Читать книгу They See in Darkness - Ethel Lina White - Страница 5

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LESS than ten minutes afterwards, the body of the victim was discovered by the owner of one of the new bungalows. He acted promptly—using the Post Office telephone to ring up the Police—so the hunt was out without loss of time. As nearest the scene of the crime, the first place to be visited was the tobacconist's. It was merely a two-roomed lock-up erection of red brick, but its modesty was contradicted by an illuminated sign, advertising "AP-THOMAS & APPLEBY" in flaming red letters.

Not long before the police-constable entered, shouts of laughter floated through the open door, to mark the conclusion of a successful business deal on either side of the counter. The commercial traveller from whom Appleby bought his stock was paying his periodical visit which was always a social occasion. Business completed, it was up to the parties concerned to prove themselves good mixers by swapping dirty stories over drinks.

Although they were not alike, the same description would cover both Cherry's partner—Appleby—and the traveller—"Our Mr. Macturk." They were keen-eyed, tight-lipped and smartly dressed; their hair was growing thin in the same place and shone with setting-cream.

In spite of the bawdy atmosphere, Cherry Ap-Thomas—late Science mistress in a girls' college—more than held her own. Having contributed a biological limerick, she watched the effect of her smut with the scornful detachment of a spiteful woman who sets her chimney on fire to spoil her neighbour's wash.

Had Cherry been backed with social prestige, she might have been the local beauty, instead of Simone. Her colouring was more vivid and her figure better developed. Moreover her face was expressive of strong character, due partly from her slight frown of concentration—a legacy of her teaching years. She wore a tight black suit which enhanced the brilliance of her ginger hair and her hazel eyes. Her lips rarely betrayed her emotions since she chewed gum habitually, as a preventive to over-smoking.

The commercial traveller—who had heard the limerick before—gave a convincing imitation of a hearty laugh before he cut off the power.

"I've been hearing about old Key's will, to-day," he said, speaking to Cherry with assumed familiarity, to hide his respect. "I had no idea you were so well worth knowing. I'm going to cultivate you."

"Nothing doing there, Macturk," Appleby told him. "You'd find her all stone and precious little cherry."

Cherry chewed her gum to hide the bitter twist of her lips.

"Here's my story," she said. "I and my two cousins, Julian and Cassie, were all left orphans when we were very young. We committed the crime of being poor relations without any relations to sponge on. Good old Josiah Key was only related to us through his wife, but he stumped up for our education...After I'd met my partner in a newspaper, among the small 'ads'"—Cherry smiled at Appleby—"old Miss Key—Josiah's sister—had the blasted cheek to write me a letter of protest. She said I'd wasted her brother's money and gone to Bedford College on false pretences...Now, boys, does that explain the stone?"

"But is it true you have a share in his will?" persisted the traveller.

"Yes, with eight other legatees," replied Cherry. "The sister, Miss Key, has half; the other half is divided between the old boy's own relatives and his wife's family. That's the Thomas clan—Julian, Cassie and myself."

"How many Keys?"

"What's this?" Cherry's voice rasped. "Are you taking a census? For the record, there are four Keys. There are the twins—Gertrude and Gabriel. They live at Clock Cottage and Gertrude is very manly...Then there's Simone Mornington-Key and her step-brother, Dr. Shackleton Key. He's one of those handsome brutes, all shoulders and chin. Married with an infant son."

"That makes eight legatees," remarked the traveller.

"But we're nine. There's a Mrs. Aurelius, wife of a scientist. She used to live in Josiah's pocket. He was a tea-merchant in China and she appears to have been the sugar in his tea...Also for your information, we only draw interest on the capital, which averages three per cent. in trustee stock. So we are all waiting hopefully for some mysterious epidemic which can wipe out a family in one go. We—"

She broke off as a police-constable—heated from running—burst into the shop.

"Has any stranger been round?" he panted. "There's been a murder near here."

Cherry's natural colour faded under her rouge, but, after the fashion of Charlotte—who "went on cutting bread-and-butter"—she continued to chew her gum as she listened to the constable's news. She left the men to express their horror and to comment on the shocking nature of the crime. When at last she spoke, it was to ask a question.

"Have you any idea who did it?"

"We shall know soon," prophesied the man. "He can't have got far." He turned to Appleby and asked, "How long have you been here?"

"The best part of an hour," replied Appleby. "We've been checking up on stock with our traveller—Mr. Macturk."

"All three?"

