A tall figure materialized suddenly out of the gloom, slope-
shouldered, head thrust forward, eyes deeply sunken and downcast.
Anthony Reynard reached out and unhooked the door-chain.
'Come in, Mr. Wharton, ' he said heavily.
Wharton stepped into the vague dimness of the house, looking up
curiously at the man who had married his sister. There were rings
beneath the hollows of his eyes, blue and bruised-looking. The suit
he wore was wrinkled and hung limp on him, as if he had lost a
great deal of weight. He looks tired, Wharton thought. Tired and
old.
'My sister has already been buried?' Wharton asked.
'Yes.' He shut the door slowly, imprisoning Wharton in the
decaying gloom of the house. 'My deepest sorrow, sir. Wharton. I
loved your sister dearly.' He made a vague gesture. 'I'm sorry.'
He seemed about to add more, then shut his mouth with an abrupt
snap. When he spoke again, it was obvious he had bypassed
whatever had been on his lips. 'Would you care to sit down? I'm
sure you have questions.
'I do. Somehow it came out more curtly than he had intended.
Reynard sighed and nodded slowly. He led the Way deeper into the
living room and gestured at a chair. Wharton sank deeply into it,
and it seemed to gobble him up rather than give beneath him.
Reynard sat next to the fireplace and dug for cigarettes. He offered
them wordlessly to Wharton, and he shook his head.
He waited until Reynard lit his cigarette, then asked, 'Just how did
she die? Your letter didn't say much.
Reynard blew out the match and threw it into the fireplace. It
landed on one of the ebony iron fire-dogs, a carven gargoyle that
stared at Wharton with toad's eyes.
'She fell,' he said. 'She was dusting in one of the other rooms, up
along the eaves. We were planning to paint, and she said it would
have to be well-dusted before we could begin. She had the ladder.
It slipped. Her neck was broken.' There was a clicking sound in
his throat as he swallowed.
'She died - instantly?'
'Yes.' He lowered his head and placed a hand against his brow. 'I
was heartbroken.
The gargoyle leered at him, squat torso and flattened, sooty head.
Its mouth was twisted upward in a weird, gleeful grin, and its eyes
seemed turned inward at some private joke. Wharton looked away
from it with an effort. 'I want to see where it happened.
Reynard stubbed out his cigarette half-smoked. 'You can't.
'I'm afraid I must,' Wharton said coldly. 'After all, she was my .. .
'It's not that,' Reynard said. 'The room has been partitioned off.
That should have been done a long time ago.
'If it's just a matter of prising a few boards off a door...
'You don't understand. The room has been plastered off
completely There's nothing but a wall there.
Wharton felt his gaze being pulled inexorably back to the fire-dog.
