“There is a most convenient little room through there with running water and a sink, and of course it saves a great deal of mess in the church. The Sunday School meets here, and we have a small lending library supervised by Mrs. Pomfret and Miss Blake. One of them, or of their helpers, makes a point of being on duty from six to half past on Wednesdays and Fridays, and for half an hour after the Sunday morning service. Now let me see who the helpers are. Miss Sims of course- she is Dr. Croft’s housekeeper. And I believe Mr. Random’s housekeeper from the Hall occasionally takes a hand.”

Frank looked about him. A row of uncurtained windows broke the varnished wall on either side. There were a number of rush-seated chairs, a singularly hideous yellow harmonium, and, at the far end, the shelves which housed the library. In the opposite corner to the harmonium there was a writing-table, and upon the writing-table a rather elderly-looking typewriter.

“The gift of Mr. Arnold Random. It was his brother’s, and he very kindly presented it to the Room after Mr. James Random’s death.”

“And who uses it, sir?”

Mr. Ball gave his genial smile.

“Oh, most of our helpers can type a little, I think. Not in a very professional manner, but sufficiently well to produce a legible notice, or texts for the children to learn at home-that kind of thing, you know.”

“Do you mind if I try my hand at it?”

“No, no-of course not.”

Frank sat down at the table, found a sheet of paper, slipped it into the machine, and began to type in a style which no doubt compared favourably with that of the helpers. What he typed was a copy of the note which had brought Clarice Dean to her death:

“All right, let’s have it out. I’ll be coming back late tonight. Meet me at the same place. Say half past nine. I can’t make it before that.”

He left it without signature, folded the sheet, and put it away in his pocket-book. After which he allowed the Vicar to show him round the church, where he duly admired the Crusader, one Hugo de la Tour, and some fine brasses. At his own request he was conducted to the grave of Christopher Hale-dismissed rather contemptuously by Mr. Ball as “really comparatively modern, but of some topical interest.”

When he had read Kezia’s verses and admired the accuracy with which Miss Silver had rendered them, he took his way back to the house and asked if he might have a word with her before leaving.

It was characteristic of her kind heart that she should reassure him as to Annie Jackson before making enquiries as to whether he had met with any success.

“She has had a nice cup of tea, and is now really quite recovered. It is always distressing to have to question someone who is in trouble, and I am sure you will be glad to know that she is not any the worse for the experience-” She paused, and then added, “physically.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“That she has something on her mind. She fainted because she was frightened. You asked her whether she had gone to meet her husband at the watersplash, and she was suddenly very much afraid-so much afraid that she fainted.”

“You think she did go to meet him?”

“I think she may have done so.”

“Do you think she pushed him in?”

“I think she may have seen the person who pushed him in. And if she did-”

“If she did?”

“She may be in danger herself, and she may know it.”

After a pause he said,

“Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go out alone after dark. Don’t let her go down to the splash. If she were found drowned there, it would be quite a plausible suicide. And now here’s one of the facts you were talking about. The note that brought Clarice Dean to meet the person who murdered her was typed on the machine in the Church Room.”

Miss Silver said,

“Dear me!” And then, “The Church Room?”

He nodded.

“In the odour of varnish and sanctity. Perhaps by one of the church helpers, or by anybody else in the parish capable of reaching the door key which hangs conveniently from a nail in the porch at about the height of the top of my ear. Everybody just helps himself and goes in and out upon his, or more probably her, parochial occasions. It might be Mrs. Pomfret, who is a well-to-do farmer’s wife, or Miss Sims, or Miss Blake, or Mrs. Jonathan Random who does the flowers, or the Vicar, or the Vicaress, or any other of the adult inhabitants of Greenings. Arnold Random may have slipped across to the Church Room and done it. Edward Random could have had the same bright idea. The only certainty is that the note was typed on that machine. The “e” is worn in exactly the same way as in the note, and the “m” is defective-looks as if someone had taken a chip out of it-possibly one of the Sunday School children. Well, there you are-we have achieved one fact at last, and it leaves the case as open as the sky.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

I really do not see why I should have to answer any more questions, Inspector Abbott.”

Miss Mildred Blake sat stiffly upright on an old-fashioned chair with a long straight back and a small unyielding seat. She was engaged in darning the right elbow of a very old black cardigan already converted into a kind of patchwork by a series of previous repairs. She held her needle poised as she spoke, and looked at Frank with severity.

Miss Ora was regarding him in quite a different manner. Personable young men were an agreeable change. There had been a time when she had attracted them, and though of course it would have been very inconvenient to have to keep house and look after children, she did sometimes regret that she had never been able to make up her mind between Cyril Jones and George Norton. She had liked Cyril the best, but he had got tired of waiting and married a horrid dark girl who played badminton. She frowned at the recollection, but she smiled upon Frank Abbott.

“It must be very tiresome for you having to go round asking a lot of questions which people don’t want to answer.”

Miss Mildred stabbed her darn with an angry needle.

“Really, Ora-I haven’t the slightest objection to answering any necessary question. But since Inspector Bury has already been here twice, once by himself, and once with this other Inspector, I fail to see-”

Frank’s cool gaze rested upon her. Now why all this heat? If she could have run the needle into him, it would have given her a good deal of pleasure. He said,

“I won’t keep you any longer than I can help. There is just a small matter which I hope you may be able to clear up.”

“I have already told you that I know very little about Miss Dean.”

“I realize that. But this has nothing to do with her. Mrs. Ball tells me that you were at a sewing-party in the Vicarage on Friday week.”

“Certainly. I am most regular in my attendance.”

“Mrs. Ball says that the party broke up soon after ten o’clock, but that you had left rather earlier as you wanted to have a word with Mr. Arnold Random, who was in the church playing the organ.”

“Yes. He always practises on Friday evenings.”

“You went over to the church to speak to him. I suppose you took the direct path from the Vicarage?”

“Of course.”

“When you reached the church, was he still playing?”

“No. He was beginning to put the music away.”

“He was alone?”

“Naturally. The organ has been supplied with electricity from the Hall-there is no need for a blower now. It used to be most inconvenient. Fanny Stubbs was the last one we had, and she was most unreliable.”

“I see. Then you are quite sure that Mr. Random was alone in the church?”

She gave him her hard black stare.

“Of course I am sure!”

“How long did you stay, Miss Blake?”

“A few minutes. Mr. Random was putting things away. Then he locked up and we went home.”