Read Online Scandal at High Chimneys by John Dickson Carr - Free Book Online

study where it had been thrown.
    Because he had seen a weapon just like it recently displayed at Stover’s, the gunsmith’s in Piccadilly, he knew it for metallic-cartridge revolving pistol, six-chambered, of the sort called rim-fire because the hammer struck the rim of the cartridge in exploding it.
    They were manufactured by a French firm whose name he couldn’t remember, and they were much lighter than the customary heavy and unwieldy revolving pistol. They—
    Clive glanced back at Matthew Damon’s desk.
    There was a drawer on the right-hand side, a drawer his host had been about to open when the man could still move and speak. Not without an effort Clive touched the drawer and then pulled it open. He found nothing inside.
    What was that?
    Small noises darted out and struck at the nerves under the tumult of the storm. He imagined that a door, not one of these doors, had opened and closed in the direction of the hall. He was right. Hurrying towards the door to the hall, he heard outside certain stately footsteps which could belong only to one person.
    “Burbage!”
    The footsteps halted. “Sir?”
    But Clive’s voice, loud and hoarse in his own ears, would never do. About to speak again, thinking of the tone he must achieve, he saw the clock which hitherto he had only heard. It stood on a low bookcase; its dial, white against black marble, swam out at him.
    And the hands stood at only twenty-eight minutes to seven.
    “Sir?” repeated Burbage’s voice.
    What he had heard, Clive knew, was Burbage returning from the servants’ quarters at the back after the servants had finished their evening meal together.
    “Burbage, this door is locked on the outside. Unlock it, if you will. Don’t open it; simply unlock it.”
    A slight pause. “Very good, sir.”
    The key turned quietly, as though in an oiled lock. The other key had also turned in the same soft way when he was locked in.
    “Now, Burbage, will you stand well to one side of the door?”
    The footsteps outside complied. Unless Burbage stood well to one side, he would have a clear view of what lay inside. Clive opened the door, slipped out, and shut it behind him.
    The wall-lamp shed its dim glimmer beside the green-baize door to the servants’ quarters. To Clive all shapes and colours seemed unreal; he supposed he must be pale.
    “Burbage, the questions I mean to ask may seem unusual. Bear up; we shall need to. Is a key usually kept in the lock of the study door here?”
    “No, sir.” Burbage’s expression did not change.
    “Or in the lock of the door between the study and the library?”
    “No, sir. But a key from any door downstairs will fit them.”
    “Have you just come from having your dinner? I think you nodded? Good! Were all the other servants there?”
    “Yes, sir. They are still there. That is,” the house-steward amended, “all except Mrs. Cavanagh and my unhappy daughter. They were indisposed, and left the table.”
    The drive of the rain had deepened, making a hollow noise here in the hall. Clive glanced up and down the hall.
    “Burbage, will you now go round and make sure that all the doors and windows are still fastened on the inside?”
    “Very … yes, sir.” Now Burbage’s gaze did flicker.
    “On the way, present my compliments to Mrs. Damon, and say—” Clive hesitated.
    “Mrs. Damon, sir, is not in the house.”
    “Oh? Where is she?”
    “I could not say, sir. About an hour ago Mrs. Damon ordered the landau, so that Hopper could drive her to Reading. Mrs. Damon took luggage, but not her maid. I re-locked and re-barred the front door when Mrs. Damon had gone.”
    “Did Mr. Damon know this?”
    “I could not say, sir. It would be possible to ask him.”
    “It would not be possible, I fear. Mr. Damon is dead.”
    What Burbage said to this, or even what he thought as judged by his expression, Clive missed altogether. Other concerns had caught him.
    About to add, “I must break the news gently to Miss Kate and Miss