interruptions. For a woman, that's quite
remarkable! Must be your scientific
training."
I was in the street again, breathing hard as
though I had been running. I found Lord
Nasby rather wearing as a new acquaintance.
53
6
I WENT home with a feeling of exultation.
My scheme had succeeded far better than I
could possibly have hoped. Lord Nasby
had been positively genial. It only now
remained for me to "make good," as he
expressed it. Once locked in my own room, I
took out my precious piece of paper and
studied it attentively. Here was the clue to the
mystery.
To begin with, what did the figures
represent? There were five of them, and a dot
after the first two. "Seventeen—one hundred
and twenty-two," I murmured.
That did not seem to lead to anything.
Next I added them up. That is often done
in works of fiction and leads to surprising
deductions.
"One and seven make eight and one is nine
and two are eleven and two are thirteen."
Thirteen! Fateful number! Was this a
warning to me to leave the whole thing alone?
Very possibly. Anyway, except as a warning,
it seemed to be singularly useless. I declined
54
to believe that any conspirator would take
that way of writing thirteen in real life. If he
meant thirteen, he would write thirteen.
"13^-like that.
There was a space between the one and the
two. I accordingly subtracted twenty-two
from a hundred and seventy-one. The result
was a hundred and fifty-nine. I did it again
and made it a hundred and forty-nine. These
arithmetical exercises were doubtless
excellent practice, but as regarded the
solution of the mystery, they seemed totally
ineffectual. I left arithmetic alone, not
attempting fancy division or multiplication,
and went on to the words.
Kilmorden Castle. That was something
definite. A place. Probably the cradle of an
aristocratic family. (Missing heir? Claimant
to title?) Or possibly a picturesque ruin.
(Buried treasure?)
Yes, on the whole I inclined to the theory
of buried treasure. Figures always go with
buried treasure. One pace to the right, seven
paces to the left, dig one foot, descend
twenty-two steps. That sort of idea. I could
work out that later. The thing was to get to
Kilmorden Castle as quickly as possible.
I made a strategic sally from my room, and
55
returned laden with books of reference. Who's Who, Whitaker, a Gazeteer, a History
of Scotch Ancestral Homes, and Somebody or
other's British Isles.
Time passed. I searched diligently, but
with growing annoyance. Finally, I shut the
last book with a bang. There appeared to be
no such place as Kilmorden Castle.
Here was an unexpected check. There must be such a place. Why should anyone invent a
name like that and write it down on a piece of
paper? Absurd!
Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it
was a castellated abomination in the suburbs
with a high-sounding name invented by its
owner. But if so, it was going to be extraordinarily
hard to find. I sat back gloomily on
my heels (I always sit on the floor to do
anything really important) and wondered
how on earth I was to set about it.
Was there any other line I could follow? I
reflected earnestly and then sprang to my feet
delightedly. Of course! I must visit the
"scene of the crime." Always done by the
best sleuths! And no matter how long
afterwards it may be they always find something
that the police have overlooked. My
course was clear. I must go to Marlow.
56
But how was I to get into the house? I
discarded several adventurous methods, and
plumped for stern simplicity. The house had
been to let—presumably was still to let. I
would be a prospective tenant.
I also decided on attacking the local houseagents,
as having fewer houses on their books.
Here, however, I reckoned without my
host. A pleasant clerk produced particulars of
about half a dozen desirable properties. It
took me all my ingenuity to find objections to
them. In the end I feared I had drawn a
blank.
"And you've really nothing else?" I asked,
gazing pathetically into the clerk's eyes.
"Something right on the river, and with a fair
amount of garden and a small lodge," I
added, summing up the main points of the
Mill House, as I had gathered them from the
papers.
"Well, of course, there's Sir Eustace
Pedler's place," said the man doubtfully.
"The Mill House, you know."
"Not—not where——" I faltered. (Really,
faltering is getting to be my strong point.)
"That's it! Where the murder took place.
But perhaps you wouldn't like——"
"Oh, I don't think I should mind," I said
57
with an appearance of rallying. I felt my bona
fides was now quite established. "And
perhaps I might get it cheap—in the
circumstances."
A master touch that, I thought.
"Well, it's possible. There's no pretending
that it will be easy to let now—servants and
all that, you know. If you like the place after
you've seen it, I should advise you to make an
offer. Shall I write you out an order?"
