“You’re making your rounds early, Inspector,” Mrs. Coggins said, stepping aside for Bull to enter.
“You know about the early bird, Mrs. Coggins,” Bull replied. He hoped he looked less washed-out than he felt.
“And there’s many a truth spoke in jest.” Mrs. Coggins looked with some meaning at him.
“That’s right, Mrs. Coggins.” Then Bull added without changing his tone, “Peskett was shot to death last night.”
She stared stupidly at him.
“Peskett?” she said slowly. “Shot to death! Mother of God preserve us!”
She crossed herself hurriedly, then went quickly to the window.
“Is that what those men are busy about out there?” she asked hoarsely. “I thought they’d come because he’d killed the master, God forgive me!”
Bull shook his head.
“He didn’t kill your master,” he said gentry.
“He knew about it,” Mrs. Coggins said. She turned quickly away from the window with a shudder, and Bull knew why.
“Only last night at supper it was, Inspector, that he was as cocky as you please, and I said to him, ‘Young man, there’s many a fool thinks he’s a wise man.’ ”
“What did he say?”
“He said nothing at all. He looked at me queer.”
“Who is last to bed in this house, Mrs. Coggins?”
“Usually the mistress.”
“Does she lock up?”
“She sees to the front of the house. I do the back.”
“Why didn’t you lock the kitchen door last night?”
Mrs. Coggins paled.
“I did, sir,” she said.
“Who unlocked it, then?”
“Nobody. Not that I know of.”
“It was locked when you came down this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Think again, Mrs. Coggins,” Bull said soberly. “A man’s been murdered out there, in cold blood. Shot through the head. Somebody did it. I’m not saying who it was, because I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Now, tell me again. Did you lock the door last night?”
Mrs. Coggins nodded. “Yes, I did,” she said.
“But it was not locked this morning—just now—when you came down.”
She shook her head weakly.
“How did you know, Inspector?”
“When you let me in just now,” Bull explained patiently, “you had to turn the key twice. You locked the door the first time, instead of unlocking it. You had to unlock it then. Do you know who was in the kitchen last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was in the house?”
“The mistress, Miss Agatha, me, and the parlour maid. Lucy is her name.”
“Where are they now?”
“The mistress and Miss Agatha don’t get up till nine. That wretched girl should have been down here half an hour ago.”
Bull glanced at the little kitchen clock.
“It’s eight now,” he said. “Wake Mrs. Colton and Miss Agatha Colton and tell them what’s happened. Tell them I want to speak to them as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Coggins looked intently at him.
“Inspector!” she said. “They didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s not right, there’s nobody to protect them!”
“I only want to talk with them,” Bull said patiently. “As soon as possible.”
The old woman went out. Bull took the opportunity to make a hasty inspection of the room. He looked in a dozen drawers, and opened the cupboards. When Mrs. Coggins came back he was just where she had left him.
“The mistress will be down in five minutes,” she reported. “Poor lamb, it’s the first night’s sleep she’s got in a long time. Sleeping like a baby she was. I had to fair shake her to wake her up. Miss Agatha’s coming too. Both of ’em, fast sound asleep.
“The mistress says to go to the library,”
she added. She ushered Bull through the pantry, dining room and hall and threw open the library doors.
“Thank you, Mrs. Coggins.”
Bull glanced around the room, taking in its details as a matter of habit while he was thinking intently of other things. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Colton appeared. She was surprising also, Bull thought, in looking much better than when he had seen her last. Her hazel eyes were brighter, her cheeks fuller. And as always, Bull was a little surprised that she wore no jewels of any sort. That she naturally would not be wearing jewels in the morning did not occur to Bull.
She came forward quickly.
“Mrs. Coggins says that Peskett has been shot,” she said almost in a whisper. “Is it true?”
“Yes,” Bull said.
She closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth trembled. Bull thought she was going to cry.
“It’s terrible,” she said.
There was a sound in the hall. Bull glanced from the bent, ashen-gold head of Mrs. Colton to her step-daughter. Agatha Colton ignored her stepmother entirely.
“What’s this about Peskett?” she said quickly. “Mrs. Coggins says he’s dead.”
“He was shot this morning, Miss Colton.”
Her lithe figure stiffened.
“You don’t mean here? Not in our garage?”
“Yes. In the room above the garage. He was shot with a revolver, at close range.”
Bull looked from one to the other.
“He was going to sail for America next week,” Agatha said after a silence. “Poor fellow.”
“Did either of you hear a shot?” Bull asked.
They glanced at each other. Each shook her head.
“Agatha’s room is on the other side of the house, Inspector Bull. She couldn’t possibly.”
“And you?”
“No. I heard nothing. I went to bed early, about half past ten. I was very tired. I’ve not slept much the last two weeks, until last night.”
“I slept like a rock,” Agatha said abruptly. “I always wake up at six. This morning I slept until I was called. My mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage.”
Bull looked at her in surprise.
“Can’t we have a cup of tea here, Louise? I’m most frightfully loggy.”
“Surely. Ring, will you please?”
Bull kept to the subject in hand.
“Mrs. Colton,” he said clumsily, “do you mind if I search your house?”
She looked at him in amazement.
“What for?” she said blankly.
Bull hesitated. He decided it was better to have it out at once.
