Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.
"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.
No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.
He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.
But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.
He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.
"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.
Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.
The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.
"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."
He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.
The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.
Mr. Amberley turned. "Evening, Sergeant," he said.
The sergeant abandoned his severity. "Well, Mr. Amberley, sir!" he said. "I haven't seen you down in these parts, not for six months. I hope I see you well, sir? Anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Amberley. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a dead man on the Pittingly Road."
The constable, who had gone back to his place by the desk, gasped at this, but the sergeant took it in good part.
"You will have your joke, sir," he said indulgently.
"Yes," said Mr. Amberley. "But this isn't my joke. You'd better send someone along. I'm at Greythorne when you want me."
The smile faded. "You're not serious, sir?" said the sergeant.
"Perfectly. Sober, too. A man in an Austin Seven, shot through the chest. Very messy."
"Murder!" said the sergeant. "Good Lord! Here, sir, just a moment! Where did you say you found him?"
Mr. Amberley returned to the desk and demanded a sheet of paper. Supplied with this he drew a rough diagram. "Where that accursed place Pittingly is I don't know, but the car is approximately at this point, about a mile from the turning into this town. I stopped to ask the way to Greythorne and found the fellow was dead. Probably murdered. I'd come with you, but I'm an hour late for dinner already."
"That's all right, sir. You'll be at Greythorne for a day or two, I take it? There'll be an inquest - but I don't have to tell you that. Get on to Carchester, Wilkins. You didn't happen to notice anything particular, did you, sir? Didn't pass anyone on the road?"
"No. It's pretty foggy, though. The man wasn't cold when I touched him, if that's any use to you. Good night."
"Good night, sir, and thank you."
The constable held out the telephone receiver, and while the sergeant reported to headquarters he stood rubbing his chin and staring at the door which had swung to behind Mr. Amberley. As the sergeant hung up the receiver he said blankly: "Well, he's a cool customer and no mistake."
"That's Mr. Frank Amberley, Sir Humphrey's nephew," said the sergeant. "He's a very clever young man, that's what he is."
"Walks in here as bold as brass talking about dead men on the road like as if they was as common as dandelions," said the disapproving constable.
"So they are to him," replied the sergeant severely. "If you ever read the papers, my lad, you'd know all about him. He's a barrister. Going a long way, he is, by all accounts."
"Well, he can't go too far for me," said the constable. "I don't like him, Sergeant, and that's a fact."
"You send Harper in to me and stop mooning around the place," commanded the sergeant. "There's plenty don't like Mr. Amberley, but that isn't going to bother him."
Meanwhile Frank Amberley's car had shot off in the direction of the High Street. From Upper Nettlefold he had no doubt of his way and he reached Greythorne, a substantial stone house standing in grounds that ran down to the river Nettle, in little more than ten minutes.
He was met in the hall by his cousin, a mischievous damsel of eighteen, who demanded to know what had happened to him.
He pulled off his coat and cast Miss Matthews a withering glance. "Your short way," he said scathingly.
Felicity giggled. "You are an ass, Frank. Did you get lost?"
"Very." He turned as his aunt came out into the hall. "Sorry, Aunt Marion. Not my fault. Am I too late for dinner?"
Lady Matthews embraced him and said vaguely: "Dear Frank! Dreadfully late, and a cheese souffle! Darling, tell somebody about Frank. Oh, here is Jenkins! Jenkins, Mr. Amberley has arrived."
She smiled charmingly upon her nephew and drifted away again towards the drawing room. Amberley grinned and called after her: "Aunt Marion, need I change?"
"Change, dear boy? No, of course not. You haven't lost your luggage, have you?"
"No, but it's past nine."
"Dreadful, my dear. We were afraid of an accident."
Felicity tugged at her cousin's sleeve. "Frank, you couldn't have got lost for a whole hour! Own up! You started late!"
"You're a little beast, Felicity. Let me go, I must have a wash."
He came downstairs again five minutes later and was escorted by Felicity to the dining room. While he ate she sat with her elbows on the table, propping her chin in her hands.
