After walking for some distance, I saw ahead of me the lights of the vast Van Blake residence that sprawled in the hollow below. I could see too in the moonlight the expanse of closely cut lawns and the packed flower beds that surrounded the house. As I walked I wondered if Cornelia was at home, and if she were, what she was doing. I wondered too if Royce had contacted her and had warned her that he had had a tip off that Lydia was talking.
I slowed my pace when I saw ahead that the path faded to a clearing. Sheltering behind a thicket, I took out the map I had got from Latimer, and using my small flashlight, I checked up on my bearings.
At the end of the path I had to turn right, cross the clearing, skirt the house and walk for a hundred yards or so to where the summer house was. The pheasantry was another fifty yards or so beyond the summer house.
I put the map back in my hip pocket and moved forward as Ted Dillon must have moved forward on the night he was murdered.
Keeping to the shadows, I crossed the clearing, passed within forty yards of the dark massive bulk of the house whose windows showed chinks of light, and kept on until I reached another wood, then I paused and once more checked my bearings. Somewhere to my right should be the summer house. The path led into the wood which was dark and silent. I moved forward, and it wasn’t until I began blundering into trees, that I decided I’d better use my flashlight.
Shielding the light with my fingers, I moved forward more quickly. A sudden whirring sound made my heart skip a beat, and looking up I made out in the dim light row upon row of pheasants sitting on boughs of trees, staring down at me.
The sight of all these birds, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and looking down at me with their little ruby eyes gave me the shakes. I moved faster, and twenty yards further on, I came out into a clearing. Bang in the middle of the clearing was the summer house.
It was a verandah surrounded, knotty pine cabin; its dark windows, like sightless eyes, reflected the light of the moon. I crossed the clearing and mounted the steps that led up to the verandah. The door was locked and didn’t yield to pressure. I decided it would be easier to get in by a window. I moved silently around to the back of the summer house. I found two small windows and a casement window to choose from. A quick examination showed me one of the small windows was unlatched, and with the help of my pocket knife, I levered it half open. Before climbing in, I paused to listen.
The night was full of soft, eerie sounds. I could hear the slight wind in the trees, the creaking of the boughs under the weight of the pheasants, the sudden fluttering of wings, the tap of some climbing plant against the cabin: sounds that could mask the soft approach of one of the guards.
Feeling spooked, I pushed up the window, slid my leg through into darkness and stepped down on to a thick pile carpet. Shielding the light of my flashlamp I took stock of the room I was in.
It was a large room with lounging chairs and settees. I examined the heavy drapes; deciding they were heavy enough to shut in any light, I pulled them across the windows, then found the light switches and turned them on.
I could see then that the cabin hadn’t been used for a long time. Dust lay everywhere, and a few cobwebs floated from the ceiling.
I began a careful search of the room. There was a small bar at one end, containing a comprehensive selection of bottles. A glass with a smear of lipstick on it stood unwashed by a bottle of Scotch. A bowl of salted almonds, thick with dust, was nearby. It looked to me as if this little summer house had been suddenly locked up, and no servant had been allowed in to clean up, before it was closed.
I surveyed the expanse of Turkey carpet. Was what I was looking for under the carpet? I pushed a settee out of the way and rolled back part of the carpet. Knotty pine planks stared up at me. There seemed nothing suspicious about them, but there was still quite an expanse of flooring I couldn’t see.
Working quickly I moved the furniture back on to the part of the flooring I had examined, and investigated the rest of the planks. The right hand corner of the room rewarded my effort. A dark stain, the colour of old mahogany, roughly a foot square in size, marred the creamy white of the pine.
I knelt down and played the beam of my flashlamp on it. I had no doubt that it was an old blood stain. Someone had lain on these planks and had bled from a wound. I had no doubt either that the blood had come from Dillon’s dying body.
