Alan looked away for an instant. “How about a sound out of the ordinary?” he demanded. “A cry of terror—of horror—wouldn’t that reach them?”
Trenholm shook his head dubiously. “Not with their doors closed. And Martha substantiates her husband’s statement that they are both heavy sleepers.”
“Oh, Martha!” Alan tossed down his hat which he had picked up and held aimlessly, twirling it back and forth. “I wouldn’t believe her on oath—neither of them, for that matter. Why under heaven Paul kept the Corbins here after his father’s death I cannot imagine.”
“Possibly because he deemed them faithful,” replied Trenholm dryly. “You must also recollect that it is difficult to induce servants to live out here in the country all the year round.”
Alan, silenced but not convinced, walked sulkily across the sunparlor and threw himself into a wicker chair. “The Washington papers are still featuring the murder,” he said, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor with a headline running half across the front page. “I’m tired of heading off the reporters.”
“Send them to me,” suggested Trenholm.
“You!” disgust spoke in Alan’s voice. “They call you the fresh water clam of Prince Georges County. You’ve got their goat by your uncommunicative ways and rotten bad manners.”
Trenholm looked across at Roberts. “I don’t appear to be popular,” he remarked, a faint twinkle in his eye, and changed the subject. “Will you throw me that false beard, Doctor?”
Roberts handed it to him. “Any clue in that, Trenholm?” he asked, watching the sheriff stow it carefully away in his coat pocket.
“Maybe. I’ve only had it in my possession for the past hour.” The wicker chair in which Trenholm was seated creaked under his weight as he straightened up from his lounging position, preparatory to rising. “When can I interview Mrs. Nash, Doctor?”