"The ball," she announced, "is on Wednesday." Frank groaned. "Did you bring a fancy dress?" Felicity said anxiously.
"I did."
"What is it?" demanded Felicity, agog with female interest.
"Mephistopheles. Suits my style of beauty."
She was doubtful. "I don't really mind about that," she informed him. "You see, I'm going as a Powder-Puff, and you won't suit my style at all."
"God forbid. A Powder-Puff! Look here, what is this ball about, and why, and where?"
Her brown eyes opened to their widest extent. "Good Lord, didn't Mummy tell you in her letter?"
He laughed. "Aunt Marion's letters are exactly like her conversation - the important bits left out."
"Well, it's at Norton Manor. Joan's engaged."
"Joan?"
"You know! Joan Fountain. You must have met her here."
"Fair girl with eyes? Who's the man?"
"Oh, rather an angel. His name's Corkran. He's got pots of money, I believe. Anyway they're engaged, and the ball is sort of in honour of it."
"Half a minute. What's this chap's Christian name?"
"Corkran? Tony. Why?"
Frank raised his brows. "Old Corks! I thought it must be. He was at school with me."
"How delightful for him!" said Miss Matthews politely.
At that moment the door opened and a tall, thin man with white hair came in. Frank got up. "Evening, Uncle."
Sir Humphrey shook hands. "Well, Frank? I've only just heard that you'd arrived. What kept you?"
"Felicity, sir. She told me a short way from town. It wasn't."
"So the great Mr. Amberley got lost! The mighty are fallen, Frank."
"Fraid so, sir."
"The whole truth is, he didn't start in time," said Felicity indignantly. "And it's no use saying you were busy, Frank, because I know quite well you're - what is it barristers get into in the summer, Daddy? Recess, or something. I say, Daddy, he says he knows Joan's young man."
Sir Humphrey, observing that his nephew had come to the end of his repast, pushed the port decanter towards him. "Indeed? A singularly brainless young man, one would be led to infer, but I believe of excellent family. These fancy-dress festivities, I understood, are to celebrate the engagement. Felicity is very friendly with Miss Fountain."
It was apparent to Mr. Amberley that the friendship did not meet with Sir Humphrey's whole-hearted approval. He searched his brain for data concerning the Fountains and found it void.
Felicity was called away to the telephone. Frank cracked and peeled a nut. "That wasn't entirely true."
"What was not entirely true?" inquired Sir Humphrey, refilling his glass.
"Oh - my losing my way. I did, but not for an hour. I stumbled on a murder."
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Sir Humphrey, feeling for his pince-nez. He fixed them on his bony nose and regarded his nephew in great astonishment. "Who's been murdered?"
"I've no idea. Middle-aged man respectably dressed. Couldn't place him. Might have been a tradesman. Something like that. He was in an Austin Seven on the Pittingly Road."
"Tut, tut, tut!" said Sir Humphrey, much perturbed. "Shocking! Shocking! No doubt a case of these road bandits."
"It might have been," replied his nephew noncommittally.
"Better say nothing to your aunt and cousin," recommended Sir Humphrey. "Dear me, how very unpleasant! Murders at our very gates! I do not know what the world is coming to."
He was still tut-tutting when they presently joined Lady Matthews in the drawing room, and when his wife inquired mildly what had happened to disturb him his disclaimers were so earnest that she at once turned to Frank and told him that he had better make a clean breast of it.
Having a more correct opinion of his aunt's nerves than Sir Humphrey had, Frank made no bones about it.
"Horrid happenings, Aunt. I've been finding dc;id bodies. One, to be precise."
Lady Matthews displayed no particular alarm. "Good gracious, Frank; not here, I trust?"
"No, on the Pittingly Road. Someone's been murdered. Uncle thinks probably by bandits."
"Dear me!" said his aunt. "So mediaeval. On the Pittingly Road too. Such an improbable place to choose. My dear, did they give you anything to eat?"
