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On an impulse Nigel drew back into a low doorway on the wall. He felt quite incapable of listening just then to any more of the Russian’s heated dissertations about the infamy of English police methods, and thought he would give him time to get well away. It was only after a minute or so had passed that Nigel began to wonder what Tokareff was up to. There had been something about his ma
He must have waited there for ten minutes and was begi
“Money for jam,” said Nigel to himself, and waited another two minutes, and then returned to the path following down into the thicket.
He had not gone very far before he came to the source of the blue smoke. A little fire, such as gardeners build from underbrush and damp leaves, was smouldering in a clearing. Nigel examined it closely. It looked as though someone had been raking it over, and it now smelt less pleasantly. He pushed the top layer of smoking rubbish on one side, and there, sure enough, was a solid wedge of crisp note-paper, already half burnt away.
“Crikey!” ejaculated Nigel, snatching a page from the burning and examining it excitedly. It was covered in ridiculous pen and ink marks that he felt every justification in calling Russian. He drew in his breath, and was instantly choked with smoke. Gasping and spluttering and burning his fingers, he dragged out the rest of the paper and danced on it. His eyes streamed, and he coughed insufferably.
“Are you keen on war dances, Mr. Bathgate?” said a voice beyond the smoke.
“Hell’s boots!” panted Nigel, and sat down on the trophy.
Inspector Alleyn bore down on him through the smoke. “Two minds with but a single thought,” he said politely. “I was just going to try a little rescue work myself.”
Nigel was speechless, but he got off the papers.
Alleyn picked them up and looked them over.
“These are old acquaintances,” he said, “but I think we’ll keep them this time. Thank you very much, Mr. Bathgate.”
Chapter X
Black Fur
To the members of the house-party at Frantock the days before the inquest seemed to have avoided the dimensions of time and slipped into eternity.
Alleyn refused Sir Hubert’s offer of a room, and was believed to be staying at the Frantock Arms in the village. He appeared at different times and in different places, always with an air of faint preoccupation, unvaryingly courteous, completely remote. Rosamund Grant was reported by Doctor Young to be suffering from severe nervous shock, and still kept to her room. Mrs. Wilde was querulous and inclined to be hysterical. Arthur Wilde spent most of his time answering her questions and listening to her complaints, and ru
“All Russians seem a bit dotty to me,” rejoined Nigel. “Look at Vassily. Do you think now that he did it?”
“I’m certain he didn’t. The servants say he was in and out of the pantry the whole time, and Roberts, the other man, says he was speaking to Vassily in there two minutes before the gong sounded.”
“Then why did he do a bolt?”
“Nerves, I should think,” said Angela thoughtfully. “Uncle Herbert says all Russians of Vassily’s age and class are terrified of the police.”
“The others all think he did it,” Nigel ventured.
“Yes, and Marjorie says so about forty times a day. Oh, dear, how short-tempered I’m getting!”
“You’re a — a wonder,” finished Nigel nervously.
“Don’t you start!” said Miss North cryptically. She was silent for a moment, and then burst out suddenly: “Oh, poor Charles! poor old Charles — it’s so horrible to be thankful they’ve taken him away. We were always so sorry when he went,” and, for the first time since the tragedy, she burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.
Nigel ached to put his arms round her. He stood above her muttering. “Angela dear. Please, Angela—”
She held out a hand to him gropingly, and he took it and rubbed it between both of his. A voice sounded in the hall outside, and Angela sprang to her feet and ran out of the room.
Following her, Nigel bumped into Alleyn in the hall.
“Wait a second,” said the detective. “I wanted to see you. Come into the library.”
Nigel hesitated, and then followed him.
“What’s the matter with Miss North?” asked Alleyn.
“What’s the matter with all of us?” rejoined Nigel. “It’s enough to drive anyone dippy.”
“It’s a pity about you!” commented Alleyn tartly. “How would you like to be a detective, the lousiest job in creation?”
“I wouldn’t mind changing with you,” said Nigel.
“Wouldn’t you, then! Well, you can have a stab at it since you’re so eager. Every sleuth ought to have a tame half-wit, to make him feel clever. I offer you the job, Mr. Bathgate — no salary, but a percentage of the honour and glory.”
“You’re very good,” said Nigel, who never knew quite where he was with Alleyn. “Am I to conclude I have been degummed from the list of suspects?”
“Oh, yes,” groaned the detective wearily. “You’re cleared. Ethel the Intelligent spoke to you half a second before the lights went out.”
“Who is Ethel the Intelligent?”
“The second housemaid.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Nigel, “I remember; she was actually there when the lights went out. I’d quite forgotten her.”
“Well, you are a bright lad. A pretty girl establishes your alibi for you, and you forget all about her.”
“I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Wilde are safe enough, too?” said Nigel.
“See Florence the Farsighted. You do, do you? Shall we take a stroll to the gate?”
“If you like. A gentleman in a mackintosh will be there pretending to botanize in the iron railings.”
“One of my myrmidons. Never mind, a walk will do you good.”
Nigel consented, and they went out into the thin sunshine.
“Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn quietly, “every single member of this household is concealing something from me. You are yourself, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. Look here, I’m going to be frank with you. This murder was committed from inside the house. Roberts had the front door locked at six-thirty, a regular trick of his apparently, and anyway it had rained before six o’clock, was fine until eight, and after that there was a hard frost. Your crime books will have told you that under those conditions the gardens of the great are as an open book to us sleuths. His murderer was inside the house.”
“What about Vassily? Why hasn’t he been caught?”
“He has been caught.”
“What!”
“Certainly, and released again. We managed to keep your brothers of the pe
“You say he didn’t do it.”
“Do I?”
“Well, don’t you?”
“I say you are all, each one of you, hiding something from me.” Nigel was silent.
“It’s a horrible affair,” continued Alleyn after a pause, “but believe me you can do no good, no ma