Jane was wide awake in a second. “Did Duncan come home? Have you found him?”
“We found him,” Sands said. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
Jane was staring at him blankly. “You don’t mean Duncan. Duncan isn’t dead. You never even saw him. How could you know him if you found him dead? You’ve made a mistake.” Her voice rose shrilly. “Duncan always said that policemen were dumb. Now I know—”
“Be quiet, Jane,” Mrs. Shane said. “It’s true, I suppose?”
Sands nodded.
Mrs. Shane put her arms around Jane. “My poor Janie. You must bear up, Jane. Time heals all wounds and wipes away all tears.”
Her words had a surprising effect on Jane. The girl pushed her away and turned to the inspector.
Sands watched her curiously. Despite her attire and her uncombed hair, she looked very dignified.
“How did my brother die?”
“He fell down the steps,” Sands said uneasily.
“What steps?”
“The steps of the veranda.”
“And that killed him?” There was some scorn mixed with the dignity now.
“Yes. His skull was fractured. The milkman found him early this morning.”
“The milkman!”
The news was a shock. She began to sob and talk through the sobs: found like that... Duncan would have hated... So undignified... Duncan’s pride
Sands listened, uncomfortable and puzzled. To his astonishment he found that he was also a little angry. It wasn’t that the girl was stupid, but she had the wrong set of standards, Duncan’s standards, obviously. Who in the hell was this Duncan that he shouldn’t be found dead by a milkman?
The sobs continued. Inspector Sands made a motion to Mrs. Shane, and she led Jane out of the room.
Nora said, “Shall I leave too?”
“No. I’d like to talk to you. Sit down. You too, Dr. Prye.”
Prye and Nora sat down beside each other on the window seat, stiffly, like two children newly arrived at a party and still conscious of their Sunday clothes.
“Was it murder?” Prye asked.
Already the question was becoming monotonous to Sands. Before the day is over, he thought, I shall have answered that fifty times, and I have no answer to give.
“I don’t know,” he said. “If the events of yesterday had not occurred I’d say that the young man had taken too much to drink last night and that on reaching the top of the veranda steps he lost his balance and fell, hitting his head on a flagstone. But in view of the poison in his pitcher of water, Duncan’s death seems too — coincidental.”
“The coincidences can be explained,” Prye said, “if Duncan himself wrote that letter to me and poisoned the water and put in the anonymous telephone call. As far as I know he was the only person with a motive for stopping the wedding — he wanted to marry Nora — and the method he chose is consistent with other facts about Duncan. He was a notorious practical joker, for one tiling. I had a long talk with Jane last night.”
“And she said he was a practical joker?” Sands asked, frowning.
Prye smiled wryly. “No indeed. She said that Duncan had ‘such a nice sense of humor,’ and illustrated it by two hair-raising tales, one of them involving a rattlesnake with its fangs removed.”
“He put it in somebody’s piano bench,” Nora explained.
“I should have been told yesterday about this,” Sands said.
“I didn’t know it yesterday,” Prye replied easily. “And I believe Miss Shane had forgotten the episode.”
Sands fastened his eyes on Nora. “When you have guests, Miss Shane, do you usually put supplies of paper and ink in each room?”
“Yes,” Nora replied.
“You read the letter that was written to Dr. Prye warning him of a murder?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize the paper and ink?”
“It was the same paper,” Nora said, “but the ink was a different color. We use black, and the letter was written in blue.”
“The ink on the letter was a common brand of nutgall ink sold for use in fountain pens. Nutgall ink changes color slowly until it’s completely dried in about two years. We were able by the use of a tintometer to ascertain that the letter was written very recently. It was written with a gold-nibbed fountain pen by someone who wrote slowly and carefully.”
Nora said with a trace of impatience: “But you don’t know who wrote it?”
“Not definitely. We may in time.”
“Well, I know. Everything about that letter adds up to Duncan. The style is his. He has a fountain pen, he uses blue ink, and it’s the kind of thing he would do.”
“Not very compelling reasons,” Sands said mildly, “since the young man is dead. May I see his room now?”
Wherever Duncan visited he managed by suggestion or demand to get the best room available. He had been given the master bedroom at the front of the house above the drawing room.
Because of its varied uses the master bedroom was sexless. There were no ruffled curtains or lace spread to annoy a male occupant, and no manly leather chairs or strategically placed briar pipes to annoy a female. The curtains were dark blue silk with a wide ivory stripe, the bed was ivory, and the rug dark blue to match the curtains. There was a blond maple desk near the window and it was to this that Inspector Sands first directed his attention.
In the drawer he found the paper and black ink placed there by Nora, as well as a straight pen with a fine nib.
Sands picked up a sheet of the paper and held it against the light. It was, as Nora had said, the same paper as that of the letter to Prye. Sands leafed through the remaining sheets of it. Near the bottom he found a half-finished letter beginning “Dear George.”
Bannister must have missed it yesterday, Sands thought. He said he couldn’t find a sample of Duncan’s writing. I’ll have to give him hell.
He picked up the letter by one corner and read it.
Dear George:
Your taste in camouflage becomes prettier. Too pretty. I think you’d better come yourself this time. My invitation here extends for another week. You will find the Royal Y more comfortable than you’ll find anything at Kingston. Saw fifty brunettes at the Windsor last night. No trouble at all. Shall exp...
Sands reread it, still holding it by one corner. The writing bore some resemblance to the writing on the letter to Prye. The ink was black and had been used in the straight pen lying in the drawer.
Sands removed two unused sheets of paper, placed Duncan’s letter between them, and folded the three sheets twice. If Duncan wrote it, Sands thought, his fingerprints will be on it somewhere, and on the pen. The pen and the folded papers he placed in his pocket.
He went over to the bureau and opened the top drawer. There was a pair of blue silk monogrammed pajamas, and also — Sands raised his brows in horror — some blue silk underwear faintly redolent of lavender.
He closed the drawer again quickly and went through the others. Most of them were empty except for their lining of white tissue paper. Well, that was natural enough, if Duncan had come merely for a short visit.
What wasn’t natural, however, was the absence of Duncan’s fountain pen. Sands went through the clothes in the closet, examined the three empty suitcases, and even lifted the lavender-scented underwear out of the bureau drawer.
On his way out Sands locked the door and slipped the key in his pocket. He found Hilda in the hall with some fresh towels over her arm.
“Where is Miss Stevens’ room?” he asked her.
She directed him by pointing toward a closed door. Appraising her, Sands decided that she would be giving notice in the near future; she wasn’t the type to stick when there was trouble.
He said politely, “Thanks, Hilda. I shall want to talk to you again later.”