“Very interestin’,” he remarked. “Now I’m fully informed on that subject. I could pick out every one of you,” he said to the servants, “when Mr. Blenkinson here alluded to you. You’re all excused for the present.” He turned to the guests. “But I’m not clear yet about all of you ladies and gentlemen. You first, Mr. Pendleton, though. How long, now, have you owned this place? I seem to recall it’s about two years.”
“It is, just.”
“And did you know Mr. Watts that was here before you?”
“No, Superintendent, I did not. The House was an unsold portion of old Watts’ estate. It must have been five years after his death that I negotiated for it. . . . Wish to God I hadn’t heard of it,” he appended under his breath.
“That was all my fault, old fellow,” consoled Alberta Pendleton.
“This furniture and the pictures, now, eh?”
“Everything came with the House. Library of books, tooled-leather style—storerooms full of odd stuff, costumes and furniture, crocks mostly—but we did find a fine Buhl bureau buried among some stacks of Victorian newspapers, and dragged it out. There was a little of everything in the attics. He must have been a prime scholar and collector, old Watts.”
“A little of everything, you say? What do you mean, Mr. Pendleton?”
“Cheese-parings and candle-ends: trash, you know. Some queer pieces though. Old Watts must have rowed for his college, or with some club, when he was a youngster. There were oars and other boating paraphernalia in one of the rooms—so much of it we expected to find a shell entombed. I ran across equipment there for a parlour magician—quite elaborate. We were hoping Doctor Aire would give us a show with it only yesterday. And—well, I’ll take you through the lot, if you like.”
“Yes, please.” Salt addressed Alberta. “You hadn’t known Mr. Watts? You spoke just now—your fault, you said—”