Madelyn’s eyes turned to me reprovingly.
‘You must be mistaken, Nora.’
With a lingering glance at the books on the desk, she rose. Sheriff Peddicord moved toward the door, opened it, and faced about with an abrupt clearing of his throat.
‘Begging your pardon. Miss Mack, have – have you found any clues in the case?’
Madelyn had paused again at the ribboned curtains.
‘Clues? The man who made Mr Marsh’s death possible, Sheriff, was an expert chemist, of Italian origin, living for some time in London – and he died three hundred years ago!’
From the hall we had a fleeting view of Sheriff Peddicord’s face, flushed as red as his handkerchief, and then it and the handkerchief disappeared.
I whirled on Madelyn sternly.
‘You are carrying your absurd joke, Miss Mack, altogether too –’
I paused, gulping in my turn. It was as though I had stumbled from the shadows into an electric glare.
Madelyn had crossed to the desk, and was gently shifting the dead ashes of Raleigh’s pipe into an envelope. A moment she sniffed at its bowl, peering down at the crumpled body at her feet.
‘The pipe!’ I gasped. ‘Wendell Marsh was poisoned with the pipe!’
Madelyn sealed the envelope slowly.
‘Is that fact just dawning on you, Nora?’
‘But the rest of it – what you told the –’
Madelyn thrummed on the bulky volume of Elizabethan history.
‘Some day, Nora, if you will remind me, I will give you the material for what you call a Sunday “feature” on the historic side of murder as a fine art!’
5
In a curtain-shadowed nook of the side veranda Muriel Jansen was awaiting us, pillowed back against a bronze-draped chair, whose colours almost startlingly matched the gold of her hair. Her resemblance to a tired child was even more pronounced than when I had last seen her.
I found myself glancing furtively for signs of Homer Truxton, but he had disappeared.
Miss Jansen took the initiative in our interview with a nervous abruptness, contrasting oddly with her hesitancy at our last meeting.
‘I understand. Miss Mack, that you received a letter from my uncle asking your presence here. May I see it?’
The eagerness of her tones could not be mistaken.
From her wrist-bag Madelyn extended the square envelope of the morning post, with its remarkable message. Twice Muriel Jansen’s eyes swept slowly through its contents. Madelyn watched her with a little frown. A sudden tenseness had crept into the air, as though we were all keying ourselves for an unexpected climax. And then, like a thunder-clap, it came.
‘A curious communication,’ Madelyn suggested. ‘I had hoped you might be able to add to it?’
The tired face in the bronze-draped chair stared across the lawn.
‘I can. The most curious fact of your communication, Miss Mack, is that Wendell Marsh did not write it!’
Never have I admired more keenly Madelyn’s remarkable poise. Save for an almost imperceptible indrawing of her breath, she gave no hint of the shock which must have stunned her as it did me. I was staring with mouth agape. But, then, I presume you have discovered by this time that I was not designed for a detective!
Strangely enough, Muriel Jansen gave no trace of wonder in her announcement. Her attitude suggested a sense of detachment from the subject as though suddenly it had lost its interest. And yet, less than an hour ago, it had prostrated her in a swoon.
‘You mean the letter is a forgery?’ asked Madelyn quietly.
‘Quite obviously.’
‘And the attempts on Mr Marsh’s life to which it refers?’
‘There have been none. I have been with my uncle continuously for six months. I can speak definitely.’
Miss Jansen fumbled in a white-crocheted bag.
‘Here are several specimens of Mr Marsh’s writing. I think they should be sufficient to convince you of what I say. If you desire others –’
I was gulping like a truant schoolgirl as Madelyn spread on her lap the three notes extended to her. Casual business and personal references they were, none of more than half a dozen lines. Quite enough, however, to complete the sudden chasm at our feet – quite enough to emphasise a bold, aggressive penmanship, almost perpendicular, without the slightest resemblance to the cramped, shadowy writing of the morning’s astonishing communication.
Madelyn rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts thoughtfully. For a moment she stood at the railing, gazing down upon a trellis of yellow roses, her face turned from us. For the first time in our curious friendship, I was actually conscious of a feeling of pity for her! The blank wall which she faced seemed so abrupt – so final!
Muriel Jansen shifted her position slightly.
‘Are you satisfied, Miss Mack?’
‘Quite.’ Madelyn turned, and handed back the three notes. ‘I presume this means that you do not care for me to continue the case?’
I whirled in dismay. I had never thought of this possibility.
‘On the contrary, Miss Mack, it seems to me an additional reason why you should continue!’
I breathed freely again. At least we were not to be dismissed with the abruptness that Miss Jansen’s maid had shown! Madelyn bowed rather absently.
‘Then if you will give me another interview, perhaps this afternoon –’
Miss Jansen fumbled with the lock of her bag.
For the first time her voice lost something of its directness.
‘Have – have you any explanation of this astonishing – forgery?’
Madelyn was staring out toward the increasing crowd at the gate. A sudden ripple had swept through it.
‘Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Orlando Julio, Miss Jansen?’
My own eyes, following the direction of Madelyn’s gaze, were brought back sharply to the veranda. For the second time, Muriel Jansen had crumpled back in a faint.
As I darted toward the servants’ bell Madelyn checked me. Striding up the walk were two men with the unmistakable air of physicians. At Madelyn’s motioning hand they turned toward us.
The foremost of the two quickened his pace as he caught sight of the figure in the chair. Instinctively I knew that he was Dr Dench – and it needed no profound analysis to place his companion
