‘Oh, really? Yes, I suppose it is an unusual name. I believe it comes from the Bible, only he spells it Chelion, not Chilion.’
‘Ah, yes. Chilion was one of the sons of Naomi, I believe,’ said Laura, who had looked it up as soon as she had heard Piper’s name. Niobe said how clever it was to know these things. She had regained her composure very quickly, Laura thought. She now led the way into her office and Laura picked up the parcel containing the yataghan. She had taken the precaution of leaving the car outside the gates of the mansion in case any of the inhabitants of Weston Pipers, particularly Niobe herself, should recognise it as that which had brought Dame Beatrice to the house. For the same reason, she had been her own driver and had left George behind.
‘You mentioned a junk shop in the town,’ said Niobe, as they walked across to the bungalow.
‘Yes, a rather wretched little place up one of those streets which go uphill away from the front. I picked this thing up and they also had a rather nice set of fire-irons which they said came from this house.’
‘From Weston Pipers? They couldn’t have done! We have no coal fires here.’
‘Perhaps, before it was converted into flats—’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, perhaps. I suppose you noticed that all the fireplaces have been blocked up.’ She produced the right key and opened the bungalow door. ‘Well, this is it. Look round all you want. I’ll wait in here.’
Nothing loth, for, like many people, she was possessed of a certain amount of curiosity concerning places where murder is known to have been committed, Laura went on a tour of inspection. There was not much to see. The place was sparsely but just sufficiently furnished, the bed (presumably the one in which George had slept) was new, and there was no sign of any of the pails in which Miss Minnie’s sea water had been collected and in one of which, according to Dame Beatrice’s theory, she had been drowned.
Laura returned to Niobe, who had stayed just inside the front door and shook her head. She spread out two shapely palms in a gesture of apology and said sadly:
‘Not quite what I’m looking for, I’m afraid.’
‘No, I thought it wouldn’t be,’ said Niobe calmly. ‘Why did you come here?’
‘It was suggested to me by a friend, who happened to be with me when I bought this.’ She unwrapped the yataghan, drew it from its sheath and flourished the cleaned and polished blade. ‘She thought it might have come from here.’
Niobe drew back in the face of the slightly curved, gleaming, menacing weapon.
‘Good heavens! Put that thing away!’ she said. ‘Of course it didn’t come from here.’
‘But the fire-irons did,’ said Laura, lowering but not sheathing her weapon. ‘I suppose you sold them to that shop when you had all the electric fires put in and the ordinary grates blocked up.’
‘People in flats don’t want to be bothered with coal fires. Anyway, what fire-irons are you talking about?’ But there was no doubt that Niobe was both astonished and alarmed.
‘Oh, a set which the shopkeeper was so anxious to get rid of that he threw them in for nothing when I bought the yataghan.’
‘The what?’
‘This thing.’ Laura made a pass with it, swishing it through the air. ‘There was another thing in the shop which was rather interesting, but the man wouldn’t part with it. It was a picture. It looked like – you haven’t got a bit of paper on you, by any chance?’
‘What for?’ Niobe kept fascinated eyes on the naked blade as though it was having a hypnotic effect on her.
‘I could draw the picture for you,’ Laura explained.
‘I’m not interested,’ said Niobe, taking a step backwards.
‘You had better be, or else I shall tell you what else we saw in the shop, yes, and in the upstair rooms, too.’ Laura lowered the weapon, but spoke in a menacing tone which she herself rather admired.
‘You went upstairs? But there is nothing for sale up there!’ exclaimed Niobe, now making no secret of the fact that again she was alarmed.
‘You think not?’
‘I know there isn’t. Besides, the proprietor would never have allowed you upstairs.’
‘How do you know that? Suppose I mention a room, or, rather, two rooms converted into one? Suppose I described black velvet hangings, a table with various rather suggestive implements laid out on it in ritual fashion, a row of lifelike paintings of nudes on the walls—’
‘All right! All right! That’s more than enough,’ cried Niobe. ‘You had better come up to the house and meet the others.’
‘Oh, you mean Shard and those people,’ said Laura carelessly. ‘As you wish, but they are of little importance so far as I am concerned.’
‘You know them? Then why have we never seen you at a coven?’
‘There are covens and covens.’ Laura was on very unsure ground and she knew it and hastened to get on to less dangerous territory. ‘I don’t suppose any of your company here have penetrated very far into the Mysteries. I should still like to test you with my picture. Then we may know where we stand.’
‘Oh, I’m hopeless at guessing games,’ declared Niobe, emitting something which might be classed as a laugh, but still eyeing the yataghan nervously.
‘Ah, come on, now!’ said Laura, giving the weapon another dangerous-looking flourish.
‘Oh, very well,’ Niobe agreed. ‘Back to my office, then. I never argue with psychopaths. But I do wish you would sheath that thing. It isn’t part of your ritual, is it?’
‘No, no, merely a very present help in time of trouble.’ Laura put it back into its scabbard and followed her companion out of the bungalow and across the lawn. Chelion Piper was in the hall.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Do we get a new tenant?’
‘Not for that morgue,’ said Laura decisively. ‘At any rate, not so far as I am concerned. Would you live in it, Mr Piper?’
Chelion shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘Hardly,’ he said.
‘Of course, I remember now. It was you who discovered the body.’
‘I wasn’t alone.’
‘I believe not.’
‘Here is a piece of paper,’ said Niobe, producing a writing-tablet of plain paper. ‘Mrs Gavin,’ she added, ‘wishes to draw a picture she has seen in a junk shop.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Why, Mr Piper,’ asked Laura, accepting the writing-tablet and fishing out a pencil, ‘have you been released before trial?’
‘Oh, at my last remand the beaks came to the sensible conclusion that no case against me would hold water.’
‘Unlike the corpse,’ said Laura, with intentional bluntness. ‘Oh, stop it!’ she added fiercely, as Niobe burst into sobs. ‘I suppose it was the evidence provided by the buckets of sea water which let you out, Mr Piper.’
‘You appear to know things which have not, so far as I am aware, appeared in the newspapers, Madam.’
It was Laura’s turn to shrug her shoulders, and the gesture roused Niobe to tearful, sudden, unexpected and impassioned speech. Piper stared at her, said ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ and went into his own room, slamming the door.
‘Irelath Moore and Sumatra are a couple apart from the rest of us,’ Niobe was saying, ‘and I’m sure Evesham Evans suspected nothing when Constance paid so many visits to her publishers. And that awful little Shard was always going out to tea—’
‘Cassie McHaig must have had some difficulty in hoodwinking Hempseed,’ said Laura, boldly chancing her arm and seizing up this surprising opening.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Niobe seemed to be regaining her self-control. ‘I had my suspicions of her. She could always make excuses to get out of the house if she wanted to, and Polly had what you might call a static job here and always wrote his sob-stuff letters in his own room. He and Cassie used to have lots of rows and refused to see each other or speak or even go to bed together for days on end.’