‘You would not have expected her to get up?’
‘No.’
‘And you would certainly not have expected her, Mrs Page, to get up shortly after you looked in, to have dressed herself, to have gone out into the somewhat inclement state apartments?’
Mrs Page gazed at him as though she had been thunder-struck. The colour in her cheeks ebbed and flowed and she clasped her hands tightly together in a vain effort to prevent them shaking.
‘I… No… no… I would not.’
‘And yet, apart from yourself, she is the only inhabitant of that wing, and the only other woman on that side of the house?’
‘Yes… that is true… the only woman.’
Gently nodded mercifully and looked away into the fire.
‘You must know, Mrs Page, that we have a statement to the effect that a woman’s voice was heard in argument in the great hall shortly after one o’clock last night, and that a moment or so later the figure of a woman was seen to emerge from the portal opposite the head of the stairs — it would be from the saloon, wouldn’t it? — and go quickly through the door at the north-west corner of the gallery. Now that particular door would be the obvious choice of a person wishing to return to the north-west wing by the shortest possible route, and the north- west wing is, of course, your own, Mrs Page. We are wondering if you would like to make a comment on this statement?’
The bracket-clock, which might have been a Tompion, impressed its leisurely ticking on the painful silence. From a great distance in the freezing dark outside came the eerie barking of a dog. Each of the five men could hear Mrs Page’s quick-taken breathing.
‘Naturally, you are not obliged to comment…’
‘Exactly,’ weighed in Sir Daynes. ‘Don’t have to say a word, m’dear — think nothing of it.’
‘Though if you do not, certain inferences-’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ bumbled Sir Daynes. ‘No inferences — nothing of that sort. If you’ve nothing to say, take my advice, and don’t say it — just a shot in the dark, m’dear… don’t expect it to help us.’
The effect of this rapid little fire and counter-fire was only to make more emphatic the silence it interrupted. Mrs Page continued to sit in statuesque wordlessness, the clock to tick, the dog, after an interval, to bark. It almost seemed as though she had lost the power of speech. But then, just as Sir Daynes was gathering his forces for another attempt, she suddenly forestalled him.
‘I really don’t know what comment you expect me to make.’ Her voice was surprisingly steady and normal. ‘If a woman was seen as you describe, then it must have been one of the servants or the weaving staff. It could not have been my maid, and I assure you that nobody came to the north-west wing after I retired last night. Your informant was either mistaken, or else he was spying on two of the servants.’
‘Just so, just so!’ exclaimed Sir Daynes in relief. ‘Nobody came to your wing… that’s what we wanted to know. Lot of poppycock I don’t doubt — couple of servants necking and getting up to mischief.’
Gently shook a relentless head. ‘Isn’t it an odd place for servants to neck? Presumably they have cosier quarters in their wing than are to be found in the saloon at one a.m.’
‘I don’t think it’s odd at all.’ Now she was facing him, the Feverell eyes stiffened with determination. ‘Servants are not so predictable as you seem to suppose. They are capable of all sorts of odd freaks, especially in such a large and comparatively unoccupied house as is this.’
‘Then you think it likely that two of them would be pursuing their odd freaks in that place, at that hour, after what would have been a tiring day for them, and a few minutes before a murder was committed, Mrs Page?’
‘I think it is improbable but far from impossible, Inspector.’
‘I must beg to differ, Mrs Page.’
‘Then you are left with my alternative hypothesis that your informant was mistaken, Inspector. And now, if you have really nothing else to ask me, I should be pleased to go to tea.’
Gently made a gesture of neutrality and Mrs Page, now quite in command of herself, rose and departed, the gallant baronet ushering her to the door with a volley of deprecations, excuses and assurances. He returned very silently, however, to pace the room with an expression of mighty deliberation on his leonine face. After the third excursion he came to an abrupt standstill where Gently was leaning on the corner of the mantelpiece.
‘All right!’ he barked. ‘All right, Chief Inspector Gently! There are two damned good theories — yours and mine. Yours says that Janice is lying; mine says that Johnson is. And out of the two of them, I’d pick mine every day of the blasted week!’
Gently shook his head sadly. ‘I haven’t got a theory,’ he replied. ‘I’m just following the ball… remember? I’m not responsible for the way it goes.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tea was sent in for the policemen — after Sir Daynes had brusquely turned down an invitation to the Place table both for himself and Gently. It was no makeshift affair. Three maids with two dumbwaiters were necessary for its expedition, and the table, that important adjunct of interrogation, had to be arranged in the centre of the room and accept the dignity of a damask cloth for the occasion.
Sir Daynes was patently impatient of such a wholesale interruption. Hestood by the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, pishing and pshawing as silver was laid out, the cake and the trifle installed, crackers dispensed, and a dozen seductively laden dishes set at points of vantage. Then came two bowls of peerless fruit, a dish of mixed nuts, some boxes of dates, Chinese figs, Turkish delight, creme de menthe, chocolate liqueurs and a large case of preserved fruits. Finally, with the baronet at breaking point, a tray on which were several bottles and a box of Coronaswas brought in and placed handily on a side-table.
‘Confound the man!’ fumed Sir Daynes balefully. ‘Does he think we’re giving a party, or some damn thing?’
‘You’ll not be swearing on Christmas Day, Sir Daynes,’ came a reproving voice from without the door.
‘Eh?’ exclaimed the baronet. ‘What’s that? Didn’t see you there, Mrs Barnes.’
‘It doesna matter if you did or you didna, Sir Daynes.’ The little silvery-haired housekeeper took a step into the doorway. ‘It doesna become a man of your standing and principle to be making heathen oaths on such a day, and well you know it.’
‘But dash it all, Mrs Barnes-’
‘Och, there you go again.’
‘I mean — bless my soul! A fine thing at a police inquiry-’
‘You are not quarrelling with your vittels, Sir Daynes?’
Sir Daynes bit back an unholy expletive.
‘Now just take it easy, or you’ll be ruining your digestion. In forrty years there hasna been a man nor mouse in this establishment who lacked his vittels on a Christmas Day, and the good laird will make no exception now…’
Mrs Barnes departed with her minions, leaving a smirk on the face of Inspector Dyson and a broad grin on that of Gently. Sir Daynes tried to quell his rebellious subjects with a display of baronetics, but giving it up as a bad job, ordered an immediate assault on the offending tea-table. It was obeyed with alacrity. Five appreciative policemen set themselves to expunge all matters of business from their minds until justice had been done to the hospitality of Merely Place. Crackers, alas, were pulled, and caps were worn, and Sir Daynes, forgetting the relative solemnity of the moment, laughed loud and long at a printed joke that for some reason struck none of the others as being particularly funny. He remembered himself immediately, however. From the serious way in which he lit his cigar, it was plain that he felt his hilarity to have been out of place. Christmas Day it might be, but it was a grim occurrence that had brought this odd quintet together at its festive board.
‘Ring the bell and get this lot cleared away — we’ve still got the best part of a day’s work in front of us!’
A reluctant constable, Corona in hand, went to do the baronet’s bidding. Soon the table was bared and replaced in its official position, and the room, apart from lingering samples of fruit and confectionery, more in keeping with its temporary character. Inspector Dyson reoccupied the inquisitorial seat, his shorthand man took
