The American girl went on quietly. “When my brother was a high-school lad, he had a soccer ball at home. One evening in an unlit hall he stepped on it accidentally and it sent him clean through a glass door without his losing a drop of blood. It isn’t an unusual thing, after all. As for how the Parson got away, he really didn’t—then. You see, the swing of the rope had gradually ground it to bits where it rubbed against the sharpened merlon. When the Parson swung through the window, the rope broke and he came down on his feet inside the conservatory. Lucky for him, perhaps, that he did, if he wanted to evade us, for all he had to do was to draw the rope in after him and wait until we had spent our patience looking for him in the grounds. None of us had a thought of searching inside.”
“Well, I’m—” Crofts muttered, breaking off into stupefaction. No one else said a word, only stared at the American girl, and waited.
“That night we may assume Parson Lolly escaped as soon as the coast was clear. But he escaped only to plan new mischief for the next evening. And again his schemes miscarried. I think it is easier to reconstruct what happened this time. For one thing, he brought the head with him.” Crofts seemed about to break in, but desisted. “He was carrying the blood as well; he must have slaughtered the piglet a little while before he set out from the tower, for the blood had not begun to clot. Earlier, he had been prowling inside the House and had pilfered the little battle-axe and the cap belonging to Mr. Bannerlee.”
“But, dearest, you aren’t making it a bit clearer,” said Alberta. “What could it have all been for?”
“It was to give us the scare of our lives.”
“And didn’t it?” muttered Oxford. “Dash him!”
“But not as planned. Sean pointed that out at once, I believe. The Parson’s intention that night was to stage a fictitious murder. There were the weapon, the gore, and the hat which was to be discovered reeking with blood. We were to find these things, and in the midst of our excitement we were to be thrown into a panic when the head—went off—probably somewhere on the battlement, or even above.”
“The head, the infernal head!”
“Yes, Crofts; it appeared when they dug it up this afternoon—Harmony told me—that it had been constructed somewhat like a kite and could have been flown quite easily. That occurred, in fact. When Millicent and I inadvertently crossed the Parson’s path and he dropped everything and legged it, the kite did fly up a little way, and then—went off.” She addressed me. “When it crashed to the ground, Mr. Bannerlee, the Parson still held the cord, and you distinguished the head as a black mass sliding across the lawn.”
“I grant you the kite and the rest of the fol-de-rol,” cut in Lord Ludlow, in a voice like the broken edge of a cake of ice. “I fancy, however, that this ‘going off,’ as you call it, needs more explanation than you’ll readily find.”