"Wasn't it? I must have got that impression from Stella," she said, quickly and loudly. In that moment the quiet, nervous Katharine Bohun looked dangerous, and she was breathing sharply. "I must really get back to my patient now. Thank you so much for everything. You had better go down to breakfast, hadn't you?"
Before he could move or speak, almost with the swiftness an illusion, she was out of the room. He remained staring at the closed door, fingering an unshaven jaw. Then he went over and kicked an empty suitcase across the room. He followed it with the intention of kicking it back; but sat down on the bed instead, lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke violently.
The muddle was growing worse. His hand was shaking, and the room was full of a mocking image of Marcia Tait. If Willard's crackling picture of her character were correct, she had never laughed in life as she would laugh in death. Riding-crop! There was no riding-crop at the scene of the crime, or near it, except the one John Bohun had carried on his wrist. Which was manifestly impossible.
The police would be back from the pavilion now. He must go downstairs. Keeping his mind grimly away from Katharine Bohun, he shaved in cold water; felt better but a little light-headed; dressed, and went downstairs.
He had intended to go to the dining-room, but there were loud voices from the direction of the library. The door was open. Lights had been turned on in the ceiling of the dusky room, and a group had gathered round the modem furniture in front of the fire. At a table behind the couch, flanked by bronze lamps with yellow shades, a tall man in the uniform of an inspector of police sat with his back to the door. He was tapping a pencil against the side of his head. Beyond him stood a very nervous Thompson, and beyond them Chief Inspector Masters blandly inspecting books on the shelves. The person who had been speaking-with strident positiveness, and a gesture like a semaphore — was a sharp-featured little man in a shabby black overcoat and a bowler hat stuck on the back of his head. He stood with his back to the fire, a pair of black-ribboned glasses coming askew on his nose, and pointed again.
He said: "Don't think you can tell me my business, Potter. I regard that as a sheer, out-and-out insult, that's what I do; and when I get you at the inquest, Potter, then dum-me, I promise you now, I'll make you smart good and proper!" He leered over the glasses, malevolently. "I'm telling you the exact medical facts. Get your police surgeon to check up on me, if you like. Get every bloody quack in Harley Street. Yah! Then you'll find out-?' His sharp gaze saw Bennett at the door. He stopped.
There was a silence in the tension of the room. Masters came up to the table.
"Ah!" he said quickly. "Come in, Mr. Bennett. Come in, if you please. I was just going to send for you. This is Dr. Wynne — here. Inspector Potter — here. Now, we've been hearing some very unusual things in the last half hour:"
Dr. Wynne snorted. Masters had lost some of his earlier genial air; there were lines round his mouth and he looked worried.
"Which need straightening out. Just so. Now, sir, I've 'already told these gentlemen what you told me a while ago, Perhaps you'd better repeat it, as a matter of form, to the inspector —“