You, Miss Handreth, accuse this man and old Pete Stanley of a conspiracy to murder. You say this Hastings was not only on the roof and followed it, but knew about it beforehand?”
“Yes. Not who the victim was to be—they didn’t know that themselves. But that they would probably have a shot at it.”
Hadley sat down again and looked at her curiously.
“This is something new in my experience. By God! I thought I knew all the tricks, too! Hastings was on that roof, saw preparation for a murder, and didn’t make the slightest effort to prevent it?”
“He did not,” she replied, in a very clear voice. “And he never would have. That’s what I wanted to explain to you. You see—”
A voice through the half open door said: “Let me explain it myself.
“I’ve got a statement to make,” pursued the voice, “and I want to make it before I go off my onion again. Help me through, me hearties.”
He came in unsteadily, watching the progress of his own feet in some surprise. He was a lean young man with a powerful pair of shoulders, large hands and feet, and a good-looking but rather absent-minded sort of face which must ordinarily have worn an expression of deadly seriousness. Now—to counteract the fact that he looked shamefaced—he was trying to grin casually, with a man-of-the-world’s air. Eleanor Carver was on one side of him, and Betts on the other.
“But you shouldn’t !” she was protesting, wildly, even while she helped him. “That doctor said—”
“Now, now,” he said, paternally. His eyes, as he peered round the group, were affable but hazy. The abrasions on his face were brown with iodine, and a padding of bandages ran up the back of his head. They got him into a chair, where he slid back with a grunt of relief while his colour took on a less greyish tinge.
“Listen,” he said, earnestly. “The fat’s in the fire now, and I’m afraid I made a mess of the whole business by falling on my neck; but there’s one thing I want understood. I didn’t, believe it or not, I didn’t fall out of that tree because I’d got the wind up, or anything like it! I could go up or down there with my eyes bandaged and one hand tried. I don’t know how it happened. I was rushing to get down and round to the front door; and somehow— whack …!”
Hadley swung round his chair to study the newcomer.
“If you feel well enough to come in here,” he said, “you probably feel well enough to talk. I am Chief Inspector Hadley, in charge here. And you’re the young man who sees a murder ready to be committed and says nothing?”
“Yes,” Hastings said, calmly, “in this case I am.”
But it was a harsh calmness, an abrupt change in the young man’s demeanour as though from a kind of monomania, which nearly made the blood gush again. He twitched out a handkerchief, threw back his head, and pressed the handkerchief hard to his upper lip. When it was under control, he said, shakily:
“Near thing, that. Aunt Millie wouldn’t have liked it. Sorry. I’m ready to talk, sir. But I want you to go out, Eleanor; and you too, Lucia. Mr. Boscombe had better stay.”
“I won’t go!” Eleanor cried, and jumped up from where she had been sitting beside his chair. Her pale-blue eyes were struggling with tears, and the voluptuously pretty face had hardened. She looked from Lucia to Hastings. “You f-fool,” she added, as though she could not keep back the words. “I think you might have told me; I think you might have come to me, or done something or said something, and not to her !”
“Oh, stop it,” Lucia said, sharply. “Go out, do, and don’t bring a family quarrel into a murder case.”
“While you stay?” enquired Eleanor, and laughed.
Lucia said, “I happen to be his legal adviser—” and stopped short, flushing, as Eleanor laughed again. The words, Melson thought, undoubtedly did sound foolish at that time, however correct they happened to be. He renewed his belief that the only time
“Yes. Not who the victim was to be—they didn’t know that themselves. But that they would probably have a shot at it.”
Hadley sat down again and looked at her curiously.
“This is something new in my experience. By God! I thought I knew all the tricks, too! Hastings was on that roof, saw preparation for a murder, and didn’t make the slightest effort to prevent it?”
“He did not,” she replied, in a very clear voice. “And he never would have. That’s what I wanted to explain to you. You see—”
A voice through the half open door said: “Let me explain it myself.
“I’ve got a statement to make,” pursued the voice, “and I want to make it before I go off my onion again. Help me through, me hearties.”
He came in unsteadily, watching the progress of his own feet in some surprise. He was a lean young man with a powerful pair of shoulders, large hands and feet, and a good-looking but rather absent-minded sort of face which must ordinarily have worn an expression of deadly seriousness. Now—to counteract the fact that he looked shamefaced—he was trying to grin casually, with a man-of-the-world’s air. Eleanor Carver was on one side of him, and Betts on the other.
“But you shouldn’t !” she was protesting, wildly, even while she helped him. “That doctor said—”
“Now, now,” he said, paternally. His eyes, as he peered round the group, were affable but hazy. The abrasions on his face were brown with iodine, and a padding of bandages ran up the back of his head. They got him into a chair, where he slid back with a grunt of relief while his colour took on a less greyish tinge.
“Listen,” he said, earnestly. “The fat’s in the fire now, and I’m afraid I made a mess of the whole business by falling on my neck; but there’s one thing I want understood. I didn’t, believe it or not, I didn’t fall out of that tree because I’d got the wind up, or anything like it! I could go up or down there with my eyes bandaged and one hand tried. I don’t know how it happened. I was rushing to get down and round to the front door; and somehow— whack …!”
Hadley swung round his chair to study the newcomer.
“If you feel well enough to come in here,” he said, “you probably feel well enough to talk. I am Chief Inspector Hadley, in charge here. And you’re the young man who sees a murder ready to be committed and says nothing?”
“Yes,” Hastings said, calmly, “in this case I am.”
But it was a harsh calmness, an abrupt change in the young man’s demeanour as though from a kind of monomania, which nearly made the blood gush again. He twitched out a handkerchief, threw back his head, and pressed the handkerchief hard to his upper lip. When it was under control, he said, shakily:
“Near thing, that. Aunt Millie wouldn’t have liked it. Sorry. I’m ready to talk, sir. But I want you to go out, Eleanor; and you too, Lucia. Mr. Boscombe had better stay.”
“I won’t go!” Eleanor cried, and jumped up from where she had been sitting beside his chair. Her pale-blue eyes were struggling with tears, and the voluptuously pretty face had hardened. She looked from Lucia to Hastings. “You f-fool,” she added, as though she could not keep back the words. “I think you might have told me; I think you might have come to me, or done something or said something, and not to her !”
“Oh, stop it,” Lucia said, sharply. “Go out, do, and don’t bring a family quarrel into a murder case.”
“While you stay?” enquired Eleanor, and laughed.
Lucia said, “I happen to be his legal adviser—” and stopped short, flushing, as Eleanor laughed again. The words, Melson thought, undoubtedly did sound foolish at that time, however correct they happened to be. He renewed his belief that the only time
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