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

“Yes, sir, and I told you all I knew.”

“And the motive for the crime is as much a mystery to you as ever?”

Martin’s lips were trembling now, and he could only nod.

“Well, I had a chat the other day with a man who was on the case, and he told me that another thing, not that kris, was missed and has never been seen since. It was a sort of image, carved in jade.”

“I never heard of that, sir,” stammered Martin thickly.

“Yes, and apparently it had been picked up by Mr. Millicent in the East years before.”

Martin made a convulsive gesture. “Please, sir,” he begged, “don’t talk like that here.”

Simultaneously his gaze was drawn to the cottage window as though by mesmeric power. It seemed that now he had ceased to feel anything except a mounting fear that struck to his very heart. Little tremors ran through his massive frame, and he began to sway with a slow, rhythmic motion as if endeavoring to maintain his balance. His face was a changing mask in which there was not so much of guilt as of a deadly recognition that he was being overtaken by some remorseless destiny from which there was no escape. No longer a gardener, a pruner of rose-trees, or a traveler from far countries. He became in that moment a man under a curse.

Again Derrick felt a fleeting pang of pity for such torture, but remembered the triangle of death, with Martin standing at one corner. At the same time he sensed the strangeness of the situation, in which he, a dweller in a quiet countryside, should be inextricably involved in a problem so grim and unexpected. Might it be some period of fantasy or subconscious phase from which he would presently awaken? To this there were two apparent answers. One, the faint tingle that seemed to spread from the thing hidden in his clenched hand. The other, the picture of a girl waiting, waiting. At that, all thought of compassion vanished from his mind. It was real, all real, and destiny was at work in Beech Lodge. Then in a flash the next move became clear.

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this was the sort of thing that was missed from the desk?” He took the image from his pocket and balanced it openly in the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he added, fixing Martin with a steady eye, “you can’t tell me, because you say you never saw it.”

The gardener’s figure seemed to shrink visibly, and his eyes protruded. He made a choking sound, the blood rushed in a mottled flood to his cheeks, and the big hands clasped and unclasped mechanically. Derrick, staring at him, felt a throb of triumph and slid the image out of sight.

“God!” said Martin chokingly. “Oh, God! Where did you get that?”

Then he swung round and glared at the cottage.

Out of the door came the figure of the peddler, and Martin, watching him, made a gesture of despair foreign to so powerful a man. The stranger’s eyes were preternaturally bright, and there was now no trace of the weary limp with which he had moved only a few hours ago. His head was erect, the bent shoulders were straight, his body was lithe and had taken on something of the springy contours of youth. Instinctively Derrick’s fingers tightened round the image, but it was at him rather than at his pocket that Blunt looked first.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but when I was smoking inside just now I couldn’t help hearing you say that someone had been killed in your house. Might I ask who it was?”

The audacity of the thing made Derrick blink. He could not trust himself to glance at Martin but knew that the gardener’s eyes were fixed intently on the peddler’s face. There followed an instant of silence. Derrick realized that he was hunting big game, the biggest game of all, and it behooved him to keep his head.

“Will you tell me first why the matter is of any interest to you?”

Blunt’s lips formed an inscrutable smile, but his gaze was as blank as seawater.

“It’s of no more interest than anything else of the same kind, but I’ve seen a bit of that sort of thing in the East, and it may be I can be of use in getting at the bottom of it, if that’s not been done yet.”

Derrick pondered. “This was not the usual kind of sudden death, and there were no clues left.”

The man nodded understandingly. “There ain’t so many deaths of what you would call the usual kind where I come from, either, but there is most always a clue of some sort if one knows where to look. That’s a matter of instinct. Can’t explain it, but I reckon I’ve got it.”

Over Martin’s features crept a shade of admiration. Derrick saw this, and it stiffened his resolution. The hunt was afoot now, one against two. Soon, he was convinced, it would be one against three, when Perkins joined in. She would prove perhaps the most elusive of all. Then his mind jumped back to the man in front of him.

“I don’t see how a complete stranger could spot at first sight anything that skilled detectives failed to discover after very close examination,” he said coolly. “You’ll have to convince me that it’s something more than mere curiosity on your part before I go any further.”

“And against that there’s such a thing as looking at some object for so long that after a while one doesn’t see it at all. It’s the fresh eye that picks things up. Would it surprise you if I said that you’ve got something close to you at this minute that might be a clue, and you never guess it.”

Martin drew in his breath sharply, but Derrick’s eyes never left the stranger’s face.

“Isn’t that a rather wild shot of yours?”

“It may be, but I’ll risk it. I