my heart.’
Rosamund Grant had wandered across to the foot of the stairs. She drew a long, subtly-curving dagger from the strip of leather and laid it flat upon her palm.
‘The murderer has plenty of weapons to hand,’ she said lightly.
‘Put that beastly thing away, Rosamund,’ said Marjorie Wilde, with a note of very real terror in her voice; ‘they give me the horrors…all knives do. I can’t even endure watching people carve…ugh!’
Rankin laughed possessively.
‘I’m going to terrify you, Marjorie,’ he said. ‘I’m actually carrying a dagger in my overcoat pocket at this very moment.’
‘Are you, Charles? But why?’
It was the first time Nigel had heard Rosamund Grant speak to his cousin that evening. She stood there on the bottom step of the stairs looking like some modern priestess of an ancient cult.
‘It was sent me yesterday,’ said Rankin, ‘by a countryman of yours, Doctor Tokareff, whom I met in Switzerland last year. I did him rather a service—lugged him out of a crevasse where he had lingered long enough to sacrifice two of his fingers to frostbite—and he sent me this, as a thank-offering, I suppose. I brought it down to show you, Hubert…I thought Arthur might like to have a look at it, too. Our famous archaeologist, you know. Let me get it. I left my overcoat in the porch out there.’
‘Vassily, get Mr Rankin’s coat,’ said Sir Hubert.
‘I hope you don’t expect me to look at it,’ said Mrs Wilde. ‘I’m going to dress.’
She did not move, however, but only put her hand through her husband’s arm. He regarded her with a kind of gentle whimsicality which Nigel thought very charming.
‘It’s true, isn’t it, Arthur?’ she said. ‘I haven’t read one of your books because you will butter your pages with native horrors.’
‘Marjorie’s reaction to knives or pointed tools of any sort is not an uncommon one,’ said Wilde. ‘It probably conceals a rather interesting repression.’
‘Do you mean that privately she’s a blood-thirster?’ asked Angela, and everyone laughed.
‘Well, we shall see,’ said Rankin, taking his coat from Vassily and producing a long, carved silver case from one of the pockets.
Nigel, who was standing beside his cousin, heard a curiously thin, sibilant noise close behind him. He turned his head involuntarily. At his elbow stood the old servant transfixed, his eyes riveted on the sheath in Rankin’s hands. Instinctively Nigel glanced at Doctor Tokareff. He too, from the farther side of the cocktail tray, was looking, quite impassively, at the new dagger.
‘By Jove!’ murmured Sir Hubert quietly.
Rankin, gripping the silver sheath, slowly drew out an excessively thin, tapering blade. He held the dagger aloft. The blade, like a stalactite, gleamed blue in the firelight.
‘It is extremely sharp,’ said Rankin.
‘Arthur…don’t touch it!’ cried Marjorie Wilde.
But Arthur Wilde had already taken the dagger, and was examining it under a wall-bracket lamp.
‘This is quite interesting,’ he murmured. ‘Handesley, come and look.’
Sir Hubert joined him, and together they bent their heads over Rankin’s treasure.
‘Well?’ asked Rankin carelessly.
‘Well,’ returned Wilde, ‘your service to your friend, whoever he may have been, should have been of considerable value to have merited such a reward, my dear Charles. The dagger is a collector’s piece. It is of extreme antiquity. Handesley and Doctor Tokareff will correct me if I am mistaken.’
Sir Hubert was staring as if, by the very intensity of his gaze, he could see back through the long perspective of its history into the mind of the craftsman who had fashioned it.
‘You are right, Wilde. Of the very greatest antiquity. Obviously Mongolian. Ah, you beauty!’ he whispered.
He straightened his back, and Nigel thought that he made a supreme effort to wipe away from his face and his voice all the covetousness of the ardent collector.
‘Charles,’ he said lightly, ‘you have aroused my worst passion. How dare you!’
‘What does Doctor Tokareff say?’ asked Rosamund suddenly.
‘I should deferentiate,’ said the Russian, ‘to zis august learning of Sir H. Handesley…and additionally to Mr Ooilde. Nevertheless, I make a suggestion that to possess zis knife is not altogezzer enviable.’
Vassily stood motionless behind Nigel. Somehow the latter was aware of his vehement concentration. Could he understand the pedantic English of his countryman?
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mrs Wilde sharply.
Doctor Tokareff seemed to deliberate.
‘Certainly you have read,’ he began at last, ‘of Russian secret brotherhoods. In my country, for many ages so unhappy, there have always been sush brotherhoods. Offten very strange, with erotic performances and mutilations…not so pretty, you know. In reign of Pyotr the Great, very many indeed. English shilling shockers frequently make sush silly nonsense mention. Also journalists. Excuse me, please,’ to Nigel.
‘Not a bit,’ murmured Nigel.
‘Zis knife,’ continued Doctor Tokareff, ‘is sacred…how you say?…symbol of one society…very ancient. To make presentation…’ his voice rasped suddenly, ‘was not orthodox. Therefore to personage, however noble, outside of bratsvo or brotherhood, to have zis knife is unenviable.’
Vassily surprisingly uttered a short rumbling phrase in Russian.
‘This peasant agrees wis me,’ said Doctor Tokareff.
‘You may go, Vassily,’ said Sir Hubert.
‘Dressing-gong should have gone a long time ago,’ said Vassily, and hurried away.
‘Help!’ exclaimed Angela, ‘it’s eight o’clock! Dinner in half an hour! Hurry, everybody.’
‘Are we all in our usual rooms?’ asked Mrs Wilde.
‘Yes…oh, wait a minute…Mr Bathgate doesn’t know. Do show him, Arthur. He’s in the little Welsh room and will share your bath, my angel. Don’t be late, will you, or Uncle Hubert’s cook will give notice.’
‘Which heaven forbid!’ said Rankin fervently. ‘One more…a very little one…and I’m gone.’
He poured himself out a half portion of Vassily’s cocktail, and without consulting her filled Mrs Wilde’s glass again.
‘Charles, you’ll make me drunk,’ she announced. Why does a certain type of young woman think this remark unfailingly funny? ‘Don’t
