The inspector turned to Joan with his find.
“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.
Joan gave a start of surprise. For a moment she stared at the cigar-holder without saying a word. Then she spoke slowly, and as if with an effort.
“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Harry—I mean Mr. Lucas—gave it to Sir Vernon; but Mr. Prinsep always used it. I saw him using it last night.”
“Miss Cowper,” said the inspector, “this may be very important. Are you quite sure that you saw Mr. Prinsep using this holder last night, and, if you are, at what time?”
“Yes, quite sure. He was smoking a cigar in it when he went up to his room.”
Joan had stayed in the garden while the inspector was examining the ground, because she seemed to have lost the power of doing anything else. If she went in she must go and tell Sir Vernon of this second tragedy, or else talk to him in such a way as deliberately to keep him in ignorance of it. The strain in either case would be, she felt, more than she could bear. It was better even to stay near this horrible corpse, and to watch the police making their investigations.
Meanwhile, Dr. Manton, and with him a police surgeon, had come into the garden and were making an examination of the body. When they had done, two stout constables placed it on a stretcher and carried it into the house. Joan followed almost mechanically, leaving the inspector still in the garden.
As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George Brooklyn and Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Woodman, and that Carter Woodman had telephoned to say that he was coming round at once. He had just heard, at his office, the news of Prinsep’s murder; but of course he would know nothing yet of George’s fate. And then it occurred to Joan that Mrs. George, who was upstairs, had probably heard nothing as yet of her husband’s death. Was she to break the news again—this time to a wife whose love for her husband had been so great as to become a family proverb? “As much in love as Marian.” How often they had laughed as they said it; and now it came home suddenly to Joan what it meant. Still, she must go upstairs and see them—tell them, if need be.
She found that they knew already. They had seen from a window the excitement in the garden, and Mary Woodman had run down to find out what the trouble was. So Mary had had to tell Mrs. George, and there they were sitting in silence, waiting for news that could be no worse, and could be no better.