Mystery at the Rectory (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

been cleaning the revolver and possibly caught the cloth in it. The shot went through his temple—the right temple. Death must have been instantaneous. Absolutely."

      "What a dreadful affair," Avery repeated slowly, "does Lady Revell know yet?"

      "She heard of it with fortitude," Weir-Opie said rather dryly. "I went there before coming here. Gilbert is now the heir, I suppose, and he has always been his mother's idol."

      "What about that lady artist—Mrs. Green, though I understood that she wouldn't be at The Causeway any more."

      "Nothing to keep her there, you mean?" Weir-Opie asked in the same tone. "No, she was with Lady Revell. Returned Monday evening, it seems. Gilbert spoke of fetching her to hear the news. Lady Revell sensibly shut him up. She says she has no idea why Anthony was at The Causeway. We think that he came back for something forgotten, heard some one prowling around; we've had a good few housebreaking jobs lately that we can't account for—opened his drawing-room window so as to hear or see better—got out his revolver, he bought one some months ago for just that purpose, and then as nothing happened and time began to drag, he began to tinker with his revolver—was careless and killed himself. The doctor thinks he must have shot himself around about one o'clock."

      The telephone rang beside them.

      "That'll probably be for me. I told my men I should come in here next."

      It was for Weir-Opie, who listened, murmured "Good!" and hung up.

      "We've got into touch with the couple with whom Revell was climbing. They say that he told them early yesterday morning that he must go back to London to see his dentist about an aching tooth. He drove off around nine. That accounts for his being able to drop in at his home last night. He evidently came on here after having had his teeth attended to, to fetch something he wanted while away. Now to the next step, Padre. Lady Revell told me that she had just had a letter from Anthony—she's been away till Tuesday and so didn't see him when he left—saying that he was engaged to a Miss Olive Hill, who, she tells me, is Miss Avery's companion, and that she was on the point of coming over to see Miss Hill and get up a dinner-party for her, when I brought her the news of this. That's why I came on at once from The Flagstaff to you. It's a terrible thing to have happened. Is the young lady in?"

      The words were a fresh shock. Avery had forgotten Olive for the moment. What an appalling piece of news for her. Whatever her faults, what a dreadful blow!

      Avery rose and with a word of excuse went up to Doris's sitting-room. Some one was on a couch, her head buried in the cushions. As he stood a moment he heard a sound as of an animal in agony. It was too late to withdraw. Doris, for it was she, had sensed a presence in the room. She sat up with a jerk.

      "I locked my door," she began in a harsh sort of whisper.

      "My dear Doris!" came from the doorway. It was Grace just entering. "I had no idea that you cared for poor Anthony like this—"

      "Anthony?" came from Doris in a sort of screech. "Who cares about Anthony It's Richard!" There was no mistaking the lack of affection in the one case, the agony in the second.

      "But what's happened?" Grace was aghast as Doris staggered to her feet.

      "I've had no letter, and I told him I should count the days," Doris said wildly.

      "But there was a letter for you that came yesterday. I sent Olive to you with it at once. She wanted to ask you about some dress or other." Grace was speaking to Doris.

      "She didn't give it to me. I haven't had a line for ages—I thought—I thought—" Without finishing, Doris, with a travesty of her usual grace, fairly swept the two from her room under the plea of a frightful headache.

      Grace stepped into her own.

      "She's been worrying lately. Something that Violet-May Witson said started it, I think," Grace whispered.

      Lady Witson was a dreadful gossip as they both knew. And one of her brothers was a fellow Commissioner out in West Africa.

      "But what does she mean about not having had Dick's last letter? As I met Olive running down with some patterns that Doris had promised to help her with yesterday, I handed her the letter. She went on straight into the room, I'm sure."

      "Well, we can't ask about it now," remarked the rector.

      Grace nodded and gave him a meaning look. "No need to worry about telling poor Anthony now, and you would have had to tell him—"

      "How did you know that something had happened to him?" he asked.

      "The milkman, of course! He told cook. Cook told Margery who brings in my tea. Well, I wanted the engagement broken off, as you know, but hardly like this I can't understand it! Poor Anthony!"

      She stopped as Doris, looking herself again, came in.

      "Where's Olive?" she asked. "I want that letter from Dick that you gave her, Grace."

      "And John wants to break some bad news to her."

      "Bad news? Is Anthony ill? Was that what you meant just now? I'm afraid I was too wrapped up about Dick to care what had happened to any one else." She was facing the rector.

      "It'll be a shock to you too, though," he said now. "Revell is dead, Doris."

      She stared at him open-mouthed.

      "It seems that he has accidentally shot himself," he explained. "Weir-Opie has just told me. He thinks Anthony was cleaning his revolver and did something awkward—a bullet went through his temple."

      "How awful!" breathed Doris. "What will that poor girl do? What a dreadful thing for her!"

      "I want to tell her at once. Weir-Opie wonders if she knew that Anthony was back last night."

      "Back? But he's away rock-climbing surely. How could he be back! You don't mean—" her tone grew more shocked still "—that it happened at The Causeway?"

      He nodded gravely. "In the drawing-room there. I don't know more myself."

      "I'll find her," Doris volunteered. "And I'll let the letter stand over for the time being."

      For a moment the rector wished that he could also let her break the news to Olive. But with all her attractiveness, Doris was not a religious woman at all. And in moments such as this, the only consolation was that which religion had to offer. It might, probably would, fail, but there was no other.

      The two women left him, and a minute later Olive came in, looking very confident and smiling.

      Avery stepped forward and took her hand.

      "My dear girl," he said in a very kind voice, for after all she was engaged to the dead boy. After all a smile and a pat, or even a jarring laugh might mean little. "Prepare yourself for bad news. Very bad news. Sit down here—" and then he told her just what the Chief Constable had told him. It seemed to turn her to stone. Before her pallid silence Avery was at a loss, for it had some unexpected quality in it that he felt, but could not name. Of personal grief, as he expected to meet it, there was practically none.

      Had she not loved Anthony then? Had she only accepted him as what he was, in one sense, a marvellous stroke of luck? The rector had had his doubts on that score since yesterday, but he had told himself that it was not fair to probe too deeply into her motives.

      "Major Weir-Opie wonders whether you would let him ask you a few questions," he went on.

      She made for the door without a word. The Major turned at her entry with some apprehension. But a glance at her tearless face relieved him. He looked at her with secret curiosity. Anthony Revell was a young man who could have married any one, and he had chosen this girl, Olive Hill, a companion here at the rectory. True, Anthony Revell had always seemed quite unconscious of his position as fortune's favourite, a country life and books had always seemed to attract him more than the smart world, but even so, he was a prize in the matrimonial market, and this white-faced girl had won it. She was, he saw, quite pretty, but still—and then she raised her eyes.

      "Anything's