“The Tolaeth—I don’t think I know what that means,” said Crofts. The Welsh folk stirred just a little.
The keeper’s voice fell, I do not think by design. “The rappin’s, sir, that come just before a person dies. Tappin’, sir, like—”
Our hearts were in our throats while he finished the speech in a sudden gasp—“like that.”
For from the other side of the corridor wall, high toward the ceiling, had sounded three sharp knocks.
And again, before a breath was taken in the room, three knocks again—and again.
“It’s the Three Thumps.” Morgan’s voice was that of a strangling man.
“Coffin-making,” muttered one of the Clay sisters, her eyes lightless.
I saw Crofts’ glance flit about the room, taking in the whole group. I, too, had thought of collusion, but the number of servants was complete; none had slipped out while the keeper’s story was in progress.
Crofts remained irresolute for only a few seconds before he jumped up and sprang to the door, flung it open and glared down the corridor.
“Empty,” he said, and I could not tell whether satisfaction or distress was uppermost in his voice. Then the silence for a bit was blank and appalling. He returned to the table. “Get on with your story, Hughes. We’ll find out about this fol-de-rol later.”