The Sleeping Sphinx

around the sill of the door, looking at me.

'In the bathroom there's a high-built swing-together window of colored glass, that never would latch or fit together properly; I remember feeling an icy-cold current of air against the back of my neck.

'Thorley said, in a high voice: 'What the hell are you up to?'

'I said, 'You did this.' And then, as he just looked at me and took a step forward from the door, I said, 'You killed her with the way you treated her, just as surely as though you'd given her that poison yourself. And I'll pay you back for it, Thorley Marsh.'

'All of a sudden his left hand swung back, and he banged it against his razor strap hanging on the wall beside the wash basin.

'And I said, 'Go on. Hit me with that razor strap, just as you did Margot. But I won't take it meekly, like Margot. You'd better understand that'

'For a second he didn't answer anything; he only breathed. Then—which was what made me sick—he smiled. He smiled under all that stubble on his face: a really gentle, affectionate, martyred kind of smile. You'd have sworn butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and he'd fly straight up to heaven among the holy angels.

'He said: 'Celia, you're upset Go and get dressed.' And he went back into his bedroom, and closed the door.'

Again Celia paused. All this, even the account of her conversation with Thorley, had been delivered in the same cold, level, unemotional tone. In conclusion, as she kicked out at the sand, her voice was almost casual.

'Margot was buried in the new family vault in Caswall churchyard. Do you remember, Don, how Mammy Two always said she wanted to be buried in the new vault, because the old one was so crowded?'

'Yes. I remember.'

'Mammy Two never did get her wish,' said Celia. 'The new tomb wasn't finished until after her death. But, a day or so before Margot's funeral—because, mind you, Thorley said it would add sanctity and solemnity and I believe he added 'swank' to the new vault—some coffins of the old, old Devereuxs were carried down to it and interred there. Even in death Margot isn't with Mammy Two, or our own parents. Ob, no! She's with ...'

Here Celia's voice did change, in fury and anguish. She sprang to her feet, stepping back out of the sandbox, and stood breathing hard and fast

'Dr. Shepton,' she pleaded, 'you were the one who attended Margot. Can't you say something?'

'Yes, Doctor,' Holden agreed grimly. 'I was about to ask you the same question.'

Dr. Shepton, with a grunt and shamble, also got to his feet. Holden followed him. Automatically Dr. Shepton adjusted his pince-nez. His broad face, with the fringe of white hair fluffed out round the bald head, wore a benevolent air as he turned to Celia.

'Well, my dear?' he asked pleasantly.

'Well—what?'

'Don't you feel better?' inquired the doctor. Celia stared at him. 'Yes. Of c-course I feel better! But . . .'

'Exactly!' Dr. Shepton nodded. 'Thafs where the Roman Catholic Church is so wise in the matter of confession; though, of course,' his broad face wrinkled up in half-humorous apology, 'nowadays we add frills and give it some scientific name. Now, Celia, as an old friend of your family for many years, I want you to do me a little favor. Will you do it?'

'Yes! Certainlyl If I can.'

'Good!' said Dr. Shepton. He reflected. 'Tomorrow, as I understand it, you're going to Caswall for a few days. I— er—believe Mr. Marsh wants to look over the property with a view to selling it.'

Holden saw Celia's start, though this was evidently not news to her. But Dr. Shepton's attention was occupied with other matters.

'We-ell!' said the doctor, waving his hand tolerantly. 'That's all right! A few days in the country; country air; bit of a holiday; can't stand London myself. It's when you come back to town, Celia, that I want you to do this favor.'

Her voice was rising. 'What favor?'

Dr. Shepton carefully felt in his upper left-hand waistcoat pocket, then in his upper right-hand pocket, before producing a visiting card. He examined it closely, with a happy and gusty sigh, and handed it to Celia.

'When you get back to town, my dear, I want you to go and see the man whose address is on that card. Mind you! He's a fully qualified medical man, admirable in his own right, as well as being an analyst. I want you to tell him ...'

This was the point at which Don Holden felt he had received a physical blow in the face. The effect on Celia must have been even worse.

'That’s the psychiatrist,' Celia said. 'You came to London to see him about me. You—you still don't believe a word I've been saying!'

'We-ell, nowl' mused Dr. Shepton, and pursed up his hps. 'As a famous character said on a certain occasion, what is truth? The matter . . .'

'Doctor,' said Holden, and tried hard to keep his voice from shaking with rage, 'you might be good enough to answer one straight question. We've just been listening to a forthright and convincing narrative of facts. Do you, or don't you, believe what Celia says?'

Dr. Shepton considered this.

'Let me answer that question,'' he suggested, 'by asking Celia another. Eh?' He addressed Celia persuasively. 'Lefs suppose (for the sake of argument, mind!) that Mrs. Marsh did kill herself. Let's suppose Mrs. Marsh was driven by her husband's brutal treatment to take her own life.'

'Well?' asked Celia, with her eyes glistening under the long lashes.

'What could you gain, what could you possibly hope to gain, by creating an unpleasant scandal and even (heaven help us!) wanting a post-mortem? The law could take no action against Mr. Marsh. You must see that, my dear. Legally, you couldn't touch him.''

No,' Celia answered calmly. 'But I can ruin him. I can puncture his thick hide at last. I can ruin him. And I will'

Dr. Shepton was gently shocked. 'My dear girl! Come, now!'

'What’s so wrong with it?'

'My dear girl! That would be merely vindictive, don't you see? And in all the years I've known you, my dear, I've never once known you to be vindictive. You wouldn't like to start now, would you?'

'It isn't question,' Holden cut in, 'of being vindictive or anything else. If s a question of plain justice!'

'Ah, yes. No doubt. Do you believe Mrs. Marsh committed suicide, sir?'

'No,' answered Holden.

'You don't believe it?'

'No. I think she was deliberately murdered.'

The Panama hat dropped out of Dr. Shepton's big-knuckled fingers, and rolled over wabbling in the sandbox. Clearly the word 'murder' had never occurred to him. He bent over, grunting, to retrieve the hat; and then straightened up again.

'You think it was murder, eh?' he ruminated. 'Dear, dear, dear!' The dryness of Dr. Shepton's tone, the hint of irony, at once infuriated Holden and shook his confidence.

'Doctor, listen! May even a layman ask how some perfectly healthy person can die of cerebral hemorrhage with no contributing cause?'

'I’ll tell you what I’ll do,'- offered Dr. Shepton, smiling man to man and extending his hat. 'I had—er—intended to return to Wiltshire by the first train tomorrow moming. But I'll tell you what I'm staying at a little hotel in ... where is It? Ah, yes. Welbeck Street. Welbeck Street! Why not come round there and see me tomorrow morning? Say ten o'clock.'

'No!' cried Celia. Her eyes appealed to Holden, with the whole strength of her nature in that appeal. 'Don't go, Don! He—he wants to see you alone. He wants to tell you things about me, when I'm not there to defend myself!'

'Easy, Celia!'

'You won't go, will you?'