The Unfinished Clue by Georgette Heyer

men crossed the hall. Guest said: "There's been some kind of an accident, Finch. You'd better come along."
    The butler laid down the tray he was carrying. "An accident, sir? I hope not Mr Geoffrey, sir?"
    "No. Sir Arthur," replied Guest, walking towards the study door.
    It was shut, just as it had been all the morning. He opened it, and went in.
    The room seemed very quiet The General was seated at his desk. He had fallen forward across it, with his head on the blotting pad, and one arm stretched out over a litter of bills and invoices. The other hung limply at his side. A curious Chinese dagger lay on the floor by the chair, its blade sticky with blood. There were no signs that any struggle had taken place. The room, a square, severely furnished apartment, was almost painfully tidy. A saddle-bag chair stood beside the empty fireplace; More bookshelves of the expanding variety filled one wall; there was a small safe behind the door, and, next to it a filing cabinet. The desk stood in a central position, facing the French windows looking on to the drive. These stood open, apparently of design, since each half was bolted to the floor to prevent slamming in any sudden draught. On the west wall another long window was securely fastened, the dun-coloured net curtains being drawn apart to admit the maximum amount of light to the room. The General was sitting in a swivel chair with a low rounded back, and placed against the wall were one or two straight chairs with leather seats. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor, and several trophies hanging on the walls. The desk itself was a large, knee-hole writing-table, with drawers. An electric reading-lamp with a green shade stood on it, the telephone, a brass inkstand, a blotter, a sheaf of accounts, a couple of pens, and a pencil which seemed to have slipped from the General's fingers. On the floor, within reach of the General's hand, was a waste-paper basket, half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper.
    All three men had paused for an instant in the doorway. The butler said in a hushed voice: "Good God, sir!" He went forward with Guest, and bent over his master's still form. "Sir Arthur!" Then he raised his head, and looked from Guest to Halliday. "Stabbed!" he said, as though the thing were barely credible.
    "Yes," said Guest unemotionally. "Stabbed in the neck with this, I guess." He bent to pick up the dagger at his feet.
    "Don't touch that!" Halliday said quickly. He had not moved from the doorway, where he had stood transfixed, staring at the General's body, but he took a quick step forward now and caught Guest's arm. "There may be finger-prints."
    Guest straightened himself. "I was forgetting. You're right."
    "Are you sure he's dead? Can't we do anything?" Halliday demanded shakily. "This is too ghastly!" He put out his hand, hesitated for the fraction of a minute, and then resolutely laid it over the slack one lying on the desk. "He's not cold."
    "He's dead all right," Guest answered.
    The butler, who was looking rather pale, but still quite composed, moved across to the windows, and carefully shut and bolted them and drew the net curtains across. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his face.
    "Feeling queer?" Guest asked.
    "No, sir. Thank you. It gave one rather a turn for the moment. It seems so sudden. Quite unexpected, as one might say. I take it, sir, you will be ringing up the police station?"
    "I suppose we ought to do that at once," Guest answered, and picked up the instrument.
    "I say, this is an appalling business!" Halliday said. "Of course the police must be sent for, but I'm thinking of Lady Billington-Smith."
    "Pardon me, sir, but has her ladyship been apprised of the - the accident?"
    "Good God, yes! everyone knows. It was Mrs. Twining wlio found him."
    "Oh dear, dear!" said Finch. "It is not, if I may say so, a sight for a lady."
    Stephen Guest was speaking into the mouthpiece of the telephone. "I'm speaking from the Grange, from