't nearly finished yet. There are a lot of stalls and loose-boxes, where the horses used to be kept. I shan't give up till I've been through all of them.”

They left the loft and parted in the stable yard. As Merrion walked towards the house, he reflected that Mackay might safely be left to his own devices. It was not very likely that his industrious if bungling sleuthing would throw any light on the murder of Miss Price. Merrion felt that what had been found already had a very different significance.

As he entered the front door. Miss Cray appeared from the back of the hall. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion,” she said curtly. “You will be our only guest at supper to-night. Mr. Cooden told me this morning that he would be spending the week-end in London, and Mr. Roding that he would be having his evening meal in Raymouth. Mr. Mackay told me this afternoon that he had a business appointment and would not be back till late.”

“I shall enjoy your company, and that of Miss Darlaston,” Merrion replied. “By the way, Miss Cray, a remark you made this morning has suggested to me that I might be able to be of service to you. Would it be of convenience to you if I were to put my car, with myself as driver, at your disposal for the funeral on Monday?”

“It would be extremely kind of you, Mr. Merrion,” she replied with unusual warmth. “I had meant to hire a car for Julie and myself, but I should very much prefer to accept your offer. You are sure that you can spare the time? It is not often that our guests are so thoughtful.”

“I am perfectly sure,” said Merrion. “And I am delighted to render such a trifling service.”

“It is really good of you,” Miss Cray replied. “You can understand how terribly worried I am just now. You will have heard about that terrible affair at the cottage. And I am very much upset about Tryphena. I can't imagine where she can be. I've had to make all the funeral arrangements, and the police were here this afternoon, poking all round the place. And now Mrs. Nadder has just told me that there has been a thief in the larder.”

It seemed to Merrion that Miss Cray was in a mood to unfold her troubles to a sympathetic listener. “Has something been taken from the larder?” he asked.

“So Mrs. Nadder says,” she replied. “She was looking for something cold for lunch to-morrow, when she remembered that she had two tins of luncheon meat. She went into the larder to look for them, and they weren't there.”

“Has Mrs. Nadder any idea when the tins were taken?” Merrion asked.

“Unfortunately she hasn't,” Miss Cray replied. “The grocer delivers every Tuesday. He brought the two tins last Tuesday. Mrs. Nadder is certain of that, for she checked all the things he brought and put them away in the larder. She didn't think about the tins again until she went to look for them this evening. There can be no question of her having misplaced them, for Mrs. Nadder is the most orderly person in the world. Shall we go into the lounge, Mr. Merrion? We shall run no risk of being overheard there.”

Merrion followed her into the lounge, which was unoccupied, and they sat down by the fire. Now that she had started. Miss Cray was obviously glad to be able to unburden her mind. “I am deeply distressed by this theft,” she went on. “No intruder could have walked in and stolen the tins. The larder is a long way from the back door. It is in fact in the other wing, and the window is barred. Someone living in the house must be the culprit, and that is a most uncomfortable thought. The value of the tins is of no consequence. But a man given to thieving might steal things that really mattered.”

“You have no suspicion of who the thief might have been?” Merrion asked.

Miss Cray hesitated, then spoke in a lowered voice. “Mr. Mackay's behaviour is rather strange. This afternoon, a few minutes after the police had brought back the key of the cottage, he came in and spoke to me. He asked me if I had come to any decision about the land across the road, where the tennis court is. He says he wants to buy it for a recreation ground for the workmen of a factory he means to build in Raymouth. I told him that I hadn't yet. And after he had gone out, I saw him wandering round the house, looking up at all the windows. I didn't like it at all. I have heard that gangs of burglars often establish one of their members in a house they mean to rob.”

Evidently Mackay had not been very discreet in his sleuthing. “I don't think Mr. Mackay is that sort of person,” said Merrion reassuringly. “You don't feel inclined to let him have the land he wants?”

“I really don't know,” Miss Cray replied. “The decision does not rest entirely with me, for I have to consult my sister, who is the joint owner of the property. And it is very difficult to get Letitia to discuss any matter of business. She nearly always tells me that I must do as I think best.

“You see, Mr. Merrion, the situation is rather complicated. When I came here to join my sister, I had the idea of converting Springlease Hall into a guest-house. It seemed to me the only way of keeping it in the family. When my brother-in-law was killed, it was found that there was very little money left. To carry out my idea needed a considerable outlay. I spent my savings on this, and in return received a mortgage on the property. So both Letitia and I now have an interest in it.”

“I quite understand,” said Merrion. “Mrs. Darlaston takes no part in the management of the business?”

“None whatever,” Miss Cray replied. “She leaves Julie and me to run it as best we can. But of course I have to consult her when any question of the sale of part of the property arises. As for the sale of this piece of land, I hardly know which is the best course to take. Mr. Mackay is not the only person who wants it.”

“You have other offers for it?” Merrion asked.

“Two,” she replied. “The Brooks Rural District Council have approached me. They say that in the future they propose to build council houses in the Bruckam district, and that this land might be suitable for the purpose. And then not long ago Mr. Cooden asked me if I would sell it to him. He wants to turn it into a caravan site. He says he would buy it at once if I would let him have it. And, though I dislike the idea of having caravans so near the Hall, I'm not sure that I shan't.

“You see, the other two offers are so indefinite. The Council's approach to me was purely tentative. They don't know when the houses will be built, and meanwhile they may find a more suitable site. And Mr. Mackay asks merely for an option. He says he can do nothing without his father's approval, and that he may not agree to the factory being built in Raymouth at all.”

“Would you be glad to sell the land?” Merrion asked.

“I shouldn't be at all sorry,” she replied. “When my brother-in-law kept horses, the meadow was used as a paddock to turn them out into. Where the tennis court is now was a pigsty and a chicken house. Carlake, the gardener, used to keep his pigs and fowls there. After he was called up, they fell to pieces.”

“When was the tennis court laid down?” Merrion asked.

“A year after the war ended,” Miss Cray replied. “It was my idea, and it was one of the things I paid for. I thought it would be an attraction in summer to our guests, and so it was.”

“It has been damaged recently, I gather?” Merrion remarked.

“A most extraordinary thing,” she replied. “Something exploded on it one evening. Nobody has ever been able to make out how it happened. My own idea is that it was done out of spite. I am told that it would cost a good deal to repair it. That is one of the reasons why I should not be sorry to sell the land. And I think that, on the whole, it would be best to let Mr. Cooden have it. And now I must leave you, Mr. Merrion, and help Julie to get supper ready.”

She went out, leaving Merrion alone. She had certainly given him plenty to think about by her complaint of the theft of the tins. From the moment that he had discovered the bead among the hay, he had had very little doubt about who it was that had laid up in the loft. Both the ladies at the Lodge Cottage had been in the habit of wearing beads. Miss Price was dead, and Miss Marsland was missing.

Merrion lighted a cigarette, and set himself to develop the theory he had already half formed. Miss Marsland had left the cottage very soon after the murder of her friend. It had been her footprint which Arnold and Froyle had found in the snow. But she had not walked to Bruckam to catch the bus to Featherby. When one came to think of it, she would hardly have done that in the gum-boots which the print seemed to suggest she had been wearing. She had gone to the stables and ensconced herself in the loft.

Had she taken the tins? It was to be supposed that she was sufficiently familiar with the house to know her way to the larder. But if her object was to conceal her whereabouts, that would be running a very grave risk of discovery. It seemed far more likely that someone in the house was in the secret, and had supplied her.

Who could that person have been? Surely not one of the guests, even the inquisitive Mackay. If he had known about the tins, he would not have drawn attention to them. He would have removed them and buried them somewhere.

Miss Cray? To Merrion, she seemed the most likely person. One might suppose that she knew of Miss Marsland's hiding-place, and had kept her supplied with food. For the first couple of days with left-overs which Mrs. Nadder had not missed. Then, that mysterious happening of the previous night. Merrion had already decided that it had been Miss Gray who had left the house and returned. She had not gone to the cottage, but to the loft, taking the tins with her.

But there was an objection to this. Miss Marsland must have been famished if she had consumed the contents of two tins of luncheon meat and half a tin of baked beans between midnight on Friday and the time of Mackay's discovery on Saturday afternoon. The answer was probably that Miss Cray had visited the loft every night since Wednesday, and had taken the tins on one of those occasions.

The question that interested Merrion most was, where was Miss Marsland at the moment? She had not been in the loft that afternoon. Had she left it for good, or did she mean to return? If she came back this evening, she would run into the arms of Mackay. What a triumphant prize for that zealous amateur sleuth!

It seemed quite probable to Merrion that she would return. After all, there were worse places than the loft to live in. It afforded shelter, and the bales of hay would make quite a comfortable bed. The bead lying there suggested that this was the use to which Miss Marsland had put the hay. She might hide in the woods by day, and return to the loft at night.

But if Miss Cray was in the secret, her conduct was inexplicable. Why should she connive in the concealment of Miss Marsland? Why, for that matter, was it necessary that Miss Marsland should remain concealed? The only reply seemed to be that she had been the murderer of her friend. But, if Miss Cray knew that, would she have refrained from denouncing her? Knowing that by so doing she would share her guilt in the eyes of the law, would she put herself in jeopardy for the sake of a distant relation?

Merrion thought this highly improbable. As her conversation showed. Miss Cray was a hard-headed woman of business, not lightly to be accused of romantic; sentimentalism. If she was shielding Miss Marsland, I there must be some very good reason for her behaviour. As Merrion arrived at this conclusion, Julie came into the lounge. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion,” she said brightly. “Have you had any luck yet with your house-hunting?”

Merrion had almost forgotten the pretext for his stay at Springlease Hall, but he rose to the occasion with his usual promptitude. “Not yet, Miss Darlaston. But I hardly expected to be lucky so soon as this. It may take me two or three weeks to find what I want.”

“I hope, when you do find a house, it will not be too far away from here,” said Julie. “Then perhaps you will come and see us sometimes. Aunt Helena has been telling me that you have offered to drive us to the funeral on Monday. I hope she made you understand how grateful we both are. She is rather apt to take things for granted.”

“Not on this occasion,” Merrion replied. “Miss Cray was very appreciative. It is a very small matter, and will not put me out in the least.”

“It will take up the time that you might have spent looking at a house,” said Julie. “And it is really very sweet of you. I can't help wondering whether you may not be saddled with a third passenger.”

“Are you expecting anyone to come with you?” Merrion asked.

“I was thinking of Aunt Tryphena,” Julie replied. “Miss Marsland, you know. She isn't my aunt really, but I have always called her that ever since she came here. I can't believe that she will stay away from the funeral of the friend with whom she has lived for ever so many years.”

It suddenly struck Merrion that the member of the household in touch with Miss Marsland might be Julie. “You have no idea where Miss Marsland is?” he asked.

Julie shook her head. “I can't think why she should have gone away without telling Aunt Helena or me. I can only suppose that she was so grieved by her friend's death that she could not bear to stay in the cottage without her. She may have gone to London.”

“Why London, rather than anywhere else?” Merrion asked.

“Because she knows some people who are living there,” Julie replied. “I have often heard her and Miss Price speak of them. Their name is Surlingham, and they used to spend the winter in Alassio when Aunt Tryphena and Miss Price were there. They have both said that they would dearly like to meet the Surlinghams again, but they couldn't ask to them stay at the cottage, for there was no room.”

“Couldn't they have been invited to stay here?” Merrion suggested.

Julie's eyes twinkled. “They could. But Aunt Helena doesn't like women guests. She says they always find fault with everything we do for them. You see, the Surlinghams are not husband and wife, but three unmarried sisters, and apparently Aunt Tryphena couldn't invite one of them without the others. And if they had come here on the invitation of Aunt Tryphena and Miss Price, they would have had to pay for their board and lodging. I know it sounds mercenary, but there it is.”

“Wouldn't it be a good idea to get in touch with the Misses Surlingham and ask them if Miss Marsland is with them?” Merrion asked.

“I daresay it would,” Julie replied. “But I don't know their address, and I'm quite sure that neither Mother nor Aunt Helena does either. And, speaking of Mother, you must excuse me, Mr. Merrion. It's time for me to get her supper ready.”

“Mrs. Darlaston will not attend the funeral?” Merrion asked. “My invitation extends to her, of course.”

“I asked her if she would like to go,” Julie replied. “But she said she didn't feel up to it. Although she says that she feels more active than she has for a very long while. And I think that's true, for this morning when I started to dust her sitting-room, as I always do, she said she would dust it herself, as it would give her something to do. And her appetite is certainly improving. I'm almost beginning to hope that she will get about a little more.”

There was something so frank about Julie's manner that Merrion felt that his suspicions were unjustified. As for Miss Marsland's friends the Surlinghams, it was dimly possible that she had sought refuge with them. But if so, why all this secrecy? The obvious answer was that Miss Marsland had no wish to be questioned by the police. But Merrion was beginning to wonder whether there might not be some other mystery, to which there was as yet no clue.

He remembered that in the pocket of his overcoat, which he had left hanging in the hall, was the newspaper that Froyle had given him. He fetched it, and sat down to turn over the pages. He had an idea that Arnold and Froyle had probably devoted their attention to the news items, and neglected the advertisements of which the paper seemed mainly made up. He therefore concentrated upon these, the ones in larger type first. They were various, and in some cases baffling. “Stock Cutters (Male or Female) urgently required for Men's outer clothing.” Merrion paused to wonder what sort of a trade Stock Cutting might be. A Manager and Manageress were wanted for a First Class Licensed Hotel. 'You'll never regret the Time spent Eating at the Picture House Restaurant.' Several cinemas advertised their programmes. That extremely funny farce, 'Rollicking Nights' was to be presented at the Assembly Rooms for two weeks only from February 6th, featuring that favourite comedian Gobbo. Tenders were invited for the shaving and haircutting of male patients at the local hospital.

There was nothing here that could interest the ladies at the cottage. Merrion turned to the page headed 'Smalls'. These advertisements ranged from situations vacant or wanted to livestock, from bulls to cavies. Perhaps the column devoted to situations vacant might afford a clue. But having scanned these, Merrion came to the conclusion that none of the vacancies were likely to appeal to either Miss Marsland or Miss Price.

The supper gong sounded as Merrion was still reading the paper. He folded it up, put it in his pocket, and went into the dining-room. Miss Cray and Julie were there, but neither of them seemed much inclined for conversation, and the meal passed with only an occasional remark. Merrion half expected an interruption at any moment. The appearance of Mackay triumphantly leading by the hand the reluctant Miss Marsland. But nothing of the kind happened.

The meal came to an end, and Merrion returned to the lounge. Remembering the card-table and the pack of cards, he took these out and began playing a game of patience, an occupation which he had often found an aid to thought. His immediate problem concerned the odd behaviour of Miss Marsland. He was quite satisfied that it was she who had hidden up in the loft. But it seemed unlikely that she could have returned to it without being intercepted by Mackay. It was possible that she had left her retreat for good. Possibly to seek refuge with her friends in London.

But why had she waited all this time before doing so? One practical reason presented itself. She hadn't the money to pay her fare. Miss Cray had taken her the sum necessary when she visited the loft at midnight, and she had left the following morning. It was clearly in Miss Cray's interest to keep Miss Marsland away from the cottage. The other occupant being dead, it would then be vacant, and might be profitably let.

Meanwhile, the identity of Miss Price's murderer remained a mystery. In spite of Miss Marsland's inexplicable behaviour, Merrion did not really believe that she was the criminal. But, if she had been in the cottage at the time of the crime, her evidence was of the first importance. And it might be that it was to avoid giving that evidence that she had gone into hiding. From which one might infer that she was doing her best to shield the criminal.

It was after ten o'clock when Merrion heard the sound of a motor cycle passing along the drive. Roding, no doubt. If he encountered Mackay, what explanation would the latter offer? Merrion had the curiosity to go into the hall to await developments. But after a minute or two Roding came in alone. He was wearing a crash helmet, a duffle coat, and a scarf round his neck. After he had hung up the helmet and scarf he followed Merrion into the lounge. “Are you alone, Mr. Merrion?” he asked. “The others haven't gone to bed yet, surely?”

This was enough to show that he had not met Mackay. “They are out, I understand,” Merrion replied. “By the way, I drove past the aerodrome this morning and saw a helicopter in flight. I wondered if you were piloting it?”

Roding nodded. “I was. Practising landing. My instructor says I'm not doing too badly. I hope it won't be very much longer before I get my certificate.”

“You haven't been practising in the dark?” Merrion asked casually.

“Oh no,” Roding replied. “That's not why I'm late. I've been out with some of the chaps from the aerodrome. We had a meal of sorts in Raymouth, then went to a show there.”

“Was it a good show?” Merrion asked.

“Not too bad,” Roding replied. “But we were a bit disappointed. The fellows I went with had seen it before, and they told me that the principal comedian was a scream. But he wasn't there to-night. The chap who took his part did his best, but the fellows told me that he wasn't a patch on the man they'd seen. It's a pity, for this was the last performance, at Raymouth, at any rate. I gathered that it was a travelling company, and that they were moving on somewhere else.”

Merrion and Roding sat talking for a while. Not about the show, but about what Roding meant to do when he had acquired the necessary proficiency with the helicopter. He was quite sure that he could get as many orders for aerial photographs as he could manage. “Next week I hope to make a landing on the tennis court here,” he said. “It will be very good practice in landing and taking off again on an enclosed space. I hope you'll still be here to see me do it, Mr. Merrion.”

At eleven o'clock Miss Cray came into the lounge. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Roding,” she said curtly. “Isn't Mr. Mackay back yet?”

“He hasn't been in here,” Roding replied. “But he may have come in and gone up to his room. I'll go and see.”

“I always lock the front door before I go to bed,” Miss Cray explained to Merrion when Roding had left the lounge. “And I'm particularly anxious to do so after the theft of the tins. I feel quite sure that someone must be prowling about, and I don't want anything else stolen.”

Roding returned, to report that Mackay was not in his room. Merrion stepped into the breach. “Don't you worry, Miss Cray, I'll wait up for Mackay, and I'll undertake to see that the front door is locked after he comes in.”

Miss Cray thanked him and said good night. Shortly after her departure Roding went up to bed. Merrion was left alone to resume his game of patience. Midnight struck, without any sign from Mackay. Merrion, who judged him to be a man of resource, was not much concerned about him. He would find a way of knocking someone up if he came back to find the door locked. Or he might elect to spend the night in the loft, lying in wait for a more or less imaginary murderer. Merrion got up, locked and bolted the front door, and went to bed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HE SLEPT SOUNDLY that night, undisturbed by any mysterious sounds. On Sunday morning he went down to breakfast shortly before nine, to find Roding alone in the dining-room. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “Did Mackay come in last night?”

“Not before I went to bed,” Merrion replied. “I waited for him till midnight, and then I locked up and turned in.”

“I thought he couldn't have come back,” said Roding. “As I came down just now I looked into his room, which is next to mine. He wasn't there, and his bed hadn't been slept in. Miss Cray asked me a minute or two ago if I'd seen him. She said that he had told her that he had a business appointment in Raymouth last evening. I suppose whoever he went to see put him up for the night. But he might have rung up to say that he wouldn't be back.”

“Never thought of it, perhaps,” Merrion replied. “Are you going flying to-day?”

Roding shook his head. “My instructor doesn't function on Sundays. He says he likes to feel that there is at least one day in the week that his pupils won't try to break his neck. I shall probably run over to Featherby later on, and see a chap I know who lives there.”

Merrion finished his breakfast, then telling Roding that he was going to fetch his car, went to the coachhouse.

He unlocked the car, and touched the button of the horn thinking that if Mackay was lurking about, this might be a signal to him.

But the short blast seemed to rouse no one. After waiting for a short while, Merrion left the coachhouse and crossed the stable yard to the harness room. He stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the loft and called softly. “Are you up there, Mr. Mackay?”

There was no reply. Merrion climbed the steps far enough to enable him to see into the loft. Mackay was not there, and everything in the place seemed to be as he had last seen it. He returned to the coachhouse, wondering where on earth the fellow could have got to. However, Mackay's sleuthings were no business of his. He started the car, drove out, and made his way to Raymouth.

But he did not go directly to the police station. His car was becoming too well known in the neighbourhood, and might be recognised. He had no wish for it to be seen standing outside the police station. His association with the police was not to be revealed. So he left the car in the public car-park, and walked the rest of the way.

At the police station he found Arnold and Froyle. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” said the latter cheerfully. “Have you anything to report from the Springlease Hall front?”

“Well, yes,” Merrion replied. “Mostly concerning Miss Marsland. I can tell you a rather queer story, if you have leisure to listen.”

Froyle expressed his readiness to hear anything that he had to say, and Merrion told him of the events of the previous evening, refraining from any comments of his own.

“This young fellow Mackay seems to have an inquiring mind,” said Arnold, when the story had been told. “You didn't let him know about that glass bead you found?”

“I left it where it was, and didn't say a word about it” Merrion replied. “I don't think it struck him that Miss Marsland might have been the refugee in the loft. When I last saw him, he was still engaged in his search for the murderer of Miss Price. I am strongly of the opinion that someone at the Hall knew the secret of Miss Marsland's hiding-place. And the most likely person is Miss Cray.”

“Miss Marsland is not hiding in the loft now?” Froyle asked.

“She wasn't there half an hour ago,” Merrion replied. “And if Mackay was prowling around I don't see how she could have got back there last night without being seen by him. But I believe that she was there on Friday night, and that Miss Cray went there to see her.”

“Where has she gone to now, do you suppose?” Arnold asked.

“Julie Darlaston has a suggestion to make about that,” Merrion replied. “The Surlinghams she told me about. Miss Marsland may have landed herself upon them. But Julie knows no more than that they are living in London. It's up to you to ferret them out, if you think it worth your while.”

As he finished speaking, the telephone on Froyle's desk buzzed. He picked up the instrument and listened. “What's that you say?” he asked. “Will you please tell me what has happened?”

He listened for a few seconds, then slammed the receiver down. “Confound the woman! She's rung off. She was in such a state of agitation that I could hardly make out what she was saying. Something about a terrible thing having happened at the Lodge Cottage. She didn't say who she was, but it sounded like Miss Cray.”

“If it was Miss Cray, it must have been something pretty terrible to throw her off balance,” Merrion remarked. “She's about the most self-possessed person I ever met.”

“I shall have to go and see what it is,” said Froyle. “You'll come with me, Mr. Arnold?”

“Oh, yes I'll come,” Arnold replied. “What about you, Merrion?”

“Later, perhaps,” said Merrion. “It wouldn't do for me to turn up right on your heels. I won't delay you now.”

Soon after he had left, Froyle and Arnold set out in the police car. “I wonder what's up now?” Arnold remarked as they drove towards Bruckam. “We left the cottage locked yesterday, and the only person in it was Miss Price, dead in her coffin.”

“Goodness knows,” Froyle replied. “I can only tell you that Miss Cray, if it was she who spoke on the telephone, seemed pretty well distraught. Well, we shall very soon see.”

They reached the gates at the end of the avenue, to find Miss Cray standing just inside. “Oh, I'm so glad you've come!” she exclaimed as they alighted from the car. “It's Mr. Mackay. He's in the living-room of the cottage. I can't understand it.”

“We will go and see,” Froyle replied. “Is the door unlocked?”

“Yes,” Miss Cray replied. “I unlocked it when I came here just now. I will stay outside in the yard. You will find me there when you want me.”

Arnold and Froyle walked to the back door of the cottage. The key was in the lock, but it was not turned. They opened the door and passed through the kitchen into the living-room. Arnold, who was leading, uttered a sharp exclamation. Mackay was lying crumpled up on the hearth-rug. And on the back of the overcoat he was wearing was fixed what appeared to be a filigree silver ball.

Arnold bent down and felt for the pulse of the left wrist. “Stone cold, and not the faintest beat,” he said. “The man's dead all right. And I fancy I've seen that silver ball before. Do you recognise it?”

“I think so,” Froyle replied. “It looks uncommonly like the handle of that paper-knife or whatever it was that we found in the bureau yesterday. If it is, the blade is in the poor chap's heart.” He turned to the bureau and opened the top drawer. “That's it. The paper-knife isn't where we left it yesterday.”

“Obviously the first thing to do is to look for fingerprints on the handle,” said Arnold. “And what's this?”

The edge of something red showed between the body and the hearth-rug. Arnold drew it out. “It's that red heart with the arrow through it. Would you mind slipping back and fetching the fingerprint gear while I talk to Miss Cray?”

Froyle nodded and left the cottage. Arnold looked carefully round the room. It showed no sign of having been disturbed since the previous afternoon. The coffin stood on a pair of trestles, and neither it nor any of the furniture appeared to have been moved. Having satisfied himself of this, Arnold went to the back door, outside of which Miss Cray was standing. “Won't you come into the kitchen, Miss Cray?” he asked. “It's cold out in the yard there.”

She entered hesitatingly, and Arnold shut the back door after her. “Do sit down, Miss Cray,” he went on. “This discovery must have been a great shock to you. Will you tell me about it?”

As she sat down. Miss Cray seemed to recover something other usual poise. “I came here to open the sitting-room window,” she replied. “I thought that the room might need airing. And as soon as I opened the door, I saw Mr. Mackay lying as you found him. As soon as could pull myself together I went back to the Hall and rang you up.”

“Did you find the back door locked when you reached here?” Arnold asked.

“Yes, I'm sure it was locked,” Miss Cray replied, “The lock seemed to be rather stiffer than usual, and had to use some force to turn the key.”

“Mr. Froyle and I gave you back the key yesterday afternoon,” said Arnold. “What did you do with it?”

“I put it back where I have kept it since last Wednesday,” she replied. “In a drawer of the desk in the office at the Hall. And that drawer is always kept locked, for it has the cash box in it.”

“Where is the key of the drawer kept?” Arnold asked.

“Here,” she replied. She opened the handbag she was carrying and produced a bunch of keys, one of which she selected. “This is the one. I never go anywhere without this bag, and I take it up to my bedroom at night.”

“Nobody could have taken the back door key without your knowledge?” Arnold asked.

“Nobody,” she replied firmly. “You can be perfectly sure of that.”

Arnold did not press the point any further. “There is no reason for you to stay here any longer, Miss Cray,” he said. “Would you be good enough to go back to the Hall and telephone to Dr. Graveney, asking him to come here as soon as he can? You had better tell him that the police are already here.”

Miss Cray seemed not sorry to leave the cottage. In spite of her efforts to control herself, she was obviously still badly shaken. After she had gone, Arnold examined the lock of the back door more closely than he bad hitherto done. It was an old-fashioned box lock, screwed on to the inside of the door. The key was big and heavy, about four inches long. It turned in the lock rather stiffly but without any hitch. There was no sign of the door having been forced back from the outside, which, in any case, would have been almost impossible.

Froyle returned with the apparatus, and between them they dusted the silver ball thoroughly. “Your turn first,” said Arnold.

Froyle took a powerful lens from the case which he had brought and through it scrutinised the ball. “I can't see anything that looks like a print,” he said after a couple of minutes. “But then as it's filigree the surface isn't continuous, and it's difficult to tell. You have a look, Mr. Arnold, and see if you can make out anything.”

Arnold took the lens and repeated the scrutiny. After a while he shook his head. “No prints there, I'll take my oath on that. I asked Miss Cray to ring up Dr. Graveney. While we're waiting for him we might try some of the other things in the room. The bureau, for instance. The paper-knife must have been taken from that.”

But the bureau yielded no results. They tried various other objects, including the Venetian glasses, but failed to find any prints. They were thus engaged when they heard a car draw up outside. Froyle went out, to return with Dr. Graveney. “What have we got here now?” the doctor asked briskly. “A man, eh? And what's that he's got on his back?”

“He's Mr. Mackay, the guest at the Hall who gave evidence at the inquest the other day,” Froyle replied. “And unless we're very much mistaken what you see on his back is the handle of a paper-knife. We've left it for you to draw out.”

Dr. Graveney knelt down beside the body. While he was carrying out his examination, Arnold and Froyle continued their experiments with the dusting apparatus, still without result. “He's been dead some hours,” said Graveney at length. “At least twelve, possibly more.”

Arnold glanced at his watch, which showed the time to be five minutes past noon. “Some time before midnight last night, Doctor?” he asked.

“Between nine and eleven, I should imagine,” Graveney replied. “But don't tie yourself down to those limits too rigidly. Now let's see if you're right about that paper-knife.”

He grasped the ball and drew out the blade to which it was attached. This was narrow and double-edged, about six inches long. The blade was pitted with rust, and the edges were blunt with age, but the point remained sharp enough. Graveney examined it with the air of a connoisseur. “Paper-knife, eh? Well, it may have been used for that. Probably was. But it's actually an Italian stiletto, eighteenth century by the style of the filigree work. Women used to wear them as ornaments sometimes, that's why the handle is made of silver and decorated. Pretty useful ornament, too, if a quarrel broke out.”

“We saw it lying in a drawer of the bureau yesterday,” Froyle remarked.

“The ladies who lived in this cottage spent a good many years in Italy, I believe,” said Graveney. “They probably got it there and brought it back with them. Has anything been heard of Miss Marsland?”

Froyle shook his head. “We don't know where she is.”

“She could probably tell you about the stiletto,” said Graveney. “Well, I don't have to tell you gentlemen that suicide is out of the question. The poor fellow can't have stabbed himself in the back. And I don't see how he could have been stabbed accidentally. There's only one other alternative.”

“And we know what that is,” Froyle replied significantly. “What are we going to do with the body, Doctor?”

“Leave it here,” Graveney suggested. This cottage seems to be becoming a mortuary. The coroner will want Letchworth to go over it, I expect. He can do that here as well as anywhere else. There's no more I can do now, so I'll get back home.”

When the doctor had gone, Arnold and Froyle went all over the cottage. They found no sign of anything having been disturbed. The front door was locked and bolted. None of the windows had been forced, and all were securely fastened. It did not take them long to satisfy themselves that the cottage had not been broken into.

“You remember what Mr. Merrion told us,” said Froyle. “Mackay had taken it into his head to do some detective work on his own. We can only suppose that last night he decided to explore the cottage. But how did he get in?”

“There's only one way he could have got in,” Arnold replied. “By unlocking the back door.” He repeated what Miss Cray had told him about where she kept the key. “She says she is never parted from her handbag,” he went on. “Generally speaking, I expect that's quite true, but she must lay it down sometimes, if only for a minute or two. Long enough for someone to take from it the key of the drawer, unlock it, take from it the back door key, lock the drawer again, and put the key of it back in the bag. Being a guest at the Hall, Mackay had that opportunity.”

“Mackay may have taken the key,” Froyle agreed. “But who put it back again? If Miss Cray is telling the truth, she found the key in its usual place this morning.”

“I'm pretty sure that she was telling the truth,” Arnold replied. “She was too shaken up to have the wits to make up a story on the spur of the moment. This I imagine is what happened. Mackay borrowed the key in order to have a look round. He left the back door unlocked, with the key in the lock outside. While he was poking round the sitting-room someone came along, took the knife from the drawer of the bureau, and stuck it into him. We'd better go through his pockets.”

They did so, to find a cylindrical metal torch in the right hand pocket of his overcoat. “That's queer, to begin with,” Arnold remarked. “Why in his pocket? Why wasn't he using it to see what he was about? He'd never have ventured to turn the light on in here, for anyone passing along the road might have seen it. And if he did turn on the light, who turned it off again? Let's dust that torch. It's got just the surface to take prints.”

