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“We haven’t been doing anything of the sort,” said Nigel crossly. “Have we, Stimson?”
“You didn’t go for to, sir,” agreed Stimson. “It’s like this, Miss,” he continued. “Sissy saw a lady and gentleman in the coppice, and the lady was crying, and this gentleman wants to know the rights of it. And young Sis, she’s turned rancid on us, Miss.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Angela. “Give me that money you’ve been tormenting her with.” Alleyn and Nigel handed over the shillings.
“There, my precious!” murmured Angela. “We won’t tell them anything about it. We’ll have it for a secret. You whisper to me what the silly old people in the woods were like. You needn’t wait, Stimson. I’ll bring her along to the cottage.”
“Very good, Miss,” said Stimson, and retired.
Sissy appeared to blow ferociously in Angela’s ear.
“A lady with a lovely red cap,” whispered Angela, “Poor lady! I expect a wopsie had bitten her, don’t you? Was it a big gentleman?”
Alleyn had whipped out his note-book. Sissy was breathing hard into Angela’s hair.
“It was a fu
“I’ve got a lovely secret, too,” said Detective-Inspector Alleyn astonishingly.
Sissy, who had detached herself from Angela, turned a watery eye on him. The Inspector suddenly squatted down by her and distorted his face slightly so that one slim black eyebrow shot up his forehead. Sissy chuckled. The eyebrow came back to normal.
“More!” said Sissy.
“It won’t do it again unless you whisper to it some more about the gentleman you saw in the coppice,” said Alleyn.
Sissy waddled across the path and placed a fat earthy paw on the Inspector’s face. He flinched slightly and shook his head. Sissy whispered. The eyebrow moved up.
“There! that’s how it works,” remarked Alleyn; “and if we went into the coppice there’s no knowing if it wouldn’t do it again.”
Sissy looked over her shoulder at Angela. “Doin’ to der coppus,” she said briefly.
Alleyn rose with the child in his arms.
“Leave to dismiss, Miss North?” he asked politely.
“Certainly, Inspector Alleyn,” said Angela stiffly.
The Inspector performed a guardsman’s salute with his free hand, and strode off down the path with Sissy’s arms entwined very lovingly about his neck.
“Extraordinary!” said Nigel.
“Not a bit,” rejoined Angela. “The child has got sense, that’s all.”
“Shall we play badminton?” asked Nigel.
“By all means,” responded Miss North.
Alleyn’s first action on returning to Frantock from his session with Miss Stimson was to wash himself very thoroughly in the downstairs cloakroom. He then looked up one of his notes made during what he called “wardrobe inspection” that morning, read a certain entry in reference to a red cap, and inquired of Ethel if he could speak to Miss Grant. He learned that Doctor Young was attending her in her room.
“I will wait for Doctor Young,” said Alleyn, and sat down in the hall.
He had not been there long before Wilde came in from the garden. He hesitated, as indeed they all did, at the sight of the Inspector, and then asked if he was waiting for anyone.
‘I’m really waiting for Doctor Young,“ said Alleyn, ”but I also wanted to see Sir Hubert. I wonder, Mr. Wilde, if you know where he is?”
The archaeologist rubbed his hair up the wrong way — a characteristic gesture.
“He was—in there,” he said, pointing to the study door.
“In the study?”
“Yes.”
“Really? I must have missed him somehow,” remarked the Inspector ambiguously. “When did he go in?”
“Soon after they took — Charles — away,” said Wilde. “He may still be there. Would you like me to ask if he can see you, Inspector?”
“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn gratefully. Wilde opened the study door and looked inside. Evidently Handesley was still there, as Wilde went in and Alleyn heard their voices. He waited a couple of minutes, and then Wilde appeared again. Alleyn thought he looked faintly shocked.
“He is just coming,” he said, and with a nod to the Inspector went upstairs.
Handesley came out of the study. He had a sheet of note-paper in his hand.
“Ah, there you are, Inspector,” he said. “I have just been going through a few papers that I wanted.” He hesitated, and then went on with painful deliberation. “It was impossible for me to enter the room while Mr. Rankin’s body lay there.”
“I can well understand that,” said Alleyn.
“This,” continued Handesley, holding out the paper, “is the document I mentioned this morning. The will Mr. Rankin signed yesterday, bequeathing the dagger to me. You mentioned that you would like to see it.”
“You have made things easy for me, Sir Hubert,” said Alleyn. “It was in my mind to ask you for it.”
He took the paper and read it through impassively.
“I suppose,” said Handesley, who was staring out at the front door, “I suppose that, although the thing was drawn up more or less in fun, it does actually constitute a legal document?”
“I am no lawyer,” answered Alleyn, “but I should imagine that it was quite in order. May I keep it for the moment?”
“Yes, of course. I suppose later on I may have it again? I should like to keep it.” He paused, and then added quickly, “You see, it is the last thing he wrote.”
“Certainly,” said Alleyn imperturbably.
Doctor Young appeared and came downstairs.
“May I see your patient, Doctor Young?” asked Alleyn.
The doctor performed the feat known in Victorian nursery books as “looking grave.”
“She’s not so grand,” he said doubtfully. “Is it necessary?”
“Shouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t,” rejoined Alleyn quite amicably. “I won’t keep her long, and I’ve a beautiful bedside ma
“She’s in a very highly strung condition. I’d rather she was left to herself for a bit — but, of course—”
“Of course Mr. Alleyn must see her,” Handesley broke in. “This is no time for attacks of the vapours, Doctor Young.”
“Well, Sir Hubert—”
“I really feel rather strongly about it,” said Handesley emphatically. “Rosamund is a young woman of character; she is most unlikely to give in to her nerves. The sooner the Inspector gets through his job, the better for all of us.”
“I wish everyone else felt the same way about it,” said Alleyn. “I won’t be ten minutes, Doctor Young.” And he went upstairs without waiting for the little doctor to answer him.
In response to his knock at her door, Rosamund Grant called out in her usual strong, rather deep voice. He went in and found her lying in bed. Her face was terribly white, and all the colour seemed to have been drained out of her lips. But she was cool enough when she saw who her visitor was, and invited him to sit down.
“Thank you,” said Alleyn. He drew up a small armchair, and seated himself between the bed and the window.
“I’m sorry you are laid up, Miss Grant,” he said in his matter-of-fact way, “and sorrier still to disturb you. I have often wondered which is the more indecently preposterous job — a detective’s or a journalist’s.”
“You should compare notes with Nigel Bathgate,” rejoined Rosamund Grant. “Not,” she added wearily, “that he has been trying to get stories out of us. I suppose even the keenest journalist does not try to make copy out of his cousin’s murder, especially when he happens to be his cousin’s heir.”
“Mr. Bathgate is the only member of this household from whom I have definitely withdrawn suspicion,” said Alleyn.
“Indeed,” she answered harshly. “And do I head the list of suspects, Inspector Alleyn?”
Alleyn recrossed his legs and appeared to deliberate. Had a third person been there at Rosamund Grant’s bedside, he might have thought to himself how strangely secret are the thoughts of human beings. Impossible to read what mental agonies tormented the mind of this pale and harsh woman. Impossible to see behind the shadowy face of the detective into the pigeon-holes of his brain.