But that advice was not palatable to the ex-inspector. He was a man of patience but determination. Taking leave of his friend, he sauntered down to the village, revolving in his mind the possibilities of some kind of successful action.
Turning into the post office to buy some stamps, he ran into the object of his solicitude, George Merrowdene. The ex-chemistry professor was a small, dreamy-looking man, gentle and kindly in manner, and usually completely absent-minded. He recognized the other and greeted him amicably, stooping to recover the letters that the impact had caused him to drop on the ground. Evans stooped also and, more rapid in his movements than the other, secured them first, handing them back to their owner with an apology.
He glanced down at them in doing so, and the address on the topmost suddenly awakened all his suspicions anew. It bore the name of a well-known insurance firm.
Instantly his mind was made up. The guileless George Merrowdene hardly realized how it came about that he and the ex-inspector were strolling down the village together, and still less could he have said how it came about that the conversation should come round to the subject of life insurance.
Evans had no difficulty in attaining his object. Merrowdene of his own accord volunteered the information that he had just insured his life for his wife’s benefit, and asked Evans’s opinion of the company in question.
“I made some rather unwise investments,” he explained. “As a result, my income has diminished. If anything were to happen to me, my wife would be left very badly off. This insurance will put things right.”
“She didn’t object to the idea?” inquired Evans casually. “Some ladies do, you know. Feel it’s unlucky — that sort of thing.”
“Oh! Margaret is very practical,” said Merrowdene, smiling. “Not at all superstitious. In fact, I believe it was her idea originally. She didn’t like my being so worried.”
Evans had got the information he wanted. He left the other shortly afterwards, and his lips were set in a grim line. The late Mr. Anthony had insured his life in his wife’s favour a few weeks before his death.
Accustomed to rely on his instincts, he was perfectly sure in his own mind. But how to act was another matter. He wanted, not to arrest a criminal red-handed, but to prevent a crime being committed and that was a very different and a very much more difficult thing.
All day he was very thoughtful. There was a Primrose League Fête that afternoon held in the grounds of the local squire, and he went to it, indulging in the penny dip, guessing the weight of a pig, and shying at coconuts all with the same look of abstracted concentration on his face. He even indulged in half a crown’s worth of Zara the Crystal Gazer, smiling a little to himself as he did so, remembering his own activities against fortunetellers in his official days.
He did not pay very much heed to her sing-song, droning voice till the end of a sentence held his attention.
“—and you will very shortly — very shortly indeed — be engaged on a matter of life or death — life or death to one person.”
“Eh — what’s that?” he asked abruptly.
“A decision — you have a decision to make. You must be very careful — very, very careful... If you were to make a mistake — the smallest mistake—”
“Yes?”
The fortune-teller shivered. Inspector Evans knew it was all nonsense, but he was nevertheless impressed.
“I warn you — you must not make a mistake. If you do, I see the result clearly, a death...”
Odd, damned odd! A death. Fancy her lighting upon that!
“If I make a mistake a death will result? Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“In that case,” said Evans, rising to his feet and handing over half a crown, “I mustn’t make a mistake, eh?”
He spoke lightly enough, but as he went out of the tent, his jaw set determinedly. Easy to say — not so easy to be sure of doing. He mustn’t make a slip. A life, a valuable human life depended on it.
And there was no one to help him. He looked across at the figure of his friend Haydock in the distance. No help there. “Leave things alone,” was Haydock’s motto. And that wouldn’t do here.
Haydock was talking to a woman. She moved away from him and came towards Evans, and the Inspector recognized her. It was Mrs. Merrowdene. On an impulse he put himself deliberately in her path.
Mrs. Merrowdene was rather a fine-looking woman. She had a broad serene brow, very beautiful brown eyes, and a placid expression. She had the look of an Italian Madonna which she heightened by parting her hair in the middle and looping it over her ears. She had a deep, rather sleepy voice.
She smiled up at Evans; a contented, welcoming smile.
“I thought it was you, Mrs. Anthony — I mean Mrs. Merrowdene,” he said glibly.
He made the slip deliberately, watching her without seeming to do so. He saw her eyes widen, heard the quick intake of her breath. But her eyes did not falter. She gazed at him steadily and proudly.
“I was looking for my husband,” she said quietly. “Have you seen him anywhere about?”
“He was over in that direction when I last saw him.”
They went side by side in the direction indicated, chatting quietly and pleasantly. The Inspector felt his admiration mounting. What a woman! What self-command. What wonderful poise. A remarkable woman — and a very dangerous one. He felt sure — a very dangerous one.
He still felt very uneasy, though he was satisfied with his initial step. He had let her know that he recognized her. That would put her on her guard. She would not dare attempt anything rash. There was the question of Merrowdene. If he could be warned...
They found the little man absently contemplating a china doll which had fallen to his share in the penny dip. His wife suggested home and he agreed eagerly. Mrs. Merrowdene turned to the Inspector.
“Won’t you come back with us and have a quiet cup of tea, Mr. Evans?”
Was there a faint note of challenge in her voice? He thought there was.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merrowdene. I should like to very much.”
They walked there, talking together of pleasant ordinary things. The sun shone, a breeze blew gently, everything around them was pleasant and ordinary.
Their maid was out at the Fête, Mrs. Merrowdene explained, when they arrived at the charming old-world cottage. She went into her room to remove her hat, returning to set out tea and boil the kettle on a little silver lamp. From a shelf near the fireplace she took three small bowls and saucers.
“We have some very special Chinese tea,” she explained. “And we always drink it in the Chinese manner — out of bowls, not cups.”
She broke off, peered into a cup and exchanged it for another, with an exclamation of annoyance.
“George — it’s too bad of you. You’ve been taking these bowls again.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” said the Professor apologetically. “They’re such a convenient size. The ones I ordered haven’t come.”
“One of these days you’ll poison us all,” said his wife with a half laugh. “Mary finds them in the laboratory and brings them back here and never troubles to wash them out unless they’ve something very noticeable in them. Why, you were using one of them for Potassium Cyanide the other day. Really, George, it’s frightfully dangerous.”
Merrowdene looked a little irritated.
“Mary’s no business to remove things from the laboratory. She’s not to touch anything there.”
“But we often leave our teacups there after tea. How is she to know? Be reasonable, dear.”
The Professor went into his laboratory, murmuring to himself, and with a smile Mrs. Merrowdene poured boiling water on the tea and blew out the flame of the little silver lamp.
Evans was puzzled. Yet a glimmering of light penetrated to him. For some reason or other, Mrs. Merrowdene was showing her hand. Was this to be the “accident”? Was she speaking of all this so as deliberately to prepare her alibi beforehand. So that when, one day, the “accident” happened, he would be forced to give evidence in her favour. Stupid of her, if so, because before that—