“Unnecessary delay. I’ve been there, I’ll take you.”
Bell checked. “What, did you know her?”
“Not from Eve. But I know the house. Golly Dodd called me in when Rook died last winter.”
“Did he? Why would that be?”
“Professional conscientiousness,” Reggie mumbled. “He had a lot of conscience, poor lad. He wasn’t sure about Rook.”
“My oath!” Bell grunted. “That’s queer. Were you sure?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. Rook died of heart disease.”
“Well, if you say so - -” Bell muttered. “But what do you think has happened now? Mrs. Rook’s been found dead. And she didn’t die natural. Her throat was cut. That’s the message that knocked out her bright young daughter. Her throat was cut. Just like your friend Dodd’s.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Come on. Here’s my car.” …
The car slid to rest before the walled garden of The Lindens. A constable stood on guard at the gate. They were admitted, and a divisional detective - inspector came to meet them and led them across the garden, turning a torch on the shrubs and flower - beds and crazy paving to guide them.
Thev came to the pagoda summer - house. The torchlight was reflected from a dark puddle and turned to a woman’s body. Reggie saw a black dress sunk down shapeless in a cane chair, the pale glimmer of a neck and bosom across which lay a stream of blood. The woman’s head drooped to her right shoulder, a mass of grey hair almost touching it. Her mouth was open, and blood lay upon her lips. The left side of her neck was cut with a gash which gaped and from that blood had streamed and spread.
“My oath!” Bell muttered. “Just like the man.”
“You think so?” Reggie said. He took the inspector’s torch and swept the light all round the summer - house and on the garden outside. Then he turned it on the woman’s feet, her dress, her hands, and at last on the wound again. He gave the torch back to the inspector. “Like that: hold it steady,” he said and bent over the wound… .
“Well, well.” He stood erect and breathed deep. Bell saw his round face without expression. Once more he took the torch from the inspector and wandered out into the garden. Just beyond the summer - house he stopped, with the beam of the torch turned on a clump of saxifrage in the crazy pavement. He picked his way about the garden to and fro, and it was a long time before he came back to the inspector and Bell.
“You haven’t found a weapon, sir,” said the inspector with gloomy satisfaction. “No more could I.”
“Weapon not on the scene of action. No. Bafflin’ fact.”
“Just like Dodd’s case, isn’t it?” said Bell. “No weapon again, and the same sort of wound.”
“Not the same. No. Curious and interestin’ likeness. Might have been made by the same weapon. But this is not in the same place. More to the side. Less vigour. Less certainty. As much of a cut as a stab. However. The weapon again is missin’. Interestin’ and curious. Well. You can take her away now.”
He linked arms with Bell and led him towards the house. They came to the door, which was open, with a detective standing by. “Is the butler about?” Reggie asked, and a frightened man came in a hurry along the hall. “Has Mr. Rook’s study been changed since his death?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Rook wouldn’t have anything touched.”
“Good. Take us up there.”
So Reggie came again to that room on the first floor with its business apparatus and its Asiatic curios. He surveyed it; he gave a sigh of satisfaction and sank down into an easy chair, filled a pipe and lit it, and spoke.
“Well. Here we are, Bell. Mrs. Rook died three or four hours ago. Say between nine and ten. Before the rain began. Died in that summer - house, in that chair. Cause of death, large incised wound in throat. Which was probably made by herself.”
“You believe that, sir?” Bell frowned.
“Oh, yes. That is the provisional probability. Requires checkin’ by further examination of the body. Both bodies. But my present opinion is, Mrs. Rook killed herself and Golly Dodd was murdered. And if I change it I shall be surprised. Though the weapon used in both cases was of the same unusual kind. Weapon just like that.” He took out his pipe and pointed with it to the wall, where, beneath a scimitar engraved and inlaid with gold, hung a dagger.
Bell turned, started up, and inspected it. “My oath!” he muttered, and stared at Reggie. The dagger had a long thin blade, each edge of which was waved, and the ivory hilt was almost at a right angle to the blade. “Just what you said. That was a wonderful shot. I never saw a knife like this.”
“Not common, no. A Malay kris. Rook had lived out in the East.”
Bell examined the dagger. “But look here, sir, this can’t have been used to - night. There’s dust on it.”
“Yes, I dare say. Quite good, Bell. That wasn’t used: I never thought it was. Practically impossible to put it back. But, when I saw this room last, there were two daggers under the scimitar. That’s why I came up here.”
Bell looked close at the wall. “You’re right,” he announced. “There have been two. Two of ‘em hanging crossed. Here’s marks on the paper where the other was.” He rubbed his hands. “My oath, that’s a bit of work, Mr. Fortune!”
