"To be sure," she said. She turned her head. "Please do not think me callous if I say that the man's condition, while piteous, will not distress me, Sir Charles. And I hardly think that at this point it can distress him."
In spite of himself, Charles almost smiled.
"Of course," she added gravely, "if showing the photo to me would offend your sensibilities…"
Charles opened his portfolio and pulled out a photograph of the dead man, stretched out on his back, hands resting on his midriff, and another of the wheel tracks.
Miss Ardleigh paused on the path and held the photograph in one gloved hand. A flicker of guarded recognition crossed her face. The corners of her lips tightened imperceptibly. She glanced up.
' 'Have the police progressed in their inquiries?''
"Frankly, no," Charles confessed. "You know as much as do the police. The only physical clues are those we discovered in Prodger's chaise-a peacock feather and a fingerprint. I doubt that even Doyle's ingenious Holmes could make much of either."
"Indeed," she said in an easy tone, brushing back a lock of rich auburn hair that escaped across her cheek. But she was still studying the photograph, as if memorizing it.
"The local police," he said, watching her closely, "appear to have reached the limit of their resources. Unfortunately, Inspector Wainwright refuses to call in the Yard. I gather that he had some former difficulty with them."
There was a moment of silence. "Have you enjoyed any success in your pursuit of the feather?'' she asked.
"None," Charles said, "although I have seen similar feathers in the lapels of two men. I plan to continue my search."
"I see," Miss Ardleigh said, handing back the photograph. "And the ring the dead man is wearing-does it seem to you to be significant?"
The scarab ring? Charles realized that he had not considered the import of the ring's motif in any detailed way, interested as he had been in the problem of deciphering its inscription. "If it does," he said honestly, "I did not think to inquire into it." He turned toward her, hoping to flush out her interest with a direct question. "Do you have a particular reason for your inquiries, Miss Ardleigh?"
She half turned away from him, and there was another silence. When she finally spoke, it was not in answer to his question. "I have a thought, Sir Charles. I suggest that you show the photograph to Mrs. Florence Farnsworth, in Keenan Street, Colchester. She may perhaps be of assistance to you."
"Mrs. Farnsworth," Charles said. "Is that not the lady of whom Mr. Milbank spoke a moment ago?''
"It is," Miss Ardleigh replied, and began to walk in the direction Eleanor and Patsy had taken, leaving Charles standing in the path.
The finality in Miss Ardleigh's words made it clear that she intended to conclude the interview, and a deep frustration added itself to Charles's initial irritation and discomposure. From her reaction to the picture, he judged that she knew something about the dead man. She had even appeared to recognize him, or something about him.
Charles frowned. What did Miss Ardleigh know? And how did she know it?
27
"Who can wonder mat me laws ot society should at times he forgotten hy those whom the eye or society nahitually overlooks, and whom the heart or society often appears to discard?"
As Kate rode home in the chaise through the pearly twilight, she thought over the events of her afternoon visit to Marsden Manor. She had enjoyed her tour of the manor, which she found truly impressive, with its Tudor half-timbering and its wide vistas of green lawn and colorful gardens. She had marveled at the vast display of Eleanor's wedding finery, on exhibit in one of the many second-floor bedrooms. Although the promised ghost had failed to materialize, Beryl Bardwell had garnered a fine stock of material for the next chapter in "The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab," in which she now planned to feature an English country house. And a motorcar, for Tommy Milbank's machine, with its elegantly sleek finish and astounding capacity for self-propelled speed, had made a strong impression on Beryl, who was already imagining her heroine fitted out in dustcoat and goggles, her hand firm on the tiller. The afternoon had been quite pleasant.
But thought-provoking as well. As the chaise turned onto the lane toward Bishop's Keep, Kate's thoughts turned to another subject-Sir Charles Sheridan. She had been pleased to see him, more pleased than she was willing to admit to herself. Over their last several meetings, she had begun to feel a marked interest in him, not only in his knowledge of investigative procedures and methods of analysis, but in the man himself, lumpy coat, camera, and all. She had even felt- or had it been her imagination? — that he looked at her attentively, as if he were actually listening to what she said.
But she couldn't help wondering whether she had been entirely wise to suggest that he call on Mrs. Farnsworth. Her recommendation had seemed to pique his interest, although she was sure that he thought her both whimsical and overbold, intruding once more into an investigation in which she had no part.
It was, of course, the sight of the scarab ring on her finger of the dead man that had prompted her to speak. That, and the peacock feather. Sir Charles had seemed to think neither important, but Kate could only conclude that, taken together, the two items were of singular and rather troubling significance. There was, although Sir Charles did not know it, a third: Aunt Sabrina's interest in the murder. When Kate put that together with the fact that Aunt Sabrina and Mrs. Farnsworth each possessed a scarab pendant, and that most of the people at Saturday's gathering had worn the emblem of the peacock feather, she could reach only one reasonable conclusion, and its corollary: Monsieur Armand had visited Colchester with the intention of seeing some member of the Order of the Golden Dawn, and Aunt Sabrina suspected as much. Further, Aunt Sabrina did not wish anyone to know of her suspicions. Kate could not suggest to Sir Charles that he speak to her aunt on the subject, but she could suggest that he consult with Mrs. Farnsworth, who must be acquainted with all the members of the temple she had organized.
But still, Kate felt troubled. She certainly had no wish to embarrass either Aunt Sabrina or the Order. And she liked Mrs. Farnsworth, who evidently dared to be as audacious in the way she behaved as in the way she dressed. If Sir Charles did indeed take up her suggestion, she hoped he would be
discreet in his inquiry. She wished that she had thought to ask him not to mention her name.
It was approaching nightfall when the cart arrived at the stable yard of Bishop's Keep. Kate alighted and went in through the kitchen entry. She was greeted as usual with the ripe fragrance of pickles, potatoes, apples, and coffee, for the entranceway led through a storeroom crowded with jars, crocks, bins, and barrels. To furnish its tables, Bishop's Keep relied on its own gardens and pastures and on the local vendors of meat, fish, and fowl. Staple items-flour, sugar, salt, tea-were purchased infrequently at Dedham or Colchester.
The brick-floored, stone-walled kitchen was chill and dusky, lighted only by the fire in the large fireplace and a single oil lamp hanging over the worktable. Cook-Mrs. Pratt, Kate called her, thinking it demeaning to name her by her function-stood over the table, kneading bread. She was a thickset woman in a gray dress covered with a starched white apron. She had a dour mouth and piercing black eyes under heavy black brows that met in the center, giving her a suspicious look. But she had warmed to Kate and usually greeted her with the twitch of her lips that passed for a smile.
This evening, however, there was no smile. Mrs. Pratt's brows were knit together in a scowl and her frilled cap was dangerously askew. Her arms were white to the elbows with flour and she was pummeling a mound of stiff dough as if it were her bitterest enemy.