“That’s right. It doesn’t do to put your best picture in full sunlight.” Charles Purvis might not know as much about the paintings as Osborne Meredith, but he had been trained in how to care for them. “You keep it away from daylight as much as you can. Certain sorts of artificial lights are better…”
Inspector Sloan halted suddenly on the staircase.
Constable Crosby didn’t and all but cannoned into him from behind and below.
“Miss Cleepe.” cried Sloan, bringing his hand down on the banister in a great smack. “She told us this morning…”
“Miss Cleepe?” Purvis merely looked bewildered., “Miss Cleepe didn’t tell us anything.”
“A walloping great clue,” declared Sloan solemnly, “and we none of us spotted it. Did we?”
“No, sir,” said Constable Crosby.
“No, Inspector,” said Purvis wonderingly. “Miss Cleepe? Are you sure you mean Miss Cleepe?”
“Miss Cleepe. Crosby, it’s in your book what she said.”
Crosby obediently turned back the pages in his notebook, licking his thumb as he did so. “Would it be the bit about the Holbein, sir?”
“Of course it’s about the Holbein,” snapped Sloan testily. “Can’t you see, Crosby, that all of this is about the Holbein? It always has been. Right from the very beginning, only we didn’t know.”
“No, sir”—staidly. Crosby ran his finger down the page. “Where do you want me to start?”
“They were talking about the Long Gallery being rather dark,” said Sloan, “and then Miss Cleepe said something about—”
“I’ve got it, sir. Here. It was after that bit about the ghost. Miss Cleepe said, ‘It’s such a long, narrow room, and the bulb in its own little light is broken. Dillow’s getting another for me.’ ”
“The light over the picture was broken,” breathed Purvis. “Of course.”
“I should have spotted that,” said Sloan. “It was a break with normality and so it was significant.”
“There is this special light over the picture,” agreed Purvis. “It’s meant to show it up without injuring it. It doesn’t get a lot of light otherwise.”
Constable Crosby made a credible attempt at imitating the refined tones of Mrs. Mompson by raising his voice to an affected squeak and reading from his notebook, “ ‘It’s practically in the half dark in the Long Gallery where it is. Halfway from each window and not very good windows at that.’ ”
Sloan said, “Are you feeling all right, Crosby?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Charles Purvis said slowly, “Someone put a broken light bulb in so people shouldn’t get a good view of the picture.”
“That’s right.”
“Most people wouldn’t know the difference between the one that’s hanging there and the real thing. I wouldn’t for one—you’d have to be a real expert.”
“We aren’t concerned about most people,” said Sloan, “are we? We’re concerned with one person.”
“Osborne Meredith.”
“Precisely.”
“The real expert,” agreed Purvis. “The only person who would know.”
“Other than The Young Masters,” said Sloan softly.
“You mean they come into this, too?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Charles Purvis grasped the balustrade of the staircase. “This is all getting very complicated, Inspector.”
“On the contrary,” said Sloan. “It’s getting simpler and simpler all the time. I now know what Mr. Hamilton should be looking for in the Muniments Room. Crosby…”
“Sir?”
“Assemble everyone in the Private Apartments, please, while I see The Young Masters and the Archivist.”
Though it was teatime there was nothing of the drawing-room tea party about the gathering in the Private Apartments now. True, people were drinking tea, but they were drinking it thirstily because they needed it. They were not eating at all because they were not hungry.
The only person, in fact, to touch the food, noted Sloan, had been Cousin Gertrude. With her, the shock over William Murton’s death had taken a different form. She had forgotten to take off the gardening apron in which she had been doing the flowers. A pair of scissors poked out of the apron pocket and a piece of twine drooled down the front.
William Murton’s death had driven the Countess to even greater heights of absentmindedness. She was pouring tea as if her life depended on it, but the hand that held the teapot shook so much that as much tea went in the saucer as in the cup. Dillow made one or two deft attempts to field the wavering stream, but in the end he went away for more hot water and clean saucers.
Mr. Adrian Cossington was very much taking a back seat, but Laura Cremond had been badly affected by the news. She was sitting—unusually docile—beside Miles on a small chiffonier. Her face had a pinched, frightened look and she never took her eyes off Inspector Sloan’s face.
He and Crosby were seated near the door. If he leaned a fraction to his right, Sloan could see through the window and down to the main door of the house. There were two figures in blue standing where once footmen in powder had waited—only these two figures were policeman and their different duty was to let no one pass. There were other figures, too, at all the other exits from Ornum House, but only Sloan and Crosby knew this.
Mr. Ames had gone across to the Church, otherwise everyone was in the house.
Lady Eleanor looked as if she had been crying and Lord Henry as if his hand was hurting him. Dillow came back with more hot water for the Countess.
“I knew someone was going to die what with the Judge walking and everything,” said Cousin Gertrude gruffly. “Didn’t think it would be William though.”
“But why did it have to be William?” asked Lady Eleanor, a husky catch in her voice. “I know he was difficult and odd, but he wouldn’t have really harmed anyone…”
Inspector Sloan shuffled his notes. “I think, your Ladyship, that he came up to the house on Friday evening.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Nobody saw him.”
“Well, then, how do you know…”
“I don’t know,” said Sloan, “but I think. I think he came up quietly round about the time you were all dressing for dinner.”
“Nobody much about then,” grunted the Earl.
“Exactly. It’s the one time when you could all be expected to be in your rooms.” He paused significantly. “A fact, incidentally, also appreciated by Osborne Meredith’s murderer.”
There was total silence in the room. The Countess stopped pouring tea and the silver teapot hovered, precariously suspended over a cup. Dillow was going to be lucky to escape scalding.
“But why did he come up like that in the first place?” Lord Henry wanted to know. “He was always welcome, you know. He wasn’t as bad a chap as you might think from talking to him. Didn’t do himself justice.”
“He might,” said Sloan cautiously, “have been in the habit—the bad habit—of coming up here without any of you knowing.”
The Earl cleared his throat. “Very true, Inspector. I think he did. Suspected it myself before now.”
“Harry!” That was the Countess. “You never told me.”
“No need, my dear. As Eleanor says, he was quite harmless.”
“But what did he do here?”
“Nothing, probably. Just have a look round.”
“And where did he go?”
The Earl gave his moustache a tug. “I expect the Inspector has guessed.”
Sloan nodded. “I think so, my lord. I think William Murton was in the habit—the bad habit—of slipping up into the room behind the peephole.”
