is dead?’
‘Yes.’
A very sharp rock. ‘Yes.’
Somebody gasped. There was a faint stir all round the table.
Ronnie’s voice as he resumed his questions held a different note—an awed uneasy note.
‘You mean—that Captain Trevelyan is dead?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause. It was as though no one knew what to ask next, or how to take this unexpected development.
And in the pause, the table started rocking again.
Rhythmically and slowly, Ronnie spelled out the letters aloud…
M-U-R-D-E-R…
Mrs Willett gave a cry and took her hands off the table.
‘I won’t go on with this. It’s horrible. I don’t like it.’
Mr Duke’s voice rang out, resonant and clear. He was questioning the table.
‘Do you mean—that Captain Trevelyan has been murdered?’
The last word had hardly left his lips when the answer came. The table rocked so violently and assertively that it nearly fell over. One rock only.
‘Yes…’
‘Look here,’ said Ronnie. He took his hands from the table. ‘I call this a rotten joke.’ His voice trembled.
‘Turn up the lights,’ said Mr Rycroft.
Major Burnaby rose and did so. The sudden glare revealed a company of pale uneasy faces.
Everyone looked at each other. Somehow—nobody quite knew what to say.
‘All rot, of course,’ said Ronnie with an uneasy laugh.
‘Silly nonsense,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Nobody ought to—to make jokes like that.’
‘Not about people dying,’ said Violet. ‘It’s—oh! I don’t like it.’
‘I wasn’t shoving,’ said Ronnie, feeling unspoken criticism levelled at him. ‘I swear I wasn’t.’
‘I can say the same,’ said Mr Duke. ‘And you, Mr Rycroft?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Rycroft warmly.
‘You don’t think I’d make a joke of that kind, do you?’ growled Major Burnaby. ‘Rotten bad taste.’
‘Violet dear—’
‘I didn’t, Mother. Indeed, I didn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’
The girl was almost tearful.
Everyone was embarrassed. A sudden blight had come over the cheerful party.
Major Burnaby pushed back his chair, went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. He stood there looking out with his back to the room.
‘Twenty-five minutes past five,’ said Mr Rycroft glancing up at the clock. He compared it with his own watch and somehow everyone felt the action was significant in some way.
‘Let me see,’ said Mrs Willett with forced cheerfulness. ‘I think we’d better have cocktails. Will you ring the bell, Mr Garfield?’
Ronnie obeyed.
Ingredients for cocktails were brought and Ronnie was appointed mixer. The situation grew a little easier.
‘Well,’ said Ronnie, raising his glass. ‘Here’s how.’
The others responded—all but the silent figure by the window.
‘Major Burnaby. Here’s your cocktail.’
The Major roused himself with a start. He turned slowly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Willett. Not for me.’ He looked once more out into the night, then came slowly back to the group by the fire. ‘Many thanks for a very pleasant time. Good night.’
‘You’re not going?’
‘Afraid I must.’
‘Not so soon. And on a night like this.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Willett—but it’s got to be done. If there were only a telephone.’
‘A telephone?’
‘Yes—to tell you the truth—I’m—well. I’d like to be sure that Joe Trevelyan’s all right. Silly superstition and all that—but there it is. Naturally, I don’t believe in this tommy rot—but—’
‘But you can’t telephone from anywhere. There’s not such a thing in Sittaford.’
‘That’s just it. As I can’t telephone, I’ll have to go.’
‘Go—but you couldn’t get a car down that road! Elmer wouldn’t take his car out on such a night.’
Elmer was the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton.
‘No, no—car’s out of the question. My two legs will take me there, Mrs Willett.’
There was a chorus of protest.
‘Oh! Major Burnaby—it’s impossible. You said yourself it was going to snow.’
‘Not for an hour—perhaps longer. I’ll get there, never fear.’
‘Oh! you can’t. We can’t allow it.’
She was seriously disturbed and upset.
But argument and entreaty had no more effect on Major Burnaby than if he were a rock. He was an obstinate man. Once his mind was made up on any point, no power on earth could move him.
He had determined to walk to Exhampton and see for himself that all was well with his old friend, and he repeated that simple statement half a dozen times.
In the end they were brought to realize that he meant it. He wrapped himself up in his overcoat, lighted the hurricane lantern, and stepped out into the night.
‘I’ll just drop in to my place for a flask,’ he said cheerily, ‘and then push straight on. Trevelyan will put me up for the night when I get there. Ridiculous fuss, I know. Everything sure to be all right. Don’t worry, Mrs Willett. Snow or no snow—I’ll get there in a couple of hours. Good night.’
He strode away. The others returned to the fire.
Rycroft had looked up at the sky.
‘It is going to snow,’ he murmured to Mr
