A Shilling for Candles Read Online Free PDF

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of a solution, when there was a crime. But to decide in cold blood to
announce a crime, on the doubtful evidence of that common little object on
the table; to risk, not the disgrace of failure, but the much worse slings of
ridicule, was something they could not find it in their hearts to do. And so
Grant had canceled his seat at the Criterion and had journeyed down to
Westover. He had inspected the stumbling block, listened with patience to
their theories and with respect to the police surgeon’s story, and had gone
to bed in the small hours with a great desire to interview Robert Tisdall.
And now here was Tisdall, beside him, still speechless and half-fainting
because he had been confronted without warning by Scotland Yard. Yes, there
was a case; no doubt of it. Well, there couldn’t be any questioning with Cork
in the driving seat, so until they got back to Westover Tisdall might be left
to recover. Grant took a flask from the car pocket and offered it to him.
Tisdall took it shakily but made good use of it. Presently he apologized for
his weakness.
    “I don’t know what went wrong. This affair has been an awful shock to me.
I haven’t been sleeping. Keep going over things in my mind. Or rather, my
mind keeps doing it; I can’t stop it. And then, at the inquest it
seemed—I say, is something not right? I mean, was it not a simple
drowning? Why did they postpone the end of the inquest?”
    “There are one or two things that the police find puzzling.”
    “As what, for instance?”
    “I think we won’t discuss it until we get to Westover.”
    “Is anything I say to be used in evidence against me?” The smile was wry
but the intention was good.
    “You took the words out of my mouth,” the Inspector said lightly, and
silence fell between them.
    By the time they reached the Chief Constable’s room in the County Police
offices, Tisdall was looking normal if a little worn. In fact, so normal did
he look that when Grant said, “This is Mr. Tisdall,” the Chief Constable, who
was a genial soul except when someone jumped in his pocket out hunting,
almost shook hands with him, but recollected himself before any harm was
done.
    “Howdyudo. Harrump!” He cleared his throat to give himself time. Couldn’t
do that, of course. My goodness, no. Fellow suspected of murder. Didn’t look
it, no, upon his soul he didn’t. But there was no telling these days. The
most charming people were—well, things he hadn’t known till lately
existed. Very sad. But couldn’t shake hands, of course. No, definitely not.
“Harrump! Fine morning! Bad for racing, of course. Going very hard. But good
for the holiday makers. Mustn’t be selfish in our pleasures. You a racing
man? Going to Goodwood? Oh, well, perhaps—No. Well, I expect you
and—and our friend here—” somehow one didn’t want to rub in the
fact of Grant’s inspectorship. Nice-looking chap. Well brought up, and all
that—“would like to talk in peace. I’m going to lunch. The Ship,” he
added, for Grant’s benefit, in case the Inspector wanted him. “Not that the
food’s very good there, but it’s a self-respecting house. Not like these
Marine things. Like to get steak and potatoes without going through sun
lounges for them.” And the Chief Constable took himself out.
    “A Freedy Lloyd part,” Tisdall said.
    Grant looked up appreciatively from pulling forward a chair.
    “You’re a theater fan.”
    “I was a fan of most things.”
    Grant’s mind focused on the peculiarity of the phrase. “Why ‘was’?” he
asked.
    “Because I’m broke. You need money to be a fan.”
    “You won’t forget that formula about ‘anything you say,’ will you?”
    “No, thanks. But it doesn’t make any difference. I can only tell you the
truth. If you draw wrong deductions from it then that’s your fault, not
mine.”
    “So it’s I who am on trial. A nice point. I appreciate it. Well, try me
out. I want to know