“And then?”
“Then came Michael Clifton’s story of finding Maurice in one of these Fairy Houses. And the details about the queer state Maurice was in when he was found. That came up in connection with a crime; and crimes are my business. Why does a fellow crawl away into a place like that? Why does he resent being dragged out of it? Why won’t he even take the trouble to get up? These were the kind of questions that absolutely bristled over the whole affair. One couldn’t help getting an inkling. But that inkling threw no light on the crime in hand, so it was no affair of mine. I dropped it. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Maurice wasn’t an attractive character, I’ll admit that. I loathed the way he was going on. But I like to look on the best side of people if I can. In my line, one sees plenty of the other side—more than enough. And by and by I began to see that perhaps all Maurice’s doings could be explained, if they couldn’t be excused. He was off his balance.”
“He was, poor devil,” Cecil concurred, with some contrition in his tone.
“Then came the time I forced you to open the secret passage. Your methods were the very worst you could have chosen, Cecil. I knew perfectly well that you hadn’t done anything to Maurice. You’re not the fratricidal type. But you very evidently had something that you wanted to conceal behind that door. You were afraid of my spotting something. The Inspector jumped to the conclusion that it was murder you were hushing up. By that time I had a pretty good notion that it was the Ravensthorpe family secret. Once I saw that passage of yours, dwindling away to almost nothing, the thing was clear enough. With the Fairy House clue as well, the thing was almost certain. And finally, you gave the show away completely by what you said beside Maurice’s body.”
“Chuchundra, you mean?”
“Yes. I remembered—another of these docketed trifles—just what Chuchundra was. He was the muskrat that tried to make up his mind to run into the middle of the room, but he never got there. Then I asked you if the trouble began with A. Of course it did. Agoraphobia. I suppose when Maurice was a kid he had slight attacks of it—hated to move about in an open room and preferred to sidle along by the walls if possible. That was the start of the nickname, wasn’t it?”
Cecil assented with a nod.
“It evidently cropped up in your family now and again. Hence the Fairy Houses—harbours of refuge when attacks came on. And that underground cell, where a man could shut himself up tight and escape the horror of open spaces.”