"Yes, thanks; excellent dinner."
Sir Humphrey, always a Perfect Husband, patted his wife's hand soothingly. "You must not allow this to worry you, Marion."
"No, my dear, why should I? Very disagreeable for poor Frank though. I hope we haven't got a gang of desperate criminals near us. Terrible if one's own chauffeur turned out to be the leader of a sinister organisation."
"Ludlow?" said Sir Humphrey, taken aback. "My love, we have had Ludlow in our employment for over ten years! What in the world makes you suppose that he can have anything to do with this shocking affair?"
"I'm sure he hasn't," replied his wife. "I find that nothing of that nature ever really happens to one. But in this book' - she dived her hand among the sofa-cushions and produced a novel in a lurid jacket - "it was the chauffeur. So unnerving."
Sir Humphrey put on his pince-nez again and took the book. "The Stalking Death," he read. "My dear, surely this doesn't entertain you?"
"Not very much," she admitted. "The nice man turned out to be a villain after all. I think that's so unfair when one had become quite fond of him. Frank, did I tell you to bring a fancy dress?"
"You did, Aunt. Who are these Fountains? New?"
"Oh no, not new. Surely you remember old Mr. Fountain? Though why you should I can't imagine, for he went nowhere. He's dead."
"Is that why he went nowhere?" inquired Frank.
"Not at all, dear. How should I know his movements now? How long has jasper Fountain been dead, Humphrey?"
Two years, or rather longer if my memory serves me."
"I expect it does. I never liked the man but at least one never saw very much of him, and Felicity did not insist on becoming intimate with that girl - not that I have anything against her. Far from it; I am sure she is charming, but I always disliked Basil and I daresay I always shall. How is your mother, dear boy?"
"All right, and sent her love. Don't side-track, Aunt. Who is Basil and why don't you like him?"
Lady Matthews looked up at him with her gentle smile. "Don't you find, Frank, that one never knows why one dislikes a person?"
Mr. Amberley considered this gravely. "I think I usually do know," he pronounced at length.
"Ah, so masculine," murmured his aunt helplessly. "I can't explain."
Sir Humphrey, who had retired into the evening paper, emerged to say: "My dear Marion, don't make a mystery out of Fountain. There's nothing wrong with the fellow at all. I can't say I care very much for him, but I am possibly old-fashioned - dear me, Felicity, pray shut that door! There's a direct draught."
Felicity obeyed. "Sorry. That was Joan. She's had a ghoulish day. Whatever do you think, Mummy? Her fancy dress had come, and there was a bill with it, and Basil saw it and kicked up a frightful row, and said he wouldn't pay. Anyone'd think he was going bankrupt. Jean says he's always groaning about money, which is too absurd when he must be rolling."
Sir Humphrey looked over the top of his glasses. "You should not encourage your friend to talk disloyally about her brother, Felicity," he said.
"He's only a "step"," Felicity said impenitently. "And pretty moth-eaten at that. However, Joan's managed to smooth him down over the frock. I expect he's comforting himself with the thought that he won't have to support her at all much longer."
"Do you mean to tell me that you've been all this time telephoning to one person?" interrupted Frank. "Yes, of course. Why not? I say, by the way, Joan says she tried to make Basil be Mephistopheles, because of her and Tony being Marguerite and Faust, only he wouldn't. Rather fortunate. I told her I was bringing one who really looks the part. She was thrilled."
"Do you mind elucidating this mystery?" said Frank. "It's beginning to get on my nerves. Who is Basil?"
Joan's step-brother, idiot."
"I had gathered that. Is he the present owner of the manor?"
"Yes, of course. He inherited everything when old Mr. Fountain popped off."
Sir Humphrey again looked up, mildly pained. "Died, my dear."
"All right, Daddy. Died. He was Mr. Fountain's nephew, and as Mr. Fountain hadn't got any children of his own, he was the heir. Quite simple."
"Oh yes, jasper Fountain had children of his own," interposed her mother. "That is to say, one. He died about three years ago. I remember seeing the notice in The Times."
