"Yes, sir."
"What are they like?"
"Decent class workingmen. Rather slow reactions. Dependable."
"Right." Inspector Parminter nodded.
Presently two embarrassed-looking men in their best clothes were shown into his room.
Parminter summed them up with a quick eye. He was an adept at setting people at their ease.
"So you think you've some information that might be useful to us on the Lyon case," he said. "Good of you to come along. Sit down. Smoke?"
He waited while they accepted cigarettes and lit up.
"Pretty awful weather outside."
"It is that, sir."
"Well, now, then - let's have it."
The two men looked at each other, embarrassed now that it came to the difficulties of narration.
"Go ahead, Joe," said the bigger of the two.
Joe went ahead. "It was like this, see. We 'adn't got a match."
"Where was this?"
"Jarman Street - we was working on the road there - gas mains."
Inspector Parminter nodded. Later he would get down to exact details of time and place. Jarman Street, he knew was in the close vicinity of Culver Street where the tragedy had taken place.
"You hadn't got a match," he repeated encouragingly.
"No. Finished my box, I 'ad, and Bill's lighter wouldn't work, and so I spoke to a bloke as was passing. 'Can you give us a match, mister?' I says. Didn't think nothing particular, I didn't, not then. He was just passing - like lots of others -1 just 'appened to arsk 'im."
Again Parminter nodded.
"Well, he give us a match, 'e did. Didn't say nothing. 'Cruel cold,' Bill said to 'im, and he just answered, whispering-like, 'Yes, it is.' Got a cold on his chest, I thought. He was all wrapped up, anyway. 'Thanks mister,' I says and gives him back his matches, and he moves off quick, so quick that when I sees 'e'd dropped something, it's almost too late to call 'im back. It was a little notebook as he must 'ave pulled out of 'is pocket when he got the matches out. 'Hi, mister/ I calls after 'im, 'you've dropped something.' But he didn't seem to hear - he just quickens up and bolts round the corner, didn't 'e, Bill?"
"That's right," agreed Bill. "Like a scurrying rabbit."
"Into the Harrow Road, that was, and it didn't seem as we'd catch up with him there, not the rate 'e was going, and, anyway, by then it was a bit late - it was only a little book, not a wallet or anything like that maybe it wasn't important. 'Funny bloke,' I says. 'His hat pulled down over his eyes, and all buttoned up - like a crook on the pictures,' I says to Bill, didn't I, Bill?"
"That's what you said," agreed Bill.
"Funny I should have said that, not that I thought anything at the time.
Just in a hurry to get home, that's what I thought, and I didn't blame 'im. Not 'arf cold, it was!"
"Not' arf," agreed Bill.
"So I says to Bill, 'Let's 'ave a look at this little book and see if it's important.' Well, sir, I took a look. 'Only a couple of addresses,' I says to Bill. Seventy-Four Culver Street and some blinking manor 'ouse."
"Ritzy," said Bill with a snort of disapproval.
Joe continued his tale with a certain gusto now that he had got wound up.
'"Seventy-Four Culver Street,' I says to Bill. 'That's just round the corner from 'ere. When we knock off, we'll take it round' - and then I sees something written across the top of the page. 'What's this?' I says to Bill. And he takes it and reads it out. '"Three blind mice" -must be off 'is Knocker,' he says - and just at that very moment - yes, it was that very moment, sir, we 'ears some woman yelling, 'Murder!' a couple of streets away!"
Joe paused at this artistic climax.
"Didn't half yell, did she?" he resumed. "'Here,' I says to Bill, 'you nip along.' And by and by he comes back and says there's a big crowd and the police are there and some woman's had her throat cut or been strangled and that was the landlady who found her, yelling for the police. 'Where was it?' I says to him. 'In Culver Street,' he says. 'What number?' I asks, and he says he didn't rightly notice."
Bill coughed and shuffled his feet with the sheepish air of one who has not done himself justice.
"So I says, 'We'll nip around and make sure,' and when we finds it's number seventy-four we talked it over, and 'Maybe,' Bill says, 'the address in the notebook's got nothing to do with it,' and I says as maybe it has, and, anyway, after we've talked it over and heard the police want to interview a man who left the 'ouse about that time, well, we come along 'ere and ask if we can see the gentleman who's handling the case, and I'm sure I 'ope as we aren't wasting your time."
"You acted very properly," said Parminter approvingly. "You've brought the notebook with you? Thank you. Now -"
His questions became brisk and professional. He got places, times, dates - the only thing he did not get was a description of the man who had dropped the notebook. Instead he got the same description as he had already got from a hysterical landlady, the description of a hat pulled down over the eyes, a buttoned-up coat, a muffler swathed round the lower part of a face, a voice that was only a whisper, gloved hands.
When the men had gone he remained staring down at the little book lying open on his table. Presently it would go to the appropriate department to see what evidence, if any, of fingerprints it might reveal.
