different.
It was lying flat on its back on the bed, with its legs straight out and its hands crossed on its breast. The contents of an ash tray had been scattered over it, and a great red gash gleamed across its neck, where its throat was cut from ear to ear.
Chapter 9
THEY FOUND NO TRACE, that night, of either Marion Bradford or Roberta.
The night had been black and wild, and after several fruitless and exhausting hours of climbing and shouting in the blustering darkness, the searchers had straggled home in the early hours of daylight, to snatch food and a little sleep before setting out, haggard-eyed and weary, for a further search. Bill Persimmon had telephoned for the local rescue team, and, at about nine the next morning, a force some twenty strong set out once again for what must now certainly be reckoned the scene of an accident.
This time, I went with them. Even if I couldn't rock-climb, I would at least provide another pair of eyes, and I could help to cover some of the vast areas of scree and rough heather bordering the Black Spout.
The morning—I remembered with vague surprise that it was the eve of Coronation Day—had broken grey and forbidding. The wind still lurched among the cairns and heather braes with inconsequent violence, and the frequent showers of rain were arrow-sharp and heavy. We were all muffled to the eyes, and trudged our way up the sodden glen with heads bent to meet the vicious stabbing of the rain.
It was a little better as we came under the shelter of the hill where Roderick and 1 had talked two nights ago, but, as we struggled on to the crest of it, the wind met us again in force. The raindrops drove like nails before it, and I turned my back to it for a moment's respite. The storm gust leaped past me, wrenching at my coat, and fled down the valley towards the sea.
The hotel looked far away and small and lonely, with, behind it, the sea loch whitening under the racing feet of the wind. I saw a car move slowly away from the porch, and creep along the storm-lashed track to Strathaird. It was a big car, cream, with a black convertible top.
"Marcia Maling's car," said a voice at my elbow. It was Alma Corrigan, looking businesslike in Burberry and scarlet scarf and enormous nailed boots. She looked also, I noticed, decidedly attractive, now that the wind had whipped red into her cheeks and a sparkle into her fine eyes. She added, with a touch of contempt, as we turned to make our way along the top of the spur: "I suppose it would be too much to expect her to come along as well, but she needn't have taken the chauffeur away with her. Every man we can get—"
"She's leaving," I said.
She checked in her stride. "Leaving? You mean going home?"
"Yes. She's going back to London. She told me so last night." .
"But I thought she planned to stay a week at least! I suppose this affair, on top of the other business—"
"I suppose so," I said, noncommittally. I was certainly not going to tell anyone the reason for Marcia's sudden decision. Mrs. Persimmon knew, and Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, but if Marcia's hysterics had not disturbed Alma Corrigan the night before, so much the better. And I was more than ever certain that I, myself, was going home tomorrow. But since I had not, like Marcia, been, so to speak, warned away, I felt I could hardly go without finding out what had happened to Marion and Roberta.
"Well!" said Mrs. Corrigan, on an odd note which was three parts relief and one of something else I could not identify.
"I can't pretend I'm brokenhearted to see her go. She's only been here five days, and"—she broke off and sent me a sidelong glance up from under her long lashes—"you'd understand how I feel, if you were a married woman, Miss Brooke."
"No doubt."' 1 added gently: "She couldn't help it, you know. . . . She's been spoiled, I suppose, and she is such a lovely creature."
"You're more charitable than I am," said Alma Corrigan, a little grimly. "But then, you haven't so much to
It was lying flat on its back on the bed, with its legs straight out and its hands crossed on its breast. The contents of an ash tray had been scattered over it, and a great red gash gleamed across its neck, where its throat was cut from ear to ear.
Chapter 9
THEY FOUND NO TRACE, that night, of either Marion Bradford or Roberta.
The night had been black and wild, and after several fruitless and exhausting hours of climbing and shouting in the blustering darkness, the searchers had straggled home in the early hours of daylight, to snatch food and a little sleep before setting out, haggard-eyed and weary, for a further search. Bill Persimmon had telephoned for the local rescue team, and, at about nine the next morning, a force some twenty strong set out once again for what must now certainly be reckoned the scene of an accident.
This time, I went with them. Even if I couldn't rock-climb, I would at least provide another pair of eyes, and I could help to cover some of the vast areas of scree and rough heather bordering the Black Spout.
The morning—I remembered with vague surprise that it was the eve of Coronation Day—had broken grey and forbidding. The wind still lurched among the cairns and heather braes with inconsequent violence, and the frequent showers of rain were arrow-sharp and heavy. We were all muffled to the eyes, and trudged our way up the sodden glen with heads bent to meet the vicious stabbing of the rain.
It was a little better as we came under the shelter of the hill where Roderick and 1 had talked two nights ago, but, as we struggled on to the crest of it, the wind met us again in force. The raindrops drove like nails before it, and I turned my back to it for a moment's respite. The storm gust leaped past me, wrenching at my coat, and fled down the valley towards the sea.
The hotel looked far away and small and lonely, with, behind it, the sea loch whitening under the racing feet of the wind. I saw a car move slowly away from the porch, and creep along the storm-lashed track to Strathaird. It was a big car, cream, with a black convertible top.
"Marcia Maling's car," said a voice at my elbow. It was Alma Corrigan, looking businesslike in Burberry and scarlet scarf and enormous nailed boots. She looked also, I noticed, decidedly attractive, now that the wind had whipped red into her cheeks and a sparkle into her fine eyes. She added, with a touch of contempt, as we turned to make our way along the top of the spur: "I suppose it would be too much to expect her to come along as well, but she needn't have taken the chauffeur away with her. Every man we can get—"
"She's leaving," I said.
She checked in her stride. "Leaving? You mean going home?"
"Yes. She's going back to London. She told me so last night." .
"But I thought she planned to stay a week at least! I suppose this affair, on top of the other business—"
"I suppose so," I said, noncommittally. I was certainly not going to tell anyone the reason for Marcia's sudden decision. Mrs. Persimmon knew, and Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, but if Marcia's hysterics had not disturbed Alma Corrigan the night before, so much the better. And I was more than ever certain that I, myself, was going home tomorrow. But since I had not, like Marcia, been, so to speak, warned away, I felt I could hardly go without finding out what had happened to Marion and Roberta.
"Well!" said Mrs. Corrigan, on an odd note which was three parts relief and one of something else I could not identify.
"I can't pretend I'm brokenhearted to see her go. She's only been here five days, and"—she broke off and sent me a sidelong glance up from under her long lashes—"you'd understand how I feel, if you were a married woman, Miss Brooke."
"No doubt."' 1 added gently: "She couldn't help it, you know. . . . She's been spoiled, I suppose, and she is such a lovely creature."
"You're more charitable than I am," said Alma Corrigan, a little grimly. "But then, you haven't so much to
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