At the meal, his hunger surprised him. Then he remembered that since the lightest of lunches he had eaten nothing. Having made up the deficiency, he lit a cigar, sat in a chair by the open window and read through, not once but many times, the typed report of the inquest.
Somewhere a clock struck two. Anthony put down the report, clasped his head with his hands, and plunged into thought. Presently he found his mind to be wandering, strictly against orders—wandering in a direction forbidden. He swore, got to his feet, and crossed to the writing-table. At this he employed himself with pen and paper for more than an hour.
At last he put down his pen and read through what he had written. The clock struck four. He finished his reading, said: “H’mm! Those blasted gaps!” and went to bed.
III
He had barely two hours’ sleep, for by a quarter past six he was breaking his fast. At twenty minutes past seven he was driving his car slowly through London.
This morning he took the journey to Marling slowly: the pointer of his speedometer touched eighteen as he left the outskirts of town, and remained there. For Anthony was thinking.
For the first third of the journey his thoughts were incoherently redundant. They were of a certain scene in which A. R. Gethryn had lost his temper; had behaved, in short, abominably, and this to the one person in the world for whose opinion he cared.
It cost him an effort greater than might be supposed to wrench his thoughts out of this gloomy train, but at last he succeeded.
This puzzle of his—some of it fitted now, only there were several idiotic pieces which, unfitted, made nonsense of the rest. He flogged his unwilling brain for the rest of the journey.
He backed the Mercedes into the garage of the Bear and Key at twenty-five minutes to ten. By five minutes to the hour he was walking with his long, lazy stride up the winding drive of Abbotshall.
Drawing near the house he saw that the great oaken door stood open, letting a shaft of hot, clean, morning sunlight paint a golden track across the polished floor of the wide hall. He entered, flung his hat on to a chair, and turned in the direction of the stairs.
He had set foot upon the third step when from behind and below him came a noise—a rasping roar of a noise. To his overtired brain and overheated imagination it seemed a noise evil and inhuman. He swung round. The hall was as he had left it, empty of all save furniture. He descended the three steps; stood looking about him; then walked towards the front door. Before he could reach it, the noise came again, louder this time. The same roaring, rasping sound. But this time it had for a tail a snuffling choke which came, obviously, from the throat of a man.
Anthony laughed at himself. Noiselessly, he retraced his steps, passed the foot of the stairs, and halted outside the door opposite that of the study. It stood ajar, giving him a glimpse of the little room which he remembered as being the lair of the butler.
Anthony waited. In a moment came the roar again, now recognisable as half-cough, half-sneeze. Anthony pushed the door wide. Facing it, huddled in a chair, was the butler. His gray head was on a level with his knees. In one claw of a hand he clutched a bandanna handkerchief with which he dabbed every now and then at his streaming eyes.
Anthony stood unmoving in the doorway. Presently, another spasm shook the old man.
“Bad cold, that,” Anthony said loudly.
There was no answer. The coughing gasps went on; gradually grew less frequent. The thin shoulders ceased to shake.
“Bad cold, that,” said Anthony again.
This time he got an effect. Poole leapt to his feet, fumbling hurriedly to hide in a tail pocket the capacious handkerchief.
“Your pardon, sir!” he gasped. “Did you want me, sir?”
“I only remarked that yours was a bad cold.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Not that it’s a cold, sir, exactly. It’s this hay-fever. And very troublesome it is, sir, for an old fellow like me!”
“Must be.” Anthony was sympathetic. “D’you have these attacks many times a day?”
“I used to, sir. But this summer it does seem to be improving, sir. Only takes me every now and then, as you might say.” The old man’s voice showed gratitude for this concern about his ailment.
But Anthony’s interest in hay-fever was not yet abated. “This the first bad fit you’ve had for some time?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Quite a while since I was so bad, sir. It didn’t trouble me at all yesterday, sir.”
Anthony drew nearer. “D’you happen to remember,” he said slowly, “whether you—er—sneezed like that at all on the evening your master was killed?”
Poole exhibited agitation. “Whether I—the master—” the thin hands twisted about each other. “Forgive me, sir—I—I can’t remember, sir. I’m a foolish old fellow—and any mention of—of that terrible night sort of seems to—to upset me, sir.” He passed a hand across his forehead. “No, sir, I really can’t remember. I’m an old man, sir. My memory’s not what it was. Not what it was—”
But Anthony was listening no longer. He was, in fact, no longer there to listen. He had suddenly turned about and sprung into the hall. As Mr. Poole said later in the servants’ hall: “I’d never of believed such a lazy-looking gentleman could of moved so quick. Like the leap of a cat, it was!”
Had he followed into the hall, he would have had more matter for gossip. For by the door of the verandah Anthony stood clutching, none too gently, the skinny shoulder of Robert Belford—the manservant he had christened “Ferret-face.”
“A word in your pointed ear, my friend,” he said, and tightened his grip. “Now where shall we chat? The garden?” He pulled his trembling captive,
