“Yes, though it may be you know it already from Martin. The weapon that is believed to have been used has disappeared, a Malay creese that was always on this desk. No motive was then ascribed to the crime, but it now seems that this might have been robbery, which was unsuccessful. No strangers are shown to have been at the house that day, and not as far as Perkins is aware have any been here till very recently. No clues—and I take it that it is possible clues in which you are interested—were left. Now you can tell me if anything suggests itself to you. If you want to ask any questions, ask them.”
The bright eyes were fixed on the speaker’s face. Martin was rooted to the ground but cast furtive looks at the peddler, swerving from these to stare with a dumfounded expression at the image. He had nearly mastered his feelings, but there was a twitch in his fingers he could not manage to control. Perkins, her lean hands folded, regarded Blunt with a fixed and provocative gaze, as though inviting him to escape if he could from the net she was weaving. But Blunt seemed unmoved. His keen eyes slowly examined every angle of the room, scrutinized Millicent’s portrait with temporary interest, then traveled to desk and chair, mentally photographing their minutest detail. Finally he looked at the French window, and Derrick wondered if by chance he knew what waited outside.
“Was that door locked at the time?” he asked after a long pause.
Derrick turned to Perkins. “Was it?”
“Yes,” she said curtly.
“And the front door?”
“I am not sure of that. Mr. Millicent usually saw to it before he came up-stairs.”
Martin started. “What are you trying to get at?” His voice was rough and threatening, his eyes vicious.
For answer the peddler fixed on him a glittering stare, whereat the gardener blinked and was silent. Derrick caught his breath. The very air was now ominous.
“Anything changed here since the murder happened?” asked Blunt with a curious lift in his voice.