“Then why did she do this?”

“I’d better tell you the whole story. The truth is, Evelyn, they were longing for each other’s bright eyes. Bridget wanted to convince me of Donald’s innocence. She also wanted him to tell me this and that about a third person who doesn’t matter at the moment. They met, most reprehensibly, at the Matador.”

“The Matador! Roderick, how naughty of them! It just simply isn’t done by débutantes. No, really that was very naughty.”

Alleyn was both relieved and surprised to find that this departure from débutantes’ etiquette took momentary precedence over Lady Carrados’s other troubles.

“They had only just arrived, I imagine, when I ran into them there. The place was only half-full, Evelyn. It was too early for the smart people. I shouldn’t think anyone else saw them. I brought them on here.”

“I’m very glad you did,” she said doubtfully.

“Was that all that worried you?”

“No. It’s Herbert. He’s been so extraordinary, Roderick, since this tragedy. He’s stayed indoors all day and he never takes his eyes off me. I was afraid he would give up this dinner tonight, but, thank Heaven, he didn’t. It is followed by the annual regimental dance and he has to present trophies or something so it will keep him quite late. I should have gone too, but I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face another hour with him. He keeps making curious hints as if he — Roderick, almost as if he suspected me of something.”

“Tell me what he says.”

She leant back in her chair and relaxed. He saw that, not for the first time, he was to play the part of confidant. “An odd rôle for a CID man,” he thought, “and a damn useful one.” He settled himself to listen.

“It began soon after you left. While we were at tea. We had tea in my boudoir. I asked my secretary, Miss Harris, to join us, because I thought if she was there it might be a little easier. Naturally enough, but most unfortunately, poor Miss Harris began to speak to Bridget about Bunchy. She said she’d been reading a book on famous trials and somehow or other the word ‘blackmail’ cropped up. I–I’m afraid I was startled and showed it. The very word was enough as you may imagine. I looked up to find Herbert’s eyes fixed on me with an expression of — how can I describe it? — of knowing terror. He didn’t go with the others after tea but hung about the room watching me. Suddenly he said: “You were very friendly with Robert Gospell, weren’t you?” I said: “Of course I was.” Then he asked me to show him my bank-book. It sounded perfectly insane, right on top of his other question. Almost funny — as if he suspected I’d been keeping poor Bunchy. But it wasn’t very funny. It terrified me. He never worries about my money as a rule. He generally makes rather a point of not doing so, because, apart from the allowance he gives me, I’ve got my own, and what Paddy left me. I knew if he saw my bank-book it would show that I had been drawing large sums — five hundred pounds, to meet the demands of — to—”

“The five hundred that went into that big bag of yours last night. How did you draw it out, Evelyn?”

“I drew some myself. I cashed a cheque for five hundred. I can’t think that Herbert knew, or that he could have suspected the truth, if he did know. It’s all so terribly disturbing. I put him off by saying I couldn’t find the book, that I thought I had sent it back to the bank. He hardly seemed to listen. Suddenly he asked me if Bunchy had ever called when I was out? It seemed a perfectly inane question. I said I didn’t know. He sat glaring at me till I could have screamed, and then he said: ‘Did he know anything about old furniture?’ ”

Alleyn glanced up quickly: “Old furniture?”

“I know! It sounds demented, doesn’t it? I repeated it like you, and Herbert said: ‘Well antiques. Pieces like the escritoire in my study.’ And then he leaned forward and said: ‘Do you think he knew anything about that?’ I said: ‘Herbert, what are you talking about?’ and he said: ‘I suppose I’m going to pieces. I feel I have been surrounded by treachery all my life!’ It sounds just silly, but it frightened me. I rather lost my head, and asked him how he could talk like that. I began to say that Bridget was always loyal, when he burst out laughing. ‘Your daughter,’ he said, ‘loyal! How far do you suppose her loyalty would take her? Would you care to put it to the test?’ ”

Lady Carrados pressed her hands together.

“He’s always disliked Bridgie. He’s always been jealous of her. I remember once, it must be two years ago now, they had some sort of quarrel, and Herbert actually hurt her. He hurt her arm. I should never have found out if I hadn’t gone to her room and seen the marks. I think he sees some reflection of Paddy in her. Roderick, do you think Herbert can know about Paddy and me? Is there the smallest possibility that the blackmailer has written to him?”

“It is possible, of course,” said Alleyn slowly, “but I don’t think it quite fits in. You say this extraordinary change in Carrados began after Miss Harris and Bridget talked of blackmail, and you showed you were startled?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think your obvious dismay could have suggested to him that you yourself were the victim of blackmail?”

“I don’t know. It certainly suggested something pretty ominous,” said Lady Carrados, with the ghost of a smile. “He’s in the most extraordinary state of mind, it terrifies me.

“When did you marry him, Evelyn?”

“When? Two years after Paddy died. He had wanted me to marry him before. Herbert was a very old friend of my family’s. He had always been rather attached to me.”

“He’s never given any sign of this sort of behaviour before?”

“Not this sort. Of course, he’s rather difficult sometimes. He’s very touchy. He’s eighteen years older than I am, and he hates to be reminded of it. One has to be rather tactful. I suppose he’s vain. Bridgie thinks so, I know.”

The gentle voice, with its tranquil, level note, faltered for a moment, and then went on steadily. “I suppose you wonder why I married him, don’t you?”

“A little, yes. Perhaps you felt that you needed security. You had had your great adventure.”

“It was exactly that. But it wasn’t right, I see that now. It wasn’t fair. Although Herbert knew quite well that he was not my great love, and was very chivalrous and humble about it, he couldn’t really resign himself to the knowledge, and he grew more and more inclined to be rather a martyr. It’s pathetically childish sometimes. He tries to draw my attention to his little ailments. He gets a sort of patient look. It irritates Bridgie dreadfully, which is such a pity. And yet, although Herbert seems simple, he’s not. He’s a mass of repressions, and queer twisted thoughts. Do you know, I think he is still intensely jealous of Paddy’s memory.”

“Did you see much of him before Paddy died?”

“Yes. I’m afraid, poor Herbert, that he rather saw himself as the faithful, chivalrous friend who continued to adore me quite honourably after I was — married. You see, I still think of myself as Paddy’s wife. We used to ask Herbert to dine quite often. He bored Paddy dreadfully but — well, I’m afraid Paddy rather gloried in some of Herbert’s peculiarities. He almost dined out on them. It was very naughty of him, but he was so gay always and so charming that he was forgiven everything. Everything.”

“I know.”

“Herbert rather emphasized the sacrificial note in his friendship, and of course Paddy saw that, and used to tease me about him. But I was very attached to him. No, he wasn’t quite so touchy in those days, poor fellow. He was always very kind indeed. I’m afraid both Paddy and I rather got into the way of making use of him.”

“You are sure he suspected nothing?”

“Absolutely. In a way he was our greatest friend. I told you that I was staying with my mother when Paddy was hurt. She rang Herbert up when the news came through. Almost instinctively we turned to him. He was with us in a few minutes. Why, I suppose in a way I owe it to Herbert that I was in time to see Paddy before he died.”