魔手27

IV

As I stood staring after him the church door opened and the Rev. CalebDane Calthrop came out.

He smiled vaguely at me.

“Good—good morning, Mr—er—er—”

I helped him. “Burton.”

“Of course, of course, you mustn’t think I don’t remember you. Yourname had just slipped my memory for the moment. A beautiful day.”

“Yes,” I said rather shortly.

He peered at me.

“But something—something—ah, yes, that poor unfortunate child whowas in service at the Symmingtons.’ I find it hard to believe, I must con-fess, that we have a murderer in our midst, Mr—er—Burton.”

“It does seem a bit fantastic,” I said.

“Something else has just reached my ears.” He leaned towards me. “Ilearn that there have been anonymous letters going about. Have youheard any rumour of such things?”

“I have heard,” I said.

“Cowardly and dastardly things.” He paused and quoted an enormousstream of Latin. “Those words of Horace are very applicable, don’t youthink?” he said.

“Absolutely,” I said.

VThere didn’t seem anyone more I could profitably talk to, so I went home,dropping in for some tobacco and for a bottle of sherry, so as to get someof the humbler opinions on the crime.

“A narsty tramp,” seemed to be the verdict.

“Come to the door, they do, and whine and ask for money, and then ifit’s a girl alone in the house, they turn narsty. My sister Dora, over toCombeacre, she had a narsty experience one day—Drunk, he was, andselling those little printed poems….”

The story went on, ending with the intrepid Dora courageously bangingthe door in the man’s face and taking refuge and barricading herself insome vague retreat, which I gathered from the delicacy in mentioning itmust be the lavatory. “And there she stayed till her lady came home!”

I reached Little Furze just a few minutes before lunchtime. Joanna wasstanding in the drawing room window doing nothing at all and looking asthough her thoughts were miles away.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing particular.”

I went out on the veranda. Two chairs were drawn up to an iron tableand there were two empty sherry glasses. On another chair was an objectat which I looked with bewilderment for some time.

“What on earth is this?”

“Oh,” said Joanna, “I think it’s a photograph of a diseased spleen orsomething. Dr. Griffith seemed to think I’d be interested to see it.”

I looked at the photograph with some interest. Every man has his ownways of courting the female sex. I should not, myself, choose to do it withphotographs of spleens, diseased or otherwise. Still no doubt Joanna hadasked for it!

“It looks most unpleasant,” I said.

Joanna said it did, rather.

“How was Griffith?” I asked.

“He looked tired and very unhappy. I think he’s got something on hismind.”

“A spleen that won’t yield to treatment?”

“Don’t be silly. I mean something real.”

“I should say the man’s got you on his mind. I wish you’d lay off him,Joanna.”

“Oh, do shut up. I haven’t done anything.”

“Women always say that.”

Joanna whirled angrily out of the room.

The diseased spleen was beginning to curl up in the sun. I took it by onecorner and brought it into the drawing room. I had no affection for it my-self, but I presumed it was one of Griffith’s treasures.

I stooped down and pulled out a heavy book from the bottom shelf ofthe bookcase in order to press the photograph flat again between itsleaves. It was a ponderous volume of somebody’s sermons.

The book came open in my hand in rather a surprising way. In anotherminute I saw why. From the middle of it a number of pages had been neatlycut out.

 

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