Mortimer nodded. ‘Someone wrote that on the table by my bed last night,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought perhaps you might have done so.’
She looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment.
‘I? Oh, no.’
He was wrong then. A sharp pang of disappointment shot through him. He had been so sure—so sure. It was not often that his intuitions led him astray.
‘You are quite certain?’ he persisted.
‘Oh, yes.’
They turned and went slowly together toward the house. Charlotte seemed preoccupied about something. She replied at random to the few observations he made. Suddenly she burst out in a low, hurried voice:
‘It—it’s odd your asking about those letters, S.O.S.; I didn’t write them, of course, but—I so easily might have done.’
He stopped and looked at her, and she went on quickly:
‘It sounds silly, I know, but I have been so frightened, so dreadfully frightened, and when you came in last night, it seemed like an—an answer to something.’
‘What are you frightened of?’ he asked quickly.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘I think—it’s the house. Ever since we came here it has been growing and growing. Everyone seems different somehow. Father, Mother, and Magdalen, they all seem different.’
Mortimer did not speak at once, and before he could do so, Charlotte went on again.
‘You know this house is supposed to be haunted?’
‘What?’ All his interest was quickened.
‘Yes, a man murdered his wife in it, oh, some years ago now. We only found out about it after we got here. Father says ghosts are all nonsense, but I—don’t know.’
Mortimer was thinking rapidly.
‘Tell me,’ he said in a businesslike tone, ‘was this murder committed in the room I had last night?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Charlotte.
‘I wonder now,’ said Mortimer half to himself, ‘yes, that may be it.’
Charlotte looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Miss Dinsmead,’ said Mortimer, gently, ‘have you ever had any reason to believe that you are mediumistic?’
She stared at him.
‘I think you know that you did write S.O.S. last night,’ he said quietly. ‘Oh! quite unconsciously, of course. A crime stains the atmosphere, so to speak. A sensitive mind such as yours might be acted upon in such a manner. You have been reproducing the sensations and impressions of the victim. Many years ago she may have written S.O.S. on that table, and you unconsciously reproduced her act last night.’
Charlotte’s face brightened.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘You think that is the explanation?’
A voice called her from the house, and she went in, leaving Mortimer to pace up and down the garden path. Was he satisfied with his own explanation? Did it cover the facts as he knew them? Did it account for the tension he had felt on entering the house last night?
Perhaps, and yet he still had the odd feeling that his sudden appearance had produced something very like consternation, he thought to himself:
‘I must not be carried away by the psychic explanation, it might account for Charlotte—but not for the others. My coming has upset them horribly, all except Johnnie. Whatever it is that’s the matter, Johnnie is out of it.’
He was quite sure of that, strange that he should be so positive, but there it was.
At that minute, Johnnie himself came out of the cottage and approached the guest.
‘Breakfast’s ready,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Will you come in?’
Mortimer noticed that the lad’s fingers were much stained. Johnnie felt his glance and laughed ruefully.
‘I’m always messing about with chemicals, you know,’ he said. ‘It makes Dad awfully wild sometimes. He wants me to go into building, but I want to do chemistry and research work.’
Mr Dinsmead appeared at the window ahead of them, broad, jovial, smiling, and at the sight of him all Mortimer’s distrust and antagonism re-awakened. Mrs Dinsmead was already seated at the table. She wished him ‘Good morning’ in her colourless voice, and he had again the impression that for some reason or other, she was afraid of him.
Magdalen came in last. She gave him a brief nod and took her seat opposite him.
‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Was your bed comfortable?’
She looked at him very earnestly, and when he replied courteously in the affirmative he noticed something very like a flicker of disappointment pass over her face. What had she expected him to say, he wondered?
He turned to his host.
‘This lad of yours is interested in chemistry, it seems!’ he said pleasantly.
There was a crash. Mrs Dinsmead had dropped her tea cup.
‘Now then, Maggie, now then,’ said her husband.
It seemed to Mortimer that there was admonition, warning, in his voice. He turned to his guest and spoke fluently of the advantages of the building trade, and of not letting young boys get above themselves.
After breakfast, he went out in the garden by himself, and smoked. The time was clearly at hand when he must leave the cottage. A night’s shelter was one thing, to prolong it was difficult without an excuse, and what possible excuse could he offer? And yet he was singularly loath to depart.
Turning the thing over and over in his mind, he took a path that led round the other side of the house. His shoes were soled with crepe rubber, and made little or no noise. He was passing the kitchen window, when he heard Dinsmead’s words from within, and the words attracted his attention immediately.
‘It’s a fair lump of money, it is.’
Mrs Dinsmead’s voice answered. It was too faint in tone for Mortimer to hear the words, but Dinsmead replied:
‘Nigh on £60,000, the lawyer said.’
Mortimer had no intention of eavesdropping, but he retraced his steps very thoughtfully. The mention of money seemed to crystallize the situation. Somewhere or other there was a question of £60,000—it made the thing clearer—and uglier.
Magdalen came out of the house, but her father’s voice called her almost immediately, and she went in again. Presently Dinsmead himself joined his guest.
‘Rare good morning,’ he said genially. ‘I hope your car will be none the worse.’
‘Wants to find out when I’m going,’ thought Mortimer to himself.
Aloud he thanked Mr Dinsmead once more for his timely hospitality.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said the other.
Magdalen and Charlotte came together out of the house, and strolled arm in arm to a rustic seat some little distance away. The dark head and the golden one made a pleasant contrast together, and on an impulse Mortimer said:
‘Your daughters are very unalike, Mr Dinsmead.’
The other who was just lighting his pipe gave a sharp jerk of the wrist, and dropped the match.
‘Do you think so?’ he asked. ‘Yes, well, I suppose they are.’
Mortimer had a flash of intuition.
‘But