‘Whistling,’ said Molly faintly. ‘But that was earlier. I think—I’m not sure—I think I heard a door shut—softly, somewhere—just as I—as I—went into the library.’
‘Which door?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think, Mrs Davis—try and think—upstairs—downstairs—right, left?’
‘I don’t know, I tell you,’ cried Molly. ‘I’m not even sure I heard anything.’
‘Can’t you stop bullying her?’ said Giles angrily. ‘Can’t you see she’s all in?’
‘I’m investigating a murder, Mr Davis—I beg your pardon—Commander Davis.’
‘I don’t use my war rank, Sergeant.’
‘Quite so, sir.’ Trotter paused, as though he had made some subtle point. ‘As I say, I’m investigating a murder. Up to now nobody has taken this thing seriously. Mrs Boyle didn’t. She held out on me with information. You all held out on me. Well, Mrs Boyle is dead. Unless we get to the bottom of this—and quickly, mind, there may be another death.’
‘Another? Nonsense. Why?’
‘Because,’ said Sergeant Trotter gravely, ‘there were three little blind mice.’
Giles said incredulously, ‘A death for each of them? But there would have to be a connection—I mean another connection with the case.’
‘Yes, there would have to be that.’
‘But why another death here?’
‘Because there were only two addresses in the notebook. There was only one possible victim at Seventy-Four Culver Street. She’s dead. But at Monkswell Manor there is a wider field.’
‘Nonsense, Trotter. It would be a most unlikely coincidence that there should be two people brought here by chance, both of them with a share in the Longridge Farm case.’
‘Given certain circumstances, it wouldn’t be so much of a coincidence. Think it out, Mr Davis.’ He turned towards the others. ‘I’ve had your accounts of where you all were when Mrs Boyle was killed. I’ll check them over. You were in your room, Mr Wren, when you heard Mrs Davis scream?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Mr Davis, you were upstairs in your bedroom examining the telephone extension there?’
‘Yes,’ said Giles.
‘Mr Paravicini was in the drawing room playing tunes on the piano. Nobody heard you, by the way, Mr Paravicini?’
‘I was playing very, very softly, Sergeant, just with one finger.’
‘What tune was it?’
‘“Three Blind Mice,” Sergeant.’ He smiled. ‘The same tune that Mr Wren was whistling upstairs. The tune that’s running through everybody’s head.’
‘It’s a horrid tune,’ said Molly.
‘How about the telephone wire?’ asked Metcalf. ‘Was it deliberately cut?’
‘Yes, Major Metcalf. A section had been cut out just outside the dining room window—I had just located the break when Mrs Davis screamed.’
‘But it’s crazy. How can he hope to get away with it?’ demanded Christopher shrilly.
The sergeant measured him carefully with his eye.
‘Perhaps he doesn’t very much care about that,’ he said. ‘Or again, he may be quite sure he’s too clever for us. Murderers get like that.’ He added, ‘We take a psychology course, you know, in our training. A schizophrenic’s mentality is very interesting.’
‘Shall we cut out the long words?’ said Giles.
‘Certainly, Mr Davis. Two six-letter words are all that concern us at the moment. One’s “murder” and the other’s “danger.” That’s what we’ve got to concentrate upon. Now, Major Metcalf, let me be quite clear about your movements. You say you were in the cellar— Why?’
‘Looking around,’ said the major. ‘I looked in that cupboard place under the stairs and then I noticed a door there and I opened it and saw a flight of steps, so I went down there. Nice cellar you’ve got,’ he said to Giles. ‘Crypt of an old monastery, I should say.’
‘We’re not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We’re investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs Davis? I’ll leave the kitchen door open.’ He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. ‘Is that what you heard, Mrs Davis?’ he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.
‘I—it does sound like it.’
‘That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him.’
‘Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard,’ cried Christopher.
‘Mine are there already,’ said Major Metcalf.
‘Quite so,’ said Sergeant Trotter. ‘But we’ve a satisfactory explanation for those, haven’t we?’ he added smoothly.
‘Look here, Sergeant,’ said Giles, ‘admittedly you’re in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn’t we to take precautionary measures?’
‘Such as, Mr Davis?’
‘Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect.’
He looked straight at Christopher Wren.
Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. ‘It’s not true! It’s not true! You’re all against me. Everyone’s always against me. You’re going to frame me for this. It’s persecution—persecution—’
‘Steady on, lad,’ said Major Metcalf.
‘It’s all right, Chris.’ Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Nobody’s against you. Tell him it’s all right,’ she said to Sergeant Trotter.
‘We don’t frame people,’ said Sergeant Trotter.
‘Tell him you’re not going to arrest him.’
‘I’m not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There’s no evidence—at present.’
Giles cried out, ‘I think you’re crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There’s only one person who fits the bill, and—’
‘Wait, Giles, wait—’ Molly broke in. ‘Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I—can I speak to you a minute?’
‘I’m staying,’ said Giles.
‘No, Giles, you, too, please.’
Giles’s face grew as dark as thunder. He said, ‘I don’t know what’s come over you, Molly.’
He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him.
‘Yes, Mrs Davis, what is it?’
‘Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is—responsible for all this. But you don’t know that?’
‘That’s perfectly true, Mrs Davis. But the probabilities lie that way—mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist’s report.’
‘Oh, I know, and
