'Tor the moment, she seems to have disappeared. Tut!" added Dr. Fell, extending his hand consolingly. "She has not disappeared in the detective-story sense, which would mean that she walks in danger or i
s otherwise menaced by some vill
ain-in-ambush. Nothing of the land! To speak with strict accuracy, a
while ago she went out into the garden
there. Presumably she is waiting for you; she exhibited a certain
concern
of her own; you had better
follow her without delay. In the detecti
ve-story sense—"
"Speaking of the detective-story sense . . ." "Yes?"
"This evening, Dr. Fell, I floundered through a lot of that when I was at the hotel trying to thrash out a workable answer to all the problems. On Friday, I seem to remember, you said no woman was concerned in this business. Was that true? I kept wondering, you see, whether a woman might not be behind the whole thing."
"You wondered quite correctly. A woman
is
behind the whole thing."
"But you said—!"
"I said," interrupted Dr. Fell, rearing up, "that no woman committed this murder, or has any guilty knowledge of it. By that affirmation I most firmly hold, though it must be amplified a little if we are to bring any sense into confusion. One woman, however innocently, inspired the whole murderous dance. Still another woman, though without guilty knowledge, almost upset the apple-cart by guessing too close to the truth."
"Almost upset the apple-cart by guessing too close to the truth? Can the one who guessed too much be Camilla Bruce?"
Standing with his right elbow against one of the glass doors to rear terrace and garden, Alan jumped and whirled round as. the do
or opened behind him. In the ap
erture stood Camilla herself.
"What's this about me?" she cried. "I couldn't hear what you were saying, and I couldn't lip-read Very well. But I caught my
name, anyway. Were you saying I
might be the murderer after all?"
The grandfather clock in the hall had begun to strike ten. Only one light was burning here in the lounge, a floorlamp at the far end of the room. Alan saw all things as through heigh
tened senses: the dusky glow sh
ining on walls of whitewashed brick, on the red coats of huntsmen in the sporting prints that adorned the walls, on Camilla's face as she seemed to materialize there.
Camilla hesitated in the doorway, her right hand on the catch and her left elbow against her side. She wore blue. Her fair complexion glimmered against darkness outside; lamplight touched the rich brown hair; she hardly seemed to breathe.
"Were you thinking," she blurted at Alan, "that I might be the murderer after all?"
"No, of course not! We weren't even thinking anything of the sort, and in your heart you know it!"
"I know it?"
"You must know it. Some rather odd ideas have cropped up in this affair, but no idea so far has been completely crazy, and suspecting you would be a dozen steps past the point of sheer lunacy."
"Well," Camilla said, "it's nice to know where I stand in the investigation, at least. I asked because—because everybody else is being suspected of something or other; so I wondered. What were you thinking, then?"
"At the moment you showed up," returned Alan, "I was about to go out and find you. We didn't walk in the grounds on Friday night; Valerie prevented us; somebody's always preventing us. Shall we try a stroll now?"
Camilla raised her eyes.
"As a matter of fact," she said, "I came in to suggest the same thing. It's not cold out there; it's just pleasantly cool. And tonight, for some reason, there don't seem to be any mosquitoes. Since there
is
so much to talk about
..."
"I must remember you seconded the invitation. Come along."
"One moment!" interposed Dr. Fell.
His expression, so far as it could be read at all, seemed neither half-witted nor inspired. It was heavy and lowering, with something of sadness. Camilla caught her breath.
"Yes, Dr. Fell? You have some instructions?"
"Captain Ashcroft (harrumph!) has predicted a long night and perhaps a rough one. I do not necessarily agree with the latter adjective. But I
have
some instructions."
"Yes?"
"It is now ten o'clock. You both wear wrist-watches, I see. Can you manage to amuse yourselves, say for another hour and a half?"
"For much longer than that," Alan assured him, "if they don't keep interrupting us. You see—"
"Longer than that," said Dr. Fell, "will be unnecessary. Stick to the grounds; don't stray too far away. At half-past eleven you will please . . ."
"Return here?"
"No, not here. Under no circumstances," the big voice boomed, "will you return to the house then. At half-past eleven—you may even make it a little later—betake yourselves to the Joel Poinsett High School. Enter by the side door, as we did last night; it will be left easy to open. Go to room 26, sit down, and await results."
"I see," said Alan, who didn't see. "You're setting up a party, are you?"
"'Party,'" Dr. Fell declared, "is a word most monstrously ill chosen. But it will have to serve our purpose. For the moment I must return to my own concerns, calling your attention only to the faithful servant named George. George is devoted to the Maynards, as you have heard; also, for reasons of his own, he is extraordinarily devoted to Yancey Beale. Now into the garden with youl
A biento
t!"
And he shooed them out through the glass door, which Alan closed.
Fitful moonlight, draining the flowers of color and accentuating every shadow, turned the garden to a world of unreality. Faint white mist rose no higher than eighteen
inches from the ground. They waded in vapor as they found the path and moved west along it. They were as alone, Alan thought, as though nobody else existed; Camilla's shoulder touched his left arm. At the sundial they both halted by mutual instinct, and stood there with the mist drifting past their knees.
"Alan," Camilla said suddenly, "we're getting near the end of the problem, aren't we?"
"I think so."