"If you please."
A quarter of an hour later I was at the lodge
of the Mill House. In answer to my knock,
the door flew open and a tall middle-aged
woman literally bounced out.
"Nobody can go into the house, do you
hear that? Fairly sick of you reporters, I am.
Sir Eustace's orders are——"
"I understood the house was to let," I said
freezingly, holding out my order. "Of course,
if it's already taken——"
"Oh, I'm sure I beg your pardon, miss. I've
been fairly pestered with these newspaper
people. Not a minute's peace. No, the house
isn't let—nor likely to be now."
"Are the drains wrong?" I asked in an
anxious whisper.
58
"Oh, Lord, miss, the drains is all right! But
surely you've heard about the foreign lady as
was done to death here?"
<
the papers," I said carelessly.
My indifference piqued the good woman.
If I had betrayed any interest, she would
probably have closed up like an oyster. As it
was, she positively bridled.
"I should say you did, miss! It's been in all
the newspapers. The Daily Budget's out still
to catch the man who did it. It seems,
; according to them, as our police are no good
at all. Well, I hope they'll get him--although
a nice-looking young fellow he was and no
mistake. A kind of soldierly look about
him--ah, well, I dare say he'd been wounded
in the war, and sometimes they go a bit queer
afterwards, my sister's boy did. Perhaps she'd
used him bad--they're a sad lot, those
foreigners. Though she was a fine-looking
woman. Stood there where you're standing
now."
"Was she dark or fair?" I ventured. "You
can't tell from these newspaper portraits."
"Dark hair, and a very white face--too
white for nature, I thought--had her lips
reddened something cruel. I don't like to see
TMITBS5 59
it--a little powder now and then is quite
another thing."
We were conversing like old friends now. I put another question.
"Did she seem nervous or upset at all?"
"Not a bit. She was smiling to herself, quiet like, as though she was amused at something.
That's why you could have knocked
me down with a feather when, the next afternoon, those people came running out calling
for the police and saying there'd been murder
done. I shall never get over it, and as for
setting foot in that house after dark I
wouldn't do it, not if it was ever so. Why, I
wouldn't even stay here at the lodge, if Sir
Eustace hadn't been down on his bended
knees to me."
[i| "I thought Sir Eustace Pedler was at '" Cannes?"
"So he was, miss. He came back to England
when he heard the news, and, as to the
bended knees, that was a figure of speech, his
secretary, Mr. Pagett, having offered us
double pay to stay on, and, as my John says, money is money nowadays."
I concurred heartily with John's by no
means original remarks.
"The young man now," said Mrs. James,
60
reverting suddenly to a former point in the
conversation. "He was upset. His eyes, light
eyes, they were, I noticed them particular,
was all shining. Excited, / thought. But I
never dreamt of anything being wrong. Not
even when he came out again looking all
queer."
"How long was he in the house?"
"Oh, not long, a matter of five minutes
maybe."
"How tall was he, do you think? About six
foot?"
"I should say so maybe."
"He was clean-shaven, you say?"
"Yes, miss--not even one of those toothbrush
moustaches."
"Was his chin at all shiny?" I asked on a
sudden impulse.
Mrs. James stared at me with awe.
"Well, now you come to mention it, miss, it was. However did you know?"
"It's a curious thing, but murderers often
have shiny chins," I explained wildly.
Mrs. James accepted the statement in all
good faith.
"Really, now, miss. I never heard that
before."
61
"You didn't notice what kind of a head he
had, I suppose?"
"Just the ordinary kind, miss. I'll fetch you
the keys, shall I?"
I accepted them, and went on my way to
the Mill House. My reconstructions so far I
considered good. All along I had realized that
the differences between the man Mrs. James
had described and my Tube "doctor" were
those of non-essentials. An overcoat, a beard,
gold-rimmed eye-glasses. The "doctor" had
appeared middle-aged, but I remembered that
he had stooped over the body like a
comparatively young man. There had been a
suppleness which told of young joints.
The victim of the accident (the Moth Ball
man, as I called him to myself) and the
foreign woman, Mrs. de Castina, or whatever
|^ her real name was, had had an assignation to
meet at the Mill House. That was how I
pieced the thing together. Either because
they feared they were being watched or from
some other reason, they chose the rather
ingenious method of both getting an order to
view the same house. Thus their meeting
there might have the appearance of pure
chance.
