The Silk Stocking Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

next day he set off for Dorsetshire.
    In his morning paper (not
The Daily Courier
), which he had been saving up to read in the train, was a rather fuller account of the tragedy, though now relegated to an unimportant page. Roger was quite gratified to observe that such details as were given corresponded almost exactly with those of Janet’s case; its perpetrator evidently corresponded exactly to the type which he had described so meticulously last night. Whatever he might feel for Janet, Roger had no sympathy with this girl; she was of the kind which is far better out of this world than in it. And she had copied poor little Janet with a slavishness that was really rather nauseating: the silk stocking tied in a single loop and twisted over the door, the screwed hook on the further side, the bare leg, the unsigned note—they were all there.
    Her name was Elsie Benham, “described as an actress,” as the paper cautiously put it. (“And of course we know what that means,” Roger commented caustically. “Why do they always ‘describe themselves as actresses’? It’s uncommonly tough on the real ones.”) She was known as a habituée of night-clubs (“That’s more like it”) and had been seen at one on the night of the tragedy. She was alone, and a friend who spoke to her mentioned that she seemed depressed. She left alone, at two o’clock in the morning, and must have killed herself very soon after reaching the flat which she shared with another friend who is at the moment out of London (“Euphemism for week-ending in Paris,” observed the sarcastic reader), for when she was discovered yesterday afternoon by a man who possessed a key to the flat (“As I said”) the doctor who was hurriedly summoned gave it as his opinion that she had been dead for at least twelve hours. “Which is not a bad sentence, even for
this
rag,” thought Roger.
    He skimmed through the rest of the report, tossed the newspaper aside and opened a novel.
    It was not till two hours later, as he was idly watching the fields fly past the window, that two things struck Roger. The evening paper had exaggerated when it spoke of the pathetic ‘letter’ left by the dead girl. It was not a letter; it was merely a quotation. “How wonderful is Death!” she had written on a blank piece of paper. “Death and his brother, Sleep.”
    “How wonderful is Death.
Death and his brother, Sleep,”
    murmured Roger. “It’s curious that a lady ‘described as an actress’ and known as a habituée of night-clubs should choose to quote Queen Mab on such an occasion. It’s curious that she’ could quote Shelley at all. It’s
very
curious that she could quote him correctly; I’d have taken a small bet that any lady ‘described as an actress,’ who might improbably have a nodding acquaintance with Shelley, would quote: ‘How
beautiful
is Death.’ Very curious; but not, apparently, impossible. Well, well, there must be more things in our night-clubs, Sheringham, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
    He watched a few more fields slide past.
    “And here’s another funny thing,” thought Roger. “All the papers this time feature the bare leg. But the bare leg wasn’t mentioned before, in any of the accounts I read. When Moira told me, it was complete news to me. I wonder how this woman got hold of that. I suppose it must have been alluded to in some paper I never saw; though I certainly thought I’d studied them all at one time or another. Curious!”
    He went on watching the fields, and set to wondering what he was going to say to Mr. Manners. The nearer he got to Dorsetshire, the more impertinent his mission began to appear.
    In the end he decided not to try the village inn at Little Mitcham, as had, been his first intention, but to put up in the neighbouring town of Monckton Regis. This would look less intrusive. He could then, finding himself so near to Mr. Manners, go over to Little Mitcham to pay his respects with perfect