The Skeleton in the Clock

Author:John Dickson Carr [Carr, John Dickson]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: W. Morrow
Published: 1948-03-14T18:30:00+00:00

"No."

"Got any idea who it was?"

"No. What's more, I’ll swear my side of the roof was empty!" Then Martin flung this aside.

"Never mind the roof," he said. "What about the alarm-bell? I heard it ring as I went over. What happened?"

"Lord love a duck, didn't old Sophie tell you?"

"No! Either she was cantankerous, or she thought it wouldn't be a good thing to tell me. Is Stannard all right? I'll never forgive myself if anything happened to Stannard. Where's Stannard?"

"Stannard?" echoed H.M., in a huge puff of astonishment "Oh, my son! Stannard's as right as right as rain. Though," H.M. added in a curious tone, "he did get a bit of a shock. Something like you, only in a different way."

"Then if he . .. what did happen?"

HM. looked at the wine-coloured carpet; teetered bulkily back and forth on his heels; hesitated, as though he could not quite place what he meant to say in the scheme of things; and looked up again.

"Murder," he answered.

And, at the same moment the front door knocker began to rap sharply.

Chapter 14

To the sleek room, in tone dull-red and white and dark gold, these dim lamps lent at once an intimacy and a kind of religious hush. In a far corner stood a grand piano, with Sir George Fleet's framed photograph on its dull-gleaming top.

The questions which rushed from Martin—"Who was murdered? Where in the prison? When?"—were shushed by a particularly meaning look from H.M. Martin sank down into a deep sofa, feeling the pain-throbs above his eyes. All of them beard the nonchalant maid, Phyllis, saunter through the hall to open the front door.

"It's the cops again, m’lady," rose the bored voice of Phyllis from outside.

The cops, on this occasion, were represented only by Chief Inspector Masters. Masters, holding a brown cardboard file in his left hand as well as the brief-case in his right, coughed with discomfort at the door of the drawing-room. His bowler hat was held under his arm.

Aunt Cicely responded automatically. Though clearly still frightened and shocked, it was apparent she had resigned herself to the belief that somebody, somehow, would take care of this matter. In white, with flowing sleeves, vivid against a Burgundy carpet, she turned to the newcomer.

"Mr. Masters! It was so kind of you to come’

"Well, all—" said Masters, completely off balance by this reception of a police officer, "I'm not here, on official business, as you might say. I just wanted to pick up Sir Henry."

"Do please make yourselves at home!" urged Aunt Cicely, with such sincerity that even Masters believed it "I shall have to run along to bed now, but do make yourselves comfortable. Have you got the Ovaltine, Phyllis? That's a good girl! And I must have someone to talk to before I. . Phyllis! Where is Lady Brayle?"

"Gone home, mlady. Long ago."

Aunt Cicely fretted. "Then I wonder . . . Mr. Masters! Is Ricky over at the Dragon?"

"Not there now, Lady Fleet It's been closed for half an hour."

"Then I suppose," Aunt Cicely said, "he must be with Susan Harwood.

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