That the Moth Ball man had suddenly
62
caught sight of the "doctor," and that the
meeting was totally unexpected and alarming
to him, was another fact of which I was fairly
sure. What had happened next? The
"doctor" had removed his disguise and
followed the woman to Marlow. But it was
possible that had he removed it rather hastily
traces of gum-spirit might still linger on his
chin. Hence my question to Mrs. James.
Whilst occupied with my thoughts I had
arrived at the low old-fashioned door of the
Mill House. Unlocking it with the key, I
passed inside. The hall was low and dark, the
place smelt forlorn and mildewy. In spite of
myself, I shivered. Did the woman who had
come here "smiling to herself" a few days
ago feel no chill of premonition as she entered
this house? I wondered. Did the smile fade
from her lips, and did a nameless dread close
round her heart? Or had she gone upstairs,
smiling still, unconscious of the doom that
was so soon to overtake her? My heart beat a
little faster. Was the house really empty? Was
doom waiting for me in it also? For the first
time, I understood the meaning of the muchused
word, "atmosphere." There was an
atmosphere in this house, an atmosphere of
cruelty, of menace, of evil.
63
7
SHAKING off the feelings that oppressed
me, I went quickly upstairs. I had no
difficulty in finding the room of the
tragedy. On the day the body was discovered
it had rained heavily, and large muddy boots
had trampled the uncarpeted floor in every
direction. I wondered if the murderer had left
any footmarks the previous day. It was likely
that the police would be reticent on the
subject if he had, but on consideration I
decided it was unlikely. The weather had
been fine and dry.
There was nothing of interest about the
room. It was almost square with two big bay
windows, plain white walls and a bare floor,
the boards being stained round the edges
where the carpet had ceased. I searched it
carefully, but there was not so much as a pin
lying about. The gifted young detective did
not seem likely to discover a neglected clue.
I had brought with me a pencil and
notebook. There did not seem much to note,
but I duly dotted down a brief sketch of the
64
room to cover my disappointment at the
failure of my quest. As I was in the act of
returning the pencil to my bag, it slipped
from my fingers and rolled along the floor.
The Mill House was really old, and the
floors were very uneven. The pencil rolled
steadily, with increasing momentum, until it
came to rest under one of the windows. In the
recess of each window there was a broad
window-seat, underneath which there was a
cupboard. My pencil was lying right against
the cupboard door. The cupboard was shut,
but it suddenly occurred to me that if it had
been open my pencil would have rolled
inside. I opened the door, and my pencil
immediately rolled in and sheltered modestly
in the farthest corner. I retrieved it, noting as
I did so that owing to the lack of light and the
peculiar formation of the cupboard one could
not see it, but had to feel for it. Apart from
my pencil the cupboard was empty, but being
thorough my nature I tried the one under the
opposite window.
At first sight, it looked as though that also
was empty, but I grubbed about perseveringly,
and was rewarded by feeling my hand
close on a hard paper cylinder which lay in a
sort of trough, or depression, in the far corner
65
of the cupboard. As soon as I had it in my
hand, I knew what it was. A roll of Kodak
films. Here was a find!
I realized of course, that these films might
very well be an old roll belonging to Sir
Eustace Pedler which had rolled in here and
had not been found when the cupboard was
emptied. But I did not think so. The red
paper was far too fresh-looking. It was just as
dusty as it would have been had it laid there
for two or three days—that is to say, since the
murder. Had it been there for any length of
time, it would have been thickly coated.
Who had dropped it? The woman or the
man? I remembered that the contents of her
handbag had appeared to be intact. If it had
been jerked open in the struggle and the roll
of films had fallen out, surely some of the
loose money would have been scattered about
also? No, it was not the woman who had
dropped the films.
I sniffed suddenly and suspiciously. Was
the smell of moth-balls becoming an
obsession with me? I could swear that the roll
of films smelt of it also. I held them under my
nose. They had, as usual, a strong smell of
their own, but apart from that I could clearly
detect the odour I disliked so much. I soon
66
found the cause. A minute shred of cloth had
caught on a rough edge of the centre wood,
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