While they were dusting the torch, a voice spoke softly from the direction of the kitchen. “Merrion here. May I come in?”

“Come in, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle replied. “You may be able to throw some light on this affair.”

As Merrion entered the room, his eyes fell on the body, which Graveney had straightened out on the hearth-rug. “Mackay!” he exclaimed. “What in the world is he doing here?”

“It's no good asking him, for he's dead,” Arnold replied. “Wait a moment till we've finished what we're doing.”

The dusting was finished, and Arnold and Froyle in turn examined the torch. It revealed no vestige whatever of fingerprints. “I can't make it out,” said Arnold irritably. “Mackay wasn't wearing gloves. They aren't on his hands or in any of his pockets. He must have been holding the torch in his bare hands. He couldn't have seen to unlock the back door without it. Why didn't he leave his prints on the thing? There's something to set your imagination to work, Merrion.”

“You'll have to tell me rather more before I can do that,” Merrion replied.

Between them, Arnold and Froyle told him all that they had seen and heard since their arrival at the cottage. “I suppose it's true that Miss Cray always carries her bag around with her?” Froyle asked.

“I've never seen her without it,” Merrion replied. “She even brings it into meals, and lays it on the table in front of her. And to be quite candid, I don't favour the idea of Mackay, or anyone else, for that matter, tampering with Miss Cray's bag.”

“Then how did he get hold of the back door key?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know,” Merrion replied. “I'm more interested in the return of the key than the taking of it. When was it returned, and by whom? It must have been after Mackay was killed, according to the doctor, between nine and eleven last night. I was in the lounge during that period, and the front door of the Hall was unlocked. Roding, one of the guests, came in at ten o'clock.”

“Eh!” Arnold exclaimed sharply. “Who is this Roding? Does he know anything about it?”

“He is one of the guests, and his hobby is flying a helicopter,” Merrion replied. “Whether he knows anything about it, I can't say. But it wasn't he who returned the key. Listen, I heard him coming along on his motor cycle, and went into the hall to meet him. He was not out of my sight until eleven, when Miss Cray came in carrying her bag. She had it in her hand till she went up to bed, carrying it with her.”

“That certainly seems to put Roding out,” Arnold admitted grudgingly.

“There's only one explanation,” said Froyle. “The key was not returned, for it had never been taken. There are two keys to the back door, and it was the one that hasn't been accounted for that was used.

“Look here. Two ladies lived here, and by the appearance of the front door they don't seem to have used it much. They probably made a habit of coming in and out by the back door. People who live in cottages usually do. And presumably when they were both out, the door was locked in their absence.

“Now suppose they went out together, but to different places. One of them to Bruckam, say, and the other to the Hall. If there was only one key, one of them would have to take it. And if the one who hadn't got it came back first, she would have to wait for the other before she could get in. Wouldn't it be reasonable to suppose that there were two keys, and that each of them took one?”

“I suppose it would,” Arnold replied. “But where is this second key, and how did Mackay get hold of it?”

“I think I've got the answer to that,” said Froyle. “Miss Marsland took it with her when she cleared out. Mr. Merrion has told us that he has every reason to believe that she hid in the loft. Mackay went up to the loft, and found the tins which he pointed out to Mr. Merrion. May he not have found the key as well, and put it in his pocket, saying nothing about it?”

“What do you say to that, Merrion?” Arnold asked.

“Just this,” Merrion replied. “When Mackay took me up to the loft, he was bubbling over with excitement at his discoveries. If he had found anything so intriguing as a key, I don't think that he could have kept the fact to himself. He was far from being a reticent person.”

“Then we're back at the beginning,” Arnold remarked. “If Mackay didn't come in by a key to open the back door, how did he get in?”

“Was it necessary for him to have a key?” Merrion asked.

“Of course it was,” Arnold replied irritably. “Haven't we explained to you that he could only have got in by the back door? The front door is bolted, and all the windows are fastened and intact. There's no question of the cottage having been broken into.”

“I didn't mean that,” said Merrion. “But suppose Mackay found the back door unlocked when he got here?”

“How could that have been?” Arnold asked. “Mr. Froyle and I locked the door when we left here yesterday afternoon, and gave the key back to Miss Cray. She is the only person who could have unlocked it.”

“I'm thinking of what Mr. Froyle said a minute ago,” Merrion replied. “There were two keys, and Miss Marsland took one of them with her. It may be that she had not gone to London last night, but was still in the neighbourhood. She might have unlocked the door.”

“That sounds a promising theory, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “Can you carry it a step further?”

“I think so,” Merrion replied. “Miss Marsland came secretly to the cottage by night. One can imagine many reasons why she should have done so. She opened the back door with her key, which she left in the lock outside. Mackay, in the course of his sleuthing, came along to the cottage and, probably to his vast astonishment, found the door unlocked. He could not resist the impulse to go in, and he found Miss Marsland in this room.

“What happened after that we can only conjecture. Miss Marsland, in spite of all her efforts at concealment, had been discovered. It is quite likely that she did not know Mackay by sight, and had no idea who he was. She may even have supposed that he was the murderer of Miss Price, and that his intention now was to murder her.

“I don't for a moment suppose that Mackay expected to find Miss Marsland in the cottage, and what action he would have taken no one can say. I think this is more or less what must have happened. Miss Marsland diverted Mackay's attention to something on the mantelpiece. That red heart, perhaps, which you say you found lying underneath his body. He probably took it down, in order to examine it more closely. While he was doing this, Miss Marsland took out the knife and drove it into his back. How will that suit the case?”

“Very well, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle replied. “It explains a point which has been puzzling me. Would a stranger to the cottage know that a suitable weapon was to be found in the drawer of the bureau? Miss Marsland would have known exactly where it was.”

“Her motive doesn't seem altogether clear to me,” Arnold remarked.

“Then I'll try to make it clear to you,” Merrion replied. “You mustn't forget that for days she had been in hiding. I haven't a doubt that at the unexpected appearance of a stranger she panicked. She acted in self-defence, believing that she was to be murdered, as Miss Price had been. Or she was determined that her whereabouts should not be revealed.”

“I'll accept that,” said Arnold. “But why didn't we find her fingerprints on the silver handle of the knife?”

Merrion smiled. “There's an obvious answer to that. Because she was wearing gloves. Wouldn't you expect any woman to wear gloves on a cold night? She hadn't been in the cottage long enough to take them off. In fact it's not impossible that Mackay tracked her there, and entered only a matter of seconds after she did. And that might explain the riddle of the torch. Why you found it in Mackay's pocket with no fingerprints on it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arnold asked.

“Follow my imagination, and you'll see,” Merrion replied. “Last night it was as dark as it was on Friday. I know that, for before I locked the front door of the Hall at midnight I looked out. Miss Marsland could not have seen her way to the cottage without a torch.

“Now suppose that Mackay, sleuthing around the place, saw the light of that torch and resolved to find out who was carrying it. He wouldn't have switched on his own torch, for that might have warned Miss Marsland that she was being pursued. He would have followed as best he could, possibly close on her heels. You may have observed that he was wearing rubber soled shoes. He never took his torch out of his pocket. Contact with the lining would have rubbed off any finger marks he had left on it previously.”

“You've always got a plausible answer,” said Arnold. “And what did Miss Marsland do after she had stuck the knife into the unfortunate man's back?”

“I don't suppose she stayed here much longer,” Merrion replied. “She probably took whatever it was she had come to get, and then made off, locking the door and taking the key with her. Where she went, I can't say. She wasn't in the loft when I looked in there this morning.”

“We'd better have a look at the loft, hadn't we, Mr. Arnold?” Froyle asked. “I daresay Mr. Merrion will show us the way?”

“By all means,” Merrion replied. “I'll drive you to the coachhouse in my car. The people at the Hall are used to seeing it there, so it won't attract so much attention as your car would.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY LEFT the cottage and locked the door, Froyle taking the key. Merrion drove them into the coachhouse, and led the way up into the loft. “Nothing seems to have been touched since I came up here last evening,” he said. “As I told you, Mackay had handled the tins, so the only prints you're likely to find on them will be his.”

“Then I don't think we need waste our time on them,” Froyle replied. “I'd like to see that glass bead you told us about.”

Merrion pointed to the bales of hay. In daylight, the bead was almost conspicuous. “One bead by itself doesn't amount to much,” he said. “But I daresay if you were to rummage among the hay you might find others.”

This Arnold and Froyle proceeded to do. The bales being broken, the hay was loose, and they went through it carefully. By the time they had finished, they had found half a dozen beads, similar to the first.

“I think that's good enough,” said Froyle. “It looks as though Miss Marsland slept on the hay when she occupied the loft. One of her bead necklaces broke. She collected all the beads she could see, but she missed those that had fallen into the hay. Do you agree, Mr. Arnold?”

“That's about it,” Arnold replied. “It only remains for someone to identify these beads as Miss Marsland's property. Miss Cray, I suppose.”

“May I put in a word?” said Merrion. “I believe that Miss Cray was in the secret of the hiding-place. I've already told you why. If you were to show the beads to her, she might say that she was quite sure Miss Marsland never had a necklace like that. If I were you, I'd try Miss Julie. I gather that she used often to see the ladies at the cottage. And, by the way, none of the guests are at the Hall just now. Cooden is in London. Roding's motor cycle is not in the coachhouse, so he must be out, probably at Featherby. Mackay's body is in the cottage, and I'm here.”

“It seems a very good opportunity of talking to Miss Julie,” Froyle replied. “Shall we go along to the Hall, Mr. Arnold?”

“I'm ready,” said Arnold. “There doesn't seem very much more to be seen here. What about you, Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion shook his head. “I'm not coming with you. I don't want to be seen hunting in your company if I can help it. You'll find me in the coachhouse when you want me.”

Arnold and Froyle descended the steps and passed through the harness room to the stable yard. Merrion, standing at the window of the loft, could see them as they left it, and watched them walk along the drive till they reached the front door of the Hall. It occurred to him that Miss Marsland could have seen anyone who came to the Hall or left it.

Arriving at the front door, Froyle rang the bell. After an interval the door was opened by Julie, whose expression showed that she knew what had happened. She looked at the two men with wide open eyes. “Have you come to see Aunt Helena? I'll go and find her.”

“It is you we have come to see, Miss Darlaston,” Froyle replied. “May we speak to you for a few minutes?”

Julie nodded and led them into the lounge. Froyle had wrapped the beads in a sheet torn from his notebook. He unfolded this and laid the beads on the table.

“Have you ever seen any like those before. Miss Darlaston?” he asked.

Julie stared at them intently. “Yes, I have. I've seen a long string of beads just like these. Aunt Tryphena and Miss Price used to wear it. I don't know which of them it really belonged to, for they often used to wear one another's things.”

“You are quite sure that one of them owned a string of beads like these?” Froyle asked.

“Quite sure,” she replied. “The colour and shape are both rather unusual. I recognised them as soon as I saw them. I've never seen another string of beads quite like these.”

Froyle wrapped the beads up again. “Thank you, Miss Darlaston. Is Miss Cray disengaged just now? We have a key to return to her.”

“Aunt Helena is in the office,” Julie replied. “She is naturally terribly upset by what has happened, and doesn't feel like seeing anybody.”

“We fully sympathise with Miss Cray,” said Froyle. “But would you mind asking her if she feels capable of seeing us?”

“I'll go and see,” said Julie. As she left the room Froyle turned to Arnold. “Upset though Miss Cray may be, I think it's time we tackled her. What do you say, Mr. Arnold?”

“I quite agree,” Arnold replied. “If she's all that upset she may blurt out things which otherwise she would have kept to herself. If she'll see us, I'll leave you to start the talking.”

Julie reappeared, to say that her aunt would see the gentlemen. She led them to the office, a strange-looking room with a big flat-topped desk planted in the middle of the old-fashioned morning-room furniture. Miss Cray was seated at the desk, listlessly turning over the pages of what appeared to be an account book of some kind. She looked up as Froyle and Arnold came in. “Be seated, please,” she said, pointing to a couple of chairs in front of the desk.

They sat down and Froyle produced the key of the cottage. “Will you show us where you have been keeping this, Miss Cray?” he asked.

Her handbag was on the desk. She opened it, took from it the bunch of keys, and with one of them unlocked a drawer of the desk. “In here, with the cash box,” she replied.

The ease with which she had unlocked the drawer showed that the lock had not been tampered with. “You found the key there this morning?” Froyle asked.

“Of course I did,” she replied. “I had put it there after you gave it back to me yesterday afternoon.”

“Do you know if there is a duplicate key in existence?” Froyle asked. “Perhaps Miss Marsland and Miss Price had one each?”

“I'm pretty sure they hadn't,” Miss Cray replied. “For one thing, the key is far too heavy and clumsy for any woman to care to carry it in her bag. And for another, I know for a fact that when they went out together they locked the back door and put the key under the scraper outside.”

“This key was in the drawer yesterday evening?” Froyle asked.

“Where else would it have been?” she replied. “I had occasion to take some money from the cash box about nine o'clock, and when I opened the drawer I saw the key there.”

“You will see the point of my questions, Miss Cray,” said Arnold. “If there is only one key, and that was in the drawer, can you explain how Mr. Mackay entered the cottage? We have satisfied ourselves that it was not broken into.”

“I have no idea,” she replied acidly. “Surely that is a question for the police rather than for me.”

“We are doing our best to find the answer to it,” said Froyle. “Now to turn to something else. That block of stabling some distance from the house. Is it ever used now?”

“Only the coachhouse,” she replied. “If any of our guests have a car or motor cycle, they use it as a garage. The rest of the block has not been used since my brother-in-law's death. It is in a shocking state of repair. But that hardly matters, since we have no use for it.”

“The block includes a harness room, with a loft above, does it not?” Froyle asked.

Both he and Arnold were watching Miss Cray intently, but her expression showed not the slightest sign of change at this question. “It does,” she replied indifferently. “And a lot of stalls and loose-boxes as well. My brother-in-law kept several horses and carriages at one time. He never cared for cars, and it was only a few years before his death that he bought one. Even then he kept a couple of riding horses. They were sold at his death, and the stabling has never been used since.”

“When were you last in the loft, Miss Cray?” Froyle asked.

“In the loft?” she exclaimed. “I don't know that I have ever been into it. There has never been any reason why I should. What makes you ask me such a question?”

Froyle evaded this. “Do you know if anyone connected with the Hall has been there recently?”

“I don't, but it seems most unlikely,” she replied. I'm trying to make you understand that the only part of the stabling that has been used for years is the coachhouse.”

“Have you missed anything from this house recently, Miss Gray?” Froyle asked.

“Yes we have,” she replied. “I meant to speak to about it before, but this terrible affair of Mr. Mackay drove it out of my mind. Two tins of luncheon meat stolen from the larder here within the last three or four days. It made me feel very uncomfortable to think hat there was a thief about, possibly in this very house.”

“Listen, Miss Cray,” said Froyle. “Would it surprise you to learn that those tins, now empty, were in the loft at this very moment?”

She stared at him incredulously. “In the loft? That means that the thief must have taken them there. Who can he have been?”

“You have no suspicions as to that?” Froyle asked.

For a moment or two she hesitated. “I hardly like to say it now. But Mr. Mackay was behaving very strangely yesterday afternoon. Prowling about as though he were trying to find out something. I wondered if he had taken the tins from the larder. Though why he should have done so, I can't imagine. I'm sure we give our guests enough to eat.”

“I'm sure you do, Miss Cray,” said Froyle politely. “But there are other people who might be in need of food. Can't you think of one of them?”

She shook her head. “I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. Who is in need of food?”

“Anyone in hiding might be,” Froyle replied. He took the screw of paper from his pocket, opened it out, and laid it on the desk before Miss Cray's eyes. “Have you ever seen these beads before?”

She glanced at them indifferently. “Tryphena and her friend used to wear some like that. You found them in the cottage, I suppose?”

“No, Miss Cray, I did not,” Froyle replied. “They were found in the loft that we have been talking about. What have you to say to that?”

“That I can hardly believe it,” said Miss Cray curtly.

“It is true, nevertheless,” Froyle replied. “Won't you be frank with us, Miss Cray?”

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “I am being perfectly frank with you. What do you expect me to say?”

“I think you know very well,” Froyle replied. “Miss Marsland left the cottage on Wednesday morning. The discovery of these beads in the loft is sufficient evidence that she took refuge there. We have reason to believe that some person connected with the Hall was in communication with her. Was that person not you?”

“Certainly not!” she exclaimed. “Do you doubt my word?”

“I should hate to have to do that,” Froyle replied. “But I suggest that it was you who took those tins from the larder and carried them to the loft.”

“I have never been spoken to in this way in my life!” Miss Cray exclaimed angrily. “I will tell you once more that I know nothing whatever about the tins. Beyond that our cook, Mrs. Nadder, told me that they were taken between Tuesday and yesterday. And Mrs. Nadder is thoroughly trustworthy, I assure you.”

“You have told us that you had your suspicions of Mr. Mackay,” said Froyle. “We have reason to believe that he was not the thief. No one from outside is likely to have entered the larder unless there was no one else in the house. Was that ever the case during the period you mention?”

Miss Cray considered this for a moment. “On Thursday afternoon, perhaps. It was Mrs. Nadder's afternoon off. She usually spends it with Mrs. Kersey, at the shop in Bruckam, who is a very old friend of hers. I went to Raymouth by bus to see the undertakers. Whether Julie went out or not, I don't know. She was probably with her mother most of the time, and in her rooms at the top of the house they wouldn't have known if anyone had come in. It is very rarely that any of our guests are here in the afternoon.”

“So that the tins might have been taken then,” Froyle remarked. “Would Miss Marsland have known her way to the larder?”

“She might have,” Miss Cray replied. “She has often been here to visit us, particularly my sister. But I rather doubt whether she has ever been into the kitchen premises. My sister very rarely leaves her rooms, except in summer, when we can persuade her to sit on the lawn for an hour or so. When Tryphena has come here, Julie or I have taken her upstairs or on to the lawn.”

“Neither the front nor the back door was locked on Thursday afternoon?” Froyle asked.

Miss Cray shook her head. “The front door is unlocked all day, for the convenience of our guests. And so is the back door, which the tradesmen use. We don't lock it when Mrs. Nadder goes out.”

“Can you suggest any reason why Miss Marsland should have hidden herself?” Froyle asked.

“I can only suppose that the death of her friend sent her out of her wits,” Miss Cray replied. “If she had been in a normal frame of mind, she would have come here, if she didn't want to be alone in the cottage. We could have put her up until something else had been arranged for her.”

“She appears to have left her refuge in the loft,” said Froyle. “Have you any idea where she may be now?”

“Julie has an idea that she may have gone to some friends of hers in London,” Miss Cray replied. “Their name is Surlingham, but I don't know where they live. Three sisters, I believe.”

“Another thing, Miss Cray,” said Froyle. “There is evidence that the ladies at the cottage had a visitor on Tuesday evening. Have you any idea who the visitor might have been?”

“Not Julie or myself,” she replied. “It is very rare indeed that either of us goes out in the evening. We are too busy here. It must have been some friend of theirs Mr. Blackthorn from the bungalow, perhaps. I believe he was in the habit of dropping in to see them.”

“Can you tell us anything about Miss Price?” Froyle asked.

“Very little,” she replied. “I always accepted her as Tryphena's friend, and I am not inquisitive by nature. I have always been given to understand that she and Tryphena met very many years ago, and have lived together since. They spent a long time in Italy before they were driven out, and then they came here together. My brother-in-law let them have the cottage rent free and by my sister's wish, that arrangement was continued after his death. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

“You cannot tell us whether Miss Price had any means of her own?” Froyle asked.

“That is a matter which has always puzzled me,” Miss Cray replied. “I have been told that they arrived in this country practically destitute. Arrangements were made later whereby they were able to draw the old age pension. Whether they did so or not I do not know. Mr. Cooden, one of our guests, might be able to tell you, for he works in the pensions office in Raymouth.”

“Neither of the ladies had any means beyond that?” Froyle asked.

“Tryphena had a little,” Miss Cray replied. “To save her from being a burden on his family, my brother-in-law left her a small sum in his will. But when he died, it was found out that his estate was much smaller than had been believed. All the legacies had to be reduced, including Tryphena's. I doubt whether she actually received more than five hundred pounds. And the interest on that would not amount to ten shillings a week. I have never heard that Miss Price had even that. But she always maintained that she made a little money by backing horses.”

“Then she must have been luckier than most,” Froyle remarked.

“She was,” Miss Cray replied a trifle spitefully, “Though I don't believe she knew any more about horses than the man in the moon. Once or twice I asked her what horse she meant to back in a big race, but she wouldn't tell me. I don't know why people are so secretive about a thing like that. I must confess that when I use my own judgment I almost invariably lose. But Miss Price must have done fairly well out of it. She always seemed able to find the money when she wanted any new clothes.”

“Thank you. Miss Cray,” said Froyle. “We will not trouble you any more just now.” He and Arnold left the house. “I believe she was telling the truth,” said Arnold as they set off along the drive. “At all events about Miss Marsland. I'd like to hear what Merrion has to say about what she told us.”

They reached the coachhouse, to find Merrion rubbing up the chromium work of his car. “You seem to have found something to occupy yourself,” Arnold remarked.

“A pretext for being here,” Merrion replied. “I like to keep the car looking as smart as I can. I don't know what my man Newport would say if I brought her home with the chromium in the state it is. Did you find out who the beads belonged to?”

“One of the ladies,” said Arnold. “Miss Darlaston doesn't know which, for they seem to have taken turns in wearing the string they come from. Miss Price didn't bring them to the loft, so Miss Marsland must have. And we've had an interview with Miss Cray. Will you tell him about it, Mr. Froyle?”

Froyle repeated what Miss Cray had told them. “I'm of the same opinion as Mr. Arnold, that she was telling the truth,” he went on. “If she was, she didn't know that Miss Marsland was hiding up in the loft, nor has she any idea where she is now. Another point is what she said about there being only one key to the back door of the cottage. What do you think about that, Mr. Merrion?”

“Her statement has a ring of truth about it,” Merrion replied. “When you come to think of it, no woman would want to carry around a key like that. And as for putting the thing under the scraper, it's just the kind of thing people would do.”

“This is the way I look at it,” said Arnold. “I'm quite satisfied that the key we've been using was in the office last night. And I don't see how anyone but Miss Cray herself could have got at it.”

“Meaning that it was Miss Cray whom Mackay followed to the cottage?” Merrion asked. “It might have been. I can't vouch for her actions between supper and eleven o'clock. But, however unwarrantable Mackay's intrusion may have been, would she have murdered him for it?”

“She might have, if it was essential to her that no one should know that she had been to the cottage,” Arnold replied.

“Well, she can be pretty formidable when she likes,” said Merrion. “But I doubt whether she would have murdered her guest, particularly since he was a paying one.”

“If she didn't unlock the door, I don't see who else could have,” said Froyle. “And a possibility has just struck me. What if she went to the cottage, unlocked the door, and went away, leaving it unlocked?”

“Why should she have done that?” Arnold asked.

“I don't know,” Froyle replied. “But it seems to be the only solution of the difficulty. So that someone should be able to get into the cottage later, perhaps.”

“Who could that have been but Miss Marsland?” Arnold asked. “And that would mean that Miss Cray was lying to us, which I don't think she was. We seem to he arguing in circles over this.”

“Then let's leave it for the moment and go on to the next point,” said Froyle. “That matter of the tins. Do you think Miss Marsland took them on Thursday afternoon? If she helped herself, it seems probable that no one at the Hall knew where she was.”

“I'd like to put in a remark, if I may,” Merrion interposed. “I noticed just now that anyone going to the Hall or leaving it could be seen from the window of the loft.”

“Then Miss Marsland could have been watching,” Froyle replied. “She saw Miss Cray going to catch the bus and the cook off for a gossip with her friend in Bruckam. That left only Miss Julie, who may have gone out too, though I don't think it's very likely, as she was left in charge. Miss Marsland may have gambled on the chance that she was upstairs with her mother.”

“I think we shall have to give up the idea that anyone at the Hall knew where Miss Marsland was or is,” said Arnold. “The point is, where has she gone to? When we get back I'll ring up the Yard and tell my people to ferret out these Surlingham sisters. To get back to what Miss Cray said. It strikes me as quite a good idea of hers that the Tuesday evening visitor to the cottage was Mr. Blackthorn.”

“We might have a chat with him,” Froyle replied. “But not now. I must get back and make a report for the coroner. Besides, it's lunch time. You'll be lunching at the Hall, I expect, Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion shook his head. “I don't think it will be a very cheerful meal. Mackay's ghost will dominate the proceedings. I shall let you people get away; then I shall drive into Raymouth and lunch there. I shall contrive to amuse myself during the afternoon, and call at the police station later, if you want me.”

“I hope you will, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle replied. “Very well, Mr. Arnold and I will walk back to where we left our car.”

They set off. When they reached the top of the avenue they met Julie, carrying a bunch of snowdrops which she had gathered from beneath the trees. “Those are nice flowers you've got there. Miss Darlaston,” Froyle remarked.

“They are nice, aren't they?” Julie replied. “I've been picking them for Mother. She always likes to have flowers in her room.”

“I'd like to ask you a question, Miss Darlaston,” said Froyle. “Do you remember last Thursday afternoon?”

“Very well,” she replied. “Aunt Helena had gone to Raymouth, and as it was Mrs. Nadder's afternoon off, I was alone.”

“So you didn't go out, I suppose?” Froyle suggested.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Julie replied. “But not for very long. I went up to Mother and asked her what she would like for tea. She said she would like buttered toast, but before I made it would I run along to Bruckam and buy her an air-mail letter. She had meant to ask Aunt Helena to get it for her, but hadn't caught her before she went out. I went on my bicycle, and I don't suppose I was out of the house more than a quarter of an hour.”

Froyle smiled. “That wasn't very long. Good morning, Miss Darlaston.” He and Arnold walked on for a few yards. “Long enough for Miss Marsland's purpose,” said Arnold quietly. “She saw Miss Julie ride off on her bicycle. That left only Mrs. Darlaston in the house. Miss Marsland had the whole of the ground floor to herself.”

They found the police car standing where they had left it and drove back to Raymouth. As they entered the police station the sergeant on duty spoke to Froyle. “I have a report to make, sir.”

“Well come along to my room and make it, sergeant,” Froyle replied. The three of them went in. “Now, what is it?”

“Just after you had gone out, sir, the manager of the company that has been giving a show at the Assembly Rooms came here. He told me that one of the company was missing, the principal comedian, who is known as Gobbo. He didn't turn up for the final performance last night and no one has seen him since. The manager is afraid that he must have met with an accident, for he is a very steady chap and has never missed a performance before. The manager went to see his landlady, and she told him that he didn't come back to his lodgings last night.”

“When was the chap last seen?” Froyle asked.

“They gave two shows a night, sir,” the sergeant replied. “At six and eight-thirty. The man, his proper name is William Thetford, sir, was on at the first house. He never told anybody that he wouldn't be on at the second, and they had to find someone else to take his place at the last moment. The company left here by the twelve o'clock train to-day. I sent a constable up to the station, and as the train steamed out the manager told him that Thetford hadn't turned up.”

“It looks as if something must have happened to him between the end of the first performance and the beginning of the second,” said Froyle. “You've got a description of the man?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, producing his note book. “Height about five feet three inches and slim. Fresh complexion, fair hair, blue eyes. Aged about sixty, but still very active. Probably wearing a brown suit, brown duffle coat with hood, and no hat.”

“What have you done about it?” Froyle asked.

“I rang up the hospital, sir,” the sergeant replied ” But nobody answering to that description has been admitted or attended the out-patients department. And I've sent a man round to all the pubs to make inquiries. He's not back yet.”

“Well, tell the chaps to keep their eyes open,” said Froyle. “That's about all we can do. It's not our job to round up truant comedians. All right, sergeant. Let me know if you hear anything of the chap.”

CHAPTER NINE

ARNOLD AND FROYLE had lunch, then set out again in the car. They drove to Brooks View, and found Mr. Blackthorn at home. He opened the door to their knock, and welcomed them hospitably. “Come in, gentlemen. It is not often that I have visitors on Sunday afternoon. You wish to speak to me?”

“We do, Mr. Blackthorn, if it is not disturbing your Sabbath rest,” Froyle replied. “You were in the habit of visiting the ladies at the Lodge Cottage, were you not?”

“I was,” Blackthorn said. “And they would sometimes honour me by coming to tea here.”

“Did you call on them last Tuesday evening?” Froyle asked.

Blackthorn shook his head. “No, I did not go out that evening. I saw them both the previous evening, however. They looked in to see me just before half past six, on their way home. They had come back on the bus from Raymouth, where they had been to do some shopping. They were cold and tired, and I gave them each a glass of port.”

“I'm sure they must have been very grateful,” said Froyle. “We have reason to believe that the ladies had a visitor on Tuesday evening, and we thought it might have been you. Do you know of anyone else who might have called upon them, probably late in the evening?”

“I really can hardly say,” Blackthorn replied. “They did not go out very much, and I don't think they made many friends in all the years that they were at the cottage. Their circumstances were not such that they could afford to do much entertaining. I have only met one other visitor on all the occasions that I have called at the cottage.”

“Will you tell us who that was, Mr. Blackthorn?” Froyle asked.

“I was not told his name,” Blackthorn replied. “Bat I'll tell you how it happened. It must have been about three weeks ago. I know it was before the evening of that mysterious explosion. I had been into Raymouth that afternoon, and walked back, as it was a fine evening. Miss Marsland had asked me to get her some scarlet cotton next time I went in, and had given me a piece to match. I had made this purchase for her, and on my way home I called at the cottage to give it to her, about seven o'clock. I knocked on the door, and—”

“Excuse me interrupting you, Mr. Blackthorn,” said Froyle. “Which door did you knock at? The front or the back?”

“Oh, the back,” Blackthorn replied. “The front door was never used. I have never seen it open since the ladies were at the cottage. They always used the back door, and so did anyone who came to the house. Well, as I was about to say, I knocked at the door, and after a minute or two Miss Price opened it. I heard a man's voice in the lounge say 'Good night, Miss Marsland.' and then he came out. He said good night to Miss Price as he passed through the kitchen, and went out.”

“You didn't see who he was?” Froyle asked.

“I couldn't,” Blackthorn replied. “The light in the kitchen wasn't switched on, only the one in the passage Miss Price took me into the living-room, where Miss Marsland was sitting. I gave her the cotton, and she told me that the visitor who had just gone was one of the guests from the Hall, who was kind enough to look in and see them sometimes.”

“And she didn't tell you his name,” Froyle remarked. “You have no idea which of the guests it was?”

Blackthorn shook his head. “They come and go. I very rarely go to the Hall, and I don't suppose I see all of them. I had, for instance, never seen Mr. Mackay until the morning of Miss Price's death. Regarding that, I passed the cottage this morning and saw your car standing outside. I venture to ask whether there has been any fresh development?”

Froyle countered this. “Were you out of doors at all last night, Mr. Blackthorn?”

“I always go out into the garden after supper,” Blackthorn replied. “That is, if it is not raining too hard. I like to listen for any nocturnal birds that may be about. I went out last night, but for several minutes I could hear nothing. And of course I could see nothing, for it was pitch dark.

“Then I saw a light coming along the road from the direction of the village, and heard the sound of footsteps. As he passed my gate, I made out that it was a man walking and carrying a torch. At least, I suppose it was a man. His torch, which he was holding downwards, showed me only his shoes and the bottom of his trousers.

