House in Charlton Crescent by Annie Haynes Page A

hours, and having breakfasted was now at liberty to read the papers, and to carry out a private plot of his own before going on to the inquiry.
    Lady Anne Daventry’s murder had captured the public imagination in no ordinary degree. The rank and age of the victim, the mystery surrounding the crime and the fact that the newspapers just now had nothing particular on hand had combined to make the Charlton Crescent Mystery, as it was called, the principal topic of interest.
    The inspector ran through the papers quickly. As he had expected, such headings as “Charlton Crescent Murder.” “Reported Clue.” “Who was the man at the window?” were conspicuous on the first page. But surprises for Inspector Furnival were hardly likely to come in the daily press. He soon turned back to his notes, and was knitting his brows together over some knotty problem when Soames came into the room. The man was looking white and shaken.
    â€œI have been told, Mr. Furnival, that I shall be one of the first witnesses called to-day, because I was the first to see the man at the window.”
    â€œQuite likely!” the inspector assented. “But it will only be a matter of form, you know, Mr. Soames. You will not find it at all alarming. Just say what you saw. That is all.”
    â€œThank you. But I have never come in contact with anything of the kind before, and can’t say like the prospect of speaking right out in court.”
    â€œOh, well, it will soon be over,” the inspector said genially. “You look cold. Stir the fire. I didn’t notice how hollow it was burning. But, there, I forgot. Don’t you high-class flunkeys get a footman to poke the fire for you?”
    Soames gave a sickly smile as he paused, poker in hand.
    â€œOh, we are not all quite so bad as they make us out. My poor lady would have told you that I always liked to do everything in her room myself.”
    â€œAh, well, I am glad that her ladyship recognized your long years of devoted service,” the inspector went on.
    Soames stirred the hot coals into a brisk flame. 
    â€œYes, Mr. Furnival, her ladyship has left all us head servants, if we were with her at the time of her death, five hundred pounds each. That is, me and Miss Pirnie, and the chauffeur that used to be the coachman, and the head gardener—we all came with her from the Keep. The other ones have smaller sums according to their time of service.”
    The inspector nodded. No one was better acquainted with the terms of the will than he.
    â€œYou were here when—” he was beginning when his quick ear caught the sound of a “click” in the hall. He got up leisurely.
    â€œSomebody at the telephone—I will just explain—”
    Soames would have stepped forward to open the door already standing ajar, but the inspector waved him aside and went into the hall.
    â€œAh, Miss Fyvert,” he said suavely. “I see you did not know the extensions had been cut off. The only phone left now is this one in the library.”
    Dorothy Fyvert stared at him, receiver in hand.
    â€œWho has done this? How stupid and inconvenient!” with an evident effort to speak naturally.
    â€œWell, I am afraid I must plead guilty to having given the order. Detectives have to do all sorts of odd things, you know, Miss Fyvert. But I am very sorry if it has inconvenienced you,” the inspector went on politely. “Will you not come in to the library?”
    â€œWell, I want to send a message to the dressmaker,” Dorothy hesitated. “It was rather important, but—”
    â€œShall I see if the line is clear for you?” the inspector inquired blandly as he held open the library door.
    Miss Fyvert hesitated. She was not looking well to-day, as the inspector had noticed at once. Her face was very white; all her pretty colour had faded; her eyes had deep blue half-circles under them, and the eyes themselves glanced