There was a fractional pause. “Is it, now?'
'I'm sure of it. He killed Randy, all right.” He smiled. “And he's left-handed, by the way—sometimes, anyway.'
'Well now. And am I to be told how you came to these conclusions?'
'You sure are, but later. Right now, why don't we go in and talk to him?'
'You mean he's in there? All wrapped up for me, so to speak? By all means, let's go in then. Wouldn't want him scarpering at this point.'
As Gideon opened the door, the light from the entrance hall fell on him. Bagshawe's mildly chaffing manner vanished.
'Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What's happened to you? You look like bloody hell!'
But Gideon was staring at the reception desk at the far end of the ancient corridor. There, Andy Hinshore stood, livid and popeyed, dialing the desk telephone and shaking so hard the two parts of the instrument rattled against each other in his hands. He stared at Bagshawe, somehow recognizing him for a policeman.
'Police?” he said. He stared stupidly at the telephone.
'But how ...I was just calling.... Someone's been— there's been a killing!” He blinked twice, and his Adam's apple went ratcheting up and down his throat.
Trembling, his hand rose to point to the age-blackened door of the Tudor Room. “In there.'
* * * *
THEY flung the door open and burst into the room only to stop short on the threshold, stumbling over each other in a Three Stooges—like scramble that would in other circumstances have been comical.
Behind them, in an awed voice, Hinshore said unnecessarily: “By the fireplace.'
The room, lit only by the dying fire, wavered between darkness and fluttering, warm orange. Objects on the walls—plates, pictures, old copper utensils—danced in and out of focus. Only the hearth itself was clearly lit, and there, on the stone flooring before which people had sat these five hundred years in comradeship and warmth, a man's body lay sprawled, his chin tilted rigidly upward, the golden beard glinting like copper wire in the firelight.
'Leon Hillyer,” Bagshawe said with interest, and turned on the light.
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TWENTY
* * * *
'NOW, you just calm yourself, Professor Frawley, and drink some tea,” Bagshawe said supportively.
Frawley nodded, brought the steaming cup to his mouth cradled in both hands, and bent his head over it, as a man who had been lost in the snow for two days might lift a mug of brandy.
As soon as Bagshawe had had a quick look at the body, he had called police headquarters, having pretty much to wrest the telephone from the benumbed Hinshore. Sergeant Fryer, lean and dour, quickly arrived with a uniformed constable, and soon after that Dr. Merrill had come. Merrill and the sergeant had at once busied themselves in the Tudor Room with Leon's body, while the constable stood just outside the open door to the sitting room, keeping watch on the dwindling personnel of Stonebarrow Fell.
Bagshawe had taken over the dining room. First he had conferred hurriedly with Gideon, who brought him as up-to-date as he could in ten minutes. Then he called in Jack Frawley. The pot of tea had been politely requested by the inspector—partly, Gideon thought, to calm Frawley, who looked hideous, and partly to give the agitated Hinshore something to do.
Frawley finally put down his cup. “Thank you. I think I'm all right now,” he said without conviction.
'Fine, fine,” Bagshawe said. “Now, if you'd just go over it again...?” A small pad was before him on the table, and the tip of his tongue emerged to lick the point of a stubby pencil. He was all friendly patience.
'I came in early,” Frawley said dully. “Nobody was in the sitting room yet except Nate and Dr. Goldstein, and Nate was...well, not entirely sober, to be perfectly candid. It was a little uncomfortable, so I went into the Tudor Room—just seeing the place, you know.” He was speaking in a very low voice, breathing in and out between the sentences. Now he closed his eyes for a moment. “Leon was lying there all...well, you saw him. I think I just stood there, sort of in a trance. Then I heard the front door open and some people come in. I guess I shouted and everybody came running in. That's all.'
'And who,” Bagshawe said pleasantly, “is everybody?'
'Everybody: Dr. Goldstein, Dr. Arbuckle, Sandra... Barry, I think.'
'You think?'
'Well, I wasn't really...I was pretty upset. I think Barry was there. The man who owns the place too. They all came.'
'Professor Marcus?'
'No, not Nate. He's really not in very good shape.” Neither was Frawley, from the look of him. His face was the color of parboiled chicken.
'And then?” Bagshawe asked. “Did you touch anything?'
'Me, you mean? Oh, no. I could see he was dead; there wasn't anything to do.” He turned moist and pleading eyes on Bagshawe. “Inspector, I don't feel very well. If I could lie down...'
