“What did he say?”
“He said he thought he had upset them by his discoveries about the earldom.”
“And that,” said Charles Purvis wryly, “is putting it mildly.”
To say that Dillow waylaid those returning from the village cricket match would be an exaggeration and tantamount to unsubtlety on the butler’s part.
He simply happened to be hovering in the entrance hall when they happened to return.
“We won,” announced Lord Henry as he entered. He was a physical parody of his father, seasoned by his mother’s vagueness. “Good match, though.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, sir, but—”
“It’s a help, of course,” chimed in Miles Cremond, close on his heels, “having Henry scoring for us.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Rather.” Miles was a square, thickset man with only some of the Cremond family characteristics. His features would blunt badly with time. Already there was a blur where his chin had been. In contrast, his wife, Laura, was a sharp-featured, angular woman, accustomed to command.
“Miles, you should go straight up to change now.”
“Yes, dear.”
Dillow coughed. “His Lordship has asked to see you all as soon as you came back.”
The Earl and Countess were still in their sitting-room. The Earl got to his feet as the three of them trooped in.
“Something wrong, Father?” That was Lord Henry.
“Yes.”
Laura Cremond said urgently, “What?”
“Mr. Meredith has met with an accident here.”
“Good Lord. Poor chap,” said Henry. “I’d no idea he was even in the house.”
“Neither,” said the Earl of Ornum drily, “had anyone else.”
“Didn’t think he usually came in at the weekend anyway.”
“He didn’t.”
“Thought it funny he wasn’t at the match though,” went on Henry. “Haven’t known him to miss a match in years.”
“Especially the Petering one,” put in Miles, fresh from victory.
The Earl of Omum, aided by several tugs at his moustache, told them about the body in the armour.
Laura Cremond sat down rather suddenly in the nearest chair. “But when did he die?”
“That, Laura, I can’t tell you.”
Lord Henry said thoughtfully, “Someone wasn’t expecting him to be found.”
“No,” agreed the Earl.
“You couldn’t know that that little stinker—what did you say his name was?”
“Michael Fisher.”
“Michael Fisher was going to open up Grumpy like that.”
“To open up who?”
“Grumpy.” Lord Henry gave an engaging smile. “You did say the second suit of armour on the right, didn’t you, Father?”
“I did”—heavily.
“That,” said his son and heir, “was Grumpy. We called all the suits of armour after Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, you know, when we were small.”
“Did you?”
“Snow White was the puffed and slashed suit,” ventured Miles. “Had a feminine touch about it, we thought.”
“Indeed?” said the Earl.
“That was the Decadence,” said Lord Henry. “We all used to play down there a lot, didn’t we, Miles?”
“Oh yes,” affirmed Miles. “Cut our milk teeth on the armour, you might say.”
“It was Mr. Ames, really,” said Lord Henry. “He was such an enthusiast he didn’t seem to mind how much we hung about. Taught us a lot.”
“All the names for the parts,” agreed Miles. “I’ve forgotten most of them. I expect Henry and William have, too, by now.”
“William,” the Earl sighed. “I was forgetting William played with you.”
Lord Henry frowned in recollection. “There was Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy—that was the one with the long nosepiece.”
“I daresay,” said the Earl, “but I don’t see—”
“Bascinet,” said Miles Cremond suddenly. “I’ve just remembered—”
“I thought that was something you put a baby in.” The Countess of Ornum, silent until now, came to life like an actress on cue.
“Bascinet,” repeated Miles. “That was what Sneezy’s helmet was called. A visored bascinet.”
“That’s right,” agreed Lord Henry. “And Dopey’s was called a burgonet.”
“A closed burgonet,” added Miles. “That’s what made him look so simple. See, we haven’t forgotten after all.”
“You do seem to have forgotten that this isn’t a nursery game,” said his wife sharply.
Miles subsided. “Er… no. Rather not.”
“There were seven without Snow White,” said Lord Henry consideringly. “I wonder why he ended up in Grumpy?”
“That’s easy,” said Miles. “Don’t you remember, Henry? Grumpy came to pieces easiest.”
The Earl’s head came up as he said sharply, “Who knew that?”
“Everyone,” said Miles helpfully.
Laura Cremond looked round. “Someone put him in there who didn’t mean him to be found, I suppose?”
The Earl nodded. “I think so, Laura. And the police want to talk to you all as soon as they can.”
After his encounter with Lady Maude, Inspector Sloan found it a positive relief to be talking to a trained specialist.
He met Dr. Dabbe and his assistant, Burns, in the Great Hall. It hadn’t taken the fastest (living) driver in Calleshire long to get from Kinnisport on the coast to Ornum, veering into Berebury to pick up his assistant. His black bag went with him everywhere.
“The weather was just right for sailing,” said the doctor reproachfully. “Sunday, too.”
Sloan said, “If it had been as warm down there as it is up here, I fancy our chap would have been found a bit sooner.”
“Like that, is it?” The pathologist took in the Great Hall at a glance and followed Sloan down the spiral staircase. Burns brought up the rear.
Dabbe waved his free hand. “Did he walk down here or was he carried?”
“I couldn’t say, Doctor. Not yet. I’ve only seen his face so far.”
“I see.” Dabbe reached the bottom step. “This the basement?”
“Dungeon level,” Sloan corrected him gloomily. After all, this was not a department store. “I don’t know if they go lower than this.”
“Moat?” suggested Dabbe. “They usually had moats.”
Constable Crosby let them into the armoury.
“Ah…” said Dabbe, looking round appreciatively. “Do I take my pick?”
“Second on the right,” said Sloan, and not for the first time.
Perhaps he should have put a fresh notice beside the one that was already there, (man in armour, perhaps, Or human remains, circa now.)
Aloud he said only, “We’ve put a chalk ring on the floor, Doctor, round him… er… it…”
“Armour for the tilt, circa 1595,” read out the pathologist. “Well, well, well…”
It wasn’t well at all, though Sloan forbore to say so.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a corpse… er… girded before,” said Dabbe.
“No.” Neither had Sloan.
The pathologist advanced and looked the armour over. That was one of the things Sloan admired in him. He came, he looked, he examined—then he spoke.
“The deceased?”
“Mr. Osborne Meredith.”
“Wasn’t a very tall man.”
“No,” agreed Sloan. The suits of armour—though intimidating—were not large. Both policemen looked down on them without difficulty.
“Too much school milk, that’s what it is,” said Dr. Dabbe.
“Pardon, Doctor?”
“We’re all taller now. People were smaller then.” He walked round behind the armour. “It’s a pretty complete job. He didn’t intend to be stabbed in the back.”
Sloan nodded in agreement. From where he was standing it looked as if the man in armour hadn’t intended to be stabbed anywhere at all.