"Think so, hey?" inquired H. M., stiffening. "You got an idea somebody sat here lightin' innumerable cigarettes and then tossin' the match-ends on the floor? One match burned nearly down to a stump, or even two, I might admit as rather a lengthy light for a cigarette; but twelve or fifteen of 'em argued that somebody was strikin' 'em in the dark:'
"But put it this way," urged Willard. "Suppose it was innocent. Suppose that when Bohun discovered the body, coming on it all of a sudden in half light, he bent over and struck a match to make sure..:'
H. M. puffed his cheeks in and out. "Why, aside from the fact that he said he didn't, and there seems to be no earthly reason why he should have denied it, a man don't need a dozen matches to make sure somebody's dead. Besides, I rather imagine it was light enough at that time to see without 'em… wasn't it?' He swung sharply. Bennett felt that there was an underlying purpose in the question aside from what it seemed.
"Yes," he said, "just. I remember noticing how the light from the window fell directly on her."
"But, damn it," snapped Willard, "she wasn't killed in the dark!"
H. M., for some reason, was suddenly imbued with a fantastic jollity. He set his hat on the side of his head; he was almost affable.
"Oh; it's a funny business, son. An exceedingly rummy business. Why does the Visitor strike matches in the dark? Why are the two fires exactly the same? Why does the Visitor get mad and put two drinking-glasses down on the hearth and stamp on 'em? — By the way, you didn't do that, did you?"
"What?"
"Uh-huh. I'd better point that out to you. Come over here and look. You see that decanter? Notice how heavy it is? Notice where it is? — not on the hearthstone, but on the carpet. I defy you to smash that decanter merely by upsettin' a low tabouret and havin' it hit the floor. The Visitor busted it, son… Now look at those smashed glasses. Did you ever see any parts of a glass crushed by fallin' on the floor? I'll lay you a fiver you didn't. They're on the stone, where the Visitor put 'em and deliberately mashed 'em."
"But in a struggle-'
"Ho ho," said H. M., settling his coat over his shoulders. "Try the experiment some time. Put a round drinking-glass on the floor, imitate somebody staggerin' over the room in a struggle, and see if you will land a bull's-eye on one glass. They roll, son. They're as slippery as eels. And when you discover the probabilities of your breakin' not one glass, but two at the same time, I think you'll find that the old man's right. Did I hear somebody say we're not any better off than we were before. Now, about these chimneys…"
They had not heard the door to the drawing-room open, or any steps there. But they felt a cold current of air, which stirred the ashes in the fireplace, and (as Bennett could see from the corner of his eye) the sheet over Marcia Tait's body. There was something so eerie about it that for a moment nobody turned round. It was like the thin voice which spoke across the room.
"So," said the voice, "somebody has thought of the chimney at last? I must congratulate him."
Maurice Bohun, his throat swathed round in a wool muffler, and a raffish-looking tweed cap pulled over one eye, stood leaning on his stick in the doorway. His glazed stare wandered over to the figure on the bed; then he removed the cap with a gently satiric gesture, and became all deprecation. Behind him towered a bewildered and savage-looking Masters, who was making signals over his shoulder.
"But even if it has already occurred to you, which is surprising," said Maurice, with a curious snap of his jaws, "I think I can supply more complete details than anyone. Do you mind coming into the other room. I–I cannot stand the sight of death!"
He backed away suddenly.
"Mind, sir," Masters said over his shoulder, and appealing violently to H. M. "I don't say I believe this. I don't say it's true. But if you'll listen to what Mr. Bohun has to say…" "My humblest thanks, inspector."
" then there may be something in it. At least it explains a lot of things that've been putting the wind up us. And in a way I should think was rather tit-for-tat and sauce for the goose…"
"Don't gibber, Masters," said H. M. austerely. "I detest gibbering. What the devil is all this, anyhow? Can't a man have any peace without somebody rushin' in and gabblin' nonsense?"
Maurice leaned forward a little.
"You must excuse the chief inspector," he protested. "In his somewhat unliterary fashion, he is referring to what is known as poetic justice. I agree. Mr. Carl Rainger, from the depths of sheer spite, attempted this morning to fasten Marcia Tait's murder on my brother John. He provided for this impossible situation a clumsy explanation which would not stand scrutiny for five minutes."
He paused, still backing away with his dead-glazed eyes fixed on the quiet figure. Then he snapped:
"If you will come into the other room, Sir Henry, I will undertake to show you exactly how this Mr. Carl Rainger himself killed Miss Tait, and attempted by a clumsy subterfuge to escape my notice. I did not wish to speak to you in the house, in case it should entail unpleasantness. You will accompany me? I thank you. I — cannot endure the sight of death."
He backed so swiftly out of the room that he stumbled, and supported himself only by clinging to the frame of the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Second Design for Hanging
At half-past six that evening, Bennett was sitting in a lumpy arm-chair before the fire in his own room, without energy to finish dressing for dinner. His brainfelt literally heavy from weariness; draughts played in the creaky room; and Katharine had not yet returned from Dr. Wynne's, although she had telephoned that John would definitely pull through. Telephone messages: "This is Lord Canifest's secretary speaking. His Lordship will be quite unable to undertake a motor-journey at this moment, due to a heart-attack experienced last night, and is confined to his room. Should there be any doubt of this in the mind of the policeman who had occasion to 'phone, it is suggested that he communicate with His Lordship's physician. " Blaah, blaah, blaah.”
Bennett looked up at a murky painting hung over the mantelpiece, and down at the studless shirt in his lap. Murder, suicide, or holocaust, the business of calories and black ties must go on as usual. Maurice was in very high feather tonight; he had even issued orders that some special sherry was to be served, in place of cocktails, for the benefit of Sir Henry Merrivale. Sir Henry Merrivale had consented to spend the night at the White Priory. In other words (Bennett thought) what in the devil's name was on H. M.’s mind?
Which brought up the worst and most insistent question: was Maurice right about the murder? While Bennett and Masters and H. M. were walking back from the pavilion, with Bohun and Willard a little distance behind, H. M. had relieved his mind with a few sotto voce comments about Maurice, Maurice's character and Maurice's habits, which sizzled the ear of the listener with their force and sulphurousness. But that was all. He had only grunted when Maurice expounded his theory of the murder. He had sat back with a wooden face, under the spurious candlelight in the drawing-room of the pavilion, while Maurice deftly wove a halter for Carl Rainger. Masters had been impressed. So, evidently, had Willard. Bennett was willing to admit that he himself was more than impressed. But H. M. had been neither one thing nor the other.
"You say," he growled, "Rainger's still dead to the world and in his room? Right-ho. Let him keep. I s'pose you're not afraid to face him with this story?"
Well, then? That H. M. believed this explanation Bennett doubted. But the thing was so ingenious, and so plausible, that it appealed all the more for its retributive effect. When Rainger flung out an accusation on the strength of John Bohun's tracks, he had touched a snake that could sting in return. Again Bennett heard Maurice speaking quietly, levelly, with something like a similar warning whir in his voice.