“He turned up the path through the wood which leads to the Hall. Soon afterwards I heard the cry of a nightjar in the wood. I suppose the bird had been disturbed by the man going through. It is rather unusual to hear a nightjar so early in the year, and I thought I might have been mistaken. So I fetched a torch from the house and went up the path. I hadn't gone very far before I heard the nightjar again. Twice, so there was no mistake about it.”

“You didn't carry your investigations any farther?” Froyle asked.

“I went on a little farther, for the sound seemed to come from ahead of me,” Blackthorn replied. “And then I saw a light which seemed to be moving about round the stabling. I remained where I was for a few minutes, but I did not hear the bird again. So I turned round, came back home, and entered the event in my diary.”'

“That you had seen a light round the stables?” Froyle asked.

Blackthorn smiled. “Dear me, no. That was no concern of mine. My entry was the hearing of the nightjar on that date.”

“Did you go out again after that?” Froyle asked.

“The night was not sufficiently tempting,” Blackthorn replied. “I sat up reading for an hour or so, and then went to bed.”

“Can you tell us what time it was when you saw the light?” Froyle asked.

“It must have been a little before nine,” Blackthorn replied. “It was just upon the hour when I got back here.”

Froyle thanked Mr. Blackthorn, and he and Arnold left the bungalow. “It's a pity that old bird watcher wasn't more inquisitive,” Froyle remarked when they were seated in the car. “I've give a good deal to know who it was that was dodging round the stables last night.”

“If he had poked his nose into the matter, he might have been murdered for his pains,” Arnold replied. “It could only have been one of two people. Miss Marsland or Mackay.”

“I'm trying to remember what Mr. Merrion told us,” said Froyle. “About his conversation with Mackay I mean. Didn't Mackay say that he wouldn't be coming in to supper at the Hall, but would get a snack at the Horseshoes if he wanted one?”

“I believe he did,” Arnold replied. “We could ask if he did go there.”

Froyle started the car, and they drove on to Bruckam, which looked more peaceful than ever on Sunday afternoon. The Horseshoes was shut, and they had to knock more than once before the door was opened and Mrs. Hartlip appeared. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Froyle! ” she exclaimed. “I couldn't think whoever it was, knocking like that.”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hartlip,” Froyle replied. “Did you have any strangers in the house last night?”

Mrs. Hartlip nodded. “Only one. And he wasn't exactly a stranger, for he'd been in once before. On Monday of last week, I think it was. He said then that he was staying at Springlease Hall. He talked just like those Americans that were round about here in the war. He came in last evening again and asked for some bread and cheese and beer. He didn't stop very long. I don't know what his name is.”

“Can you tell me what time he left here?” Froyle asked.

“I couldn't be sure,” she replied. “But it couldn't have been much later than half past eight.”

Froyle thanked her, and he and Arnold re-entered the car. “That must have been Mackay,” said Arnold. “I noticed his Canadian accent when he was giving evidence at the inquest. It was he who passed by Mr. Blackthorn's bungalow on his way back from the Horseshoes. He went up the path through the wood and startled the nightjar. Who else did he startle, I wonder?”

“You think Miss Marsland was hiding in the wood?” Froyle asked.

“I don't know,” Arnold replied. “It's very difficult to fathom things out. I imagine that until Mackay went to the Horseshoes he had been sleuthing around. Miss Marsland wouldn't have ventured back into the loft while he was about. She may have slipped up there after he had gone, not thinking that he would come back.”

“I daresay that's about right,” Froyle agreed. “And we can carry on a bit further. Mackay did come back, and started to prowl round the stabling. Miss Marsland thought this wasn't good enough, and decided to make a bolt for it. She went to the cottage, where she thought she'd be safe. But Mackay spotted her and followed. When he appeared in the living-room she supposed that he had been on her track all the time in order to murder her. You know the sort of fancies women get into their heads.”

“That's all very well,” said Arnold. “But how did she get into the cottage, if the key was safe in Miss Cray's desk? In spite of what Miss Cray says, there must be another key to the back door. Even if Miss Marsland had a key to the front door, it would have been no good to her, for that door was bolted. And another thing. If she had thought that someone was after her blood, wouldn't she have locked the back door as soon as she was inside? Then, if Mackay had knocked, she wouldn't have opened it.”

“I don't know,” said Froyle. “That second key beats us at every turn. If there was one, could anyone but Miss Marsland have got hold of it?”

“Wait a bit,” Arnold replied. “Let's see if we can answer that one. On Wednesday morning the back door was found open, with the key in the lock. Later on, Miss Cray appropriated that key. If there was another, it must have been in the cottage somewhere, and it seems probable that Miss Marsland took it with her when she cleared out.

“But there is a gap, during which anyone might have entered the cottage. Between the time when Miss Marsland left, and the time when Mackay found Miss Price's body. We don't know how long the gap was probably not more than a few minutes. But during those minutes the cottage was empty and the door open. Did anyone go in and pinch the second key?”

Froyle shook his head. “It doesn't seem very likely. Who but Miss Marsland would have wanted to be able to get into the cottage? There was nothing there of any great value. Another thing. Nobody who was not thoroughly familiar with the place would have known where the key was kept. I'm inclined to agree with you. There was a second key, and Miss Marsland took it.”

“I think that must be the answer,” Arnold replied. “Now, about that visitor to the cottage on Tuesday evening. Blackthorn says he didn't go there. But some weeks ago, he found a visitor there. It isn't unreasonable to suppose that the same visitor called again on Tuesday evening. Blackthorn was told that the man he saw going out was one of the guests from the Hall. Which one?”

“We can eliminate two of them,” said Froyle. “Blackthorn fixes the evening when he saw the visitor as before the day of the explosion. Mackay wasn't at the Hall then, nor was Mr. Merrion. It must have been either Roding or Cooden, unless there were other guests at the Hall at the time. Blackthorn said they came and went.”

“I think another call on Miss Cray is indicated,” Arnold remarked. “What we found seems to show that the Tuesday visitor called fairly late. Certainly after supper. Miss Cray may be able to tell us if any of her guests were out that evening.”

The car had been standing outside the bungalow while they were talking. Froyle started up, and they drove to the Hall. Julie opened the door, and told them that her aunt was in the office. At their request she led them there. Miss Cray was seated at her desk, and frowned slightly at their entrance. “You have come to see me again?” she asked frigidly.

“We are sorry to trouble you again, Miss Cray,” Froyle replied. “This morning we mentioned that the ladies at the cottage had a visitor on Tuesday evening. You suggested that it might have been Mr. Blackthorn. We have seen him, and he tells us that this was not the case. Can you tell us what guests you had that evening?”

“We had four,” she replied. “Mr. Mackay, of course, and Mr. Roding and Mr. Cooden, who are here still. And Mr. Wirral, who left on Wednesday morning early.”

“Did Mr. Wirral leave suddenly?” Froyle asked.

“Oh, no,” she replied. “He had fixed the date of his departure a week before. Mr. Wirral had been with us since before Christmas. He was an engineer, in charge of the repairs to the sea-wall, which had been very badly damaged in a gale last autumn. He had a car, in which he used to go to work every day.”

“Do you know if any of the guests were out late that evening?” Froyle asked.

“Mr. Cooden and Mr. Roding were not,” she replied. ' They were playing cards in the lounge from after supper till the time they went to bed and Mr. Mackay was writing letters. I didn't see Mr. Wirral. I expect he was in his room doing his packing.”

“He left early next morning, you say?” Froyle asked.

“He had breakfast before any of the others were down,” Miss Cray replied. “Then he fetched his car from the coachhouse, brought it to the front door and loaded his baggage into it. Julie and I saw him off well before nine and we were very sorry to lose him.”

“Did Mr. Wirral make the acquaintance of the ladies at the cottage while he was here?” Froyle asked.

Miss Cray nodded. “He had served in Italy during the war, and when he heard that Tryphena and her friend had lived there, he said that he would very much like to talk to them about the country. Julie took him to call one Sunday, which was the only day he had free. He seems to have got on very well with them. I know that on several Sundays after that he took them out to tea somewhere in his car.”

“Can you give us Mr. Wirral's address?” Froyle asked.

Miss Cray consulted a book on her desk, then took a slip of paper and wrote an address on it. “There you are,” she said, handing the slip to Froyle. “That is the address of his firm, which he told me would always find him. But whether he is in London now, I very much doubt. He told me that when he left here, he had to go straight to another job in Lincolnshire. That is why he left early. He wanted to get to Lincolnshire that day.”

Froyle thanked Miss Cray, and they left the Hall. “That seems to settle it,” said Arnold as they took their seats in the car. “This chap Wirral was the visitor. It was the most natural thing in the world that he should call to say good-bye to his new friends on the evening before he left. And it being Valentine's Day, he took them that ridiculous red heart with the arrow stuck in it.”

“Rather an odd thing to take to two old maiden ladies,” Froyle remarked.

“Oh, I don't know,” Arnold replied. “I'm always finding that people do unexpected things. But it isn't likely that Wirral did anything so unexpected as to murder Miss Price.”

“There's just this,” said Froyle. “He had to drive down the avenue, as we are doing now. He could see the whole of the yard and the back of the cottage as well as we can. I think we ought to get in touch with him. He may have seen someone, other than either of the two ladies, and thought nothing of it at the time.”

Arnold nodded. “I'll ring up the Yard again. What was the address Miss Cray gave you? I didn't read it.”

“I memorised it,” Froyle replied. “Halesworth and Son, Burton House, Petty France, S.W.1.”

“I'll tell one of our chaps to go round there in the morning,” said Arnold. “They'll be able to tell him where Wirral is to be found. You're quite right about getting in touch with him. He must have passed the cottage only a few minutes before the murder. He may even have stopped for a final farewell.”

They drove on to Raymouth police station, where Froyle found a message waiting for him. The coroner would hold the inquest at eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, at the same place as before. He would be glad if the necessary arrangements could be made, and a jury empanelled. The county pathologist had been asked to arrange with Dr. Graveney for the examination of the body. Dr. Graveney had been informed of this.

“I'll fix all that up,” said Froyle as he showed the message to Arnold. “Hartlip will have to rig up his club room again, and I'll send a sergeant to Bruckam to scrape together a jury. But what about witnesses?”

“Miss Cray, to begin with,” Arnold replied. “She'll have to identify the body. And I suppose she knows as much about Mackay as anyone in this country. One of us, you preferably, as having seen the knife in the drawer of the bureau. Mrs. Hartlip, who was the last person, except the murderer, to see Mackay alive. The doctors, of course. And, I think, Merrion, to repeat enough of his conversation with Mackay to explain why he was wandering about. He needn't say anything about what was found in the loft. We'll talk to him when he comes along, as he promised to.”

Arnold called up Scotland Yard, and had a conversation with one of his subordinates, Detective-Sergeant Wighton. He gave him his instructions, which were to call on Halesworth and Son next morning, find out where Mr. Wirral was, and when he was likely to be back in London. “Ring back here as soon as you've got your information,” Arnold concluded. “If I'm not here, ask for Inspector Froyle, and report to him.”

A few minutes later the sergeant came in. “The man I sent round the licensed houses is here, sir,” he said to Froyle. “Would you care to see him?”

“Has he run the funny man to earth?” Froyle asked.

“No, sir, but he's got some information about him,” the sergeant replied.

“Well, I've got a lot of more important things to think about,” said Froyle. “But I'd better see him, I suppose. Send him in.”

The sergeant went out, and a young constable appeared. “I was told to make inquiries about William Thetford, sir,” he reported. “I didn't ask for him by that name, for I thought people mightn't know it, but as Gobbo, the comedian who had been appearing in the show at the Assembly Rooms. Several of the people I asked had seen him on the stage, but not off it. They wouldn't have recognised him without his make-up.”

“In the course of my inquiries I came to the Wheat-sheaf, in Mill Street. The landlord there told me he knew the man well, not by his proper name, but as Mr. Gobbo. During the fortnight that the company was here, Mr. Gobbo used to go to the Wheatsheaf in the mornings, and usually after the second performance was over, when there was just time for him to have a drink before the house closed.”

“When did the landlord last see the man?” Froyle asked. “Yesterday morning, sir,” the constable replied. He told me that Mr. Gobbo seemed moody, and not all his usual jolly self. He wouldn't speak to anyone, and sat drinking whisky after whisky without a word. He'd been like that for a day or two, but not so bad. The landlord thought he must have struck a bad patch. He didn't think it could have anything to do with his profession for everyone said he was as funny as ever when be was on the stage.”

“He didn't tell the landlord what was the matter?” Froyle asked.

“No, sir,” the constable replied. “Although they seem to have got on very well together. The landlord even lent him his bicycle one evening.”

“That was trusting of him,” said Froyle. “Mr. Gobbo returned it, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the constable replied. “The landlord only mentioned it because it was the next day that he first noticed that Mr. Gobbo seemed different to what he had been before. Depressed, like, and out of spirits.”

“When was it that Mr. Gobbo borrowed the bicycle?” Froyle asked.

“Last Tuesday, sir,” the constable replied. “This is what the landlord told me. On Tuesday morning Mr. Gobbo came into the Wheatsheaf as usual. He took the landlord aside and asked him if he might borrow his bicycle that evening. The landlord asked him what he wanted it for, and Mr. Gobbo said he had to see a man who lived some way out of the town.

“The landlord said he could have it, and Mr. Gobbo said he couldn't get away until after the second performance. If the landlord would leave the bicycle in the Wheatsheaf yard, he would fetch it and put it back there when he had done with it. The landlord didn't see him that evening, but when he looked in the yard after shutting up at half past ten, the bicycle had gone. It was back there when he looked out first thing next morning.

“Mr. Gobbo came in soon after opening time on Wednesday morning, and thanked the landlord for lending him the bicycle. He seemed quite cheerful then, all merry and bright, the landlord said. He thought Mr. Gobbo must have got on all right with whoever it was he had been to see. But when Mr. Gobbo came in again that evening, just before half past ten, he looked utterly fagged out. The landlord had never seen him like that before, and asked him if he was all right. Mr. Gobbo replied that there was nothing wrong with him, it was just that he had had a bit of bad news. He didn't know how he'd managed to get through the two performances. He didn't say anything more than that.”

“The landlord saw him again between then and yesterday morning?” Froyle asked.

“Yes, sir, just as usual,” the constable replied. “But he said that all the stuffing seemed to have gone out of him. And then, the last time he saw him he was worse than he had been. The landlord knew that the company was leaving here this morning, and he felt sure that Mr. Gobbo would look in after the second performance yesterday to say good-bye. But he didn't, so this morning the landlord went to the station before the train went out to say good-bye to him there. But he wasn't there, and the landlord heard the manager of the company tell a constable that Mr. Gobbo wasn't on the train.”

“Has the landlord any idea where he may have gone to?” Froyle asked.

“No sir, he hasn't,” the constable replied. “And he's very worried about him. He was in such a state yesterday morning that he's afraid he may have made away with himself.”

“Very well, constable, that will do,” said Froyle.

When the man had gone out, he turned to Arnold.

“This is beginning to look more serious than I thought. If the landlord's right, it's a body we've got to look for, not a living man.”

“If you find it, the coroner will complain of being overworked,” Arnold replied. “I wonder what the bad news was, and when Gobbo heard it? It can't have been anything to do with his cycling excursion, for he came back from that all merry and bright. It wasn't till Wednesday evening that the landlord noticed that he was depressed. I suppose it wasn't that he had got the sack?”

Froyle shook his head. “I shouldn't think so. I didn't go to the show myself, but I've spoken to several people who did. They all say that Gobbo was the making of it. Besides, the manager wouldn't be so concerned about him if he'd sacked him.”

“That's true,” Arnold agreed. “I'm bound to say it looks remarkably like a case of suicide. From what the landlord said of him, there seems no doubt that the balance of his mind was disturbed. He managed to carry on till after the first performance yesterday, then felt he couldn't stick it any longer. He didn't go back to his lodgings or to the Wheatsheaf. Where is he likely to have gone?”

“There's always the sea,” Froyle replied. “He may have drowned himself. Jumped off that sea-wall Wirral was repairing. The water's fairly deep there at high tide. Or there's the quarry. There was a case a year or two ago of a man flinging himself over the edge. He was dead right enough when he was picked up at the bottom.”

“Suicides often leave a note behind them,” Arnold remarked.

“If Gobbo had done that, we should have heard of it before now,” Froyle replied. “He'd have left it where it would have been found. By his landlady, or one of the company. He isn't likely to have known anyone else here. Members of travelling companies don't have much chance of making friends in the towns they play at.”

“Gobbo seems to have made one,” said Arnold ” The man he went to see on the landlord's bicycle. And that borrowing of the bicycle strikes me as being rather odd. Music hall people usually like to throw their weight about. I should have expected the famous Gobbo to have hired a car if he wanted to go anywhere. Rather than ride a bicycle in strange country after dark.”

“Perhaps he felt he couldn't afford it,” Froyle replied.

“He must have drawn a pretty good screw,” said Arnold. “But these chaps are like that. They spend their money before they get it. I shouldn't wonder if the bad news had something to do with his financial affairs.”

“Well, it's no use guessing,” Froyle replied. “As to his having committed suicide, we don't know yet that he's dead. And we've got other things to worry about.”

At that moment the sergeant came in. “Dr. Graveney is here, and would like to speak to you, sir.”

“Show him in, sergeant,” Froyle replied. Graveney appeared. “I was passing so I thought I'd look in. Letchworth rang me up just before I went out. He's had word from the coroner about Mackay, and he wants me to meet him at the Lodge Cottage at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. That'll be all right with you?”

“Quite,” Froyle replied. “I'll get the key and be there to let you in. You'll find only one body, for Miss Price is to be buried in the morning. That's why I left the key with Miss Cray.”

CHAPTER TEN

AFTER ARNOLD and Froyle had left him, Merrion sat in his car for long enough to smoke a cigarette. Then he drove out of the coachhouse, and took the road to Raymouth. Having lunched there, he set out in the car once more.

Since his only object was to kill time, it did not matter to him which way he went. He chose the coast road, leading eastwards out of the town, in the opposite direction to Bruckam. This rose gradually for a mile or so until it skirted the quarries, deserted on Sunday afternoon. A little farther on it approached the cliffs, at the foot of which was the sea.

He pulled up at the side of the road to enjoy the view. It was extensive, with the sea spreading to the horizon, and the coast line stretching for miles in either direction. He got out of the car and looked in the direction from which he had come. The older part of the town was compact enough, but ugly suburbs were sprawling out from it in all directions. Beyond it, the aerodrome showed up plainly in the clear air. To the left was the wide expanse of the Brooks Valley, with the road winding through it towards Featherby. Springlease Hall was hidden by the trees surrounding it.

He returned to the car and drove on for a mile or two. The road forsook the cliffs, and trended downhill inland. He reached a place where it ran through a grove of tall trees, and here he again stopped the car. It was just the place for quiet meditation.

He lighted a cigarette and applied himself to the puzzle of Mackay's death. That it was in some way connected with that of Miss Price seemed the only reasonable conclusion. But was the assumption that Miss Marsland had murdered him in a moment of panic the correct one?

He set himself to recall the events of the previous evening. Mackay's belief that the loft had been occupied by the murderer of Miss Price, and his expressed intention of spending the evening searching for him. Supper, at which he had been the only guest. Finally, the return of Roding at ten o'clock.

He knew nothing about Roding beyond what the man himself had told him. It was to be presumed that he spent his days at the aerodrome, learning to fly a helicopter. That he had any association with the ladies at the cottage seemed most unlikely. Yet the fact remained that he must have passed the cottage on his motor cycle within a few minutes of Miss Price's murder.

It was no use thinking about motive. That, for the time being, could be only a matter of guess work. Merrion, decided to confine himself to opportunity. Roding could have murdered Miss Price, and he had the means of getting away from the scene of the crime with the utmost rapidity.

Then, what about Saturday night? He must have passed the cottage again a few minutes before his return to the Hall. This was within the period of the doctor's estimate of the time of Mackay's death. When two murders occurred at the same place, shortly after one another, it was reasonable to suppose that the same criminal was responsible for both.

Accepting this theory, what might have happened on Saturday evening? The first question to be answered was, how had the cottage been entered? Obviously, by the back door. How anyone, not in the possession of the correct key, could have unlocked this, did not appear to Merrion an insuperable problem. Locks of the old-fashioned box type did not vary much in construction. The key of one of them would very often, with a little manipulation, open another. There must be dozens of such locks in an old house like Springlease Hall. Merrion had noticed that the garden door, for instance, was fitted with one. That particular one wouldn't work, but the key was still in it. It was not impossible that this key, or another from the Hall, had been used to open the back door of the cottage.

The next question was, who had used it? It had been supposed that Mackay, discovering the door to be unlocked, had entered the cottage to find someone else already there. But it might have been the other way about. Mackay, in the course of his amateur investigations, might have found a likely key, and decided to try it. It had opened the door of the cottage, and he had gone in. He had obviously not been very skilful in concealing his movements. He had aroused Miss Cray's suspicions by his actions. He might have been so incautious as to have switched on a light in the cottage after he had entered it.

On his way back from Raymouth, Roding had seen this light. He had alighted from his motor cycle, entered the cottage, the door of which Mackay had not locked behind him. Before his arrival, Mackay had been exploring the living-room. He had opened the drawer of the bureau, thus exposing the knife. Roding had seen it and, having drawn Mackay's attention to the heart on the mantelpiece, had stabbed him while his back was turned.

On further consideration, several objections occurred to Merrion. The chief of these was that Mackay could not have been caught unawares. He must have heard the motor cycle stop outside, and guessed who the rider was. Roding was the only motor cyclist likely to be on his way to the Hall at that time of night. If Mackay did not wish to be discovered, his immediate reaction would have been to switch off the light and lock the back door.

That he had switched on a light in the living-room seemed to be proved by the fact that his torch had been found in his pocket.

No, the first way round was the best, after all. For some reason or other, Roding had wanted to get into the cottage. It was he who had found a key which would open the back door. After all, he had been at the Hall a good deal longer than Mackay, and had had more opportunity of becoming familiar with the keys about the place. He had appropriated one of these keys, at some time subsequent to the murder of Miss Price. On Saturday evening he had gone to the show, as a pretext for staying out late. On his way back, he had left his motor cycle outside the cottage, unlocked the door, and gone in.

At this point another objection to Mackay having been the first to enter the cottage occurred to Merrion. If he had switched on the light in the living-room, Roding would not have seen the window of that room. He would have turned up the avenue before he reached it. It had been Mackay, prowling round, who had heard the motor cycle and probably seen its light. As soon as he became aware that it had stopped outside the cottage, he had gone to investigate, and had been murdered as a reward for his inquisitiveness.

Merrion was well aware that this line of argument put Miss Marsland entirely out of the picture, at least so far as the events of Saturday evening were concerned. But that seemed to him no disadvantage. That she had hidden in the loft for some time after her friend's murder was obvious enough. But it seemed probable that she had left the neighbourhood before Saturday evening.

Merrion's thoughts, flitting from one facet to another of the problem, lighted upon Miss Marsland. Why had she fled from the cottage immediately after her friend's death and hidden herself? Until the inquest, and the startling revelation of the pathologist, everyone had regarded Miss Price's death as having been accidental. Was Miss Marsland the only person who knew from the first that she had been murdered? Even so, why had she not come forward with her information?

Merrion had never believed that she had been the murderer. It seemed to him that the only reason for her flight was that she felt she must be suspected. If it was that she had been afraid of being the next victim, she would have gone straight to the Hall, or possibly to Mr. Blackthorn's bungalow, and sought protection. She would never have gone to the loft, where the murderer might have sought her out and found her alone, defenceless.

Unless there had been something on her conscience. And that, in revealing the truth, her guilty secret must have been brought to light. This, though fanciful, was not utterly impossible. The two ladies might have been engaged in some illicit traffic. Or they might have shared a secret which, if divulged, might have had serious consequences for some third person. To avoid any risk of this, that person had murdered one of them, and was possibly prepared to murder the other.

Had this person been Miss Cray? During their occupation of the cottage the ladies might have found out something to her discredit. Merrion's imagination lighted upon what this might have been. To all intents and purposes Miss Cray and her sister, Mrs. Darlaston, were partners in the Springlease Hall property. Mrs. Darlaston refused to take any interest in the guest-house business, preferring to ignore it. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Miss Cray to pocket more than her fair share of the earnings. Perhaps she had been doing so for years.

This line of thought brought Merrion back to Miss Marsland's present whereabouts. Was it possible that she too had been murdered? Again that swift flight of imagination. The sounds he had heard at midnight on Friday. It could only have been Miss Cray who had left the house. She had discovered that Miss Marsland was hiding in the loft. She had gone out at midnight taking one of the kitchen knives with her, and made her way to the loft. How she had got there on a pitch dark night without showing a light baffled comprehension. However, she had got there, and found Miss Marsland asleep among the hay. The knife had done its work.

But Merrion quickly realised that, put in that way it simply wouldn't do. If Miss Marsland had been stabbed while she was asleep, the hay would have been saturated with blood. But that was a detail. Miss Cray hadn't used a knife. She had strangled her victim with her bare hands, but the overwhelming objection remained. How had she disposed of the body? She could not have carried it down the steps, across the stable yard, to some place where it had not been discovered.

Merrion had another shot at it. Miss Cray had not gone up to the loft. She had stood at the bottom of the steps and called out. “Tryphena! This is Helena calling you. Come down at once. You're in terrible danger there. Quick, before it's too late! ” Miss Marsland had come hurrying down, Miss Cray had led her into the wood, strangled her and pushed her body into the undergrowth.

But there were objections to this too. On Saturday afternoon Arnold and Froyle had searched the wood, presumably fairly efficiently. Later Mackay had done the same. It seemed impossible that between the three of them they could have missed a body which, after all, was a fairly bulky object. If Miss Cray had concealed one, it must have been in some place which had not yet been searched.

The marshy land of the Brooks Valley, with the many streams running through it. Had Miss Cray taken her victim as far as that, before murdering her and throwing the body into one of the streams? No, that wouldn't do either. Miss Cray had not been away from Springlease Hall long enough. It had been a bare twenty minutes before the bolt of the garden door had been shot again.

Well then, cut Miss Cray out of it. During Friday night some person unknown had arrived on the scene in a car. He had enticed Miss Marsland into it, murdered her there, driven to the shore, and cast the body into the sea. The tide had carried it away, and it was quite likely that it would never be found.

Merrion glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the car. This showed him that it was getting on for four o'clock. Time to turn round and pay his promised visit to the police station. He decided that, having no facts with which to support them, he would keep his speculations to himself. He found a place where he could turn the car, and drove back to Raymouth. As before, he left the car in the parking-place, and walked the short distance to the police station, where he was immediately admitted to the room in which Arnold and Froyle were sitting. His arrival was within five minutes of Dr. Graveney's departure.

“So here you are,” Arnold greeted him. “The very man we want to see. The inquest on Mackay is fixed for Tuesday morning, and we want you to give evidence.”

“I thought you might,” Merrion replied. “What do you want me to say?”

Arnold chuckled. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. How you met Mackay on Saturday afternoon and had a chat with him. He told you that he was trying to track down the murderer of Miss Price. You needn't go any further than that. There will be no need to speak of what he showed you in the loft. That had nothing to do with his murder, and we don't want it made public.”

“In other words, you want to keep it up your sleeve in case of further developments,” Merrion replied. “All right, I'll be discreet. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“We have seen Mr. Blackthorn,” said Froyle. “You may as well hear what he had to tell us, Mr. Merrion.” He repeated the conversation they had had with Mr. Blackthorn, and subsequently with Miss Cray. “It seems pretty certain that it was this Mr. Wirral who called at the cottage on Tuesday evening,” he ended up.

“We shall soon find out,” Arnold remarked. “I've told Wighton, whom you've met, to ask his firm where he is. I suppose I shall have to go and see him, though it seems hardly worth while.”

“I should think it was well worth while,” Merrion replied. “It's not likely that he murdered Miss Price next morning. But he seems to have been on very good terms with the two ladies. He might be able to tell you something about them that nobody else has.”

“That's perfectly true, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “Have you had any adventures since we last met?”

Merrion shook his head. “I've been whiling away the time by exercising my imagination. Not to any great effect, I'm afraid. I'll get along now, and see how things are at the Hall.”

“We shall see you in the morning, I hope?” Froyle asked.

“Not unless I've anything very important to tell you,” Merrion replied. “I'm booked up in the morning, for I've promised to take Miss Cray and her niece to Miss Price's funeral. But I'll look in later in the day.”

He left the police station, walked back to his car, and started for the Hall. It was growing dusk, but it was not lighting-up time. Just after he passed Sandy Cross he overtook a pedestrian, whom he recognised as Mr. Blackthorn. He pulled up and hailed him. “Can I give you a lift home, Mr. Blackthorn?”

Blackthorn peered at the speaker. “Ah, Mr. Merrion, who so kindly gave me a lift once before. Thank you, I will accept your offer most gratefully. I usually take stroll on Sunday evenings, and I am on my way home now.

He climbed in beside Merrion, who drove on. “I have just heard a most extraordinary thing,” he went on. “No doubt as you are living at the Hall you have heard of it already. Miss Julie came to see me for a moment, just before I went out. She told me that this morning her aunt found Mr. Mackay dead in the Lodge Cottage. Both she and her aunt are naturally terribly upset about it. I cannot imagine how it can have happened.”

“I understand that the police are investigating the matter,” Merrion replied.

“The police?” Blackthorn inquired, a trifle fretfully. “They called upon me this afternoon. I understand now why they asked me if I had been out yesterday evening. But they never said a word about Mr. Mackay. I think that they might have shown a greater frankness in their methods.”

“The police have to be very careful what they say,” Merrion replied.

“Of course,” said Blackthorn. “But they might at least have told me in confidence the object of their inquiries. I am not the sort of person who is given to idle chatter.”

Mr. Blackthorn's feelings were evidently ruffled, and he sat silent. But not for long. “What was Mr. Mackay doing in the cottage?” he burst out. “He had no business there, surely. It's another of those unexplained things that have happened here lately. It all began with that extraordinary explosion. Nobody seems able to under stand that. But I've been thinking about it ever since and I believe that at last I have an idea.”

By this time they had reached the bungalow and Merrion pulled up. “It is very kind of you to have brought me out of your way like this,” said Blackthorn ” Now I must insist that you come in. I am all alone, and your company, if you can spare only a few minutes, will be most welcome.”

He was obviously longing for someone to talk to, and Merrion raised no objection. They entered the bungalow together, and Blackthorn begged his visitor to sit down and light a cigarette. “You were saying that you had an idea about that explosion, Mr. Blackthorn?” Merrion asked.

“I have, and I should like to tell you about it,” Blackthorn replied. “It will require the recital of some ancient history, which I hope you will have the patience to listen to.”

Merrion smiled. “I'm always ready to listen.”

“Then I will explain,” said Blackthorn. “When I first came to live here, there was no piped water in the neighbourhood. Each house, or group of houses, had its own well. Mine was outside the back door, with a pump in the scullery to raise water to the cistern. There was a well at the Hall, and Walter Darlaston had installed an engine of some kind for pumping purposes. Not until I had been here for some years was a supply of water brought from Raymouth. And then, of course, all the private wells fell into disuse.

