Plot It Yourself

He hung up. I cradled the phone, considered for half a minute, stepped to the door and on out, shut the door, wiped the knob with my handkerchief, followed the path back to the house and around to the front entrance, and pushed the button. Again the door was opened by the devoted mother.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” I said, “but I thought I ought to tell you. Miss Ogilvy doesn’t seem to be there. I knocked several times, and knocked loud, and got no response.”

She wasn’t alarmed. “She must be there. She hasn’t been in for breakfast.”

“I knocked hard.”

“Then she’s gone somewhere. There’s a lane in back of the cloister, and she keeps her car there.”

“Gone without breakfast?”

“She might. She never has, but she might.”

I took a chance. It was highly unlikely that X had gone off with her car. “What make is her car?”

“Jaguar.”

“It’s there. I looked around a little and saw it. I think you ought to come and see, Mrs Ogilvy. She might have had a stroke or something.”

“She doesn’t have strokes. I never go to the cloister.” She tightened her lips. “But perhaps I should- All right. You come along.”

She crossed the sill and shut the door, and I moved aside to let her by. She strode like a female sergeant, around to the terrace and across it, and along the path. When she reached the door of the cloister she started her hand for the knob, but changed her mind and raised it to the knocker. She knocked three times, at intervals, turned her head to look at me, grabbed the knob and opened the door, and entered. I followed. In three steps she saw it and stopped. I said something, went on by, on to it, squatted, and touched an arm. I unzipped the smock, spread it open, and took a look.

I stood up. Mother hadn’t moved, except that her mouth was working. “She’s dead,” I said. “Stabbed in the chest. She has been dead quite a while.”

“So she did it,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“No. Someone else did it. There’s no weapon.”

“It’s under her. It’s somewhere.”

“No. If she did it and pulled the weapon out, still alive, there would be a lot of blood, and there is almost none. It was pulled out after her heart stopped.”

“You know a lot about it.”

“I know that much. Will you call the police or shall I?”

“She did it.”

“No. She did not.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Archie Goodwin. I’m a private detective. I’ve had some experience with death by violence.”

“Do you mean she was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”