Halliday muttered something about the Medes and the Persians; Marion's face wore a bright and interested expression, and she said, 'Oh!' Only Lady Benning studied him grimly, catching her cloak about her neck....
Heavy footfalls clumped along the hall outside, and we all turned. The tension went back to chill hostility as Masters strode into the room.
Masters returned the hostility. I have never seen him look more disheveled, more worried, or more sinister. His coat was muddy, like the bowler jammed on the back of his head. He stood in the doorway, surveying the group slowly.
'Well?' asked Ted Latimer. The way he pitched his voice, in those circumstances, was less like defiance than childish impertinence. 'Are we free to go home? How long do you intend keeping us here?'
Masters kept looking round. As though on an impulse, he let himself smile. He said, nodding:
'Why, I'll tell you, ladies and gentlemen.' Carefully drawing off his muddy gloves, he reached inside his overcoat and drew out a watch. 'It's now just twenty-five minutes past three. To be frank, we may be here until daylight. You may go as soon as I have had a statement from each of you - needn't be on oath, of course, but I should suggest frankness....
'We shall want these statements separately. My men are making one of the rooms as comfortable as possible, and we shall want you in one at a time. Meantime, I'll send a constable in here to keep you company, and see that no harm comes to anybody. We regard you all as valuable witnesses, ladies and gentlemen.'
The smile grew tighter. 'And now, um, excuse me. Mr. Blake! Will you step out here a moment, please? I should like a word in private.'
IX
'LOCKED IN A STONE BOX'
MASTERS took me down to the kitchen before he spoke. Joseph was not there now. The work-bench had been slewed round so that it faced the door; with the candles burning in a line across it, and a chair drawn up a few feet out for witnesses, the background made it resemble pictures of the Inquisition's tribunal-room.
The yard behind was noisy and full of darting lights. Somebody was climbing up on the roof of the little stone house; the puff of a flashlight-powder glared out momentarily, so that the house, the wall, the crooked tree, looked as wild as a scene from Dore. Close at hand, a muffled voice said in an awed tone, 'Lummy, but 'e got it, didn't 'e?' Another voice muttered, 'Uh!' and somebody scratched a match.
Masters jabbed his finger out towards the scene of activity.
'I'm beaten, sir,' he said. 'Right now, at least, I'm beaten, and I don't mind admitting it. This thing can't have happened, but it did. We've got the evidence - clear evidence, plain evidence - that nobody in God's world could have got into that house or out of it. But Darworth's dead. Let me tell you how bad it is.... Wait! Have you learned anything?'
I started to sketch out what I had learned, and he stopped me when I was telling' about Joseph.
'Ah! Ah, yes. I'm glad you saw him; so did I' He was still smiling grimly. 'I sent the boy home in a cab, under guard of a constable. He may not be in any danger, but on the other hand….'
'Danger?'
'Yes. Oh, the first part of it hangs together, sir. Neat; very neat. Darworth didn't fear this house because of its ghosts. He was very, very easy about the ghosts. What he did fear was physical harm from somebody-eh? Why else, d'ye think, did he bolt and bar his door out there? He wasn't trying to keep out a ghost with an iron bolt. But he thought somebody in his little spiritualist circle had designs on him, and didn't know which one. That was why he wanted to keep Joseph away from them tonight: to watch, and to find out. He knew it was one of this group, from the bogus message that'd been stuck among his automatic-writing drivel when only one of them could've done it. D'ye see, sir? There was something, or somebody, he was deadly afraid of; and this was a good time to get a line on who it might have been. He thought he was safe out there.... Then I told Masters about Major Featherton's evidence.
' `
He was silent a long time, biting at the joint of his thumb, muttering to himself. Then he turned.
'Now, then, let me tell you the mess we're into. Do you realize it won't do us an ounce of good even to fasten on somebody we think is the murderer, if we can't show how the murderer did it? We shouldn't dare go to court, even. Eh? Listen.
'First, the house. The walls are solid stone; not a crack or rat-hole in 'em. One of my men has been going over the ceiling inch by inch, and it's as solid and unbroken as the day it was put in. We've been over every inch of the floor also-'
'You don't,' I said, 'waste any time.'
'Aaa-h!' grunted Masters, with a sort of battered pride, as though that were all he had left. 'Yes. 'Tisn't every Force could get the police surgeon out of bed at three o'clock in the morning. Well! We've been over floor, ceiling, and walls. Any idea of hinges or trapdoors or funny entrances you can get out of your mind. Statement to that effect is signed and initialed by my men.
'Next, the windows, and they're out. Those gratings are solid in the stone; no question of that. The gratings are so small that you can't even get the blade of that dagger through 'em, for instance; we tried it. The chimney isn't big enough to admit anybody, even if you could drop down into a blazing fire; and, finally, there's a heavy iron mesh across it only a little way up. That's out. The door ...' He paused, stared out at the yard, and bellowed: 'GET OFF THAT ROOF! WHO'S ON THAT ROOF? .Didn't I tell you we'd wait till morning for all that? You can't see anything----'
'Daily Express, Inspector,' replied a voice out of the gloom. 'The sergeant said…'
Masters charged down the steps and disappeared. There was a flurry of high-colored language, and presently he came back breathing hard.
'It don't much matter, I daresay,' he said gloomily. 'According to what we know. I was telling you. The door - well, you know about the door. Bolted, and barred; and not one of those bolts you could do tricks with, either. It's hard enough to pull back even when you're inside the place ...”
'Finally, here's the incredible thing. We shall have to wait until daylight for full confirmation, but I can tell you I know now. With the exception of the tracks you and I made-and those who came out afterwards all carefully kept in our tracks, so there'd be one line and no confusion - there isn't a footprint anywhere within twenty feet o f that house. And you and I know, don't we, that when we first walked out there we saw no footprints at all along the direction we went?'
That was unquestionably true. I cast my mind back along that thin and glue-like sheet of mud: unbroken anywhere in the direction we walked. But I said:
'Still, look here, Masters. . . . Plenty of people had been walking about the yard earlier in the evening, and in and out of the house, while it was raining. Why is the mud unbroken, then? How did there come to be no footprints when we went out?'
Masters got out his notebook, pinched his nose, and frowned. 'It's something to do with the soil. Something about stratum-deposits, or physics - or the like; I don't know, but I've got it here,' he said. 'McDonnell and Dr. Blaine were talking about it. The house out there is on a kind of plateau. When the rain stops, it runs down and carries a fine sandy silt away from the place-like a mason spreading out mortar with a trowel, Bert said. The yard smells badly, you noticed. And you could hear a sort of wash out there when the rain had stopped. Bert thinks there's probably a drain somewhere, running underground to the cellar.... Anyhow, the rain had stopped a good three quarters of an hour before Darworth was killed, and the mud had thickened over like a jelly.'
He went back into the kitchen, rubbing his face dully. Then he sat down dully on the packing-case behind the work-bench; a weird and muddy-looking Inquisitor for this bleak room.
'But there it is solid. Unbreakable. Impossible. Ur! What am I talking about?' the Inspector muttered. 'I must be getting old, and I'm sleepy. No footprints approaching the house; none! Doors and windows, floor, ceiling and walls, tight as a stone box! Yet there's got to be some way out. I won't believe-'
He was looking down at the papers on the work-bench: at George Playge's manuscript,, the deed, and the newspaper cutting. He turned them over with dull curiosity, and then put them into the file-book.
'I won't believe,' he went on, holding up the file and rattling it savagely, 'this.'
