“Oh dear!” she cried. “What is the matter with everyone? Whatever anyone says around here seems to have two meanings. When I say something it hasn’t got two meanings.”
“You’re damn lucky if it’s got one,” Nora said. “Oh, wake up, Jane! We’ve had two murders in this house. Our nerves are on edge. Don’t take everything we say literally. We’re just working off steam.”
“Why does everybody have to work off steam on me?” Jane wailed. “What have I done?”
Nora got up from the piano and went over and patted Jane’s plump shoulder.
“You haven’t done anything,” she said soothingly. “You’re just the victim type. Some are and some aren’t. You are.”
“It’s not fair. I always try to be pleasant. I never say mean things to anybody. Why, I never even think mean things about anybody.”
“That,” Nora said, “is the trouble. Go on. Think of something mean about me right now.”
Jane frowned thoughtfully into space for some time.
“Well,” she said finally, “I don’t much like your gray dress with the funny pockets. The pockets make you look rather... rather hippy, I thought.”
Nora sat down abruptly.
“You win,” she said.
At that moment Hilda came in the door and strode angrily over to Nora.
“I quit,” she announced.
“You did quit, Hilda,” Nora said coldly. “It’s becoming almost a habit, isn’t it?”
“That guy’s going through my letters up there. I won’t stand for it! I’ll scratch his eyes out!”
She was close to tears. Nora said in a kindly voice, “Do, if it will make you feel any better.”
“I never murdered anyone,” Hilda cried. “Why, I never even stole anything in my whole life. And now that guy’s reading my letters.”
“That’s not a tragedy, is it?” Nora put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I know you haven’t done anything, Hilda.”
Nora guided her out of the door, talking steadily. A policeman was coming down the stairs. He walked aggressively toward Nora.
“What’s in that big box in your room? It’s locked and I can’t find a key.”
“I’m a secret drinker,” Nora said. “That’s where I keep my empty bottles.”
The policeman grunted. “I’m not getting much help around here. The inspector’ll hear about this.”
“It’s a shame,” Nora said. “And you so sweet and pleasant. The box is a cedar chest.”
“You mean a hope chest?”
“If you really crave accuracy,” Nora said, “call it a blasted-hope chest.”
“And the key?”
“Third drawer in my bureau under some pink silk pants.”
The policeman blushed and said, “Oh, there?”
He turned on his heel and went back up the stairs. For lack of anything interesting to do Nora followed him up. In the hall on the second floor they came upon Prye explaining to the tall, gangling young man that what the police lacked was System.
“You should,” Prye said, “begin at the top and work down.”
“Or begin at the bottom,” Nora said helpfully, “and work up. It amounts to the same thing. Or you might even try working both ends against the middle.”
There was another exchange of glances between the policemen. The older one sighed and said, “Sorry, but the inspector told me if I encountered any resistance I was to put you all together in a room and get on with my work.”
“So it’s come to this,” Nora said.
“It has,” the policeman assured her grimly. “Are you going downstairs peacefully?”
“We certainly are,” Nora said.
When they reached the drawing room they found Jane still curled up in a chair. She had obviously been pondering on her conversation with Nora, for her opening remark was:
“What do you mean, I am a victim type? It sounds silly to me.”
Prye, sensing a battle, withdrew to the windows.
“Nothing,” Nora said, sinking into a chair. “Sorry I broached the subject.”
“Well!” Jane sat up indignantly. “But you did broach it. What am I a victim of, I’d like to know?”
“I apologized, didn’t I?”
“Well, I should hope so. Duncan always said that it was an extremely rude thing to insult a guest in your home.”
Nora sniffed. “Duncan. If you don’t stop quoting Duncan, you—”
“ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’ ” Prye said loudly “ ‘That floats on high o’er vales and hills.’ ”
“—wretched little—”
“ ‘When all at once I saw a crowd,
“ ‘A host, of golden daffodils.’ ”
“—daffodil!”
“Daffodil!” Jane shrieked.
“Girls,” Prye said. “ ‘The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.’ ”
A voice from the doorway said, “What in the hell is going on here?” and Dinah came in, looking from one to the other inquiringly. Aspasia and Mrs. Shane were right behind her.
“We were having a spot of poetry,” Prye said easily.
“How nice!” Aspasia said warmly. “Jennifer, remember how Father used to recite Yeats to us?”
Mrs. Shane glanced dryly at Prye. “I had no idea you were fond of poetry, Paul. Don’t let us interrupt you.”
“The spell is broken,” Prye said.
Jane gave a loud, vigorous snort.
“One feels suddenly like quoting poetry,” Prye explained, “and then, quite as suddenly, one feels like not quoting poetry.”
“I see,” Mrs. Shane said mildly. “That exhausts the subject as far as I’m concerned. Shall we have some bridge while we’re waiting for the policemen to finish?”
“Oh, no thinking game, please,” Aspasia pleaded. “Honestly. I’m so upset. I walked into the bathroom and there he was. Revolting! He snarled at me.”
“I was shoved!” Jane said in a tone of delicate superiority.
“You’ve both been badly used,” Dinah said. “I suggest that you write letters to the Prime Minister about the whole dastardly episode. Meanwhile, the rest of us can play bridge.”
“Charades,” Prye said.
“Let’s all write letters to the Prime Minister,” Nora said. “Get everything off our chests. Then we’ll tear them up, of course.”
“Disloyal,” Aspasia muttered.
Dinah turned to Jane. “Can you read and write, you darling?”
“I am not speaking to you,” Jane announced. “And anyway I don’t know who the Prime Minister is, and I don’t care to play such nasty games. Unless everyone else is playing too. I’m sure I’m the last person to spoil anyone else’s fun.”
The next half-hour was filled with quiet activity. The only sound in the room was the cracking of Jane’s pencil between her teeth.
An hour later, while Inspector Sands was in Boston talking to the most beautiful blonde he’d ever seen, Prye was in his room reading five letters to the Prime Minister. One of these he singled out and studied for some time. The writing was so similar to Duncan’s that it might have passed for his.
The letter was signed Dinah Revel.
Dinah, Prye thought. It might have been Dinah who wrote the letter beginning Dear George. Dinah was seen coming out of Duncan’s room...
No, it wasn’t possible. Dinah and Duncan were cousins. The handwriting of relatives tends to be similar.
“Besides, I like her,” Prye said.
Funny, he thought, I’m doing what Dinah herself was afraid I’d do, making excuses for someone because I like her.
11
At eleven forty-five on Monday morning Inspector Sands was in Boston, Dr. Prye was studying handwriting, and Sammy Twist was knocking off work to have lunch.