“Thank you,” murmured Sloan politely.
There was no denying that the butler was a man of considerable presence. As tall as the two policemen and graver. Sloan, who had subconsciously expected him to be old, saw that he was no more than middle-aged.
“If you would be so good as to follow me, gentlemen.”
Sloan and Crosby obediently fell in behind Dillow of the stately mien and set off on the long journey from the kitchen to what the butler referred to as the Private Apartments.
“You would have known Mr. Meredith, of course,” began Sloan as they rounded their first corridor.
“Certainly, sir. A very quiet gentleman. Always very pleasant, he was. And no trouble.”
“Really?” responded Sloan as non-committally as he could. Mr. Osborne Meredith might not have been any trouble to a butler. He was going to be a great deal of trouble to a police inspector.
This police inspector.
“He usually went home to luncheon,” said the butler. “Ah, through this way, I think, sir, if you don’t mind.”
He changed direction abruptly at the distant sound of voices. Sloan had almost forgotten the house was still full of people who had paid to see some—but by no means all—of the sights of Ornum House.
“Sometimes,” went on the butler, “he would take tea with the family, but more often than not he would be… ah… absorbed in his work and I would take him a pot to himself in the Library.”
“I shall want to see the Library presently.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And the… er… Muniments Room.”
“Certainly, sir.” Dillow had at last reached the door he wanted. He moved forward ahead of them, coughed discreetly, and announced:
“Two members of the County Constabulary to see you, milord.”
As a way of introducing a country police inspector and his constable, Sloan couldn’t have improved on it.
There were two people in the room: a middle-aged woman with fair hair and wide-open eyes of a pretty china blue and a man with a long drooping moustache. There was grey now among the fair hair and a rather vague look. The two had obviously just finished afternoon tea and the scene reminded Sloan of a picture he had once seen called Conversation Piece. The only difference as he remembered it was that in the picture the tea had not been drunk. Here, the meal was over, a fact appreciated by Dillow, who immediately began to clear away.
“Bad business,” said the Earl of Ornum.
“Yes, sir—milord,” Sloan amended hastily. In the nature of things, interviews with the titled did not often come his way.
“Poor, poor Mr. Meredith,” said the Countess. “Such a nice man.”
Not being altogether certain of how to address a Countess, Sloan turned back to the Earl. “You’ve seen his sister I understand, milord?”
“No. Tried to. Not at home.”
“Oh?”
“House shut up.” The Earl pulled gently at one side of his drooping moustache. “She must be away. Accounts for one thing though, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that, sir—milord?”
“No hue and cry for the man. General alarm not raised. Just chance that that boy—you’ve got his name, haven’t you?”
“Michael Fisher, Paradise Row, Luston,” said Constable Crosby, reading aloud from his notebook.
“Just chance that he opened the visor. Otherwise”—the Earl gave another tug at his moustache—“otherwise we might never have found him, what?”
“Possibly not, milord,” said Sloan. In fact the late Mr. Meredith might very well have begun to smell very soon, but in a medieval castle there was no knowing to what an unusual noisome aroma might have been attributed.
Drains, suspected Sloan.
“Of course,” went on his Lordship, “that suit might have acted like one of those Egyptian things…”
“Mummy cases?”
“That’s it. He might have… er… dried up.”
“He might,” agreed Sloan cautiously. He would ask the pathologist about that. A mummified corpse was certainly one that stood the least risk of being found.
“Should never have thought of looking there for him anyway. Not in a hundred years.”
“Quite so,” said Sloan. “Now when did you last see Mr. Meredith yourself, milord?”
“Just been talking to m’wife about that. Friday, I thought,” he said, adding, “Millicent thinks it was Thursday.”
The Countess of Ornum had a high, bell-like voice. “Days are so alike, aren’t they, Inspector?”
Sloan said nothing. They might very well be for the aristocracy. They weren’t for police inspectors.
“I thought it was Thursday, but it may have been Friday.” The Countess looked appealingly round the room as if one or other of the numerous pieces of furniture could tell her.
“I see… er…” Sooner or later the nettle of how to address this vague doll-like woman would have to be grasped. He added firmly, “Milady.”
He doubted if she even heard him.
“It isn’t,” she said, fluttering her eyes at him, “as if anything happened on either day.”
“No, milady?”
She smiled. “Then I might have remembered.”
It was rather like interviewing cotton wool or blotting paper.
“It would be very helpful, milady,” said Sloan formally, “if you could remember.”
“I know.” She gave him a sweet smile. “I will try. Such a nice man.”
“Indeed?” said Sloan, unmoved. It was no great help to him that the deceased had been a nice man.
“Everyone liked him,” said the Countess vaguely.
Someone patently hadn’t, but Sloan did not say so. Instead he turned back to the Earl. It was easier.
“The pathologist will be here presently, milord, and the police photographers and so forth, after which we will be removing Mr. Meredith to the police mortuary at Berebury.”
“Quite so, Inspector.” Another tug at the moustache. “Purvis will give you all the help you need. Unless it’s a bearer party you want. Then there’s Hackle and Dillow and m’nephew.”
“Your nephew?”
“Miles. M’brother’s boy. Staying with us. Hefty chap.”
“And where would I find him?” Sloan would want to interview everybody in time—but especially the hefty.
His Lordship withdrew a watch and chain from his vest pocket. “Silly mid on.”
Sloan could hear Crosby snorting by his side. “Where?” he said hastily.
“The cricket field. Playing for Ornum against Petering.”
“I see, sir.”
“Blood match, you know. Meredith would never have dreamt of missing it ordinarily.”
“Keen on the game, was he, milord?”
“Very. That’s how he got the job here in the first place.”
“Really?”
“Team needed a bowler. M’father took on Meredith.”
“As librarian?”
The Earl looked at Sloan. “As a bowler, Inspector. By the time he got past being a bowler no one else knew where to find anything in the Library.”
“I see, sir.” Sloan himself had started as a constable and worked his way up, but things were obviously done differently here. He cleared his throat. “And Lord Cremond, milord? I shall have to have a word with him in due course.”
“Henry? He’s at the match, too. Scoring.”
“Scoring?” That didn’t sound right for the son and heir.
“Cut his hand on Friday,” said the Earl, “so he couldn’t play.”
“It was Thursday, I think,” said the Countess.
Detective Constable Crosby, who had made a note, crossed it out and then—audibly—reinstated it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” intervened Sloan quickly. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, no.” The Earl stroked his moustache. “Caught it on some metal somewhere, he said.”