Deacon smiled. “Kamerad!” he said. “Served me right. But that’s me all over, I’m afraid. Damn nosey! But you must admit I’m an interested party.”
“I do,” Anthony said; then suddenly leaned forward. “Have you told me all you know?” he asked. “And are you going to tell me anything you don’t know, but merely feel?”
Deacon was silent for perhaps a minute. “I can’t tell you anything more that I know,” he said at last and slowly. “And as to the other, what exactly are you driving at? D’you mean: do I definitely suspect anyone as being the murderer?”
Anthony nodded. “Just that.”
“Then the answer’s no. But I’ll tell you what I do feel very strongly, and that’s that it isn’t anyone belonging to the house.”
“So you think that, do you?” said Anthony. “You know, I’ve heard that before about this affair.”
Deacon sat up. “Oh! And what do you think? The reverse?”
Anthony shrugged noncommittal shoulders.
“But it’s absurd,” said the secretary. “Quite utterly imposs’, my dear feller!”
“Is it?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Ever read detective stories, Deacon? Good ones, I mean. Gaboriau, for instance. If you do, you’ll know that the ‘It’ is very often found among a bunch of ‘unlikely and impossibles.’ And one of my chief stays in life is my well-proved theory that Fiction is Truth. The trouble is that the stories are often more true than the real thing. And that’s just where one goes wrong, and sometimes gets left quite as badly off the mark as the others. I’m beginning to think I may be doing that here.”
Deacon scratched his head. “I think you’re ahead of me,” he said.
“Never mind, I’m ahead of myself. A long way ahead.”
“Well, says I, I hope you catches yourself up soon.”
“Thanks.” Anthony got to his feet. “Is it possible for me to see Miss Hoode this afternoon?”
“ ’Fraid not. Our Mr. Boyd saw her this morning, and she’s given orders that that was enough.”
“Well, I prowl,” said Anthony, and walked to the door. “By the way, on that walk of yours last night, that awkward walk, did you meet anyone? or even see anyone?”
“No. And that’s awkward, too, isn’t it? Nary human being did I pass.”
Anthony opened the door. “Any time you think I’d be useful, let me know,” he said, and passed into the passage.
Deacon’s voice followed him. “Thanks. When you’re wanted I’ll make a noise like a murderer. Stout fellah!”
Walking down the passage which led to the great square hall, Anthony pondered. It seemed impossible that this gigantic imperturbability was a murderer. But how to explain the fingerprints? And Deacon did not know of those prints. What would he do when told of them?
“The man’s in a mess,” he said to himself. “This week’s problem: how to extricate him? The solution will be published in our next week’s issue—perhaps!”
He came out into the hall. The utter silence of the house oppressed him. Any sound, he thought, would be welcome, would make things seem less like a nightmare.
He turned to his left, making for the verandah door. His fingers on its handle, he paused. Behind him, to his right, was the door of the study. His ears had caught a sound, a rustling sound, from that direction. He looked about him. No one was near, in sight even. The two men Boyd had left on duty had disappeared.
Quietly, he crossed to the study door. He laid his ear against it. He heard the click of a lock, a light lock, then a rustle of paper, then soft footsteps.
He crossed the hall to the foot of the stairs in three jumps. A barometer and a clock hung on the wall. He studied them.
He heard the study door open, slowly, as if the one who opened were anxious not to be noisy. Then came a rustle of skirts. He stepped out from the shadow.
Halfway between the study and where he stood by the foot of the stairs was a woman. Her hand, which had been at the bosom of her dress, fell to her side.
Anthony moved towards her. Closer, he saw her more plainly—a tall, square-shouldered grenadier of a woman, with a sexless, high-cheekboned, long-nosed face. The features, the sand-coloured hair, were reminiscent of the dead minister.
“Miss Hoode?” Anthony bowed. “My name is Gethryn. I believe that Sir Arthur Digby-Coates has explained my presence.”
“Yes.” The woman’s tones were flat, lifeless as her face. She essayed cordiality. “Yes, indeed. I told him I was glad, very glad, to have your help. I need to apologise for not having spoken to you before, but—I—but—”
Anthony raised a hand. “Believe me, madam, I quite understand. I would like, if it is not an impertinence, to express my condolence.”
The woman bowed her head. “Thank you,” she said; pressing a hand to her heart. “I—I must leave you. Give orders for anything you may want.”
Anthony watched her mount the stairs and disappear. “My good woman—if you really are a woman—what’s your trouble? Sorrow? Or fear? Or both?” he thought. “And why were you in the study? And why were you so secret about it? And above all, what did you hide in your flat bosom when you saw me? Two whats and two whys.”
He stood filling his pipe. Assuredly this fresh mystery must be investigated. And so must that of the lady that swam rivers in the night and blinded her pursuer’s eyes and assaulted his heart in the morning. If it had not been for Her all this would have been great fun; but now—well, it was anything but amusing. She must know something, and since Boyd had seen fit to suspect the one obviously innocent person, it was Anthony Ruthven Gethryn’s business to find out what she knew. What was so disturbing was the unreasonableness of the affair. Nothing seemed to have motive behind it. Of course, there was reason for everything—the Lady of the Sandal’s swim over the river, the secret ravishing of the study by the bosomless, sexless sister of the
