CHAPTER 27Some time later Mr. Evan Pinkerton, still shattered by that awful face on the bed, and still more than a little distraught at the mild but annihilating way Inspector Bull had dismissed him from the scene there, sat on the oak settle in front of his empty grate in his own frigid chamber in the Old Angel. He could hear people moving about in the lounge below. The wind, whistling down the Caen stone chimney, blew the ashes out onto his hearth, rattled the casements, moaned in the leaden eaves-troughs. Mr. Pinkerton stared nervously at the panel. It was only too easy for him, whenever the wind buffeted any part of the ancient house on the cliff, overlooking the grey ruins of Camber Castle out in the Marsh, to hear footsteps in those narrow stairs behind the old oak. He got up eventua
