"Look here, Roger, I don't know if you were thinking you ought to hurry away this morning, but I don't want anyone to go unless they really prefer. I don't think there's the least need, and though the police haven't definitely said so, I think they'd rather that the party remained here intact till tomorrow."
"I'll stay, with pleasure," Roger agreed. "But isn't it a little awkward, with ..."
"The body was taken away this morning, to my brother's house," Ronald explained. "The inspector gave permission."
"Oh, I see. That was very quick, wasn't it, for a Sunday morning?"
"Very. David made the arrangements himself. I offered to let her stay here till the funeral, considering the boy and everything, but David thought better not."
"And the inquest?"
"Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, here. I rather think the police will want you to give evidence."
"Yes. The inquest's to be here, is it? Then wouldn't it have been more convenient in that case for . . ."
"For Ena to stop here? Yes, I should have thought so, but David imagined it might upset my arrangements for you people."
"I sec. That was very thoughtful of him. Is he . . ." Roger appeared to himself to be putting most of his questions in the form of dots.
"Is he all right? Oh, yes, perfectly. It's an open secret between ourselves that Ena's death is just nothing but a huge relief - to him more than to anyone else. But of course we don't want to advertise the fact at the inquest."
"No, of course not. The police hadn't gone, by the way, when I went to bed this morning. I suppose they're perfectly satisfied?" said Roger in a casual voice, helping himself to another cup of coffee.
"Oh, quite. Here, let me do that. After all, why shouldn't they be?"
"Why, indeed? But you seemed a little worried last night about the nature of the party."
Ronald smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid I kept quiet about that. I just said that some of the guests were in fancy dress. I don't think it's likely to come out before the inquest; but if it does, I really can't help it. After all, we're not children. One can't be expected to take precautions against the word 'murderer' or the sight of a gallows suggesting someone into suicide, can one?"
"Not really, but you must anticipate a possible howl from the sensational press if it does come. It sounds like jam for them. 'Morbid Amusements at House Party.' 'Ghoulish Jests Lead to Tragedy.'"
Ronald made a grimace. "Yes, I know. It all rather depends on the coroner. Luckily I know him pretty well, and he's quite a decent fellow."
"Then you ought to be fairly safe. But you'll have to explain away the gallows in any case. How are you going to do that?"
"The gallows," said Ronald with a grin, "were a subtle compliment to the presence among us of the Great Detective."
"In dam' bad taste, I've no doubt. Were the police shocked?"
"Not so much as I expected. In fact the inspector was really rather amused, I think, if anything, though of course he had to hide it. He's a good chap."
"Well, well."
"Hullo," said Ronald. "Wasn't that the telephone? Excuse me a minute." He was away for some minutes. "Margot," he explained briefly, "wanted to know how we all were this morning, so I broke the news."
"I shouldn't imagine she was very distressed to hear it?"
"No," Ronald smiled. "She seemed a little more agitated than I'd have expected, but I suppose that was the surprise."
"And your sister?" asked Roger. "How's she this morning?"
"I haven't had her disturbed. The poor girl was quite whacked. She practically collapsed while the inspector was interviewing her, and I had to call down Agatha to help me get her to bed. She hadn't anything of the least importance to tell the police, of course, so it didn't really matter. I shall keep her in bed till lunch."
"Yes, I should," said Roger mechanically and took another piece of toast.
Roger found Colin smoking his morning pipe in the rose garden. "Ah, Roger," Colin greeted him; and added, a little pointedly: "How did you sleep?"
"My guilty slumbers were perfectly sound, thank you," Roger replied coldly. "I hope your position as accessory after the fact didn't interfere with yours?"
"Nothing could have interfered with them last night" Colin said simply. "I wonder why Ronald built his rose garden just like a ruined Roman temple."
Roger looked round. The sunken oval of lawn in the centre, surrounded by a wide raised bed within little walls of red brick and enclosed by tall brick columns beyond to carry the ramblers, did look like a ruined Roman temple. At the moment, however, Roger was not interested in Roman temples.
"I couldn't tell you, Colin." He seated himself in the sun on the brick parapet. "Look here, when I left you and David last night by the bar, to go up on the roof (a thing I wish most sincerely now that I'd never done), what happened to the two of you? When I came down you weren't there. In fact that room was empty. Had you gone back to the ballroom?"
Colin made the face of one trying to chase an elusive memory. "I'm not sure. Why? Are you still on the trail, Roger?"
"I am," Roger said grimly. "And that's your fault. So kindly rack those things of yours you call brains, and answer my question."
Colin thoughtfully scratched the top of his slightly bald head. "Deuce take it, I don't know. Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. I want to trace the movements of every single person with a motive for Mrs. Stratton's death, from the time the woman left the ballroom till the time David came back to say she hadn't gone home."
"The devil you do. That's not an easy job. Well, I'll do my best for you. Wait now, and let me think again." Roger waited, fiddling with a wireworm which had been illegally investigating the roots of one of the rose bushes. "If you kept still," said Colin, "I might have a chance to think." Roger kept still. "I believe I've got it! I went back to the ballroom - yes, that's how it was, because I remember Lilian asking me how wee David was, and I said I thought the drink had done him good. Yes, I went back to the ballroom, and David didn't."
"Where did David go?"
"How on earth should I know?"
"But we must know. Can't you see how important it is?" Roger said excitedly. "Did he go up on the roof?"
"Why should he do that?"
"Look here, Colin," Roger said patiently, "is it lack of sleep that's made you this way this morning, or are you deliberately trying to be obstructive? Can't you see that after I came down, someone went up on the roof, and that someone killed Ena Stratton?"
"After you came down. Yes. Well? Who was it?"
"That's what I'm asking you. Because can't you see too, that of all the people who had motives for cutting Mrs. Stratton out of the way, her husband had the biggest? So far as motive goes, David Stratton is it."
"No, no, no. You'll not persuade me. It's no good, Roger. No good at all. You'll never persuade me that wee David strung his wife up on that gallows."
"Colin, will you talk sense!" said Roger, exasperated. "I'm not trying to 'persuade' you. I'm only asking you to consider the possibility, and then see if there's any evidence to support it. We must keep open minds if we're to get anywhere in this job at all. You're just one lump of prejudices."
"David wouldn't have the heart to squash a slug."
"I can quite believe that several people who hadn't the heart to squash slugs have found they had the heart to commit murder."
"Ach, come now, Roger. Do you mean to tell me you consider that wee David a potential murderer?"
"Most certainly I do, and all criminological history supports me - as you ought very well to know. David Stratton's just exactly the type that does commit murder."
"I thought you were saying last night that Chalmers was? They're as different as - as . . ."
"Chalk from cheese. Yes, of course they are. Don't be so dense, Colin!" Roger thumped the brick parapet beside him and hurt his hand. "Can't you see the difference in what I'm suggesting for them? Chalmers could never possibly commit a murder on his own behalf; David Stratton couldn't conceivably commit one for somebody else. But Philip Chalmers can be imagined as doing for his David what he wouldn't do for himself; and David, as I said, is own brother to hundreds of excellent, long - suffering husbands married to domestic pests, who just couldn't stand it any longer and reached for the meat chopper."