Glaring
headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the
household, subtle innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the
police having a clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack
time. The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers
seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable life: "The
Mysterious Affair at Styles" was the topic of the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the Cavendishes. The house
was constantly besieged by reporters, who were consistently
denied admission, but who continued to haunt the village and the
grounds, where they lay in wait with cameras, for any unwary
members of the household. We all lived in a blast of publicity.
The Scotland Yard men came and went, examining, questioning,
lynx-eyed and reserved of tongue. Towards what end they were
working, we did not know. Had they any clue, or would the whole
thing remain in the category of undiscovered crimes?
After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously, and
asked if she might have a few words with me.
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