She paused for breath, and Hemingway, who, while not unappreciative of her discourse, had reached the conclusion that she knew nothing about her sister's more private affairs, seized the opportunity to ask if she could furnish him with the name of Mrs. Haddington's solicitor.
"Well, if Lily took her affairs out of our dear Mr.. Eddleston's hands, it's news to me!" replied Miss Pickhill. "Of course, I daresay it's young Mr.. Eddleston who looks after things now, but that her Will is deposited with them I do know, for Lily told me she was making me one of poor little Cynthia's trustees, just in case anything should happen to her, which she didn't for a moment expect, or I either, if it comes to that, and Mr.. Eddleston the other. For I said to her at the time, Don't name Mr.. Lowick, because if you do, I said, I shall refuse to act. Mr.. Lowick is the junior partner, and when I tell you that the day I went up to see him about the ground-rent he not only kept me waiting for ten whole minutes, but received me with a pipe in his hand, you will understand why I said what I did. There are limits!"
Jotting the name down in his book, Hemingway said: "Well, madam, I think that's all at present. I shall be getting into touch with Mr.. Eddleston at once. You'll understand that I shall have to go through Mrs. Haddington's papers, and her solicitor will of course be present. Until then, I have had the boudoir and her bedroom locked up."
Miss Pickhill plainly took this amiss, for she bridled, and said in a stiff voice: "Well, really, I can't see what you want with my poor sister's private papers, and as for locking her bedroom, I call it most officious!"
"Just a matter of routine!" Hemingway said.
"I've no doubt!" interrupted Miss Pickhill. "It's exactly what Mr.. Broseley was saying to me only the other day! Encroachment! Ever since the War, officials seem to think they can do exactly as they like, and I daresay the police are just as bad as the Ministry of Food, interfering right and left, and telling people how to cook cabbages, which we all knew long before they were ever born or thought of!"
"I wouldn't think of telling you how to cook cabbages, madam!" Hemingway assured her. "For one thing, I don't know, and for another -"
"I should hope not indeed! It would be a great deal more to the point if you drilled some of your new policemen, let me tell you! In my young days the police were fine, upstanding men, but whenever I come to London now all I see is a lot of young constables, standing about with their chests in and their stomachs out, and their mouths hanging open. I wouldn't even ask one of them for the time! Enough to make my father turn in his grave!"
Reflecting that Mr.. Pickhill's ghost must be the most restless one ever to disturb a cemetery, Hemingway said meekly: "It's a scandal, madam: I've often thought so. But I daresay you wouldn't want to stop me finding out who murdered Mrs. Haddington!"
"Certainly not! Quite apart from my personal feelings I trust I am a good citizen! Good Citizenship was the subject of the last lecture we had at the Women's Conservative Institute, and most interesting! But why prying into my sister's letters, and things, should help you to find out who murdered her is more than I can fathom!
In fact," said Miss Pickhill, obscurely but terrifyingly, "it is all on a par!"
Fortunately, the Chief Inspector was rescued from these deep waters by the entrance of Detective-officer Bagby, who informed him that Miss Haddington had that instant let herself into the house, and was being held in check by Miss Birtley.
Miss Pickhill shuddered, and got up from her chair, saying: "I will come at once! Poor child, she little knows! In the midst of life we are in death! I don't suppose she has ever heard those very true words, for, having been educated in a foreign country, how should she?"
Cynthia Haddington, exquisitely clothed in priMr..ose yellow under a coat of dark mink, and with a close hat of shaded brown and yellow wing-feathers on the back of her shining head, had been coaxed into the diningroom, and was interestedly surveying Mr.. James Kane. She held a cigarette between the fingers of one hand, and dangled a handbag and a pair of long gloves from the other. Only a purist would have described her as drunk. Not even the exaggeratedly high heels of her cutaway shoes caused her to stumble in her walk; and if her eyes seemed slightly blurred, and her inconsequent laugh a little too ready, her speech was perfectly clear. "Oh, are you Timothy's brother?" she said. "How marvellous! Oh, darling-Timothy, why weren't you at June's party? You could have taken me on to dinner somewhere! I got stuck with Philip Arnecliffe, and he was so drunk he let that ghastly Terrington woman tack herself on to us, with the latest boy friend! Too dim, so I said, Definitely not! and came home! Is Mummy livid with me? Honestly, I couldn't face spending the whole evening at home! June's got some marvellous new cocktail you make with absinthe: it makes you feel simply terrific! 0 God, is that you, Aunt Violet?… Who on earth are you?"
Hemingway, to whom the last question was addressed, preserved a tactful silence. He was a trifle stunned by this, his first, sight of Mrs. Haddington's beautiful daughter, for although he had been told that she was a very pretty girl he had not been prepared for quite so much empty loveliness.
Miss Pickhill, managing to soften the sharpness of her habitual tone, said that there was bad news for Cynthia to hear, and suggested that she should accompany her upstairs to her bedroom.
Cynthia stared at her in the blankest incomprehension. "Oh, hell, no, I don't want to trail all the way up to my room!" she protested. "Besides, why should I? No one's coming to dinner! I shall stay as I am." She blinked, as though to clear her vision, and suddenly demanded: "What are you all doing in here, anyway? You haven't had dinner, have you? Where's Mummy?"
Miss Pickhill cleared her throat. "Your dear mother has - has met with an accident, Cynthia!" she said.
"An accident? What's happened?" Cynthia asked, pitching the stub of her cigarette into the grate.
"Oh, dear, I don't know how to tell her!" said Miss Pickhill, sitting down suddenly, and, in the agitation of the moment, sniffing into one of her serviceable gloves, which she held in one hand.
"You tell her, Timothy!" Beulah said, in a low voice. "You'll do it best."
Timothy, who, with Mr.. James Kane, had been attempting in an unobtrusive way, to slide out of the room, cast his betrothed a glance of reproach, but responded to her appeal. He went to Cynthia, and took one of her hands, saying: "There isn't a best way of telling her. You've got to prepare yourself for a shock, Cynthia."