“The well supplying the Lodge Cottage, which was then, as I think I have told you before, the gardener's cottage, was on the other side of the road, where the tennis court is now. I remember it very well as I saw it in those days. An old-fashioned affair, with a windlass, rope and bucket. I have often seen Mrs. Carlake, the gardener's wife, you know, draw water from it and carry the pail across to the cottage.

“Of course, when the water was laid on, this well became disused like the rest. The windlass supports were the first to go. They had been in a rickety state ever since I knew them. Carlake kept a few pigs and chickens on that side of the road, and he took to throwing rubbish into the well, in order to fill it up. By the time he left when war broke out, it had been filled up to within a couple of feet of the top, and very little was left of the brick coping. The end of the well came when the tennis court was laid down, not long after the end of the war. The workmen had to tip no more than a load or two of earth into it to level the surface of the ground.”

Merrion, smoking his cigarette, wondered what all this was leading to. Blackthorn cleared his throat and went on. “Now, this is my idea, Mr. Merrion. During the war, there was considerable enemy activity in the air round about here. I suppose it was the aerodrome they were after. Suppose a small bomb, or even a cannon shell, had landed in what remained of the well, sunk into the soft rubbish with which it was filled, and failed to explode? The workmen would not have seen it when they levelled off the well. And that, for some reason or other, the thing, whatever it was, went off the other evening?”

“You may be right, Mr. Blackthorn,” Merrion replied. “But if, you will forgive my saying so, I hardly think you are. I have seen the damage caused to the court by the explosion. It is purely superficial, and the force of the explosion seems to have acted from the top downwards. If anything had exploded beneath the court, the surface would have been burst upwards.”

“Ah well, I expect you know best, Mr. Merrion,” Blackthorn said, a trifle sadly. “But I did hope I had found the answer to the riddle.”

“It was a very ingenious idea,” Merrion hastened to assure him.

“But, like so many of my ideas, without foundation ” Blackthorn replied. “Frequently I have formed ideas as to the habits of nocturnal birds, only to find on further observation that they could not be substantiated. An idea of that kind must be very carefully verified before it can be made public, Mr. Merrion.”

This applied to the ideas he had himself formed earlier in the afternoon, Merrion reflected. “That is certainly true,” he said. Then, by way of changing the subject ” I take it that most of the wells about here have been filled in in the same way?”

“I expect most of them have,” Blackthorn replied. “I have never had mine filled in, though I have taken the precaution of having a heavy flagstone laid over it, to avert the risk of anyone falling in. And I have seen that the pump is maintained in working order. Should the main burst, we might all be without water for several days.”

“It's always as well to have more than one string to one's bow,” said Merrion. “The well at the Hall must have been a pretty big one, to supply a house of that size. What has become of it, I wonder?”

Blackthorn shook his head. “I really couldn't say. My connection with the Hall practically ceased when Helena Cray took charge there. I know that Walter Darlaston sold the engine to a firm of contractors, practically for a song, he told me at the time. Whether he had the well filled up, I don't know. It was some short distance from the back door, with the engine shed beside it. Walter had planted shrubs round the shed, to hide such an unsightly thing from view. I daresay that by now the shrubs have grown up and hidden everything, and that the existence of the well has been forgotten.”

Merrion sat talking to his host until he had finished his cigarette. “There's one thing I should like to say before I go, Mr. Blackthorn,” he said as he rose from his chair. “I have promised to take Miss Cray and her niece to the funeral to-morrow. Would you care to come with us? There will be plenty of room.”

“I had of course intended to go to the funeral,” Blackthorn replied. “My plan was to take the bus into Raymouth and walk to the cemetery. It was to tell me that Miss Price was to be buried at noon that Miss Julie came to see me this afternoon. Well, really, I hardly know what to say, Mr. Merrion.”

He paused, frowning thoughtfully. “The truth is that I do not relish Helena Cray's company. Especially after what has happened, for I feel that she must have been in some way involved. But I have been afraid that I should probably miss the bus home, and that if I had to walk, I should be terribly late for my lunch. Besides, it would be churlish on my part to refuse such an exceptionally kind offer. May I gratefully accept it, Mr. Merrion? I will be at the Lodge Cottage shortly after half past eleven.”

Merrion left the bungalow, amused at the way in which sentiment and practical considerations were mixed up in Blackthorn's mind. He turned the car and drove to the coachhouse at the Hall. As he reached it, he saw that Roding's motor cycle was standing there.

It was by now fairly dark. Merrion took his torch and walked towards the house. But before he reached it, he turned along the path which led through the shrubbery past the back door. Blackthorn's remark about the existence of a well had intrigued him. It linked up with his afternoon speculations. The well must be somewhere in the shrubbery through which he was passing.

The shrubs were mostly laurel, which had grown together to form a leafy wall. Choosing a likely place between two of the bushes, he forced his way through without much difficulty. Once through the wall he found himself in a comparatively clear space. The bushes had been planted in a ring, and had not yet fully overgrown the circle they had enclosed.

Merrion switched on his torch, and explored the ground within the circle. The first thing he found was a concrete foundation, half buried under fallen leaves, and with the ends of rusty bolts protruding from it. The pumping engine had evidently stood on this, the shed enclosing it having been removed. The well should be nearby.

Merrion moved cautiously. There was no telling whether the well was covered, or if so, what with. As he kicked the leaves aside, his foot came in contact with a piece of metal. On further investigation this proved to be an iron manhole cover, rusty with age. Below this, no doubt, was the well.

The cover was rectangular and, following the usual practice, had hollows at either end, across which ran bars, by which the cover could be lifted. And, curiously enough, these hollows were not filled up with mould and rubbish. This strongly suggested that, fairly recently, someone had cleared them out, in order to be able to lift the cover.

Merrion put his fingers round one of the bars, and lifted that end of the cover without much effort. It rose eighteen inches or so, then the rusty bar broke off short at one end and slipped from his fingers. The cover fell back with a resounding clang, which echoed among the shrubs. Merrion switched off his torch and retired hastily to the path.

He had hardly emerged from the shelter of the shrubbery, when the back door opened, and he stood fully revealed in the light which shone from within. He had no doubt that the female figure standing in the doorway was Mrs. Nadder. “Who are you, and what are you doing there?” she demanded.

“I'm staying at the house,” Merrion replied. “I'd just put my car away and was coming along the drive when I thought I heard someone about, so I thought I'd have a look and see who it was.”

“Well, don't let him in here,” Mrs. Nadder replied shortly. She banged the door, and Merrion could hear her turn the key in the lock. Mrs. Nadder was obviously nervous, which was not to be wondered at, under the circumstances. Merrion walked round to the front door and entered the hall.

Miss Cray was there, talking to Julie, who was carrying an empty tray. Merrion heard some remark about it being a good sign that Mrs. Darlaston was keeping her appetite before Miss Cray turned to him. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion. I saw your car go past the door this morning with the two policemen in it so you must have heard about this new trouble that has come to us?”

“The police questioned me about it,” Merrion replied. “But I wasn't able to tell them very much. By the way, Miss Cray, I have just been speaking to Mr. Blackthorn. I asked him if he would care to join the party in the car to-morrow, and he accepted the offer. I hope you don't mind?”

Miss Cray frowned. “If you've asked him, it can't be helped,” she replied ungraciously. “But I should have preferred not to meet Mr. Blackthorn. He knows more about Tryphena and her friend than anybody here. And I shouldn't be surprised if he knew more about what has happened than he cares to say.” Followed by Julie, she stalked out through the doorway at the back of the hall.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MERRION HAD no wish to detain her. He went into the lounge, where he found Roding, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “I say, Mr. Merrion, have you heard the news?” he exclaimed excitedly. “About that poor chap Mackay, I mean. Miss Julie told me when I came in an hour ago. Her aunt found him dead in the cottage this morning, and the police have been in and out all day. Miss Cray is terribly upset about it. She thinks that these things happening one after another will give the place a bad name.”

“I have heard about it,” Merrion replied. “I came back here this morning after you had gone out, but I left again before lunch. It's a pretty bad business, from all I can make out.”

Roding lowered his voice. “I'll tell you something, Mr. Merrion. I didn't say anything about it when I came in last night, for I thought it was none of my business. But when Miss Cray told me just now about Mackay, I told her what I had seen.”

“And what did you see?” Merrion asked.

“I saw someone about,” Roding replied mysteriously. “It was as I was turning in at the entrance at the bottom of the avenue. As I swung round, my headlights lighted up the yard of the cottage. Only for an instant, of course, but I'll swear that I saw someone walking across the yard.”

“Have you any idea who this person was?” Merrion asked.

“It might have been anyone,” Roding replied. “I didn't see the face, because the person's back was turned to me. But whoever it was was wearing a duffle coat, with the hood up. That wasn't any guide, for everybody round here seems to wear a duffle coat. I've got one myself, but I wasn't wearing it yesterday, though I usually do when I go to the aerodrome.”

“Who else have you seen wearing a duffle coat?” Merrion asked.

“Why, almost everybody,” Roding replied. “The two ladies who lived at the cottage, for instance. I've often seen them wearing them when I've gone past. That old chap who lives in the bungalow along the road, for another. And I've seen Miss Cray wearing one, often enough. In fact, if I thought about it at all, I thought it must be Miss Cray going to the cottage for something. But when I told her about it, she said it wasn't her.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Mackay in a duffle coat?” Merrion asked.

Roding shook his head. “Never. Perhaps they aren't so fashionable in Canada as they are here. Every other person you meet seems to be wearing one.”

“I've noticed that,” said Merrion. “You're quite sure that the person you saw last night was wearing one?”

“It's the only thing I am sure about,” Roding replied. “You know how it is when you're riding a motor bike, I daresay. You can't look about you much, especially when you're coming round a corner. But I'll take my oath that it was a duffle coat my headlight flashed on for an instant. Who was inside it, if it wasn't Miss Cray, I have no idea.”

Supper was a difficult meal, with the four people present studiously avoiding any reference to Mackay, and trying to find something else to talk about. The end came at last, with a remark of Julie's. “You promised to help me put the sewing machine right, Mr. Roding. If you can spare the time, we could do it in here when we've got the table cleared.”

Roding eagerly agreed. Merrion, glad that he would be alone, went into the lounge. Roding had certainly given him something to think about. He seemed so sure that he had seen someone in the yard of the cottage that it could hardly have been an illusion. Who was it that he had seen?

The duffle coat was the only clue to that. But duffle coats had the disadvantage that they were all very nearly similar, except in colour, which could not be distinguished in the momentary flash of a headlight. And so many women were addicted to the unbecoming fashion of wearing trousers. Further, the hood of a duffle coat hid most of the head. Seen from the rear, it would be impossible to tell whether the wearer of a duffle coat was a man or a woman. When Mackay had first seen the body of Miss Price lying in the yard, he had thought it was that of a man.

Miss Cray had told Roding that she was not the person he had seen. That might or might not be true. So far as Merrion was concerned, she had no alibi for ten o'clock. He had not seen her between supper and eleven. She might very well have gone to the cottage during that period. If it had not been her, who, then?

Not Mackay, certainly. When Merrion had seen him earlier in the evening, he had been wearing an ordinary overcoat. The same as he had been wearing when his body was found. The only other wearer of a duffle coat, likely to be seen at that time and place, was Miss Marsland. Roding had seen her making for the cottage with, unknown to either of them, Mackay on her heels. Merrion could think of no other explanation.

Thinking on these lines, a curious point occurred to him. He had seen from the announcement in the local paper that the second performance at the Assembly Rooms had begun at half past eight. Roding had told him that he had been to this. One would have expected it to last for at least an hour and a half. Yet Roding had reached Springlease Hall at ten o'clock.

Had he in fact been to the performance, or had he been hanging round the cottage? On the other hand, if he had invented the story of having seen a person in a duffle coat, he would have been careful not to mention that he had one himself.

From that, Merrion's thoughts drifted to his conversation with Mr. Blackthorn. Incidentally, it was rather amusing that Mr. Blackthorn and Miss Cray mutually suspected one another. This did not imply that neither of them was guilty, but it was proof that they had not acted in collusion. But to get back to the conversation. Mr. Blackthorn's ingenious theory of the cause of the explosion was obviously untenable. The old well over which the tennis court had been laid could have had nothing to do with it. But the talk about wells had led Mr. Blackthorn to mention the one outside the back door of the Hall.

Merrion inwardly cursed himself for his clumsiness. He might have guessed that the lifting bars would have been rusted through. The noise made by the falling cover had been loud enough to startle the whole village. If he had gone about things more carefully, he might have lifted the cover by both bars, instead of putting all the weight on one. And if he had lifted it, what would he have found beneath it?

Of one thing he felt quite certain. Someone else had lifted, or tried to lift, the cover quite recently. The freedom from mould of the hollows showed that clearly enough. There was of course the possibility that Mackay, in the course of his prowlings had come upon the manhole, and that his detective enthusiasm had urged him to investigate what was under the cover.

But then again, a disused well was an ideal place in which to conceal a body. Was this theory of the murder of Miss Marsland at midnight on Friday so fanciful, after all? In spite of her denial, Miss Cray had known of Miss Marsland's presence in the loft. She had gone to the stables, and called her down. If she would come to the back door, she would bring her some food. But she had better hide in the shrubbery while she was getting it. This was the way.

And, having enticed Miss Marsland into the shrubbery Miss Cray had murdered her. She had only to lift the manhole cover and push the body into the well. All this she could have accomplished within the twenty minutes of her absence from the house.

Plausible enough. But the two theories contradicted one another very neatly. If Miss Marsland had been murdered on Friday night, she could not have been the person seen by Roding on Saturday. Unless it had been her ghost, haunting the vicinity of its former home. Seriously, events seemed to become more complicated the more one thought about them.

Merrion's ruminations were interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Miss Cray. “I knew I should find you alone, Mr. Merrion,” she said. “Julie and Mr. Roding are in the dining-room. They have taken the sewing machine to pieces, and I only hope they will be able to get it together again. However, Mr. Roding assures me that he is an expert mechanic. But that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I shall be delighted to talk to you about anything, Miss Cray,” Merrion replied gallantly.

“It's nice of you to say that,” said Miss Cray. “I feel so lost sometimes, with no one to consult. It's no use trying to talk to Letitia, for she just doesn't listen. Besides, I haven't told her about Mr. Mackay, as I don't want to upset her. I don't see why she should ever know. She doesn't read the newspapers, just eats and thinks, what about I can't imagine. Did Mr. Mackay ever talk to you about his home?”

“No more than to tell me that his father was a furniture manufacturer in Canada,” Merrion replied. “He didn't tell me where.”

“That is all that I know,” said Miss Cray. “Except that I have the address in Canada Mr. Mackay gave me when he came here. I have thought it my duty to inform his father of what has happened. Julie told me that she had bought her mother an air-mail letter on Thursday, but that she didn't think she had ever used it. I asked Letitia, and she gave it to me. I wrote very briefly, saying merely that Mr. Mackay had died very suddenly. I addressed the letter to Mr. Mackay senior, at the address I had. Do you think I did right?”

“I am quite sure you did,” Merrion replied.

“Then I will post the letter in Raymouth to-morrow,” said Miss Cray. “Then of course will come the question of the funeral, which will have to be paid for. I am quite ready to do that, for I am sure that Mr. Mackay's father will reimburse me. He will probably come over at once, as soon as he gets my letter. Mr. Mackay told me that he meant to come over before very long, to settle the matter of the factory, and incidentally the recreation ground. But I expect he will let all that fall through, now that his son is dead. I have made up my mind to let Mr. Cooden have the plot of land for his caravans. I shall tell him so, as soon as I get the chance.”

She left the room, and once more Merrion was left alone. It was not very long before he heard a car draw up outside the front entrance, the slamming of the car door, and voices. He thought at first it must be Arnold and Froyle, and wondered what had brought them. But when the lounge door opened it was Cooden who appeared, wrapped in a duffle coat. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion,” he said as he went to the fire and warmed his hands at it. “Bitterly cold to-night. Just come down from Town by the last train, and took a taxi from the station. Met a few old pals up there, and had a wonderful time. Spent a lot of money though, I'm afraid. Why, where are the rest?”

“Mr. Roding is engaged in repairing a sewing machine,” Merrion replied. “And Mr. Mackay is dead.”

“Dead?” Cooden exclaimed. “You can't mean it. He looked fit enough when I last saw him yesterday morning. What did he die of?”

“That is a matter for a coroner's jury to decide,” Merrion replied. “Miss Cray, who found him, is best qualified to give you the details. I believe that in any case she wishes to speak to you. I expect you will find her in the office.”

“I'll hang my coat up in the hall, and then I'll go and see her,” said Cooden. He remained for a minute or two warming his hands, then left the room.

Merrion congratulated himself on having got out of it so neatly. He had been most anxious not to have to tell the story. His association with Arnold and Froyle behind the scenes made his position a very delicate one. He might so easily, by a slip of the tongue, reveal some detail which he was not supposed to know.

He sat in the lounge for a while longer then, as neither Roding nor Cooden put in an appearance, went up to his room. It had certainly been an eventful Sunday.

He came down to breakfast next morning, to find both Roding and Cooden in the dining-room. Cooden was the first to leave, saying that it was time for him to walk to the Horseshoes and catch the bus. Through the dining-room window he saw him, wearing his duffle coat, turn into the path leading through the woods. Roding got up a few minutes later. “I'm off to the aerodrome,” he said. “It's jolly cold, but it's a good day for flying, all the same. I promised Miss Julie that I might try landing on the tennis court this afternoon. It all depends on the weather conditions.”

He went out, and shortly afterwards Merrion saw him walking towards the coachhouse. He too was wearing a duffle coat.

Miss Cray came into the room, and Merrion spoke to her. “About that letter to Mr. Mackay's father, Miss Cray. Would you like me to run into Raymouth and post it for you? I should be back in plenty of time for the funeral.”

“Thank you, Mr. Merrion, but I needn't trouble you. I gave it to Mr. Cooden yesterday evening, and he promised to post it as soon as he got to Raymouth. And he and I came to an agreement about that plot of land. He was quite prepared to pay the price I asked him for it. I talked to Letitia about it just now while she was having her breakfast, but she took no interest in what I was saying. She said she was sure I was acting for the best. I shall write to our solicitors this afternoon and ask them to put the matter through.”

Merrion had offered to post the letter merely as a pretext for going to Raymouth. Once there, he would have called at the police station. But what he had to say could wait. He went into the lounge and read the morning paper. It was cold in there, for the fire was never lighted until the afternoon.

Shortly before eleven o'clock Miss Cray came in. “I must go down to the cottage and unlock the front door,” she said. “Of course, the coffin must be taken out that way. Would you mind bringing Julie there in half an hour's time?”

“Certainly I will,” Merrion replied. “But wouldn't you like me to come with you? I'll get out the car and drive you to the cottage, and I can come back and fetch Miss Darlaston.”

“I should very much like you to come with me,” said Miss Cray. “I rather dreaded going to the cottage alone. While you are getting the car I will tell Julie that we are going and that you will come back for her.”

Merrion fetched the car and brought it to the entrance Miss Cray was waiting for him. “Julie says you needn't trouble to come back and fetch her, for she will walk down.” They drove to the cottage and stopped at the end of the avenue. Miss Cray had brought the backdoor key. She unlocked it, and they passed through the kitchen into the living-room. Before they left the cottage on the previous day, Arnold and Froyle had lifted Mackay's body on to the sofa and covered it with a sheet. Miss Cray shuddered as she glanced at it.

The next business was to open the front door, and this proved no easy task. The bolts had not been withdrawn for a long time, and it took all Merrion's strength to work them out of the sockets. Even then the door refused to open. It had become warped, and was stuck fast in its frame. In the end Merrion had to go outside and apply his shoulder. It was quite obvious to him that the occupants of the cottage had not used that entrance.

He had only just got the door open, and was standing with Miss Cray in the doorway, when two people came from the direction of Bruckam. A sergeant of police, whom Merrion had seen at the police station, wheeling his bicycle, with Mrs. Hartlip walking beside him. They stopped, and the sergeant addressed Miss Cray. “May we come in, please, ma'am? I have brought this lady to view the body.”

“Yes, come in,” Miss Cray replied. “In there. The door on the left.” The two came in and went into the living-room. Merrion could overhear the conversation. The sergeant's voice, gentle and coaxing, as though speaking to a child. “There now, there's nothing to be frightened of. You stand there, and I'll draw back the sheet. That's right. Now, is this the gentleman who called at the Horseshoes Saturday evening?”

This was followed by a gasp from Mrs. Hartlip. “Yes that's the gentleman,” she replied in a trembling voice.”And he's wearing the same clothes as he was when I saw him.”

They emerged from the living-room. “Thank you, ma'am,” said the sergeant to Miss Cray. “That's all I shall be wanting.” Then, to Mrs. Hartlip, “I'll see you home. You've had a nasty turn, I can tell that.”

They walked off together towards the village. Merrion guessed that on arrival at the Horseshoes the sergeant would suggest that Mrs. Hartlip should take a little glass of something to pull herself together. And of course she would invite him to keep her company.

The next arrival, after a few minutes, was Mr. Blackthorn. He took off his hat to Miss Cray, who replied with a stiff bow. Neither of them said anything, and they stood awkwardly a few yards apart, until Miss Cray could stand it no longer. “I'll go and see if Julie is coming,” she muttered to Merrion.

Her departure relieved the situation. Mr. Blackthorn, a trim figure in morning-coat and top hat, approached Merrion. “This is really most kind of you, Mr. Merrion. Would it not be best if I waited in your car?”

“Yes, perhaps it would,” Merrion replied. “Will you sit in front? Then the ladies can have the back to themselves.”

Mr. Blackthorn walked round the cottage into the avenue. A minute or two later Miss Cray appeared by the same route, accompanied by Julie. They were both dressed in rather shabby black, suggesting to Merrion that these clothes had not been worn since the death of Julie's father.

The hearse arrived, drove into the avenue, and backed to the front door of the cottage. Merrion and the ladies waited until the undertakers' men had carried the coffin into the hearse. “Will you two go to the car?” Miss Cray whispered. “I must lock up before we leave.” She went in and slammed the front door. Being fitted with an automatic lock, it locked itself. As Merrion and Julie reached the car, she appeared in the yard, putting the back-door key into her bag. Merrion opened the back of the car, and Miss Cray and Julie got in.

The hearse moved off, and Merrion followed it. The drive to the cemetery was completed in silence. The service was held in the little chapel. The only flowers were a bunch of snowdrops which Julie had brought. These she dropped upon the coffin when it had been lowered into the grave. The funeral of Phoebe Price had been a very simple one.

The drive back was again accomplished in silence until the car had almost reached the end of the avenue. And then it was Mr. Blackthorn who spoke. Would Mr. Merrion set him down? He wouldn't dream of troubling him to drive to the bungalow. He took off his hat and bowed to the ladies. Merrion turned into the avenue, and pulled up at the front door of the Hall. Miss Cray was, for her, almost profuse in her thanks. She was afraid that she and Julie had put Mr. Merrion to a great deal of trouble. He would of course come in and lunch with them?

But Merrion declined. He felt that he wanted a stimulant which the hospitality of the Hall would not provide. He put the car away in the coachhouse, then took the path through the wood to the Horseshoes. Mr. Hartlip was behind the counter, talking to an elderly customer. The missus was upset, and said she didn't want any dinner. A sergeant had come along from Raymouth and taken her to see the body of the poor gentleman. It seemed as if she couldn't put it out of her mind. And the sergeant had told him that he'd have to be on the jury for another inquest, and that he'd have to get the club room in shape for it again. And that would take him the best part of the afternoon, when he'd meant put in a couple of hours in Mr. Blackthorn's garden.

Merrion, interrupting this catalogue of grievances asked if he might have a pint of bitter and, if possible a pork pie. But Mr. Hartlip shook his head. He was welcome to all the bitter he cared to ask for, but there were no pork pies. The chap who brought them only delivered on Tuesdays and Fridays. But the missus would cut him a nice bacon sandwich. Or perhaps he could make do with bread and cheese?

Not wishing to give trouble to Mrs. Hartlip in her distressed state, Merrion elected for bread and cheese, which Mr. Hartlip brought him in the little parlour. He did not hurry over his meal, which he washed down with two pints of bitter. Then he lighted a cigarette, and considered what he should do next. He decided to drive to Raymouth, and tell Arnold and Froyle what he had heard since he last saw them.

It was getting on for half past two when he left the Horseshoes and set out for the Hall by the way he had come. When he reached the end of the path, he saw the police car standing outside the front door. Froyle came out of the house and got into the car, which drove off down the avenue. Guessing that Arnold and Froyle had come once more to inspect the cottage, Merrion followed it. He found it drawn up outside the cottage yard, with Arnold and Froyle sitting in it.

As he approached, Arnold called to him, “So there you are. Taking a stroll round the estate, eh?”

“I saw your car, and I guessed you might stop here,” Merrion replied. “You don't seem in any particular hurry.”

“Didn't we tell you?” Froyle asked. “We're waiting for Dr. Graveney and the pathologist. We've just been up to the Hall to get the key. They'll be here any moment now. Jump into the car and sit down, Mr Merrion.”

Merrion got into the car. But he had not time to tell his story, for he had hardly sat down when another car drove up. “There they are,” said Froyle. “I've bought the weapon for the pathologist to see. I'll let them in have a word with them, then leave them to it.”

He got out, took Dr. Graveney and the pathologist into the cottage and after a few minutes came out again. “They'll be some little time, I expect,” he said as he got into the car. “Have you anything of interest to tell us, Mr. Merrion?”

“Well, I find it interesting,” Merrion replied. “It concerns a well and a duffle-coated figure. I'll begin with the well first.” He repeated his conversation with Mr. Blackthorn. “His theory about a bomb or something of the kind having fallen into the well beneath the tennis court was all nonsense, of course,” he went on. “But that led to the subject of wells in general, and so to the one at the Hall. I had sufficient curiosity to look for that well, and I found it. Unfortunately, like a clumsy ass, I bungled it, and made enough clatter to rouse the whole parish. The cook came to the back door and confronted me, but I don't think she guessed what I'd been doing. Ding dong bell, or rather manhole cover. But whether pussy's in the well, I can't say. I hadn't the chance to look.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Arnold demanded.

“The well,” Merrion replied briefly. “It struck me that if I had a body I didn't want, that would be the very place for it. There's Miss Marsland still to be accounted for.”

“Don't let's talk of finding any more bodies, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “One's just been buried, and we've got another on our hands now. To say nothing about that comedian chap who may have committed suicide. You've heard about him?”

“The only comedian I've heard about was the one who was appearing in the show at Raymouth last week,” Merrion replied. “Roding told me that he didn't turn up at the second performance on Saturday.”

“That's the chap,” said Froyle. “We'll tell you about him later. Go on about the well.”

“There's not much more to say,” Merrion replied. “Only that it might be worth your while to look into it. It won't be easy to lift the cover now that I've broken one of the bars. The simplest thing would be to smash it up with a hammer. It's pretty well rusted through already. Now I'll tell you about the duffle-coated figure.”

He repeated what Roding had told him. “Even if the man's telling the truth, which I am not absolutely sure of, it doesn't carry us much further,” he went on. “Everyone in these parts seems to wear a duffle coat. Including Miss Cray on occasion I'm told. The figure may have been Miss Marsland. But I rather doubt it, for I have an idea that she was murdered rather less than twenty-four hours previously.”

“Who murdered her, and why?” Arnold asked sceptically. “And if she was dead by Saturday evening, who murdered Mackay, and why?”

Merrion shook his head. “Don't ask me why. I've given up looking for motive in this affair. Why was Miss Price murdered? No one has suggested a satisfactory answer to that question yet.”

The end of his sentence was almost drowned by a roaring overhead. “That chap must be flying pretty low! ” Froyle exclaimed. “There he is, coming over the top of the Hall. Only just cleared the chimneys. Why, it's a helicopter! And he's coming down. What's the fellow about?”

Until that moment Merrion had forgotten the remark Roding had made to him that morning. The three of them tumbled out of the car and stood looking apprehensively upwards. Merrion became aware of Julie running down the avenue towards them.

The helicopter cleared their heads by what seemed a few inches and crossed the road. As it hovered uncertainly, its occupant became visible. Roding, his duffle coat discarded, and wearing full flying kit. After a minute or two the helicopter, with not too violent a bump, came down right in the centre of the tennis court.

Julie had stopped at the end of the avenue, and was gazing in rapt admiration. “Oh, isn't it wonderful?” she exclaimed as Merrion came up to her. “Mr. Roding promised me that he would try to land on the tennis court this afternoon, and he's done it. I do think it's clever of him!”

Roding relaxed for a moment and waved to the spectators. Then he rose again. After gaining sufficient height he sailed away above the Hall, and was lost to sight. Julie, with a smile for Arnold and Froyle, walked back up the avenue.

CHAPTER TWELVE

NOT VERY LONG afterwards, Dr. Graveney and the pathologist came out of the cottage. “Who was the aerial acrobat?” Graveney asked as he handed the key to Froyle. “We saw his performance through the window. Letchworth thought he'd be giving us another job.”

“I did indeed,” the pathologist agreed. “I thought he'd be bound to foul the wire netting and crash. People seem to make a habit of running into danger in this place. As to the poor chap inside there, I've very little to add to what Graveney has already told you. The weapon he extracted from the body had penetrated the heart. Death, from internal haemorrhage, must have occurred very rapidly. My evidence at the inquest will be to that effect.”

After some further conversation Graveney and the pathologist drove off. Froyle turned to Arnold. “I shall have to take the key back to Miss Cray. What about having a look at Mr. Merrion's well, while we're here? We can leave the car where it is.”

“Very well,” Arnold replied. “Merrion can come with us and show us the way.”

“I won't come with you,” said Merrion. “I'm not supposed to associate with people like you. I'll follow you in five minutes. When you've left the key, walk along the drive towards the stables. We can approach the well from that direction without being seen from the house.”

A few minutes later they met again outside the stables. Merrion led the way through the shrubbery to the manhole cover. “There you are,” he said. “The well's under that. We shall have to lift it somehow.”

Froyle had brought with him a hammer and tyre lever from the police car. “We don't want to smash it up if we can help it,” he replied. “It would make too much noise. Let's try the tyre lever first.”

He inserted the tyre lever under the bar which still remained intact, and lifted very cautiously. The bar stood the strain, and the cover rose an inch or two. “Put the shaft of the hammer under it,” said Froyle urgently. “Quick, before this bar gives. I can feel it bending.”

Merrion snatched up the hammer and jammed it into the space. After that, it was simple. He and Arnold put their fingers under the edge of the cover and lifted it clear. “Now what are we going to find?” Froyle remarked.

The two policemen took out their torches and directed them downward into the well. The light was reflected in the water, several feet below. But the surface of the water was clear, without even a bubble on it. “There's nothing there,” said Arnold disgustedly.

Merrion leaned over and looked in. “No, there's nothing there,” he agreed. “Pussy isn't in the well, after all. If she was, her body would be floating.”

“That's the worst of having an imagination like yours,” said Arnold.

“It wasn't my imagination which told me that someone had lilted, or tried to lift the cover quite recently,” Merrion replied. “It must have been Mackay, searching for clues. I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologise, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “You were quite right to suggest that we look in the well. Now we'd better put the cover back.”

This was soon done. “Mr. Arnold and I had better be getting back,” said Froyle. “Could you follow us in your car, Mr. Merrion? There are several things I should like to talk to you about.”

