In the grey light of that wintry afternoon the place looked inexpressibly dismal and neglected. Years ago it had, no doubt, been the residence of some well-to-do county family; but in these twentieth-century post-war days, having been empty for nearly ten years, it had gone sadly to rack and ruin.
The lawns had become weedy, the carriage-drive was, in places, green with moss, like the sills of the windows and the high-pitched, tiled roof itself. In the centre of the lawn, before the house, stood four great ancient yews, while all round were high box hedges, now, alas! neglected, untrimmed and full of holes.
The curtains were of the commonest kind, while the very steps leading to the front door were grey with lichen and strewn with wisps of straw. The whole aspect was one of neglect, of decay, of mystery.
The two men, opening the creaking iron gate, advanced boldly to the door, an excuse ready in case Pietro opened it.
They knocked loudly, but there was no response. Their summons echoed through the big hall, causing Walter to remark:
"There can't be much furniture inside, judging from the sound."
"Four motor vanloads came here," responded the sergeant. "The first was in a plain van."
"You did not discover whence it came?"
"I asked the driver down at the inn at Southminster, and he told me that they came from the Trinity Furnishing Company, Peckham. But, on making inquiries, I found that he lied; there is no such company in Peckham."
"You saw the furniture unloaded?"