“They’ll both have to be told.” The Earl waved a hand. “The house is full of police.”
This last was an exaggeration. Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby had already been swallowed up by the house. And there would, in any case, have been room for the entire Berebury Division in the Great Hall alone.
“Yes, sir,” murmured Purvis, who was not paid to contradict the Earl.
“And my aunts.”
“We’re all right for the moment there, sir. They won’t have been out yet. The visitors have hardly gone.”
“If I know them,” declared Lord Ornum, “they’ll be abroad any minute now. On the war path. Looking for damage.”
Purvis moved over towards the window. “We’ve got a little time anyway, sir. They’ll wait until that coach has gone.”
The Earl sighed heavily. “And then, Charles, you’d better find out exactly where my nephew William has been all this week.”
Purvis hesitated. “I think he’s down, sir…”
The Earl sighed again. “I thought he might be.”
“Someone told me that he was in The Ornum Arms last night,” said Purvis uneasily.
“Bad news travels fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then slip down to his cottage and tell him I want to see him, will you, there’s a good chap. I think we’d better keep him in the picture in spite of everything.”
“Very well, sir.”
The Earl lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
Charles Purvis said carefully, “He’s a very talkative young man, sir.”
“He gets that from his father.”
“Yes, sir, but it might do some harm…”
“He’s my sister’s boy, Charles. I can’t have him kept in ignorance of trouble here.”
“No, sir.”
“After all”—a gleam of humour crept into the Earl’s melancholy countenance—“we always hear when there’s trouble there, don’t we?”
“We do indeed,” agreed Charles Purvis grimly.
The first of the experts in death had arrived at Ornum House by the time Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby got back to the armoury. They were the two police photographers, Dyson and his assistant, Williams.
Dyson was standing by the door lumbered about with his equipment.
“Nice little place you have here, Inspector.”
“And a nice little mystery,” rejoined Sloan tartly.
Dyson looked up and down the two rows of armoured figures. “Make quite a pretty picture, this will.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“The lab boys will think I’ve been to the waxworks or something.” Dyson walked forward. “Which is the one that didn’t get away?”
“Second on the right,” said Sloan, “but we’ll want some of the total setting, too.”
“A pleasure.” Dyson assembled his camera and tripod with a rapidity that belied his flippant approach. His assistant handed him something, there was a pause, and then a quick flash. “Don’t suppose these chaps have seen anything brighter than that since Agincourt or something.”
Sloan was inclined to agree with him. There was an over-all gloom about the armoury that had nothing to do with the presence of the dead.
Williams, Dyson’s assistant, was rigging up some sort of white sheet to one side of the suit of armour for the tilt, circa 1595. He had persuaded Crosby to stand holding one end.
“Need the reflected light,” explained Dyson. Sloan nodded. Dyson never complained about his conditions of work. If he needed anything he brought it with him. He and Williams were self-sufficient members of the police team.
They moved their tripod in front of the suit. “Inspector?”
“Well?”
“Open or shut?”
“Open and shut,” said Sloan. “Crosby’s done the headpiece for fingerprints.”
“Close-helmet,” said Dyson.
“What?”
“Close-helmet,” repeated Dyson. “That’s what it’s called. Not headpiece.”
“Oh, is it?” said Sloan in neutral tones. “I must remember that.”
There was another bright flash. Then Williams moved forward and lifted the visor. Inspector Sloan was surprised again at the sight of the dead face.
“I remember,” said Dyson improbably, “when I was an apprentice photographer on the beach at Blackpool, people used to put their faces into a round hole like this…”
“Oh?”
“And we’d take a picture and they’d come up riding on the back of a sea-lion.”
“They did, did they?” said Sloan, “Well, let me tell you—”
“Or a camel, sir,” interposed Constable Crosby suddenly. He was still holding one end of the sheet. “I’ve been photographed riding on the back of a camel.”
Sloan snapped, “That’s enough of—”
“This chap reminds me of that,” said Dyson, unperturbed. “Sort of stepping into a set piece, if you know what I mean, Inspector. Just the round face visible.”
“I know what you mean. Now get on with it.”
“Right-oh.”
But for the fact that their subject was dead, the pair of them might have been taking a studio portrait.
“Back a little.”
“A bit more to your right, I think.”
“What about an inferior angle?”
“Good idea.”
“Hold it.”
Quite unnecessarily.
“Now a close-up.”
“Just one more, don’t you think?” Dyson turned. “Anything else, Inspector?”
Sloan grimaced. “I should think the only thing you two haven’t done is to ask him to say ‘cheese.’ ”
“No need,” said Dyson ghoulishly. “The face muscles contract anyway when you’re dead, and you get your facial rictus without asking.”
“I see.” It was perhaps as well that Dyson had gone in for photography. Knowing all the answers as he did would have got him nowhere on the police ladder of promotion.
Nowhere at all.
“He looks peaceful enough to me,” commented Dyson. “Any idea what hit him?”
“Not yet.”
“Plenty of weapons to choose from.” Dyson made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole collection. “Perhaps it was that one.”
“That’s a spetum,” announced Constable Crosby, who was close enough to read the label.
“A what?” said Sloan.
“Spetum. Honestly, sir.”
“Is it indeed?” said Sloan.
“Often confused with a ranseur,” added Crosby, straight from the label.
“Well,” said Dyson, “I’d rather have that for my money than that nasty-looking piece over there.” He indicated a heavy-headed weapon studded with vicious-looking spikes. “What in the name of goodness is that?”
Crosby leaned over and read aloud, “That’s a Holy Water Sprinkler.”
“Well, I’m blessed,” said Dyson, for once strangely appropriate in the phraseology of his reaction. “And the one next to it?”
Crosby moved a step towards a ferocious iron ball on the end of a short chain. “That’s called a Morning Star,” he said, “similar to a Military Flail.”
Dyson grinned. “Queer sense of humour the ancients had, didn’t they?”
“They did,” said Sloan shortly.
Dyson swung his camera back on his shoulder and took the hint. “We’d better be going then.” He picked up the heavy tripod. “Williams?”
“Coming.”
“Williams.” Dyson pointed towards the suit of armour with the wrong end of the tripod. “Williams, it’s closing time.”
Williams obediently moved forward and lowered the visor and they went.
Dillow put down the heavy silver tea tray.
Presently he would take away the silver teapot (Ann and Paul Bateman, 1792), the hot-water jug (Paul Storr, 1816), and the tray (unknown craftsman, 1807), clean them and stow them away in green baize in his pantry. For the time being he laid the tray on the kitchen table. Mrs. Morley, the housekeeper, would see to the china (Copeland) and the house maid would deal with everything else.