WHO KILLED CHARMIAN KARSLAKE? (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
pearls must have been worth ten times the amount, to say nothing of Mrs. Richard's diamonds. But these were put into the safe. I offered to take care of the sapphire, but Miss Karslake laughingly told me she wore it day and night."
The inspector nodded. "Any money missing, Sir Arthur? Any valuables from anyone else in the house?"
"Nothing at all, as far as we can ascertain."
The inspector rose. "I'm very much obliged to you, Sir Arthur. Now, if you please, we will have a look at the scene of the crime and then I shall be glad to have a few minutes' conversation with the different members of the house-party."
"The—the body has been moved, inspector, to the private chapel on the north side of the house. It was removed after Superintendent Bower had made his examination."
The inspector's lips tightened. "H'm! that's a pity. Still, possibly it was unavoidable under the circumstances. I should like to have a word with your butler, Sir Arthur."
"Brook? Oh, certainly. He shall take you up to the room." Sir Arthur opened the door as he spoke. "Ah, there you are, Brook. Take these gentlemen up to Miss Karslake's room."
"Yes, Sir Arthur."
The butler was a man of middle age. Ordinarily no doubt as impassive as most of his kind, today he was shaken out of his usual calm. His face had a mottled, unhealthy appearance. As he turned to precede them Stoddart saw that his eyes looked frightened, that his hands were shaking. He led the way upstairs and down a passage immediately opposite. At the first door they came to a policeman was stationed, and as he moved aside at a word from Stoddart they saw that the door had been broken open.
The inspector stepped softly over to the bed. Harbord followed. He looked at it for a moment, then he glanced at the inspector.
"She was not killed here, sir. Not on this bed, I mean."
"No, the assassin must have moved her." Stoddart pointed to a rug before the fire-place. "She was standing over there, I think."
Harbord turned his attention to the place indicated. The rug had evidently been kicked aside. On the polished floor beyond there were evident traces of bloodstains.
The inspector took a tiny pill-box from his pocket and shook it over the blood. After a minute or two he picked it up and signalled to Harbord, who was leaning over the window-sill, microscope in hand.
He looked round. "No one got out of this window!"
"No," said the inspector slowly. "No, I'm afraid they did not."
Chapter III
"Well, you may say what you like about the police methods of this country, but I do believe in the States we should have laid our hands on the murderer before now."
Mrs. Richard Penn-Moreton was the speaker. She, her sister-in-law and hostess, and the latter's great friend, Paula Galbraith, were in the morning-room.
Like all the rooms at the Abbey it was rather small, the walls were thick, the windows high up and many paned, with the lead casing and the old grey bottleglass that the Penn-Moretons prided themselves on replacing.
The present Lady Moreton had a sense of the fitness of things. The old stone walls were untouched, un-desecrated by modern prints or photographs. Some fine old carving surmounted the high mantelpiece, wonderful Gobelin tapestry hung opposite. The oak floor was polished by the elbow grease of centuries. Eastern prayer-rugs took the place of carpets. There were two or three big arm-chairs; and a luxuriously padded chesterfield stood before the fire-place. For the rest, the chairs, like the various occasional tables that stood about, were of oak. A great brass bowl of Parma violets was under the window, and a big bunch of sweet-smelling roses near the open fire-place, in which a bright fire burned, though the night fell hot and airless.
Lady Moreton was sitting huddled up in one corner of the chesterfield. Usually a bright, sparkling little brunette, tonight all her colour had faded—even her lips were pale—there were deep, blue lines under her eyes. She glanced up at her sister-in-law.
"I don't know what they would do in your country, I am sure, Sadie," she said wearily. "But, before you blame our police for not discovering the murderer, you must make sure a murder has been committed. I don't believe anybody would hurt Charmian Karslake. Why should they? I believe that gun went off by accident."
"Don't talk such nonsense," Mrs. Richard reproved.
She was a typical-looking American: slim, smart, with a wonderfully tinted skin, bright, restless eyes, elaborately dressed hair, and a frock that was the latest fashion from Paris. It was extremely short, extremely skimpy. Her long, thin legs, in their silk stockings, were crossed as she leaned back against the high wooden mantelpiece, and her little feet in the suede shoes were tapping restlessly on the floor, their elaborate buckles twinkling as they moved.
"What gun?" she went on in her high-pitched voice. "If she had been playing about with one it would have been found there on the ground or in her hand. Besides, who locked the door and took the key away?"
"Was the door locked and the key taken away?" Lady Moreton inquired.
"I should just about think the door was locked and the key taken away," Mrs. Richard mimicked. "Really, you British are the limit. Now, in the States, we should be just frantic. Hurrying up the police in every way we knew and going mad until the right man was in the Tombs. And you—you just sit on that chesterfield, and stare up at me—'was the door locked and the key taken away?' you say. I declare I could shake you."
"It would not do any good if you did," said Lady Moreton, listlessly. "Oh, it is all horrible!" She shivered from head to foot. "I wish I had never asked her here."
"Yes. That is just the sort of thing you would wish," Mrs. Richard observed. "But it doesn't help matters much. I dare say Charmian Karslake would have been shot anyhow. I have no doubt that the criminal followed her down from town, and just came and mixed with your guests till he saw his opportunity and then concealed himself till the lights were out, and then went up and shot her. Ugh! Ugh! What do you make of it, Miss Galbraith?"
Thus directly appealed to, the third member, Paula Galbraith, turned from the window against which she had been leaning.
She was a tall, slim girl, with a pretty, shingled head, with hair of the hue her friends called golden, her enemies, of which pretty Paula had few, sandy. Her skin was of the clear, pure white that goes with the hair, and with a faint rose-flush in her cheeks that flickered deeper and fainter as she talked.
As she glanced at Mrs. Richard a momentary look of fear flashed into her blue eyes, which did not escape the astute young American.
"I don't know at all," she hesitated. "I have never been mixed up in anything of the kind before, and I don't understand—"
"Bless my life! We have none of us ever been mixed up in a murder before," Mrs. Richard said impatiently. "But that doesn't prevent us using our wits now we have encountered one. What puzzles me, is that nobody seems to have heard the shot. Dick and I were pretty near, but not a sound reached us. Reached me—I should say—for Dick's dressing-room is on the other side, farther away from Miss Karslake's than mine. For that matter, I must have been one of the last people that saw Charmian alive.
"My door was open, and I was looking out for Dicky when she went by. 'Good night! Miss Karslake. Some dance, wasn't it?' I said, and she called back, ''Yes, wasn't it? They do these things better here than we can in the States.' 'I say, I want to look at your mascot,' I said. 'Why?' She just laughed and held it out to me. 'Oh, I wish to see if it tells me anything of your future,' I said, and took the chain into my hand and looked right into the sapphire ball. I have what you people over here call 'psychic powers,' and I have seen some queer things in these balls."
She stopped and helped herself to a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece and lighted it very deliberately.
"Go