Ina’s eyes were fixed upon him-dark, hopeless eyes.

“Someone brought the scarf in after she was killed.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. I came in, and I went to bed and I went to sleep, and I didn’t know she’d been killed until the morning.”

She sat there in silence for a minute. There was a little more life in her voice when she said,

“Who shut the study door?”

He looked sulky.

“I left it open for her to come in that way.”

Ina said, “It was shut in the morning. And the scarf was hanging in the passage. How did it get there?”

“I don’t know.” His tone was impatient. “Stop thinking about it!”

“I can’t. It goes round and round in my head. The door into the other house was shut too. The bolts were fastened. Who fastened them?”

He said easily, “Oh, I did that. As soon as it was light I woke up, and I thought about the doors. I left them open for her to come through, and of course I thought she had, so I just went down and shut them.”

“You shut both the doors?”

“I’m telling you I did.”

She said, “The scarf-was it there when you bolted the door?”

“I don’t know-I didn’t notice. Don’t you understand? It was dark in the passage. It was only just getting light outside. I wasn’t thinking about scarves. I just wanted to bolt the door and get back to bed again.”

The fear which had been holding her in a cold, rigid grip relaxed. When she breathed her lungs opened to take in the air. She could draw it right down, instead of feeling that everything had gone stiff and tight.

The relief must have been gradual, but suddenly she was aware of it. She didn’t know just when or how she began to believe that it was not Cyril who had killed Helen Adrian, but she did believe it. The unendurable burden which she had carried since Friday morning was lifted. He wasn’t any of the things which she had once thought him. All the borrowed garments of romance had fallen away. He was mean, selfish, and lazy. He didn’t love her, and had probably never been faithful to her. He didn’t love anyone but Cyril Felton. He would sponge on her and on Marian, grumble at what they gave him, and come back for more. He was a blackmailer, and he wasn’t even ashamed of it. But he hadn’t killed Helen Adrian. She could see him quite clearly and know just how worthless he was, but the deep, dreadful shuddering at his presence was gone.

She leaned forward and said in almost a surprised tone,

“You didn’t kill her-”

Cyril threw up his head and laughed.

“Only just tumbled to that? Of course I didn’t, but I know who did.”

Chapter 33

Every moment of that long fine afternoon was to come under the microscope. Everyone in the two houses would be asked, “Where were you between the hours of three and five? Were you alone? Who was with you? How long were you together? If you were out, when did you return to the house?”

At three o’clock Cyril Felton was still talking to his wife. Eliza Cotton had stepped out into the garden to look for Mactavish, and the sound of their voices reached her from Ina Felton’s bedroom. The window was open, and she heard Cyril Felton say, “Don’t be a fool! It’s nothing.” And she heard Ina answer, “No, no, I won’t. It’s no use your wanting me to, because I won’t.” Eliza called out to Mactavish, and the voices stopped. She thought to herself, “Just as well they should know someone can hear them,” and after standing for a few minutes at the top of the steps going down to the next terrace and seeing no sign of Mactavish she went back into the house. Later she had a bath.

Felix and Penny were up on the cliffs. They had found a place where there was a wide grassy ledge sheltered from the wind. Felix lay full length on the grass, his forehead on his crossed arms, his face hidden. The sun was warm on his back. His mind was as nearly as possible blank. He had feelings, but not thoughts. He felt as a man feels who has had a long illness and knows that the tide has turned, and that he is going to get well. He felt as if he had had a feverish dream and was waking from it. Consciousness was swept clean. He felt the sun, and a light air that came and went.

The new grass smelt sweet where his arms were bruising it. The tide was going out. There was no sound from the sea. Helen Adrian was a long time ago-a long, long time ago. When he began to think again he would know that she was dead. He hadn’t begun to think-he only felt. He had no feelings about Helen Adrian.

Penny was sitting beside him. The wall of the cliff rose between six and ten feet at the back of their ledge, following a broken line. She sat leaning against the wall with her hands locked about her knees. Felix was so close to her that she would have touched him if she moved. But she didn’t move. She had sat like that, quite still, for nearly an hour, looking out over the sea and saying the kind of prayers which haven’t any words. The nearest that they came to it were the old familiar ones which have come down through so many generations. She would never be able to hear them again without feeling just this quivering ecstasy of the heart. “This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”

She did not speak, and Felix did not speak. The sun shone on them. The light air moved. The tide went down.

Miss Silver was in the study with the Chief Constable until a little before half past three, when he bade her an affectionate farewell and went home to participate in a tea-party arranged by his wife. At the time that she went through the hall with him and let him out there was no sound anywhere in all the house. She locked the front door after him and returned to the study. After which she may or may not have closed hçr eyes and drifted into a light nap. The room was warm, the sofa corner comfortable. It is certain that she was not knitting when Eliza came in with the tea-tray at a few minutes before five. Derek’s stocking, with only an inch or two to go, lay coiled on her lap with the needles sticking up brightly like pins on a pin-cushion. Miss Silver’s hands rested upon the grey wool. Miss Silver’s eyes were closed. It may have been only for the moment, because at the sound of Eliza’s voice they were immediately opened.

“Just on five o’clock, and those that don’t come back to tea will have to go without, so I’ll give a knock on Mrs. Felton’s door and see if I can’t get her to come down.”

“Is Miss Brand not in?”

Eliza opened her mouth to say, “No,” and shut it again, because at just that moment she saw Marian Brand crossing the lawn with Richard Cunningham beside her. The clock struck five as they came up the two shallow steps into the study.

Marian said, “I’m so dreadfully sorry we’re late. We’ve been down on the beach, and I went to sleep, and Richard went for a walk. And we found Mactavish catching sand-hoppers as we came up.”

Eliza said gloomily, “He does,” and went up to knock on Ina Felton’s door.

In the house on the other side of the wall a Sabbath afternoon quiet had set in with the departure of the Chief Constable and Inspector Crisp. Neither of the two dailies came on Sunday. Mrs. Woolley cooked a meal and left it ready, and they could have it cold, or they could heat it themselves. She didn’t mind working double time on Saturday morning, but she wasn’t working on Saturday afternoon nor Sunday, not to please anyone-they could do for themselves. It was a cause of deep resentment to Florence Brand, even though it was Penny who did the Sunday work. Cassy Remington helped occasionally-if you could call it helping to fidget to and fro and criticize what somebody else was doing. But Florence never put a hand to anything. By three o’clock on Sunday afternoon she had two cushions at her back and her feet up on a footstool in the sitting-room which she shared with her sister. There was always a book on her lap, but it was very seldom opened. It was always a very dull book. On this particular afternoon it was Some Chapters of my Life by A Wessex Parson. At five o’clock Mrs. Brand, the footstool, and the Wessex Parson occupied the same respective positions which they had done at three.