The Ginger Cat Mystery by Robin Forsythe

morning. I’ve just been through the ordeal of what I believe is called a searching police interrogatory. It’s been quite an experience. I didn’t think famous detectives could be so affable. Wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove, I suppose,” she remarked thoughtfully as she tapped an elegant shoe with her light walking-stick.
    â€œI hope you were on your guard,” suggested Vereker pleasantly.
    â€œI was dreadfully nervous,” she replied with sudden seriousness. “I can’t explain why and I’m sure I should have broken down if the inspector hadn’t immediately put me at ease. The whole affair has upset us all terribly and I was—I was very fond of my cousin Frank.”
    Her large dark eyes suddenly grew moist with imminent tears and to save the situation from further embarrassment she exclaimed, “But I mustn’t detain you. It’s nearly eleven o’clock.
    With these words she passed on and Vereker, turning on his heel, extracted a loose cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
    â€œFirst character in the tragedy in order of appearance,” he soliloquized and made his way back to the approach to Marston Manor.
    He found Heather engaged in what he called “scratching around,” a phrase which came natural to him for he kept fowls and was deeply interested in everything connected with them.
    â€œYou stole a march on me this morning, Inspector,” remarked Vereker as he joined him.
    â€œGathering facts is so much slower than getting intuitions that I reckon we now start about fair,” replied Heather.
    â€œManaged to gather any important ones?” asked Vereker.
    They were standing together in the spacious rectangular entrance hall of the mansion at the foot of a wide staircase facing the front door.
    â€œCome upstairs,” said Heather quietly, “and see what you make of things. I’m afraid this is going to be a difficult problem. There’s nothing much to lay hold of.”
    They ascended about a dozen steps to what is generally called by house agents a “half-landing” with a wide window. On this half-landing, close to the window, was a pedestal flower-stand bearing a large pot from which dropped in an orange cascade a mass of wax-like begonia flowers. To the left as one turned to ascend the remaining steps to the first storey corridor, was a door.
    â€œWhat room’s this?” asked Vereker casually and to his surprise the inspector approached him on tip-toe with a serious face.
    â€œMusic room,” he replied in an almost inaudible whisper.  “It’s—it’s haunted! Contains pickled ghosts!”
    Vereker, smiling at the inspector’s little joke, turned the handle of the door only to find that it was locked.
    â€œNever mind that room for the moment. Do you see this?” asked the inspector pointing to an inverted flower-pot on the polished oak of the floor and to other pots on the steps of the second flight to the right of the door.
    â€œAh!” exclaimed Vereker, “you’ve made a discovery. Bloodstains, I suppose?”
    â€œYes, rather important. Have a good look at them.”
    Vereker went down on his knees, produced a magnifying glass from his pocket, lifted a pot and examined the floor closely.
    â€œHow on earth did you twig them? They’re hardly visible to the naked eye,” he said.
    Heather immediately flashed an electric torch on the floor.
    â€œIs that better?” he asked.
    â€œExcellent! I can see this one fairly clearly now,” replied Vereker.
    â€œJust so. First instruction for beginners: when searching for dried bloodstains on polished floors or furniture use artificial light. The stains show up more clearly. But you’re keeping the important part of that clue to yourself, Mr. Vereker.”
    â€œNo. I was just going to ask you where the body was found.”
    â€œOn the landing at the top of this flight of