“Was?”
“It still is,” interposed Thomson again, boldly trying once more to impress his negligible personality on the company. “We didn’t touch it. We left it there.”
“That was most surprisingly wise. I take it, you did not wish to destroy the murderer’s fingerprints?”
Jessie gave a little gasp. The cockney made his second contribution to the conversation.
“Wot’s the idea?” he demanded, frowning.
“Come, come! A bread-knife on the floor!” exclaimed Mr. Maltby, insisting on his cynical humour. “Would not that convict anybody?”
“Not unless you found the corpse,” replied Thomson, making an effort to keep up with him.
“Don’t disappoint me? Don’t tell me you cannot supply the corpse? A bread-knife on a floor, a boiling kettle, tea laid, an unlocked front door—and no corpse! Well, well, I suppose we must be satisfied, so let us be grateful and have tea. I am sure we all need it, and if the absent host manages to fight his way back through the snow and finds us making free with his larder and his crockery, I will deal with him. If he does not return, then we can leave behind us the price of the damage, and a note of gratitude. Eh? Personally, though you may not realise it, I am shivering.”
“Oh, you must be!” cried Jessie. “Do come near the fire! Yes, that’s a splendid idea, we’ll leave a note and pay for it, and then I should think it would be all right. I mean, if it were the other way round and this were our house, wouldn’t we think so?”
“I’m sure we would,” answered Lydia, jumping up. “Come on, let’s bring it here! It’s cosier than the drawing-room.”
The tight atmosphere suddenly loosened. A small table was found in a corner of the hall and was placed before the fire; the tea things were transplanted from the drawing-room; and under the influence of the warm, comforting liquid and bread-and-butter—some had been cut, and more was added, but not with the bread-knife—their predicament assumed a happier aspect. Lydia, with one eye on Jessie, who was pluckily recovering faster than nature intended, had decided that there must be no more talk of corpses and fingerprints, and she kept the conversation lively with a racy account of their journey through the snow.
“Of course, we were all perfect idiots,” she concluded, as she poured out second cups of tea, “and we’re in a funny mess, but in my opinion we’re luckier than we deserve, not excluding you, Mr. Maltby,” she added admonishingly, “and so I vote we make the best of it!”
“Aren’t we?” asked Jessie.
“We are,” nodded Lydia, “and we’re going on as we’ve begun! Nobody’s going to spoil my Christmas!”
“Hear, hear!” murmured Thomson.
Watching two attractive women out of the corner of his eye, and comparing them with his usual company at meals—and with the company he was going to—he had no present complaints. In fact, provided his nervous system could stand it—of that he was not quite sure, for his head was aching badly, but the tea and the fire gave him optimism—he believed he might welcome the eventual unearthing of a corpse, so that he could impress new stirring qualities upon these Venuses. “In any case,” he decided, with the deliberate daring of his fevered thoughts, “I’ll think of them to-night.” Yes, it should be a bigger aeroplane that crashed in his nocturnal fancies. An aeroplane for two. And a slightly larger cottage. Or what about a house-boat on the Broads? The aeroplane could crash near the house-boat, where he would have been spending a lonely holiday, studying birds, say, and he would bring them there, and give them his room, and sit heroically outside all night.... Atchoo!
“I say, you are getting a cold!” exclaimed Lydia. “What about another log? And adding twopence to the bill?”
David, squatting on a stool by the couch, carefully avoided Jessie’s bandaged foot as he bent forward and added a fresh log to the fire. The bandaged foot was a few inches from his nose. With the annoyance of an independent nature, he was trying hard not to notice it.
“What about your story, sir?” he asked Mr. Maltby. “We’ve not heard that. How did you find this place?”
“Yes, you left before we did, didn’t you?” said Jessie. “Do tell us what happened? We tried to catch you up, you know, but then the snow covered your footsteps; we really felt quite anxious about you!”
“Please don’t tell me yours was a search party!” exclaimed the old man, “and that I have led you into this?”
“Oh, no! We’d have gone anyway. Wouldn’t we?” She appealed to the others. “Don’t you remember, we were all talking about it. I think I was the one to start it, wasn’t it, or wasn’t I, I’ve forgotten? And then you suddenly jumped up as if you’d seen some one, and we thought we did for a moment, and we said perhaps it was Charles the First! Oh!” She turned to the cockney. “Was it you?”
“Me? No!” exclaimed the common man. “I wasn’t on that train!”
He spoke with startling vehemence. Mr. Maltby broke a short silence by remarking:
“I came upon our friend—upon Mr.——?”
He paused invitingly.
“Eh?” jerked the man.
“Some of us have exchanged names,” said the old man. “Mine is Maltby. May we know yours?”
“Why not? Smith.”
“Thank you. Now we shall know what to write on our Christmas cards. I came upon Mr. Smith just outside here. In fact, we almost fell into each others arms. I did think at first that he might be the person I saw leaving the train, but apparently I was wrong. How did you get caught in this terrible weather, Mr. Smith?”
“Well, it ain’t pertickerly interestin’,” replied the cockney.
“But we are interested,” insisted the old man.
“Well, I was jest walkin’,” said Smith.
“Yes.”
“From one place to another, and the snow come on, and I got caught, like yerselves.”
“Where were you walking to?”
“Eh?”
“We were trying to find another station,” said Jessie.
“That’s right, so was I,” answered Smith.
“Another?” murmured Mr. Maltby.
“Wotcher mean?” demanded Smith. “I can try and find a stashun if I want to, can’t I, without arskin’ nobody’s permishun——”
“I apologise,” interrupted Mr. Maltby. “I was merely wondering, since you weren’t on our train, why you should be searching for another station——”
“I never said another! She did!” He jerked his head towards Jessie.
“I apologise again. Which station were you looking for?”
“Eh?”
“I wonder whether it was the same as ours.”
“Wot was yours?”
“Hammersby,” said Jessie.
“That’s right, ’Ammersby,” nodded Smith.
The old man frowned slightly.
“Strictly speaking, Hemmersby,” he murmured.
The atmosphere was growing tight again. All at once Smith turned on Mr. Maltby and exclaimed:
“Well, now you’ve ’eard abart me, wot abart you? I told yer I ’adn’t nothin’ interestin’ to say, but p’raps you ’ave?”
“Yes,