alternative?' 'What alternative?' 'Murder,' said Holden.
The ugly word, which under any other circumstances it might have been impossible to utter, sounded louder than it really was. It seemed to ring out amid the looming shapes of the children's swings, and the seesaw, and the sandbox. It had a curious effect
He felt Celia grow tense. Since her head was lowered, the fleecy brown hair brushing his cheek, he sensed rather than saw the sudden turn of her eyes, sideways, while she hardly seemed to breathe. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper.
'Why do you say that?'
'Just one or two things I noticed tonight There may not be anything in it' 'Th-Thorley?'
'I didn't say Thorley.' (But he had meant it). 'I feel like a suspicious sort of hound,' he burst out, 'for thinking what I am thinking! All the same . . .'
'If it could be!' breathed Celia in a kind of ecstasy. 'Oh, if only it could be! To see him hang, after all he made her suffer!' Celia shook her head violently. 'I—I'd thought of that Don. Of course I had. But if s not true, I'm afraid. It can't be true.'
'For the sake of argument, why not?'
Celia hesitated.
'Because,' she answered, 'I don't see why he should want her out of the way. I don't see any motive. I suppose you could say Margot was—was useful to him. And then there are so many other reasons! Margot’s changing her gown on the night she died, and the poison bottle openly on the shelf . . .'
'Wait a minute! What's all this about gowns and poison bottles?'
'You'll understand, dear, as soon as Dr. Shepton gets here. And finally, as a reason why I'm sure it wasn't Thorley, I—I'd better tell you Margot tried to kill herself once before.'
(Black waters, swirling and rising! That metaphor of his, fancied this evening, had come from a true instinct.) 'Once before,' Holden echoed dully. 'When was that?' 'Over a year before she really did die.' 'And on that occasion how did she try to kill herself?' 'She took strychnine.'
'Strychnine!'
'Tes. I know it was strychnine, because I looked up the symptoms she had. Margot had tetanic convulsions: they end in lockjaw, the book said. But Dr. Shepton managed to save her. Afterward Margot admitted it to me, or as good as.' Celia threw back her head. 'Don, what's wrong?'
'There's something very much wrong. If I remember cor
'We-elL no. For a long time she'd been terribly keen about palmistry and fortune telling. But she did read murder trials. I don't I loathe them. And it’s odd you should mention murder trials, because ...'
'In fact,' he was searching his memory, 'I once recall talking to Margot about the trial of Jean Pierre Vaquier. That's a strychnine case.'
'Is it? That's out of my line, I'm afraid. But what about it?'
'Strychnine, Celia, is the most agonizingly painful poison in the register. Nobody in his or her senses would think of using it for suicide. Margot would never have done that of her own free will!'
Celia stared at him.
'But—Margot as good as admitted it to me, though she didn't dare say too much! I thought Thorley'd been given a good scare over it Because, only a few weeks after she was up and about, Margot began to grow like her old self again (only far happier) before she was married. Happy, and bright eyed. That lasted until... well, until almost before she died.'
Celia paused. With another sharp change of mood, her eyes grew fixed.
'Listen!' she urged. 'Don't speak! There's somebody coming in from the road now!'
CHAPTER V
Quickly Celia drew away from him. There was, in fact, a distant noise of somebody blundering about in the around-the-corner entrance to the hedge. But, when the newcomer emerged into the moonlight, Holden could not fail to recognize Dr. Eric Shepton.
Dr. Shepton was a tall, heavily built, stoop-shouldered man with a near-sighted air and a somewhat shambling gait But he was still vigorous; the near-sighted eyes behind his pince-nez could at times be disconcertingly keen.
His bald head shone, indistinguishable in color from the clear-white hair above his ears. Winter and summer he wore the same heavy dark suit, with gold watch chain across the waistcoat; he was now carrying an old Panama hat. He stood blinking and peering, turning his head from side to side, until he caught sight of Celia.
Celia's inexplicable terror, which should have disappeared when she found the newcomer was only Dr. Shepton, was increasing. Holden, startled, saw a look of panic flash across her face: as though she wanted to wring her hands, as though she had just remembered something which in a welter of emotions had been forgotten.
'I should have warned you,' she whispered.
And there was worse. As Celia called out to the doctor, Holden detected a new note in her voice—a note of sheer defensiveness.
'I'm over here, Dr. Shepton!' she said in a high, breathless voice. 'Terribly sorry to drag you to such an odd place at a time like this.'
There was a shambling noise of Dr. Shepton's big shoes on the sandy earth as he moved toward them.
'Er—not at all,' he disclaimed, as though appointments in a playground at such a time were all in his routine. He had, as always, that half-apologetic air which was a relic of his Victorian boyhood: when the social status of medical men, for some reason, was not very high. But he kept his eyes fixed steadily on Celia. 'After all,' he added, 'it’s quite close to your house. Bit difficult to find, though. I'm a countryman. London upsets me.'
Then his near-sighted eyes blinked round, discovering for the first time that Celia had a companion. Since the doctor had seen Holden not more than three or four times in past years, he knew nothing of the latter’s history or supposed death; no explanations were necessary.
'Dr. Shepton,' continued Celia in that same breathless voice, 'this is Mr.—I beg your pardon! Its 'Sir Donald' now, isn't it? Dr. Shepton of course you remember Sir Donald Holden?'
'Yes, of course,' murmured the doctor, who clearly didn't
'Er—how do you do, sir?' And he made a slight gesture with the ancient Panama hat
'He's—he's just come back from abroad,' said Celia.
'Ah, indeed. Fascinating place, abroad. Pity one can't go there now.' Dr. Shepton became brisk. 'And now, my dear, if this gentleman will excuse us?'
'Nol' cried Celia. 'I want Don to stay!'
'But I understand; my dear, you wished to see me privately.'
'I tell you, I want Don to stay!'
Dr. Shepton twisted round courteously. 'Had you any special reason, sir, for wishing to ... er ... ?'
'Sir,' returned Holden in the same formal, way, 'I have the very best reason in the world. Miss Devereux, I hope, will shortly become my wife.'
Dr. Shepton, even though clothed in age and (an air of) absent-mindedness, could not repress a start, and a worried look which gave Holden a momentary qualm. The doctor put up a hand to his pince-nez.
'Ah, indeed,' he smiled. 'That's fine, of course. Many congratulations. At the same time, if you'll forgive me, we mustn't be too hasty about these things; must we?'
'Why not?' asked Holden.
The two words hung out, a whipcrack and a challenge, in that quiet place. Dr. Shepton gave the appearance of not having heard.
'And what my dear,' he asked Celia in his patient kindly voice, 'did you want to see me about?'
'I,' Celia glanced at Holden, and faltered, 'I wanted to tell you about the night Margot died.'
'Again?' inquired Dr. Shepton.
'Listen, my dear.' Putting his ancient Panama hat on the back of his head, Dr. Shepton took one of Celia's hands and enclosed it in both of his. 'On Christmas day, shortly after your poor sister's death, you came to me and told me —er—what happened that night Don't you remember?'
'Of course I remember!'
