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

listened with strained attention. “If I did bring Martin I couldn’t bring anyone else. I mean I couldn’t have anyone on duty outside. The two constables could not be allowed to know anything about this.”

Derrick, realizing that the point had been carried, sent him a grave smile. “I don’t think we need bother about the outside of the house tonight, but that’s your end of it. All I ask for is you and Martin at nine thirty. I’m not trying to persuade you into this, sergeant, so drop it if you don’t think it’s good enough. But it’s the only program I can suggest, and I’ve no alternative.”

Burke rose mountainously from his chair. “And I’ve tried to tell you what it involves me in, which is the risk of twenty years’ record and my present job.” He paused, then gave a determined grunt. “But I’ll do it.”

Derrick nodded. “I think you’re right, and sometimes a man moves further ahead in ten minutes than in twenty years. Nine thirty, sergeant.”

X A Night of Tragedy

It took all Jean’s courage to go with Edith when the time came. She had had a not altogether comforting talk with her mother, in which, knowing that it was unwise to tell Mrs. Millicent too much, she only said that Edith wanted her to dine at Beech Lodge and that she might be able to help Derrick in his self-imposed task. Her mother assented, with a curious glance that suggested that it was not altogether the task that took her daughter to her old home. Jean, realizing the futility of fuller explanation, said little more.

It was something of a help that Edith understood so much and yet, in a way, understood so little. Her sanity, her cheerful hope that the tableau would frighten Martin into saying something that would settle the matter, and the growing affection in her manner, all combined to act like a much needed tonic. Jean found herself talking more freely than she ever imagined she could talk. She realized that this was because Edith was aware what was in her heart, and could perceive love, though the occult was beyond her. And the difference between the two girls did much to cement their friendship.

The affair of that night was tacitly avoided, Edith talking for the most part about that which lay nearest her heart. This was Derrick. She did not grudge him, wanting only his happiness, and the generosity of her nature touched Jean enormously. Edith took it for granted that whether the tableau vivant, as she put it, was successful or not, the next important event would be of a brighter character, and her contented assumption of this had an intriguing effect. It was strange to be regarded as a sister-in-law before the word was spoken. She was still talking about her brother, his art, his ambition, and the unexpectedness of him that she loved so much, when they came in sight of the gates of the Lodge.

Jean fell silent as they passed the cottage, again untenanted, and the rose-trees that bore the marks of Martin’s skill. She recalled her last visit here, and marveled at its outcome. These familiar windows, this well-known door, and most of all that she would soon meet the blank eyes of Perkins, all moved her profoundly. She came to the house again not as a visitor, or to revive memories of the past, but actually to rebuild that past in such a way as to drag into the open the secret of so many years. It was a crusade on behalf of the dead, a high mission that involved putting aside all else till it be performed. Though the wound in her own heart ached, it must ache till the mission be discharged. And behind that was the whisper of love. It was this thought that enabled her to meet Derrick with a glance of high resolution that he found infinitely inspiring.

Looking back at it afterward, she always wondered whether dinner was not the greatest test of that memorable night. In spite of their combined efforts, it was very voiceless. Perkins, who glanced less at Jean than at her mistress, moved silent-footed as ever, blank to everything except her duties, and even these were carried out with a sort of subconscious detachment. She both cooked and served the meal, and with the same unaltered perfection. Nothing in her had changed, and as of old she made no lost motions. She knew that Martin was in jail, charged with complicity in the murder of her former master, yet no sign of it appeared on her ageless face.

But from her emanated something that made the usual conversation well nigh impossible. Had she shown her knowledge, the tension had been less. As it was, Jean pictured her father and mother in the chairs occupied by Derrick and Edith, heard the tones of a remembered voice, saw the same trim, straight figure moving with the same soundless precision⁠—and could hardly forbear to cry out. When, a little later, she entered that other room of grim significance, it was with a feeling that almost amounted to relief. There was no Perkins here.

Derrick, whose eyes were unusually bright, waited till the maid had disappeared with the coffee-cups, then turned swiftly to Jean.

“Now we must act. Edith has given Perkins enough to keep her busy till half-past nine. That’s an hour. It was not safe to do anything here before this, so we must move things ourselves, and if possible without making a sound. One thing I want to ask: was your father dressed as in that picture?” He made a gesture toward the portrait.

“Yes, he always put on that coat after dinner.”

Derrick nodded, opened a drawer in the bottom of the desk, and produced a velveteen smoking-jacket.

“I thought that might be, so rooted out this old one of mine. Now we must shift the desk; then you can arrange the things on it. In a