‘Oh, don’t go! Don’t leave me while she’s in this state!’ said Billie. ‘I could cope when I thought she was only suffering from—’ she grinned, but it turned into a clownish grimace – ‘the unwelcome attentions of a heel, but if anything’s happened to Cassie McHaig, it’s a different kettle of fish altogether, because—’
‘Nothing’s happened to her,’ sobbed Elysée, reversing a previous opinion. ‘Of course it hasn’t! It can’t have!’
‘If I were you,’ said Billie, ‘I’d ring up this prizefighting Casanova of yours and get him to give you the latest bulletin. You need only ask to speak to him. The hotel receptionist won’t know who you are.’
‘She will when she asks who’s calling,’ said Elysée, sniffing and then blowing her nose.
‘Oh, don’t be a fool! Give a false name, of course. Give mine. That will tip off this blasted Hempseed – good God! What a name! – that it’s you, and he’ll be ready with his story by the time they’ve paged him and he’s got to the phone.’
‘You ring him,’ said Elysée. She turned to Dame Beatrice when Billie had gone out into the hall. ‘What did you think I could tell you about Miss Minnie?’ she asked. ‘And why me?’
‘Well,’ Dame Beatrice replied, ‘I will begin by answering your second question. Enquiries at Weston Pipers have established that, whereas Miss Kennett was accustomed to report daily at her newspaper office, you yourself spent at least three days a week in your flat.’
‘Well, Niobe Nutley spent seven days a week there and, when she was there, so did Sumatra – not that she’d notice anything which went on. Irelath was her whole life, I believe. She didn’t really have eyes or ears for anybody else.’
‘Quite. As for Miss Nutley, I have already talked to her. Now, Miss Barnes, you are young, emotional and, I would think, kind-hearted. What was your opinion of Miss Minnie?’
‘I don’t think I formed one. If I thought about her at all, I suppose I looked on her as a poor lonely old thing who didn’t get much fun out of life.’
‘When you were alone on those three days a week, did you often go out in your car?’
‘No, because the days when I didn’t have to go up to Town, Billie had the car. Other days she used her moped, but that’s not an all-weather vehicle exactly, and anyway, I always think four wheels are much safer than two.’
‘So, although you thought of Miss Minnie as a poor lonely old thing who did not get much fun out of life, you never took her for a drive?’
‘No. Oh, well, no, not for a drive, but sometimes, when I was driving to the station I used to go up to Town by train because of parking problems and because Billie used to fuss because she said it was too far to go to London and back in a day—’
‘And on the way to the station you happened to pass Miss Minnie—’
‘She was supposed to be going out to do her shopping, so, yes, I used to pull in and pick her up. She had to go to the bus stop otherwise and that’s a good mile and a half from Weston Pipers – and the buses are very irregular.’
‘She appears to have avoided contact with all the other inhabitants of Weston Pipers. Why do you think she made an exception of you?’
‘I suppose it was easier to go into the town by car than wait for the bus, that’s all. I suppose she had to come back by bus, but there was nothing I could do about that.’
Dame Beatrice said, ‘Could not Mrs Evans have picked her up? Anyway, the journey to the station from which you caught your train is about ten miles from Weston Pipers, I believe, so if we subtract the distance she walked before you picked her up, Miss Minnie would have been in the car with you for about twenty minutes, I suppose.’
‘A bit more. The roads round here twist and turn and are pretty narrow, and you can’t drive fast on them. Besides I promised Billie I wouldn’t, not even if it meant missing my train.’
‘She seems to take every care of you.’
‘She’s worse than a fussy maiden aunt! Of course, she’s older than I am.’
‘That would explain it. She may be a frustrated mother. Some, of course, keep dogs or cats—’
‘And in this case, you mean, she keeps me! Only she doesn’t, you know. I can pay my way very nicely, thank you. Hers, too, if I wanted to, or she’d let me. She’s rather a long time on that telephone.’
‘I fancy that she is keeping out of our way while I question you. Did you drop Miss Minnie at the railway station each time?’
‘No, I never took her as far as that, because the shops were on the way to it, so she got off before we reached the station.’
‘Did she chat to you on the short journey?’
‘Not to say chat. She asked me whether I ever took hot sea water baths, I remember.’
‘And do you?’
‘Heavens, no! The hot water from the bathroom tap is quite good enough for me. The papers said she was drowned in sea water, though. Did Piper do it?’
‘What is your opinion?’
‘Niobe Nutley might have done it. He wouldn’t.’
‘You think that, do you?’
‘She’s potty on him and if she thought poor old Minnie was going to have the law on him and try to get Weston Pipers and the money herself, Niobe would remove her from the scene of operations without a qualm, and it’s my firm belief that’s what she did, not realising it would land Piper in the soup.’
‘Interesting. Did Miss Minnie ever confide such an intention to you – that she meant to contest the will?’
‘No, and, if she had, the last person I would have retailed it to would have been Niobe. She got rid of Billie and me, you know – anonymous letters.’
‘That, according to my information, was Mrs Constance Kent.’
‘Oh, I know all about Connie Kent. The letters from Niobe were ever so much worse. Billie doesn’t know about them because they used to come while I was in the flat and Billie was working. I’ve never told her about them. I insisted, though, that we had better get out.’
‘How do you know that Miss Nutley wrote them?’
‘I thought it was obvious. Her reason was the same as Connie Kent’s. Both of them were horribly envious just because Billie and I were happy together and they were not happy at all. Connie makes Evesham Evan’s life a misery, and her own, too, and Niobe can’t get Piper, although she chases him all the time.’
‘But you and Miss Kennett were not entirely happy together, I think – not lately, at any rate.’
‘You mean because I went off with Polly? Well, Billie is so bossy, you know, and when she told me I was burning my fingers with Polly, I thought, Right. I’ll burn my whole hand.’
‘Very childish.’
‘Besides, I wanted a man.’
‘Ah, yes, very natural, of course.’
‘I expect Billie was jealous. She got to know, of course. I can’t stand jealous people. Can you?’
‘I am extremely sorry for them.’
‘Well, they’re hell to live with, anyway.’
‘No doubt. Do you happen to know which shops Miss Minnie patronised?’
‘Oh, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, like everybody else, I suppose. Oh, there was one shop she went to which was a bit different. I only knew about it by accident. She’d left her shopping-bag in the car and my train that morning was cancelled for some reason or other and there was an hour to wait for the next one, so I thought I might as well chase after her because she’d probably need the shopping-bag. I parked the car in the usual place outside the station and walked back to where I’d set her down. She didn’t walk very fast, so she hadn’t got far along the sea-front where some of the shops are, and I could see her in the distance. I hurried up, and saw her turn into a little side street, so I followed and spotted her going into a little, very scruffy antique shop. I went in after her, but when I got inside there was nobody there. I waited a bit, then I rapped on the counter, but nobody came. I rapped again, then I banged and shouted, but still nothing happened. I didn’t like just to leave the bag there – it was rather a decent one – so I went back to the car with it and locked it in the boot.’