Timothy, who had relaxed upon his pillows, bounced up at this, his blue eyes sparkling with pleasurable anticipation. "Did he? I say, do you think there's a Hidden Killer in the house!"
"Timothy!" gasped Miss Allison, instinctively clasping Mr. Kane's arm.
"Well, if you come to think about it, this is just the sort of house where you might have a Hidden Killer lurking, 'cept that it isn't really old enough, and I shouldn't think there's a secret passage or anything. But it's got two wings, and three staircases, and lots of attics leading out of one another and—"
"Stop!" commanded Miss Allison, pale with fright. "I know it's nonsense; but if you go on like that I shan't be able to sleep a wink all night."
"Calm yourself, my love," said Mr. Kane. "If the Hidden Killer tried to do me in by tampering with the Seamew , there doesn't seem to be much point in him lurking in the house."
"No, of course not," said Patricia. "Let's get back to the point. You're the only one of us who knows anything about boats, Jim. Would it be possible for anyone to do something to the speedboat that wouldn't show at first—I mean, if you simply knocked a hole in it it would fill with water at once, and the Seamew didn't."
"I suppose you could plug your hole," replied Jim.
"How?"
Jim reached out a hand for the pencil and Timothy's notebook. "Well, imagine this is one of your bottom strakes. If you cut a wedge-shaped hole, and plugged it so that the broad end of your plug stuck out a bit, presumably it would stay put until you got some way on the boat. It would work loose, and of course as soon as you were going full-speed it would be bound to come out, and the force of the water would be enough to rip the strake right off."
"I see. Do you think that's what was done?"
"No," said Jim cheerfully.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Harte.
"Probably because I haven't got that kind of mind. Moreover, to do that job you'd have to have the boat out of the water, come armed with a bit and a brace, a pad saw, and a bit of putty to fill up the gaps—it's too darned silly!"
"When was low tide today?" asked Patricia. "Lunchtime, wasn't it?"
"Twelve forty-five," said Jim.
"That means that the Seamew must have been lying on the slipway then, doesn't it?"
"Yes," he agreed reluctantly.
"Jim, don't you see how it all fits in? You tied her up just after eleven, she was high and dry an hour later, and floating again by the time Timothy got to her. It was all thought out, and the time calculated!"
"Rot!" said Jim.
"It isn't rot! It's jolly sensible!" retorted Mr. Harte. "Only, who's the Killer? I rather thought Mr. Dermott was the person who did Cousin Clement in, but I don't see why he wants to do you in too."
"Nor anyone else. I do wish you'd get this silly idea out of your heads."
"Jim, I shouldn't have thought anything of it if it weren't for what Mr. Roberts said to you. But in face of that—"
"My dear girl, Roberts was talking through his hat. In any case, he saw the whole thing happen, and if there were anything in your theory, he'd presumably be the first to suspect there'd been some dirty work done on the Seamew . But he didn't even suggest it."
"It looks to me," said Mr. Harte, pursuing his own line of thought, "as though it must be one of the Mansells. The only other person I can think of who might want to get rid of you is the next heir—Cousin Maud, I mean."
"Who is living in Sydney," said Jim. "Try again."
"Perhaps she isn't!" said Timothy, loath to abandon this original idea. "Perhaps she's been here all the time, in disguise!"
"Very likely, I should think. Now explain how she managed to post a letter to Aunt Emily from Australia when she was in England at the time, and we shall be all set."
"Say, wise guy!" said Mr. Harte, suddenly becoming transatlantic. "You ever heard of a Blind?"
"Often," replied Jim. "I've even been on one."
"Not that kind, you ass! The other! Get a load of this, now. What if she wrote the letter before she came to England and left it with someone to post on a certain date?"
Jim sighed. "Now I'll tell one!"
"No, but—"
"'The Idiot Boy,' by William Wordsworth!" said Jim. "I suppose she knew by instinct that Cousin Silas always went for a walk after dinner, and which night there'd be a fog, and a few other little details like that? Had the whole thing mapped out to the minute two months before she did the deed. You make me tired!"
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Mr. Harte.
"Well, while you are thinking of it you might also ask yourself whether cutting holes in speedboats is really a womanly trick," said Jim, getting up.
Timothy relinquished his theory, though reluctantly. "Oh, all right! It was only an idea. Actually, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it turned out to be someone we've never even suspected. Pritchard, or someone like that. I say, I wonder if Cousin Silas possessed some frightfully valuable thing which someone else wants? You needn't look like that! I know I've heard of it happening. Something you don't know about. A priceless manuscript or—or—good Lord, if that's it, there probably is a Hidden Killer in the house!"
"I don't quite see why killing Jim should help him to get hold of the Stolen Treasure," objected Miss Allison.
"I expect there's some frightfully complicated reason," said Mr. Harte wisely.
"Well, we'll leave you to think it out," said Jim. "Come on, Pat!"
"You go down. I'll join you in a minute," she replied. "I'm just going along to my room."
She did not go to her room immediately, however.
As soon as Jim had gone downstairs she returned to Mr. Harte and said: "Timothy, I wish you'd tell Superintendent Hannasyde what happened today. I know Jim thinks it's all nonsense; but I can't rid myself of the feeling that he is in danger."
"All right, I will," promised Timothy. "Not," he added gloomily, "that they'll believe a word I say, because I know jolly well they won't. No one ever does."
Telling him to comfort himself with the reflection that she at least had believed his story, Miss Allison withdrew, leaving him to occupy himself until sleep overtook him in evolving a highly elaborate theory to account for the presence in their midst of an Unknown Killer. She went along the passage towards the west wing, where, next to Mrs. Kane's, her room was situated. For the first time she thought the passage very inadequately lit, and when she encountered Ogle not two steps from Timothy's door, she gave an uncontrollable start of sheer nerves.
Ogle, though Miss Allison had not questioned her presence in the passage, immediately began to justify it, so that Miss Allison, knowing her to be extremely inquisitive, guessed that she had been listening outside Timothy's room. She could hardly blame her, for it was one of Emily Kane's least agreeable traits to cull all the information she could from Ogle's expert spying upon the rest of the household. Not unnaturally there had been a good deal of incentive during the past fortnight for Ogle to listen at doors. Miss Allison, accustomed to this unamiable habit, merely smiled and said: "All right, Ogle, don't apologise!"
The maid's sallow cheeks flushed; she said somewhat naively: "The less the police come nosing round here the better it will be, miss. What's done can't be undone. You will pardon me, but if Master Timothy sank Mr. James' boat, it was only what anyone would have expected, and there's no call to drag the police into it."
Miss Allison raised her brows. "Why not?" she asked.
"They're not wanted here," Ogle said sullenly. "They won't find out anything, any more than they did over Mr. Clement. They only worrit the mistress."
"The case of Mr. Clement isn't finished," said Miss Allison "I told you before, the inquest was merely adjourned."
"They won't find out anything," Ogle repeated. "No more they're not wanted to. The impudence of them asking the mistress questions! Well, they didn't get anything out of me, that's one thing."