constable stared with labouring breath, biting his finger-nail. The Inspector said at last: “Well, there it is. She’s dead.”
Troot wiped damp fingers on the seat of his trousers. “Yes, sir.”
“We must get the doctor at once and remove that scarf; but we know what we shall find. You’d better stay here, Troot, till I send someone else along. I must go back to the house.”
The summer-house was boarded in on two sides, but the rest was formed of lightly crossed branches, open to the sunshine and air. Against the boarding the snow had piled in a drift, eighteen inches deep. There were one or two half-dried puddles on the floor of the hut that might have been made by wet or snow-covered shoes, but otherwise no footprint and no sign. Around them lay the wide expanse of the lawns, sloping towards them from the house and down to the stream; and out of his childhood some memory was clamouring in the Inspector’s head for recognition. He could see the dim, sexless face of his school-teacher and smell for a moment the chalky smell of the blackboard; and he was a small boy again, reciting in a gabbling monotone:
“At Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow…”
All bloodless. Untrodden. Untrodden!
A diagonal track where Troot had strolled casually down from the terrace, had suddenly quickened his pace, had stood for a moment staring and then had turned and run, stumbling, back to the house. Parallel tracks where he and Troot had come loping down together. No other mark at all. He picked his way round to the back of the little hut and looked about him: to the railway line thirty feet to the left, to the little stream fifteen feet away, and right across the drive as far as the eye could see, there was no mark at all upon the flat white surface. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow… He walked slowly back to the house, examining his own tracks and those of the constable as he went.
A man was sitting quietly on a chair on the landing outside Fran’s room. Cockrill called him down and spoke to him softly: “Anything to report?”
“Nothing, sir. The young lady called out in the night; her dog, sir, he’d gone to sleep in the cupboard, and he must have woke up and she saw him push open the door. Mr. Pendock came out of his room, and we both went in to the young lady and calmed her down. Nothing else at all, sir. Nobody’s moved all night.”
“Have n’t they?” said Inspector Cockrill dourly, and rolled himself his first cigarette. He sent the man back to his post and went out on to the terrace below Fran’s window. “Anything to report?”
“Nothing, sir. Miss Hart came to the window and shut it, and I called up and saw to it that she was all right; otherwise nothing’s happened at all, sir.”
“Has n’t it?” said Cockie, and grinned quite horribly. “Well, take the car and go down at once to the village; ring up Torrington and tell them to send the doctor immediately… if the old man’s still away, young Newsome’ll have to do. And tell them to send a man to mend this bloody telephone.” He stumped back into the library and, lighting the electric fire, crouched over it, rubbing his frozen hands.
Before the family was awake, the house was swarming with men. Cockrill stood among them, huddled in his great-coat, his hat sitting sideways upon his head, directing operations with vigorous sweeps of his arms; his stubby brown fingers fumbled ceaselessly with a chain of cigarettes.
Young Dr. Newsome, so called to distinguish him from Old Dr. Newsome, his father, came into the hall; he was a tall, nice-looking boy, with his crop of curly gold hair, and beneath an air of conscious sophistication, hid an exuberant joy of living. He was highly excited by what appeared to be going to be a chain of murders at Pigeonsford, but he only said carelessly, handing over a doubtful-looking package: “Here’s the scarf you wanted. I wrapped it up to keep it from messing things. The head
Troot wiped damp fingers on the seat of his trousers. “Yes, sir.”
“We must get the doctor at once and remove that scarf; but we know what we shall find. You’d better stay here, Troot, till I send someone else along. I must go back to the house.”
The summer-house was boarded in on two sides, but the rest was formed of lightly crossed branches, open to the sunshine and air. Against the boarding the snow had piled in a drift, eighteen inches deep. There were one or two half-dried puddles on the floor of the hut that might have been made by wet or snow-covered shoes, but otherwise no footprint and no sign. Around them lay the wide expanse of the lawns, sloping towards them from the house and down to the stream; and out of his childhood some memory was clamouring in the Inspector’s head for recognition. He could see the dim, sexless face of his school-teacher and smell for a moment the chalky smell of the blackboard; and he was a small boy again, reciting in a gabbling monotone:
“At Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow…”
All bloodless. Untrodden. Untrodden!
A diagonal track where Troot had strolled casually down from the terrace, had suddenly quickened his pace, had stood for a moment staring and then had turned and run, stumbling, back to the house. Parallel tracks where he and Troot had come loping down together. No other mark at all. He picked his way round to the back of the little hut and looked about him: to the railway line thirty feet to the left, to the little stream fifteen feet away, and right across the drive as far as the eye could see, there was no mark at all upon the flat white surface. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow… He walked slowly back to the house, examining his own tracks and those of the constable as he went.
A man was sitting quietly on a chair on the landing outside Fran’s room. Cockrill called him down and spoke to him softly: “Anything to report?”
“Nothing, sir. The young lady called out in the night; her dog, sir, he’d gone to sleep in the cupboard, and he must have woke up and she saw him push open the door. Mr. Pendock came out of his room, and we both went in to the young lady and calmed her down. Nothing else at all, sir. Nobody’s moved all night.”
“Have n’t they?” said Inspector Cockrill dourly, and rolled himself his first cigarette. He sent the man back to his post and went out on to the terrace below Fran’s window. “Anything to report?”
“Nothing, sir. Miss Hart came to the window and shut it, and I called up and saw to it that she was all right; otherwise nothing’s happened at all, sir.”
“Has n’t it?” said Cockie, and grinned quite horribly. “Well, take the car and go down at once to the village; ring up Torrington and tell them to send the doctor immediately… if the old man’s still away, young Newsome’ll have to do. And tell them to send a man to mend this bloody telephone.” He stumped back into the library and, lighting the electric fire, crouched over it, rubbing his frozen hands.
Before the family was awake, the house was swarming with men. Cockrill stood among them, huddled in his great-coat, his hat sitting sideways upon his head, directing operations with vigorous sweeps of his arms; his stubby brown fingers fumbled ceaselessly with a chain of cigarettes.
Young Dr. Newsome, so called to distinguish him from Old Dr. Newsome, his father, came into the hall; he was a tall, nice-looking boy, with his crop of curly gold hair, and beneath an air of conscious sophistication, hid an exuberant joy of living. He was highly excited by what appeared to be going to be a chain of murders at Pigeonsford, but he only said carelessly, handing over a doubtful-looking package: “Here’s the scarf you wanted. I wrapped it up to keep it from messing things. The head
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