The Eight of Swords

'It's an ugly thing to face, then, but here it is. The murderer of Depping — X— the decidedly brainy person who worked out this design — is here. He's no fanciful gangster. He's a member of the community in an English village, and probably not a mile away from us now. That's why Fve gone through this laborious explanation: so that we could center our activities. As it stands now—'

He leaned forward, and beat his finger slowly into his palm.

'— as it stands now, he thinks he is safe. He thinks we have laid the murder on Louis Spinelli. That's where we have the advantage, and the only way we shall be able to trap him unawares. Therefore, for the time being, we shall keep silent about everything we know, including our suspicions as to Depping's past. I shall have to report it all to Hadley, and the past can be investigated from London. But our information we will keep to ourselves.

'Besides, gentlemen, we have several valuable clues. The murderer made one or two mistakes, which I needn't outline at the moment, but his greatest mistake was leaving the eight of swords. It supplies a direction in which to look for the motive.'

'Are you at last prepared, then,' said the bishop, 'to tell us what this eight of swords means?'

'Oh, yes. I don't know whether you've noticed on Depping's shelves a number of works dealing with—'

From outside the house there rose a murmur a voices and a trampling of feet. Morley and the bishop, who were near the windows, glanced out.

'Here comes a whole procession,' said the former. 'My father, and Inspector Murch, and my sister, and Dr. Fordyce, and two constables. I—'

Apparently the colonel could not restrain himself. Through the quiet of the coppice, eager and jubilant, his hoarse voice came floating from below.

'I say! Come down here! It's all up, you know; all up!'

The bishop tried to peer out through the rounded bars. He hesitated, and then called: 'Kindly refrain from yowling like that, Standish. What's all up?'

'Why, we've got him, you know. Murch has got him.

Make him talk now/’ 'Got who?'

'Why, Louis Spinelli, demmit! He's down in the village, and Murch has got him under technical arrest.'

'Whoosh!' said Hugh Donovan, and turned to stare at Dr. Fell.

CHAPTER VIII At the Chequers Inn

At this point, the chronicler of Dr. Fell's adventures should, strictly speaking, apologize for introducing that luscious little ginch, Patricia Standish. 'Ginch,' Hugh Donovan has frequently assured the chronicler, is the word that best describes her; a mysterious term whose definition will presently be made clear. It is pronounced to rhyme with 'cinch,' for more reasons than one.

This apology should come from the fact that on one point all the leading authorities are agreed: to introduce a heroine (whether or not the tale be fact) is bad. Very bad. As Henry Morgan says, you know what I mean: the gray-eyed, fearless Grace Darling with the cool philosophy, who likes to poke her nose into trouble and use a gun as well as the detective, and who requires the whole book to make up her mind whether she is more than casually interested in the hero.

But in extenuation it must be urged, first, that this is a true story, and second — by the splendid grace of God — Patricia Standish had none of the traits just mentioned. She was not cool-headed or strong-minded. She could no more have accompanied the detectives with a gun than she could have brought down the villain with a flying tackle. Quite to the contrary, she was content to leave that sort of thing to the proper people; to beam up at you as though she were saying, 'What a man!' — and you threw out your chest, and felt about nine feet tall, and said, 'Ha, ha.' Nor, in her case, were there all those persistent attempts to freeze or embarrass the hero until the very last. She tumbled into Hugh Donovan's arms from the start, and stayed there, and a very good thing too.

Some magnificent premonition of this stirred in his mind the moment he saw her. She was walking up the brick path, against the dark trees that were now glowing fiery with sunset, and she was in the midst of a small procession. Patricia Standish had her arm through that of the ruddy-faced colonel, who was expounding something to a large man in uniform. Behind them walked two constables and a melancholy medical man who seemed to be thinking glumly about a lost tea.

Against this background she stood out vividly. She was a blonde, but not a fluffy blonde or a statuesque blonde. And she was dexterously made, as though nature had added just that extra touch and fillip to the curves in the right places, for a frock to adhere to. Her air was at once hesitant and vigorous; and her skin seemed to glow with that brownish flesh tint which is so rarely to be seen in real flesh. Dark hazel eyes contemplated you with that interested, rapt, 'What-a-man!' look already referred to; her high eyebrows gave her a perpetual air of pleased surprise; and she had a pink, rather broad mouth which always seemed to have just finished smiling.

Thus Hugh Donovan saw her coming hesitantly up the path, in a white tennis frock without sleeves, against the dark fire-edged trees. Along with the bishop, Morley, and Dr. Fell, he had come downstairs to the porch of the Guest House. And there she was, arching her neck to look rather fearfully at the balcony door, while the colonel spoke to Inspector Murch. Then she looked towards the porch, and at Donovan.

His immediate sensation was that of one who goes up a staircase in the dark, and puts his foot down on a nonexistent top step — you know. And this was followed by a sort of stupendous emotional clang: as though he had put a rifle to his shoulder, fired, and hit the loudest bell in the shooting-gallery first shot. Clang — like that, and hot and cold all at once, and a number of other mixed metaphors.

He knew, right then and there.

Furthermore, he knew that she knew also. You can feel that kind of thing emanating from ginches, in waves or vibrations or something, and the person who says you can't is a goof who does not deserve to have the vibrations launched in his direction. Hugh Donovan knew she knew, also, by the way their eyes did not meet. They took a sort of quick flash and slid away from each other. He and Patricia Standish made an elaborate pretense that they were not aware of each other's presence; that they would scarcely be aware of each other's presence after they had been properly introduced; and these are excellent signs indeed. Patricia was contemplating a stone peacock on the roof of the Guest House, her head high and her manner casual.

All these emotional fireworks were not obvious to Colonel Standish. The colonel made noises of satisfaction, and pushed forward Inspector Murch. Inspector Murch was large, and had a aggressive moustache; his method of standing at attention made him look as though he were tilted slightly backwards, and in danger of toppling over if you gave him a shove. His expression of conscientiousness remained fixed; but he seemed pleased with himself.

'Tell 'em, Murch,' said the colonel. 'Speak out, now. Oh, yes; that's Dr. Fell, and the Bishop of Mappleham, and Mr. Donovan… Inspector Murch, and this is Doctor Fordyce — goin' to take the bullet out now. Oh, yes, h'rrm — I forgot. And my daughter Patricia. Tell 'em, Murch.'

Patricia gave a small inclination of her head. The inspector was more conscientious than ever; he fingered his sandy moustache, cleared his throat, and fixed a pale blue satisfied eye on Dr. Fell. He spoke confidentially, in a throaty voice.

'I would like to call this an honor, sir. And I would explain why I was unable to do me duty in being here to welcome you.' He took a notebook. 'After making investigations here, I took the liberty of going home for me tea. This was not a dereliction of duty, look; I took with me a selection from Mr. Depping's correspondence — letters, sir,' he translated, tapping the notebook, 'which were revealin'. Meanwhile, I had been making inquiries about the man who visited Mr. Depping last night.

'The landlord of the 'Bull' told me that a man answering to the description had been seen frequendy in these parts for more than a week. He was often at the 'Bull,' and asking questions about everybody at The Grange; and news do get about, sir,' observed Inspector Murch, shaking his head. 'But this man had not been there last night.

' 'Owever, while I was drinking me tea, I received a call on the telephone from Detective Sergeant Ravens, at