"It gets easier and easier, doesn't it?" said Hemingway.
"It doesn't strike me that way. And not one of them did see it. Or, if they did, they won't own to it," said the Inspector.
Chapter Eight
A group of six people was assembled in the front half of the drawing-room, from which the card tables had been removed. The velvet curtains had been drawn across the archway leading into the back drawing-room, and the fire was burning brightly in the grate. The room presented a comfortable, if slightly overopulent, appearance, but nothing could have looked less comfortable than five of the six persons disposed round the fire. In one corner of a sofa, Mrs. Haddington sat bolt upright, staring into the flames, her thin, ringed hands tightly clasping her fan. She had risen magnificently to the occasion, when first the body of her old friend had been discovered, her social instincts prevailing over more primitive emotions; but the effort of carrying off an entirely unprecedented situation, coupled with the rapid collapse of her daughter into strong hysterics, had levied a toll on her vitality. She looked haggard, every muscle on the stretch, as though it was only by a supreme .exercise of will-power that she refrained from breakingdown. Beside her, occasionally glancing at his wristwatch, and imperfectly stifling a yawn, sat Dr Westruther, wondering why he had allowed his nobility to lead him to announce that he would remain on the premises until the arrival of "the man from Scotland Yard'. He had not, of course, supposed that this would be so long delayed.
Opposite the sofa, in a deep armchair with wings, Mr. Godfrey Poulton sat, contemptuously flicking over the pages of a weekly periodical, yawning quite openly, and presenting the appearance of one who ought to have been in bed several hours earlier. A little withdrawn from the fire, and seated limply in a chair, her eyes shaded by her hand, was Miss Birtley. Her other hand ceaselessly kneaded her handkerchief. Completing the circle, were Mr. Sydney Butterwick, and Mr. Timothy Harte. Mr. Butterwick's first reactions to the tragedy had rivalled Cynthia's in intensity and dramatic expression. From these transports of unbridled and slightly spirituous emotion, he had passed into a mood of such distressing despair, that Mr. Harte, the only unaffected member of the party, had exerted himself, partly from pity and partly from dislike of watching adult males weeping bitterly, to divert his mind. The task had been a difficult one, but Timothy had persevered, to such good effect that by the time Chief Inspector Hemingway walked into the room Sydney had been coaxed into his paramount hobby, and was passionately assuring Timothy that Giselle was the only real test of a classical dancer's art.
Inspector Pershore ushered Hemingway into the room, announcing that the Chief Inspector wanted to have a word with its occupants.
"Good-evening!" Hemingway said cheerfully, his tone a welcome contrast to the accents of officialdom assumed by his subordinate. "I'm afraid you've been kept waiting a long time, and I'm sorry about that."
"Good God!" said Mr. Harte, staring at him between narrowed eyelids. "You're the Sergeant!"
It seemed, from Inspector Pershore's alarming demeanour, that he only awaited a sign from the Chief Inspector to take Mr. Harte instantly into custody; but Hemingway, regarding Mr. Harte with interest and surprise, gave no such sign. "Well, I was once, but I've been promoted," he replied. "Did you happen to know me when I was a Sergeant, sir?"
"Of course I did!" said Timothy, rising, and going towards him, with his hand held out. "You probably don't remember me, but don't you remember the Kane case?"