in that cupboard place under the stairs and then I noticed a door there and I opened it and saw a flight of steps, so I went down there. Nice cellar you’ve got,” he said to Giles. “Crypt of an old monastery, I should say.”
“We’re not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We’re investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs. Davis? I’ll leave the kitchen door open.” He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. “Is that what you heard, Mrs. Davis?” he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.
“I—it does sound like it.”
“That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs. Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him.”
“Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard,” cried Christopher.
“Mine are there already,” said Major Metcalf.
“Quite so,” said Sergeant Trotter. “But we’ve a satisfactory explanation for those, haven’t we?” he added smoothly.
“Look here, Sergeant,” said Giles, “admittedly you’re in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn’t we to take precautionary measures?”
“Such as, Mr. Davis?”
“Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect.”
He looked straight at Christopher Wren.
Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. “It’s not true! It’s not true! You’re all against me. Everyone’s always against me. You’re going to frame me for this. It’s persecution—persecution—”
“Steady on, lad,” said Major Metcalf.
“It’s all right, Chris.” Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. “Nobody’s against you. Tell him it’s all right,” she said to Sergeant Trotter.
“We don’t frame people,” said Sergeant Trotter.
“Tell him you’re not going to arrest him.”
“I’m not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There’s no evidence—at present.”
Giles cried out, “I think you’re crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There’s only one person who fits the bill, and—”
“Wait, Giles, wait—” Molly broke in. “Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I—can I speak to you a minute?”
“I’m staying,” said Giles.
“No, Giles, you, too, please.”
Giles’s face grew as dark as thunder. He said, “I don’t know what’s come over you, Molly.”
He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him.
“Yes, Mrs. Davis, what is it?”
“Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is—responsible for all this. But you don’t know that?”
“That’s perfectly true, Mrs. Davis. But the probabilities lie that way—mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist’s report.”
“Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don’t believe it is Christopher. There must be other—possibilities. Hadn’t those three children any relations—parents, for instance?”
“Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad.”
“Well, what about him? Where is he now?”
“We’ve no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year.”
“And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too.”
“That is so.”
“So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was. ”
Sergeant Trotter said quietly, “Please believe me, Mrs. Davis, I’ve had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim—the father—even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven’t overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind—but I don’t know
“We’re not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We’re investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs. Davis? I’ll leave the kitchen door open.” He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. “Is that what you heard, Mrs. Davis?” he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.
“I—it does sound like it.”
“That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs. Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him.”
“Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard,” cried Christopher.
“Mine are there already,” said Major Metcalf.
“Quite so,” said Sergeant Trotter. “But we’ve a satisfactory explanation for those, haven’t we?” he added smoothly.
“Look here, Sergeant,” said Giles, “admittedly you’re in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn’t we to take precautionary measures?”
“Such as, Mr. Davis?”
“Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect.”
He looked straight at Christopher Wren.
Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. “It’s not true! It’s not true! You’re all against me. Everyone’s always against me. You’re going to frame me for this. It’s persecution—persecution—”
“Steady on, lad,” said Major Metcalf.
“It’s all right, Chris.” Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. “Nobody’s against you. Tell him it’s all right,” she said to Sergeant Trotter.
“We don’t frame people,” said Sergeant Trotter.
“Tell him you’re not going to arrest him.”
“I’m not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There’s no evidence—at present.”
Giles cried out, “I think you’re crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There’s only one person who fits the bill, and—”
“Wait, Giles, wait—” Molly broke in. “Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I—can I speak to you a minute?”
“I’m staying,” said Giles.
“No, Giles, you, too, please.”
Giles’s face grew as dark as thunder. He said, “I don’t know what’s come over you, Molly.”
He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him.
“Yes, Mrs. Davis, what is it?”
“Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is—responsible for all this. But you don’t know that?”
“That’s perfectly true, Mrs. Davis. But the probabilities lie that way—mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist’s report.”
“Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don’t believe it is Christopher. There must be other—possibilities. Hadn’t those three children any relations—parents, for instance?”
“Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad.”
“Well, what about him? Where is he now?”
“We’ve no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year.”
“And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too.”
“That is so.”
“So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was. ”
Sergeant Trotter said quietly, “Please believe me, Mrs. Davis, I’ve had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim—the father—even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven’t overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind—but I don’t know
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