Eternity Ring by Patricia Wentworth Page A

the clock struck or you might stay that way. It might have been the effect of the artificially brightened hair, the artificially heightened complexion. It might have been the way the hair was done—the last and extremest London fashion, looking a good deal out of place on a country farm. It might have been the hard royal blue of an equally unsuitable dress, or the brooch which glittered quite as brightly as if its stones were real. Probably all these things contributed to the impression made by Mary Stokes.
    She came into the room with quite a little air. When she shook hands and said “How do you do?” her voice was pitched too high to be pleasant, and the syllables clipped to an excess of refinement.
    Frank Abbott said, “I have been sent down from Scotland Yard to make some enquiries, Miss Stokes—Detective-Sergeant Abbott. I hope you will not object to Miss Silver’s presence.”
    If Miss Stokes had not been so refined she might have tossed her head. As it was, she stared briefly without looking at Miss Silver and sat down on the nearest chair, after which she crossed her legs, displaying a good pair of silk stockings, arranged the blue skirt, and fixed a pair of bright blue eyes upon the personable young man who had come to question her. Good-looking fellow and a cut above a policeman—thinks quite a bit of himself. She let her glance meet his, and then very effectively dropped the darkened lashes until they lay upon her cheek. She could feel him looking at her, and had no idea that any young man could do so without pleasure.
    With a faint conscious smile she said,
    “Oh, of course—I’m sure I’m only too pleased.”
    He had taken out a notebook, and moved now so as to rest it on one of those solid pedestal tables so much in vogue about the middle of the last century. Of finely figured walnut in a high state of polish, it supported two heavily embossed photograph albums and a large family Bible, each on its own closely crocheted mat of maroon wool. He made room for the notebook, produced a pencil, and addressed Miss Stokes.
    “I have just been making an examination of Dead Man’s Copse. It is quite plain that you ran down the bank and across the ditch on to the path, but there is no sign of anyone else having done so.”
    The lashes rose. The bright blue eyes met his.
    “Well, I’m sure if Joe Turnberry and Inspector Smith didn’t leave any marks, there’s no reason why anyone else should.”
    It was quite obvious that she thought she had scored. After a brief cold stare he proceeded to counteract this impression.
    “I’m afraid that is no argument. Smith’s and Turnberry’s tracks are both quite easy to trace. You will remember that I happened to be there when they were made. What you must understand is that there are no other tracks. If, as you stated, a man came out of that wood dragging the body of a girl, how do you account for the fact that he left no footprints either on the bank or in the mud of the ditch, and that the dragged body left no track?”
    She tilted her head a little.
    “Oh, well, I wouldn’t swear to the dragging—it was dark, you know. He may have been carrying her.”
    “In which case one would expect even deeper footprints.”
    She gave a slight shrug.
    “Perhaps you haven’t found the right place.”
    “Your own footprints are quite clear—there is no mistake about them. You were facing the path. On which side of you did this man come out of the wood?”
    She pressed her lips together, frowning slightly.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Come, Miss Stokes, you were going down into Dead Man’s Copse, when you heard a sound coming from the wood— that’s what you said, isn’t it? You were so frightened that you crossed the ditch and climbed up the bank into the wood to meet the noise.” One of the fair eyebrows rose quizzically. “It seems rather an odd thing to do. Could you kindly explain why you did it?”
    She said quite coolly,
    “I was frightened—anyone would