Dawkins shook his head. “I’ve never been in this part before.”
“Well, Mr. Millicent, who lived here for years with his wife and daughter, died very suddenly in this very room. He was a strange, remote sort of gentleman, so I’m told, and a great traveler. About middle age, he was. Had a habit of sitting up late, reading and writing, enjoyed perfect health, enough money to live on so far as people knew, and apparently without an enemy in the world. At ten o’clock one evening he was found lying across that desk with a wound in his throat big enough to put your hand into.”
“Why?” said Dawkins, startled.
Mr. Jarrad shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what the coroner and the local police and the London detective tried to find out, and failed. No proof against anyone; no strange characters about, no clues, nothing found afterward, nothing whatever to go on; but it happened in this sleepy old place where there’s nothing but roses and scenery. It’s never been cleared up to this day, and probably never will be.”
Dawkins glanced about rather uncomfortably. “Then the place was sold?”
“Mrs. Millicent couldn’t get out quickly enough. The Thursbys came along in their car, offered half its value, and got it. They said they didn’t mind a murder or so if the drains were good. When they moved in they intended to stay; but they moved out in less than six months, and I’m told that Mrs. Thursby said that nothing on earth would induce her to stay. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“It’s a queer old house anyway. Not haunted, is it?”
“I never heard a whisper of that, and it’s the sort of thing you can’t keep quiet if tongues start wagging.”
“I wonder,” murmured Dawkins reflectively, “if my client knows about this.”
Mr. Jarrad’s brows went up. “In our profession it does not concern us what our clients may or may not know. Our business is to establish the physical condition of a lot of infernally uninteresting things. But, believe me, every house has its secret. We can’t report on that; we can’t even read it, because we’re not there long enough.”
Dawkins nibbled the end of his pen. “I wonder!”
“Why not? Every room I go into seems to want to say something to me, something it’s tired of keeping to itself, but I hurry through because I don’t want to be burdened. When you’ve been an inventory clerk a few years longer, it will come to you. You can’t escape it.” He paused, his gaze traveling round the oaken walls, then peered under the clock, swung out a picture, and examined the surface behind it. He touched this with a moistened finger.
“Condition in general I should say is excellent.”
It struck the younger man that for some time he had been accepting Mr. Jarrad’s conclusions without comment; so he got up and made a businesslike inspection on his own account.
“Only fair, I should say.”
Mr. Jarrad made a little noise in his throat. “There’s not much to disagree about. Shall we arbitrate?”
“Of course!”
The older man felt in his pocket, produced a coin, and tossed it.
“Heads,” said Dawkins.
“It’s tails,” Mr. Jarrad smiled blandly. “Make a note of that, will you?”
Dawkins moved back to the table and began to scribble. The next moment he became aware that someone had entered the room and stopped short. Mr. Jarrad was regarding a woman who stood just inside the door and surveyed them with grim attention. Neither man had heard her come. Her face was well formed but sallow; the chin rather square, the nose long and thin. Her lips were immobile and slightly compressed. It was the eyes that held the two appraisers, being large and black and filled with a kind of slow, smoldering light. Her figure, tall, spare, and angular, carried with it an odd suggestion of menace. Her air was one of distinct animosity. Dawkins gave a slight start. A short silence followed, and he wondered how long she had been there, also how much she had seen and heard.
“Mr. Derrick is just coming up the drive,” she said crisply.
Mr. Jarrad rubbed his hands as though they were cold.
“Excellent,” he replied with obvious relief. “My colleague and I have just completed our work. I understand you are the housekeeper, Miss Perkins?”
“No, I am the housemaid; at least, I was.”
“Then it may interest you to know that we find the place in admirable condition.”
Perkins seemed unimpressed, took a slow glance round the room, and disappeared. Nor did Mr. Jarrad appear to expect any reply. Dawkins did not speak but whistled softly. Since the history of this room had been unfolded, it had become rather oppressive, and the sudden advent of this strange woman added mysteriously to his uncomfortable sensations. He experienced a swift longing for light and air. Mr. Jarrad had crossed to the fireplace and was staring at an oil portrait over the hearth. Presently he stroked his long chin.
“That woman, I believe, came here soon after Mr. Millicent first came. She was here when he died, then stayed with the Thursbys during their occupancy, took charge of the house when they decided they had had enough; and, Dawkins, I don’t mind betting she’ll stay with your clients too, as long as they stay.”
Dawkins gave an involuntary shiver. “What holds her in such a lonely place?”
“Every house has its secret,” said Mr. Jarrad.
At this moment quick steps sounded in the hall, there was an echo of a young, strong voice, and the new tenant of Beech Lodge entered the room.
