indicated she was at least a normal
thirteen-year-old if not a precocious thirteen-year-old.
"The police have gone," said Judy. "But they asked us to let them know
if anybody inquired about Mr. Fletcher. It seems hardly anything is
known about him . . . are you relatives, by any chance?"
"No . . . I'm Anita Somerset and this is Ian Ross. We met Mr. Fletcher
through experiments at the university."
"Experiments?" Judy, leading them upstairs to Fletcher's room, paused
on the stairs to look back.
"Yes."
She recollected herself. "Oh, I'm Judy MacDonald. My mother is the
landlady. She had to go to the police station again."
"Yes, of course."
Ross, who had restrained himself so far, started to say something,
but Anita, suspicious in advance of anything he might choose to say,
dug him in the ribs with her elbow.
Perhaps, Fletcher thought wonderingly, he had achieved something
worth-while after all, in death if not in life. How it was possible by
briefly inhabiting Judy's mind to effect such a transformation he had
no idea, but then he had no idea either how he managed to jump from mind
to mind.
They entered Fletcher's room. It was much as he had left it. The police
had put everything back as they found it.
"This is where he lived, said Judy. "The furniture isn't his, but everything
else is. There's a gold watch, typewriter, radio, clothes. Do you know
anyone who should get them?"
"I'm afraid not," said. Anita. She stood irresolute, not knowing how to
go on. Then she said: "Fletcher's definitely dead, I suppose? I mean,
there's no doubt?"
The quizzical glance Judy shot at her meant more to Fletcher than it
did to Anita or Ross. To them it only indicated her surprise that people
who had read of a man's death in the newspaper should doubt that he was
dead. To Fletcher it indicated speculation if Anita suspected what she
knew -- that Fletcher had not died when his body did.
"Well, in the fall his brain was smashed, his neck was broken and his
back was broken, all instantly," Judy said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I don't know how anyone can be much deader than that."
Anita shuddered. But she went on steadily: "That's part of what I
mean. He must have been pretty badly smashed up. Could there be any
mistake in identification?"
"No," said Judy firmly. "His face wasn't injured."
"There's no question of suicide, I suppose?" said Ross casually.
Again that quizzical glance. "Why should there be? Mr. Fletcher apparently
leaned on the gate, and for some reason it had been unfastened --
probably by children. The police at first hinted my mother should have
done something about that gate, but then they looked around and merely
suggested it should be padlocked, since it's never used now. Every
building in the street has a basement well like ours, some in use, some
not. There are stone steps leading down, with a railing on the street side
and not on the other. Some have gates like ours, some have none. Children
play on the stairs, and sometimes fall. My mother said she never heard
of anyone being seriously hurt before. This is old property . . . "
"But the gate was normally shut," Ross persisted.
"Yes, with a bolt. No padlock. It couldn't open by itself. And there's
a spring to shut the gate if it's opened. This morning the gate was shut
but not bolted."
"Who found the body?"
"I did. About seven. I was thirsty and went down for the milk."
Judy was perfectly composed. The night before she must have felt Fletcher
leave her. To discover the body on her return to the house would have
prompted many awkward questions. So she had sensibly waited until a
reasonable opportunity of finding the body presented itself.
"You can't tell me anyone who should know about Mr. Fletcher?" she said.
"No," said Anita. "I knew he was rather solitary
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia