"Look out!" howled H.M. "You'll step on your hat!"
Masters seemed to meditate giving the hat a swift kick. Instead, with powerful dignity, he corked himself; but the ruddiness of his countenance was not caused by the heat.
H.M. turned to Ann.
"What do you say?" he asked softly. "You knew Fane pretty well. Would you say he was capable of an act like that?"
Ann looked away from him, down at the grass. Again Courtney saw the clear profile: the mouth wide and full-lipped, the nose a little broad for complete beauty. He had an impression that she wanted to tell them something, and was almost on the point of telling it, yet checked herself.
"I didn't know him well," she defended herself, scuffing the toe of her shoe in the grass.
"Who is, or was, this Polly Allen? Did you know her?"
Ann shook her head emphatically. "I've never even heard the name. She was probably — well!"
"But you haven't answered my question. Would you say Arthur Fane might do a thing like that?" She faced him.
"Yes, I think he might. Judging from what I know of his family. And certain things.'' She hesitated. Her eyes revealed themselves as penetrating and intelligent. "But when was this girl killed?" Her voice quickened. "Was it about the middle of July? The fourteenth or the fifteenth?"
"I can't say," returned Courtney. "Mrs. Fane didn't say anything about that."
"Wait!" snapped H.M. "Why that date?"
"Because I went to the house that night," answered Ann.
There was a stir in the group. Even Masters whirled round from looking at the clock-golf outfit.
"It probably doesn't mean anything! Please! I only-"
"All the same," said H.M., "what about it?" She moistened her lips.
"Nothing. I went over to Vicky's to see whether I could borrow some wool. I live only a stone's throw away from here anyway. It was well past ten o'clock, but in those days the light held until nearly ten. It was the fourteenth… no, the fifteenth of July! I remember, because some French friends of mine gave a party the day before; and that was Bastille Day, the fourteenth."
"Yes?"
"I rang the front doorbell, but there was no answer and I couldn't see any lights in the house. I didn't think they could all be away — even servants. But I rang again, and still there was no answer. I was just going away when Arthur opened the door."
"Go on."
"He was in his shirt-sleeves. That's how I remember. It was the first time I'd ever seen him in his shirtsleeves. He just said Vicky wasn't at home, and closed the door in my face. Rather rudely, I thought. I went away."
The account was unadorned and even commonplace, but her listeners found it anything but commonplace.
Courtney felt again the sense of evil, whose origin he could not trace, but which had touched him the night before. Ann's story conjured up visions of unexpected things behind starched window-curtains: of a dark house, and something lying on a sofa. It is not always wise to explore too far the possibilities of a summer night.
"And that's all you know?"
"That's everything, I swear!"
Masters was uneasy. "And not very much either, miss, if you don't mind my saying so. However, we'll go into this! I can promise you that. But—"
"But what, son?" asked H.M. quietly.
"Somebody killed Mr. Fane! First you show me a great big beautiful case against Mrs. Fane. Then you try to tear it down by saying she hadn't got a motive, just because she hated her husband so much. What's up your sleeve, sir? Because I'm smacking well certain there is something."
H.M. twiddled his thumbs.
"Well… now. I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I do think, Masters, you may not be payin' enough attention to motive. That's what bothers me like blazes: motive."
"I'll argue it with pleasure," returned Masters, whipping out his notebook again with the air of a duelist, "if you think it'll get us anywhere. Which it won't. Let's look at the list of people, and see what we have.
"First, Mrs. Fane herself. We've talked about that.
"Second, Captain Sharpless. H'm. Might have had a motive. It strikes me he's pretty far gone on Mrs. Fane, that young gentleman. But he can't have done it, because every witness is willing to swear he couldn't have changed the daggers.
"Third, Mr. Hubert Fane. No motive that I can see. He's a wealthy old gent, they tell me; and even if he wasn't, he doesn't inherit a penny under Arthur Fane's will. (Mr. Fane's money, by the way, is all left to his wife, and to charity if she dies; think that over about her ladyship.) Finally, Mr. Hubert Fane's got as good an alibi as anybody else.
"Fourth, Dr. Rich. No motive whatever. Not a ghost of one. And the same applies to him as to Captain Sharpless: he couldn't have done it.
"Fifth and last, Miss Browning."
Masters broke off, with his deceptive air of heartiness, and grinned at Ann.
"I hope you don't mind being included, miss?"
"No, no, of course not!"
"No motive," said Masters. "At least, none we've heard." He winked at her apologetically. "And the same thing for the practical side: she couldn't have changed the daggers."
Masters shut up his notebook and shook it in the air.
"Now, sir! That's the lot. Unless you want to drag in Daisy Fenton, the maid, or Mrs. Propper, the cook-"
"I say, Masters." Again H.M. ruffled his fingers across his forehead. "This cook, now. You got a statement from the maid. Could the cook add anything: to it?"
"Mrs. Propper? No. She always goes to bed at nine sharp on the top floor of the house. She didn't even hear the rumpus last night.
"But as I say, that's the lot. That's a list of both motive and opportunity. Will you just tell me where in lum's name you can find either a motive or an opportunity?"
Courtney, who was facing Major Adams's house, saw khaki and gilt buttons swing round the side of it. Frank Sharpless, the declining sun picking out the expression of his eyes even at that distance, hurried across towards them.
There was, Courtney remembered, a grassy elm-shaded lane or alley which ran at the back of all these houses parallel with the street in front. Sharpless had evidently taken a short cut from the Fanes' house. Courtney thought with uneasiness that it was damned indiscreet of him to go there today. Gossip would be wagging a long enough tongue already.
But this idea was swept away as Sharpless approached.
"Sir Henry," he began without preliminary, "you said last night you remembered me. Anyway, you know my father. Colonel Sharpless?"
"Yes, son?"
"Is it true that you've got a medical degree as well as a legal one?" "Yes. That's right."
"Then," said Sharpless, running a finger round inside his khaki shirt-collar, "will you for God's sake come down and have a look at Vicky? Now?"
The summer evening was very still.
"What's wrong with her?"
"I don't know. I've phoned for her own doctor, but he lives at the other side of town. And she's worrying me more every minute. First she complained of stiffness in the back of the neck. Then a funny feeling in her jaws, painful. Then — she wouldn't let me send for a doctor; but I insisted — then—"
All expression was smoothed out of H.M.'s face. He adjusted his spectacles, and looked steadily through them. Yet Courtney caught the wave of emotion in the air, as palpably as the body gives out heat; and that emotion was fear.
H.M.'s tone was wooden. "How long has this been goin' on, son?"
"About an hour."
"Lookin' a bit seedy all day, has she?"
"Yes, she has."
"So. Any difficulty in swallowing?"
Sharpless thought back. "Yes! I remember, she complained about it at tea, and wouldn't drink much."
Sharpless's quick intuition caught the atmosphere about him. H.M.'s eyes moved briefly, too briefly, towards Courtney's hands. Courtney was still holding, and absent-mindedly bending, the pin he had tried to thrust painlessly into his arm.