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

it. If no such attempt is made, it’s for us to make the next move. I take it, sergeant, you’re willing to work with an amateur a little while longer?”

Burke nodded grimly. “I’ll follow anyone who can lead me to the man who killed Mr. Millicent.”

He moved back and out of sight. It was nearly dark now, and Beech Lodge was encircled with ghostly shadows. Edith had obliterated herself in her bedroom, and was pretending to read. All she asked was that this too serious playacting be concluded as soon as possible. It deranged the house and made her restless and uncomfortable. Derrick manipulated the curtains so that they hung partly open, revealing the French window, then seated himself at the desk and shot an oblique glance at the jade god. He was not afraid of it but experienced no desire to stare straight into those emerald eyes. He glanced at Millicent’s portrait, asking mutely whether so far all was well done, but Millicent seemed uninterested. What could he mean by that? Then steps in the hall, and low voices, and a tap at the door.

Came Perkins’s flat tones saying that Martin and Blunt were outside. She looked not at all at the image but seemed to know it was the original. Whatever emotion it may have aroused, she gave no sign, and he marveled at her self-repression.

“All right, they may come in, and I think you’d better stay in the room while they are here.”

A flicker of surprise flitted across the blank face. Then she nodded with only the ghost of a smile. It seemed that she was not unwilling to stay, and the smile was a little satirical and rather cruel, he thought. But he remembered that she was not Blunt’s keeper. In the next moment the men entered, their caps in their hands. Derrick leaned back in the big chair. The curtain was up now.

“Blunt,” he said with slow distinctness, “it may be that we are both wide of the mark in this attempt, and, frankly, I don’t see how you can be of any real assistance. It is only because you told me that sometimes you had been able to get under the skin of things that I’m making it. You understand that?”

The peddler nodded, and for an instant their eyes met. The man’s gaze swung back to the thing he had been staring at since he crossed the doorstep. Irrepressible hunger and desire was in the stare. Derrick seemed oblivious to this.

“The murder took place in this room two years ago. Martin has told you that, I assume?”

“Yes, sir, he has.”

“It occurred between nine and ten at night. Over the mantel you will see a picture of Mr. Millicent, who was found dead in this chair where I am sitting. Apparently he had not time to make any defense. This jade thing used sometimes to stand in front of him, but it seems that it cannot have been there that night. It is not known, as yet”⁠—here Derrick paused for a second⁠—“how the murderer entered the house.”

He hesitated an instant, then looked suddenly at Perkins. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s not known?”

“Not as yet, sir,” she answered slowly.

Martin made an involuntary gesture, but the peddler wheeled and sent the woman a swift and penetrating glance that had in it something of contempt, as though he had caught the drift of her words and they actually amused him.

“Can you tell me anything more, sir?”

“Yes, though it may be you know it already from Martin. The weapon that is believed to have been used has disappeared, a Malay kris that was always on this desk. No motive was then ascribed to the crime, but it now seems that this might have been robbery, which was unsuccessful. No strangers are shown to have been at the house that day, and not as far as Perkins is aware have any been here till very recently. No clues⁠—and I take it that it is possible clues in which you are interested⁠—were left. Now you can tell me if anything suggests itself to you. If you want to ask any questions, ask them.”

The bright eyes were fixed on the speaker’s face. Martin was rooted to the ground but cast furtive looks at the peddler, swerving from these to stare with a dumbfounded expression at the image. He had nearly mastered his feelings, but there was a twitch in his fingers he could not manage to control. Perkins, her lean hands folded, regarded Blunt with a fixed and provocative gaze, as though inviting him to escape if he could from the net she was weaving. But Blunt seemed unmoved. His keen eyes slowly examined every angle of the room, scrutinized Millicent’s portrait with temporary interest, then traveled to desk and chair, mentally photographing their minutest detail. Finally he looked at the French window, and Derrick wondered if by chance he knew what waited outside.

“Was that door locked at the time?” he asked after a long pause.

Derrick turned to Perkins. “Was it?”

“Yes,” she said curtly.

“And the front door?”

“I am not sure of that. Mr. Millicent usually saw to it before he came upstairs.”

Martin started. “What are you trying to get at?” His voice was rough and threatening, his eyes vicious.

For answer the peddler fixed on him a glittering stare, whereat the gardener blinked and was silent. Derrick caught his breath. The very air was now ominous.

“Anything changed here since the murder happened?” asked Blunt with a curious lift in his voice.

“Just what do you mean?”

“Things are talking to me now. They’re a bit confused, and all I can get is that this room may not be the same as it was then.”

Perkins put her hand to her throat. “How do you know?” she whispered.

Derrick leaned tensely forward. This was evidence, new evidence.

“Go on, Blunt. Tell me just what you’re after.”

“I mean, are things in the same place as when that man was killed?”

A slight sound escaped from Perkins, and her nostrils dilated, while Derrick caught a