"Yes."

"Hear a scream or any unusual sound?"

"Afraid we were making too much noise. We're all very good friends."

"Any customers?"

"Naturally." Like Cherry, Appleby knew his onions and never missed a chance to advertise. "I shouldn't think five minutes passes here without a customer. Miss Ap-Thomas attended to the counter. You didn't serve any stranger, did you, Miss Ap-Thomas?"

"No," replied Cherry, "they were all regulars. I'll write down their names and addresses, so that the Sergeant"—she promoted him, according to convention—"can check up on them."

Her steady hand was proof of good nerves as she scribbled rapidly but legibly on a slip.

"Cool customer," reflected the constable as he crossed to the inner door.

"Where does this lead to?" he asked.

"The living-room," explained Appleby. "It has a cooking-stove and wash-place and we also store stock there. No one sleeps on the premises. But if anyone was hiding there, we'd have seen him go through the shop."

"I'll have a look round," said the policeman.

After he had satisfied himself that no criminal was concealed on the premises, the constable gave Appleby a piece of advice.

"Anyone could get in through the window of the inner room. You want screws put in. This is a lonely place for a lady. Better be sure than sorry."

The commercial traveller waited until the policeman's footsteps were fading in the distance, before he winked at Cherry.

"If anyone could get in through that window, anyone could get out," he hinted. "But I don't believe in telling the police everything."

"Such as?" asked Cherry.

"Such as the chronic time you took washing your hands."

"Fool."

The contempt in Cherry's voice withered any further attempt at humour as she walked to the telephone.

"This is hot news," she said. "My cousin Julian might like to be first to circulate it. Makes him appear in the know."

"Keen on him?" asked her partner jealously.

"I should be, if he were not my first cousin. Actually I never knew him until I asked him to draw up our deed of partnership. He disappointed me when he charged me the same as a stranger but he was worth it. He thought up every dirty trick one partner can play another and then he guarded against it."

She dialled her cousin's number and spoke rapidly to the typist who took the call.

"Cherry Ap-Thomas here, Miss Davis. Tell Mr. Thomas I wish to speak to him urgently."

Covering the receiver with her hand, she turned round and spoke to the men with a bitter note in her voice.

"This reminds me of the poem we all learned in school. 'How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix.'"

Like Cherry, Julian Thomas, solicitor, concealed his feelings when he heard the news of the crime. He was careful to make only brief comments which could convey no information to his typist. She was working late to finish copying a contract and he knew that a hint of the tragedy would play havoc with her spelling.

In appearance, he resembled neither of his cousins. He was pale, thin and dark and spoke in a languid voice which conveyed a misleading impression of his character. In reality, he was both clever and ambitious, with an inflexible will concealed under his quiet manner.

He had taken some hard knocks when he dared to put up his plate in a town where practices descended from father to son. In a comparatively short time, however, he was respected as a professional rival, as well as being accepted socially. Recently he had become fairly friendly with the Keys since he did the legal work in connection with Josiah Key's will.

At the moment, he responded to the thrill which accompanies exclusive knowledge. Murder was almost unknown in Oldtown, except for an occasional fatal domestic fight which practically amounted to super-violent family-affairs. He was uncertain whether to broadcast it immediately or to keep it for someone whose interest he wished to hold.

"I'm going out, Miss Davis," he told his typist. "You needn't wait for me to come back. Put the contracts on my desk for me to sign and I'll post them myself."

His office was in the oldest part of the town—a twisting cobbled lane, too narrow for traffic. Its ancient tottering buildings were rat-riddled and the oaken doors white with age; but in spite of the prevailing odour of dry-rot, each displayed its professional brass plate—together with the date of its erection—to testify to the civic pride in Lawyers Lane.

When Julian reached the Square, the small crowd coming out of the cinema told him that the afternoon performance of "Mrs. Miniver" was just over. A gleam came into his eyes as he recognised Simone Mornington-Key, for he was conscious of her beauty. She was accompanied by her mother and her step-brother's wife, commonly known as "Mrs. Shackleton."

Mrs. Mornington-Key was the generous donor who had supplemented the "Key" title with her maiden name of "Mornington." She was a large, blonde lady—full-moon to Simone's crescent. As she adored her daughter, it was significant that Simone did not resent the fact that she concentrated her attention on her daughter-in-law by marriage.