“Willingly,” Merrion replied. “I'll get the car out, and be at the police station very soon after you are.”

This arrangement was carried out, and within twenty minutes the three of them were together in Froyle's room. “This is the first thing I want to ask you, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “What makes you think that Miss Marsland may have been murdered?”

Merrion explained his reasons. “But the body not being in the well knocks that on the head,” he went on. “It can't be lying about in the wood. If it was, someone would have come across it by now. I think we must assume that Miss Marsland is still alive. Have your people run the Surlingham sisters to earth yet, Arnold?”

“I've had no report,” said Arnold. “Wighton rang up this morning about Mr. Wirral. He's been in Lincolnshire since last Wednesday. He went there to examine a weakness in a sea-wall. He's coming back to London on Wednesday to make a report to his firm. I shall go up and see him myself. But that's by the way.”

“I agree with you in thinking that Miss Marsland is still alive,” said Froyle. “And if that's the case, it seems pretty certain that Mr. Roding's duffle-coated figure must have been her.”

“It looks very like it,” Merrion replied. “In which case it follows that she murdered Mackay, in self defence, as you imagine.”

“But where the devil can she have got to?” Arnold asked. “And how did she get into the cottage?”

“I don't doubt you'll find her,” Merrion replied. “How she got into the cottage is another matter. Did she unlock the door, or did Mackay? I've given some thought to that.”

He explained his idea about there being another key which would unlock the door. “This morning, while the rest were busy about breakfast, I had a look at the garden door. The key is in the lock, though the lock is broken. It is much the same size and shape as the one belonging to the back door of the cottage. And I had a look round the stables this afternoon. The harness room is fitted with a lock just like the one at the cottage. And there's a key in it. I didn't touch it.”

“If it will open the back door of the cottage, there's a possible explanation,” Froyle remarked. “Either Miss Marsland or Mackay might have taken it. But only Miss Marsland could have put it back. Mackay couldn't, poor chap.”

Before either of the others could make any comment upon this, the telephone rang. Froyle lifted the receiver and listened. “It's the Yard, asking for you, Mr. Arnold.”

Arnold took his place at the instrument. “Good enough, sergeant,” he said after a while. “I shall be at the Yard on Wednesday morning.” He rang off and turned to Froyle. “That was Wighton. Our people traced the Surlingham sisters to a flat in Tooting, and he went to see them. It's quite a small flat, and they have no telephone. He asked them if they had seen or heard anything lately of Miss Tryphena Marsland. They told him that they had not seen her for years, and that they had last heard of her at Christmas, when they received a card sent jointly by her and Miss Price. Wighton says he's quite sure they weren't trying to hide anything.”

“So that disposes of the Surlinghams,” said Froyle. “If the woman's still alive, I can't imagine where she's got to. Somebody knows where she is, I'll be bound. I was going to tell you about that missing comedian, Mr. Merrion. These are the circumstances.”

Merrion listened to the story, and Froyle went on, “My men have been making inquiries, but they can't get to hear of anyone who knew him off the stage, either as Gobbo, or by his real name, which is William Thetford. This morning I went to the Wheatsheaf and had a talk with the landlord. He said that he was quite sure that when he last saw Mr. Gobbo he had something bad on his mind. He'd been strange ever since Wednesday evening, but on Saturday morning he seemed almost out of his wits. The landlord thinks there can't be any doubt that he committed suicide. In any case, there's no sign of him, dead or alive.”

“That nocturnal bicycle ride on Tuesday seems to me rather mysterious,” Merrion remarked. “He went to see a man who lived some way out of the town. One can't help wondering what he went to see him about. The man hasn't shown up, I take it?”

Froyle shook his head. “He probably hasn't heard yet that Gobbo is missing. And he can't have given Gobbo the bad news which was the cause of his depression. The landlord saw Gobbo next morning, and, to use his own expression, he was all merry and bright. It wasn't until that evening that the landlord noticed a change in him.

“From the Wheatsheaf I went to Gobbo's lodgings, and saw the landlady. Mr. Gobbo hadn't confided in her, and she couldn't tell me very much. The last time she saw him was on Saturday morning, when he settled his bill.”

“Does that suggest that he didn't mean to come back to the lodgings?” Merrion asked.

“I asked her that,” Froyle replied. “She said no, because she always made up her bills weekly, and gave them to her lodgers on Saturday mornings. She had made this one up to Sunday morning, as she knew the company was leaving here that day. Mr. Gobbo owed her nothing. He hadn't come back that night, but he must have meant to, for he had left all his things in his room. I looked through the things, but there were no letters or papers of any kind. The landlady told me that he had had no letters all the fortnight he had been with her.”

“He appeared at the first performance on Saturday but not at the second?” Merrion asked.

“So the manager told me,” Froyle replied. “And he would know, if anyone did. It comes to this. The first performance came to an end about a quarter to eight. Gobbo has not been seen since then.”

“So the performance lasted an hour and three quarters,” Merrion remarked. “Gobbo must have changed before he left the Assembly Rooms. If he had gone out in his comedian's rig-out, everyone in the town would have recognised him. And probably followed him, thinking it was some stunt.”

After some further discussion, Merrion left the police station and returned to Springlease Hall. It was nearly six o'clock as he entered the avenue. As he turned at the top of it towards the coachhouse, he had a momentary shock. His headlights fell upon a duffle-coated figure walking towards him. Could this be Miss Marsland? No, of course it wasn't. It was merely Cooden, who no doubt had got off the bus at the Horseshoes, and was walking back to the Hall. Cooden, his face averted from the glare, walked past the car to the front door.

When Merrion reached the coachhouse, he saw that Roding's motor cycle was already there. Not feeling inclined just then for the company of his fellow guests, he sat for a while in the car, smoking a cigarette. Coming suddenly upon Cooden like that had been instructive. He realised, more acutely than before, how difficult it was to distinguish the wearer of a duffle coat. Until his face had become visible, Cooden might have been anybody, even a woman wearing trousers. At a distance, or in a bad light, it would have been impossible to say who he was.

Which made it impossible to guess who it was that Roding had seen on Saturday night. If all the wearers of duffle coats, clad in those garments, had been summoned to an identification parade, Roding could not have pointed his finger at the one he had seen. It was hardly likely that Mr. Blackthorn had been trespassing in the yard of the cottage. Mackay had not been wearing a duffle coat. Cooden could be eliminated, since he had been in London at the time. There remained only Miss Cray and Miss Marsland.

Merrion waited until just upon supper time, then walked to the Hall. During the meal, there was no need to seek for topics of conversation, for Roding was the hero of the hour. Everyone who had been at the Hall at the time had witnessed his exploit. Miss Cray and Mrs. Nadder, alarmed by the noise of the helicopter just overhead, had gone out by the front door to see what was happening. Even Mrs. Darlaston, stirred for the moment from her habitual torpor, had seen the sensational landing from her sitting-room window. According to Julie, she had been thrilled. She couldn't understand how any young man could take such risks. It was surely even more dangerous than the flying trapeze.

Roding modestly disclaimed the possession of any special skill. It was easy enough once one got the trick of it. When he told his instructor about it, he had not been in the least impressed. His comment had been that any mutt could land on a tennis court on a still day. His pupil would have to learn to land on a billiard table in a gale of wind before he could consider himself a helicopter pilot.

As the guests left the dining-room after supper, Merrion contrived a word with Roding. “I watched that performance of yours, and whatever you say, it was a most efficient one.”

Roding laughed. “Not so neat as I should have liked. came down with too much of a bump. There seemed to be quite a crowd looking on.”

“Yes,” said Merrion. “But it was the cottage and what was in it that they were interested in. The police were asking questions, and I repeated what you had told me about the figure you saw on Saturday night. You don't mind, I hope?”

“Not in the least,” Roding replied readily. “1 had wondered whether I ought to tell them myself. I'm grateful to you for saving me the trouble.”

“That must have been about ten o'clock,” said Merrion. “By the way, you were home rather early from the show, weren't you?”

“I was,” Roding agreed. “The fact is that the show, without the principal comedian, was a complete flop. The chaps I was with couldn't stick it. We came out when it was half-way through, and went into the nearest pub for a drink. It wasn't a quarter to ten when I left there.”

Cooden, who had been setting up the card-table in the lounge, strolled up to them. “I give you fair warning, Roding,” he said. “You won't be able to land that contraption of yours on the tennis court much longer.”

“How's that?” Roding asked.

Cooden laughed. “Because you'll find it occupied. Don't talk about it outside just yet, but Miss Cray has agreed to sell it to me, and she says I may use it at once, before the legal formalities are completed. If you try any of your tricks again, I shall have to consider prosecuting you for trespass.”

“You're joking!” Roding exclaimed. “What do you want with the tennis court?”

“I'm joking about prosecuting you,” Cooden replied. “But not about Miss Cray having sold me the tennis court. By the end of the week, I hope to be living in a caravan on it.”

“Then you aren't satisfied with your quarters here?” Roding asked.

“It's not that so much,” Cooden replied. “But this isn't the sort of place one can ask one's pals to. The caravan will be my own, and I can do what I like in it. Besides, I mean to make a profit out of that bit of land. I can let sites on it to other caravanners. Now then, What about sitting down to our game of cards?”

Merrion sat in a chair by the fire. He was not in the best of tempers, for he felt he had made a fool of himself over that confounded well. He sought for something to take his mind off that, and hit upon the disappearance of the comedian. Incidentally, Roding's explanation of his early return to the Hall on Saturday night was perfectly plausible.

It seemed perfectly obvious that the bad news he had received was at the bottom of Gobbo's flight. It could not be assumed, in the absence of his body, that he had committed suicide. He might just have run away from whatever misfortune it was that threatened him. The explanation of his non-appearance at the second performance on Saturday might be that if he had appeared, he would have missed the last train from Raymouth.

If it was true that he had received no letters while he was staying in the town, the bad news could not have reached him by post. He must have heard it by word of mouth. Not surely from the manager of the company, who would have mentioned it to Froyle. If Gobbo had been merry and bright on Wednesday morning, and depressed by the evening, he must have heard the news in the course of the afternoon.

Merrion's wandering thoughts settled on the date. By Wednesday afternoon the death of Miss Price would have become known in Raymouth. But that association of ideas was ridiculous. How could the death of Miss Price have been bad news to a strolling comedian? It was in the highest degree improbable that Gobbo had known of the existence of the ladies at the cottage.

And yet another wild fancy floated into Merrion's brain. The newspaper which had been sent by post and treasured by Miss Price. It had contained, amongst many other things, a notice of the impending visit of the company of which Gobbo was a member.

Merrion put all this aside. His imagination was leading him astray once more. While Cooden and Roding were still intent upon their game of cards, he went up to his room. As he sat down to smoke a last cigarette before turning in, he fancied that he could hear voices overhead. Julie saying good-night to her mother, no doubt. In a minute or two the voices ceased, and all was quiet.

Merrion got up rather earlier than usual next morning. He left the house and went to the stables. The key of the harness room door was in place, as he had last seen it. He tried to turn the lock, but it was so rusty as to resist his efforts. But the key came out easily enough, and seemed in shape very similar to the key of the cottage. Taking it with him, he strolled along the drive and down the avenue. The morning was dark, and it was not likely that he would be observed from the windows of the Hall. If he was, it would be supposed that he was merely taking a stroll before breakfast.

He reached the cottage and inserted the key in the lock of the back door. It turned a little way, then came to a stop. Merrion had the impression that, though it would not turn the lock, very little alteration would be necessary to enable it to do so. This key had not been used to open the back door. But one of the many similar keys about, the Hall might have fitted this lock.

Merrion returned to the harness room and replace the key. Then he went back to the Hall and found himself the first of the guests to breakfast. When Miss Cray asked him what he would like, he told her that he would be pleased to drive her to the Horseshoes for the inquest. She thanked him, and it was arranged that they should start at a quarter to eleven.

Roding and Cooden came down to breakfast, after which they set off as usual. Merrion waited until the appointed time, then took Miss Cray to the Horseshoes. Arnold and Froyle were already there, but Merrion was careful not to speak to them in Miss Cray's presence. A minute or two later Graveney and the pathologist drove up. Finally, the coroner with his attaché case.

The proceedings opened in the normal way. The members of the jury elected Mr. Hartlip as their foreman, and were sworn in. Miss Cray was the first witness called. She identified the deceased as Gordon Mackay, a Canadian citizen. He had been staying as a guest at Springlease Hall for rather more than a week. The deceased had mentioned that he had a father alive, and had given her an address in Canada. She had written to that address, informing the father of his son's death.

The coroner remarked that she had acted quite properly, and she continued. On Sunday morning she had gone to the cottage in order to air the living-room. On entering it, she had found the deceased lying on the hearth-rug, apparently dead. She had returned to Springlease Hall and from there rung up the police.

The doctors were the next to be called. Graveney was the first. He gave evidence of having been called to the Lodge Cottage, which he had reached shortly before noon. He had found what he believed to be an Italian stiletto driven into the back of the deceased, and had extracted it. In his opinion death had occurred between nine and eleven on the previous night.

The pathologist followed him. His evidence amounted to no more than he had told Arnold and Froyle, though couched in more technical terms. Death had been due to the penetration of the heart by the point of the stiletto.

He had seen the weapon, and from its length he estimated that penetration must have been deep. Such an injury could not have been self-inflicted. He had found no reason to disagree with Dr. Graveney's estimate of the time of death.

Merrion was then called. He had spoken to the deceased at the stables of Springlease Hall between half past six and seven. Deceased had told him that he would not be having supper at Springlease Hall, for he intended to spend the evening looking for traces of the murderer of Miss Price. If he required any refreshment, he would go to the Horseshoes and obtain it there.

The coroner and, for that matter, the jury as well, looked a trifle incredulous. “Do you think that was the true reason for the deceased absenting himself from Springlease Hall that evening, Mr. Merrion?” the coroner asked.

“I do, sir,” Merrion replied. “He was very earnest about it. He seemed to think that he might discover something which the police had overlooked. From the fact that he had been the finder of the body of Miss Price, he appeared to think that he had a personal interest in the discovery other murderer.”

The coroner let it pass at that and called Mrs. Hartlip, who had apparently regained her normal composure. A sergeant had called and taken her to see the poor dead gentleman. She had recognised him as a customer who had called at the Horseshoes on Saturday evening. She had served him with bread and cheese and beer. He did not stay very long, and had left about half past eight.

Froyle was then called, and produced the stiletto. He had seen it in the top drawer of the bureau in the living-room on the previous day. Before its removal from the body of the deceased, he had examined it for fingerprints, but without result. Froyle then described the position in which he had found the body. It suggested the deceased had been stabbed in the back while he was examining something on the mantelpiece.

This concluded the evidence, and the coroner summed up. The deceased had met his death at some time between half an hour and two and a half hours after he had left the Horseshoes. There was no evidence to show how deceased had been employed during that interval, or for what reason he had entered the cottage. The jury would no doubt bear in mind his statement to Mr. Merrion. It was probable that he had been engaged upon his search. The jury would also bear in mind the assertion by the pathologist that the injury which had caused the death of the deceased could not have been self-inflicted. It was not easy to imagine how it could have been inflicted accidentally.

This was a clear enough lead. The jury retired, to return within a few minutes. Asked by the coroner if they had arrived at a unanimous verdict, Mr. Hartlip replied that they had. Deceased had been wilfully murdered by some person unknown.

The coroner expressed himself in agreement with that verdict. The police were already engaged upon the case, and it was to be hoped that their investigations would result in the apprehension of the murderer. He would now conclude the proceedings.

Merrion drove Miss Cray back to the Hall, then went on to Raymouth. By the time he reached the police station, Arnold and Froyle were already there. “Well, Mr. Merrion, and what did you think of it?” Froyle asked.

“The verdict was inevitable,” Merrion replied. “And all awkward questions were by-passed. For instance, the question of how Mackay got into the cottage did not arise. But it didn't get us any further.”

“In my experience, inquests very rarely do,” said Arnold. “Has your imagination solved the problem of how Mackay got in?”

Merrion described his experiment with the key of the harness room. “It didn't fit, but it very nearly did. One of the keys of a similar type about the Hall might fit. I don't think there's any problem of how Mackay got in. He found the door open. The problem is, who found a suitable key and opened it?”

“If Miss Cray is to be kept out of the picture, it all comes back to Miss Marsland,” Froyle replied. “It was she whom Roding saw in the yard. That is, if his statement is to be believed.”

“I think it is,” said Merrion. “I had a word or two with him last night. I told him that I had repeated the statement to you, and he seemed quite relieved. He said that it would save him the trouble of telling you himself. I'm pretty well satisfied that he had no hand in the affair.”

“It doesn't seem very likely that he had,” Froyle agreed. “Unless you know of any feud between him and Mackay?”

Merrion shook his head. “I have never seen or heard any indication of such a thing. Their paths don't seem to have crossed anywhere. Mackay, until his sudden and fatal passion for detection, had no interest beyond his projected factory. Roding's interests were divided between his helicopter and, I rather fancy. Miss Julie.”

“Any suspicion of jealousy?” Arnold asked.

“Between Mackay and Roding?” Merrion replied. “I don't think so. Mackay appeared to have no eyes for Miss Julie. Now, there's something else I want to say. For reasons which I'm not going to tell you just now, I'm interested in the visitor to the cottage on Tuesday evening. You'll be seeing this Mr. Wirral?”

“I'm going back to London this afternoon,” said Arnold. “Mr. Wirral will be at his firm's office to-morrow morning. I shall have a talk with him there, and then come back here.”

“Very well,” Merrion replied. “There's one question I should like you to ask him. While he was at Springlease Hall did he go to that show at the Assembly Rooms? And if he did, was it purely for his own amusement?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MERRION lunched in Raymouth. As he walked back to the parking-place where he had left his car, he passed through the centre of the town. The afternoon bus from Bruckam came along and stopped. Miss Cray alighted from it, and caught sight of Merrion, who went up to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Cray. If you had told me that you were coming into Raymouth, I would have driven you here.”

“I couldn't have got away this morning,” she replied. “I have come in to make arrangements for Mr. Mackay's funeral. The coroner gave me the burial certificate this morning, and I must take it to the undertakers and arrange matters with them. And after that I shall have to fill up time somehow till the six o'clock bus leaves.”

“Not a bit of it!” Merrion exclaimed. “I have to go to Featherby this afternoon, but I needn't be there for a couple of hours yet. When you have finished your business with the undertakers come to the car park. You will find me there, and I will drive you back to the Hall.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Merrion,” she replied. “I hope I shan't keep you waiting very long.” She hurried off, and Merrion strolled along to the car park. As he went, the words of the old song echoed in his head. “One more job for the undertaker.”

He had no more than half an hour to wait before Miss Cray rejoined him. “We have settled upon Thursday morning,” she said. “Mr. Mackay's father should have got my letter by then, and perhaps I shall hear from him. It might even give him time to fly over. I don't like having to bear all the responsibility on my own shoulders.”

Merrion drove off. “Put me down at the end of the avenue,” said Miss Cray. “I can easily walk up to the house from there.”

“There's no reason why you should,” Merrion replied. “I've plenty of time to spare. I'll drive you up to the door.”

When they reached the house, they found a small car standing outside. “I wonder who that can be?” Miss Cray remarked. “I don't recognise the car. Whoever it is, Julie will have been at home to receive them.”

She alighted from the car, and Merrion turned and drove away again. His business at Featherby was entirely fictional, but he thought he might as well go there as anywhere else. He had tea there, then, after allowing a decent interval, drove in leisurely fashion back to the Hall. As he put his car away in the coachhouse, he saw that the small car he and Miss Cray had seen was standing there.

As he opened the front door, he saw that the door at the back of the hall was open. At the sound of his footsteps Miss Cray appeared. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Merrion,” she whispered. “I was listening for anyone who might come in. We have a new guest, a Mr. Todmere. He's in the lounge now. I hope you won't say anything to him about what has happened at the cottage. I shall ask the others not to when they come in.”

Merrion promised to be discreet, quite understanding Miss Cray's apprehension. Mr. Todmere was not likely to remain in a house where the guests were apt to get murdered. Merrion went into the lounge, where he found a middle-aged man sitting by the fire who was tall, thin and wiry, but looked pale and tired. “Good evening,” he said. “My name is Merrion, and I am staying here for a few days.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Merrion,” the other replied. “My name is Todmere, and I too propose to stay here for a few days. I am engaged upon writing a book upon birds. The Brooks Valley is said to be almost a bird sanctuary, and I wish to explore it. Besides, I have been told that a well-known authority lives in the vicinity. Mr. George Blackthorn. Can you tell me if that is the case?”

“Yes, I have met Mr. Blackthorn,” Merrion replied. “He lives in a bungalow called Brooks View, half-way between here and the village of Bruckam.”

“Then I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon him in the morning,” said Todmere. “I shall have to take things quietly while I am here. I have not been very well lately, and my doctor tells me that I must not exert myself. A little gentle exercise every day, but no more. I can drive my car to suitable spots in the valley, and then stroll round, listening and observing.”

It struck Merrion that what his new acquaintance wanted was a good tonic. Todmere droned away in a languid voice, alternating the habits of birds with his own ailments. The other two guests came in, Roding first and Cooden shortly afterwards. Merrion introduced them to Mr. Todmere.

Supper was a quiet meal. Roding and Cooden had evidently been warned, as Merrion had been. In the effort to keep off the subject of Mackay, conversation flagged. Merrion noticed that Mr. Todmere shuddered slightly when Miss Cray passed him the water jug.

As usual, the guests passed into the lounge after the meal. Mr. Todmere drew Merrion aside. “I think I shall go out for a short stroll,” he said, in a lack-lustre tone. “I have been suffering terribly from insomnia lately, and my doctor recommends just a little light exercise in the fresh air before I go to bed. The night is clear, and there is, I believe, a young moon. I shall go up to my room, fetch a coat and a torch, and then so out. I shall not find the front door locked when I come back?”

“It isn't locked until about eleven,” Merrion replied. “You're not likely to be as late as that?”

“Oh, dear me, no! ” Mr. Todmere exclaimed. “I shall not be out for more than half an hour or so.”

Cooden had been getting out the card-table. As Mr. Todmere left the room he turned to Merrion. “Has that old bird gone to bed?”

“No, he's going for a walk,” Merrion replied. “On his doctor's advice, I gather.”

“I'm glad my doctor doesn't advise country walks after dark,” said Cooden. “Come along, Roding. You won my money last night, and I'm going to do my best to win it back again.”

Merrion picked up a newspaper and sat down by the fire. In a minute or two he heard footsteps in the hall, then the opening and shutting of the front door. Mr. Todmere had gone out. He couldn't very well lose himself, Merrion thought.

But the half hour passed, and Mr. Todmere did not return. Merrion began to wonder if he had not been a trifle inconsiderate. He might have offered to go with him. He was a stranger, and might have wandered into the maze of footpaths which traversed the valley. However, there was nothing that Merrion could do about it now. He had no idea which direction Mr. Todmere had taken.

It was not until half past ten that Merrion heard the front door open then shut with a slam that seemed to shake the house. Stumbling footsteps in the hall, then the door of the lounge was flung open. A tall figure clad in a duffle coat entered. In his hand he held a torch, which he had forgotten to switch off, and he waved it unsteadily. It took Merrion a second or two to realise that this was a transformed Mr. Todmere.

“Hullo, you chaps!” he exclaimed in a loud but slurred voice, very unlike the weary tone in which he had spoken before. “Fine stories I've been hearing about this place. I don't wonder you're afraid to go out after dark. Two murders in a week, and both of them down at that cottage yonder. I'm not afraid of being murdered. I'm too old and tough for that, eh? Well, I must be toddling off to bed.”

He staggered, and had some difficulty in regaining the door. When he did, he went out and slammed it behind him. Heavy uncertain footsteps were heard mounting the stairs. At long length, they died out.

“He found the Horseshoes,” Cooden remarked. “And he must have done himself pretty well when he was there. Who'd have thought it of a dry old stick like that? Your deal, Roding.”

Not long afterwards Merrion went up to bed, half expecting to find Mr. Todmere prone upon the landing. But he was not there, and had apparently found his way to his room. As Merrion smoked his final cigarette, he understood Mr. Todmere's shudder at the sight of the water jug. He evidently preferred something stronger.

Merrion came down rather late to breakfast next—morning. Cooden and Roding had already gone out. Merrion had nearly finished his meal when Mr. Todmere crawled into the room, looking the picture of misery. Miss Cray bustled in. “You aren't looking very well this morning, Mr. Todmere,” she said. “What would you like for your breakfast?”

“I am never at my best the first thing in the morning,” Mr. Todmere replied weakly. “May I have just a cup of coffee? And as strong as possible, please.”

Miss Cray went out to get it, and Mr. Todmere turned to Merrion. “Is this house reputed to be haunted, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

“Not that I am aware of,” Merrion replied. “What makes you ask?”

“Because I had a remarkable experience last night,” said Mr. Todmere. “I think I must have been overtired when I came in, so much so that I was not fully aware of what I was doing. I mounted the stairs on my way to my room, but somehow I missed the first landing and found myself on the second. There was no light up there, and I did not know where I was. Fortunately I had my torch in my hand, and I directed it straight in front of me.”

He paused, and before he resumed Miss Cray came in with his coffee. “There you are, Mr. Todmere,” she said briskly. “You're sure you don't want anything else?”

“The coffee will be quite sufficient, thank you,” he replied. He waited until she had gone out again, then continued. “It was most extraordinary, Mr. Merrion. I am not subject to hallucinations. As I directed my torch along the passage, I saw a figure in a duffle coat, exactly like my own, coming towards me. My first impression was that I was facing a mirror, and that what I saw was my own reflection.

“But that was not the case. No sooner had I seen the figure than it turned and disappeared. Without a sound, Mr. Merrion. Without a sound, I assure you.”

“Did you see where the figure went to?” Merrion asked.

Mr. Todmere shook his head. “I did not. I confess to having felt alarmed by what I had seen. I turned tail, descended the stairs to the first landing, and found my way to my room.”

“Certainly a disturbing apparition,” Merrion remarked.

“It was indeed,” Mr. Todmere replied. “Especially after what I had heard that evening. My stroll took me to a little village where there was an inn. Feeling in the need of some refreshment after my walk, I entered and ordered a glass of rum and hot water. I have always found that particular beverage not only refreshing but an excellent sedative.

“In the course of my visit to the inn, I became engaged in conversation with the landlady and such customers as were there. I told them who I was and where I was staying. In return, I was given the most hair-raising account of events which had happened here recently. I felt almost afraid to return to the scene of such atrocities.”

“You know how country folk exaggerate things,” said Merrion. “You plucked up your courage sufficiently to walk back here, it appears?”

“Well, hardly that,” Mr. Todmere replied. “The rum had made me very sleepy, and I hardly remember the incidents which followed. I found myself in a car, driven by a gentleman who very kindly set me down at the end of the avenue. But as to who he was, or how I made his acquaintance, my memory fails me.”

Mr. Todmere finished his coffee and rose wearily to his feet. “I shall fulfil my intention of calling upon Mr. Blackthorn,” he said. “I shall take my car, for having paid my visit, I may feel inclined to explore the valley. On my way to the village yesterday evening I passed a bungalow on the left. That is where Mr. Blackthorn lives?”

“That's the place,” Merrion replied. “You'll see the name on the gate. Brooks View.”

Mr. Todmere left the room. Shortly afterwards Merrion, through the window, saw him walking towards the stables, wearing his duffle coat. He returned, driving his little car, and turned down the avenue.

Half an hour later, as Merrion was preparing to go out Miss Cray came into the hall. She too was wearing a duffle coat. “I have to go to the cottage,” she said. “I arranged to meet the undertakers' men there.”

“I'm just going out myself,” Merrion replied. “If you will wait a moment, I'll bring the car round, and drive you down.”

He dropped Miss Cray at the cottage, then drove on to Raymouth. On arriving at the police station he was shown into Froyle's room. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle heartily. “I hardly expected to see you this morning. Mr. Arnold won't be back till this afternoon. He told me before he left yesterday that he hoped to catch the train which gets here just before three.”

“I've looked in to tell you something which will at all events amuse you,” Merrion replied. “We have a new guest at the hall. He arrived yesterday afternoon, and his name is Todmere. He tells me that he is writing a book on birds. Not aquatic ones, I imagine, from his manifest aversion to plain water.

“Well, this Mr. Todmere found his way to the Horseshoes last evening, and came back as drunk as an owl. Why we use that expression I can't imagine, for I have always considered the owl the soberest of birds. Anyhow, when he came back to the Hall, he was well and properly intoxicated.

“I want to make that quite plain, for it is doubtful how much reliance can be placed upon what a man says he saw when he was drunk. He told me this morning that when he went up to bed, shortly after his return, he made his way up to the second floor by mistake. And there he saw an apparition.”

Merrion repeated Mr. Todmere's story, as nearly as possible in his own words. “Now, if that wasn't a drunkard's vision, it is rather curious. The only person who lives on that floor is Mrs. Darlaston. She has her own suite of rooms there. As she is a semi-invalid and rarely goes outside her suite, it is difficult to imagine why she should have been flitting about the passage in a duffle coat at that time in the evening. Both Cooden and Roding were in the lounge at the time. If Mr. Todmere saw a duffle coat. Miss Cray must either have just come in, or have been just going out. Where from or to, and why?”

“Paying, or having paid, a visit to a neighbour, perhaps?” Froyle suggested.

“I doubt it,” Merrion replied. “The only person who can be described as a neighbour is Mr. Blackthorn. He and Miss Cray are mutually suspicious of one another. I am quite sure she would not visit him, especially at such a time. I might remark that Miss Cray is in possession of the key of the cottage.”

“What on earth would she want to go there for, so late?” Froyle asked.

Merrion shook his head. “Quite frankly, I don't know. But the affair seems to me rather mysterious. When the light fell on her, why did Miss Cray turn and vanish without a sound? Not because she was frightened, I'll swear. She's not the woman to be frightened by that sort of thing. Since the torch was directed on her, she couldn't see who was holding it. I should have expected her to come forward and find out who the torch bearer was. And when she did find out to say 'Excuse me, Mr. Todmere, you are on the wrong floor. Let me show you your way to your room.' Or something like that. The only reason for her behaviour that I can think of is that she didn't want Mr. Todmere to see who she was.

“Then, again, what was Miss Cray doing on that floor herself? It can only have been to see her sister.

“Now I'll tell you something else. When I went up to my room the night before, soon after half past ten, I heard voices overhead. I thought at the time that it must be Miss Julie saying good night to her mother. It may of course have been Miss Cray. But why these conferences at a time when one would expect a semi-invalid to be in bed, if not asleep?”

Froyle laughed. “Mr. Arnold is always telling me about your imagination, Mr. Merrion. Can't you think of an answer to your own question?”

“To this one, I can't,” Merrion replied. “Well, I won't waste your time any longer. I'll look in again this afternoon, if I may. I'm very anxious to hear the result of Arnold's interview with Mr. Wirral.”

He left the police station, returned to his car, and drove out of town. This time he took a road which led directly inland. After an hour or so of leisurely driving he came to a town of some importance. It was in fact the junction where the branch from Featherby joined the main line. He lunched there, and then drove back to Raymouth railway station, timing his arrival at a quarter to three.

He stopped the car in the station yard, and sat in it, waiting. Before long a train steamed in, and shortly afterwards Arnold came out of the station. Merrion leant out of the car and called to him. “Hullo, my friend. Would you care for a lift?”

