Gibbous House 71

Maccabi was still looking uncomfortable. I would have given anything for a moment alone with him to ascertain why. In the meantime, Constable Turner turned his gaze to the brother of the deceased. He spoke in a more intelligible version of the local patois; both Cullis and I were able to understand it.

'Mr Cullis. Older brother, yes. On the estate since March, is it?'

Although Cullis' answer was as impenetrable as expected, the look of bewilderment was unmistakable. Turner leaned his face toward the labourer and glowered, the man shrank back.

'I gave you something to remember me by in Felton, man.'

Cullis cowered and shrank further away from the embodiment of authority.

'Been at the old business, Cullis?'

There was no need for words, the shake of the head was violent. Nonetheless, the detective seemed to discern some mendacity, for he delivered a sweeping, open-handed blow to the fellow's head. Perhaps there was more to the ostler's dental deficiencies than a poor diet. Less modern policing methods, for example. Maccabi, face a mixture of nervousness and relief, let out:

'So! A suspect!'

Truly, the man had never encountered a representative of the law, much less been on the wrong side of it. Turner said nothing. Allen's pen intensified its race across the page, he gave a curse as his ink ran out. I fully expected him to request an inkwell, but he did not. He withdraw a glass bottle darkened with the requisite black fluid. He removed the stopper, notebook wedged under one arm and his pen clamped between third and fourth fingers of the hand withdrawing said stopper. Meanwhile, he enthused,

'A fountain pen, a miracle of the modern epoch, a boon to all writers and reporters. Freed from the tyranny of a desk or writing slope at last.'

'Invented by Petrache Poenaru, a Romanian, in Paris in 1827. It's the latest model from London, with the latest innovations; an iridium-tipped gold nib, hard eraser and free-flowing ink, no doubt,' said Turner.

Edgar Allen was still looking bemusedly from bottle to pen as the constable removed same from his fingers and filled it, using the cunning lever.

'A pity it will not be truly portable, until one grows an extra hand.' He said.

Addressing Maccabi, the detective uttered one word, eyebrows raised:

'Suspect?'

Maccabi's reply was immediate but less effective for the stuttering:

'I mean m-m-merely that the Cullis' are known to you, sir a-a-and could reasonably be assumed to be criminal characters, and th-th-thus under suspicion. I thought a falling out...'

His voice faded like the last of an echo.

'Did you?' Was the illuminating response.

Most unfortunately, his discomfort was assuaged by the arrival of the other players in the pantomime. The professor with his chelate gait behind the confidently striding Miss Pardoner and the gliding Mrs Gonderthwaite. The policeman offered a polite click of the heels by way of welcome. Then the detective turned to me:

'The body may be removed, Mr Moffatt. But only to the care of the coroner at Alnwick. The farmer and his cart are yet here for the purpose.'

I was about to instruct Cullis to take care of his brother's remains, but thought better of it , bidding Maccabi to see to it, thereby ensuring his being accompanied by the detective and, most likely the d____ reporter, to the pond. Any enquiry as to whence his guilty manner came could wait until another time.