“I’m not very likely to do that, Jocelyn.”
“Why not?” asked Henry. “Do you think he’s the murderer?”
“Oh, Henry, Henry,” said Miss Prentice. “Some day you’ll be sorry you have grieved me so much.”
“Upon my word,” said Henry, “I can’t for the life of me see why that should grieve you. One of us is a murderer. I only asked if you thought it might be Templett.”
“You are fortunate to be able to speak so lightly of this terrible, terrible tragedy.”
“We’re as much worried as you are,” protested Jocelyn with an appealing glance at his son. “Aren’t we, boy?”
“Of course we are,” said Henry cheerfully.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve asked Copeland to come up here and talk the whole thing over.”
Miss Prentice clasped her hands and gave a little cry. A dull flush stained her cheeks and her eyes brightened.
“Is he coming? How wise of you, Jocelyn! He is so wonderful. He will help us all. It will all come out right. It will come out quite, quite all right.”
She laughed hysterically and clapped her hands.
“When is he coming?”
Jocelyn looked at her with positive terror.
“This evening.” he said. “Eleanor, you’re not well.”
“And is dear Dinah coming, too?” asked Miss Prentice shrilly.
“Hullo!” said Henry. “Here’s a change.” And he stared fixedly at his cousin.
“Henry,” said Miss Prentice very rapidly. “Shall we forget our little differences? I have your happiness so much at heart, dear. If you had been more candid and straightforward with me — ”
“Why should I?” asked Henry.
“—I think you would have found me quite understanding. Shall we let bygones be bygones? You see, dear, you have no mother to — ”
“Will you excuse me, sir?” said Henry. “I feel slightly sick.” And he walked out of the room.
“I thought,” said Miss Prentice, “that I had been deeply enough injured already. So deeply, deeply injured. I am sorry I am rather excited, Jocelyn dear, but, you see, when someone is waiting down at St. Giles to shoot you—Jocelyn, is that somebody coming?”
“What the devil’s the matter, Eleanor?”
“It’s that woman! It was her car! I saw it through the window. Jocelyn, I won’t meet that woman. She’ll do me an injury. She’s wicked, wicked, wicked. A woman of Babylon. They’re all the same. All bad, horrible creatures.”
“Eleanor, be quiet.”
“You’re a man. You don’t understand. I will not meet her.”
Taylor came in.
“Mrs. Ross to see you, sir.”
“Damnation!” said the squire. “All right. Take her to the study.”
ii
The squire was worried about Eleanor. She was really very odd indeed, far odder than even these uncomfortable circumstances warranted. There was no knowing what she’d say next. If he didn’t look out, she’d land him in a pretty tight corner with one of these extraordinary statements of hers. She’d got such a damned knowing look in her eye. When she thought he wasn’t noticing her, she’d sit in a corner watching him, with an expression which could only be described as a leer. If she was going mad! Well, there was one thing: mad people couldn’t give evidence. Perhaps the best thing would be to ask an alienist down for the weekend. He hoped to heaven she wouldn’t take it into her head to come raging into the study and go for poor little Mrs. Ross. His thoughts raced through his head as he crossed the hall, passed through the library and entered his study. Anyway, it’d be a relief to talk to an attractive woman.
She did look very attractive. Pale-ish, but that was understandable. She wore her clothes like a Frenchwoman. He’d always liked black. Damn’ good figure and legs. He took the little hand in its delicate glove and held it tightly.
“Well,” he said, “this is nice of you.”
“I simply had to see you. You’ll think me a most frightful bore, coming at this time.”
“Now you knew that wasn’t true before you said it.”
The little hand started in his.
“Have I hurt you?” asked the squire. “I am a clumsy brute.”
“No. Not really. Only you are rather strong, aren’t you? It’s just my ring.”
“I insist on investigating.”
He peeled back the soft glove and drew it down.
“Look at that! A red mark on the inside of your finger. Now, what can be done about that?”
A subdued laugh. He separated the white fingers and kissed them.
“Ha-ha, my boy!” thought the squire, and led her to a chair.
“You’ve done me good already,” he said. “Do you realise that, madam?”
“Have I?”
“Don’t you think you’re rather an attractive little thing?”
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“You know it damned well, so you needn’t say anything. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, I have heard something like it before.”
“How often?” purred the squire.
“Never you mind.”
“Why are you so attractive?”
“Just made that way.”
“Little devil,” he said and kissed the hand again. He felt quite excited. Everything was going like clockwork.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Mrs. Ross. “You’re going to be simply livid with me.”
“Simply furious?” he asked tenderly.
“Yes. Honestly. I don’t want to tell you; but I must!”
“Don’t look at me like that or I shall have to kiss you.”
“No, please. You must listen. Please.”
“If I listen I expect to be rewarded.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I’m listening,” said the squire, rather feverishly.
“It’s about this awful business. I want to tell you first of all, very, very sincerely that you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“Nothing—?”
He still held her hand, but his fingers relaxed.
“No,” she said, “nothing. If you will just trust me — ”
Her voice went on and on. Jocelyn heard her to the end, but when it was over he did not remind her of her promise.
iii
When Alleyn left the assistant commissioner and returned to his own office, he found Bailey there.
“Well, Bailey?”
“Well, sir, Thompson’s developed Mr. Bathgate’s film. He’s got a couple of shots of the lady.”
He laid the still wet prints on the desk.
There was Mrs. Ross in profile on the front step of the Jernigham Arms, and there she was again full face as she came up the path. Nigel must have taken his snapshots through the open window. Evidently she had not seen him. The pointed chin was set a little to one side, the under lip projected very slightly, and the thin mouth was drawn down at the corners. They were not flattering photographs.
“Any luck?” asked Alleyn.
With his normal air of mulish disapproval Bailey laid a card beside the prints. On it was mounted a double photograph. Sharp profile, thin mouth, pointed chin; and the front view showed the colourless hair, drawn back in two immaculate shining wings, from the rather high forehead.
Alleyn muttered: “Sarah Rosen. Age 33. Height 5 ft. 5¼ ins. Eyes, light blue. Hair, pale blonde. Very well dressed, cultured speech, usually poses as widow. Detained with Claude Smith on blackmailing charge, 1931. Subsequently released — insufficient evidence. Claude got ten years, didn’t he?”
“That’s right, sir. They stayed at the Ritz as brother and sister.”
“I remember. What about the prints?”
“They’re good enough.”
“Blackmail,” said Alleyn thoughtfully.