Rolling Stone by Patricia Wentworth Page B

think you saw something you should make a statement to the police. They might, or might not, attach importance to it. If you would honour me with your confidence, I should feel better able to advise you.”
    Terry choked down a sob.
    â€œOh, Uncle Basil, I can’t!”

CHAPTER XVI
    At half past twelve on Sunday night Colonel Garrett switched out his bedside light, put his head on his pillow, and prepared to plunge into the deep, unbroken slumber which would last until seven o’clock on Monday morning. But scarcely had he closed his eyes, when the telephone bell rang.
    Garrett looked forward to a period of retirement in which the telephone would ring itself black in the face and he could tell it to go to blazes. That time had not yet arrived. He flung back the bed-clothes, snapped on the light, and padded barefoot across the hall into the glorified cupboard which he called his study. It had a loud-patterned linoleum on the floor, and contained an office chair, an office table, and the telephone.
    The bell rang again as he came in and slammed the door. Garrett scowled at it, jammed the receiver against his ear, and barked “Hullo!”
    A voice from the grave answered him. It said,
    â€œNeedless to ask if it is you, cher maître .”
    Garrett stared. Both voice and language belonged to Peter Talbot who had been buried three days ago in Brussels. Fanny Talbot had sent a wreath, Garrett himself had sent a wreath. Fanny Talbot had with difficulty been dissuaded from going to the funeral. Her solicitor had attended instead.
    â€œWho’s that?” said Garrett in a voice with a very sharp edge to it.
    The voice of Mr. Peter Talbot sounded pained.
    â€œIs this the way to receive a call from the Other Side? A little decent joy is indicated, cher maître .”
    The gritting of Garrett’s teeth was plainly audible. He rapped out an unparliamentary word.
    â€œIf you’re Peter Talbot you’ve got something to explain.”
    â€œOh, no, we never mention him, his name is never heard, our lips are now forbidden to speak that once familiar word. But you are quite right, I have lots to explain. Can I come along and do it?”
    â€œNow?” said Garrett.
    â€œI am afraid so. I’d like my beauty-sleep too, but I really think we’ll both have to cut it out. You see, I’m not in a position to come and see you by day.”
    Garrett scowled again.
    â€œAll right, come along. I’ll let you in.”
    He went back to his room and put on a luridly checked coat over his pink and orange striped pyjamas.
    It was exactly seven minutes before the knock he was waiting for fell gently on the outer door of the flat. He opened it with a jerk, and saw Peter Talbot with a soft black hat on his head and a voluminous dark muffler about his neck. He was unwinding it as he stepped inside the hall. He slipped out of a Burberry, took off his hat with a flourish, and said,
    â€œWell, well, it isn’t every day you get me back from the grave—is it?”
    Garrett had closed the door—gently for once.
    â€œWhat have you been up to?” he growled.
    â€œWhat have I not been up to! Produce a drink and a decent chair and you shall hear all. Honestly, Frank, it’s about time somebody did hear all, because I’m beginning to have a horrid suspicion that the people who are running this show have cast me for the part of a scapegoat. I don’t know, you know, but there’s just the horrid possibility, so I took a risk and rang you up.”
    Garrett gave him a hard, frowning look, turned his back, and marched into the sitting room, where he threw a log on a fire that still had some life in it and produced the required drink. The chairs were shabby but comfortable. The room smelt of books and shag and wood smoke.
    Garrett got out a frightful old pipe and lighted it. Then he shot his first question at Peter.
    â€œWhose funeral have you been getting away