about the house?”
“The Forester’s House? It’s the best part of half a mile away.”
“Has it been searched?”
“I shouldn’t think so. You see, I’m pretty sure Smith thought the whole thing was a mare’s nest—I thought so myself. Just take the evidence. A girl says she sees a bleeding corpse dragged out of a wood. There isn’t any corpse, there isn’t any blood, there isn’t any sign of anything having been dragged. What does the plain man conclude? He thinks the girl is telling the tale, and he doesn’t go very far into the wood to look for a nesting mare.”
Miss Silver’s expression did not change. It was, and remained, of a mild firmness.
“I should be interested to see the Forester’s House.”
He threw her a quick look.
“What have you got in your mind? Do you expect to find Louise Rogers somewhere in the ruins?”
“I do not know, Frank. I would like to see the house.”
He gave an odd short laugh.
“Well, you shall. But in the name of sanity, why should anyone who had murdered a woman, presumably in this wood, first drag her out on to the road to be seen by Mary Stokes, and then drag her back through half a mile of undergrowth? And how did he do it without leaving any traces? The thing’s impossible.”
Miss Silver coughed gently.
“If it was impossible, it did not happen.”
He had a quizzical look for that.
“Well, what would you like to do first—see Mary Stokes, or wander in the wood?”
“I think we had better see Mary Stokes.”
It was what he had hoped she would say. Under a casual manner he was, as a matter of fact, straining at the leash. If the case made nonsense at present, this much at least was certain— Mary was either lying, or telling the truth. If the former, it should be possible to break her story down. If the latter, she might be able to produce something a little more credible than Saturday’s sobbed-out tale. As to whether she was lying or not, he had a good deal of confidence that Miss Silver would be able to give judgment. But when they came face to face with her in the parlour of Tomlin’s Farm he wasn’t so sure that they were going to get anything out of Miss Mary Stokes.
Mrs. Stokes, who admitted them, greeting Frank as “Mr. Frank,” and left them there with many apologies for there being no fire, was a good hearty soul with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She said her niece wouldn’t be a moment, but they had the best part of ten minutes to wait and plenty of leisure to observe the flowered wallpaper covered with what an eighteenth-century lady once described as “great romping flowers”; the fox’s mask grinning from a dark corner; the case of stuffed birds on a three-legged table shrouded in maroon cloth and trimmed about the edge with a valance of deep cotton lace; the Toby jug and charming lustre-ware in a corner cupboard; the photographic enlargements of Mr. Stokes’ parents on one side of the room and Mrs. Stokes’ parents on the other, both men very uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes with high stick-up collars and ties, both ladies decorous to the point of gloom. In the case of old Mrs. Stokes the portrait had been taken after she was a widow, and the camera had done ample justice to the wealth of crape in which she mourned, and to a truly portentous widow’s bonnet with long funeral streamers.
Miss Silver gazed with interest at these evidences of family life. She noticed the brass handles on a walnut bureau—delightfully bright, and the bureau itself so beautifully polished. Not a speck of dust anywhere, and a good many knick-knacks to keep.
When Mary Stokes came into the room she did not seem to belong to it at all. She was young and pretty, but when you looked at her a second time you began to wonder if she was as young or as pretty as you thought at first. There was something just a little stiff, a little set—something that reminded Miss Silver of the old nursery warning to be careful how you looked when
“The Forester’s House? It’s the best part of half a mile away.”
“Has it been searched?”
“I shouldn’t think so. You see, I’m pretty sure Smith thought the whole thing was a mare’s nest—I thought so myself. Just take the evidence. A girl says she sees a bleeding corpse dragged out of a wood. There isn’t any corpse, there isn’t any blood, there isn’t any sign of anything having been dragged. What does the plain man conclude? He thinks the girl is telling the tale, and he doesn’t go very far into the wood to look for a nesting mare.”
Miss Silver’s expression did not change. It was, and remained, of a mild firmness.
“I should be interested to see the Forester’s House.”
He threw her a quick look.
“What have you got in your mind? Do you expect to find Louise Rogers somewhere in the ruins?”
“I do not know, Frank. I would like to see the house.”
He gave an odd short laugh.
“Well, you shall. But in the name of sanity, why should anyone who had murdered a woman, presumably in this wood, first drag her out on to the road to be seen by Mary Stokes, and then drag her back through half a mile of undergrowth? And how did he do it without leaving any traces? The thing’s impossible.”
Miss Silver coughed gently.
“If it was impossible, it did not happen.”
He had a quizzical look for that.
“Well, what would you like to do first—see Mary Stokes, or wander in the wood?”
“I think we had better see Mary Stokes.”
It was what he had hoped she would say. Under a casual manner he was, as a matter of fact, straining at the leash. If the case made nonsense at present, this much at least was certain— Mary was either lying, or telling the truth. If the former, it should be possible to break her story down. If the latter, she might be able to produce something a little more credible than Saturday’s sobbed-out tale. As to whether she was lying or not, he had a good deal of confidence that Miss Silver would be able to give judgment. But when they came face to face with her in the parlour of Tomlin’s Farm he wasn’t so sure that they were going to get anything out of Miss Mary Stokes.
Mrs. Stokes, who admitted them, greeting Frank as “Mr. Frank,” and left them there with many apologies for there being no fire, was a good hearty soul with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She said her niece wouldn’t be a moment, but they had the best part of ten minutes to wait and plenty of leisure to observe the flowered wallpaper covered with what an eighteenth-century lady once described as “great romping flowers”; the fox’s mask grinning from a dark corner; the case of stuffed birds on a three-legged table shrouded in maroon cloth and trimmed about the edge with a valance of deep cotton lace; the Toby jug and charming lustre-ware in a corner cupboard; the photographic enlargements of Mr. Stokes’ parents on one side of the room and Mrs. Stokes’ parents on the other, both men very uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes with high stick-up collars and ties, both ladies decorous to the point of gloom. In the case of old Mrs. Stokes the portrait had been taken after she was a widow, and the camera had done ample justice to the wealth of crape in which she mourned, and to a truly portentous widow’s bonnet with long funeral streamers.
Miss Silver gazed with interest at these evidences of family life. She noticed the brass handles on a walnut bureau—delightfully bright, and the bureau itself so beautifully polished. Not a speck of dust anywhere, and a good many knick-knacks to keep.
When Mary Stokes came into the room she did not seem to belong to it at all. She was young and pretty, but when you looked at her a second time you began to wonder if she was as young or as pretty as you thought at first. There was something just a little stiff, a little set—something that reminded Miss Silver of the old nursery warning to be careful how you looked when
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