“The impudent—”
“Or he would have if he dared. That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“But what, specifically?”
“Well, you see, I was coming out of Millicent’s room. She was going to have a game with me this afternoon, but told me she felt too tired after all.”
“With the last ball disposed of by Bob Cullen?”
“The last I’d let that precious pair have, that was. I had sense to keep a few for myself. Well, I was awfully sorry Millicent wasn’t up to it, and I would have gone back to my own room and changed out of these clothes. But when I came into the passage, Blenkinson was stepping along as large as life and as still as a—as a cat. When he saw me he stopped about six feet away and just let down his jaw and stared.”
“Very bad form.”
“I said, ‘What’s wrong, Blenkinson?’ pretty nippily, I guess, and he gave a sort of groan and said, ‘They are taking Mr. Cosgrove’s remains to the mortuary, Miss.’ I didn’t say anything; so he groaned again.”
“Really, you mustn’t concern yourself with the foibles of a foolish old servant. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know you mean for the best.”
“Mean for the best!” The sweet grave eyes dimmed a little. “I’m doing for the best! Each day since this happened I’ve been alone for hours, thinking, thinking, thinking. I know more about Sean than anyone else here, and I go over every particle of knowledge I possess, to discover if it can have any bearing on his death. Oh, I’ve thought so hard that my head hurts—and emotions like this tear you up even if you’re too busy thinking to pay attention to how you feel. Don’t you see, Mr. Bannerlee, I mustn’t be a weeping-willow sort of person; I’ve got to get some relief once in a while. I’ve got to get the air into my lungs and the blood into my brain, if I’m to do any good. I’m doing more for Sean by swinging a racquet than I would if I bedewed his brow with tears.”