Free Fair Warning by Mignon Good Eberhart Page B

of Ivan Godden’s death, or, rather, of the circumstances in general surrounding it. He knew their names and their connection with the dead man and with each other. He knew that Mrs. Godden had been alone in the house, except for two servants, when she found Ivan Godden. He knew there had been a dinner party next door and that Verity Copley and Robert Copley and Dr. Blakie had come from there. He was asking about the french doors; the front door was always locked, but what about the french doors? Had anyone unlocked them? They were usually locked, were they not, unless someone had been using them? Well, then, who had unlocked them that night?
    “How does he know so much?” thought Marcia. But, of course, he’d been talking to Ancill, who was not in the drawing room with the rest of them. Who had been skillfully and quietly detached. Emma Beek was not there, either. And in the hall as the door had opened there had been a brief glimpse of Verity’s round-faced little housemaid, neat and prim, but crying and wiping her eyes on her apron. Why had they summoned her?
    “Did you unlock the french doors, Mrs. Godden?”
    Marcia started; Jacob Wait’s eyelids were so low that she had not realized he was addressing her until he said “Mrs. Godden.” Had she unlocked the french doors?
    “You mean tonight?”
    “Today—tonight, any time since they were last unlocked. Ancill says he locked them as usual last night and did not unlock them during the day.”
    “Oh—I can’t think. Yes! Yes, I believe I unlocked them this morning when I—went into the garden.”
    “When was that?”
    “About—eleven, I think. Before noon.”
    “Have they been left unlocked ever since?”
    “I—I don’t know.”
    “Miss Godden?”
    Perhaps Beatrice knew what was going on, too. She was sitting very erect and black-browed in a small french armchair and her long fingers were making little green folds on her knees. She did not look up.
    “I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t remember anything about it.”
    “Try,” said Jacob Wait.
    “It’s a very trivial thing.”
    “Nobody came in the front door. Nobody came in the back way. Servants would have known it. Only way left is the french doors. Makes a difference if they were locked. Entrance wasn’t forced, anywhere. If they were unlocked all day, since Mrs. Godden opened them in fact, somebody might have got in. If they were not, somebody had to be let in.” He looked at Beatrice, or seemed to, and said in a weary way, “You came into the room just after Mrs. Godden found the dead man, didn’t you?”
    “Yes. Yes, of course.” Beatrice’s fingers stopped plaiting, and she said rather quickly, “Of course, I ought to have remembered. I entered the room by the french doors, so they must have been unlocked. I came across the garden way.”
    “Why?”
    “Because—we were dining at Mrs. Copley’s—”
    “Yes, yes, I know. Why’d you return?”
    “Mrs. Godden was late. I came to see what had detained her.”
    “Did you think anything in particular had detained her?”
    Something inside Marcia quivered as if it had been struck sharply with a small whip. That was going to be the way of it; Mrs. Godden alone in the house—what in particular had detained her? Murder?
    Beatrice’s pale, long face changed a little and became Ivan’s; except he didn’t look at her with those pale, blank eyes. Beatrice’s own eyes were dark and clouded and wouldn’t look at anyone.
    “No. I was a little impatient. One doesn’t like to delay a dinner party.”
    “Everyone else was there?”
    “I believe so.” Beatrice stopped abruptly, made another fold and said, “Mrs. Copley can tell you.”
    He looked too bored to proceed, but Verity was induced to speak.
    “Mr. Trench had not arrived,” she said.
    “Trench? Who’s that? He’s not here.”
    Rob said, “Galway Trench. Lives on the South Side. He’s always late going places.”
    “A cousin of Mrs. Godden’s,” said Beatrice,