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Updated: June 19, 2025
Hadn't you better 'phone the local branch? Someone ought to be here in charge, you know." Merriton nodded. He was so stunned at the actuality of these two men's deaths, at the knowledge that their bodies lifeless, extinct were here in his morning room, that he had stood like an image, making no move, no sound. "Yes yes," he said, rapidly, waving a hand in Borkins's direction.
That fact helped him through what he felt was going to be somewhat of an ordeal his entrance into the gloomy and ghost-ridden old house of his inheritance. Merriton Towers had been called the loneliest spot in England by many of the tourists who chanced to visit the Fen district, and it was no misnomer.
For at this statement, Merriton threw a hand out suddenly, as though warding off a blow, took a step forward and peered at that which had once been his friend and enemy and then gave out a strangled cry. "Shot through the head!" he fairly shrieked, as Borkins came quietly into the room, and stopped short at the sound of his master's voice. "I tell you it's impossible impossible!
"I'm not in such bad fettle for an amateur, if anything in the nature of a scrap comes along, after all. Though I'm not anticipating any fighting, I can assure you. There's the morning's papers, and the local rag with various lurid and inaccurate accounts of the whole ghastly affair. Merriton seems to have a good many friends in these parts, and the local press is strong in his favour.
If you values your life at any price at all don't go out, sir, and investigate them. Don't! You're a dead man in the morning if you do." "What's that?" Merriton swung round and looked into the weak, rather watery, blue eyes of his butler. "What the devil do you mean, Borkins, talkin' a lot of rot? What are those flames, anyway?
Any self-respecting Christian would. There'll be some slight alterations made in Merriton Towers before I'm many days older, you can bet your life on that. Old great-grandmother four-poster takes her congé to-morrow morning. If I must live here I'll sleep anyhow." He settled himself back against the hard, horsehair sofa, and pulled up the blind.
"But you're no end of a help. It does me good just to see you. What is it, Petrie?" "A gentleman to see you, sir," responded the constable in crisp tones. "A gentleman by name of Merriton, Sir Nigel Merriton he said his name was. Bit of a toff I should say by the look of 'im. And wants to see you partikler. He mentioned Mr. Cleek's name, sir, but I told 'im he wasn't in at the moment.
A question of atmosphere and education, you see, Sir Nigel." "Good Heavens! Then you mean to say that those beastly things out there are not lit by any human or superhuman agency at all!" exploded Merriton at this juncture. "And that they have nothing whatever to do with the vanishing of Wynne and Collins?" Cleek shook his head emphatically. "Pardon me," he said, "but I didn't say that.
I've said good-bye to India for keeps, Wynne. I'm settled here for good." Wynne swung upon his heel at the tone of Merriton's voice, and his eyes narrowed. He stood almost a head taller than Nigel who was by no means short and was big and broad and heavy-chested. Merriton always felt at a disadvantage. "So?
The jury has returned and the foreman is about to pronounce the verdict. What is it you have to say, sir?" "Your Lordship, it is simply this." Cleek threw back his head. "The prisoner at bar " He pointed to Merriton, who at the first sound of Cleek's voice had spun round, a sudden hope finding birth in his dull eyes, "is innocent! I have absolute proof.
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