happens seldom; it's a tricky business at best, and. entails a long careful build-up of atmosphere and circumstances. And obviously that's out of the question in this murder too, since nobody's ever tried to foist any suggestion of the kind or so much as intimated that the pavilion's haunted by a murderous spook.
'Finally, there's accident. There's the murderer who creates an impossible situation in spite of himself, without wantin' to. Say you and Inspector Potter are sleepin' in connectin' rooms, and the only outside door, which is to his room, is barred on the inside. I want to kill you and throw suspicion on him. I come in during the night, workin' my pane-and-putty trick on the window; I stab you in the dark, and get out after replacin' the pane. Yes. What I forget or don't observe is that the door connecting your room with his is also locked on your side — and I've got an impossible situation again. Ayagh!
'Now that's the last and final refuge. But burn me,' said H. M., suddenly turning round the glare of his small eyes, 'can you see how that last and final refuge can be applied to this mess? Accident, hey? What kind of accident is it where a person DON'T make tracks in the snow?'
Masters scowled. 'Well, sir, I'd call that last one just about, the only reasonable assumption. Like this. X, the murderer, goes out to the pavilion while it's still snowing…'
'Uh-huh. Still thinking about Canifest's daughter?'
The chief inspector had the grim and concentrated bearing of a man trying to hold his ideas steady like a pail of water on his head; and he went on doggedly:
'Wait a bit, sir! Now just wait. We were on the `accident' side of the theory. Well, X goes out there before it stops snowing. Eh? Then, after X kills Miss Tait, she discovers-'
'Gal?' inquired H. M. 'Yes, you're gettin' devilish definite now.'
'Well, why not? If Miss Bohun's telling the truth about seeing Rainger upstairs in the gallery at one-thirty, when Rainger was leaving the library, that eliminates her. But I'm thinking of the one woman with a motive. Miss Carewe goes down there; there's a row; she kills the other woman, and afterwards discovers that the snow has stopped and she's trapped in the place! — So there's your accident, sir. She didn't intend to have an impossible situation, but there it was.”
H. M. rubbed his forehead. 'Uh-huh. And how did she get back to the house again without leaving any tracks? Also by accident?'
'You're not,' said Masters, with several adjectives, 'very helpful. This young lady, by the testimony I read you, was lying out in the gallery in a faint, with blood on her wrist, at close to four o'clock in the morning. '
H. M. nodded and scowled at his pipe.
'I know. That's another thing I wanted to ask. How was she dressed?'
Bennett saw the net begin to close. He saw it a moment before Katharine loosed her arm from his grasp and walked quickly towards the group about the fire.
'May I tell you how she was dressed?' she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. 'She had on a nightgown and dressing-gown, with an outdoor coat over it.'
Masters got up from the table. He blocked the light in the direction of the fireplace, so that Bennett could not see H. M.
'But no shoes,' said Katharine. She opened and shut her hands. 'Don't you see, Mr. Masters? No shoes; only mules. She couldn't have gone out there without shoes — overshoes something. And if she took them off afterwards they must have been wet, and they'd still be wet. Wouldn't they? Well, I went to her room this morning..:'
'Steady, Miss,' said Masters quietly. 'You didn't tell us this before.'
'I never thought of it before! But this morning I went to her room after the smelling-salts. She always carries smelling-salts; that's the-well, that's how Louise is. And I noticed all the shoes and things she'd brought down with her: I'm sure of it, because yesterday she showed me all the new things she got in the States, you see? And none of them were even damp; because I was looking for a pair of warm slippers for her… You believe me, don't you?'
The fire crackled and popped during a silence, and Bennett could see flakes of snow sifting past the gray windows.
'I believe you, Miss,' said Masters quietly. 'It would be easy enough to hide away — a pair of galoshes, say. And I think it would be just as easy to find 'em again. Thanks, Miss, for calling it to my attention. Potted'
'Sir?'
'Got a couple of men here? Good! You heard it; you know what to look for. Any kind of damp shoes, any pair of overshoes or galoshes, in any room: No objection to looking in your room, Miss?'
'Of course not. But don't disturb-'
'Hop it, Potter,' said Masters. When the inspector's heavy footfalls had died away he gestured towards a chair and stared at the girl again. 'Will you sit down, Miss? I've made a good many fool omissions in this case, and I admit it, but this comes pretty close to the limit. Miss Carewe didn't go out at all last night, did she? Neither did you. Finding men's damp boots won't mean anything. But if we find anything else. '
There was a growl from behind him. 'Stand out of the light, will you?' protested H. M. 'Don't obstruct the witness, dammit. Every time a man asks a rational question around here, you go up in the air. Humph. I say, look here! You are a good-looking-nymph, burn me if you're not!'
He lumbered to his feet as Masters moved aside, and a genuine admiration showed in his dull face. Bennett noticed now that he was wearing a vast overcoat with a moth-eaten fur collar, its pockets stuffed with Christmas packages tied in gaudy ribbon.
'Oh, and you're here too?' he added, his expression changing as he saw Bennett. 'It seems like you started a hare, son. And now all you want me to do is catch it for you.”
Now, now, there's no need to be upset, Miss Bohun. Just wait till the old man gets to work. Point is Masters there hasn't got any tact. Sit down, everybody, and be comfortable.'
'It occurs to me,' said Masters, 'that… what the devil's the matter with you, Potter?'
The chief inspector's own nerves were growing jumpy. But he had reason for it. Potter had not meant to bang the door when he came back into the room. But it echoed with a dull crash across the vault of the library, where the fire was dying now.
'Excuse me, sir,' said Potter heavily, 'but will you come here a moment?'
'Well?' demanded Masters. For a moment he seemed incapable of getting up. 'Not more-?'
'I don't know, sir! It's reporters. Dozens of 'em, and there's one I thought was a reporter; only 'e's crazy, sir, or something. Says he killed Miss Tait, or something like that.
'What?'
'Yes, sir. Says he sent her a box of poisoned chocolates. His name's Emery, sir; Tim Emery.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Circe's Husband
A long and satisfied grunt issued from the chimney corner.
'Aha!' said H. M., flourishing his dead pipe in triumph. 'Now we got it. I been expectin' this, Masters. Yes, I rather thought he did. Let him come in, Potter. I say, though, son: you better go out and keep the press at bay until I can get a look at that pavilion.
'You mean, sir,' said Masters, 'that this man — who is he? I remember hearing his name — killed Miss Tait, and…'
H. M. snorted. 'That's just what I don't mean, fathead. Oh, on the contrary, on the contrary, I'm afraid. He's one of two or three I can think of who never wanted to kill her. He sent her poisoned chocolates, yes. But she wasn't intended to eat 'em. He knew she never ate chocolates. Y'know, son, I thought it was rather funny that poisoned chocolates were sent to somebody that the whole gang knew never touched sweets. He never wanted to kill anybody. Only two of the things were loaded, and there wasn't a lethal dose in both together. And even then the poor fathead got a fit of conscience. So he mashed one with his finger when the box was offered him, so's nobody else would eat it, and swallowed the other himself. Ho ho. You'll understand why in a minute, Masters… Get him in here.'
They brought Emery in a moment later. If, when Bennett had last seen him two days ago, he had seemed