Mrs. Shackleton was a testimony to the spirit of snobbery in a small traditional town. She had neither brains, beauty nor wealth, yet homage was paid to her because of her remote connection with an exalted family. In appearance, she had a flat, round rosy face and light-blue eyes. She wore a grey squirrel coat and—to give her her due—she looked clean.

Julian glanced at her critically before he gazed with admiration at Simone's delicately tinted face and the sweep of her darkened lashes.

"I haven't seen you for centuries, Julius," she said. "Come back with us for a drink."

Although he was pleased by the invitation, he noticed that she had not troubled to memorise his Christian name.

"Yes, do come," urged Mrs. Mornington-Key. "We're due for a bracer. We feel all emotional. We've been seeing 'Mrs. Miniver' again. Isn't Greer Garson enchanting?"

"She reminded me of Rosalie," said Simone, paying homage to her sister-in-law. "Not face exactly—but something. An impression, you know. I always catch those."

"How clever of you, Simone darling," cried her mother. "Now you point it out, I can see the hidden likeness. And don't you think Julian is rather like Walter Pidgeon?"

Impatient with such futility, Julian decided they could stand a shock of reality.

"There is not the slightest resemblance in either case," he said. "Sorry, Mrs. Shackleton, but I should never ask you for Greer Garson's autograph...Perhaps I'm not in the mood to be fanciful. I've just heard some heavy news."

After he had given it to them in one short sentence, he felt conscience-stricken by his brutality, as though he had dropped a high-explosive bomb to disperse a swarm of butterflies. All three women were horrified while even Mrs. Shackleton lost some of her colour. Again and yet again they appealed to Julian to agree that it was shocking, until by sheer repetition his voice began to sound insincere.

Presently Mrs. Mornington-Key worked back to her daughter-in-law.

"Rosalie looks ghastly. You must come in at once and have a spot of brandy, darling."

"No," declared Rosalie, "I must run in and see if Baby is safe."

"He'll be all right with Nanny," said Mrs. Mornington-Key. "I won't let you go back to the flat, Rosalie, until we know Shack is home."

Although Dr. Shackleton's practice was local, he shared a Harley Street address with four other doctors, and went up to London twice a week. They all walked to the corner of the Square where they could see the row of Victorian houses which had been converted into flats. Dr. Shackleton-Key lived in a large family-apartment, while Cherry Thomas rented a flat—let in the same building.

At the sight of the unlighted windows of the lounge, Mrs. Shack began to work up a minor sensation.

"Shack told me he'd be home early. I've never known him late before. With a murderer about too...Oh, I should simply hate being murdered. Such appalling publicity. They print everything—age and even your undies."

"Definitely melodramatic," agreed Simone vaguely.

Although Mrs. Mornington-Key renewed her invitation to Julian, he refused on the grounds that he was going to call on the twins.

"I want to talk business," he said.

"Oh yes, the will," agreed Simone briskly. "Good-bye, Julius."

"Good-bye, Silvia."

He walked away, smiling at the surprise in her beautiful eyes. At last, he had secured her attention, for she seemed startled that anyone could forget her name.

Clock Cottage was situated originally in a country lane. Although this had been absorbed by the town, there still remained stretches of stone wall, topped with hawthorn hedges, and a debased watercress-stream on one side of the road. The house had been built from three antique cottages welded into a charming residence—low, creeper-bound and washed a faint honey-yellow. The clock was present in the elaborate design of a time-piece, executed in carpet-bedding and taking up most of the right-hand patch of lawn.

On the other side of the flagged path were the flower-beds, the roses and the Kelway border which was still brilliant with dahlias and chrysanthemums. The grass was covered with the leaves of a copper-beech which had fallen since the morning and were revealed in the light which streamed through the open window. The curtains were undrawn, so as he walked up to the front door, Julian could see the leaping flames of a wood fire.

Suddenly a face appeared at the casement—a face with delicate features and large shadowed eyes, alluring in the shade of a black felt hat. For a startled moment, Julian thought it was Simone who smiled at him, until a bass voice betrayed the identity of her cousin, Gabriel Key.

"Trying on my sister's hat. She vows I look like Dietrich. Walk in, my dear fellow."

Julian strolled informally into the cottage with a pleasant thrill of achievement, for his new friendship with the Key twins was an instance of time's reward. In the sour days of his poor relationship, he had resented Gertrude bitterly, because of her loud "committee" voice and her overbearing manner. Both her appearance and her personality were alarming to a timid or sensitive person, for she was big and strongly-built with aggressive eyes. An instinctive leader, she presided at most social functions from a Dr. Barnardo tea to an American bridge tournament.