Felicity was faintly surprised. "I never heard of any son. Are you sure, Mummy?"
"Perfectly, darling. He was an extremely unsatisfactory young man and went to South America."
"Africa, my dear," corrected Sir Humphrey from behind the paper.
"Was it, Humphrey? Very much the same thing, I feel. There was a very unpleasant scandal. Something to do with cards. But the young man drank, which probably accounted for his erratic habits. His father would never have anything more to do with him. I don't know what became of him, except that he died."
"That finishes him off, then," said Frank. "Does the objectionable Basil have - er - erratic habits?"
"Not that I am aware of, my dear."
Sir Humphrey laid down the paper. "Nowadays the papers contain nothing but sensational descriptions of most unpleasant crimes," he said severely. "Do you young people feel like bridge?"
Upon the following day Felicity, having shopping to do for her mother in Upper Nettlefold, decreed that Frank should accompany her. His suggestion that the expedition might be conducted by car was sternly contradicted. Wolf, said Felicity, must be taken for a walk.
Wolf was Felicity's Alsatian. When fetched from the stables he evinced his satisfaction by bounding round his mistress and barking madly for the first hundred yards of their walk. Exercising him was not, as Frank knew from experience, all joy, as he was not in the least amenable to discipline, had to be caught and held at the approach of any motor vehicle, and had a habit of plunging unadvisedly into quarrels with others of the canine race.
The narrow main street of the town was, as usual upon a weekday, crowded with cars whose owners had parked them there while they shopped. Wolf exchanged objurgations with an Airedale seated in a large touringcar and Felicity, her attention attracted towards the car, announced that it belonged to Tony Corkran. At that moment a slim, fair-haired girl in tweeds came out of the confectioner's with a young man at her heels.
"There is —Joan!" Felicity said and darted across the street.
Frank followed, basely deserting Wolf, who had obvious designs on a butcher's shop.
Felicity turned as he came up. "Oh, Frank, whatever do you think? Joan says their butler's been murdered! By the way, this is my cousin, Frank Amberley, Joan. He says he knows you, Mr. Corkran. I say, how thrilling about Dawson, though! How did it happen? Frightfully ghastly, of course," she added, as an afterthought.
"Your butler?" Frank said, released from Mr. Corkran's hearty handshake. "Oh!"
"Beastly, isn't it?" said Anthony, a young man of engaging ingenuousness. "What I mean to say is - one moment the fellow's murmuring, "Will you take hock, sir?" and the next he's been bumped off. Bad business, what?" He regarded his erstwhile school-friend with the respect due to Higher Beings. "Of course, I know these little contretemps are everyday matters to you brainy johnnies at the Bar. Still - not nice, you know. Definitely a bad show."
"Definitely," Frank agreed. He was frowning slightly. His cousin accused him of lack of proper interest. "No. By no means," he said. "I'm quite unusually interested. How did it happen, Miss Fountain?"
The fair girl said shyly: "Well, we don't know very much yet. It was Dawson's half-day and he seems to have gone off in the Baby Austin. Basil keeps it for the servants because the manor's such a way from the town and there aren't any buses near us. We didn't know a thing about it till a policeman turned up late last night and told Basil they'd found a man dead on the Pittingly Road, and he'd been identified as Dawson. He'd been shot. It's rather awful. Because he'd been at the manor for simply ages, and I can't imagine anyone wanting to shoot him. Basil's dreadfully upset about it."
"An old retainer, in fact?"
"Oh, rather!" said Anthony. "Stately old fossil. Frightfully keen on the done thing. Pretty grim."
Joan gave a little shiver. "It's horrid. I - I hate it having happened. I mean - Dawson wasn't our retainer, really, because we took him on with Collins when Uncle Jasper died, but all the same it's a beastly thing to happen, and it makes it seem pretty heartless to go on with the dance on Wednesday."