“I'd be glad of one,” Arnold replied. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just passing the time,” said Merrion. “Jump in. I know where you're bound for. And I'm hoping to be allowed to listen to what you have to say to Mr. Froyle.”

They drove to the police station, and found Froyle in his room. “So you've both arrived together,” said Froyle. “No, you're not intruding, Mr. Merrion. Sit down, and we'll hear what Mr. Arnold has to tell us.”

“I went to the office in Petty France, and had a chat with Wirral,” said Arnold. “He struck me as a very decent chap. He told me that he had driven straight from Springlease Hall to the job in Lincolnshire on Wednesday, week ago to-day. He hadn't left there till yesterday evening, when he came back to London to make a report to his firm.

“I asked him if, while he was staying at Springlease Hall he had made the acquaintance of the ladies who lived at the Lodge Cottage. He said that he had, and that he had become quite friendly with them. He had heard nothing of them since he had left, and hoped they were both quite well.”

“He hadn't heard about Miss Price?” Froyle asked.

“I'm certain he hadn't,” Arnold replied. “He was genuinely shocked when I told him. I asked him when he had last seen either of the ladies, and he replied on the Tuesday afternoon. On his way back from his work for the last time he had called at the cottage to say good-bye. Both ladies were there, and they had given him tea. I asked him if he had brought them anything, and he said he had. A box of chocolates which he had bought in Raymouth.”

“Not a red heart with an arrow through it?” Froyle asked.

“I asked him about that,” Arnold replied. “He said it had never occurred to him that it was Valentine's Day. In any case, it was not the sort of thing he would have brought the ladies as a parting gift. It was not on the mantelpiece when he was at the cottage. If it had been, he would certainly have noticed it.

“He declares that he did not go to the cottage again. He left there about six, went to the Hall, and did not go out again that evening. Further, he says that he called at the cottage several times while he was staying at the Hall, usually on his way back from work in the evening. But he cannot remember any occasion when, as he came out, he found another visitor about to enter. He knows Mr. Blackthorn by sight, but isn't sure whether he ever spoke to him.”

“Then Mr. Wirral wasn't the visitor to the cottage on Tuesday evening?” Froyle asked.

“Personally, I'm quite satisfied that he was telling me the truth,” Arnold replied. “Then I put Merrion's question to him. Had he been to the show at the Assembly Rooms before he left the Hall? He replied that he had, and that he had taken the two ladies with him.”

“May I inquire how that came about?” Merrion asked.

“This way,” Arnold replied. “On Tuesday, a fortnight ago, he called at the cottage at his usual time. In the course of conversation the ladies told him that they had been sent complimentary tickets for the six o'clock performance next day. Miss Marsland rather wanted to go, but Miss Price was all against it. She said it wasn't the sort of show that appealed to her at all. And, in any case, how were they going to get to Raymouth and back?

“Wirral said that difficulty was easily got over. He would drive them there, go to the show with them, and bring them home again. Still Miss Price didn't seem very keen. Wouldn't it be better if he and Miss Marsland went? Then he could use Miss Price's ticket.

“In the end, however, both ladies went with him. He supposes that Miss Marsland had persuaded her friend to go. He thought the show was pretty good, and Miss Marsland seemed to enjoy it. But not so Miss Price. She couldn't bear the principal comedian. She said it was degrading for a man who could obviously act so well to lend himself to such antics.”

“I find all that most interesting,” said Merrion. “Do you know who sent the ladies the complimentary tickets?”

“They didn't tell Wirral, and of course he didn't ask,” Arnold replied.

“May I mention a few points?” Merrion asked quietly. “You can make your own comments upon them.

“The newspaper which had been posted to the cottage, and which you found in Miss Price's drawer. This contained an advance notice of the show to be put on at the Assembly Rooms. Gobbo was billed as the principal attraction.

“Our first conversation with Mr. Blackthorn, after the inquest last Friday. Unless my memory plays me false, he told us that Miss Price had at one time been on the stage, but had long retired. It is not impossible that in her early days she had known Gobbo.

“The most likely person to send complimentary tickets would be some member of the company.

“The cardboard heart could easily have been cut out of some piece of stage property.

“The evidence you found in the cottage very strongly suggests a visitor late on Tuesday evening. It was that evening, after the second performance, that Gobbo borrowed the landlord's bicycle. To call on a man who lived some distance out of the town, he said. May his call have been, not on one man but on two women?”

“What do you make of that, Mr. Arnold?” Froyle asked.

“I can see where Merrion's imagination has led him to,” Arnold replied. “Gobbo and Miss Price had met before. He sent her the newspaper, to show her he was coming to Raymouth. He also sent her the complimentary tickets. Miss Price didn't want to go and see her old friend making a fool of himself. On the evening of Valentine's Day he went to see her, taking that ridiculous heart with him. Isn't that about it, Merrion?”

“If that was it, his subsequent behaviour is explained” Merrion replied. “In the course of Wednesday afternoon he heard of Miss Price's death. That was the bad news that caused him to be so depressed.”

“But why did his depression get worse, until it reached a climax on Saturday?” Arnold asked.

“That too can be explained,” Merrion replied ” When he first heard the news, it was generally assumed that Miss Price's death had been accidental. After the inquest, which Gobbo may not have heard about till Saturday, it was pretty obvious that she had been murdered. It was bad enough that an old friend should have died as the result of an accident. It was ten times worse if she had been murdered.”

“So much worse that it drove Gobbo to suicide?” Arnold asked.

“You don't know that he has committed suicide,” Merrion replied. “He may have just wandered off by himself. To be alone until he had got over the shock.”

“And where do you suppose he is now?” Arnold asked.

Merrion shook his head. “My imagination doesn't carry me as far as that. I expect you and Mr. Froyle have plenty to talk about. I won't intrude upon you any longer.”

That evening passed uneventfully at Springlease Hall. All four guests were present at supper. Mr. Todmere entertained the company with an account of his adventures. He had called on Mr. Blackthorn, and had spent the day with him. He had gone out with Mr. Todmere in his car, and had shown him the many places of interest in the Valley. They had lunched at Featherby. On their way back, they had made a further exploration of the countryside.

After supper, Mr. Todmere took Merrion aside. “I'm just going along to the stables, Mr. Merrion. To fetch some parcels I left in my car. I did some shopping in Featherby.”

Merrion had his suspicions that Mr. Todmere was going farther than the stables, and put these to the test. “I'll come and help you, if you like, Mr. Todmere,” he said.

To his surprise Todmere accepted the offer. “That will be very kind of you. I have a torch in the pocket of my coat. It is hanging in the hall.”

They went out together to the stables. “I thought it best to take precautions against insomnia,” said Mr. Todmere, as he opened the boot of his car. He took out three or four parcels, one of which obviously contained a bottle of spirit. “A kettle and a spirit lamp,” he explained. “I have often found that a glass of hot water just before going to bed induces sleep.” Merrion helped him carry the parcel back to the house. “I am most grateful to you, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “I shall now retire to my room. I feel quite worn out after so long a day in the open air. Good night, Mr. Merrion.”

Merrion went into the lounge, where Cooden and Roding were again playing cards. He remained there for some time, on the alert for any sound of disturbance overhead. There was no telling what Mr. Todmere might be up to when the contents of the bottle began to take effect. But all was quiet, and eventually he went up to his room. The passage seemed to be pervaded by the scent of hot rum.

Mr. Todmere was the last down to breakfast next morning, and again asked for nothing more than a cup of strong coffee. He went out soon after he had finished it. He had promised Mr. Blackthorn to take him the manuscript of one of the chapters of his book, for him to look through. Cooden and Roding had already left the house. Merrion himself went out shortly after Mr. Todmere.

He had taken only a few steps from the front door when he became aware of a terrific crashing and rattling? He stopped and looked down the avenue, from which the sound seemed to be proceeding. A vehicle of some kind was coming up the avenue at full speed. As it approached him, he made it out to be a covered scavenger's van with a trailer behind. The whole contraption swayed from side to side with the speed of its advance, the steel covers clashing like so many demented cymbals.

On seeing Merrion, the driver jammed on his brakes bringing his vehicle to a sudden halt, and leapt out. He was wearing a leather jerkin and cap. “Are you the boss here, mister?” he demanded angrily.

“No, I'm only a guest,” Merrion replied. “You seem a trifle put out. What's the matter?”

“What's the matter?” the man retorted. “Matter enough to scare the wits out of a chap. When my mate and I lifted the lid off the dustbin down at the cottage yonder we found a dead body in it. And who put it there? That's what we want to know.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MERRION'S FIRST REACTION to this astounding piece of news was that dead bodies at the cottage were becoming a commonplace. His second, that this one must undoubtedly be Miss Marsland's. “You're quite sure of what you say?” he asked.

“You'd have been sure if you'd been there when we took the lid off,” the man replied. “We put it back sharp enough, I can promise you. We couldn't make anyone hear at the cottage, so I left my mate there and came along here.”

“It seems to me a matter for the police,” said Merrion. “If you'll wait here, I'll go and ring them up.”

He went back into the house, to find Julie in the hall. “May I use the telephone?” he said. “It's rather an urgent call.”

“Of course you may, Mr. Merrion,” she replied. “The telephone is in the office. You know your way, don't you?”

He thanked her hurriedly, went to the telephone, and rang up the police station. The sergeant on duty answered the call. Not knowing who might come into the room while he was speaking, Merrion framed his words carefully. “This is Mr. Merrion, speaking from Springlease Hall. Will you ask Mr. Froyle and Mr. Arnold to come to the Lodge Cottage as soon as possible, on a very urgent matter? And say that I shall be there to meet them.”

The sergeant acknowledged the message, and Merrion rang off. He left the house and found the scavenger standing by his van. “I got on to the police, and asked them to come along at once,” he said. This seemed to relieve the scavenger's mind. “Then it'll be their job, not ours,” he replied. “And I wish them joy of it. While I'm here, I may as well empty the dustbin outside the back door. I'll be down again at the cottage in a couple of shakes.”

Merrion walked down the avenue. Standing in the yard of the cottage, at a respectful distance from the dustbin, and looking as if he expected the body in it to rise and confront him, was the scavenger's mate. Almost on Merrion's heels the van came rumbling down the avenue at a more decorous speed than that at which it had ascended it. The driver called to his mate. “It's all right, Ted. The cops will be along presently. We'd best stop here till they come.”

They had not long to wait before the police car turned the corner into the avenue. Merrion went up to it, to find Froyle at the wheel with Arnold sitting beside him. “What's the trouble, Mr. Merrion?” Froyle asked.

“Another body,” Merrion replied. “The scavenger here tells me that he found one in the dustbin. I haven't verified his statement.”

Arnold and Froyle got out of the car and approached the scavenger. “What's this about a body?” Froyle asked.

The scavenger jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “It's yonder, in the bin,” he replied indignantly. “We haven't touched it. My mate and I came along, same as we always do every other Thursday. And when we took the lid off the bin, there it was. It's not right, that's what I say. People didn't ought to put dead bodies in their dustbins.”

“All right, we'll see to it,” said Froyle. “You can get on with your round.”

Apparently the scavenger wished for nothing better. “Hop up, Ted,” he said. His mate joined him and the van drove off, turning to the right in the direction of Bruckam.

“Well, we'd better see whose body it is this time,” said Froyle. “You say you haven't seen it, Mr. Merrion?”

“No,” Merrion replied. “But I can hazard a guess whose it is.”

The three of them crossed the yard to the dustbin. As Froyle lifted the lid they fell back involuntarily. “Dead, all right,” Froyle muttered. “Well, we've got to go through with it.”

All that was visible when they peered into the bin was the upper part of a duffle coat, with the hood drawn over a head. Froyle turned the bin over on its side. The body was jammed in, with the knees up to the chin. Between them, Arnold and Froyle dragged it out and laid it flat upon the surface of the yard. “Well, that's not in the least what I expected,” Merrion remarked.

The body was that of a short thin man, with an elderly face, fair hair and blue eyes. Under his brown duffle coat he was wearing a brown suit. “I know who that is,” said Froyle. “Gobbo. The description the manager gave fits him exactly.”

“He obviously didn't commit suicide,” Merrion remarked slyly.

“You're right there, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle replied. “What are we going to do with him? I don't want to have to get the key of the cottage and put him in there. It'll save a lot of trouble if we get him to the mortuary at Raymouth. I could ring up from the Hall for a hearse, or something of that kind.”

“There'll be a hearse here before very long,” said Merrion. “Mackay is to be buried this morning, remember.”

“Confound it! ” Froyle exclaimed. “I'd forgotten that for the moment. I don't want everyone buzzing round till we know more about this. I tell you what, Mr. Arnold. We can put him in the back of my car, and I'll drive him to the mortuary. I daresay Mr. Merrion won't mind driving you to the police station, and I'll meet you there.”

Merrion agreed to this. He walked to the coachhouse and got out his car. By the time he returned with it the police car had driven off. Arnold was alone, waiting for him. “We've spirited him off,” said Arnold. “Nobody at the Hall need know that a body has been found, just yet.”

They set off for Raymouth. “In case you've forgotten,” Merrion remarked. “Last Friday, when you and I were looking round, I had the curiosity to lift the lid of that dustbin. There was no body in it then. Only a few tea leaves and potato peelings.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Arnold replied. “Who put him in the bin, and when?”

“I'm not guessing who put him in it,” said Merrion. “As to when, some time last Saturday night. In fact, about the same time as Mackay was murdered. Gobbo wasn't seen after that.”

They reached the police station, and had some little time to wait before Froyle arrived. “I'm sorry I've been so long,” he said when at last he made his appearance. “I got him to the mortuary all right, and then I thought we'd better make quite sure before we went any further. So I fetched the landlord of the Wheatsheaf and took him to see the body. As soon as he set eyes on it he said it was the man he had known as Mr. Gobbo. And that he was wearing the same clothes as when he last saw him.

“Then I went through his pockets. The first thing I came upon was a wallet, with seven pound notes in it. And a bit of paper as well. Here it is.”

He laid the paper on the table. It was a half sheet of cheap note-paper, and on it was written 'Eight days bed and breakfast at ten shillings and sixpence a day, Four pounds four shillings.' Under this, in the same handwriting, 'Received with thanks,' and an illegible signature written over a twopenny stamp.

“The bill his landlady told you about,” said Arnold. “That pretty well settles the identity. Anything else?”

Froyle put his hand in his pocket and took out an object which he laid on the table. “That.” It was a strongly made knife, with a rough horn handle, housed in a leather sheath, apparently brand new. “No good looking for fingerprints on the horn or the porous leather,” said Froyle. He drew the knife from its sheath. The blade was bright and untarnished. “I doubt this knife has ever been used,” Froyle went on. “But it's a murderous weapon. I wonder what Gobbo wanted it for?”

“To stick somebody with,” Arnold replied. “Himself, possibly. Have you got on to Dr. Graveney?”

“I told the sergeant to ring him up as I came in,” said Froyle. “Graveney is probably out on his rounds at this time. But the sergeant was to leave a message for him, asking him to go to the mortuary and then contact us. Till then, we're in the dark as to the cause of death. I couldn't see any blood about him or his clothes. But what was he doing at the cottage?”

“If Merrion is right, he'd been there before,” Arnold replied. “What have you got to say about that now, Merrion?”

“I still believe he was at the cottage on Tuesday evening,” said Merrion. “And my mind goes back to what Cooden told me. He travelled on the morning bus from Bruckam to Raymouth on Wednesday. At Sandy Cross a little man, breathless and carrying a roll of newspapers, boarded the bus. It's a long shot, I'll admit.”

“So long that it misses the target,” Arnold replied scornfully. “The landlord, first thing in the morning, found that his bicycle had been returned. I don't know what he means by first thing in the morning, but it must surely have been before nine o'clock. Besides, Gobbo must have come back to his lodgings some time on Tuesday night. If he hadn't, his landlady would have said so.”

“The point is easily settled,” said Merrion. “Didn't you say that Miss Cray told you that Cooden worked at the pensions office here? He could be taken to see the body and asked if he recognised it.”

“We won't do that just yet, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “We don't want it known that the body has been found until we're more sure of our ground. You don't think that Gobbo murdered Miss Price?”

“I'm wondering what was inside the roll of newspapers that Cooden's little man was carrying,” Merrion replied.

“That imagination of yours again! ” Arnold exclaimed. “I like something I can see to go upon. This knife, for instance. I wonder if Gobbo bought it here? And if he did, what did he mean to do with it?”

“There's only one place here that I know of where he could have bought it,” said Froyle. “The ironmongers next to the bank. They've got quite a respectable cutlery department, with a bright young chap in charge of it. I'll send one of my men to ask him to come here. It won't take more than a few minutes.”

He gave the order, and in a very short time the sergeant escorted a young man into the room. “Sorry to take you away from the shop,” said Froyle. “But we want your expert opinion. Have a look at this knife, and tell us whether you have ever seen one like it before.”

The young man took the knife and examined the maker's mark stamped on the blade. “I sold a knife exactly like this to a gentleman last Saturday morning,” he replied. “I can't swear that this is the one, but I think it must be, for it's the only one of the kind we had in the shop.”

“Do you know who the gentleman was that you sold it to?” Froyle asked.

“Yes, I do, for he told me who he was,” the young man replied. “He said he was Gobbo, the comedian. I thought I knew his face, for I'd been to the show at the Assembly Rooms, but I didn't recognise him at first without his make-up. He said he wanted a good big knife to use on the stage. So big that the audience couldn't make any mistake as to what it was. I suggested a carving knife, but he said that wasn't quite the thing. He wanted something he could draw from a sheath and flourish about. And when I showed him this one, or one exactly like it, he said it was the very thing. He took it and paid for it on the spot.”

Froyle thanked the young man, and the sergeant escorted him from the room. “That's the knife, right enough,” said Arnold. “What did Gobbo want it for? Not for use on the stage, that's quite certain. If that was all, he wouldn't have taken it to the cottage with him. I'll bet he meant to stick it into someone when he got there.”

“Who did he expect to find at the cottage?” Froyle asked. “Miss Price was dead, and Miss Marsland had disappeared.”

“May I put in a word?” Merrion asked. “We assume that Gobbo knew that Miss Price was dead, and that she had been murdered. But he can hardly have known that Miss Marsland had disappeared. All that Miss Cray said at the inquest was that she was not at the cottage then. Gobbo may well have supposed that she would have returned by Saturday evening.”

“Then this is how I see it,” said Arnold. “Gobbo murdered Miss Price. He hadn't got the knife then, so he used something else, an iron bar or a poker. His depression on hearing the news was only play-acting. By Saturday morning he had decided to murder Miss Marsland. Hence his purchase of the knife. His hard drinking at the Wheatsheaf that morning was to bring his resolution up to the point. He set out that evening at a time when he guessed he would find Miss Marsland alone.”

“Who did he find when he got to the cottage?” Froyle asked. “To begin with, what time did he get there? He played his part in the first performance on Saturday, so he can't have got away from here much before eight. We must suppose that he walked, which would have brought him to the cottage about nine. And that's within the time that Mackay was murdered.”

Arnold shook his head. “Gobbo didn't murder Mackay. He had his knife in his pocket. He wouldn't have used the stiletto. How would he have known where to find it?”

“He had been to the cottage before,” Froyle replied. “He may have seen it lying in the drawer. But why he used it when he had a much better weapon ready to his hand, I don't know.”

“If Gobbo murdered Mackay, who murdered Gobbo?” Arnold asked. “Tell me that. And we still don't know who opened the cottage door that evening. In spite of all Merrion says about another key which might have fitted the lock. Have you any more to say about that, Merrion?”

“I've thought a lot about it,” Merrion replied. “And another idea has occurred to me. Those old box locks aren't very difficult to pick. Any burglar in possession of a skeleton key could unlock the door. And lock it again, for that matter.”

Arnold laughed scornfully. “I daresay that's true enough. But will you tell me what there was in the cottage to tempt an enterprising burglar?”

Merrion's reply was forestalled by the entrance of the sergeant, escorting Dr. Graveney. “I was on my rounds when your message came through,” said Graveney. “However, I called back home to get something I had left behind, so I got it earlier than I should have done. I went to the mortuary at once, to see this latest find of yours. If you go on at this rate, you'll depopulate the whole countryside.”

“The man is Gobbo, the comedian who was performing at the Assembly Rooms last week,” Froyle replied. “You've seen him, you say, Doctor. What can you tell us?”

“First, that he died from a fracture of the base of the skull,” said Graveney. “Letchworth will have to see him, of course, but I think it's obvious enough. Hit by something hard and heavy, I should imagine. The good old hackneyed blunt instrument, if you like.”

“Can you tell us when he was hit?” Froyle asked.

“He's been dead some time, as I daresay you noticed,” Graveney replied. “So long that it's impossible to give anything like an accurate time of death. Four or five days ago, at a rough shot.”

“Would Saturday evening fit the bill?” Froyle asked.

“Let me see,” Graveney replied. “To-day's Thursday. Yes, he might very well have been killed on Saturday evening. And now I must dash off, or my patients will be wondering what has become of me.”

“Well, there you are,” said Arnold when the doctor had gone. “Gobbo was killed in much the same way as Miss Price was. Who wanders round the cottage with a blunt instrument, ready to knock anyone on the head with it?”

“Hardly Miss Marsland, I should think,” Froyle replied. “Let's get back to where we were a few minutes ago. If Gobbo murdered Miss Price, and intended to murder Miss Marsland, what was his motive?”

“They knew something about him that wasn't to his credit,” said Arnold. “I'm trying to form some idea of what did happen at the cottage on Saturday evening. If Gobbo went there to murder Miss Marsland he wasn't lucky, for she wasn't there. Or was she? If she didn't murder Mackay, who did?”

“Let's put it in a slightly different way,” Froyle replied. “There must have been three people involved. Gobbo may have murdered Mackay, or Mackay may have murdered Gobbo. They can't have murdered one another simultaneously. Who murdered the survivor? Miss Marsland? What have you to say about it, Mr. Merrion?”

“I'd like to make this remark,” Merrion replied. “Gobbo was a little man, and I don't suppose he weighed more than eight stone. Even so, I refuse to believe that a woman of Miss Marsland's age could have picked him up and put him in the dustbin.”

“That's a good point,” said Froyle. “On the other hand, Mackay was a muscular sort of chap. For some reason which I can't pretend to fathom, he murdered Gobbo. He didn't want to leave the body lying about. The dustbin was handy, so he pitched it into that. He then went into the cottage, where he surprised Miss Marsland.”

“Who, as we've already guessed, was scared out of her wits,” said Arnold. “Perhaps she had heard something of what went on outside. She thought that Mackay had come to murder her, but she got in first. But why did Mackay murder Gobbo? There's something for your imagination to get its teeth into, Merrion.”

“I'm not sure that he did,” Merrion replied. “But I'm perfectly willing to humour you. To begin with, I rather suspect now that the duffle-coated figure seen by Roding was Gobbo. Mackay, prowling round his self-appointed task, which, we must remember, was the tracking down of the murderer of Miss Price, saw him too. He closed on him, and accused him of being the man he was after. Gobbo turned nasty, and probably reached for that knife. Before he could draw it, Mackay hit him on the head, not necessarily with murderous intent. Finding that the blow had been fatal, he bundled him into the dustbin. But, quite frankly, I don't believe that's what happened.”

“Perhaps you can tell us what did happen?” Arnold asked.

Merrion shook his head. “I can't do that. It seems to me that Gobbo's visit to the cottage on Saturday evening was the sequel to the murder of Miss Price. Did Gobbo murder her? Miss Price was murdered about nine o'clock on Wednesday morning. Where was Gobbo at that time? He should have been having breakfast at his lodgings. That receipted bill shows that he was charged for breakfast every day that week.”

“You've hit the nail on the head again, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “I'll have another talk to his landlady.”

“It might be as well,” Merrion replied. “And if I were you, I should be very much inclined to let Cooden see the body. It doesn't very much matter if he talks. As soon as the scavenger and his mate get back from their round, the story of the dead body in the dustbin will be all over the town, you may be sure of that.”

“You're quite right there, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “There'll be no harm in letting Mr. Cooden see the body. And I think the lady he lodged with ought to see it too. We ought to have a confirmation of the identification by the landlord of the Wheatsheaf.”

Merrion got up from his chair. “Then I'll leave you to it. It's getting on for my lunch time, and my imagination doesn't work properly when I'm hungry.”

“Thirsty, you mean,” Arnold remarked maliciously. “You'd better drop in again this afternoon, and give us the benefit of any new ideas you've thought up.”

“I'll get on to the pensions office right away,” said Froyle when Merrion had gone out. “We may catch Mr. Cooden before he goes out to lunch.” He made the call, and after a while Cooden spoke from the other end “This is Inspector Froyle, speaking from the police station. Could you make it convenient to call here as soon as possible, Mr. Cooden?”

“I was just going out to lunch,” Cooden replied. “I'll look in in a couple of minutes, if that will do.”

Froyle told him that it would do very well, and it was not long before the sergeant showed him into the room. He looked a trifle nervous for a moment, but Froyle's first words put him at his ease. “We shan't keep you very long, Mr. Cooden. We want your help in a matter of identification. Will you be good enough to come with us?”

The mortuary adjoined the police station, and the three men went there. Froyle drew back the sheet with which the body was covered. “Have you ever seen this man before, Mr. Cooden?” he asked.

Cooden came forward and was silent for a few seconds. “I don't know who he is,” he replied. “But I am almost certain that I have seen him before. He got on to the morning bus from Bruckam at Sandy Cross on Wednesday of last week. He was dressed as he is now, and was carrying a roll of newspapers.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cooden,” said Froyle. “That's all we wanted to ask you. We need not detain you any longer.”

They left the mortuary, and Cooden parted from them. “I've seen that face before,” said Arnold. “Mr. Cooden's I mean, but I can't for the life of me remember when and where. Some years ago, and he looked younger then.”

“Perhaps it will come back to you,” Froyle replied. “Now for the landlady. I'll go and fetch her in the car. You may as well wait here.”

Arnold had not long to wait before Froyle returned with the landlady, a gaunt stern-faced woman. Unlike Mrs. Hartlip, she was not in the least disturbed at the prospect of viewing a body. She was taken into the mortuary, and a single glance sufficed her. “I know who that is, poor man,” she said unhesitatingly. “Mr. Gobbo, that lodged with me for a fortnight.”

Froyle asked her to come into the police station and sit down. “I want you to cast your mind back to the time when Mr. Gobbo was staying with you,” he said. “Did he come home later than usual any evening last week?”

“He did that,” she replied emphatically. “Tuesday it was, for that's the day I do my ironing. He didn't come back till after midnight, and I had to come downstairs to let him in. I spoke pretty sharp to him about giving me that trouble.”

“Did he go out again after that?” Froyle asked.

“It's not very likely,” she replied. “Anyway, he was in bed when I took him his breakfast next morning. And he had the grace to say that he was sorry for being so late the night before.”

“Did he tell you where he had been?” Froyle asked.

“ No, he didn't,” she replied. “And I didn't ask him. It was none of my business. He hadn't been drinking when I let him in, I know that.”

“What time did you take him his breakfast on Wednesday?” Froyle asked.

“Same time as usual,” she replied. “Nine or thereabouts. And he didn't go out for an hour or more after that.”

“You're quite sure that he was in his room at nine o'clock?” Froyle asked.

“Naturally I'm sure,” she replied indignantly. “Why shouldn't I be? As I've told you, it wasn't till Saturday night that he didn't come back.”

Froyle drove the landlady home, to find when he returned that Arnold had gone out. He went to lunch and the two met again at the police station later. “I've been cudgelling my brains to think where I've seen Mr Cooden's face before,” said Arnold. “I believe I've sot it, but I want confirmation. After you'd gone off with the landlady, I rang up the Yard and had a few words with Wighton, whom you've heard me speak about. He's coming down here by the first train he can catch.”

“There's one at two o'clock which gets in just before five,” Froyle replied.

“He ought to have caught that,” said Arnold. “We'll get Merrion to help us. Now, about those two identifications this morning. They're absolutely contradictory. If Gobbo was in bed at nine on Wednesday morning, he can't have boarded the bus at Sandy Cross.”

“I'm ready to take the landlady's word for it,” Froyle replied. “Mr. Cooden may very well be mistaken. He wouldn't have taken a lot of notice of a chap who happened to board the bus he was on.”

“That seems the only explanation,” Arnold agreed. “Anyhow, we may take it that the chap wasn't Gobbo. And the landlady's statement clears him of the murder of Miss Price.”

They were still discussing the problem when Merrion was shown in. “The very man we want,” said Arnold. “Your fellow guests come back to supper, don't they?”

“As a rule,” Merrion replied. “Unless they've anything else on. Why?”

“I'll tell you,” said Arnold. “You remember Wighton?”

“Quite well,” Merrion replied. “I've met him more than once.”

“He's coming here this afternoon,” said Arnold. “As a friend of yours, who has come to see you on a matter of business. We want you to take him to Springlease Hall, and let him see all the guests staying there.”

“That ought to be easy enough,” Merrion replied. “And when he's seen them, what am I to do with him?”

“Bring him back here,” said Arnold. “You can tell them at the Hall that you're driving him to the station to catch a train back to London. Now, listen to this.”

He told Merrion of the interviews with Cooden and the landlady. “Your friend Mr. Cooden was mistaken,” he said. “It wasn't Gobbo who boarded the bus. And he didn't murder Miss Price.”

“I have never been really satisfied that he did,” Merrion replied. “But I can't help wondering what he meant to do with that ugly-looking knife.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MERRION WAS on the platform by the barrier when the train came in at five minutes to five. The passengers alighted, among them a burly man in a loose-fitting suit. Merrion immediately recognised the round good-natured face and keen grey eyes. He followed the man through the barrier, and when clear of the queue of passengers accosted him. “Do you remember me, Mr. Wighton?”

Wighton glanced at him, then smiled broadly. “Why, of course I do, Mr. Merrion, and very glad I am to see you again. But I didn't expect to meet you here. Mr. Arnold told you I was coming?”

“Yes, and asked me to meet you,” Merrion replied. “I've got my car here. Jump in.”

They entered the car, and Merrion drove off. “I'm taking you to a place called Springlease Hall,” he said.

“Yes, that was the name Mr. Arnold told me,” Wighton replied. “I was to look over the people there. But he didn't tell me you were to take me.”

“Well, I am taking you,” said Merrion. “You see, I'm staying there myself. You've come to see me on a matter of business. You are a house agent, trying to sell me a house, and your name is Wigmore.”

Wighton chuckled, and they spent the rest of the journey arranging how they should proceed. Merrion drove up to the Hall, and left his car in the drive. He then took Wighton into the lounge, to find it empty. He led his visitor to a corner. “It's fairly dark here,” he said. “You'll be able to see who comes in, but they won't see much of you if you settle well down into that arm-chair. That's right. Now we've just got to wait.”

A few minutes later Miss Cray entered the room, accompanied by an elderly man in a dark lounge suit. Seeing Merrion, Miss Cray came up to him. Merrion rose from his chair. “Good evening, Miss Cray. This is a friend of mine, Mr. Wigmore, who has come to see me on a matter of business. I hope you don't mind my bringing him here?”

“Oh, not at all,” she replied. She bent down and whispered in his ear. “The gentleman who came in with me is Mr. Mackay. He arrived here just in time for the funeral this morning. As you're busy now with your friend, I'll introduce him to you later.”

