hers.
“Thanks for the quarrel, darling,” he said in a light laughing voice, and gave her a little push and was gone.
chapter 11
Frank Abbott came in late, the net result of a long afternoon’s work being a number of fingerprints from the interior of the Forester’s House, most of them from the room where the window had been blocked and the settle drawn up to the hearth. The prints were those of two people, a man and a woman—some of them from the passage, but nearly all from the one closed room. Upstairs no prints at all—no sign that anyone had trodden the old dust.
“It’s clear enough that two people have been meeting in that room. They’ve been coming in the same way we did, and they haven’t bothered about the rest of the house. That’s as plain as a pikestaff. There are no other prints of anyone at all, so it looks as if either there wasn’t any murder, or as if the man did it. I wondered about a jealousy motive—the one-man-two-women triangle. What do you think about that? Suppose Louise Rogers was an old flame of the man’s and butted in on his rendezvous— one of those French words which the Chief dislikes so much— he might do her in to prevent Mary knowing, or Mary might do her in out of jealousy. Only if she was there, how did she contrive not to leave any prints? I suppose the answer would be that she was wearing gloves.”
He stood by the fire looking down at Miss Silver on her low chair. They had the morning-room to themselves in the half hour before dinner. She looked up across her knitting.
“If she was killed in that house, there would surely be stains, or some traces of their having been removed.”
He leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece. “I know—I know. But the passage had been swept—there was a birch broom in the kitchen. Smith’s taken it back with him to see if they can get any traces off it. There are no signs of the flags having been washed—Smith is prepared to swear that they haven’t.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“What about the sacks in front of the hearth in that room?”
“No sign of a bloodstain. ” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s just one thing—it’s probably negligible—”
“I shall be interested to hear what it is,” said Miss Silver.
“You know that passage between the kitchen and the front door—on the right there is the stone wall, and on the left the panelled side of the stair. Well, fairly high up on the panelling there is just one dark stain which might be blood—fairly recent and soaked down into the wood. Smith has taken a scraping, so we shall know more about it by tomorrow, and then we shall have to find out whether the woman’s prints were made by Mary Stokes.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked rapidly.
“Did you find any more of her footprints?”
He bent down to put a log on the fire.
“Oh, yes—there were half a dozen more. She must have run right through the wood just about as hard as she could pelt— there’s no doubt about that. And, you know, it looks to me as if she didn’t bolt like that for fun. A pretty tough young woman who has been making a habit of meeting a man in a place like the Forester’s House doesn’t act like a scared rabbit for nothing. I say she’s been making a habit of meeting someone there, because she left far too many fingerprints for a single visit. They’re all over the place—on the door that was blocking the window, all round the hearth and chimneypiece as if she had been making up the fire, and on both sides of the door. Something unusual must have taken place, or she’d never have bolted like that. And anyhow, where is Louise Rogers?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“And the missing earring, Frank.”
He bent a look of cold exasperation on her.
“For the matter of that, they’re both missing,” he said. “And so is she. And it’s a week today since she walked out of Mrs. Hopper’s room and never came back.”
Next day being Saturday, Mary Stokes delivered eggs and butter
“Thanks for the quarrel, darling,” he said in a light laughing voice, and gave her a little push and was gone.
chapter 11
Frank Abbott came in late, the net result of a long afternoon’s work being a number of fingerprints from the interior of the Forester’s House, most of them from the room where the window had been blocked and the settle drawn up to the hearth. The prints were those of two people, a man and a woman—some of them from the passage, but nearly all from the one closed room. Upstairs no prints at all—no sign that anyone had trodden the old dust.
“It’s clear enough that two people have been meeting in that room. They’ve been coming in the same way we did, and they haven’t bothered about the rest of the house. That’s as plain as a pikestaff. There are no other prints of anyone at all, so it looks as if either there wasn’t any murder, or as if the man did it. I wondered about a jealousy motive—the one-man-two-women triangle. What do you think about that? Suppose Louise Rogers was an old flame of the man’s and butted in on his rendezvous— one of those French words which the Chief dislikes so much— he might do her in to prevent Mary knowing, or Mary might do her in out of jealousy. Only if she was there, how did she contrive not to leave any prints? I suppose the answer would be that she was wearing gloves.”
He stood by the fire looking down at Miss Silver on her low chair. They had the morning-room to themselves in the half hour before dinner. She looked up across her knitting.
“If she was killed in that house, there would surely be stains, or some traces of their having been removed.”
He leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece. “I know—I know. But the passage had been swept—there was a birch broom in the kitchen. Smith’s taken it back with him to see if they can get any traces off it. There are no signs of the flags having been washed—Smith is prepared to swear that they haven’t.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“What about the sacks in front of the hearth in that room?”
“No sign of a bloodstain. ” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s just one thing—it’s probably negligible—”
“I shall be interested to hear what it is,” said Miss Silver.
“You know that passage between the kitchen and the front door—on the right there is the stone wall, and on the left the panelled side of the stair. Well, fairly high up on the panelling there is just one dark stain which might be blood—fairly recent and soaked down into the wood. Smith has taken a scraping, so we shall know more about it by tomorrow, and then we shall have to find out whether the woman’s prints were made by Mary Stokes.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked rapidly.
“Did you find any more of her footprints?”
He bent down to put a log on the fire.
“Oh, yes—there were half a dozen more. She must have run right through the wood just about as hard as she could pelt— there’s no doubt about that. And, you know, it looks to me as if she didn’t bolt like that for fun. A pretty tough young woman who has been making a habit of meeting a man in a place like the Forester’s House doesn’t act like a scared rabbit for nothing. I say she’s been making a habit of meeting someone there, because she left far too many fingerprints for a single visit. They’re all over the place—on the door that was blocking the window, all round the hearth and chimneypiece as if she had been making up the fire, and on both sides of the door. Something unusual must have taken place, or she’d never have bolted like that. And anyhow, where is Louise Rogers?”
Miss Silver coughed.
“And the missing earring, Frank.”
He bent a look of cold exasperation on her.
“For the matter of that, they’re both missing,” he said. “And so is she. And it’s a week today since she walked out of Mrs. Hopper’s room and never came back.”
Next day being Saturday, Mary Stokes delivered eggs and butter
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