"Yes, but my dear old soul, we can't sit and gloom about the place forever," objected her betrothed. "I don't mind telling you that Brother Basil's getting on my nerves already. After all - a poor show, and all that sort of thing, but it's not as though it was his best friend, or what not."
"Darling, it's not that," said Joan patiently. "I keep on trying to explain to you what Basil feels about dead things. He can't bear them. You will insist on thinking he's a callous sort of he-man just because he looks the part, and he isn't. It's one of the things I like about him."
"But dash it all," expostulated Anthony, "he shoots and hunts, doesn't he?"
"Yes, but he doesn't like being in at the death, and I bet you've never seen him pick up the birds that have been shot. Don't say anything about it, because he'd hate anyone to know. He wouldn't even bury Jenny's puppies for me. Wouldn't touch them."
"Well, anyway, I think all this mourning's a bit overdone," said Corkran.
Joan was silent, she looked troubled. Felicity had begun to say: "It isn't particularly enlivening to have one's butler shot…' when she was interrupted by a disturbance in the middle of the road. "Oh, good Lord! Wolf!" she cried.
Wolf, emerging from the butcher's shop, had encountered a bull-terrier. Mutual dislike had straightway sprung up between them, and after the briefest preliminaries battle was joined. As Felicity spoke a girl ran forward and tried to catch the bull-terrier. Mr. Amberley joined the fray and grabbed Wolf by the scruff of his neck. The girl's hands grasped the bull-terrier round the throat. "Hold your dog!" she panted. "I'll have to choke Bill. It's the only way."
Mr. Amberley glanced quickly up at her, but her face was bent over the dogs.
The bull-terrier had acquired a satisfactory grip on Wolf's throat, but his mistress ruthlessly squeezed his windpipe and he had to let go. Mr. Amberley swung Wolf back and held him.
The girl clipped a leash on the bull-terrier's collar and at last looked up. "It was your dog's fault," she began and broke off, staring in a startled way at Mr. Amberley and growing rather pale.
"It usually is," said Frank coolly. "But I don't think your dog's hurt."
Her eyes fell. "No," she said and would have moved away had not Felicity come up.
"I say,. I'm most awfully sorry!" Felicity said. "I ought to have had him on the lead. I do hope he hasn't hurt your dog?"
The other girl smiled rather scornfully. "Rather the other way round, I should say."
Felicity was surveying her with friendly interest. "Aren't you the girl that's living at Ivy Cottage?" she inquired.
"My brother and I have taken it furnished."
"Are you going to stay long? You are Shirley Brown, aren't you? I'm Felicity Matthews. This is my cousin, Frank Amberley."
Miss Brown bowed slightly, but she did not look at Mr. Amberley.
"I rather wanted to get to know you," persevered Felicity. "I'm awfully glad we got ourselves introduced. There are practically no young people in this benighted place. Do you know Miss Fountain?"
The girl shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I don't go out much. My - my brother is rather an invalid."
"Oh, bad luck!" sympathised Felicity. Joan, this is Miss Brown, who is living at Ivy Cottage."
"May I suggest," interposed Frank, "that you are obstructing the traffic?"
Felicity became aware of an indignant motorist who was violently sounding his hooter. She drew the rather unwilling Miss Brown on to the pavement. "Have you heard the news?" she asked. "The Fountains' butler has been murdered! Isn't it awful?"
"No, I hadn't heard. Are you sure he was murdered?"
"He was shot through the chest, you see," said Mr. Amberley gently. "Seated at the wheel of an Austin Seven."
"I see," Shirley said.
Mr. Corkran was puzzled. "Yes, he was. But how the devil did you know all that?"
"I found him," said Mr. Amberley.
He created a sensation; only the dark girl at his side betrayed neither surprise nor incredulity. There was something rather tense in the way she held herself, but her eyes, travelling from Joan's shocked face to Felicity's eager one, were indifferent to the point of boredom.
"I thought," said Mr. Amberley, interrupting the fire of questions, "that you might as well know now as later."
"Oh, did you?" said Felicity witheringly. "Go on, tell us how it happened!"
