And so—no more Protheroe. …
Here was the pen his fingers had held.
On the floor was a faint dark stain—the rug had been sent to the cleaners, but the blood had soaked through.
I shivered.
“I can’t use this room,” I said aloud. “I can’t use it.”
Then my eye was caught by something—a mere speck of bright blue. I bent down. Between the floor and the desk I saw a small object. I picked it up.
I was standing staring at it in the palm of my hand when Griselda came in.
“I forgot to tell you, Len. Miss Marple wants us to go over tonight after dinner. To amuse the nephew. She’s afraid of his being dull. I said we’d go.”
“Very well, my dear.”
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
I closed my hand, and looking at my wife, observed:
“If you don’t amuse Master Raymond West, my dear, he must be very hard to please.”