“So where are we?” said Frank Abbott.

“Motive,” said Lamb. “There’s four of them with opportunity. But if we’re to believe Miss Mercer, who says there were two cups on the tray when she came in, Miss Vane couldn’t have moved Mr. Latter’s cup, as she couldn’t have told who was going to take which. So she’s much less likely than the other three. Let’s take it that it lies between the three of them who could have put the harmless cup by Mr. Latter’s chair. We don’t know who it was. Two of them mayn’t know any more than we do. One of them must know, because one of them moved it, and the one who did is the one who knew what was in the other cup. That’s as far as we’re likely to get on opportunity, without direct evidence. So we come to motive. As I said to start with, Mr. Latter has the motive which is one of the strongest a man can have-he had actually heard his wife making love to another man in very compromising circumstances. Now for Mrs. Street. She’s got a motive too. It don’t seem so strong, but it’s a motive all right. Remember that Gladys Marsh saying, ‘They all hated her-they’d all have liked to do her in. Mrs. Street wanted to have her husband here, and Mrs. Latter wouldn’t have it-said she didn’t want to be cluttered up with relations, and she didn’t see turning the house into a hospital neither.’? And then she tossed her head and said, ‘ Mrs. Street ’s been crying her eyes out about it. There’s some good-looking nurses in that hospital. Afraid she’ll lose her husband the way she’s lost her looks, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She’s an unpleasant, spiteful young woman, but there’s a motive there, you know.”

Frank’s shoulder lifted in a slight shrug.

“ Mrs. Street hardly looks the type for murder.”

Lamb thumped his knee.

“There isn’t any type for murder-how often am I to tell you that? People do it when what they want and what they think they ought to have gets to be so important that there’s nothing else matters-they’ve lost their balance and come down on the side where there’s only themselves and they can do what they like-all the things that keep people back from killing when they’re angry don’t count any more. It’s liable to happen to anyone who doesn’t keep a hold of himself. Do you know what’s struck me most in what that Gladys Marsh said? It’s the bit about their all hating Mrs. Latter. She might be exaggerating, or she might not. But hate is a very dangerous thing to have knocking about-it’s one of the things that takes people off their balance. And-the woman’s dead. I don’t say I suspect Mrs. Street -not on the evidence we’ve got so far-but I’d say she had a motive.”

“I suppose so-”

“Then there’s Miss Mercer. She’s got a motive too, but I’d say it’s the weakest of the three. She’s lived here for twenty-five years-she’s leaving because Mrs. Latter wanted to start fresh with a staff she’s picked herself. Well, that’s the sort of thing that’s happening every day-a middle-aged man gets married, and the woman who’s been running his house for him don’t hit it off with the new wife. It may be a daughter, or a sister, or a housekeeper-it isn’t often it answers. By all accounts, this Miss Mercer is a quiet, gentle little woman. Not the kind to make trouble, or it wouldn’t have lasted two years as it has. I don’t doubt she’s got some sore feelings. Looks ill too. But, as I said, it’s the sort of thing that’s always happening, but not what you’d do murder for.”

Frank Abbott’s colourless eyebrows rose. He gazed at an upper shelf of the book-lined walls, where the Waverley Novels had stood unread these sixty years except by Julia Vane, and said,

“Doctor’s daughter, wasn’t she?”

Nothing could have been more casual, but Lamb looked at him hard.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Village doctor’s daughter. Village doctors usually dispense their own drugs. I was wondering what happened to the late Mercer’s stuff-the morphia, you know. Smerdon says he took away a medicine-chest out of Miss Mercer’s room-the police surgeon was going to go through it. I asked what about fingerprints, and he was inclined to be huffy- said of course they’d thought of that-been over everything before they turned it over to the surgeon. I asked what they’d found, and he said he hadn’t had time to check up, but he’d let us have the results this evening.”

He got up as he spoke and wandered to the farther of the two windows. One looked upon the terrace, the other commanded a view of the drive and its approach to the front of the house. It was from this window that Frank Abbott watched the progress of a car which was coming slowly up the winding drive-Antony Latter’s car, with Antony Latter at the wheel. A clump of shrubs obscured the passenger beside him. The car emerged from the shrubs. Frank Abbott gave a long, low whistle. The car passed out of sight. He turned round with a gleam in his eye and said drily,

“Latter went to meet someone at Weston, but nobody told us who it was. Now we know.”

The Chief Inspector stared. His mind, which Frank had once irreverently compared with a tram, ran very efficiently upon its own lines but was not equipped for a rapid side step. He was considering morphia in connection with Miss Mercer and a village dispensary. Antony Latter and the person he had been meeting at Weston constituted an intrusion. They broke the thread of his thoughts. He stared, took hold rather angrily of Frank’s last words, and said,

“So now we know? What are you talking about?”

“Maudie,” said Sergeant Abbott.

The purple colour rose in Lamb’s cheeks. His eyes bulged.

“Not Maud Silver!”

Frank smiled maliciously.

“The one and only Maudie,” he said.

Miss Silver heard the schoolroom door close behind her. That was Mr. Antony going away, an action she very much approved. She always preferred to be alone with a client, and in a case like this it was more than usually desirable.

Jimmy Latter was sitting at the schoolroom table. He had lifted his head from his hands when his cousin opened the door and said her name, but he had made no attempt to rise. She came forward with her hand out, saying, “How do you do, Mr. Latter?” and after a moment’s hesitation he took it. She was not prepared for a grip that was both painful and prolonged. She released herself at what she considered a suitable moment and took a chair on the other side of the table. He continued to stare at her with red-rimmed eyes which had a lost, bewildered look. His first words were those which he had used to her on the telephone.

“You said it was a trick-but she died. She’s dead, you know-last night. It seems much longer ago than that. Why did you say it was a trick? She’s dead.”

She looked at him kindly.

“Yes, Mr. Latter. I am deeply sorry for you. Since you have asked me to come down here, it seems that you think I can help you.”

He shook his head.

“Nobody can help me,” he said.

“Then why did you send for me, Mr. Latter?”

He put up a hand and rubbed his nose-the old gesture, but with something forlorn about it.

“I want it cleared up-I want to know how it happened. The police are here-from Scotland Yard. They seem to think-I don’t know what they think-” His voice trailed away.

Miss Silver looked at him very directly. She said in a clear, firm voice which held his attention,

“Mr. Latter, will you listen to me? I should like to help you. I will do so if I can. You say you want to know how this thing happened. That is, you desire to know the truth. Sometimes the truth is painful. It may be so in this case. Remember that there will be police officers in charge. If your wife did not die a natural death, I may be able to be of some assistance in discovering how it came about, but I can give no pledge that what I discover will not be painful to you, nor can I undertake to conceal any material evidence from the police. Do you really wish me to take the case?”