"Perhaps he doesn't very much care about that," he said. "Or again, he may be quite sure he's too clever for us. Murderers get like that." He added, "We take a psychology course, you know, in our training. A schizophrenic's mentality is very interesting."
"Shall we cut out the long words?" said Giles.
"Certainly, Mr Davis. Two six-letter words are all that concern us at the moment. One's 'murder' and the other's 'danger.' That's what we've got to concentrate upon. Now, Major Metcalf, let me be quite clear about your movements. You say you were in the cellar -Why?"
"Looking around," said the major. "I looked in that cupboard place under the stairs and then I noticed a door there and I opened it and saw a flight of steps, so I went down there. Nice cellar you've got," he said to Giles. "Crypt of an old monastery, I should say."
"We're not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We're investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs Davis? I'll leave the kitchen door open." He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. "Is that what you heard, Mrs Davis?" he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.
"I - it does sound like it."
"That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him."
"Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard," cried Christopher. "Mine are there already," said Major Metcalf.
"Quite so," said Sergeant Trotter. "But we've a satisfactory explanation for those, haven't we?" he added smoothly.
"Look here, Sergeant," said Giles, "admittedly you're in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn't we to take precautionary measures?"
"Such as, Mr Davis?"
"Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect."
He looked straight at Christopher Wren.
Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. "It's not true! It's not true! You're all against me. Everyone's always against me. You're going to frame me for this. It's persecution - persecution -"
"Steady on, lad," said Major Metcalf.
"It's all right, Chris." Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. "Nobody's against you. Tell him it's all right," she said to Sergeant Trotter.
"We don't frame people," said Sergeant Trotter. "Tell him you're not going to arrest him."
"I'm not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There's no evidence - at present."
Giles cried out, "I think you're crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There's only one person who fits the bill, and-"
"Wait, Giles, wait -" Molly broke in. "Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I - can I speak to you a minute?"
"I'm staying," said Giles. "No, Giles, you, too, please."
Giles's face grew as dark as thunder. He said, "I don't know what's come over you, Molly." He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him. "Yes, Mrs Davis, what is it?"
"Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is - responsible for all this. But you don't know that?"
"That's perfectly true, Mrs Davis. But the probabilities lie that way - mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist's report."
"Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don't believe it is Christopher. There must be other - possibilities. Hadn't those three children any relations -parents, for instance?"
"Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad." "Well, what about him? Where is he now?"
"We've no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year." "And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too." "That is so."
"So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was."
Sergeant Trotter said quietly, "Please believe me, Mrs Davis, I've had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim - the father - even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven't overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind -but I don't know - yet. It's very hard really to know about anything or anyone - especially in these days. You'd be surprised what we see in the police force. With marriages, especially. Hasty marriages - war marriages. There's no background, you see. No families or relations to meet. People accept each other's word. Fellow says he's a fighter pilot or an army major - the girl believes him implicitly. Sometimes she doesn't find out for a year or two that he's an absconding bank clerk with a wife and family, or an army-deserter."
He paused and went on.
"I know quite well what's in your mind, Mrs Davis. There's just one thing I'd like to say to you. The murderer's enjoying himself. That's the one thing I'm quite sure of."
He went toward the door.
Molly stood very straight and still, a red flush burning in her cheeks. After standing rigid for a moment or two, she moved slowly toward the stove, knelt down, and opened the oven door. A savory, familiar smell came toward her. Her heart lightened. It was as though suddenly she had been wafted back into the dear, familiar world of everyday things. Cooking, housework, homemaking, ordinary prosaic living.
So, from time immemorial women had cooked food for their men. The world of danger -of madness, receded. Woman, in her kitchen, was safe - eternally safe.
The kitchen door opened. She turned her head as Christopher Wren entered. He was a little breathless.
"My dear," he said. "Such ructions! Somebody's stolen the sergeant's skis!" "The sergeant's skis? But why should anyone want to do that?"
"I really can't imagine. I mean, if the sergeant decided to go away and leave us, I should imagine that the murderer would be only too pleased. I mean, it really doesn't make sense, does it?"
"Giles put them in the cupboard under the stairs."
"Well, they're not there now. Intriguing, isn't it?" He laughed gleefully. "The sergeant's awfully angry about it. Snapping like a turtle. He's been pitching into poor Major Metcalf. The old boy sticks to it that he didn't notice whether they were there or not when he looked into the cupboard just before Mrs Boyle was murdered. Trotter says he must have noticed. If you ask me," Christopher lowered his voice and leaned forward, "this business is beginning to get Trotter down."
"It's getting us all down," said Molly.
"Not me. I find it most stimulating. It's all so delightfully unreal."
Molly said sharply, "You wouldn't say that if - if you'd been the one to find her. Mrs Boyle, I mean. I keep thinking of it -1 can't forget it. Her face - all swollen and purple -"
She shivered. Christopher came across to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. "I know. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I didn't think."
A dry sob rose in Molly's throat. "It seemed all right just now - cooking - the kitchen," she spoke confusedly, incoherently. "And then suddenly - it was all back again - like a nightmare."
There was a curious expression on Christopher Wren's face as he stood there looking down on her bent head.
"I see," he said. "I see." He moved away. "Well, I'd better clear out and - not interrupt you."
Molly cried, "Don't go!" just as his hand was on the door handle.
He turned round, looking at her questioningly. Then he came slowly back.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Mean what?"
"You definitely don't want me to - go?"
"No, I tell you. I don't want to be alone. I'm afraid to be alone."
Christopher sat down by the table. Molly bent to the oven, lifted the pie to a higher shelf, shut the oven door, and came and joined him.
"That's very interesting," said Christopher in a level voice.