Even in her rush she stopped suddenly. You could feel unspoken words shut off as at the closing of a door. And their import was as palpable as the slam of a door in the cold room.
Bennett stared at her. 'With a riding-crop?' he said. He should never have spoken. He realized it as soon as
the words were out. That closing door was one that shut him from her.
She rose from the window-seat.
'Wasn't it? I must have got that impression from Stella,' she said, quickly and loudly. In that moment the quiet, nervous Katharine Bohun looked dangerous, and she was breathing sharply. 'I must really get back to my patient now. Thank you so much for everything. You had better go down to breakfast, hadn't you?'
Before he could move or speak, almost with the swiftness an illusion, she was out of the room. He remained staring at the closed door, fingering an unshaven jaw. Then he went over and kicked an empty suitcase across the room. He followed it with the intention of kicking it back; but sat down on the bed instead, lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke violently.
The muddle was growing worse. His hand was shaking, and the room was full of a mocking image of Marcia Tait. If Willard's crackling picture of her character were correct, she had never laughed in life as she would laugh in death. Riding-crop! There was no riding-crop at the scene of the crime, or near it, except the one John Bohun had carried on his wrist. Which was manifestly impossible.
The police would be back from the pavilion now. He must go downstairs. Keeping his mind grimly away from Katharine Bohun, he shaved in cold water; felt better but a little light-headed; dressed, and went downstairs.
He had intended to go to the dining-room, but there were loud voices from the direction of the library. The door was open. Lights had been turned on in the ceiling of the dusky room, and a group had gathered round the modem furniture in front of the fire. At a table behind the couch, flanked by bronze lamps with yellow shades, a tall man in the uniform of an inspector of police sat with his back to the door. He was tapping a pencil against the side of his head. Beyond him stood a very nervous Thompson, and beyond them Chief Inspector Masters blandly inspecting books on the shelves. The person who had been speaking-with strident positiveness, and a gesture like a semaphore — was a sharp-featured little man in a shabby black overcoat and a bowler hat stuck on the back of his head. He stood with his back to the fire, a pair of black-ribboned glasses coming askew on his nose, and pointed again.
He said: 'Don't think you can tell me my business, Potter. I regard that as a sheer, out-and-out insult, that's what I do; and when I get you at the inquest, Potter, then dum-me, I promise you now, I'll make you smart good and proper!' He leered over the glasses, malevolently. 'I'm telling you the exact medical facts. Get your police surgeon to check up on me, if you like. Get every bloody quack in Harley Street. Yah! Then you'll find out-?' His sharp gaze saw Bennett at the door. He stopped.
There was a silence in the tension of the room. Masters came up to the table.
'Ah!' he said quickly. 'Come in, Mr. Bennett. Come in, if you please. I was just going to send for you. This is Dr. Wynne — here. Inspector Potter — here. Now, we've been hearing some very unusual things in the last half hour:'
Dr. Wynne snorted. Masters had lost some of his earlier genial air; there were lines round his mouth and he looked worried.
'Which need straightening out. Just so. Now, sir, I've 'already told these gentlemen what you told me a while ago, Perhaps you'd better repeat it, as a matter of form, to the inspector —“
Inspector Potter looked up from his notebook. He was a bald-headed giant with a small tuft of moustache, a reddish face, and an eye like a ruminating cow; and he was dogged if bewildered. He looked at Bennett rather suspiciously. 'Nameanaddress,' recited the inspector, in gruff positiveness. 'If foreigner,' more suspicion, 'suggest references. Not under oath but advise for own good complete frankness. Now!'
'Now, then, Potter,' interposed Masters with some asperity, 'you want my help; is that it? Eh?'
`That,' said the inspector, 'that I do, sir.'
'Well, then-!' said Masters persuasively, and waved his hand. 'I'll manage for a bit, if you don't mind. Now, Mr. Bennett, I want to stress the importance of this. I want you to get it down clear. Thompson]'
Thompson came forward. His reddish-rimmed eyes showed a very definite hostility, but his voice was docile; and he looked (Bennett thought) the most respectable man in the room.
