The Skeleton in the Clock

'Do please make yourselves at home!' urged Aunt Cicely, with such sincerity that even Masters believed it 'I shall have to run along to bed now, but do make yourselves comfortable. Have you got the Ovaltine, Phyllis? That's a good girl! And I must have someone to talk to before I. Phyllis! Where is Lady Brayle?'

'Gone home, mlady. Long ago.'

Aunt Cicely fretted. 'Then I wonder… Mr. Masters! Is Ricky over at the Dragon?'

'Not there now, Lady Fleet It's been closed for half an hour.'

'Then I suppose,' Aunt Cicely said, 'he must be with Susan Harwood.' And she gave a bright, inquiring smile at Martin Drake.

(Careful, now! But you don't know anything about Susan except that Ricky wants to marry her and Ruth says he's deeply enamoured, so you're safe in admitting ignorance. Besides, the maddening questions…)

'Susan is a dear girl,' said Aunt Cicely. 'But of course — I' She laughed deprecatingly. 'I mean; her father being a farmer. Not serious; and what matter? No woman can resist Ricky. I’ve always told him so. And I must confess,' her attractive laughter rang again, 'I've always been rather proud of it. It seems to reflect credit on me, somehow. What was I thinking of? Oh, yes! Retiring. Of course. Will you say good-night for me to everyone?'

Radiating charm with her smile, giving a whisk of the loose sleeve, Aunt Cicely left them.

It was just as well, Martin thought, that a harmless if somewhat feather-headed siren had gone. The tension which invaded that room, when H.M. and Masters faced each other, set his nerves tingling again.

'Got the stuff?' demanded H.M.

'All of it,' Masters growled. 'I'm fair sick of interviews, and that's a fact' He dropped hat, brief-case, and cardboard file into a chair.

Murder.

Thanking Grandmother's Providence first of all, Martin's thoughts raced on, the person killed couldn't have been Jenny. Jenny had been here today, hovering over him, her behaviour being 'unladylike and disgusting.' Lady Brayle and Aunt Cicely were both very much alive. So was Dr. Laurier, whom he had met here in this house early in the morning.

(In front of him, like mumbled voices heard in a crowded room, he was conscious of H.M. and the Chief Inspector talking away. Masters was pointing at Martin, and asking questions about the fall off the roof. H.M. was growling that the victim seemed to have no evidence; and up went Master's blood-pressure again. But little of this penetrated to Martin.)

The person killed, he was thinking, couldn't have been Stannard either. Stannard was as right as rain. Now he knew it couldn't have been Ricky, because Ricky's mother had just asked whether her son was at the pub. That left only…

'Look here!' Martin exclaimed, and jumped up. 'Was it Ruth Callice?'

Both the others — Masters with his face red instead of ruddy, H.M. taking out a cigar — swung round.

'Burn it all, son, don't start shoutin' like that,' complained the latter, making fussed gestures. 'Was she what?'

Martin felt a hollow of dread, with a pulse to it inside his chest

'Was she the victim? Did somebody kill Ruth?'

Yes, his voice had been loud. In the north wall of the room towards the west door opened. It opened to show a glimpse of a billiard-room, corresponding with the library on the other side of the house.

Ruth Callice came out of the billard-room, and' John Stannard after her. They were noticed neither by H.M. nor by Masters. But Martin saw them, and slowly sat down again.

'Listen,' said H.M., standing in front of Martin. 'The victim hasn't got anything to do with you; and I'm trying to drive it through Masters's head that the victim hasn't got anything directly to do with the case either.'

'Ho,' said Masters, and snorted like a bull. 'A murder slap-bang in our laps, and it hasn't got anything to do with the case.'

'Regardin' motive,' H.M. insisted over his shoulder, 'no.'

He turned back to Martin. 'You put up at the pub, didn’t yon? Didn't you meet the Puckstons?'

'Puckstons? That's the—?'

'Yes. Father, mother, and daughter.'

'I met Puckston, yes, and I think I saw his wife. I don't remember any daughter.'

'Enid Puckston,' said ELM. His expression was not pleasant 'Only a kid..'

'Oh, ah,' muttered the Chief Inspector. 'Only a kid. Like the one twenty-two years ago.'

'She was the pride and joy,' said H.M., slowly and heavily, 'of those people's hearts. Goin' to a fancy school, she was. Not harming anybody.'

'Last night at Pentecost,' Masters interrupted, 'she was stabbed through the heart and (hurrum!) pretty badly mutilated. What's more, for a fair-to middling certainty, she was killed with that dagger your crowd found in the condemned cell.'

For some time nobody spoke.

To Martin, Enid Puckston was only a name, not even a person to be visualized. Yet the ugliness and brutality struck through. At this ppint, too, he became aware that Masters was speaking not for information, but for effect; that the corner of Masters's eye had caught Ruth and Stannard over there by the billiard-room. Martin shook his head to clear it

'Stabbed and mutilated,' he repeated. Then he looked up. 'Was she—r?’

Masters now spoke almost blandly.

'No, sir. She wasn't violated, if that's what you mean. Or any attempt like it Might have been anybody's crime. Might have been—' here Martin could have sworn the Chief Inspector was about to say 'man or woman,' but checked himself—'might have been anybody who'd got what they call a strong sadistic nature. With their flummy talk nowadays,' he added.

'Where was she found?'

'Ah! As to that, now!'

Straightening up, with an air of surprise and grave welcome, Masters turned round in the direction of Ruth and Stannard.

'Evening, miss! Evening, sir!' he intoned, as though he had just seen them. 'Didn't notice you in the dark. I'd be glad to have a bit of a chat with both of you, if it's convenient'

'Yes, of course,' answered Ruth, whose eyes were fixed on Martin. Abruptly, as though breaking loose, she ran across the room and took Martin's hands.

'So you're up and about!' Ruth added, scanning his face and forehead. She added, as though in reproach: 'Martin, you look horrible.'

He grinned at her. 'No worse than a hangover. Honestly!'

Stannard approached more slowly. H.M. had spoken of him as having had a shock, and you could well believe it. Some of his strong vitality — not too much, but some — seemed to have ebbed from him. The black eyes had no glitter, he smiled, though with visible effort As he moved towards them he put one hand on the back of a dark-red wing chair as though his ankle hurt him.

What had he seen in that execution shed last night?

But, for that matter, Ruth herself looked far from well. She was as trim as ever, the small light-brown curls gleaming above the rounded face, her dress a close-clinging green. Yet she looked physically ill. And Martin began to understand the strain which had been growing on everybody all day.

The strain grew and grew. They seldom spoke of it And yet..

'Martin,' Ruth began, and braced herself. 'Some people are saying what happened to you was an accident It wasn't, was it?'

'No. It wasn't'

Very much, now, he was conscious of H.M. and Masters in the background.

'What did happen?' asked Ruth. Then, without waiting for a reply, as though afraid of a reply she went on:

'All I know is that I was waked up about a quarter to five by that alarm-bell going. Then I heard a crash —'

'Great Scott, Ruth, did I fall as hard as that?'