"So you're up and about!" Ruth added, scanning his face and forehead. She added, as though in reproach: "Martin, you look horrible."
He grinned at her. "No worse than a hangover. Honestly!"
Stannard approached more slowly. H.M. had spoken of him as having had a shock, and you could well believe it. Some of his strong vitality — not too much, but some — seemed to have ebbed from him. The black eyes had no glitter, he smiled, though with visible effort As he moved towards them he put one hand on the back of a dark-red wing chair as though his ankle hurt him.
What had he seen in that execution shed last night?
But, for that matter, Ruth herself looked far from well. She was as trim as ever, the small light-brown curls gleaming above the rounded face, her dress a close-clinging green. Yet she looked physically ill. And Martin began to understand the strain which had been growing on everybody all day.
The strain grew and grew. They seldom spoke of it And yet..
"Martin," Ruth began, and braced herself. "Some people are saying what happened to you was an accident It wasn't, was it?"
"No. It wasn't"
Very much, now, he was conscious of H.M. and Masters in the background.
"What did happen?" asked Ruth. Then, without waiting for a reply, as though afraid of a reply she went on:
"All I know is that I was waked up about a quarter to five by that alarm-bell going. Then I heard a crash—"
"Great Scott, Ruth, did I fall as hard as that?"
"It was the tea-tray!" said Ruth, and snatched her fingertips away from him in a reproachful way as though he had somehow insulted her.
"What tea-tray?"
"Jenny," Ruth explained, "was carrying a loaded tea-tray through the dining-room to those little back stairs. She heard you — she heard that thud on the awning, and the awning ripping wide open, and something hitting the flagstones. And would you believe it?"
Here Ruth turned to Stannard, who, though he must have heard the story half a dozen times, only nodded.
"Would you believe it?" Ruth said to Martin. "Jenny says the front door was partway open, with mist in the hall. Jenny simply threw the whole tea-tray to one side and rushed out. She found you lying on the terrace in the mist, with blood coming out of your forehead. Then Jenny began screaming. By mat time I was there, and Ricky came flying downstairs in his pyjamas. Poor Cicely was tired out and slept through it Fortunately Dr. Laurier was on the spot"
Stannard, smiling, had been examining the trim of his fingernails and polishing them on the sleeve of his dark-grey suit He grew grave now. He approached Martin, limping a little, and formally extended his hand.
"My dear fellow," he said in his husky hearty voice, "real congratulations on a lucky escape."
Everybody I meet, Martin thought seems to want to shake hands.
"It was you ringing that alarm-bell?"
Stannard's look was wry. "Yes. For my sins."
Well, then, here was one hand free from attempted murder and one face without hypocrisy. Martin already liked Stannard; he liked the man better now.
"But" Ruth prompted. "Up on the roof?" She made a tentative gesture.
Martin thought he had better get it over. He told them everything, from the time he and Jenny walked through the mist to the time somebody's hands lunged out He could see Master's black notebook, the shorthand travelling steadily. H.M. had sat down near the tall white marble mantelpiece, with its dull-gold clock and its dull-gold candelabra against dark-red walls.
When the recital was finished, neither Ruth nor Stannard commented. They did not even speak. Too much repression! Dangerous! The person who did speak, after studying Martin, was Chief Inspector Masters.
"Field-glasses, eh?" ruminated Masters. "A pair of old field-glasses, on an orange-topped table near the north-west side of the roof!"
"That's right"
"Would it interest you to know, sir, that other witnesses who went up there later didn't see any field-glasses?"
"I can't help that They were there earlier."
"I say, Masters." H.M. raised his head briefly. "Could they 'a' been the same glasses George Fleet used on the famous day?"
Masters simmered. "For the last time, Sir Henry—" "Will I stop babblin' about field-glasses, you mean? Oh, Masters, I know there were no hokey-pokey spikes to stick him in the eye! But I gather the field-glasses weren't busted; they fell just wide of the terrace and on the grass. And that's why the policeman picked 'em up and carried 'em inside." "Yes!"
H.M., an unlighted cigar in his fingers, craned round in his chair to blink at Martin.
"Now tell me, son," he said. "Supposing, Just supposing!) these were the same glasses! Were they a good pair? Good lenses? Easy focus? No blurrin' that would…" He paused. "Were they?"
"As I told you," Martin returned, "I didn't look through them very long. But they were in first-rate condition. I’ll swear to that"
"That's good news," breathed H.M. "Oh, my eye! That helps a lot."
Masters was unable to yank down his bowler hat on his bead, since he was not wearing it, but his gesture conveyed this.
"The field-glasses," he said, with strong self-control, "were in A-l order. They, had nothing wrong with them. And therefore (eh?) they're a great big smacking-sure help to us?"
"That's right, Masters."
"Er — just so." Masters addressed himself to his notebook and to Martin. "Anything more you can tell us, Mr. Drake?"
"I don't think so." This atmosphere had become dangerously explosive, and Martin tried to lighten it "I woke up with Lady Brayle sitting beside me. I annoyed her, and she annoyed me, so I decided to dress and come downstairs. In here I found H.M. telling Aunt — telling Lady Fleet about his previous existence as a Cavalier poet and duellist" He grinned. "By the way, sir, you ought to talk to Dr. Laurier."
"What's that, son? Hey?"
"Dr. Laurier. He's an authority on old-time fencing. He can tell you all about the 'Fifty-fifty and the 'Low-High' and the 'Vanity' and everything else. Incidentally, he says his father fought two duels in France."
Masters barked him back to attention. But Masters himself had a grievance, and was annoyed enough to air it
"A fat lot of good;" he growled, "this gentleman Laurier did us last night!"
Martin, knowing a question would shut him up, said nothing.
"All he kept talking about" Masters growled, "was his father, with the big grey beard, when the gentleman was old and a bit scatty, sitting in a rocking-chair in front of that infernal skeleton-clock, rocking back and forth and muttering something in French that Sir Henry says means, 'Would a man of honour have done it?’
"Ah, but not done a murder,’' Masters added. "Because, according to the record, he was in this very room talking to the butler when Sir George Fleet pitched off the roof." Masters started, and woke up. "Hurrum! Sorry! Off the subject! Now, Mr. Drake! What I wanted to ask—"
But he never asked it
Masters's gaze had strayed towards H.M.; and, after a pause, Masters's expression became that of one who sees a prayed-for portent in the sky.
H.M. had sat up straight His mouth fell open, and the unlighted cigar dropped out and rolled on the carpet. His look was fixed straight ahead behind the big spectacles; his hands were on the arm of the chair, his elbows hooked as though to push himself up. His voice, astounded, started from deep in the cellar and was at the same level when it emerged.
"Wait a minute!" H.M. begged. "Lemme think! Stop babblin' and lemme think!"
Nobody spoke. Martin, Ruth, and Stannard exchanged inquiring glances; Masters remained very quiet indeed; and H.M. fiercely pressed his hands over his head.