But now his attention was held by the two addresses and by the line of small handwriting along the top of the page.
He turned his head as Sergeant Kane came into the room. "Come here, Kane. Look at this."
Kane stood behind him and let out a low whistle as he read out, '"Three Blind Mice!' Well, I'm dashed!"
"Yes." Parminter opened a drawer and took out a half sheet of notepaper which he laid beside the notebook on his desk. It had been found pinned carefully to the murdered woman.
On it was written, This is the first. Below was a childish drawing of three mice and a bar of music.
Kane whistled the tune softly. Three Blind Mice, See how they run -
"That's it, all right. That's the signature tune."
"Crazy, isn't it, sir?"
"Yes." Parminter frowned. "The identification of the woman is quite certain?"
"Yes, sir. Here's the report from the fingerprints department. Mrs Lyon, as she called herself, was really Maureen Gregg. She was released from Holloway two months ago on completion of her sentence."
Parminter said thoughtfully, "She went to Seventy-Four Culver Street calling herself Maureen Lyon. She occasionally drank a bit and she had been known to bring a man home with her once or twice. She displayed no fear of anything or anyone. There's no reason to believe she thought herself in any danger. This man rings the bell, asks for her, and is told by the landlady to go up to the second floor. She can't describe him, says only that he was of medium height and seemed to have a bad cold and lost his voice. She went back again to the basement and heard nothing of a suspicious nature. She did not hear the man go out. Ten minutes or so later she took tea to her lodger and discovered her strangled."
"This wasn't a casual murder, Kane. It was carefully planned."
He paused and then added abruptly, "I wonder how many houses there are in England called Monkswell Manor?"
"There might be only one, sir."
"That would probably be too much luck. But get on with it. There's no time to lose."
The sergeant's eye rested appreciatively on two entries in the notebook - 74 Culver Street; Monkswell Manor. He said, "So you think -"
Parminter said swiftly, "Yes. Don't you?"
"Could be. Monkswell Manor - now where - Do you know, sir, I could swear I've seen that name quite lately."
"Where?"
"That's what I'm trying to remember. Wait a minute - Newspaper -
Times. Back page. Wait a minute - Hotels and boarding-houses - Half a sec, sir - it's an old one. I was doing the crossword."
He hurried out of the room and returned in triumph, "Here you are, sir, look." The inspector followed the poi
nting finger.
"Monkswell Manor, Harpleden, Berks." He drew the telephone toward him. "Get me the Berkshire County police."
With the arrival of Major Metcalf, Monkswell Manor settled into its routine as a going concern. Major Metcalf was neither formidable like Mrs Boyle, nor erratic like Christopher Wren. He was a stolid, middleaged man of spruce military appearance, who had done most of his service in India. He appeared satisfied with his room and its furniture, and while he and Mrs Boyle did not actually find mutual friends, he had known cousins of friends of hers - "the Yorkshire branch," out in Poonah. His luggage, however, two heavy pigskin cases, satisfied even Giles's suspicious nature.
Truth to tell, Molly and Giles did not have much time for speculating about their guests. Between them, dinner was cooked, served, eaten, and washed up satisfactorily. Major Metcalf praised the coffee, and Giles and Molly retired to bed, tired but triumphant - to be roused about two in the morning by the persistent ringing of a bell.
"Damn," said Giles. "It's the front door. What on earth -"
"Hurry up," said Molly. "Go and see."
Casting a reproachful glance at her, Giles wrapped his dressing-gown round him and descended the stairs. Molly heard the bolts being drawn back and a murmur of voices in the hall. Presently, driven by curiosity, she crept out of bed and went to peep from the top of the stairs. In the hall below, Giles was assisting a bearded stranger out of a snow-covered overcoat. Fragments of conversation floated up to her.
"Brrr." It was an explosive foreign sound. "My fingers are so cold I cannot feel them. And my feet -" A stamping sound was heard.
"Come in here." Giles threw open the library door. "It's warm. You'd better wait here while I get a room ready."
"I am indeed fortunate," said the stranger politely.
Molly peered inquisitively through the banisters. She saw an elderly man with a small black beard and Mephistophelean eyebrows. A man who moved with a young and jaunty step in spite of the gray at his temples.
Giles shut the library door on him and came quickly up the stairs. Molly rose from her crouching position.
"Who is it?" she demanded.
Giles grinned. "Another guest for the guest house. Car overturned in a snowdrift. He got himself out and was making his way as best he could - it's a howling blizzard still, listen to it - along the road when he saw our board. He said it was like an answer to prayer."
"You think he's-all right?"
"Darling, this isn't the sort of night for a housebreaker to be doing his rounds."
"He's a foreigner, isn't he?"
"Yes. His name's Paravicini. I saw his wallet -1 rather think he showed it on purpose -simply crammed with notes. Which room shall we give him?"
