No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor, was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back of the theatre.
On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.
“Did you see the master last night?” he asked. Winter answered with a nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as usual.”
“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in, and he’s not in his room this morning.”
Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked down the corridor together to take a look round.
At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a scared maid-servant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh, Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”
The two men-servants made all haste into the study. There, stretched on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up a row. He’s dead, right enough.”
Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan. “Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in for this job.”
Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Some one will have to tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you stay on guard here.”
Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”