Having unburdened herself of various ill-natured remarks about Maud Leighton at intervals during the course of the morning, she chose the luncheon hour as a suitable time for the recountal to Jim of the whole affair of the letter, leading off with the snappish remark that she should have thought Maud could have found a better use for her money than to squander it sending letters by air mail.
"That lot never could keep twopence to rub together in their pockets," she said.
Jim, seated at the head of the table, was being told by Rosemary, on his right, that the visit of Superintendent Hannasyde had shattered the last threads of her nervous resistance. He said bracingly: "Oh, I don't think you need feel like that about it," and transferred his attention to his great-aunt at the other end of the long table. "Sorry, Aunt Emily, something about the Australian cousin?"
"I remember her parents bringing her here when she was a baby. Of course, they always liked coming here when they were in England. It saved them having to pay hotel bills," said Emily.
Miss Allison, having a shrewd suspicion that this remark was levelled at Dermott, created a diversion by asking Timothy how he had spent the morning. His answer, that he had been helping Sergeant Hemingway to hunt for clues, had the effect of making Dermott break into a diatribe against dunderheaded fellows who had the impudence to call themselves detectives.
"Really, their methods are laughable!" he said.
"I bet some people won't do much laughing by the time the superintendent's through!" retorted Mr. Harte.
"Shut up, Timothy!" said Jim.
Mr. Harte muttered: "Well, I bet they won't, that's all."
"Your Cousin Silas sent her a very handsome present when she got married," pursued Emily. "Far too generous, in my opinion. Leighton was no good at all. I told your cousin I didn't want to be mixed up with any of them. Encroaching lot!"
"I've got such a feeling that it was one of the Mansells," said Rosemary, gazing straight in front of her with the slightly narrowed eyes of one seeking to see through a fog. "I can't shake it off."
Jim, who did not think that she had tried to, said bluntly: "If you're wise, you won't say so. You've nothing to go on, and that kind of remark's likely to lead to trouble."
"I'm afraid it's too late to try and change my whole nature," replied Rosemary with a faint smile. "I've always been honest—perhaps disastrously so. I must say what I think. I dare say I should find life much easier if I didn't see things so terribly clearly. I seem to be able to detach myself in the most extraordinary way. I mean, I'm perfectly calm now, the inside of me—just as though a part of me was utterly aloof from everything that's happened. I don't say I feel it was one of the Mansells from spite or any emotional impulse whatsoever. It's just as though a voice was saying in my brain—"
"I see she's living in Melbourne now," said Emily, who had not been paying the least attention to this speech. "They used to live in Sydney. I dare say it's much the same thing."
No one but Trevor Dermott felt any inclination to argue this point. He was always rather pleased when a woman made an irrational remark, because he could then correct her folly, not unkindly, but with an indulgent laugh at the limitations of the female brain. He began to tell Emily how wrong she was in her conception of Australia.
"Most people talk about having intuitions when they simply don't know the meaning of the word," continued Rosemary; "I'm not a bit like that. In fact, I think I usually mistrust my instinct. I've got a much more logical mind than most women—I'm not patting myself on the back about it; it just happens to be so. I can always see all round a question. But just occasionally—probably because I'm rather the spiritual type, if you know what I mean—I get an intuition that's like a blinding flash of light. And," she concluded impressively, "when it happens like that, it's nearly always right."
"Sez you!" murmured Mr. Harte to his plate.
"I don't suppose you know what it's like. I don't think men ever get it," said Rosemary, looking pitifully at her host.
"For God's sake stop talking about it!" said Jim. "I never heard such drivel in my life!" He pulled himself up and added: "Sorry, but I really can't do with a lot of—of—"
"Boloney," supplied Mr. Harte helpfully.
"—on top of everything else!" ended Jim, apparently accepting this suggestion.
"But don't you see, Jim, that if the Mansells didn't do it, there's only you left?" asked Rosemary.
"Not quite, I think!" struck in Miss Allison, showing her claws.
Mr. Harte looked up approvingly. "Attababy!" he applauded.
Emily, who had been sitting in somewhat toad-like immobility, staring before her, while Trevor Dermott lectured her on the size of Australia, chose at this point to demonstrate her deafness by demanding of Miss Allison what Timothy had said.
"I said Attababy, and what's more I meant it!" announced Timothy with a hostile glance at Rosemary. "Considering everything, I think it's a bit thick of Cousin Rosemary to go about saying no one but the Mansells or Jim could have murdered Cousin Clement! I can jolly well think of two other people who could have done it, and if you like I'll tell you who they are!"
"Shut up!" said Jim sharply.
"Leave the boy alone!" commanded Emily.
"Of course, I quite understand how you feel about it," said Rosemary. "But one has to face facts, you know. You mustn't think I believe it was Jim just because my reason tells me that it might have been. I'm only pointing out—"
"Really, you know—really, I wouldn't," put in Dermott uneasily. "Case of 'least said soonest mended', what?"
She turned her wide gaze upon him. "But don't you see that it's important, Trevor? I'm trying to be absolutely dispassionate. I want to know the truth. I can't bear pretence! Let us, for God's sake, be honest with each other!"
This impassioned plea drew a response only from Mr. Harte, who said: "I bet you'd be pretty sick if we were."
"Will you shut up?" said Jim.
"I don't think anyone could seriously accuse me of shrinking from facts," said Rosemary. "You none of you understand how I feel about things. I don't deny I care for Trevor; I don't deny that Clement's death hasn't touched the Essential Me. I can even see that people who don't know him might think Trevor could have done it. Only I know, inside me, that he didn't."
Trevor Dermott turned a dark red. There was an awful pause. Emily's voice broke the silence. "Very nice," she said dryly. "I'll thank you to ring the bell for my chair, Miss Allison."
It was generally felt that this request had relieved the situation. Everyone rose from the table, and Trevor Dermott was heard to draw a sigh of thanksgiving.
When Emily had left the room he and Rosemary went out into the garden. He said: "Darling, I know how frank you always are—damn it, I love you for it—but you shouldn't have said that."
"It's true," replied Rosemary. "I am not ashamed to own it."
"No, no, that's not the point! Look here! We're in a damned tight corner, and the least said about—well, about our caring for each other, the better. You dealt me a knockout on Saturday. I'm not blaming you; I do understand how you felt, and, anyway, that's all over and done with now. But don't talk about us being in love! Do you see?"
"I'm afraid I don't," said Rosemary. "I believe in being honest, and as everyone knows—"
His face darkened again; he seized her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. "Don't be such a little fool!" he said in a low, angry voice. "Do you want to get me arrested for murder?"
"Of course not. But I absolutely believe in you. Something tells me you didn't do it."