"The green room. It's all tidy and ready. We'll just have to make up the bed."
"I suppose I'll have to lend him pajamas. All his things are in the car.
He said he had to climb out through the window."
Molly fetched sheets, pillowcases, and towels.
As they hurriedly made the bed up, Giles said, "It's coming down thick.
We're going to be snowed up, Molly, completely cut off. Rather exciting in a way, isn't it?"
"I don't know," said Molly doubtfully. "Do you think I can make soda bread, Giles?" "Of course you can. You can make anything," said her loyal husband.
"I've never tried to make bread. It's the sort of thing one takes for granted. It may be new or it may be stale but it's just something the baker brings. But if we're snowed up there won't be a baker."
"Nor a butcher, nor a postman. No newspapers. And probably no telephone." "Just the wireless telling us what to do?" "At any rate we make our own electric light."
"You must run the engine again tomorrow. And we must keep the central heating well stoked."
"I suppose our next lot of coke won't come in now. We're very low."
"Oh, bother. Giles, I feel we are in for a simply frightful time. Hurry up and get Para -whatever his name is. I'll go back to bed."
Morning brought confirmation of Giles's forebodings. Snow was piled five feet high, drifting up against the doors and windows. Outside it was still snowing. The world was white, silent, and - in some subtle way - menacing.
Mrs Boyle sat at breakfast. There was no one else in the dining-room.
At the adjoining table, Major Metcalf's place had been cleared away.
Mr Wren's table was still laid for breakfast. One early riser, presumably, and one late one. Mrs Boyle herself knew definitely that there was only one proper time for breakfast, nine o'clock.
Mrs Boyle had finished her excellent omelette and was champing toast between her strong white teeth. She was in a grudging and undecided mood. Monkswell Manor was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She had hoped for bridge, for faded spinsters whom she could impress with her social position and connections, and to whom she could hint at the importance and secrecy of her war service.
The end of the war had left Mrs Boyle marooned, as it were, on a desert shore. She had always been a busy woman, talking fluently of efficiency and organization. Her vigor and drive had prevented people asking whether she was, indeed, a good or efficient organizer.
War activities had suited her down to the ground. She had bossed people and bullied people and worried heads of departments and, to give her her due, had at no time spared herself. Subservient women had run to and fro, terrified of her slightest frown. And now all that exciting hustling life was over. She was back in private life, and her former private life had vanished.
Her house, which had been requisitioned by the army, needed thorough repairing and redecorating before she could return to it, and the difficulties of domestic help made a return to it impracticable in any case. Her friends were largely scattered and dispersed.
Presently, no doubt, she would find her niche, but at the moment it was a case of marking time. A hotel or a boarding-house seemed the answer. And she had chosen to come to Monkswell Manor.
She looked round her disparagingly.
Most dishonest, she said to herself, not to have told me they were only just starting.
She pushed her plate farther away from her. The fact that her breakfast had been excellently cooked and served, with good coffee and homemade marmalade, in a curious way annoyed her still more. It had deprived her of a legitimate cause of complaint. Her bed, too, had been comfortable, with embroidered sheets and a soft pillow. Mrs Boyle liked comfort, but she also liked to find fault. The latter was, perhaps, the stronger passion of the two.
Rising majestically, Mrs Boyle left the dining-room, passing in the doorway that very extraordinary young man with the red hair. He was wearing this morning a checked tie of virulent green - a woollen tie.
Preposterous, said Mrs Boyle to herself. Quite preposterous.
The way he looked at her, too, sideways out of those pale eyes of his she didn't like it. There was something upsetting - unusual - about that faintly mocking glance.
Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn't wonder, said Mrs Boyle to herself.
She acknowledged his flamboyant bow with a slight inclination of her head and marched into the big drawing-room. Comfortable chairs here, particularly the large rose-colored one. She had better make it clear that that was to be her chair. She deposited her knitting on it as a precaution and walked over and laid a hand on the radiators. As she had suspected, they were only warm, not hot. Mrs Boyle's eye gleamed militantly. She could have something to say about that.
She glanced out of the window. Dreadful weather - quite dreadful.
Well, she wouldn't stay here long - not unless more people came and made the place amusing.
Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs Boyle jumped. "No," she said out loud. "I shan't stay here long."
Somebody laughed - a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.
No," he said. "I don't suppose y
ou will."
Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.
"Good exercise," said Major Metcalf. "Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know."
So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.
As though reading Giles's thoughts, the major said, "Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too."
Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotelkeeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting-rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last possible moment.
The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.
Well, thought Giles, there's plenty of snow to shovel.
He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hardbitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he had come to Monkswell Manor.
Demobilized, probably, and no job to go to.
Mr Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast - a frugal Continental breakfast.
He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, "My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?"
Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.
"And why," she said, as she piled crockery recklessly in the sink, "everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time - It's a bit hard."
She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the henhouse.
Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she could.
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