“Oh, no fear,” said Crofts, “the door from the conservatory into the corridor had been double-locked and bolted from the corridor side. Always is, anyhow, unless someone wants to go in to make music.”
“Make music?”
“Yes, the piano’s there, you know.”
“And how do you account for the shape of the smash? It looks as if someone walking on air had stepped through the glass.”
“Someone flying?” muttered Cosgrove, running his finger along the edge of the broken pane.
Pendleton made a movement of annoyance. “Oh, I don’t try to explain it. I leave that to you, sleuth-hound. That description of yours sounds very probable to me.”
“Our poor, dear host,” I murmured pityingly. “Forgive me for harping on the ungrateful chord of mystery.”
From beyond the thick-clumped shrubs to the north and toward Aidenn Water came a staccato of handclapping and a few bright tones of voices in the fresh, vibrant sunlight. The sounds reminded Pendleton of our objective.
“Come along to the tennis. That must be Paula playing.”
“Isn’t it a bit late in the year for tennis?”