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Page 13
The room on the other side of the bedroom is a bathroom. The
three rooms together, in fact, form a sort of private suite;
used, perhaps, during the occupation of the previous owner, by
some invalid, who could not manage the stairs, but allowed by
Mark to fall into disuse, save for the living-room. At any rate,
he never slept downstairs.
Antony glanced at the bathroom, and then wandered into the
bedroom, the room into which Cayley had been. The window was
open, and he looked out at the well-kept grass beneath him, and
the peaceful stretch of park beyond; and he felt very sorry for
the owner of it all, who was now mixed up in so grim a business.
"Cayley thinks he did it," said Antony to himself. "That's
obvious. It explains why he wasted so much time banging on the
door. Why should he try to break a lock when it's so much easier
to break a window? Of course he might just have lost his head;
on the other hand, he might--well, he might have wanted to give
his cousin a chance of getting away. The same about the police,
and--oh, lots of things. Why, for instance, did we run all the
way round the house in order to get to the windows? Surely
there's a back way out through the hall. I must have a look
later on."
Antony, it will be observed, had by no means lost his head.
There was a step in the passage outside, and he turned round, to
see Cayley in the doorway. He remained looking at him for a
moment, asking himself a question. It was rather a curious
question. He was asking himself why the door was open.
Well, not exactly why the door was open; that could be explained
easily enough. But why had he expected the door to be shut? He
did not remember shutting it, but somehow he was surprised to see
it open now, to see Cayley through the doorway, just coming into
the room. Something working sub-consciously in his brain had
told him that it was surprising. Why?
He tucked the matter away in a corner of his mind for the moment;
the answer would come to him later on. He had a wonderfully
retentive mind. Everything which he saw or heard seemed to make
its corresponding impression somewhere in his brain; often
without his being conscious of it; and these photographic
impressions were always there ready for him when he wished to
develop them.
Cayley joined him at the window.
"I've telephoned," he said. "They're sending an inspector or
some one from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from
Stanton." He shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it now."
"How far away is Middleston?" It was the town for which Antony
had taken a ticket that morning--only six hours ago. How absurd
it seemed.
"About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon."
"Beverley, and the others?"
"Yes. I expect they'll want to go away at once."
"Much better that they should."
"Yes." Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, "You're
staying near here?"
"I'm at 'The George,' at Waldheim."
"If you're by yourself, I wish you'd put up here. You see," he
went on awkwardly, "you'll have to be here--for the--the inquest
and--and so on. If I may offer you my cousin's hospitality in
his--I mean if he doesn't--if he really has--"
Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.
"That's good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he's a friend of
yours. He's a good fellow."
Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had
hesitated to say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother
alive. It didn't follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer.
Revolvers go off accidentally; and when they have gone off,
people lose their heads and run away, fearing that their story
will not be believed. Nevertheless, when people run away,
whether innocently or guiltily, one can't help wondering which
way they went.
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