“I’ve no warrant, Mrs. Colton,” he said gravely. “But this morning sometime before five o’clock one of my men (how Pinkerton would be pleased, Bull thought) saw a light in your kitchen—a flash from a hand torch. The kitchen door was unlocked when Coggins let me in. If there was someone in your house he might be concealed here now. Because, Mrs. Colton, no one has left—as far as we know. Now as I haven’t a search warrant, it’s up to you.”
Miss Colton intervened sharply.
“I’d get in touch with Field, Louise. You don’t know where this may lead.”
Mrs. Colton smiled wearily.
“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “You may search the house, Inspector. Shall I go with you?”
“I’d like both of you to go with me.”
Miss Colton laughed.
“There’s nobody in my room and here’s my tea. I’ll drink it first, if you don’t mind. Do you mind, furthermore, if I pick up a few of my things before you go in my room?”
“I’d rather not,” Bull said placidly. “I shan’t disturb anything.”
She shrugged her slim shoulders as she poured the tea.
“Louise?”
“Not now. I’ll go with Inspector Bull.”
In Mrs. Colton’s sitting room Inspector Bull glanced out of the open window. He saw his men around the garage, and turned to Mrs. Colton.
“Were your windows open last night?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“You didn’t hear a shot?”
“Nothing. I slept very soundly.”
Bull glanced about the room. He wished he had asked Mrs. Colton to stay downstairs. He was about to ask her to go back to her step-daughter, when, glancing into the mirror of her dressing-table, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Colton’s face. There was an expression of fear in it; and her eyes were riveted on something. She was looking towards the fireplace. Bull looked casually towards it He could see nothing. The fireplace was perfectly normal. There was a low table by it. On the table was a vase with flowers, and a book.
He glanced away. When he looked at Mrs. Colton she was calmly waiting, her long white hands folded patiently in front of her. Bull had seen something he wanted here; but for appearances he stepped to the wardrobe and opened it He closed it again.
“That’s all here, Mrs. Colton. Miss Colton’s room, please.”
She led him down the hall to the other side of the house. Agatha Colton’s room was a picture of disorder. Filmy garments were flung hastily over chairs; shoes and a hat had been deposited helter-skelter on the chaise longue.
Bull glanced tentatively at Mrs. Colton. She smiled.
“Quite all right,” she said. “Agatha never hangs things up. Yesterday was Amy’s afternoon off.—I wonder if you’d excuse me a moment?”
“Surely. Why don’t you go down and have a cup of tea? I’ll only be here a minute—then I’d like to see the other upstairs rooms.”
“Thank you!” Mrs. Colton said. “I do need it.”
She smiled gratefully at him and went quickly out of the room.
Bull thought a moment, then went quickly to work. He did not have to be very careful. Disorder reigned; he could add nothing to it. He went quickly through the drawers of the dressing table, through the painted boxes of stockings, gloves, lace collars, and cuffs. He looked in her jewel case, which was unlocked and which contained several pieces of jewelry of good quality. He looked in the drawers of the wardrobe, filled with shoes. At last he came to the little make-up table between the windows looking over the garden next door. He opened the lid. In plain sight, dusted with powder, lay the bolt from Oliver Peskett’s door; beside it was a small screw-driver, of the kind supplied at Woolworth’s. Bull looked at them a minute, then wrapped them together in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket. He closed the top of the poudriére.
He turned just in time to see Miss Colton come in the room.
“Powdering your nose, Inspector?” she asked, smiling with charming impudence.
Bull looked at her gravely.
“Where did you get this, Miss Colton?” he asked. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the bolt and screw-driver.
The smile on her face faded. She looked steadily at them.
“I’ve never seen them, Inspector Bull,” she said quietly.
“They were in your powder table, Miss Colton.” He looked at her with mild interest.
“Then you must have put them there,” she said. Her black eyes snapped. “What else have you found in my room?”
“Nothing yet. Will you think it over and tell me how this came here?”
The black eyes flashed.
“I can tell you now, Inspector Bull, that I don’t know. I’ve never seen either of them before. I’m not a carpenter.”
“How did they get here, Miss Colton?”
“I said you probably put them there,” she said quickly.
“I assure you I didn’t. This bolt, by the way, was taken from Peskett’s door last night. It’s part of a lock he’d put on it. The person who took it off is probably the person who murdered him.”
She looked steadily at him.
“Do you think I did it, Inspector Bull?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know who did it, Miss Colton. May I ask you not to say anything about it—not to anybody?”
“Of course. Oh, it’s too terrible. . . .”
“Thank you. Not anybody—do you understand? Not even to Michael Royce.”
She smiled suddenly.
“Now one thing more please. Will you see if Mrs. Colton is in her room?”
Agatha Colton looked at him. Then she went quickly down the corridor, tapped gently at Mrs. Colton’s door, waited a moment, then opened the door gently. She waved to Bull.
“She must be downstairs.”
Bull nodded and went into the room.
He went directly over to the fireplace. The fireplace seemed the same. On the table was the vase filled with flowers, and a book. Inspector Bull grunted happily. The book was red, with a stamped gold title on the spine; but the book that had been there before was red with a printed black title. Bull looked hastily up and down the book shelf at the other side of the fireplace. On a low shelf, half concealed by a chintz-covered chair arm, he spotted the book. He took it out. Inside was a cheque, from Martha Royce to Louise Colton, for £ 500.