She left him and sat down with Mr. Mackay at the other end of the room. Wighton spoke in a low voice, but just loud enough to be heard. “As I was saying, it's a proper gentleman's house. Just the thing for you and Mrs. Merrion. It's got seven bedrooms and three bathrooms and-”

He went on talking, though someone else had entered the room. This was Roding. Seeing Merrion, he advanced towards him, apparently eager to tell him something. But seeing that he was engaged in conversation, he retired. Miss Cray called to him and introduced him to Mr. Mackay.

“In perfect repair,” Wighton was saying. “The late owner was a very careful man, who knew how to look after his property. Why, only two years ago he spent- ” Again the door opened, and Cooden came in. He glanced round the room and inclined his head to Miss Cray. Then he sat down, took an evening paper from his pocket, and began to read it.

“-Over a thousand pounds having it painted and decorated,” Wighton had gone on without a pause. “You wouldn't have to lay out any money on it for a long time to come, Mr. Merrion. And the grounds are in perfect order, too. There's an acre of kitchen garden, and another two of-”

This time it was Mr. Todmere who came in. He stood in the doorway for an instant, then made a bee-line for Merrion. The fact that he had a visitor did not deter him. He seemed a trifle excited, and exhaled a faint but unmistakable odour of rum. Merrion remembered that the Horseshoes opened at six. It was by now well past that hour. “I say, Mr. Merrion! ” Mr. Todmere exclaimed. “Is that your car standing in the drive? You might have left the lights on. I nearly ran into it when I came in a minute ago.”

“Sorry about that,” Merrion replied cheerfully. “It won't be then much longer. You'll excuse me just now, won't you, Mr. Todmere?”

Mr. Todmere drifted off as Wighton went on. “As I was saying, Mr. Merrion, two acres of lawn and flower beds. Now you've only got to let me know, and I'll meet you there any time you say.”

“I'll talk it over with my wife,” Merrion replied. “And now, if you want to catch that train, it's time I drove you to the station.”

They left the house and returned to the car. “Well, I must say you played your part to perfection,” said Merrion, as he started down the avenue. “You've seen all the guests staying at the Hall. Were you particularly interested in any of them?”

“What is the name of that chap who sat down and read a paper?” Wighton asked.

“Cooden,” Merrion replied. “His other name is Bartram, I believe.”

“That wasn't his name when I knew him,” said Wighton. “I'm sure of him, though he looks a bit older than he did when I last saw him. His name's not Bartram Cooden, but Stanley Carlake.”

“Carlake?” Merrion replied. “I've heard that name quite recently. Why yes, of course. The man who was head gardener at the Hall at one time was called Carlake.”

“This chap was never a gardener,” said Wighton. “Well, I'd better say no more till I've seen Mr. Arnold.”

Merrion left Wighton at the police station, but did not go in. He drove back to the Hall and put his car in the coachhouse, noticing that Mr. Todmere's car and Roding's motor cycle were there. By the time he entered the house, supper was nearly over. He made his apologies to Miss Cray and sat down.

The remaining guests finished their meal and left the dining-room. Julie excused herself. She had to fetch down her mother's tray. Merrion was left alone with Miss Cray. “I'm glad of the chance to tell you about Mr. Mackay,” she said. “He turned up here just before the hearse came this morning. I am so glad that he was able to attend his son's funeral. He got my letter yesterday and immediately flew over. From London Airport he chartered a plane to Raymouth aerodrome, and from there he rang up for a taxi to bring him here. He means to stay here for a few days. I told him all I knew about his son's death, and he said he would get in touch with the police in the morning. He naturally wants to know what they are doing about it.”

“I doubt whether they will be able to tell him much more than you have,” Merrion replied. “But they'll be glad to have the next of kin at hand, I've no doubt.”

“I'm so sorry for Mr. Mackay,” said Miss Cray. “I'm afraid that his son's death has bowled him out completely. He told me that his wife was dead, and that Gordon was his only child. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Merrion, I must go and help Julie with the washing-up. It's Mrs. Nadder's day out, and she won't be back rill nine o'clock.”

She went out, leaving Merrion alone. He reflected that no rumour of the body in the dustbin could have reached Springlease Hall. If it had, Miss Cray could not have refrained from mentioning it. He finished his meal and went into the lounge.

The other four guests were there. Mr. Todmere was trying to engage Mr. Mackay in conversation, apparently without any great success. Cooden was setting up the card-table. As soon as Merrion appeared, Roding came up to him. “I've got something to tell you, Mr. Merrion. I wanted to tell you before supper, but as you were busy with your visitor I didn't like to butt in. I know you'll congratulate me. My instructor passed me out for my certificate this afternoon.”

“Jolly good work! ” Merrion replied. “Of course I offer you my heartiest congratulations. Does that mean that you will be leaving here?”

Roding flushed slightly. “Well, no, not for a little while, at all events. I haven't made my arrangements for the future, and at the moment I've nowhere else to go. I may as well stay here as anywhere else.”

“Come along, Roding,” Cooden called out. “Cut for deal.”

As Roding left him, Merrion smiled to himself. He could guess the attraction that kept him at Springlease Hall. But Merrion was not given much time for reflection. Mr. Todmere, desisting from his attempt to interest Mr Mackay, approached him. He seemed calmer than before. “I'm sorry I spoke to you as I did before supper, Mr. Merrion,” he said contritely. “The fact is that I'm always nervous driving after dark, and anything unexpected upsets me.”

“Oh, don't apologise,” Merrion replied. “It was my fault. I oughtn't to have left the car where I did. You've been spending the day again with Mr. Blackthorn?”

Mr. Todmere shook his head. “I called on him this morning and left my manuscript with him. He wouldn't come out with me, for he wanted to read it. So I had another look round the Valley, by myself, this time. I feel that it will take me several days to explore it thoroughly.”

“Did you call at the Horseshoes on your way back?” Merrion asked, casually.

“I wonder how you guessed that?” Mr. Todmere replied in innocent surprise. “Mrs. Hartlip opened the door as I drove by, and I thought it only polite to stop and have a word with her. And since I was there, I thought a very small quantity of stimulant before supper would do me no harm. It is astonishing how fatiguing a day spent in the open air can be. Although the hour is early, I shall say good night to you, Mr. Merrion, and retire to bed.”

It was barely half past eight when he left the room quietly. Merrion felt pretty sure that he was not going to bed. He would probably spend the next hour or two in his room, brewing hot rum. Or he might toddle along to the Horseshoes, and get drunk there.

Merrion sat down by himself. Mr. Mackay was obviously in no mood for conversation. He was sitting with his head resting on his hands, brooding over the tragedy of his son's death.

After a while Merrion became strangely restless, and incapable of sitting still. Perhaps the reason was that he had nothing with which to occupy himself. He suddenly made up his mind to go out for a walk. His brain would function more readily in the open air than in the rather depressing atmosphere of the lounge. He put on his hat and coat, felt for the torch in the pocket, and went out by the front door.

There was sufficient light from a young moon for him to see his way down the avenue without the use of the torch. Everything was very still as he passed the cottage. Without any definite idea where he was going he turned to the right, towards Bruckam. His mind was occupied by Wighton's insistence that Cooden's name was really Carlake. Not a very common name. It was rather a curious coincidence that it should be the name of the gardener who had once lived at the cottage. Of course, Cooden couldn't be the gardener. Miss Cray, or certainly Miss Julie, would have recognised him if he had been.

Hearing the sound of slow footsteps, Merrion looked in the direction from which it came. He found that he was passing Brooks View, and he could dimly discern a figure pacing the front garden. “Good evening, Mr. Blackthorn,” he called.

“Good evening,” came the reply. “I'm afraid I can't see who you are?”

Merrion gave his name. “You're listening for the birds of the night?”

“I am,” Blackthorn replied. “I distinctly heard two owls in the distance just now. Will you come in and join me in a glass of port, Mr. Merrion?”

“No, I won't come in, thanks,” said Merrion. “I shouldn't like to interrupt your observations. There is another guest staying at the Hall, as I believe you know.”

“Humphrey Todmere?” Blackthorn replied. “He came to call on me yesterday morning, and we spent the day together. I have known his name for many years as a leading authority on birds. I had never met him before, and was very pleased to do so.”

Blackthorn came to the gate, at which Merrion was standing and went on in a low and confidential tone. “Poor fellow! His knowledge of birds, of which he has made a life long study, is beyond question. But he has a most unfortunate failing. We have a mutual friend, who knows him well, and who has told me that Todmere is a confirmed alcoholic. Perfectly sober by day, but utterly irresponsible in the evening when he has been drinking. My friend told me that he was always afraid that when he was in that state he would do himself or someone else an injury.”

“He was a trifle festive when he came in a couple of nights ago,” Merrion replied. “So much so that when he went to bed he saw visions. Well, good night, Mr. Blackthorn. I'll be getting on my way.”

He walked on, thinking of what Blackthorn had said. If Mr. Todmere was a confirmed alcoholic, he might be subject to mild attacks of delirium tremens. His illusion was not pink rats, but duffle-coated figures. That might be the explanation. By the way, Blackthorn himself had been wearing a duffle coat in his garden just now. But it certainly had not been Blackthorn whom Mr. Todmere had seen on the second floor of the Hall.

Having got so far, Merrion decided that he might as well go on to the Horseshoes. If Mr. Todmere had wandered off there, he might be able to persuade him to come home quietly. He went on and walked into the bar of the Horseshoes, to find two or three customers there, and Mrs. Hartlip behind the counter. “Good evening, Mrs. Hartlip,” he said. “Is Mr. Todmere here?”

“He's not here now,” she replied. “He came in just at opening time. But he didn't stay very long, and I haven't seen him since.”

“Well, now I'm here, I'll have a pint of bitter, please,” said Merrion. “Mr. Todmere was here the night before last, wasn't he?”

Mrs. Hartlip smiled. “He was that. I didn't know who it was when a stranger walked in and asked for hot rum. But he very soon told us who he was and where he was staying. A very pleasant gentleman he seemed, ready to talk to anyone. But I never saw anyone drink rum like he did. He finished the best part of half a bottle before he left.”

“He got a lift the best part of the way back to the Hall, I gather?” Merrion asked.

“I'm glad he got back safe,” Mrs. Hartlip replied. “Mr. Yelverton from Raymouth was here with his car. He's the secretary of the brewery, and often runs out here of an evening. I could see that Mr. Todmere was in no fit state to get home by himself. So I whispered to Mr. Yelverton if he'd take him in his car as far as the end of the avenue. Mr. Yelverton and I each took one of his arms and pushed him into the car. Mr. Todmere was singing to himself as they drove off.”

Merrion remained talking for a while. He was curious to know whether the astonishing story of the body in the dustbin had reached Bruckam. Apparently it hadn't, for neither Mrs. Hartlip nor her customers made any mention of it. The scavenger and his mate must have wisely held their tongues.

Merrion finished his beer and walked back to the Hall. Mr. Blackthorn was no longer to be seen in his garden, and there was a light in his window. Using his torch to guide him, Merrion took the path through the wood, hearing no sound but his own footsteps. It was just after ten o'clock when he reached the Hall, and entered by the front door.

Cooden and Roding were still playing cards in the lounge. Mr. Mackay was no longer there, and it was to be presumed that he had gone up to his room. Since Mr. Todmere had not sought refreshment at the Horseshoes, it must be supposed that he too was in his room, imbibing hot rum.

Merrion remained in the lounge for a few minutes, then went upstairs. As was his usual habit, he lighted a cigarette and sat down to enjoy it before he undressed. The house was almost uncannily quiet. Having finished the domestic work, Miss Cray and Julie were no doubt in the office, where they usually were at this time in the evening. Mrs. Nadder would have come back an hour ago, and had probably gone to bed. No sound came from above, from which it might be presumed that Mrs. Darlaston was alone.

Merrion's thoughts wandered to the mystery of Gobbo. His landlady's evidence established the fact that he had not murdered Miss Price. Yet, on Saturday evening, he must have had murder in his heart. His possession of the knife proved that clearly enough. But whom had he intended to murder? Whom could he have expected to find at the cottage but Miss Marsland? But, if he had not murdered Miss Price, it was difficult to understand what motive he could have had for wishing to murder her friend.

Merrion started abruptly to his feet at the sound of running footsteps along the passage overhead. Then a stentorian cry, “Yoicks! Gone away! ” It was unmistakably Mr. Todmere's voice. Not the weary, insistent voice of Mr. Todmere sober, but the strident tones which issued from him when he was in liquor.

Wondering what in the world Mr. Todmere could be up to, Merrion dashed out of his room. In the passage, the running footsteps were directly above his head. The direction they were taking was not towards the front staircase, but away from it. Merrion was aware of the existence of another staircase at the farther end of the passage, though he had never explored it. It was the back stairs, by which the upper floors could be reached from the kitchen premises.

He ran towards these back stairs. There was no light at that end of the passage, which was shrouded in darkness. But Merrion had snatched up his torch, and now switched it on.

At the moment he did so, something flashed past his eyes, descending the stairs. He caught a glimpse of a duffle-coated figure, and supposed that it must be Mr. Todmere, chasing some vision which his inebriated imagination had conjured. But, a fraction of a second later came a wild shout from above, followed by a resounding thud. A torch rolled down the stairs. After it came Mr. Todmere, bumping from step to step, his arms and legs frantically threshing the air. He came to rest on the first floor landing, and lay there, howling at the top of his voice.

But Merrion did not pause to attend to him. It flashed through his mind that drunken men very rarely hurt themselves seriously, even if they happened to fall down a flight of stairs. Drunk though he might be, the vision he had seen was one of flesh and blood. Merrion dashed down the stairs to the ground floor, in pursuit of the figure he had seen.

He found himself in the kitchen premises, unfamiliar to him and in darkness. He stood for a second and listened, but could hear nothing. The progress of the figure, though rapid, had been strangely silent as it passed him on its way down the stairs. A creepy feeling that it might have been a ghost after all assailed him. But this of course was ridiculous. It was merely that the figure was now motionless, hiding from its pursuers.

But which way had it gone? From the foot of the stairs, passages seemed to lead in all directions. Merrion could hear people calling to one another, and footsteps coming towards him. The figure would not have doubled back towards the hall, where discovery would be almost certain. If it wished to escape from the house, it would do so by either the garden door or the back door.

The back door seemed more likely, and Merrion chose the passage which appeared to lead in that direction. It led him into the kitchen. His torch showed him the figure, disappearing through a doorway at the farther end of the room.

He ran after it, through the doorway and into yet another passage, at the end of which was the back door. The figure had almost reached it, and its hand was stretched out to turn the key. Merrion rushed past, and snatched the key from the lock. The figure uttered a queer despairing cry, and sank exhausted to the floor.

Meanwhile, pandemonium had broken out. The house seemed full of people running about in search of the cause of the disturbance. Someone, apparently Mr. Mackay, for the voice was unfamiliar to Merrion, must have stumbled upon Mr. Todmere, for he was calling, “This way! There's a man here who seems to have hurt himself.” From the pitiful sounds Mr. Todmere was making, this was a not unnatural assumption. A confused chorus replied to this.

In his pursuit of the figure, Merrion had left all the doors open behind him. He swung his torch round, looking for a switch which would illuminate the back passage. As he did so, he heard footsteps in the kitchen. Then Roding's voice, “Look! There's a light moving out there. Someone must have got in by the back door.” The footsteps advanced, and Roding appeared, dimly outlined in the kitchen doorway. “Who's there?”

“Merrion,” was the quiet reply. “Do you know where the switch of this passage light is?”

“Mr. Merrion?” Roding exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought it was a burglar. No, I don't know where the switch is. What's all the row about?”

“I fancy that Mr. Todmere fell downstairs,” Merrion replied. “Do you think you could find Miss Cray?”

Roding's challenge had been a shout of defiance, and it acted as a magnet. As if by magic, the passage seemed full of people, all asking one another questions at the top of their voices. It was impossible to see who they were, for Merrion kept his torch averted. Then a light appeared in the passage between the back stairs and the kitchen. Then the kitchen itself was illuminated. Someone who knew the way about was advancing, switching on the lights as they came. Then, as the lamp in the passage leading to the back door burst into brightness, Miss Cray's commanding voice, “Will somebody please tell me what all this is about?”

The scene thus illuminated was astonishing. The passage was narrow, with hardly room for two people abreast. Cooden, and beside him Mrs. Nadder, curiously arrayed in a dressing-gown which hardly concealed her robust form. Behind them Julie, with an elderly woman whom Merrion had not seen before. She was swathed in a Chinese robe, plentifully sprinkled with glittering dragons embroidered in gold thread. This could be none other than Mrs. Darlaston. Behind them again, Mr. Mackay, supporting Mr. Todmere, who was groaning feebly. And in the rear Miss Cray, stern as an avenging angel.

It was Mr. Todmere who replied to Miss Cray's question. His tumble must have sobered him, for his voice had resumed its plaintive tone. “I'm bruised all over,” he mumbled quaveringly. “I only hope I haven't broken any bones. It's a death trap. How was I to know there was a staircase there?”

“What were you doing by the back stairs, Mr. Todmere?” Miss Cray demanded.

“I saw it again! ” Mr. Todmere exclaimed excitedly, as the rum began to resume its influence. “The figure on the top landing. It ran from me, and I chased it. Fine thing if I'd broken my neck. Where's it gone?”

Miss Cray hardly listened to him. She had become aware of the figure crouched by Merrion's side. “Let me through, please! ” she commanded as she tried to force her way past the throng blocking the passage. But Julie was before her. She slipped between Cooden and Mrs. Nadder and knelt beside the figure. “Why, it can't be!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is. It's Aunt Tryphena!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IN CONTRAST to the turmoil at Springlease Hall, Raymouth police station was quiet and peaceful. Before Merrion had dropped Wighton there, Froyle had been called away to a road accident. He returned at ten o'clock, apologising for so long an absence. “A lorry turned over, trying to avoid a car on its wrong side,” he said. “Nobody hurt, fortunately, but the road was completely blocked. I didn't like to go away until things were straightened out again.”

“This is Sergeant Wighton,” said Arnold. “He's got some very interesting things to tell us about Mr. Cooden. Fire ahead, sergeant, and tell Mr. Froyle what you've been telling me.”

“Well, to begin with, sir, his name isn't Cooden,” Wighton replied. “It's Stanley Carlake. At one time I saw him every day, for a fortnight or more. And although that's ten years ago, I knew him the moment he came into the room where Mr. Merrion and I were sitting.”

“How did you come to know him so intimately?” Froyle asked.

“Because he had committed a burglary with violence, sir,” Wighton replied. “Mr. Arnold wasn't on the case, but I was. He broke into a big shop in Regent Street in the early hours one morning. The night watchman saw him, tried to give the alarm, and was nearly murdered for his pains. Carlake beat him up so badly with a cosh that they thought at first he wouldn't get over it. Then Carlake blew the safe, and got away with about ten thousand pounds worth of cash and jewellery.

“We got him, not very long afterwards, and found some of the stolen jewellery on him. He was remanded in custody, and when the night watchman was fit enough, he identified him as the man who had attacked him. Carlake got ten years, and was only released a few months ago.”

“I saw him once or twice while he was in custody,” said Arnold. “I thought that he might confess to some of the other burglaries which weren't cleared up, but he didn't. I didn't remember him well enough to be sure. That's why I sent for Sergeant Wighton to have a look at him.”

“He wouldn't confess to anything, sir,” said Wighton. “He told us that the jewellery we found on him had been given him by a friend for safe keeping. As for the night watchman's evidence, it was a case of mistaken identity. Of course, that didn't go down with the jury. There had been a bank robbery here, only a few months before the Regent Street robbery. But that would have been before your time, sir?”

“I heard all about it at the time,” Froyle replied. “And I have told Mr. Arnold what I know. What of it?”

“Some of us thought that Carlake might have done it, sir,” said Wighton. “There were points about the two jobs which looked very much the same. A chap working single-handed, no fingerprints, and gelignite used in both cases. But Carlake insisted that he knew nothing about it.”

“He'd never have come back here if he'd done the job,” Arnold remarked.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Wighton replied respectfully. “Are you quite sure of that? The notes stolen from the bank were never recovered. It was thought at the time that they might have been hidden nearby. And I've been thinking over something that Mr. Merrion said as he was driving me back here. There was a gardener of the name of Carlake at Springlease Hall at one time.”

The telephone rang. Froyle picked it up, and the sergeant on duty spoke to him. “Mr. Merrion is on the line, sir. When I told him that you were here, he said he'd like to speak to you, sir.”

“Put him through,” said Froyle. In a moment he heard Merrion's hurried voice. “I didn't expect to find you as late as this, Mr. Froyle. I suggest you come to Springlease Hall at once. I can't go into details now. Miss Marsland has come to the surface.”

Froyle turned to his companions. “Mr. Merrion has somehow unearthed Miss Marsland. We'd better go along at once. And you, too, sergeant, we may want you. My car's outside.”

Within ten minutes they were at the front door of Springlease Hall, Froyle beat upon it with his fists, and it was immediately opened by Merrion. Arnold and Wighton followed Froyle into the hall. In as few words as possible Merrion told them what had happened. “Mrs. Darlaston took Miss Marsland up to her rooms,” he went on. “I've got the back door key in my pocket, and I've been standing in the hall here since she went up. I asked Roding to watch the garden door. Short of jumping through a window, she can't have got out.”

“We don't want anyone else to get out either,” Froyle replied. “I wish now we'd brought another man with us. You think Mr. Roding can be trusted to keep guard on the garden door?”

“I'm pretty sure he can,” Merrion replied. “And if we leave the door at the back of the hall open, anyone standing there can see the garden door.”

“That's good,” said Froyle. “Sergeant Wighton can stay in the hall, watching the front door. If anyone tries to get past Mr. Roding, he'll only have to shout, and Wighton can go to his assistance. Will you go and tell him that, Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion left the hall, leaving the door at the back wide open behind him. At the garden door he found Roding in earnest conversation with Julie, who was standing beside him. He gave Roding the message, then returned to the hall. “From what you tell us, Mr. Merrion, it seems that it was Mr. Todmere who started the hare,” said Froyle. “I think we ought to see him first. Do you know where he is?”

“I expect he's in his room,” Merrion replied. “What state you'll find him in is another matter. But I daresay he'll be sober enough to give some sort of an account of what happened.”

“We'll chance it,” said Froyle. “Will you take us up to his room?”

Merrion led the way to the passage on the first floor and knocked at one of the doors opening upon it. A raucous voice bade him come in. The three men entered the room. Mr. Todmere, half undressed, was sitting on the bed, in his hand a tooth-glass half filled with a brownish liquid, from which an aromatic steam arose. A spirit lamp stood near at hand, and on it a kettle singing merrily. On the dressing-table was an empty rum bottle.

Mr. Todmere raised his tooth-glass shakily as his visitors came in. “Hullo, chaps!” he exclaimed hilariously. “There seems to be a whole troop of you, half a dozen at least. Sorry I can't ask you to join me, but the bottle's empty, and I haven't got another.”

“Never mind about that,” Froyle replied. “What made you create a disturbance just now?”

“'Sturbance?” Mr. Todmere replied. “Why I fell downstairs, you mean? Because I didn't know the confounded things were there. I was chasing the figure and before I knew where I was I was head over heels.”

“What figure was this you were chasing?” Froyle asked.

“Ah! ” Mr. Todmere replied. “What was it? That's what I meant to find out. The other night I got on to the wrong landing by mistake. And I saw a figure which disappeared without a sound. It made my flesh creep, I assure you.”

“And you saw this figure again this evening?” Froyle asked.

“I was watching for it,” Mr. Todmere replied. “If anyone was trying to play a trick on me they wouldn't get away with it a second time. So I went up to the landing above and waited. I had my torch with me, but I didn't switch it on. And I hadn't waited very long before I saw it again.”

“Patience rewarded,” Froyle remarked. “Where did it come from?”

“It came out by one of the doors opening on to the passage,” Mr. Todmere replied. “There was a light inside where it came from, and for a moment I saw it quite clearly. Then the door shut, and it was all dark. I set off along the passage after it and as I tell you, before I knew where I was I was head over heels down those infernal stairs.” He raised his tooth-glass once more. “Here's to our next merry meeting! “ he hiccoughed. Then he lowered his glass and drained it to the last drop.

The three men left the room. “You seem to have some pretty queer fellow guests, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle remarked. “Now shall we have to interview Miss Marsland. Where can we best do that?”

“There's not likely to be anyone in the lounge,” Merrion replied. “If there is, you can ask them to leave. Miss Julie would go up and ask Miss Marsland to come down, I daresay.”

Froyle and Arnold agreed to this. They came downstairs and Merrion went to the garden door. Roding and Julie were still there, looking absurdly happy. “Do you know where your Aunt Tryphena is, Miss Darlaston?” Merrion asked.

“She was in Mother's sitting-room when I came down just now,” Julie replied. “Mother and Aunt Helena were there too.”

“Would you mind going up and asking Miss Marsland to come down to the lounge?” Merrion asked.

“Yes, of course I will,” she replied. With a smile for Roding she went off. “I say, this is the most amazing thing, Mr. Merrion! ” Roding exclaimed. “Julie and I have been talking about it, and we simply can't understand it.”

Merrion smiled, thinking that there was something else they both understood perfectly well. “Oh, I daresay it will all be cleared up before very long now,” he replied. He left Roding at his post, and went into the lounge, to find Arnold and Froyle already there.

It was some minutes before the door opened. Tryphena Marsland entered first, closely followed by Julie. Miss Marsland was still wearing her duffle coat, and in addition corduroy trousers and gum-boots. These last no doubt accounted for the silence of her movements, which had so greatly impressed Mr. Todmere. She looked as though exhausted from her adventure of the evening, but her expression was set and determined. The men bowed to her as she entered the room, and she returned the salutation coldly. A few glowing embers remained of the dying fire. At a sign from Froyle, Miss Marsland walked firmly to a chair beside it and sat down. Froyle turned to Julie. “We need not keep you. Miss Darlaston.”

As Julie went out, the men sat down, Froyle in a chair facing Miss Marsland, and Arnold beside him. Merrion kept discreetly in the background. Froyle was the first to speak. “You are Miss Tryphena Marsland?”

“That is my name,” she replied steadily.

“We are officers of the police,” said Froyle. “We have certain questions to ask you. Miss Marsland, and we shall expect you to answer them.”

“I have done wrong,” she replied. “I know that now, and I am ready to take the consequences.”

“It is my duty to caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence,” said Froyle. “Why did you leave the Lodge Cottage immediately after the death of your friend Miss Price?”

“Because I was afraid,” she replied. “As a rule I used to go out after breakfast and fetch the coal. But I had a slight cold that morning, and Poppy said she would go, if I would tidy up the sitting-room.”

“I hardly follow you, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle.

“It was only too plain to me,” she replied. “Poppy and I were often told that we looked exactly alike when we were wearing our working clothes. I believe that Poppy was struck down because she was mistaken for me.”

“You knew at the time that Miss Price had been struck down?” Froyle asked.

“I did not see it,” she replied. “I heard a terrific clatter as the bucket she was carrying fell from Poppy's hand. I ran out, thinking that she must have slipped on the ice-bound courtyard. And then I saw a man in a duffle coat running round the corner of the cottage. As I say, I was afraid.”

Her eyes opened wide at the recollection of that terror, and she looked wildly round the room. “You're quite safe now, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle comfortingly. “Do you know who this man was?”

She shook her head. “I did not see his face, but I can guess who he was.”

“And you believe that this man had a motive for striking you down?” Froyle asked.

“If my guess is right, he had,” she replied. She paused and then went on. “Letitia told me that if ever I were questioned about what I had done, I must tell the truth. Before people learnt about it from other sources.”

“Will you tell us what it was that you had done?” Froyle asked.

“I must, I suppose,” she replied wearily. “Though I suppose I shall go to prison for it. One day when Poppy and I went to the pensions office, we met a man there who was a guest at the Hall. An evening or two later he came to the cottage to see me. He explained that if I had no resources, I could draw assistance money as well as my pension. He knew already that I had a little money which had been left to me by Walter Darlaston.

“He went on to propose an arrangement. I could hand the money over to him privately, and he would continue to pay me the interest on it. I could then represent myself as being without resources, for no one but he and I would know of the arrangement between us. I was tempted, and I agreed. A little extra money would make all the difference to me. I drew the money from the bank, and handed it over to him, insisting that he should give me a receipt, which he did.

“But he never paid me the interest on it. He came to the cottage sometimes, for he wanted me to persuade Letitia to let him have the land the tennis court stands on. He wanted to put a caravan there, he said. And when I asked him about the interest, he said it was all right. It would be better if he paid it quarterly, instead of weekly, as we had agreed. The last time I spoke to him, my patience was exhausted and I told him I wanted my money back. If he refused, I had his receipt, and I would show it to a lawyer and ask him to take proceedings.”

“Did this man ever give you the money back?” Froyle asked.

“He did not,” she replied. “But I have the receipt. When I ran away from the cottage, I took it with me. Letitia has it locked up in her sitting-room here.”

“And you believe it was this man who murdered Miss Price?” Froyle asked.

“I'm sure it must have been,” she replied. “He thought she was me, and that if he killed me I shouldn't be able to sue him for the money. And all the while I had been drawing assistance under false pretences. I know I shall have to go to prison for it.”

It was obvious that Miss Marsland's conscience was greatly disturbed, and that this accounted for the confused way in which she spoke. “I shouldn't let your mind dwell too much upon that, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle. “It might be urged in your defence that since you had received no interest on the money you handed over to this man, you were in fact without resources. Go on with your story. What did you do that Wednesday morning, after you had seen the man running away?”

“I ran away too,” she replied. “But first I made a bundle of a few things from my room. I hardly knew what I was doing, for all the while I was terrified that the man might come back. And I took Poppy's bag, for I knew there was some money in it, as William had given her some the evening before.”

“One moment, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle. “Who is William?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn't know,” she replied. “But I don't see that there can be any harm in telling you now. Poppy wasn't really Miss Price. That was her maiden name, but she was in fact Mrs. Thetford. She had parted from her husband years ago, but they had never been divorced.”

“And William Thetford was her husband?” Froyle asked.

Miss Marsland nodded. “He was an actor, and Poppy met him when she was on the stage. They got on very well together till William gave up serious acting and took to low comedy. He became what Poppy called a red-nosed comedian. She was so disgusted that she wouldn't have any more to do with him. She left the stage and called herself Miss Price.

“In spite of this, William remained devoted to her. He didn't pester her, but he used to send her money from time to time. Poppy accounted for this by telling people that she made money by backing horses. William called himself Gobbo. And one day about three weeks ago he sent Poppy a copy of the local paper. There was a notice in it that a company, starring Gobbo, was to give a show at the Raymouth Assembly Rooms during the following fortnight.

“Next Sunday evening, the day before the show started, William came to the cottage. He said that the company had just arrived in Raymouth, and that he hadn't wasted a moment before coming to see Poppy. They hadn't met for ever so long, and Poppy was completely taken aback. She made it pretty clear to him that she didn't want him hanging around. However, there was no quarrel, and William was obviously delighted to see her again. And while he was there, Mr. Cooden called.”

“Mr. Cooden is employed at the pensions office in Raymouth, I believe,” said Froyle. “He was the man to whom you had handed over your money?”

