Free Case with No Conclusion by Leo Bruce Page A

after a moment’s thought.
    I blushed for him. “Roman numerals,” I explainedin a whisper, for Peter was at the other end of the room. “That’s verse sixty-four.”
    â€œThen he must have started here,” said Beef, turning over the pages, “and he couldn’t have read no further than that one.”
    â€œNo,” I said, “and that’s verse seventy-one.”
    Beef began to read:
    â€œSaid
one—’Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
    And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
    They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
    He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well.’
    Now I wonder why he was so keen on that one,” he said when he had finished. “Sounds as though it might mean something.”
    â€œIt does mean something,” I hastened to put in, with some irritation and some irony.
    â€œOh, I know, I know,” said Beef, “I’m not talking about the poetry. I mean it might have some ‘inner significance’ for someone what was in that room. I like this last one, though. This bit:
    â€œ
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
    One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
    â€œFunny, I said that to myself a dozen times. Reminds me of the story of the man who bought a public-house, and when they asked him what time he was going to open, he said he wasn’t going to open. He was going to drink the beer himself.” And Beef gave his gross guffaw.
    This was too much for Peter Ferrers. “Look here,” he said, turning round, and for the first time showing real anger, “I don’t think this is the place or the time for you to fool about.”
    Beef looked as guilty as a small boy caught in an orchard. The grin disappeared from his face, and he stood up. “Er—I’m very sorry, Mr. Ferrers,” he said contritely. “I’m afraid I was forgetting myself for the minute.”
    It was perhaps lucky that the door burst open at this moment and one of the servant girls broke into the room.
    â€œI’ve got something to tell,” she said defiantly. “I didn’t tell the police, either. But now Mr. Duncan is Gone, I think it only right you should hear.”
    All three of us examined the dumpy little figure that stood between us and the door. She was less than five feet tall, with a round, flat, innocent face and untidy reddish hair. In her somewhat soiled apron and blue print dress, her face flushed and her hands dirty, she looked the honest, blowzy, noisy wench that she probably was.
    â€œSteady now, my girl, steady,” said Beef, becoming dignified again. “Just you tell us quietly what you know, and you’ll be all right.”
    The last phrase displeased her. “Oh, I know I shall be all right,” she said briskly. “I’m only telling you because I think it’s my duty.”
    Her story followed, told between gasps and asides with which she gave us to understand that she had suffered violently in her imagination fromwhat she had seen, both at the time, and since then. She had been the first to go up to bed on the night of the murder, and, not expecting Rose to be late, had left the landing light on. In answer to a question from Beef as to whether Rose was often late she became clumsily coy and said surely Beef knew about Rose and Ed Wilson. Beef pretended that this was no surprise to him, made a note, and the girl Freda continued.
    She must have dropped straight off to sleep, for she hadn’t heard Rose come up, nor the cook, nor the butler. She had in fact heard nothing, until she had found herself wide awake in the darkness. She knew something must have woken her and she was rather frightened and thought of calling Rose in the next room. But just then she heard the frontdoor bell. Whoever can that be, it appears she had thought to herself, and unwillingly got out of bed. It seemed that no one else had been aroused by the ringing, though she