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

“Exactly, I think,” said the girl, after a swift scrutiny.

“And that French window, was it locked?”

“Yes, always before dinner at this time of year.”

He gave a curious smile, “Tonight I think we’ll leave it open.”

“How stupid, Jack!” interjected Edith, “and let the man escape.”

“He can’t, because he’ll be chained to the sergeant. It’s with another object. Now are you ready?”

Jean sent him a quick glance. She guessed the object, and it made her heart beat faster.

Gradually the room assumed its former appearance. Edith assisted with a businesslike, good-humored alacrity, in the manner of a housekeeper who helps to arrange a stage for young people’s tableaux. To her these were chairs, tables, and rugs, nothing more. She wondered a good deal why a practical man like Sergeant Burke should be willing to take part, a man responsible for the custody of his prisoner, then reflected that it was all rather queer, and there was no point in worrying about what one didn’t understand. The consoling phase of it was her conviction that this was the last act of the somewhat disconcerting drama of the past few months, that it would soon be followed by the wedding of two of the principals, and then her brother would settle down and get on with his work. The thing that really most bothered her was the lease of Beech Lodge. She knew that Jean would never live here again.

It was as well she took her present occupation so placidly, for to Jean and Derrick, especially the former, the rearrangement of the study brought with it an austere and growing significance. They moved in the presence of what had been Millicent, recreating a poignantly familiar scene, directed by the gesture of an unseen hand. They were automatons, obeying they knew not what elusive instinct. And it seemed that as the room took shape it throbbed once more with a medley of tiny voices, each thrilling its own message in a fine, thin, vibrating tone. The chair where the dead man used to sit, the desk over which he leaned, the blurred stain that bore its cloudy witness to his passing; all these became vocal, joining in a mysterious communication which announced that nothing is ever utterly dissipated or lost, but in some form or quality remains, an imperishable record for all time.

Nine o’clock struck, and Derrick glanced from the French window into the darkness. The night was profound, and over the countryside rested a great blanket of fog. Putting out his hand, he could hardly see it. Beyond was the world, populous with life, lost and infinitely removed. From the trees bordering the lawn came a slow, soft drip, sounding like a vast, subdued weeping in this black obscurity. Anything might move here and be undetected. All in a breath he became convinced that there was something close by. But it did not move.

He pictured what must be going on now in Bamberley jail. Burke in his shiny cape, tramping down the barred passage to Martin’s cell, handcuffs dangling, grim, resolute, conscious of the desperate risk he ran, his jaw like iron. How had Burke disposed of his constables, and what kind of story had he told? Again Burke, with his dark-lantern at Martin’s barrier, the glint of yellow light on the gardener’s sullen face, the brief word of command, the click of metal that chained them together. Did Martin ask questions? Was he surprised, or unwilling, or did he take it all with his customary dogged silence? Then two burly figures engulfed in the fog, the wet glimmer from Bamberley windows⁠—if Bamberley were not already asleep⁠—the scrape of heavy feet on the graveled road, this strangely assorted pair moving up the long hill beneath trees that stretched ghostly arms overhead. What must Burke be thinking now?

He turned abruptly, leaving the window ajar, and drawing the curtains close. Crossing to the mantel, he beckoned to the two girls.

“Now I’m going to show you a part of the mystery of Beech Lodge.”

He touched the woodwork, a small panel fell forward, and inside gleamed the jade god.

“Isn’t that clever?” said Edith cheerfully.

Jean did not stir. Her eyes, very wide open, were fixed on the image. It was all very extraordinary⁠—and very simple. Had her father found this hidingplace, or had he made it during the long evenings he spent alone after it became imperative to have some hidden shrine for his deadly trophy? Here was the spot, so near and yet so safe, whence came the mysterious authority that gave tongues to inanimate things. Yes, the jade god was safe there. Again she looked at Derrick.

“I begin to understand now,” she said under her breath.

Edith moved close and peered in. “I’ll have that well scrubbed out tomorrow. It’s dreadful!”

Derrick laughed. “Please wait till I ask it.” He took out the thing and set it beside the lamp.

“It used to stand on the other side of him.” Jean’s voice was quiet and steady.

“I know, but that won’t matter this time, and,” he added thoughtfully, “I want it to be visible from the window.”

He paused, then sent her a glance that gave her renewed fortitude. “Now I’m going to get into position. Please don’t try and help me unless you feel you must, and it can only last a few minutes. You and Edith stand behind the screen, if you feel that staying there won’t be too much for you, and above all don’t stir till I do. It will all turn on Martin’s first words. If anything happens at the window, leave it to me. When Perkins knocks do not answer on any account. Is the lamp right?”

Jean nodded.

He pressed her hand comfortingly, and again their eyes met in a gaze of perfect understanding.

“Get behind the screen now,” he whispered, “and don’t look at me.”

He put on the velveteen jacket and took the dead man’s chair. Leaning his head forward on the desk, the blurred stain was but