Silence in Court by Patricia Wentworth

impression that Molly was doing all these things at one and the same time. It was like the way things happen in a dream, telescoped and a little distorted, so that even before she was really awake the day had a tinge of nightmare.
    She woke up suddenly and said,
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Molly turned from the rattling curtain-rings. Beyond her the dark grey morning looked in.
    â€œOh, Miss Carey—Mrs. Maquisten—she’s dead! Isn’t it dreadful?”
    Carey said, “Oh, no! ” The words shook, and the world into which she had come shook with them. She couldn’t imagine that world without its centre.
    But Molly was pouring it all out, excited, sobbing, important.
    â€œNurse went in and found her. Ellen, she come up with the tea same as she always does. She took it in and put it down and drew the curtains, and Mrs. Maquisten never woke up. And Ellen goes through the bathroom and knocks on Nurse’s door. I was in there doing the bath, and Nurse, she says, ‘What is it?’ and she opens the door dressed all but her cap she was. And Ellen says, ‘She’s sleeping very sound. I never known her not be awake when her tea comes. And she was early last night too—short of ten o’clock when I put out her light and come away. That’s what comes of sleeping-draughts. Give me a nice hop pillow!’ she says. ‘And if her tea’s cold when she wakes, it won’t be my fault,’ she says. And Nurse, she goes straight through, and she comes back again and she says, ‘Oh, Ellen—she’s gone!’”
    Carey dressed and came down to a house that had changed overnight—everyone with that same feeling of having got up very early to catch a train, only there wasn’t any train to catch—action suddenly arrested, left at a loose end, without purpose. And back of it all, that something which slows the footsteps, lowers the voice, and hints at things to come.
    When Dr. Adams had come and gone the hint became a threat. Four people in the study stood looking at one another. Dennis repeated the words which had struck three of them silent.
    â€œHe won’t sign the certificate.”
    They were all looking at him now—Nora in her uniform, a little pale, a little shocked; Honor rather more of a wet rag than usual; Carey very white indeed against the shining blackness of her hair.
    It was Nora who said, “Why?”
    â€œHe’s not satisfied. He thinks she’s had an overdose. He says he feels obliged to notify the police.”
    He stood there leaning on his crutch, no expression in his voice, no expression in his face. And this absence changed him quite beyond belief. Without the lively play of humour, the light come and go of fancy, feeling, sarcasm and the rest, he was no longer Dennis but somebody else—a stranger who had shaved carelessly, who looked cold and rather ill, and who spoke in a leaden voice which neither rose nor fell.
    Nora gave herself a little jerk and said,
    â€œNonsense! He’s a fussy old woman. Aunt Honoria liked him because he ate out of her hand and only ordered her to do what she wanted—” Then, breaking off suddenly, “The police? Den, he can’t! ”
    â€œI’m afraid he can. In fact he probably has by now. If he doesn’t see his way to signing the certificate there’s nothing else for it—there’ll have to be an inquest.”
    Honor made a faint bleating sound of protest. Nora stared, her round kitten eyes quite blank, the colour in them as clear as the brown in a peaty pool.
    â€œGosh—how she’d hate it!” she said. And then, “Well, I must be off—brass hats won’t wait.” She touched him lightly as she went by to the door, two fingers just flicking his sleeve. “Cheer up, Den—I expect it’s a mare’s-nest. I’ll be back some time.”
    She went out and the others envied her. The darkest part of the