“Please.”
“The gardener’s cottage is a low five-room building at a bend of the road, and is practically concealed as you approach it from the main driveway by the very high shrubbery that surrounds it—lilacs, syringa, and the like. There is a little drive that shoots off from the main driveway and circles the cottage, and we drove in there, to the front of the house, and mounted the steps to the front porch, as my client wished to see the interior. Just as I bent down to secure the keys, I was surprised to see that the door was slightly ajar. I picked up the keys, pushed it farther open, and went in, rather expecting that sneak thieves might have preceded me.”
Mr. Conroy paused for a moment in his steady, precise narrative, his pale face a little paler. “Shall I continue?”
“Certainly.”
“On my left was the dining room, with the door closed; on my right, the room known as the parlour. The door was open, but only a small section of the room was visible from the corridor, and it was not until I had crossed the threshold that I realized that something frightful had occurred. In the corner of the room farthest from the door——”
“Just a minute, please. Was your client with you when you entered the room?”
“He was a step or so behind me, I believe. In the corner of the room was the—the body of a young woman in a white frock. A small table was overturned beside her, and at her feet was a lamp, the chimney and shade shattered and some oil spilled on the floor. The smell of the kerosene was very strong—very strong indeed.”
Mr. Conroy looked a little ill, as though the odour of that spilled kerosene were still about him.
“Was the girl’s head toward you, or her feet, Mr. Conroy?”
“Her feet. Her head was resting on the corner of a low fender—a species of steel railing—that circled the base of a Franklin stove.”