He turned his head as Sergeant Kane came into the room.
‘Come here, Kane. Look at this.’
Kane stood behind him and let out a low whistle as he read out, ‘“Three Blind Mice!” Well, I’m dashed!’
‘Yes.’ Parminter opened a drawer and took out a half sheet of notepaper which he laid beside the notebook on his desk. It had been found pinned carefully to the murdered woman.
On it was written, This is the first. Below was a childish drawing of three mice and a bar of music.
Kane whistled the tune softly. Three Blind Mice, See how they run—
‘That’s it, all right. That’s the signature tune.’
‘Crazy, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Parminter frowned. ‘The identification of the woman is quite certain?’
‘Yes, sir. Here’s the report from the fingerprints department. Mrs Lyon, as she called herself, was really Maureen Gregg. She was released from Holloway two months ago on completion of her sentence.’
Parminter said thoughtfully, ‘She went to Seventy-Four Culver Street calling herself Maureen Lyon. She occasionally drank a bit and she had been known to bring a man home with her once or twice. She displayed no fear of anything or anyone. There’s no reason to believe she thought herself in any danger. This man rings the bell, asks for her, and is told by the landlady to go up to the second floor. She can’t describe him, says only that he was of medium height and seemed to have a bad cold and lost his voice. She went back again to the basement and heard nothing of a suspicious nature. She did not hear the man go out. Ten minutes or so later she took tea to her lodger and discovered her strangled.
‘This wasn’t a casual murder, Kane. It was carefully planned.’ He paused and then added abruptly, ‘I wonder how many houses there are in England called Monkswell Manor?’
‘There might be only one, sir.’
‘That would probably be too much luck. But get on with it. There’s no time to lose.’
The sergeant’s eye rested appreciatively on two entries in the notebook—74 Culver Street; Monkswell Manor.
He said, ‘So you think—’
Parminter said swiftly, ‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘Could be. Monkswell Manor—now where—Do you know, sir, I could swear I’ve seen that name quite lately.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to remember. Wait a minute—Newspaper—Times. Back page. Wait a minute—Hotels and boardinghouses—Half a sec, sir—it’s an old one. I was doing the crossword.’
He hurried out of the room and returned in triumph, ‘Here you are, sir, look.’
The inspector followed the pointing finger.
‘Monkswell Manor, Harpleden, Berks.’ He drew the telephone towards him. ‘Get me the Berkshire County police.’
With the arrival of Major Metcalf, Monkswell Manor settled into its routine as a going concern. Major Metcalf was neither formidable like Mrs Boyle, nor erratic like Christopher Wren. He was a stolid, middle-aged man of spruce military appearance, who had done most of his service in India. He appeared satisfied with his room and its furniture, and while he and Mrs Boyle did not actually find mutual friends, he had known cousins of friends of hers—‘the Yorkshire branch,’ out in Poonah. His luggage, however, two heavy pigskin cases, satisfied even Giles’s suspicious nature.
Truth to tell, Molly and Giles did not have much time for speculating about their guests. Between them, dinner was cooked, served, eaten, and washed up satisfactorily. Major Metcalf praised the coffee, and Giles and Molly retired to bed, tired but triumphant—to be roused about two in the morning by the persistent ringing of a bell.
‘Damn,’ said Giles. ‘It’s the front door. What on earth—’
‘Hurry up,’ said Molly. ‘Go and see.’
Casting a reproachful glance at her, Giles wrapped his dressing gown round him and descended the stairs. Molly heard the bolts being drawn back and a murmur of voices in the hall. Presently, driven by curiosity, she crept out of bed and went to peep from the top of the stairs. In the hall below, Giles was assisting a bearded stranger out of a snow-covered overcoat. Fragments of conversation floated up to her.
‘Brrr.’ It was an explosive foreign sound. ‘My fingers are so cold I cannot feel them. And my feet—’ A stamping sound was heard.
‘Come in here.’ Giles threw open the library door. ‘It’s warm. You’d better wait here while I get a room ready.’
‘I am indeed fortunate,’ said the stranger politely.
Molly peered inquisitively through the banisters. She saw an elderly man with a small black beard and Mephistophelean eyebrows. A man who moved with a young and jaunty step in spite of the gray at his temples.
Giles shut the library door on him and came quickly up the stairs. Molly rose from her crouching position.
‘Who is it?’ she demanded.
Giles grinned. ‘Another guest for the guesthouse. Car overturned in a snowdrift. He got himself out and was making his way as best he could—it’s a howling blizzard still, listen to it—along the road when he saw our board. He said it was like an answer to prayer.’
‘You think he’s—all right?’
‘Darling, this isn’t the sort of night for a housebreaker to be doing his rounds.’
‘He’s a foreigner, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. His name’s Paravicini. I saw his wallet—I rather think he showed it on purpose—simply crammed with notes. Which room shall we give him?’
‘The green room. It’s all tidy and ready. We’ll just have to make up the bed.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to lend him pajamas. All his things are in the car. He said he had to climb out through the window.’
Molly fetched sheets, pillowcases, and towels.
As they hurriedly made the bed up, Giles said, ‘It’s coming down thick. We’re going to be snowed up, Molly, completely cut off. Rather exciting in a way, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Molly doubtfully. ‘Do you think I can make soda bread, Giles?’
‘Of course you can. You can make anything,’ said her loyal husband.
‘I’ve never tried to make bread. It’s the sort of thing one takes for granted. It may be new or it may be
