The Passing of Mr Quinn. Mark Aldridge

And as if noticing it for the first time, he crossed to the broken decanter and knelt beside the pool of wine on the carpet.

      There was a queer tension—a silence. Every one except Eleanor Appleby craned forward as if noticing it, too, for the first time. That tell-tale decanter quite obviously contained the key to the riddle of Professor Appleby’s death.

      ‘I imagine that the professor was taking his nightcap of port when he—er—collapsed,’ Derek Capel said in a voice that sounded ragged somehow.

      Inspector Brent slewed his head round to look at him, his face very keen.

      ‘The assumption being that he had some kind of fit, eh?’ he drawled, jerking erect. ‘Yes; that seems to fit the case.’ He took out his notebook, making entries and glancing at the professor, whose disordered hair and collar torn from the stud were eloquent of his death agonies; from the professor he looked repeatedly down at the broken decanter and the pool of wine that stained the carpet. Whatever his deductions may have been—and we can assume that Chief Inspector Brent was no fool—there was one in the room who was determined that he should not for a moment form a wrong impression as to how the decanter had been broken.

      Vera plucked at his sleeve. The flags of colour had mounted to her cheeks, and her bosom was heaving madly. Her voice had acquired a shrill breathlessness.

      ‘He didn’t drop it himself—the professor. It was she that done it’—her finger flung out like a taunt, pointing at Eleanor, who looked like a weeping goddess in the arm-chair. ‘Yes, she broke the decanter and spilt the wine,’ concluded Vera with intense malice.

      Chief Inspector Brent twirled his moustache and looked across at Professor Appleby’s wife. And a painful silence fell.

       CHAPTER III

      IT was broken by the arrival of Doctor Alec Portal—for Capel had rung him up immediately after concluding his message to the police station. Doctor Portal came into the study with his bag, which he immediately set down on the table. As he drew off his gloves he looked round upon the study and its occupants, but without saying a word.

      His brows were drawn, however, giving his face a hawk-like expression. He crossed over to the chair, and but a momentary examination of the dead man sufficed. He dropped a limp hand into Professor Appleby’s lap as he straightened himself.

      ‘There’s nothing we can do, of course,’ he said quietly as he looked over at Inspector Brent. ‘The cause of the death will have to be decided by post-mortem examination. His own doctor will attend to say whether he was subject to fits or not.’

      ‘Fits be hanged!’ exclaimed Inspector Brent in a quite unprofessional outburst. ‘He died when he was taking his drink before retiring. There appear to be strange circumstances in this case, and I am afraid I must detain the company present while I ask questions of each.’

      Chief Inspector Brent himself could not have explained what had jolted him out of his usual suave manner. But he almost glared at the doctor, who for his part confronted him with clean-cut face, very set, and eyes narrowed to shining slits. No doubt the atmosphere in the room was very tense—electric with excitement—and in such an atmosphere mental telepathy exercises its uncanny workings. Chief Inspector Brent had already decided that he had a line of investigation to follow, and it would entail a rather lengthy and no doubt painful interrogation of Eleanor Appleby.

      Doctor Alec Portal guessed all this. He knew what was in the Yard man’s thoughts, and he was aflame with anger. He happened to know more of the affairs of this strange house than did Inspector Brent—he knew, for instance, that Professor Appleby had been very, very near the borderline of insanity, and that he was just the man to kill himself. But murder! That was a terrible word to use in connection with the beautiful girl-wife who sat tortured in the chair.

      With her fair hair loose, and her dressing-gown scarce concealing her beautifully moulded figure under the frothy, lacy night-gown, she stirred his senses oddly even then.

      ‘I don’t think it would be wise to detain Mrs Appleby tonight,’ the doctor said stiffly. ‘As her medical adviser I have been in attendance upon her, and I know that she is in a considerably overwrought state. Tonight’s events may bring a climax unless she has rest. She can make a statement if she cares, but I must object to any form of Third Degree.’

      The distinguished Yard chief looked at him sharply and resentfully.

      ‘A very ill-considered remark, doctor,’ he said sternly. ‘You may, on reflection, care to withdraw it.’

      Doctor Portal bowed.

      ‘I withdraw and apologise,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Nevertheless this lady has been near to a nervous breakdown for some time, and I must beg of you to consider her feelings as much as possible. She has suffered a great deal.’