‘Yes, I think two days ago, in preparation for Christmas.’
Gently nodded his mandarin nod. He seemed quite unaware of the pregnant silence.
‘So that if, out of six objects in the hall, five had a thin layer of dust and one had not, you would say that that one had been wiped at some time less than two days ago?’
Somerhayes’s head slowly sank in acknowledgement.
‘Damn it, man, what is all this?’ erupted Sir Daynes fiercely. ‘What the devil six objects are you talking about?’
Gently pointed up the stairway. Seven pairs of eyes followed his outstretched finger. On two oval panels, hung on each side of the marble doorway, were displayed six antique japanned-and-gilt truncheons.
‘It’s the lowest one on the left-hand side… Do you think we might have it sent to the lab?’
‘Blast you, Gently!’ roared Sir Daynes. ‘I thought I asked you to keep out of this business?’
Gently hunched his shoulders and looked down at the sprawling figure at the foot of the stairs.
‘There was somebody else who asked me to keep in,’ he replied expressionlessly.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr Shiel estimated the time of death at between one and three a.m. The ambulance had arrived and departed; Earle’s belongings had been collected and examined by curious policemen. The best part of them were comprised by a pile of variously shaped packages wrapped in silver foil and tied up with gold tinsel… Each one was labelled, and it was a nice legal point whether the labels did or did not have the force of a last will and testament. Sir Daynes, with the air of one gripping a nettle, had phoned Earle’s unit at Sculton and conservatively reported the details of the lieutenant’s demise.
‘That’ll mean trouble before we’re very much older,’ he forecast gloomily as he pressed down the receiver.
They had returned to the Manor for lunch, which was, of course, dinner; but the flavour had gone out of the festivities for that day. Sir Daynes was like a bear with a sore head. Even now he was unwilling to relinquish the comfortable theory of accidental death — surely that was a bad enough condiment for the turkey, without invoking the ultimate in misfortunes.
‘I suppose that damned truncheon of yours clinches the matter,’ he grumbled over his pudding. ‘No other reason why it should be wiped… People don’t go around wiping odd truncheons.’
‘We’ll know when we get the lab report.’ Gently was no more in love with life than his host.
‘Could have been something else… some fool using it to poke the fire, or something. Or what about the feller himself? It’s shaped like a baseball bat. Might have taken a swing or two with it, just to see how it was balanced…’
‘Daynes,’ sighed his spouse, ‘you’ll almost certainly get indigestion. Why don’t you let Inspector Dyson get on with it, and stop fretting like a broody hen?’
They were smoking cigars when the lab got through. Sir Daynes was in the hall almost before the phone began ringing.
‘Well — that’s settled that! The lab confirms it was the weapon. Among other things it has his brilliantine on it, and some impacted human skin.’
‘There weren’t any prints?’
‘No — wiped off clean.’
‘Someone didn’t panic after the body went down the stairs.’
‘I think this is horrid,’ exclaimed Lady Broke reprovingly. ‘Daynes, I really will not have you discussing homicide in my lounge.’
‘All right, m’dear!’ Sir Daynes found a smile for her. ‘Come on, Gently, let’s get back. Dyson is waiting the interrogations for us.’
The Place seemed as empty and as frigid as a gigantic sepulchre on that grey afternoon. Except for the constable, reinstalled outside the door, and the servant who led them through the interminable dust-sheeted rooms, they met nobody until they arrived at the little blue drawing room in the north-east wing. Here Inspector Dyson was impatiently warming his posterior at a newly lit fire, and two constables stood gleaning what they could, one on either side of him.
‘Hah!’ said Sir Daynes, by way of inspiring the atmosphere with his presence. The monosyllable had its effect. A reluctant Dyson unbonneted the hearth, which was immediately reinvested by the shameless baronet. The two constables shrank yet further away from the centre of comfort, and their places were taken by Dyson and Gently.
‘Hah!’ repeated Sir Daynes with satisfaction. ‘Don’t know how they got on in the eighteenth century, but this blasted great barn has been an ice-house ever since I can remember. Must have bred ’em tougher in those days, Dyson. Must have had circulations like double-action pumps. No wonder the confounded females wore eighteen petticoats, eh, eh?’
Dyson essayed a polite laugh, and Sir Daynes rubbed his hands genially.
‘Well now, about this business. You’ve had the lab report, have you?’
‘Yes, sir. It came half an hour ago.’
‘What are your ideas, man? I suppose you’ve got some?’
Dyson looked uncomfortable, as though he were a bit low in that department.
‘We’ve been all round the outside of the house, sir, just in case there’d been a break-in. And Lord Somerhayes and some of his staff checked through the inside to see if anything was disturbed or missing.’
‘Did y’get any results?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pity, Dyson.’
‘Looks like an inside job, sir.’
‘You don’t have to blasted well rub it in, Dyson.’
Sir Daynes knitted his brows, which were splendidly adapted to the purpose, and swayed forward slightly to adjust matters in his rear.
‘And you’ve got some ideas?’
‘Er… nothing concrete, sir.’
‘You mean you haven’t got any?’
‘At this stage, sir, I thought it best to keep an open mind.’
Sir Daynes grunted meaningfully, but refrained from a sarcasm that had obviously occurred to him. ‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ he said. ‘Ask Lord Somerhayes to come in.’
A constable was dispatched, and returned shortly to usher in the nobleman. Somerhayes looked more collected than he had done in the morning. The ghostly paleness had left his high-boned cheeks; there was some colour in his lips; a certain firmness, when he spoke, had replaced the near-hysteria-sounding flatness of his voice. He looked quickly around him on entering, and seeing Gently, gave him a fey little smile. Gently returned it with a solemn nod.
‘Haven’t interrupted your dinner, man, have we?’ enquired Sir Daynes with concern.
‘No, thank you, Daynes. I have had very little appetite for it.’
‘Mistake, man, mistake. Should keep up your strength, y’know.’
Somerhayes made no reply, but took his seat in the chair that had been set facing the table impressed for the business of taking statements. Dyson took his place opposite, his short-hand constable beside him; Sir Daynes and Gently remained standing, the former shifting over a bit to give Gently a fairer look at the fire.
‘Your full name, sir?’
‘Henry Ainslie Charles Feverell, sixth Baron Somerhayes.’
‘Of Merely Place in the county of Northshire, sir?’
‘Yes… magistrate of that county.’
Why was he looking at Gently while he gave these details, as though they constituted a wistful joke?
‘We would like you to tell us, sir, what you know about the deceased, and how he came to be staying at
