Seeing is Believing

With no foreboding of what was to come within the next half-hour, Courtney opened the door for her. They tiptoed across the hardwood floor of the hall to the dining room. Some sort of subdued argument now seemed to be going on in the hall upstairs. Two words, 'continuous contraction,' emerged in H.M.'s voice, followed by the fierce shushing tones of Dr. Nithsdale.

The dining room was dark, but the white-tiled kitchen beyond was lighted. A clock ticked with homely effect on a shelf over the refrigerator. Daisy Fenton, her eyes red with weeping, sat rigidly on a kitchen chair and occasionally wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron.

By the sink stood a stout gray-haired woman whom Courtney supposed to be Mrs. Propper, the cook. Though she held herself like a grenadier, her own eyebalk had a strained look which indicated emotion not far off.

A swing door (which, unexpectedly, did not creak at all) admitted Ann and Courtney to this warm domestic interior.

'Good evening, Mrs. Proppe'r,' Ann said politely. 'Evening, Miss Ann.' 'You're up late.'

'First time I've been out of me bed after nine o'clock,' declared Mrs. Propper, balancing herself with one hand on the drain-board, 'since that grand dinner-party when they wanted the bomb-a-la-rain for a sweet. (Oh, Daisy, do stop sniveling; there's a good girl!) Miss Ann, who's that wild man?'

'What wild man?'

'That man with the bald head.'

'You mean Dr. Rich?'

'Oh, him? Not that hypnotist fellow. I know him. He came walking through here only a few minutes ago, and out the back door to the garden, without so much as by- your-leave. No, I mean the other man. Big stout man in his shirt-sleeves, if you please, who came in before the hypnotist, and started asking all the questions.'

'You mean Sir Henry Merrivale?'

Mrs. Propper was taken aback.

'Lord! Got a title, has he?' Visibly, H.M.'s stock shot up in her estimation. 'Now whoever would 'a' thought it? No offense meant, I'm sure. But he did carry on like as if he wasn't right in the head. And then there's that Captain Sharpless. I say it's a disgrace!'

'Auntie!' cried Daisy. 'Auntie!'

'I say it's a disgrace,' affirmed Mrs. Propper, whacking her hand down on the drain-board. 'And I'm sure Miss Ann agrees with me. Him coming here the day after, with Mr. Fane not cold in his coffin. And going up to Mrs. Fane's bedroom: ber bedroom, if you please: at four o'clock in the afternoon. He's out in the garden now, and I say it's a disgrace.'

'Really, Mrs. Propper—!' said Ann.

But, since she refused to show grief at death or illness, Mrs. Propper took it out in another way. The tears did start to her eyes with the strength of her opinions here.

'Mind you, Miss Ann, I'll not say Mr. Fane was all I like a gentleman to be. He did look at my household accounts as though he thought I might cheat him, and tick off every little thing with a pencil. I like a gentleman to be free with his money, or else why is he a gentleman?'

'Mrs. Propper, please!'

'But speak no ill of the dead: that's what I've always been taught, and what I always say. There's Mr. Hubert now. Not that he's free with his money, but at least it's always a good word and a, 'Surely that's a lot of trouble for you, Mrs. Propper?' You don't mind it,' continued the cook, with her jaws working and the tears now running down her face, 'if you're appreciated in this world. But speak no ill of the dead; and, after all, he was her lawfully wedded husband—'

This was having its effect on Ann.

Courtney, powerfully embarrassed, was afraid that this might end in an orgy with all three of them weeping. And another idea had come to him as well.

'Mrs. Propper!' he snapped, in so sharp and peremptory a tone that she instinctively straightened up.

'Yes, sir?'

'You said that Sir Henry Merrivale was here asking you some questions?' 'Yes, he was.' 'Questions about what?' He roused a new grievance.

'About what food Mrs. Fane had eaten today, that's what.' 'Oh?'

'Yes, it is. When Daisy here can tell you that not a mouthful of food has passed her lips today, not a mouthful, except the grapefruit that Captain Sharpless took up to her at four o'clock in the afternoon. That's all she'll ever touch when she feels poorly (as you very well know, Miss Ann), 'and a thousand times I've told her that it's no food to keep body and soul together.' 'Yes, of course, Mrs. Propper, but—' 'And anyway, when the poor lady's dying, in convulsions they say, then what I say is, what difference does it make what she did or didn't eat? That's what I say.'

Twelve

The clock ticked loudly.

'I wonder,' Courtney said aloud.

Guesses, all without shape or reason, drifted in his mind. The atmosphere of the kitchen was warm and damp, with a prevalent ghost of lamb stew.

'You'll excuse us, I know,' he told Mrs. Propper, shutting away his thoughts. 'Miss Browning wants to get home.'

'And so she should, if she'll take my advice,' declared the cook, flinging open the back door. 'It's little enough sleep any of the rest of us will be getting in this house tonight. Good night to you, Miss Ann. Good night to you, sir.'

'Good night, Mrs. Propper.'

As they went down two steps, and the door closed behind them, they were momentarily blinded by the contrast between the moonlight and the light from the unshaded kitchen windows.

They found themselves on a concrete walk which ran along the back of the house, parallel with it, to a garage at the other end. A gravel path at right angles to the concrete one led straight out into the rose-garden. Passing a garden shed, they had gone a little way down the gravel path when Ann spoke.

'Why did H.M. ask about that?'

It was as though he could feel the alert, searching intelligence working beside him. The scent of the rose- garden, without color yet with its suggestion of hot color, closed in around them.

'Is there something in grapefruit,' she said, 'that would be bad for — well, for lockjaw poisoning?'

'I don't know. Grapefruit's an acid. Or is it an alkaloid? Anyway, it's strong stuff.'

Beyond the garden lay a stretch of open lawn with a few apple and plum trees. A gate in the high stone wall led out into the lane of grass. As he opened the gate, Ann turned round.

'Please. It's awfully kind of you to offer to go home with me. But I'd rather you didn't.'

— He felt a rush of disappointment.

'It's not that I don't want you to,' she told him quickly. 'I'd love you to. It's just that there's something I've got to think out. Now. Something I can't talk about, even to you. And then maybe I shall be better company. You don't mind?'

'Of course not.'

'Then good night.' She extended her hand.

He took the hand. 'Good night, and try not to worry too much. You're sure you'll be all right?'

'All right?' She half laughed at him, her eyes widening. 'Why on earth shouldn't I be all right?'

'Nothing. Probably just a psychic fit like one of Frank Sharpless's. Pay no attention to it. But I'd hate anything to happen to you.'

'You're nice,' said Ann, after a pause, and pressed his hand.

Then she left him.

Courtney latched the iron gate, leaned over it, and glanced to his left up the lane. Its soft, unkempt grass