“Nor not by the cook,” said Stebbins. “Hester, she’s leery of that bitter almond flavourin’ and she don’t never use it. Well, don’t that smell prove somethin’?”
“It isn’t actual proof,” and Tracy looked thoughtful. “But it is an inexplicable odour to hang round an old house.”
“’Tain’t inexplicable if it’s due to the ha’nt,” urged Stebbins. “And that’s what it is due to. Why, that smell’s been said to be round here ever since the time of the Montgomery murder.”
“What’s wrong between you and Doctor Crawford?” asked Eve, suddenly. “You say yourself you aren’t good friends.”
“No, ma’am, we ain’t. It’s a sort o’ feud of long standin’. They ain’t no special reason, jest a conglomeration of little things. But one thing is ’cause he makes fun of the spooks here. He don’t take no stock in such things, and nobody can make him. Thorpe, now, he don’t neither. He sticks to it Mr. Bruce and Miss Vernie was murdered.”
“By what means, does he think?” asked Eve, quickly.
“Well, that he don’t know. But murder he says it was, and that he sticks to, like a puppy to a root.”
“Get him in here,” said Landon, abruptly, and Thorpe was summoned.
“Yes, sir,” the butler averred, on being questioned. “I’m willin’ to go on record as a disbeliever in spooks. They ain’t no such things. I don’t deny I’ve been some scared up hearin’ you ladies and gentlemen talk about such matters. But I don’t believe in ’em and I never will. Them two pore critters was done to death, but I’m free to confess I can’t see how.”
Professor Hardwick looked at the speaker. “As Mr. Dooley observed,” he said, “your remarks is inthrestin’ but not convincin’. My man, if there is no possible way that murder could have been done,—and we in here are agreed on that point,—what is left but the inevitability of supernormal agents?”