Her twin, Gabriel, was fair, pale, and looked delicate—a universal "younger brother," to be coddled by women and despised by men. Julian, however, did not make the common mistake of playing him too low. He had once run against him in the mile handicap, at some Bank Holiday sports, and he realised that his opponent was strongly-built, in spite of his slight figure and also endowed with staying-power. On that occasion, he forced the pace mercilessly but he kept the lead and won the race.

Pulling off the becoming hat, Gabriel went to meet Julian.

"Gertrude and I always say we should have changed sexes," he remarked. "As a man, I'm a calamity—a sort of cross between Greta Garbo and Donald Duck. I'm dreading the day when someone will hand me a white camellia."

"What are you kicking about?" asked his sister. "You're still a handsome man, even if you haven't hair on your chest, like Shack. I'm the one who's had a raw deal."

Her eyes were wistful as she kicked a log into position, sending a shower of sparks up the wide chimney. She stood in front of the fire, wearing a navy-blue masculine suit and smoking a cigarette with more energy than appreciation. Her hair was closely-cropped and her face red from exposure to all weathers.

"When we were kids," she told Julian, "our nannie used to dress us up in each other's clothes. Then she'd take us down to the drawing-room and say 'a young lady and gentleman have called to see you.' The visitors would gush over me and call me a little John Bull. I loved it then. Shows I didn't know much...Smoke?"

Julian accepted a cigarette as he looked around him with appreciative eyes. He liked the long low room, the comfort of its shabby chairs, the smell of leather mingled with the perfume from a bowl of violets. Every wall was lined with books and there was not a trivial selection among them. Julian wondered why Gabriel had not chosen a career of authorship, instead of working in an estate office, until Gabriel explained the library.

"All mine. Never read a line myself. Gertrude swots up the reviews and tells me what to buy. They're an investment. When I sell, they should be worth some money."

Julian looked at him with a strained smile.

"Remember the mile you won?" he asked inconsequently. "You forced the pace too soon. It was murder—not a race." Then his face grew grave. "Talking of murder," he said.

The twins' reaction to his news was less vocal than his first audience, but he noticed that Gertrude's hands shook when she fitted a fresh cigarette into her holder.

"Bad show," commented Gabriel.

"I'm afraid it was a shock to Simone," said Julian. "I met the family on my way here."

"And how is the lovely?" asked Gabriel. "Fragile and vague?"

"Not so vague," disagreed Gertrude. "She plays a game of bridge like a man. And not delicate either. She finishes fresher than I do after a round of golf in a wind." She added hastily, "What's the weather out? Gabriel and I have been mugging indoors since tea."

"Still fine," replied Julian, glancing at a couple of damp copper-beech leaves on the carpet.

He looked away quickly but Gertrude had also noticed them.

"Of course, I've been pottering in the garden," she said casually. "Gabriel didn't go to the office. Trying to nip a cold."

It seemed to Julian a pathetically clumsy effort to take the rap for her idolised twin, in case of suspicion. As she wore house-slippers while Gabriel's brogues were still caked with undried mud, he felt relieved when Gabriel debunked her pretence.

"That shows you the sort of pal she is, Thomas, 'To the gallows' foot—and after.' The poor girl is too näive to realise that she has given me away. She's let you know what she thinks me capable of doing in my spare time."

Julian tactfully led the laughter which he broke off, to become the grave family lawyer.

"I'd like to talk to you about certain details of Mr. Josiah Key's investments."

The twins listened keenly while he discussed finance in further proof that no member of the Key family was vague where money was concerned. Julian had neither to explain or repeat a point and they checked his figures mentally before they accepted them.

"Well, that's all," he said, rising and looking regretfully around the pleasant room. "I ought to see Mrs. Aurelius and your aunt. Perhaps I'll ring them up. There's work waiting for me in my office."

"Have you heard Mount Ida has another new companion?" asked Gabriel.

Knowing that Gabriel referred to the head of the family, Julian pulled down his mouth.

"I hardly know your aunt," he said. "She strikes me as rather plastic. In your own interests, I advise you to be on your guard against outside influence. Good-bye."

The news continued to travel on its way from the east to the west end of Oldtown. Not long afterwards, Julian rang up Mrs. Aurelius and gratefully accepted her offer to pass on his message to Miss Key.

