The Murder at Sissingham Hall by Clara Benson Page A

gone down so quickly. Perhaps he had company.’
    ‘I had a glass of it on Thursday,’ I said, ‘and the decanter was almost full then. Did anybody visit Sir Neville in his study after that?’
    ‘I did,’ said Mr. Pomfrey. ‘I spent some time in here with Sir Neville yesterday afternoon but I had no whisky. I’m afraid I did not notice whether the decanter was full or not. I don’t suppose you noticed it, Rogers?’
    ‘I do not remember it in particular but I am sure I should have noticed if it was nearly empty,’ replied the butler.
    ‘Thank you Rogers,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘You may go.’
    ‘May I ask what this is all about?’ asked the doctor, when the butler had left the room. He had been listening with interest. ‘All these questions about locked doors and whisky decanters—what are you getting at?’
    ‘Dear me,’ said Mrs. Marchmont wryly. ‘I appear to have been defeated by circumstances this afternoon. I had hoped to do a little quiet thinking on this whole matter rather than create a fuss that might prove both dangerous and unnecessary, but what with one thing and another I couldn’t have drawn more attention to myself had I stood on the lawn and waved a red flag.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I suppose I must explain. But first, doctor, would you have any objection to telling us why you were so interested in the fireplace?’
    ‘I suppose there’s no harm in it,’ replied Dr. Carter, with a glance at Mr. Pomfrey, ‘since I have the feeling that we may be thinking on the same lines. I merely felt that the position in which Sir Neville was found did not appear to tally with the accounts of the accident that apparently befell him and I wished to take a closer look at this room. Between ourselves, it would have been almost impossible for Sir Neville to have hit his head on the mantelpiece and fallen so. Ah,’ he said, looking round at the three of us. ‘I see by your faces that this is not a surprise to you.’
    ‘Not entirely,’ admitted Angela. ‘I must confess that I had some doubts this morning when I accompanied you to the study and saw Neville lying there. It all seemed too neat, somehow, although of course I’m not an expert in these matters. So I came back here this afternoon and was just doing a little snooping about on my own account when I was caught in the act by Sylvia and Mr. Knox, who probably thought me quite mad.’
    ‘I gather from your earlier question to Rogers that you found the French windows unlocked,’ said Mr. Pomfrey.
    ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘The key was in the lock as you see it and the bolts were unfastened.’
    ‘Do you mean that somebody could have come in from outside?’ asked Sylvia.
    ‘Well, it did occur to me, certainly,’ replied Angela. ‘When I tried them they were a little stiff but not overly so. It was difficult to tell whether or not they had been opened recently.’
    The doctor went over to the French windows to look for himself.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The key’s there all right. And you say the bolts were drawn? That means they were unlocked from inside. We shall have to find out who did it.’
    ‘Sir Neville would be the most natural person, surely,’ I said.
    ‘Probably. And what about the whisky?’
    Mrs. Marchmont explained about the strong smell of whisky. Mr. Pomfrey inhaled deeply through his nose.
    ‘Now you come to mention it, there is something,’ he said.
    ‘This is all very well,’ I said, ‘but if I understand correctly, what you are implying is that somebody arranged Sir Neville’s body next to the mantelpiece, knocked the fire-irons over, sprinkled whisky all over the carpet to give the impression he had drunk too much—’
    ‘—smeared hair oil on the mantelpiece,’ put in the doctor helpfully.
    ‘—then left through the French windows,’ I finished. ‘But for what exactly?’
    ‘It’s a shocking waste of good whisky, certainly,’ murmured the doctor. He recollected himself and had the grace to