He threw her a mocking glance. "I'm reserving my evidence for the inquest, loved one."
Shirley Brown stiffened slightly. She said, as though jesting: "The whole truth and nothing but the truth, in fact."
" I see you know all about the procedure," said Mr. Amberley.
She gave him back look for look, but said nothing. The two dogs, who had been snarling softly all the time, created a diversion by attempting to lunge suddenly at each other's throats. Shirley twisted the bull-terrier's leash round her hand and stepped back. "I mustn't wait any longer," she said. "I have some shopping to do. Goodbye."
Joan watched her walk away down the street. "What a queer sort of a girl!" she remarked.
"Oh, I don't know! Rather nice, I thought," said Felicity. "Look here, we can't stand here for ever. I've got to go to Thompson's and Crewett's. Come with me? Frank, for God's sake hold on to Wolf. I shan't be more than five minutes."
Left to their own devices the two men began to stroll down the street together.
"I say, Amberley, there's something damned odd about this murder," Anthony said.
"Well, don't tell it to the whole of the town," recommended the rudest man in London.
"Yes, but joking apart, you know, why should anyone want to take a pot-shot at a butler? Respectable old blighter, been at the manor umpteen years. The thing just isn't done. I mean, I could think of a lot of people who might get shot - gangsters, and cabinet ministers, and all. that push — but not butlers. After all, why shoot a butler? Where's the point?"
"I've no idea," said Frank discouragingly.
"There isn't one," Anthony declared. "That's what makes the thing look so fishy. I'll tell you what,
Amberley; it's all very fine to read about mysteries, but in real life - no. Cut 'em right out."
"I will."
"Yes," said Anthony, suddenly gloomy. "But if you were staying at the manor you wouldn't be able to. The whole place is stiff with mystery."
"Oh?" said Frank. "Why?"
"Damned if I know. There isn't anything you could put your finger on, so to speak, but it's there all right. For one thing there's Brother Basil." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Between ourselves, he's a bit of a dud. I've got no time for him at all. Bit awkward as things are. If it weren't for Joan I don't mind telling you you wouldn't catch me staying at Norton Manor."
"Because of its mystery or because of its host?"
"Bit of both. Mind you, I don't say there's anything wrong with the house. It's the people in it. Like a lot of cats snooping round in the dark. Look here, don't repeat this, but it's an absolute fact that you can't do a darned thing but what you get the feeling that you are being watched. It's getting a bit on my nerves."
"Are you being watched?"
"I don't know. Shouldn't be surprised. Brother Basil's got a valet who's always popping up out of nowhere. Another one of the leftovers from the old regime. Now if he'd been murdered I shouldn't complain. Nasty piece of work, I think, and so does Joan, but Brother Basil likes the fellow."
"What, by the way, is wrong with Brother Basil?" asked Frank.
"Wrong with him? Oh, I see what you mean. I don't know: sort of fellow who drinks his bath water. Damned bad-tempered - I don't mind telling you Joan has a pretty thin time of it with him. Full of spurious joie de vivre, don't you know? One of these hearty blokes. Calls you old boy and slaps you on the back."
Frank jerked his thumb downwards in a certain Roman gesture.
"Quite," agreed Mr. Corkran. "I knew you'd feel the same about it. There's another thing too…'
What this might be was not divulged, for at that moment the two girls joined them. Joan Fountain, who had finished her shopping, was ready to go home. As she shook hands with Amberley she said: "Felicity has promised to come over after dinner. I do hope you'll come too."
"Thanks, I should like to," Amberley said, somewhat to his cousin's surprise.
When Joan and Corkran had driven off, Felicity said that she hoped her cousin didn't mind having to go to the manor. "I practically had to accept," she explained. "Apparently things are pretty dire since the murder. Basil's got nerves or something, but Joan says he's always better when there are visitors. Do you mind awfully?"
"Not awfully," Frank replied.
Felicity glanced shrewdly up at his profile. "I believe you wanted to go."
"I did," said Mr. Amberley.