“I wondered.”
He opened the door for her and handed her out. She looked at the cottage thoughtfully and shook her head.
“No, I don’t recognise it. Why have you brought me here?”
“A little experiment,” said Rollison. it won’t take long and it won’t do you any harm, although you may get a shock.”
The front door opened and Snub appeared, waving cheerfully; even at that distance Rollison could see that Snub hadn’t shaved.
“A friend of yours?” asked Clarissa.
“Yes, my amanuensis, doing a watchdog act. This has been a grim business, Clarissa.”
“Did you do that shooting last night?”
“I knew it was being done.”
“Won’t Grice be able to prove your gun was used?”
Rollison chuckled. “I’ve been mixed up in this kind of thing before, you know! Hallo, Snub, how are tricks?”
“Fine. The food’s wonderful, the old dear can cook a treat.” Snub eyed Clarissa with unfeigned admiration; he was a most susceptible young man and had no hesitation in showing it. “Visitors for the patient?”
“Miss Arden, Mr Higginbottom,” murmured Rollison.
“Not my fault,” pleaded Snub, it doesn’t mean what it sounds as if it means, either. It means the bottom of a hill, or village, or something like that. How are you?”
Clarissa said: “First Jolly and now Snub! I hope you know how lucky you are, Roily.”
“Oh, he does.” Snub was earnest but his eyes were gleaming. “I keep telling him and he’s a good listener.”
“How’s the patient?” asked Rollison.
“Sleeping again. The Doc said he would sleep a lot and we were not to try to rouse him. He had some bread- and-milk for breakfast, though. He’ll do. Going to see him?”
“Yes. Where’s Mrs B. ?”
“Shopping in the village—she really is a marvellous old dear. Still has all her faculties and she boasts that she’s seventy-six. For some mysterious reason she’s taken a liking to me and you made a hit last night. Shall I lead the way?”
“No, there won’t be room for all three of us,” said Rollison. “Just keep your eyes open, will you? I don’t think we were followed but if the police were on the job they could do a lot by radio.”
He led Clarissa across the small, crowded room. In the sunlight he saw that it was spotless and freshly dusted. Clarissa didn’t ask questions but followed him submissively up the narrow steep stairs which creaked at every tread.
“Mind your head,” said Rollison and she ducked where the wall jutted out.
They reached a tiny landing. There were three doors, each of them closed; the box-room was immediately opposite the stairs.
Clarissa lowered her voice, as if the hush in the cottage demanded whispering.
“What are you going to show me?”
Rollison gripped her arm.
“Mellor.”
He felt her muscles grow tense, although he gathered that she wasn’t altogether surprised. The name had exactly the same effect on her now as it had before. She didn’t speak as he opened the door. The bed was behind the door with the head against the wall; all they could see was the foot of the iron bedstead, a bow-shaped chest of drawers with a dressing-mirror in a rosewood frame on the top of it and a small window with gay chintz curtains.
Rollison drew Clarissa in.
He stood by the window and watched her intently as she stepped past the door and looked at the sleeping man.
She took one glance, no more, and swung round on him.
“This isn’t Mellor! He’s nothing like Mellor. What are you playing at, Roily?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mellor stirred at the sound of her voice. “Look again,” whispered Rollison. “I don’t need to.”
But she peered, much more intently, into Mellor’s face. He looked tired; there was no hint of brightness or youth at his eyes and mouth, and his forehead was wrinkled in a frown, as if he could not throw off the weight of his fear, even in sleep. One arm lay over the bedspread, the fist clenched but not tightly. “Of course it isn’t Mellor,” Clarissa insisted. “We’ll go downstairs.”
Rollison waited for her to lead the way, and studied the homely face and the curly hair for a few seconds. Then he followed Clarissa, closing the door behind him softly. When they reached the parlour, she said:
