The Burning Court Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’ve often thought that you—you and Mark Despard and Dr. Welden—being interested in those murders and ugly things—don’t you think it’s a little unhealthy?”
    Stevens was flabbergasted. Even in what he called her Elsie-Dinsmore moods, he had never heard her talk quite like this; it struck a wrong note; it was all wrong. He looked at her again, and saw that the plump face was quite serious.
    “It has been stated by a high authority,” he said, “that, so long as the American people preserve their wholesome interest in murder and adultery, the country’s safe. And if you should happen to feel morbid”—he tapped the briefcase—“here’s Cross’s new one. It’s a book of women poisoners. I believe there’s a ‘Marie’ in it, too.”
    “Oh? Have you read it?”
    “Just glanced into it.”
    She showed not even any mild curiosity; she dismissed the matter with a frown of concentration as she maneuvered the car into the drive beside their house. He got out, feeling suddenly very hungry and very tired. The frame cottage, built after the New England fashion, and painted white with green shutters, was cheerful with lights through fresh curtains. There was a smell of new grass and lilac; a hill of trees tumbled away behind it, and up the hill, a hundred yards or so, the great wall of Despard Park ran at the end of the avenue which had been named for King Charles the Second.
    Inside the house, he would have liked to sit down in a chair and stay there. To the right of the hall was the living-room: with the sofa and deep chairs covered in some reddish-orange material, the fat-bowled lamps on the tables, the shelves of bright-jacketed books let into white panelling, the one good copy of the Rembrandt over the fireplace—even the cocktail-shaker, which has become a part of our lares and penates—in short, typical of a hundred thousand homes. Through the glass doors to the dining-room across the hall he could see fat Ellen creaking about, setting the table.
    Marie, taking his hat and briefcase, shooed him upstairs to wash. Which was better. He came downstairs, whistling; but he stopped before he got to the lowest step. He could see his briefcase lying on the telephone table in the hall, the silvered catch gleaming; and the catch was unfastened.
    The worst of this was feeling like a conspirator in your own house. He hated this fog; he liked to have things out in the open. Feeling as guilty as it was possible to feel, he went over to the telephone table and made a hurried examination of the manuscript inside.
    The photograph of Marie D’Aubray was missing; and that was that.
    Refusing to give himself time to think, he went hastily into the living-room. It occurred to him that the atmosphere had subtly altered. On the sofa, lounged back easily against it, Marie sat by the cocktail-table with an empty glass in her hand. Her face was flushed, and she pointed to another glass on the table.
    “You’ve been an awfully long time,” she said. “Drink that. You’ll feel better.”
    While he drank, it occurred to him that she was watching him. The thought which flashed through his head was so ugly that, in irritation at it and defiance of it, he poured out another cocktail and drank again. Then he put down the glass with great care.
    “By the way, Marie,” he said, “there’s a little mix-up here. Number 1 King’s Avenue has suddenly become a house of mystery. I should not be surprised to see clutching hands coming through the curtains and bodies falling out of cupboards. Tell me, do you know of anybody, having the same name as yours, who was in the habit of poisoning people with arsenic a dog’s years ago?”
    She stared at him, with a pucker of concentration. “Ted, what on earth are you talking about? You’ve seemed queer ever since you got home.” She hesitated, and laughed. “Do you think I’ve poisoned your cocktail?”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past you. But seriously, wild as it sounds, did you ever