The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

starting eyes while something moved closer, closer. And then⁠—

A knock sounded at the door.

“If you please, sir, the inventory men would like to come in for a moment.” The impassive mask had fallen over her face again.

“Eh! I thought they had finished.” He spoke jerkily, aware that the study had suddenly become void and silent. “All right, they may come.”

A shuffle of footsteps in the hall, and Mr. Jarrad entered deferentially, hat in hand. He was followed by Dawkins. The younger man looked amused, and a trifle superior.

“I beg pardon for disturbing you like this, sir, but on looking over our notes I find that my colleague has omitted to make an entry concerning this desk.”

“Anything the matter with the desk?” asked Derrick curiously.

“No, sir, it’s merely the point of its physical condition, which would naturally affect any possible question of dilapidations. When I examined it I noticed a large stain on the leather, quite faint and dull. It’s the sort of thing one generally finds on desks of this character, especially when there happen to be young people in the family. I did not detect it till for some reason I made a second inspection. Now it seems that either I did not mention this for record or, if I did, my colleague failed to make the entry. So with your permission I’ll show it to him.”

Derrick felt no surprise. “Certainly,” he said mechanically. “Do you need more light?”

Mr. Jarrad shook his head, advanced to the desk, reverentially moved a sheaf of manuscript, put on his glasses, and bent low over the glossy surface. Dawkins stood at his elbow looking openly incredulous.

“I can’t see anything, just the same,” said the latter, “and a stain is a stain.”

Mr. Jarrad shifted the lamp and peered hard. “Curious,” he murmured to himself. “How very curious! I could have sworn that⁠—ah⁠—there, my friend,” he nodded with satisfaction, “you can see it now. It seems a little more difficult to place than the last time, but there it is, and quite large.” He ran a thin finger over an irregular outline. “In a certain light it might be almost invisible. Very faint, I admit, but surely your young eyes are as sharp as my glasses?”

Dawkins scrutinized, nodded, mumbled an apology, and made an entry in the large book. Mr. Jarrad turned to Derrick.

“That’s what I referred to, sir, and it’s not my habit to overlook small things. The foundation of a sound inventory business is system plus what might be called perception.”

“Perception?”

“Yes, sir. It involves a certain amount of sensitiveness, strange as that may sound, and the ability to perceive and record what is usually, in fact one might almost say always, missed by the casual observer. It’s not altogether a matter of training, either, but of instinct. Possibly there’s not one man in a hundred who would have spotted that; and if I were fanciful, sir, I would hazard the opinion that the desk was trying to hide it, which is of course absurd. In fact, though I see that you yourself have been sitting here, I am sure you did not observe it. Thank you, sir, and good night! We’ll be of no further trouble now.”

This oration being delivered in his very best manner, and the dignity of his profession thus established, Mr. Jarrad retired. When the steps died out, Derrick looked for himself. Close under the lamp he discerned a shadowy blotch of irregular shape, a rough pool with a tone a shade darker than the leather. It had apparently been subjected to hard rubbing. It was a discoloration of no particular hue, but as he gazed he knew without doubt that it had been made two years previously by the lifeblood of Henry Millicent.

III The Man from the East

A week passed at Beech Lodge, while Derrick endeavored to get down to work; but in spite of every effort, progress seemed impossible. Ideas, when they came, were illusory; his characters imbued themselves with strange aspirations and qualities, and plot after plot was displaced by the secret but constantly strengthening conviction that this novel was not, for the present at any rate, the most important thing in life. More than ever he was fascinated by Millicent’s study and the nameless advances seemingly made by the portrait of its late owner, and sat at the big desk for hours, fingering his pen, grasping at thoughts that continually eluded him. By the end of the second week he was assured there was something the dead man wanted him to do.

Of all this he said nothing to Edith, and it was a relief to know that she was of too practical a nature to harbor imaginings similar to his own. Her days were spent in settling down, and he agreed thankfully with all she proposed, stipulating only that the study itself should remain absolutely undisturbed. That room, he announced with an air of great contentment, had been designed and equipped to suit his particular fancy. When he said this it seemed that the portrait of Millicent signaled its silent approval.

It was one evening when he was at the desk, trying as usual to classify his own thoughts, that Edith looked up from the book in her lap.

“Jack,” she said suddenly.

He put down his pen with relief. There were whispering shadows in the corner, and one could not work tonight.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Will you tell me something, quite honestly?”

He smiled and nodded. “It’s no particular effort to be honest with you. What am I suspected of now?”

She glanced into the leaping fire, and turned with a quick, familiar motion. “How’s the book going? I do so want to know.”

“It isn’t making what one would call absolutely triumphant progress. It’s generally that way at first. Then later on you realize that you’ve done far more than you thought, and the happy issue is in sight.”

“Do you know yet whether Beech Lodge is as good a place to work in as you expected?”

“I think it is, quite,”