“Yes, he was the man,” Miss Marsland replied. “Poppy introduced William to him as a friend of ours. But William didn't like that. He said that as Poppy's husband, he was rather more than a friend. Poppy begged Mr. Cooden not to repeat that to anyone, and he promised that he wouldn't.

“William had brought with him two tickets for the first performance on the following Wednesday. Poppy didn't want to go. She told William that the last thing she wanted was to see him making an exhibition of himself. But later I told Mr. Wirral, who was staying at the Hall and had been very kind to us. He said he would take us, and I persuaded Poppy to go. Afterwards she told me that she wouldn't have believed that William could have descended to such depths, and that she hoped she would never see him again.

“But she did see him again, for he came to the cottage very late on the following Tuesday evening, just as we were going to bed. He had remembered that it was Valentine's Day, and had brought Poppy a big red cardboard heart with an arrow through it. Poppy wanted to tear it up then and there, but I took it from her and put it on the mantelpiece. William only laughed and gave her some notes, which she took rather ungraciously and put in her bag. When he left, William told her that she needn't worry, as he wouldn't come over again before the company left Raymouth.”

“I see,” said Froyle. “But we're getting away from your own adventures. Where did you run away to, that Wednesday morning?”

“I went out by the garden gate and through the wood to the loft over the harness room,” Miss Marsland replied. “I knew that it hadn't been used for years, and that nobody ever went there. Mr. Cooden would never look for me there. I took what little cooked food there was in the larder, and a tin of baked beans.

“In my panic, I hadn't thought of what I was going to do next. I had Poppy's money, but no clothes beyond those I was wearing, and am in fact wearing now. I could not show myself in them without being recognised, and I dare not go back to the cottage for any others. All I wanted to do was to hide, but I saw very well that I could not stop in the loft indefinitely, and that for many reasons. One being the difficulty of getting food.

“It was obvious that I should have to let someone into my confidence. I knew that Helena wouldn't help me, for she and I have never got on very well. At last I decided to appeal to Letitia, who has the kindest heart in the world.

“I made up my mind to do so on Thursday, which I knew was Mrs. Nadder's afternoon off. Watching from the loft window that day I saw Helena go out. From the way she was dressed and the time she left the Hall, I guessed that she was going to catch the bus at Bruckam. A little later Mrs. Nadder went out too. That left only Letitia and Julie in the house.

“That was my chance. I went through the shrubbery to the back door of the Hall, which I found unlocked, as I had expected. And from there I went up the back stairs to Letitia's rooms. She was not in the least surprised to see me, for she had not been told that I had left the cottage. I explained the situation to her, and she said that of course she would help me to hide. The obvious place for me to do that was in her own rooms, which nobody but Helena and Julie ever entered.

“But she said she must have time to alter her habits. To say that her appetite was improving, so that when I came, Julie, when she brought her meals, would bring enough for both of us. And to say that in future she would dust and tidy the rooms herself. We could easily do that between us.

“Meanwhile, she would get me some food. She was expecting Julie to come in at any minute, and I had better hide in the bathroom. When Julie came, she sent her out on an errand. To the post office to buy her an air-mail letter, which of course she didn't really want. And after Julie had gone out, Letitia went down to the larder and brought me two tins of luncheon meat.

“Then we arranged what was to be done. Letitia was so ready with her plans that she might have thought it all out long ago. She was delighted at the prospect of a little mild excitement. At midnight on Friday, when everyone else had gone to bed, she would go down and unbolt the garden door. A little after midnight I was to come in that way, bolt the door again, and come straight up to her rooms.”

Arnold turned and glanced derisively at Merrion, as much as to indicate that his imagination hadn't tumbled to that one. Miss Marsland went on. “That's what we did. And since then I have been sharing her rooms with Letitia. It was easy enough for me not to be found out. Whenever Helena or Julie came to see Letitia, we could hear their footsteps in the passage long before they reached the door, and I took refuge in the bathroom. Letitia had always gone to bed about ten o'clock, and nobody came to see her after that unless she rang, which she never did. I slept on the sofa in the sitting-room.

“But, after a few days I began to feel stifled, never leaving those stuffy rooms. I was afraid it would make me really ill, and then of course my hiding would be at an end. I told Letitia that I must go out sometime for a breath of fresh air. The only time I could do that was in the evening after dark. After everyone had finished in the kitchen premises, and Mrs. Nadder had gone to bed. And before Helena locked up for the night, which she always did at eleven.

“The first time I went out was on Tuesday night. As I went through the doorway from Letitia's sitting-room, I saw a wavering light at the end of the passage. I turned to see what it was, and saw that the light was coming towards me. I turned back and went down the back staircase. The light didn't follow me, and I wasn't very much concerned. Julie had told Letitia, who had told me, that a new guest had arrived at the Hall that afternoon. I supposed that he had strayed by mistake on to the wrong landing. I went out by the back door, strolled up and down for a few minutes, then came in again. I did the same last night, without seeing anything or anybody. And then to-night-well, I expect you know what happened.”

“There is one question I must ask you, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle. “Have you at any time since you have been living in Mrs. Darlaston's rooms, been to the Lodge Cottage?”

Miss Marsland shuddered as she replied. “Oh no! I should never have dared. Anyone might have seen me, Mr. Cooden, perhaps. Besides, if I had gone there, I couldn't have got in, for I had no key.”

“Thank you, Miss Marsland,” said Froyle. “You know this house better than we do, Mr. Merrion. Perhaps you will be good enough to escort Miss Marsland to Mrs. Darlaston's rooms?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Miss MARSLAND seemed greatly relieved at not having been hauled off to prison then and there. She accompanied Merrion to the second floor, and showed him the door of Mrs. Darlaston's sitting-room. Merrion knocked, and a voice bade him come in.

Letitia Darlaston was alone, sitting in a chair beside a shaded lamp. Miss Marsland was the first to enter the room. “Oh, here you are, dear! ” Letitia exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you. I was afraid—”

She did not complete the sentence. “Yes, here I am,” Miss Marsland replied. “It's all right. The policemen were very nice to me. And this gentleman was kind enough to escort me upstairs.”

Letitia became aware that Merrion had followed Miss Marsland into the room. “That was indeed kind of you, Mr.—?”

“Merrion,” he replied. “I have ventured to intrude to ask you a question, Mrs. Darlaston. Do you remember the gardener whom you used to employ? His name was Carlake, I believe?”

“I remember him very well,” Letitia replied. “My husband and I were very sorry to lose him when he was called up. He was not only an excellent gardener, but a thoroughly steady and reliable man.”

“Do you know if he had any relations of his own name?” Merrion asked.

“He had a half brother, many years younger than himself,” Letitia replied. “His name was Stanley Carlake, I remember. Carlake and his wife did not at all approve of Stanley, for they considered him to be a young scamp. But they were very good to him, and asked him to stay at the cottage occasionally.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Darlaston,” said Merrion. “I will wish you and Miss Marsland good night.” He went downstairs to the lounge, where he found Arnold and Froyle sitting where he had left them.

“Well?” Arnold asked as he came in. “And what did you think of Miss Marsland's account of herself?”

“True, every word of it,” Merrion replied. “Her statement wasn't very coherent, but you couldn't expect anything else. She was frightened out of her wits, not only because she was afraid of being murdered, but on account of that dodge for drawing assistance.”

“Mr. Froyle and I are inclined to look at it that way too,” said Arnold. “And now we propose to tackle this chap who calls himself Cooden. There's not a shadow of doubt that he murdered Miss Price, thinking that she was Miss Marsland.”

“I expect you'll find him in his room,” Merrion replied. “As I was waiting for you by the front door, he passed through the hall and went upstairs. He can't have gone out, for the back door is locked and I have the key in my pocket. And the other two doors are guarded.”

“Well, you can show us where his room is,” said Arnold.

“Wouldn't it be as well to be sure what you mean to tackle him about?” Merrion asked. “As you say, there is no doubt that he murdered Miss Price. And I'm convinced that he murdered Gordon Mackay and Gobbo as well.”

“'We'll put it up to him,” said Arnold. “It's no good arguing about it now. Let's go up right away.”

Merrion led them up to Cooden's room. Froyle knocked on the door, but there was no reply. He opened the door, felt for the switch, and flicked it on. The room was empty.

“Plenty of hiding-places in a house like this,” Arnold remarked. “He knows that Miss Marsland has been found, and he guesses that by now she must have told her story. So he's made himself scarce. But before we start rat hunting, we'd better make sure that he can't have got out.”

They went downstairs again and questioned Wighton and Roding. Both declared that no one had attempted to leave the house by the doors they were guarding. “You're quite sure that you locked the back door before you took the key?” Arnold asked.

“Perfectly certain,” Merrion replied. “We can go and see, if you like.” He took them through the kitchen to the back door. Arnold turned the handle. With a gentle creak the door opened. “So you didn't lock it, after all,” said Arnold disgustedly.

“I know I did,” Merrion replied. “And I can guess who unlocked it. Do you remember my remark about a burglar with a skeleton key? You laughed at me at the time. But we know now that Cooden was a burglar.”

“I fancy you're right, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “But if he's got out, where do you suppose he's gone to?”

“Not very far, at this time on a pitch dark night,” Merrion replied. “He's probably lying up somewhere, meaning to walk to a railway station and catch the first train there. And I'll go so far as to suggest that if he could unlock this door, he could unlock the back door of the cottage.”

“We'll try there first,” said Froyle. All three of them had torches, and by the light of these they made their way down the avenue. They reached the back door of the cottage, to find it locked. No light showed through the windows, and no sound came from within. Arnold hammered on the door, but there was no response.

Froyle was examining the kitchen window beside the door. “We could break in easily enough that way,” he remarked. “And under the circumstances we should be justified. Why, what's become of Mr. Merrion?”

Merrion had disappeared. It had struck him that, although nobody from outside could get into the cottage by the front door, anyone already in it could get out that way. If Cooden were there, the hammering on the back door had given him warning of the pursuit.

He ran round to the front of the cottage, hearing on his way the sound of breaking glass. He switched off his torch, and felt his way to the window of the living-room. Through the gap between the drawn curtains he could see that the room was in darkness. Then came a flash, as of a match being struck. A feeble flicker followed, outlining the back of a man bending down towards the floor.

Merrion felt a thrill of satisfaction. His guess had been right, and Cooden was there. But what on earth could the chap be up to? If he meant to make a bolt for it, it was now or never.

The flicker lasted for a second or two, then went out. In the utter darkness Merrion could see nothing whatever. But, a moment later, he heard the bolts of the front door being withdrawn. He flung himself to the ground, just clear of the doorway. The door opened, and as it did so he caught a faint but pungent whiff of burning powder.

Although he could see nothing, he could hear, within a few inches of his face, the sound of feet feeling their way on to the path. He stretched his arms out wide, then brought them together, embracing a pair of legs. A hefty pull, and the owner of the legs came to earth with a thud. Merrion sprang up then, feeling for the prostrate form, came heavily down upon it, his knees in the small of the other's back. A groan and a moment's writhing, then the form lay still.

The door had been left wide open, and from within came a more powerful whiff of burning powder. Merrion guessed what this meant. Hoping that Arnold and Froyle would hear him in time, he shouted, “Don't go in, on your lives! Come round to the front!”

He could not tell whether his warning had been heeded, for at that moment there was a terrific detonation and a brilliant flash. Fragments of glass from the broken window fell all round him. To his intense relief he heard a shout, and recognised Arnold's voice. In a few seconds he saw the lights of two torches coming round the corner of the cottage. Then Arnold's voice again. “Where are you, man? You're not hurt?”

“No, I'm all right,” Merrion replied. “Here, outside the front door.”

The lights converged upon him and the prostrate form on which he was kneeling. “What, you've got him?” Froyle exclaimed.

“I've got someone,” Merrion replied grimly. “And I've been a bit rough with him. He won't give any trouble for a minute or two.”

He rose to his feet, but the duffle-coated form remained motionless. Froyle bent down and rolled it over. Cooden was conscious, breathing heavily and his eyes flickering, but he seemed incapable of movement. “A proper knock-out!” Froyle exclaimed. “But what was that explosion? I was half-way through the kitchen window when we heard you shout, and Mr. Arnold pulled me back.”

“Lucky for you he did,” Merrion replied. “I smelt the slow-match, and I guessed what was coming. If you had got as far as the living-room, you'd have been for it.”

“Well, we've got him now,” said Arnold. “We can charge him with trying to obstruct the police in the execution of their duties, if with nothing else. I suggest, Mr. Froyle, that you fetch the car. And you'd better bring Sergeant Wighton with you, while you're about it.”

Froyle went off. Without either of them taking their eyes off Cooden for an instant, Merrion told Arnold what had happened. “I thought he might try to slip out by the front door,” he said. “That's why I came round here. He had taken precautions against being caught in the cottage, and when he heard you hammering on the back door he prepared a warm reception for you. A stick of gelignite, or more likely a bottle of nitroglycerine, for that's what his type uses, a detonator and a length of slow-match would do the trick. If you had got inside, you'd both have been injured, if not killed, and he would have made a clean getaway.”

“I have an idea that we both owe our lives to you,” said Arnold.

“Oh, that's all in the day's work,” Merrion replied. “Or rather the night's. It's been an eventful evening, hasn't it?”

The car drove up, and Froyle and Wighton alighted from it. “Well, sergeant, did you hear anything just now?” Arnold asked.

“I did that, sir,” Wighton replied. “A noise like a bomb falling. I'm glad to get out of that place. If Mr. Merrion hadn't been staying there I should have thought it was a lunatic asylum. That bang hadn't gone off above a few seconds when they were all buzzing about me like so many bees. A lady came up to me and asked me what I was doing there, and I told her I was on duty.”

“That would be Miss Cray,” said Arnold. “We've got your friend Stanley Carlake here, sergeant, and we're going to take him back with us.”

Wighton dived into an inner pocket and produced a pair of light handcuffs. “I never go far without my bracelets, sir. Never know when they may come in handy. Shall I clap them on, sir?”

“May as well,” Arnold replied. “He's shown himself to be a desperate character.”

Cooden was handcuffed, and between them they bundled him into the car. “I'd like you to come too, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “We shall be a bit crowded, but it's not far.”

They squeezed into the car somehow, and Froyle drove rapidly to the police station. On arrival, they dragged out the prisoner and handed him over to the sergeant on duty. “Put him in a cell,” said Froyle. “We can charge him in the morning. Would you care to come and smoke a cigarette in my room, Mr. Merrion? You had better come too, Wighton.”

Froyle led the other three to his room. “Now then, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle when they had sat down. “You said a little while ago that you were convinced that this chap had murdered both Mackay and Gobbo. But you told us that he was in London that Saturday evening. What's your explanation?”

Merrion lighted a cigarette before he replied. “I shall have to go back before Saturday. The starting point is that Cooden, as we may call him for convenience, is a crook, and I gather from something Mrs. Darlaston said to me, has been from his youth up. That being so, it is safe to assume that he associated with other crooks. What do you say about that, Wighton?”

“That's quite right,” Wighton replied. “We got him for that Regent Street job by questioning other crooks known to us at the Yard.”

“Very well,” said Merrion. “The next thing is that Cooden knew that Gobbo was Miss Price's husband. He had murdered Miss Price inadvertently, and Miss Marsland, his intended victim, still remained alive. It would be most convenient if someone else could be inspired to murder her, and he saw how this could be contrived.

“He would have no difficulty in discovering that Gobbo frequented the Wheatsheaf. It may have been he who told Gobbo on Wednesday of the death of Miss Price. At that time everyone but Cooden himself believed that it had been an accident. I have no doubt that it was he who told Gobbo, on Saturday morning, that evidence given at the inquest had revealed the practical certainty that Miss Price had been murdered. And he told him further that there could be no doubt that it was Miss Marsland who had murdered her.”

Froyle's reply to a knock on the door gave admission to the sergeant on duty. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I searched the prisoner, and found this on him. I thought you'd like to see it at once.” He laid on the table a delicately fashioned skeleton key. It was obvious at a glance that it was of the size and shape to open any box lock.

The sergeant went out, and the four men examined the key. “Pretty piece of work,” Merrion remarked. “I'll refrain from saying I told you so. But it comes in most opportunely for my argument. Cooden didn't know where Miss Marsland was. He supposed that she must return to the cottage sooner or later. He didn't tell Gobbo that she wasn't there already.

“Cooden had to have the means of entering the cottage, if not to slaughter Miss Marsland on her return, at least to search for that receipt she held. To break in, as he could easily have done, would be too risky. He went up to London on Saturday, but he did not stay there that night. He called on one of his friends, whose occupation involved the use of skeleton keys, and borrowed this one from him. Is there a train from London getting here between eight and nine?”

“Yes, it gets here at eight thirty-five,” Froyle replied. “And there's a bus from the station five minutes later which goes as far as Sandy Gross.”

“That would have suited Cooden admirably,” said Merrion. “He probably caught that train, took the bus as far as it went, and walked the rest of the way to the cottage. He opened the back door with his key, and did not lock it behind him. Miss Marsland wasn't in the cottage, but it was quite likely that the receipt was in the bureau in the living-room. Cooden started to rummage through it, and saw the stiletto lying in the top drawer.

“He didn't imagine then that he would have any use for it. I don't suppose that the idea that he might be interrupted ever entered his head. He couldn't guess that Mackay had been bitten by an urge for private investigation.

“What brought Mackay to the cottage we shall never know. Perhaps finding nothing suspicious about the stables, he had come through the wood and into the yard by the garden gate. Since he was there, he might just as well peep through the kitchen window. To his utter astonishment, he found that the back door was unlocked.

“In his capacity of a private sleuth, he could not resist the opportunity of walking in on tiptoe. As soon as he got inside, he saw that there was a light in the living-room. I don't suppose that Cooden had switched on a light there, but he must have used his torch to search the bureau. Mackay put his own torch in his pocket, and crept into the living-room to see who was there.

“His astonishment on seeing his fellow guest, who was supposed to be in London, must have been profound. He probably asked him what in the world he was doing there. Cooden's presence of mind did not desert him. Miss Cray had given him the key. If Mackay would take the cardboard heart from the mantelpiece and look at it, he would understand why. As Mackay did so, Cooden snatched up the stiletto and stabbed him in the back.

“I'd like to interpolate a point here. The duffle-coated figure seen by Roding. It certainly wasn't Mackay, for he wasn't wearing a duffle coat. It might have been Gobbo, who was. But I think it more likely to have been Cooden, for I fancy that Gobbo didn't arrive on the scene until a few minutes later.

“He arrived, I think, almost immediately after Mackay had entered the cottage. It is highly probable that Mackay had left the door open behind him. Gobbo could only infer from this that Miss Marsland was at home. He went through the kitchen to the door of the living-room, arriving there at the moment that Cooden drove the stiletto into Mackay's back. Had he arrived a second or two earlier, he would have heard men's voices, and would certainly have retired.

“Cooden heard something moving, swung his torch round, and saw a horrified face staring at him round the corner of the doorway. There was only one way of dealing with an eye-witness of the murder. Cooden had another weapon, a cosh or something of the kind. I daresay the sergeant has found it on him by this time. Like Wighton and his handcuffs, I don't suppose that he went very far without it.

“With this weapon he went for Gobbo, who not unnaturally bolted. But Cooden gave chase, caught him up in the yard, and hit him on the back of the head as he ran. All he had to do then was to pick up the body and dump it in the dustbin. It wasn't likely to be found for some time, and when it was there would be nothing to connect it with Cooden.

“These nuisances disposed of, Cooden went back to the cottage to continue his search for the receipt. Not finding it, he left Mackay's body where it was, and put everything else in order. He left no fingerprints, for it must be presumed that he was wearing rubber gloves. He may have spent the night in the cottage for all we know. But I expect he went up to London again on Sunday, to fix up an alibi with some of his doubtful friends. If he did, he came down again that evening, and took a taxi from the station as evidence that he had come off the train.”

Arnold laughed as Merrion came to an end. “That's a magnificent flight of imagination. But you must admit that it's no more than that.”

“I'm the first to admit it,” Merrion replied. “But it may suggest to you a line on which to work.”

“And a jolly good line too, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “Just one more point. Cooden's identification of Gobbo as the passenger on the bus?”

“I think I can explain that,” Merrion replied. “When I asked Cooden about the passengers on that bus, he must have suspected what I was driving at. He hadn't gone to catch it by the path through the wood, as he said he had. He had gone by the avenue, and murdered Miss Price on the way. He saw, as clearly as I did, that the most likely getaway for the murderer was by that bus. His obvious course was to invent a scapegoat. He already knew Gobbo, and he also knew that it had been discovered how Miss Price had been killed.

“That inspired his story of the little man in a duffle coat, carrying that highly suspicious roll of newspapers. Breathless, too, as if he had hurried for some distance. Of course, no such passenger boarded the bus at Sandy Cross. The rest followed naturally, and for Cooden, most satisfactorily. You showed him Gobbo's body, and he recognised it as that of the mythical passenger. He must have chuckled at the thought that he had shifted his crime on to Gobbo's shoulders. Now, may I make one last suggestion?”

“Of course you may, Mr. Merrion,” Froyle replied. “Mr. Arnold and I shall be grateful for any suggestion you care to make.”

“Then this is it,” said Merrion. “Bring two of your men, armed with spades and pickaxes, to the cottage in the morning, say at ten o'clock.”

“What's this?” Arnold demanded. “What have you got in your head now?”

“Never mind,” Merrion replied. “You may see, if you care to come.”

“I'll do that,” said Froyle. “And I won't ask questions. By the way, it strikes me that the front door of the cottage is wide open all this time. I'll run back in the car and shut it. And I can take you back to the Hall, Mr. Merrion.”

“That'll be good of you,” Merrion replied. “And if they've all gone to bed and I can't get in, I'll follow Miss Marsland's example and sleep in the loft.”

They returned to the cottage and looked inside. The plaster of the living-room ceiling had fallen to the floor, and the room was completely wrecked. When they had come out and shut the front door behind them, Merrion refused Froyle's offer to drive him to the Hall. “I can very well walk. You'll be along here at ten o'clock?”

“At ten sharp,” Froyle replied. “And I'll bring a couple of men with me.”

They said good night. Froyle drove off, and Merrion walked up the avenue. All was quiet when he reached the front door and rang the bell. Rather to his surprise, the door was opened within a few seconds. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Merrion! ” Miss Cray exclaimed in a voice of relief. “I couldn't go to bed, knowing that you and Mr. Cooden were both out.”

“I'm very sorry to have kept you up, Miss Cray,” Merrion replied. “I was detained by the police. Mr. Cooden has found other sleeping quarters, so there is no need for you to wait up for him.”

“I don't think I shall ever be able to get to sleep,” said Miss Cray resentfully. “I shall lie awake wondering what is going to happen next. There has been another explosion, Mr. Merrion.”

“So I believe,” Merrion replied. “The police are investigating that. I don't think anything else is likely to happen just now. Good night. Miss Cray.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MERRION HAD no difficulty in sleeping through the few hours of the night which remained. He came down to breakfast a few minutes before nine. Roding was just going out, saying that he must pay a last visit to the aerodrome, to say good-bye to all the friends he had made there. Mr. Todmere seemed very subdued, and said nothing as he drank his cup of strong coffee. Merrion wondered how much he remembered of the events of the previous evening. Mr. Mackay sat staring at his plate, his thoughts evidently far away.

Shortly before ten, Merrion walked down the avenue. Sharp on time the police car drove up, and Froyle and two constables, bearing picks and spades, alighted from it. “Good morning, Mr. Merrion,” said Froyle. “Here we are. Mr. Arnold couldn't come, as he's interrogating Cooden. These two men are keen gardeners, so they won't mind a bit of digging. What is it that you want them to do?”

Merrion led the way across the road to the tennis court. “I want them to dig here, where the court was damaged by the explosion.”

The two constables took off their coats and set to work. They had to use their picks to break up the court and its foundations, but after that their task was easier. The subsoil they came to was not the marl which underlay the valley, but consisted of rubbish of all kinds. Mould, tin cans and brick rubble. “I thought as much,” Merrion remarked. “We've got down to that disused well Mr. Blackthorn told me about.”

The constables dug out the rubbish, throwing it aside as they worked. In an hour or so they had got down about six feet, and were standing in the hole they had made. “Hold on a minute,” said one to the other. “There's a big stone or something here. I'll try to get my spade under it, while you lift.”

They struggled with the object for a minute or two, then lifted it out. It was covered with damp mould, which Merrion proceeded to rub off. This revealed a cylindrical metal canister, with a tight-fitting lid, secured with black adhesive tape. “I think it's up to you to see what's inside this, Mr. Froyle,” said Merrion.

Froyle took a knife from his pocket, and with it removed the tape. The lid of the canister was rusted on, but after a while Froyle succeeded in levering it off with the blade of the knife. “Well, I'm blest! ” he exclaimed. “Bundles of pound notes! Is that what you were expecting, Mr. Merrion?”

“It was,” Merrion replied. “Your men needn't dig any farther.”

The men scrambled out of the hole and the party, including Merrion, drove back to the police station with their find. They found Arnold there, waiting for them. “I've had a talk with our friend Cooden,” he said. “He's a stubborn bloke, and won't admit anything. But I've got him tied up in a knot of contradictions, and haven't finished with him yet. What have you got there?”

“A tin full of notes,” Froyle replied. “We dug it up from under the tennis court. You'd better ask Mr. Merrion how he knew it was there.”

“I didn't know,” said Merrion. “But it was a pretty safe guess. If you count those notes, you'll probably find I that the amount is within a little of what was stolen from the bank here. And that of course is the explanation of the first explosion that puzzled everyone so much.”

“I don't follow the explanation,” said Arnold. “Tell us.”

“It doesn't only explain the explosion,” Merrion replied. “It's the key to the whole of Cooden's behaviour since he returned to this neighbourhood. I'll put it as briefly as I can.

“To begin with, it was Cooden who robbed the bank here. He didn't take the swag back to London with him, probably because he was afraid of being caught with it on him. He knew of a place nearby where he could hide it until all the fuss had died down, and he could recover it safely.

“And he would have recovered it long ago, had it not been for his misfortune in having been gaoled for that Regent Street affair. After he came out, he found himself a job in Raymouth, and quarters at Springlease Hall. The hiding-place he had chosen for the notes was the disused well on the land where his half-brother had kept his pigs and chickens.

“When he hid the notes, this land had become disused, and was probably overgrown with weeds. He threw in all the rubbish he could find on top of the canister. He was quite prepared for the well to be filled up and the ground above it cultivated.

“It must have been a severe shock to him when he came back to find the site of the well covered by a hard tennis court. What was he to do? To hack through the court and its foundations was no easy job, as Mr. Froyle and I saw just now. Cooden single-handed could not possibly have done it unobserved. But he had a bright idea. He was accustomed to the use of nitroglycerine in his burglarious operations. He would try it on the tennis court.”

“Just a moment,” Arnold interposed. “That plot of land looked entirely different from when he had last seen it. How did he know exactly where the well had been?”

“That point struck me while I was watching the digging,” Merrion replied. “This is probably the answer. He didn't mean to dig the notes up again for quite a considerable time. By then the well might have disappeared altogether. So he took crossbearings from it. I did myself. There is a row of trees between the tennis court and Brooks View. Standing on the damaged patch of the court, the fourth tree from the right was exactly in line with the chimney stack of Brooks View. In a direction roughly at right angles to this line, the left hand corner of the cottage is in line with the gable end of the right wing of the Hall. I don't doubt that Cooden had made a note of this.

“But, to continue. Cooden, though he knew how to employ high explosives to blow a safe, was ignorant of their effect in the open. He filled a container of some kind with the stuff, put a detonator into it, and added a length of slow-match, long enough to provide him with an alibi. That evening he lighted the end of the slow-match and hurried back to the Hall, expecting that the explosion would punch a hole clean through the court and its foundations.

“But, since he had omitted to tamp the charge, it did nothing of the kind. The force of the explosion was wasted on the atmosphere, and the surface of the court was merely cracked. This must have been a bitter disappointment to him. He had to think out some other way of getting at the buried notes.

“The plan he evolved was ingenious. He would buy the land, and plant a caravan over the site of the well. It would be easy enough to remove sufficient of the floor of the caravan to give him space for his excavations.

And, being inside the caravan, he could not be observed. There was only one difficulty. Where was he to get the money with which to pay for the land and the caravan?

“He found the answer in Miss Marsland's nest-egg. His proposition must have seemed to her most tempting. Hand him over the money, and he would pay her the interest on it, secretly, of course. Being then apparently without resources, she could draw assistance in addition to her pension. Fraudulent, perhaps, but worth it. May I suggest that, at the psychological moment, you show that canister full of notes to Cooden? It might undermine his morale.”

“Well, Mr. Merrion, you seem to have got to the bottom of the whole affair,” said Froyle. “We shall have to bring Cooden before the magistrates. My idea is to charge him in the first place with being in unlawful possession of explosives. We can prove that from our experience last night. We shall ask for a remand in custody. And then Mr. Arnold can use his persuasive powers to get an admission out of him.”

“And Miss Marsland?” Merrion asked.

“I don't see any point in proceeding against her for fraudulent intentions,” Froyle replied. “She'll be far more useful to us as a witness for the prosecution.”

The sergeant's search had brought to light other things besides the skeleton key. About Cooden's person were found a short length of lead pipe, admirably adapted for use as a cosh. A couple of detonators and a coil of slow-match were sufficient to substantiate the initial charge.

When Cooden had been brought back to his cell, Arnold tackled him afresh. The fact that the police seemed to be aware of every detail of his crimes shook him considerably. The final blow came when Arnold showed him the canister. He stared at it aghast. “Well, since you've got that, I may as well chuck my hand in,” he growled.

The trial resulted in a conviction for murder, and the prisoner was duly sentenced. Long before then. Springlease Hall was left without guests. Merrion went home, rather stimulated than otherwise by his week of experiences. Mr. Mackay returned to Canada, a broken man. Mr. Todmere drove away in his little car, presumably to complete his book on birds.

Roding was the last to leave. He had obtained a post with an advertising agency, for which he was to take aerial photographs from a helicopter. On the day before he left, his engagement to Julie was announced.

As might have been expected, the trial brought undesirable publicity to Springlease Hall. It became apparent to Miss Cray that its possibilities as a guesthouse were at an end. For sentimental reasons, Mrs. Darlaston would not agree to the sale of the house which had been in the family for generations.

Fortunately, the County Council were in temporary need of premises suitable for a Convalescent Home. A fine new red brick one, to be erected in a famous beauty spot, was projected. Until this was completed, an alternative must be found. After much negotiation, the Council took a lease of Springlease Hall.

Letitia Darlaston rented a small but comfortable house in the outskirts of Featherby. She and Tryphena Marsland went to live there, taking Mrs. Nadder with them. Helena Cray would have no part in this arrangement. She told Letitia that she simply couldn't live in the same house with Tryphena. She would remain on the spot, and see that the convalescents did no damage to the property, in which, of course, she retained her interest.

The Lodge Cottage had suffered little structural damage from the explosion. Miss Cray had it put to rights and took up residence there. Since any mutual suspicion was now at an end, she and her neighbour, Mr. Blackthorn, composed their differences, and became close friends. In fact, they were so often together that the village began to smile benevolently.

One day Mrs. Hartlip, happening to call at the post office, received a confidence from Mrs. Kersey. “My girl Thelma sees and hears a lot when she's working at Brooks View,” Mrs. Kersey said mysteriously. “I shouldn't be surprised if we didn't hear before very long that they'd fixed up to get married.”