'You told Inspector Potter,' Masters went on sharply, 'that the snowfall stopped last night at just after two o'clock — no more or less — and you can swear to it?'
'Yes, sir. I'm afraid I can:'
'Afraid? What do you mean, afraid?'
'Why, sir, only that I shouldn't want to cause any trouble,' Thompson replied without inflection, 'for the police. I can swear to it. I didn't close an eye all night.'
Masters turned back.
'And Dr. Wynne tells us-'
'I tell you this,' snapped the doctor, and 'tapped Masters on the shoulder. 'Allowing for everything, including temperature, I definitely put the time of that woman's death as between three o'clock and three-thirty A.M. That's final. You say the snow stopped at two o'clock. Well, that's your business. What I say is that if the snow stopped at two o'clock, then that woman didn't die until at least an hour afterwards.' He leered round. 'I don't envy you your job, my lads.'
Inspector Potter came to life. 'But, sir,' he shouted, 'it's not possible! Not sense! Look here; there's two sets of tracks going into that house,' he continued with heavy impressiveness, and held up two fingers. 'Mr. Bohun tells us they were made by himself and this gentleman. Very well. There's two sets coming out, made by the same people. And that's all. Each of the four sets of prints is about equally fresh, so far as we can judge. and I've done some poac-urrr some trapping, I meantersay, in my younger days. They were made this morning, they were made about the time Mr. Bohun says] And thassalleris.' He swept his arm about, small pencil in massive fist. Then he brought the fist down on the table. 'A hundred straight feet of unmarked snow on every side of the 'ouse. Not a tree, not a shrub. And sixty feet of it thin ice on every side. Not possible, not sense, and may I never go to chapel again if it is!'
The inspector was breathing heavily through his nostrils. But so was Masters, who had been trying in vain to stop a conversational steam-roller. Masters did more than merely glare. His attitude towards Inspector Potter as his family relation made him deplorably forgetful of his dignity.
'Now, then]' he declared. 'Now, then, I'll tell you what it is, Charley Potter. You keep your ruddy head shut when you're told, or I'll report to the Chief Constable of this county your means of carrying on a case. Tell a witness what to say; eh? Makes no difference if we know it's truth. Eh? Oh, Lord! You in the CID., my lad? I don't think.'
Inspector Potter closed one eye in a highly sinister fashion.
'Urr?' he inquired with dignity. 'And 'oo may be in charge of this case, I should like to know? — You that was going to play Santy Claus! Urr! All right. Play Santy Claus. Here. Now. I was stating well-known facts. And I'll tell you more. We've got, a witness, Bill Locker that I've known all my life and is honest and trustworthy and 'as spotted the Derby winner for the last three years which is more than you can do: Bill Locker saw Mr. Bohun go in. Eh? And there was nobody in there hidden, which we proved. Now then!' He flung down his pencil on the table like a gauntlet. 'Until you can play Santy Claus and explain all that, sir, I'll ask you respectfully-.'
'Sic 'em, my lads,' said the little doctor, with an air of refreshed interest. 'I think I'll stop on a bit. Yes. Nothing adds zest to a criminal case like a free-for-all fight among the police at the outset. But is there anything else you want to know from me?'
With an effort Masters regained his imperturbability.
'Ah, ah,' he said. 'Forgot myself, inspector. Just so. You're in charge, for the moment, and you're quite right and within your duties.' He folded his arms. 'I should suggest, however, that before the doctor goes you make some inquiry about the weapon.'
Dr. Wynne scowled. 'Weapon? Hum. Dunno. That's your business. All I can give you is the customary Blunt Instrument. They were hard smashes. From the position of the wounds, looks as though she'd been struck down from the front, and then smashed five or six times as she lay on her side or face. Hard blows. Yes. Your police surgeon will tell you definitely at the pm'
'I don't suppose, sir,' observed Potter, as a startling thought seemed to occur to him for the first time, 'I don't