"Then will you please,
please
tell me what you and Dr. Fell were thinking when I intruded?"
"I don't know what Dr. Fell thinks. As for what
I
thi
nk, it would be a good deal easier to tell you if you returned the compliment."
"Returned the compliment?"
"Yes. You've had several different inspirations in this business, haven't you? They've got to be different inspirations, Camilla; if they're parts of the same inspiration, it makes no sense at all."
"Alan, I don't understand what you're talking about!"
"Listen, my dear.
Two nights ago, when we eaves
dropped on Dr. Fell and
Captain Ashcroft, you had your
inspiration about somebody's 'incredible jealousy' of somebody else. I needn't
expound that; we've reverted to
it several times; you still say it's wild and beyond belief. But one thing at least you
can tell me. When the incredible-jealousy motif occurred to you didn’t
you
regard
it
as a clue to the
murderer? Didn't you?" "Well—yes."
"All right. Yesterday afternoon, after we returned from Fort Moultrie and you had rather a hectic interview with Madge, you became convinced Madge's mysterious boyfriend could be nobody but Dr. Mark Sheldon. Are you still certain of that?"
"It's the only reasonable assumption. Honestly, Alan—!"
"Let's not stand by the sundial all night," said Alan, though in fact they had been there barely thirty seconds. "This way, with your permission; we'll see if a little walking won't stimulate the wits."
They wandered on down the path, with cypresses and weeping willows looming up black against the sky.
"We've been assuming," Al
an continued, "that this un
known boyfriend is also the murderer. We don't
know
that; we've assumed it mainly because a joker who writes messages on blackboards has pretty well convinced us. Well, where does the thesis lead?
"Whoever the boyfriend and murderer may be, it's hard to see why he should have killed Henry Maynard. And if Mark Sheldon's the murderer (which I can't believe, but never mind), that fact alone makes nonsense of the incredible-jealousy motif. In any set-up that concerned Madge and Mark Sheldon, nobody's jealous except Mrs. Mark Sheldon, unless you want to argue Madge herself was the jealous one. If Madge had been jealous enough to kill, wouldn't she have killed Mrs. Sheldon? Would she have gone berserk and knocked off her father just because he objected or might have objected?"
"Oh, Alan, that's ridiculous!"
"Of course it is, as I've been trying to point out Weren't there two inspirations?" "Two inspirations?"
Still wading almost knee-deep in mist, still hurling words sideways at each other, they had gone through the arch in the tall evergreen hedge. Beyond, under still more mist, a beaten-earth path led towards the slave-cabins.
"On Friday night," Alan went on, "it occurred to you that a certain person—never mind who—just
might
be Madge's boyfriend and the murderer too. You couldn't believe
this and you still can’t
,
though the idea keeps nagging you. Then, yesterday afternoon,
circumstances piled up
to
make you think Dr. Sheldon, whether or not he killed anybody, must be Madge's lover in the real, dangerous physical sense. But it wasn't Mark Sheldon you'd been thinking of the night before. They were two different ideas, weren't they?"
"Did I ever
say,"
Camilla cried out "they weren't two different ideas?"
"You haven't actually said anything; maybe it's all too tangled. But if only you and I understood each other. . . !"
"And you think we
don't
understand each other?"
"Well, do we? In about a million assorted subjects, where has been the common ground? You name it; we've argued it. Politics, science, art, letters . . ."
They had reached the cleared space between the rows of slave-cabins. In clear silver a dwindling moon emerged from behind cloud. Camilla stopped and turned.
"I know that," she told him. "On the phone this evening I could practically hear you freeze when I said I was reading Joyce, who next to Proust is your pet abomination among writers. Apparently," Camilla cried, "apparently there isn't one single point on which we agree or ever could agree!"
" 'Apparently,' did you say? Only apparently?"
"Yes, Alan. I more than hinted at it last night, but you wouldn't listen. You said we ought to have drawn closer together because there hadn't been any kind of argument, literary or artistic or political. I said, 'Oh,
those
things!' as though they didn't matter. And they don't matter; they don't matter at all! For the joke is . . ."
"The joke is—?"
"I don't like Joyce a bit; I absolutely loathe Proust; I can't bow down before
any
of the sacred cows. I'm as conservative as you are or more so, politically speaking; only I lack your nerve at opposing popular trends and telling the intellectuals to go to hell. Apart from mathematics and science, and I
-won't
give in on those, there's nothing you've ever preached with which deep down inside me I haven't thoroughly agreed!"
"If you mean this somewhat staggering judgment, Camilla
..."
"Oh, I mean it!"
"Then why, for God's sake, have you been so insistent in the opposite direction? Why so tireless at blowing poisoned darts?"
"Partly because I'm a hypocrite, I suppose. And partly because—because you're so very
serious!
(Who else said that to somebody else?) You can't keep your sense of humor about anything that really matters to you, like books or the use of the English language, just as I can't keep mine over mathematics or science. Who could
resist
puncturing you, or chancing the effect of the odd remark?"
"You thought it was funny, did you?" "Not funny, no. I get mad and say things, but I always wish I hadn't. That's the difference between us.
I've
never
really meant one unpleasant word! Whereas
your
continual sneers . . . and how you enjoy sne
ering . . .
!"