Earlier in the evening, Miss Key had watched the departure of the black sisters' procession to the chapel, with a blend of repulsion and fascination. When she was a child, she had been scared of nuns and she had never overcome her irrational dread. From the safety of her library window, she felt the thrill of a terrifying spectacle as—one by one—the hideously grotesque shapes crossed the lighted main road and plunged down into the shadows of the river by-pass. It was also part of her evening ritual to count them, in the hope of attracting luck, should their number be odd.

Canton House—a solid grey-stone residence of late Victorian architecture—had been left to her by her brother Josiah. To ensure the privacy decreed by the period, trees had been planted thickly around the house. The gloomy outlook made Miss Key think of churchyard lights, the footstep on the stair, the whisper through the keyhole—all the old nursery tales of horror and fear. Veiled by the autumn mists, the ever-green shrubs in the garden took on the semblance of crouching forms. All contact with the outside world appeared to be cut, for it was only through the gap of the front gate that she could glimpse the road.

In appearance she looked more than a match for man or ghost. Her niece Gertrude was supposed to resemble her and it was not a hopeful prospect for a young woman. Tall and massive, she wore an iron-grey suit—cut on masculine lines, but with a skirt instead of trousers. Her powerful shoulders and muscular back suggested almost ruthless strength.

As she turned her head at the sound of a girl's voice, the illusion of strength vanished. Her face was a mere handful of small indefinite features, over which peered timid eyes.

"Seeing ghosts?" asked her companion, Fay Williams.

She crossed the room and stood beside her employer, when they presented a ridiculous contrast. Fay was short and thin, with a pale vivid face, a well-shaped head and short dark hair, skilfully cut to appear wind-swept. She wore a smoke-grey kilted skirt and a hand-knitted pullover to match.

As she too gazed out at the twilit garden, Miss Key felt her sinking courage gush up again. For the small girl was not only her companion—she was also her protector.

"I've been watching the black sisters," she said. "They took me back to my childhood. You have no idea of the ghastly tales my nurse told me. All about people being dead before they were dead."

"How did they manage that?" asked Fay curiously.

"Oh, finding death-tokens on them. I mustn't tell you of those, but there was a beetle that used to tick and a shroud which wound itself around the candle-wick."

Miss Key expected an indignant comment, but Fay only laughed heartlessly.

"What fun you had," she said enviously. "Now I was brought up on educational toys and Christopher Robin...Shall we light up?"

When the electric lights glowed and the heavy curtains of tangerine silk damask were drawn, Miss Key looked around her with the pride of ownership. Like an ugly person with a heart of gold, Canton House redeemed its discouraging exterior by interior virtues. It was solid, well-constructed and designed for comfort, as well as domestic convenience. The library was spacious and warmed with central-heating in addition to a coal fire. It was furnished as a lounge, with russet-brown leather divans and deep chairs.

Above the mantelpiece, in a massive gilt frame, hung an oil-painting of the late Josiah Key. Possibly the fact that he was connected with China made Fay imagine him with a pig-tail and tight satin trousers, sitting on a chest of tea. He had a fat benevolent face, a lemon-hued skin and little black eyes which seemed to twinkle as though he were enjoying a private joke. As Fay was looking up at him, Miss Key spoke in a satisfied voice.

"I counted seven nuns this evening, Felicia. That means I'll be lucky with Miss Milligan."

Fay would not admit superstition so she changed the subject.

"I love to be called 'Felicia'," she said. "People are always so funny over 'Fay,' asking me for three wishes and expecting me to laugh. It doesn't amuse me at all. Actually I'm a very serious person."

"I understand," confided Miss Key. "I always wish I'd been called 'Grace,' after Grace Darling. It's my ambition to save life."

She squared her shoulders and flung back her head, every inch a heroine. At that moment, she could have braved raging seas—or even nuns. Because, at that moment, the room glowed from lamps and fire; the witched garden was shut out by thick curtains; and, on the rug, was a small girl with a determined mouth.

Unfortunately she saw the smile which Fay failed to suppress. It made her writhe with secret shame. She tried to remind herself that she was a heavy taxpayer and a person of civic importance, in vain. In spite of her imposing front, she was the meekest soul, always expecting insult. She never went to a theatre or cinema because she dreaded angry looks from the patrons whom she overlapped; and she allowed tradespeople to overcharge her, rather than risk a scene.

Already Fay's common sense had a tonic effect on her flabby mental fibres and she wanted to gain her new companion's respect. When the girl remained silent, she tried to force her to an admission.

