could not be in better hands. And if there is anything further I can do to assist your enquiries, please do not hesitate to inform me. And now, if you will excuse me.’
This oaf would never discover who killed Mr Paul Carteret. His death was bound up with a far greater mystery, which was beyond the ability of Inspector George Gully and his minions to unravel.
*[‘The scene of the crime’.
*[The phrase is from
23
Materfamilias*
Half an hour later, at a little before three o’clock, I presented myself as arranged at the Rectory, where Dr Daunt received me in his study. We passed a pleasant hour or so, perusing his extensive collection of biblical and theological texts. This is not a field in which I have any great expertise, and I was content to let the Rector pick out volumes of particular rarity or importance, and expatiate on them at some length, occasionally contributing a comment or two of my own, where I could. Then a first edition of Bunyan’s
‘Ah, Bunyan!’ I cried, seizing on the volume. ‘I read him often as a child.’
‘Did you, though?’ said Dr Daunt, with evident approval. ‘I applaud your young taste, Mr Glapthorn. I never could get my son to like the book, though I would read it to him when he was a boy. I fear that allegory held no appeal for him.’ He sighed. ‘But he was an imaginative child – and I suppose he is imaginative still, though now it is in what I may call a professional capacity.’
‘I think Mr Carteret mentioned to me that your son was born in the North?’
Dr Daunt seemed disposed to talk, and I was eager to let him. ‘Yes, indeed. I had taken a living in Lancashire on my marriage – my first marriage, I mean. I am sorry to say that my dear wife – my first wife, you understand – was taken from us soon after Phoebus was born.’
He sighed again and turned away, and I saw him glance up at a small portrait in oils that hung in an alcove between the bookshelves. It showed a slight, fragile figure in a pale mauve gown and a neat cap, with misty blue eyes and clusters of airy curls at her neck. It was plain enough that his love for his first wife was still strong. Clearing his throat and brushing down his beard, he was about to speak again when the door opened, and a tall figure in rustling black silk swept into the room.
‘Oh! Forgive me, Achilles, I was not aware that we had a visitor.’
‘My dear,’ said Dr Daunt, with the air of someone who has been caught in a guilty act, ‘may I introduce Mr Edward Glapthorn?’
She gazed at me imperiously, and held out her hand. I think that she was expecting me to kiss it humbly, like a queen’s; but instead I touched the ends of her outstretched fingers in the briefest of gestures, and bowed stiffly.
‘I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Daunt,’ I said, and withdrew a few steps.
Well, she was a deuced handsome woman, I will say that. I could easily see how her good looks, together with a spirited and capable character, would have made it – let us not say easy, but perhaps less difficult for Dr Daunt, in his grief at the loss of his first wife, and entombed alive as he had been in Millhead, to succumb to her charms. She had brought life and hope to that dismal place, and I supposed he had been glad of it. But he had never loved her; that was plain.
‘Mr Glapthorn,’ the Rector ventured, ‘is staying at the Dower House.’
‘Indeed,’ came the frosty reply. ‘Are you a friend of the Carterets, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘I came up from London to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business,’ I replied, intending to dispense as little information concerning my visit as possible. She had seated herself next to her husband, placing her hand protectively over his, whilst we spoke about the shocking events of recent days, and how the placid community of Evenwood had been riven by what had happened to their well-liked neighbour.
‘Mr Paul Carteret was my second cousin,’ intoned Mrs Daunt, ‘and so, naturally, this terrible crime affects me particularly closely—’
‘Not, perhaps, as closely as his daughter,’
I interjected. She shot me a look that was intended no doubt to crush my impudence.
‘One must of course suppose that Miss Emily Carteret feels the loss of her father deeply, especially under such dreadful circumstances. Do you know Miss Carteret?’
‘We have only recently met.’
She smiled and nodded, as if to signify her complete comprehension of the matter.
‘And do you work in some professional capacity, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘I am a private scholar.’
‘A private scholar? How interesting. And is that a line of business?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said just now that you had come to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘In a manner of speaking. I see.’
Dr Daunt, looking a little uncomfortable, then broke in.
‘Mr Glapthorn has been so kind as to compliment me on my bibliographic labours, my dear. It is always pleasant for us poor scholars to receive the approval of a discriminating intellect.’
He was looking at me, in anticipation, I supposed, of some pertinent remark or other; but before I could say
