Free Rolling Stone by Patricia Wentworth Page A

one of the green linen chairs, but the canvas, very neatly cut, was missing, and a glance at the other side of the room showed how it had gone. A pane had been removed from the window on the right of the long glass door—quite professionally and noiselessly taken out by sticking a piece of treacled paper over the glass before breaking it. The sticky mess encrusted with splinters lay there upon the pearl-coloured carpet.
    It was Barnes, the efficient butler, who insisted that no one should touch it, or in fact come near the window at all—“in case of finger-marks and footprints.” There were no visible footprints, but then, of course, it had been a dry night.
    Terry Clive, coming down next, found two groups of people all staring at a broken window, with an open lane between them. She saw at once that the picture was gone, and ran to Emily, who allowed herself to be supported to a chair. Terry was very fond of Emily Cresswell, but she had never expected to find her a comfort, yet at this moment what she would have done without her she could not think. It was all right to be Terry Clive on her knees by a weeping hostess, murmuring “Darling, don’t cry,” but the idea of being Terry Clive just standing there for everyone to see that she looked like a ghost, and a guilty ghost at that—no, that wasn’t so good.
    The police arrived.
    Norah Margesson looked around the door in a flame-coloured dressing-gown, said irritably, “A burglary? What’s gone? One of the pictures? I thought someone had been murdered,” and trailed away up the stairs again.
    Mrs. Yorke kept her room. Not for anything the world could offer would she leave it until every rite that served her beauty had been fulfilled. These took time, and could by no means be hurried. What was a dead picture on canvas to the living one which she daily presented to the world?
    Downstairs the police inspected everything. And discovered nothing except that there were no finger-marks on frame or window. The burglar must be supposed to have worn gloves.
    â€œNot the slightest doubt about what sort of job it is. Daring lot, I must say. You’d have thought they’d have lain low a bit after the Oppenstein affair. Bad business that poor chap of a butler being murdered there. ’Tisn’t often a burglar carries arms either these days. And a lucky thing none were used here, Mr. Cresswell, because there’s no doubt about it’s being the same lot. The ordinary criminal—well, it stands to reason he wouldn’t know how to handle this high-class picture business. No, it’s a line by itself. We’ll be communicating with Scotland Yard at once, and they’ll be sending someone down. You see, it’s murder now, not just this picture racket.”
    James Cresswell listened with an air of abstracted gloom. He didn’t care who had been murdered so long as he got his Turner back. He had no opinion of the local police, and a fairly low one of Scotland Yard. This picture-stealing game had been going on for a year, and they hadn’t caught anyone yet. As a considerable contributor to the country’s taxes, he wanted to know what they did with the money. If an employee in his business was not efficient he got the sack. The police were there to catch criminals and restore stolen property. If they couldn’t do their job they should be replaced by others who could. He judged by results, and he wanted his Turner back. These feelings, though not put into words, were plainly discernible.
    The police did not linger. They removed the treacled paper, and Barnes instructed the housemaid who had screamed to sweep up the splinters of glass. The guests retired to their rooms to dress. Emily Cresswell stopped weeping, and reflected that it might have been worse. She said so to Terry as they went upstairs.
    â€œYou know, it might have been my pearls. And wouldn’t that have been dreadful, because they were