The March Hare Murders by Elizabeth Ferrars

of swimming on a morning like this. As usual, she found the door of Bell Cottage open. On the threshold she called out, “Hallo—is any one in?”
    There was no answer, and after a moment she went inside.
    She noticed that the red-tiled floor of the passage had been newly polished and that the furniture had been dusted. That meant that Mrs. Scales, who worked for the Verinders as well as for Stella, had been there that morning, for Ingrid seemed never to feel any concern if dirt and untidiness multiplied about her.
    “Mark!” Stella called out again. “Hallo—can I come in?”
    She walked down the passage to the open door of Mark’s study, where she expected to find him. But no one was in the room. Hesitantly she entered.
    It was a small, square room with one large window and walls lined with books. A big table with thick, heavily carved legs, filled nearly half of the room. In what was left of it, there was an armchair covered in blue linen, with a low, round table beside it, loaded with books, papers, pipes and ashtrays. Above the mantelpiece was a portrait in oils of Mark Verinder himself, seated in the blue arm-chair and with a background of books, so that it looked as if the picture had been painted in this room, except that Mark’s age, in the portrait, was certainly no more than forty. There were no other pictures in the room.
    Stella gave one more call as she stood there. “Mark—Giles—is any one in?” Then she moved forward, and, without thinking much of what she was doing, she picked up a book that lay on a corner of the big table.
    It was a very old book, bound in worn, brown leather, and with the smell of an old book, mustily exciting. Opening it, she saw the faded pages and the strange, ancient printing. She looked at the title page. It was something about the siege of Rhodes, but before she had taken in what it was, a voice behind her, high and sharp with fury, said, “You damned little fool, put that book down and get out of here!”
    Stella put the book down slowly. She turned. In the doorway stood Mark Verinder. There were pinpoints of rage in his light blue eyes, and his chin was pushed forward, with the heavy flesh around it mottled red and white. But his next words were spoken with his usual mildness. “Give it me, will you, my dear? It’s valuable. I oughtn’t to have left it lying around.” He held out his hand.
    Stella felt as if nothing could make her touch the book again. She felt cold with shock at the tone he had used.
    Mark waited an instant, then moved forward, laying a hand on her arm and pushing her gently to one side.
    As he picked the book up, Stella said, “Is that the one that belongs to Sam Fortis?”
    He was taking a key out of a pocket. “Sam?” he said. “Well, I got it from Sam.” He opened a drawer in the side of the big table and put the book inside. “Not that it’s all that valuable. Not a first edition.” He locked the drawer. “What’s Sam been saying about it?”
    “Only that you’d got some property of his. He was worried about it when he heard about the fire.”
    “Ah yes, I remember—he came to see me about it. But that wasn’t this particular volume.”
    “And it was quite safe—the one he was worried about?”
    “Of course it was quite safe. Why d’you want to know so badly?”
    “I don’t, particularly.”
    He looked at her with a suspicion that surprised her. Then he laughed. Again he laid his hand on her arm.
    “I’m sorry, my dear. Please forgive me. I’m worried over one or two things, that’s why I’m being so horrid to you.” He drew her softly against him and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. Stella’s face stayed wooden. He kissed her again. “Please,” he murmured, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
    She drew away from him. “We’d stopped all that, I thought,” she said.
    “Oh,” he said, smiling, “don’t we even kiss?”
    “Why should we?”
    “It’s a nice thing to do, I think.”
    “Even when you