"What's this? There was a struggle of some kind, then?"
"A struggle?" said Roger, with fine disgust. "No, man! An Apache dance!"
The police had gone, finally, and Roger was shaking his head at Ronald Stratton in the study. As it was Sunday evening, the party was not changing; and the rest were having their cocktails in the drawing room. Roger, however, had taken his host down to the study to tell him what he thought of him.
"Really, Ronald, you shouldn't have lost your temper with the superintendent, you know," he chided, rather unhappily. "You've made an enemy of the man now, and it simply doesn't do to put the police at enmity - especially in such a delicate case as this," Roger added with meaning.
"I suppose so," Ronald admitted. "But I simply couldn't help it. I can't stand people trying to bully me."
"Tchah!" said Roger.
"You surely don't think it can have done any harm?" Ronald asked.
"I hope not, sincerely. But the trouble was, you see, that I had to back you up to a certain extent, with the result that I treated the man as an opponent, instead of as a possible ally."
"But does that matter?"
"I suppose not, really. Yes, I suppose everything is all right now."
"You don't sound very certain, Roger," said Ronald Stratton, not without anxiety.
"One never can be quite certain with the police," Roger replied, rubbing it in. "Still, I think they haven't many doubts left about suicide now. At least, I don't see how they can have. But for all that," added Roger thoughtfully, "it wouldn't be a bad idea to strengthen the case for it a little more still, if we can."
"As how?"
"Well, just an idea that occurred to me. We've got plenty of evidence that Mrs. Stratton was chatting about suicide most of the evening, but if the police still are suspicious they may be pleased to consider all our evidence tainted. Can't you produce something that can't be questioned, on that point? A letter, for instance. The record of the written word is so much more convincing, you see than the mere report of the spoken one."
"I see the idea," Ronald nodded. "But I'm afraid she's never written to me on those lines. But she might have to Celia."
"Run and ask your sister," Roger suggested. Ronald ran.
"No," he reported. "Celia hasn't got any letters like that. But what about David?"
"Ring him up and ask him," said Roger.
Ronald rang up his brother. David, it transpired, could produce nothing, but thought that if any such letters existed they might have been written to a certain Janet Aldersley.
"Lives in Westerford," Ronald explained. "Ena's particular friend and confidante about the brutality and general iniquities of her unworthy husband."
"Get out the car," Roger said briskly. "There's half an hour yet before dinner. We'll go and see her."
"Right you are," agreed Ronald, impressed. Miss Aldersley lived in a large house on the farther side of Westerford. Ronald was able to arrange an interview with her without disturbing the Aldersley parents. She was tearful, and much impressed by the idea that she might be of help. Roger explained the object of the visit. "If you had any such letters," he said smoothly, "it would help to shorten the proceedings at the inquest, I fancy, and any way in which we can do that will of course help, too, to lessen the scandal, Miss Aldersley."
"It's too dreadful," sobbed Miss Aldersley, who was fair and fluffy and of a type to be impressed by her late friend's histrionics. "Poor, poor Ena! How could she ever have done such a thing?"
"Yes, but has she ever written to you of it in her letters?" Roger asked patiently.
"Oh, yes. Often, poor darling. But I never thought she would really ever do such a thing. Oh, I shall never forgive myself, never. Do you think I could possibly have prevented it? You don't, Mr. Sheringham, do you?" Roger was tactful and set about obtaining possession of the letters.
Miss Aldersley, convinced at last that she would only be serving her dead friend's best interests by handing them over, agreed without much difficulty and went off to find them.
Roger carried them away with him in triumph.
"Don't take them to the police," he said, as he gave them to Ronald in the car a minute later. "I don't trust them. Take them round to the coroner yourself, directly after dinner. He'll probably be quite glad of the chance of a private word with you, too, as he knows you personally." On such small details, Roger told himself with some satisfaction, is the unassailable case built.
But calling in on Colin that night for a last word before going to bed, Roger found that a certain uneasiness still remained with him.
"We've got our stories all pat," he said, sitting on the bed and watching Colin brush his hair, "but we must allow for the unexpected. I don't think the police are likely now to ask for an adjournment tomorrow; but after Ronald's attitude, if they have by any remote chance got something up their sleeves for us, they'll have been keeping it darker than ever."
Colin looked round from his dressing table. "But what could they have up their sleeves, man?"
"Goodness knows. But I wish now I'd played that superintendent a little more tactfully. Ah, well, we must just sit tight and know nothing, that's all. If only that David doesn't let us all down . . ."
CHAPTER XIV
INQUEST ON A VILE BODY
THE coroner shuffled his papers. "Well, gentlemen, that being so, we'll proceed to hear the evidence. Mr. Stratton, will you . . . Mr. David Stratton I should have said. Yes. Now, Mr. Stratton, I quite realize that this is a very painful occasion for you. Very painful indeed. You may be sure that we won't trouble you more than necessary, but it is my duty to ask you a few questions. Now let me see. Yes. Perhaps the best thing would be for you to tell us exactly what led up to this distressing event, yes."
Roger held his breath. He need not have been alarmed. David gave his evidence clearly and without faltering. He spoke in much the same abrupt, almost jerky tones as those with which he had first answered the questions of Inspector Crane, but now they appeared nothing but a cloak for nervousness.
The coroner was as kind to him as possible and led him in a way which, Roger considered, might have given a suspicious superintendent of police some pain. (Ronald's call on the coroner the previous evening had been an excellent move.) After telling his story, David was asked a few questions about his own movements, but only, it seemed, with the object of finding out why he had not followed his wife out of the ballroom and whether, had he done so shortly afterwards, it would not have been possible to avert the tragedy; to which David frankly replied that his wife very often behaved in an odd way, and he had no anticipation at all that this performance in particular might have serious consequences. As for ringing up the police station later, he had learned a long time ago from Dr. Chalmers that his wife could not be held to be always strictly accountable for her actions, and being worried over her disappearance had thought it best to take this precaution; he had never done so before, because the occasion had never arisen. Altogether, Roger thought admiringly, David could not have carried greater conviction had he been innocent.
"Yes," clucked the elderly little coroner. "Quite so. This is very distressing for you, Mr. Stratton, I know, but I am bound to ask you. With regard to what you say about your wife's behaviour at times ..."
David gave instances, shortly and with obvious reluctance. Mrs. Stratton had been subject to profound fits of depression; she was accustomed occasionally, in company, to drink for effect, though it was impossible to call her a drunkard; she often lost her temper over trifles and would then rave and storm in a quite unbalanced way; she would worry for days over the most insignificant things; and so on.