The Clock Strikes Twelve by Patricia Wentworth Page B

her tongue?”
    Dicky said, “All right, all right!”
    Lydia had come into the middle of the room. She stepped between them.
    “Frank, what is all this about? Elliot—what is it?”
    But it was Mark Paradine who answered, turning upon the room and saying with the extreme of harshness,
    “Frith says it’s murder.”
    No one had said the word before. It came crashing into the midst of them like a stone through a window. The silence splintered. There was a general sound of protest, and, coming through it, Lydia’s “Mark!” He said,
    “Well, it’s true. You’ve all been hushing it over and covering it up, but that’s what it amounts to. Frith says he didn’t fall. Frith says he was pushed. Two and two make four, don’t they? Add it up for yourselves. If he was pushed, it was murder.”
    Lydia stood where she was and looked at him. After a moment she turned to Elliot Wray.
    “Dr. Frith says he was pushed?”
    “Yes, he does.”
    “Why?”
    He told her.
    She said, “I see—” and then, “But who—who?”
    “That’s what Vyner is trying to find out.”
    “If Irene tells him what the Governor said last night, he’ll be pretty well bound to think it’s one of us,” said Brenda Ambrose.
    Lydia said “I see—” again. Then she went up to Mark, took him by the arm, and walked him off through the connecting door into Phyllida’s bedroom.
    Brenda said, “Well!”
    Behind the closed door Lydia kept her hold on Mark.
    “What’s the matter with you?”
    He stared at her.
    “Mark, what is it—why do you look like that?”
    He said, “How do you expect me to look? He’s been murdered, hasn’t he?”
    “Yes, my dear. But you mustn’t make things worse, must you? That doesn’t do any good.”
    No one could have believed that Lydia’s voice could sound so soft. She put up her other hand and began to stroke his arm.
    “It’s been a most dreadful shock. You must pull yourself together. Do you hear, Mark—you must! He isn’t here to help us any more—we’ve got to look to you. It would have happened some day. It’s happened suddenly like this. You’ve got to take his place—do what he would have wanted. Don’t you see?”
    He said, still in that harsh voice,
    “You don’t see anything at all.”
    “What do you mean, Mark?”
    He pulled away from her and went over to the window. With his back to her he said,
    “You’re right about one thing—it falls on me. I can’t see any farther than that. I meant to get away. That’s gone too. I’ve lost my chance. Now I’ll have to stay.”
    She came slowly up to him, but did not touch him again.
    “Why were you going away?”
    He said in a tone of despair,
    “I can’t go now. I’ve lost my chance. I shall have to stay.”
    The room was warm, but Lydia’s hands were cold. After a moment she said,
    “What are you going to do, Mark—about what happened at dinner last night? What sort of questions have been asked?”
    “Nothing yet. Vyner hasn’t seen anyone except Aunt Grace. She didn’t mean to say anything. I don’t know how hard he pressed her. It was her idea that we should all hold our tongues. Personally I don’t think it’s practicable. It would have been all right if it had really been an accident—they’d have asked Aunt Grace and old Horton about his health, and that would have been the end of it. But if Frith says it’s murder, they’ll sift through everything that happened in the house last night. Ten of us heard that speech of his. One of them is Irene. Do you suppose for a moment that it’s possible to keep it dark? Something is bound to come out. And when things start coming out you don’t know where they’re going to stop.”
    At any rate he was talking now. That dreadful brooding silence had been broken. She said,
    “Come back to the others and talk it over. What does Elliot say?”
    “I don’t know—I wasn’t attending very much—I think he thought we should hold our tongues. But that was before Albert came