The projector was still making its unnerving flap-flapping noise as Dogger walked slowly round Phyllis Wyvern’s body, squatting to look into each of her ears and each of her eyes. It was obvious that he was saving the bow of ciné film around her neck for last.
“What do you think?” I asked finally, in a whisper.
“Strangulation,” he said. “Look here.”
He produced a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pull down one of her lower eyelids, revealing a number of red spots on the inner surface.
“Petechiae,” he said. “Tardieu’s spots. Asphyxia through rapid strangulation. Definitely.”
Now he turned his attention to the black bow of film that ringed the throat, and a frown crossed his face.
“What is it, Dogger?”
“One would expect more bruising,” he said. “It does not occur invariably, but in this case one would definitely expect more bruising.”
I leaned in for a closer look and saw that Dogger was right. There was remarkably little discoloration. The film itself was black against Phyllis Wyvern’s pale neck, the image on many of its frames clearly visible: a close-up shot of the actress herself in ruffled peasant blouse against a dramatic mackerel sky.
The realization hit me like a hammer.
“Dogger,” I whispered. “This blouse, shawl, and skirt—it’s the same costume she’s wearing in the film!”
Dogger, who was looking reflectively at the body, his hand to his chin, nodded.
For a few moments, there was a strange quiet between us. Until now, it had been as if we were friends, but suddenly, at this particular moment, it felt as if we had become colleagues—perhaps even partners.
Possibly I was emboldened by the night, although it might have been a sense of something more. A strange feeling of timelessness hung in the room.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you,” I asked suddenly.
“Yes, Miss Flavia,” Dogger said. “Many times.”
I had always felt that Dogger was no stranger to dead bodies. He had, after all, survived more than two years in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, after which he had been put to work for more than a year on the notorious Death Railway in Burma, any single day of which would have given him more than a nodding acquaintance with death.
Aside from Mrs. Mullet’s whispered tales in the kitchen, I knew little about Dogger’s military service—or, for that matter, my father’s.
Once, as I watched Dogger trim the rose bushes on the Visto, I had tried to question him.
“You and Father were in the army together, weren’t you?” I asked, in so casual and offhanded a manner that I hated myself for having bungled it before I even began.
“Yes, miss,” Dogger had said. “But there are things which must not be spoken of.”
“Even to me?” I wanted to ask.
I wanted him to say “Especially to you,” or something like that: something I could mull over deliciously in the midnight hours, but he did not. He simply reached among the thorns and, with a couple of precision snips, deadheaded the last of the dying roses.
Dogger was like that—his loyalty to Father could sometimes be infuriating.
“I think,” he was saying, “you’d best slip down and awaken Dr. Darby … if you wouldn’t mind, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, and letting myself out, made for the stairs.
To my surprise, Dr. Darby was not where I had last seen him: The spot where he had rested was empty, and he was nowhere in sight.
As I wondered what to do, the doctor appeared from beneath the stairs.
“Telephone’s bust,” he said, as if to himself. “Wanted to call Queenie and let her know I’m still respirating.”
Queenie was Dr. Darby’s wife, whose terrible arthritis had confined her to a wheelchair.
“Yes, Mrs. Richardson tried to use it last night. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do,” he said snappishly. “It’s just that I’d forgotten.”
“Dogger has asked if you’d mind coming upstairs,” I said, taking care not to give out any details in case one of the sleepers might be listening to us with their eyes closed. “He’d like your advice.”
“Lead on, then,” Dr. Darby said, with surprisingly little reluctance.
“ ‘… amid the encircling gloom,’ ” he added, extracting his first mint of the day from his waistcoat pocket.
I led the way upstairs to the Blue Bedroom, where Dogger was still crouched beside the corpse.
“Ah, Arthur,” Dr. Darby said. “Again I find you on the scene.”
Dogger looked from one of us to the other with something like a smile, and then he was gone.
“We’d better be having the police,” Dr. Darby said, after making the same examination of Phyllis Wyvern’s eyes that Dogger had already done.
He felt one of the limp wrists and applied his thumb to the angle of the jaw.
“Is life extinct, Doctor?” I asked. I had heard the phrase on a wireless program about Philip Odell, the private eye, and thought it sounded much more professional than “Is she dead?”
I knew that she was, of course, but I liked to have my own observations confirmed by a professional.
“Yes,” Dr. Darby said, “she’s dead. You’d better roust out that German chap—Dieter, is it? He looks as if he’d be good with skis.”
Fifteen minutes later I was in the coach house with Dieter, helping him strap the skis to his boots.
“Did these belong to your mother?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose so.”
“They are very good skis,” he said. “Madshus. In Norway, they were made. Someone has looked after them.”
It must have been Father, I thought. He came here sometimes to sit in Harriet’s old Rolls-Royce, as if it were a glass chapel in a fairy tale.
“Well, then,” Dieter said at last. “Off we go.”
I followed him as far as the Visto, climbing in my rubber boots from drift to drift. As we passed the wall of the kitchen garden, I caught a glimpse of a face at the driver’s window of one of the lorries. It was Latshaw.
I waved, but he did not return my greeting.
When the snow was too deep to follow, I stopped and watched until Dieter was no more than a tiny black speck in the snowy wastes.
Only when I could no longer see him did I go back into the coach house.
I needed to think.
I climbed up into the backseat of Harriet’s old Rolls-Royce and wrapped myself in a motoring rug. Words like “warm” and “snug” swam into my mind.
When I awoke, the clock of the Phantom II was indicating a silent five forty-five A.M.
“What on earth—” Mrs. Mullet said, obviously surprised to see me coming in through the kitchen door. “You’ll freeze to death!”
I shrugged in my cardigan.
“I don’t care,” I said, hoping for a little sympathy and perhaps an advance on the Christmas pudding, which was one of the few dishes that she cooked to my satisfaction.
Mrs. Mullet ignored me. She was bustling busily about the kitchen, boiling a huge dented kettle for tea and slicing loaves of freshly baked bread for toast. It was obvious that Phyllis Wyvern’s murder had not yet been announced to the household.
“Good job I laid in so much for Christmas, isn’t it, Alf? Got an army to feed, I ’ave. Lyin’ in this mornin’ like so many lords and ladies, the lot of ’em—’ard floors or no. That’s the way of it with snow—couple of inches and they goes all ’elpless, like.”
Alf was sitting in the corner spreading jam on an Eccles cake.
“ ’Elpless,” he said. “As you say.
“What’s Father Christmas bringin’ you this year?” he asked me suddenly. “A nice dolly, then, p’raps, with different outfits, an’ that?”
A nice dolly indeed! What did he take me for?
“Actually, I was hoping for a Riggs generator and a set of graduated Erlenmeyer flasks,” I said. “One can never have too much scientific glassware.”