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

touch of the East, visible in the olive tinge of his skin, the slenderness of hands and wrists, and the faint blueness at the base of his narrow fingernails. Derrick pondered over the possible history of this man with the build of an aristocrat and the insignia of the Orient. What strange tales those fixed lips might have told. But they were all his secret now.

“He’s not a peddler,” he said, turning to Burke, “and probably never was. We’ll have to depend on Martin and perhaps Perkins for the rest of it. Are you going to have a look at that pack of his?”

It was unrolled on the floor beside its late owner but revealed nothing more than the trinkets Derrick had already seen. The man’s pockets were empty save for a knife and a few coins, and the clothing itself bore no marks that yielded the slightest clue to his identity. Burke made a grimace.

“We’ve drawn a blank this time; now I’ll have a look through the cottage. How long did you say Martin had been with you?”

“Something more than three months now, and he brought all he had on his back. I don’t fancy you’ll find much of interest here.”

The sergeant rooted about with a certain methodical deliberation, finally coming to a small bureau, the drawers of which he pulled open with the manner of one who expects nothing. Martin’s personal property was in truth scanty. He paused at the bottom drawer and looked up.

“Matter of fact, Mr. Derrick, while we know our dead friend is the fellow who held the knife, we’ve got to admit that we can’t prove it unless we drag the truth out of the others. Martin must know perfectly well that he’s up against a sort of third degree examination, and what convinces me that he’s ready to give us the inside of this thing is that already he’s looking almost cheerful. And if he weakens, that woman Perkins will weaken, too. I’m about finished here now.”

He jerked open the last drawer as he spoke, jerked so strongly that it came out on the floor. Like the others it was empty. But between the bottom of it and the floor itself lay a small bundle of dirty shirts.

“Your man isn’t what you’d call exactly a careful housekeeper. He needs a wife.” He picked up the bundle between thumb and forefinger. “Look at this.”

Came a dull knock, a clatter on the floor, and a knife with a broad, curved blade a foot long and a strangely carved handle slid across the floor and rested almost touching the lifeless palm of the peddler. The big man drew in his breath with a great gust and stood glowering. His eyes met Derrick’s.

“Call in your gardener!” he said huskily.

Derrick’s brain was in a whirl. He stared back and, not trusting himself to speak, tapped at the window. He could see Peters pacing slowly up and down in front of the Lodge, and Martin, who was still standing in the same place, apparently plunged in thought. The latter turned at the sound, mechanically touched his cap, and came slowly back. The sergeant nodded, put his hand in his pocket, and stepped a little on one side of the door. A shadow darkened the threshold, and as the gardener crossed it a grasp of iron fastened on his shoulder.

“John Martin, I arrest you for complicity in the murder of Henry Millicent. Anything you now say may be used against you.”

A few minutes later Derrick walked slowly and rather wearily toward the house, and Edith met him at the door. For her the past hour had been full of a drama almost too tense for her practical soul, and she realized what it must have meant to her brother. One look at his face was enough. She hooked her arm into his and led him into the dining-room, where dinner was ready. At the door she pressed his hand for an understanding instant.

“I’m not going to say a thing about it, nor are you, till afterward. Perkins saw the whole thing, and the poor woman is happier than I’ve ever seen her. Congratulations, brother; and now forget it for an hour.”

He sat down with a vast relief. It seemed strange that in the midst of this deadly game such matters as food and cooking should proceed uninterrupted. It was Perkins’s work, Perkins, who, outwardly undisturbed by that which must have shaken her very spirit, was still the perfect servant, the ageless domestic automaton. He knew that Edith did not want him to look at the woman, but could not refrain from quick cursory glances at moments when she could not detect them. There was really no difference, except that the sallow cheeks had a faint color, and the lips were a shade less grim than usual. For the rest of it her face was still a mask, her figure just as unbending, her movements just as measured and deliberate. But what secret thoughts must be traversing that unlocked mind, what emotions stirring in her breast! And through it all she seemed not to know that he was there.

Later, in the study, he filled his pipe, shot a contented glance at Millicent’s portrait, took the jade god from his pocket, and set it on the desk where so often it had glimmered before. Edith scanned it with an interest she had never displayed till this evening, and sank comfortably into a big chair.

“Well,” she said curiously, “aren’t you going to tell me anything about it?”

“Yes, dear, everything.” He paused for a moment. “First of all, the thing is practically over, except another inquest and what will naturally follow that.”

“The last thing I saw was that poor man being carried to the cottage. Then that nice constable came up and talked to me as though I were six years old. I did like that. But there was no real information in it.”

Derrick laughed. “I’m afraid I did that.”

“I thought you had. Did you