He Who Whispers

“Now suppose,” argued Dr. Fell, “this business was not supernatural. Suppose for example, I wish to scare someone by playing ghost. Suppose I clothe myself in white robes, and daub my nose with phosphorescent paint, and stick my head through a window and thunderously say, 'Boo!' to a group of old ladies in a Bournemouth boarding house.

“It may, perhaps, give them quite a start. They may think that dear old Dr. Fell is getting some extraordinary ideas of humour. But would it really scare anyone? Would any rigged-up contrivance, any faked ingenuity of the supernatural, produce nowadays more than a momentary jump? Would it induce that shattering effect which—as we know—drains the blood from the heart and can be as deadly as a knife or a bullet?”

Beating his fist into the palm of his left hand, Dr. Fell broke off apologetically.

“I beg your pardon,” he added. “I did not wish either to make ill-timed jokes or alarm you with fears about your sister. But . . . Archons of Athens!”

And he spread out his hands.

“Yes,” admitted Miles, “I know.”

There was a silence.

“So you observe,” pursued Dr. Fell, “that the previous point you made ceases to be of importance. Your sister, in an excess of terror, fired a shot at something. It may have been outside the window. It may have been inside the room. It may have been anywhere. The point is: what frightened her as much as that?”

Marion's face . . .

“But you don't fall back on the assumption,” cried Miles, “that the whole thing comes back to a vampire after all?”

“I don't know.”

Putting his finger-tips to his temples, Dr. Fell ruffled the edges of the thick mop of grey-streaked hair which had tumbled over one ear.

“Tell me,” he muttered, “is there anything your sister is afraid of?”

“She didn't like the blitzes of the V-weapons. But then neither did anyone else.”

“I think we may safely rule out,” said Dr. Fell, “the entrance of a V-weapon. A threatening burglar wouldn't do? Something of that sort?”

“Definitely not.”

“Having seen something, and partly raised up in bed, she . . . by the way, that revolver in her hand: it does belong to her?”

“The Ives-Grant .32? Oh, yes.”

“And she kept it in the drawer of the bedside table?”

“Presumably. I never noticed where she kept it.”

“Something tells me,” said Dr. Fell, rubbing his forehead, “that we want the emotions and reactions of human beings—if they are human beings. We are going to have an immediate word with Miss Fay Seton.”

It was not necessary to go and find her. Fay, who had dressed herself in the same grey frock as she had worn earlier in the evening, was coming towards them now. In the uncertain light it seemed to Miles that she had put on a great deal of lipstick, which sh did not ordinarily use.

Her white face, composed now, floated towards them.

“Ma'am,” said DR in a curious rumbling voice, “good evening.”

“Good evening.” Fay stopped short. “You are . . .?”

“Miss Seton,” introduced Miles, “this is an old friend of mine. Dr. Gideon Fell.”

“Oh, Dr. Gideon Fell.” She was silent for a moment, and then she spoke in a slightly different tone. “You caught the Six Ashes murderer,” she said. “And the man who poisoned all those people at Sodbury Cross.”

“Well . . .!” Dr. Fell seemed embarrassed. “I'm an old duffer, ma'am, who has had some experience with the ways of crime.”

Fay turned to Miles.

“I—wanted to tell you,” she said, in her usual soft voice of sincerity. “I made rather an exhibition of myself downstairs. I'm sorry. I was—upset. And I didn't even sympathize with what happened to poor Marion. Can't I be of service in any way?”

She moved tentatively towards the bedroom door not far behind her, but Miles touched her arm.

“Better not go in there. Professor Rigaud is acting as amateur doctor. He won't let anybody in.”

Slight pause.

“How—how is she?”

“A bit better, Rigaud thinks,” said Dr. Fell. “And that, ma'am brings us to a matter I should rather like to discuss with you.” He picked up his pipe from the window-sill. “If Miss Hammond recovers, this matter will of course be no concern of the police . . .”

“Won't it?” murmured Fay. And across her lips, in that unreal moonlit hall outside the bedroom door, flicked a smile which struck cold to the heart.

Dr. Fell's voice sharpened. “You believe the police should be concerned in this, ma'am?”

The curve of that terrifying smile, like a red gash in the face, was gone in a flash along with the glassy turn of the blue eyes.

“Did I say that? How stupid of me. I must have been thinking of something else. What did you want to know?”

“Well, ma'am! As a formality! Since you were the last person presumed to be with Marion Hammond before she lost consciousness . . .”

“I was? Why on earth should anyone think that?”

Dr. Fell regarded her in apparent perplexity.

“Our friend Hammond here,” he grunted, “has—harrumph--given me an account of a conversation you had with him down in the library earlier tonight. You remember that conversation.?”

“Yes.”

“At about half-past eleven, or thereabouts, Marion Hammond came into the library and interrupted you. Apparently you had given her a present of some kind. Miss Hammond said she had a present for you in return. She asked you to go on up to her room ahead of her, and said she she would join you after she'd had a word with her brother.” Dr. Fell cleared his throat. “You remember?”

“Oh. Yes! Yes, of course!”

“And therefore, presumably, you did go?”

“How stupid of me!--Yes, of course I dd.”

“Straight away, ma'am?”

Fay shook her head, rapt and intent on his words.

“No. I supposed Marion would have—personal things to talk over with Mr. Hammond there, and I thought it might be a little while before she left him. So first I went to my own room, and put on a nightgown and wrap and slippers. I came up here afterwards.”

“How long afterwards?”

“Ten of fifteen minutes, maybe. Marion had already got there before me.”

“And then?”

The moon was setting, its light grown thin. It was the turn of the night, the hour when to sick people death comes or passes by. All about them, south and east, towered the oaks and beeches of William the Conqueror's hunting forest, a forest old before him, seamed and withered with age; all night quiet, yet now subtly murmurous with a rising breeze. By moonlight the colour of Fay's moving lips.

“The present I had given Marion,” she explained, “was a little bottle of French perfume. Jolyeux number three.”

Dr. Fell put up a hand to his eyeglasses.