have been.”
“So you ran in the direction of the sound which frightened you?”
“Well, I didn’t stop to think, I just ran—you do when you’re frightened. I suppose I wanted to hide.”
“Yes, but why not the bushes on the other side of the path? Why go rushing into danger? You might have bumped right into the murderer—mightn’t you?”
Miss Stokes showed signs of temper.
“I tell you I didn’t think—I was too frightened! I don’t know why I ran into the wood that side, but I did.”
“Are you quite sure that you did?”
She stared angrily.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, there are no footprints of yours going into the wood.”
Her breath came quickly.
“I can’t help that.”
“Odd—isn’t it? No footprints of yours going in, and none of the murderer’s coming out! I’m afraid there’s a discrepancy somewhere. You didn’t cross that ditch to get into the wood, you know. However frightened you were, you would hardly be able to clear it at a single bound, especially in the dark.”
All this while Miss Silver had been a silent but attentive spectator. She had chosen a chair which strongly resembled those in her own flat—a slightly curved upholstered back, a slightly curved upholstered seat, and small bow legs of yellow walnut tortuously carved. A very comfortable type of chair for knitting or needlework, affording support to the back without hampering the arms. At moments like these Miss Silver missed her knitting, but she did not permit herself to fidget. Her hands, in the warm black woollen gloves which had been a Christmas present from her niece Ethel, remained folded in her lap. Her regard dwelt thoughtfully on Mary Stokes. A cheap pearl necklace hung down over the bright blue dress. At the moment it was rising and falling in quite a noticeable manner. The girl’s colour was deep and angry. Miss Silver believed her to be both angry and frightened. She considered that Frank was doing very well. He was smiling a little. It was a chilly smile. Monica Abbott wouldn’t have liked it at all. It would have reminded her rather painfully of her mother-in-law. With just such a smile had Lady Evelyn been wont to preface some singularly wounding remark.
“Well, Miss Stokes—what about it?”
Some of the refinement slipped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve no objection to repeating it. Let me put it quite simply. You didn’t walk across that ditch into the wood, and I’m prepared to swear you didn’t jump it. How did you get there?”
She was looking at him now, angrily, uneasily.
“How did I get there?”
“Yes.”
She tried to laugh.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The tone was intended to be provocative. It failed before his ice-cold stare.
He said, “Very much.” And then, “Are you going to tell me? I think you’d better. This is rather a serious matter, you know. Anyone who is not implicated in a crime is naturally willing to assist the police.” He smiled again, this time in a more human manner.
Mary Stokes put up a hand to the pearl necklace, displaying five blood-red nails and a turquoise ring.
“Well, if you want to know, I went into the wood farther back.”
“How much farther back?”
“Oh, a good bit.”
“You would still have to cross the ditch.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t! Because there isn’t any ditch before you get down into the dip—at least nothing to speak of. And it’s dry—it wouldn’t show footprints.”
He wrote that down. Mary watched him. Then she had to meet the pale stare again.
“You thought that out very nicely. But I’m afraid it makes trouble for you in another direction. It explains why there are no footprints of yours going into the wood, but it doesn’t explain why you went into the wood at that particular spot. You said in your statement, and you have just told me all over again, that you ran into the wood because you were so frightened that you didn’t know what you were
“So you ran in the direction of the sound which frightened you?”
“Well, I didn’t stop to think, I just ran—you do when you’re frightened. I suppose I wanted to hide.”
“Yes, but why not the bushes on the other side of the path? Why go rushing into danger? You might have bumped right into the murderer—mightn’t you?”
Miss Stokes showed signs of temper.
“I tell you I didn’t think—I was too frightened! I don’t know why I ran into the wood that side, but I did.”
“Are you quite sure that you did?”
She stared angrily.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, there are no footprints of yours going into the wood.”
Her breath came quickly.
“I can’t help that.”
“Odd—isn’t it? No footprints of yours going in, and none of the murderer’s coming out! I’m afraid there’s a discrepancy somewhere. You didn’t cross that ditch to get into the wood, you know. However frightened you were, you would hardly be able to clear it at a single bound, especially in the dark.”
All this while Miss Silver had been a silent but attentive spectator. She had chosen a chair which strongly resembled those in her own flat—a slightly curved upholstered back, a slightly curved upholstered seat, and small bow legs of yellow walnut tortuously carved. A very comfortable type of chair for knitting or needlework, affording support to the back without hampering the arms. At moments like these Miss Silver missed her knitting, but she did not permit herself to fidget. Her hands, in the warm black woollen gloves which had been a Christmas present from her niece Ethel, remained folded in her lap. Her regard dwelt thoughtfully on Mary Stokes. A cheap pearl necklace hung down over the bright blue dress. At the moment it was rising and falling in quite a noticeable manner. The girl’s colour was deep and angry. Miss Silver believed her to be both angry and frightened. She considered that Frank was doing very well. He was smiling a little. It was a chilly smile. Monica Abbott wouldn’t have liked it at all. It would have reminded her rather painfully of her mother-in-law. With just such a smile had Lady Evelyn been wont to preface some singularly wounding remark.
“Well, Miss Stokes—what about it?”
Some of the refinement slipped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve no objection to repeating it. Let me put it quite simply. You didn’t walk across that ditch into the wood, and I’m prepared to swear you didn’t jump it. How did you get there?”
She was looking at him now, angrily, uneasily.
“How did I get there?”
“Yes.”
She tried to laugh.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The tone was intended to be provocative. It failed before his ice-cold stare.
He said, “Very much.” And then, “Are you going to tell me? I think you’d better. This is rather a serious matter, you know. Anyone who is not implicated in a crime is naturally willing to assist the police.” He smiled again, this time in a more human manner.
Mary Stokes put up a hand to the pearl necklace, displaying five blood-red nails and a turquoise ring.
“Well, if you want to know, I went into the wood farther back.”
“How much farther back?”
“Oh, a good bit.”
“You would still have to cross the ditch.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t! Because there isn’t any ditch before you get down into the dip—at least nothing to speak of. And it’s dry—it wouldn’t show footprints.”
He wrote that down. Mary watched him. Then she had to meet the pale stare again.
“You thought that out very nicely. But I’m afraid it makes trouble for you in another direction. It explains why there are no footprints of yours going into the wood, but it doesn’t explain why you went into the wood at that particular spot. You said in your statement, and you have just told me all over again, that you ran into the wood because you were so frightened that you didn’t know what you were
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