“Candle grease!” she said sharply, staring at a line of white spots by the window. She stooped and touched the spots with an exploratory finger.
“Fresh candle grease! Now who do you suppose did that? Do you remember how Mr. Gillette, in Sherlock Holmes, when he—”
Her voice trailed off. She stooped and followed the trail of the candle grease away from the window, ingeniously trying to copy the shrewd, piercing gaze of Mr. Gillette as she remembered him in his most famous role.
“It leads straight to the fireplace!” she murmured in tones of Sherlockian gravity. Bailey repressed an involuntary smile. But her next words gave him genuine food for thought.
She stared at the mantel of the fireplace accusingly. “It’s been going through my mind for the last few minutes that no chimney flue runs up this side of the house!” she said.
Bailey stared. “Then why the fireplace?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out!” said the spinster grimly. She started to rap the mantel, testing it for secret springs.
“Jack! Jack!” It was Dale’s voice, low and cautious, coming from the landing of the stairs.
Bailey stepped to the door of the trunk room.
“Come in,” he called in reply. “And shut the door behind you.”