"Cook told me the gardener called me 'a fat, greedy old coward.' Really fantastic."

"Really insolent," said Fay severely. "You must discharge him."

"It made me laugh. Would—would you call me greedy?"

"Not greedy," replied Fay tactfully. "Perhaps you give the impression of someone who's gone short of food."

"How clever of you. I was half-starved at my finishing-school, although the fees were atrocious. They called it banting...Would you call me a coward?"

Fay hesitated because the question forced a situation. She and Miss Key were a case of two souls in the wrong bodies. Nature had given Miss Key the frame of an Amazon, allied with the heart of a mouse, while her small companion was animated with the spirit of a dictator.

Fay loved power and welcomed a conflict of wills. In her present situation, she soon realised that she could influence her employer and she resolved to exert pressure whenever she believed the results might justify it. Moreover she was sorry far anyone who had health, money and freedom from worries, yet whose days and nights were poisoned by fear. Inflamed with an urge for reformation, she decided to try and cure her employer of her cowardice.

"Why do you keep looking up at my brother?" asked Miss Key.

"I'm always waiting for him to smile," replied the girl. "He will, one day. He won't be able to keep it in much longer...By the way, you asked me something. Frankly you're a puzzle to me. I can understand a rabbit being frightened by a snake, because they are different orders. But it beats me why one human being should be frightened of another human being."

She spoke with youthful authority, ignorant of the fact that the human species has its rabbits and snakes.

"Wouldn't you be afraid if a man attacked you?" asked Miss Key.

"I'd put up such a fight, I'd be too angry to feel afraid. And that's why you are such a mystery to me. If you were ferocious, people would be scared of you. But you are always charming. You remind me of some force that doesn't know its own strength. Like an elephant that meekly lets itself be led by a pigmy."

Fay stopped, dismayed by Miss Key's scarlet face. She realised that she had overstepped the mark with her tactless allusions to proportions. Looking at the clock, she spoke hurriedly.

"Mrs. Aurelius is late. Why does she come in every evening?"

"To keep me company," replied Miss Key.

"But you don't want company now I am here."

Miss Key's small, dark eyes began to twinkle, revealing a resemblance to her brother.

"Perhaps it's habit," she said. "She used to come over every evening and sit with my brother. She was younger then and very attractive. I don't suppose he objected to her visits...Oh, oh...Dear heart, what's that?"

She covered her mouth with one hand to suppress a scream, as she pointed, with the other, towards the conservatory which was built on to the library. Through the greened glass, a white face seemed to hover in space. Fay's heart hammered with excitement as she watched the spectral effect with challenging eyes. Then the door burst open and Mrs. Aurelius rushed into the library.

She was tall and very thin, with brilliant blue-green eyes and a vivid applied carmine flush. Her long black hair waved over her shoulders, after the fashion of Juliet. In spite of hollow cheeks and a suggestion of physical and mental wreckage, there were times when she possessed an odd compelling beauty; at other times, she looked as though she had just tumbled out of bed after a hangover. She wore a glamorous gown of peacock-blue and gold tissue which suggested footlights.

Taking no notice of Fay, she seized Miss Key's hands.

"I've run all the way," she said in a low throbbing voice. "I've brought you news. You have inherited money."

Miss Key's eyes sparkled as she turned to Fay.

"Seven nuns," she gloated. "I told you I was going to be lucky." Then she turned to Lilith Aurelius. "You said 'inherited.' Who is dead?"

"Someone you hardly know. It's Miss Cassie Thomas. The one in the Post Office."

"Dear, dear, poor soul." Miss Key clicked conventional concern. "Was it sudden?"

"Very sudden. She was murdered."

Lilith secured her effect, for Miss Key turned white and dropped heavily into a chair. With a dramatic gesture, Mrs. Aurelius pointed to the portrait of Josiah Key.

"The first of the legatees has dropped out," she said.

As Lilith spoke, Fay had a vision of a game of musical chairs. Dim forms ran around in a frantic circle—scrambling, pushing, fighting—while a lemon-skinned spectator smiled in appreciation of the human comedy. Chair after chair was withdrawn inexorably by an unseen hand, and one by one, the players were forced to drop out.

At the finish, two players would be left—but only one chair.

A gasp from Mrs. Aurelius made Fay turn round, to see Miss Key slumped back in her chair, in a faint...

The good news had been brought from Ghent to Aix.