Carr nodded briefly, his mind elsewhere. He appeared to be debating something. An air of hesitation in the end resolved itself. He said,

“Do you know anything about Cyril Mayhew?”

The hand on Mr. Holderness’s knee jumped slightly.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Idle curiosity. I asked Rietta about him the other day, and she shied off the subject. What has he been up to?”

“I believe he has been in trouble.”

“With the police?”

“I am afraid so. He was bound over.”

“What has he done?”

“Theft from his employer, I believe. The Mayhews felt it very much. It’s hard when an only son goes wrong. They are most respectable people.”

“Only children get spoilt. Cyril was a horrid little squirt.”

“Parents are often extremely unwise. What made you ask about Cyril Mayhew?”

Carr looked at the ceiling.

“Nothing-except that I saw him at Lenton station last night.”

Mr. Holderness knit his brows.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. I only saw him by accident. He got out of the last carriage and cut away behind the booking-office. It didn’t strike me he wanted to be spoken to. I’ve been wondering if he went home last night.”

Mr. Holderness said,

“I think we will ask the police.”

When Rietta Cray had finished her telephone call she remained sitting at the writing-table upon which the instrument stood. She liked a good-sized table, and was grateful for the room afforded by a bulging bay which broke the front wall of the dining-room. She stayed there, the dining-table at her back-one of the old-fashioned Victorian kind built to take a family and much too large for its present surroundings. Neither it nor the heavy upright chairs with imitation Sheriton backs and seats of faded brocade were in the least suited to a cottage, but Rietta had grown up with them, and it would never have occurred to her to change them. They belonged to the time when her father had the leading practice in Lenton and they lived in a big house on Main Street. That time seemed very far away. Dr. Cray died, and they came to live at the White Cottage. Nearly thirty years ago. A long time.

She sat looking at the telephone for some minutes before she stretched out her hand and again lifted the receiver. The voice which answered her from the exchange was not Gladys Luker’s, as it had been when she rang up Carr. It was Miss Presser who said, “Hullo!” and that made everything a great deal easier. Everyone in Melling knew that Gladys listened in if she thought there was going to be anything worth listening for, but Miss Prosser couldn’t be bothered. She was not deaf but a little hard of hearing, and as she put it herself, “I’ve got enough to do getting hold of what I’ve got to.”

Rietta gazed at the number she wanted and had to repeat it-“21 Lenfold.” She wondered whether Miss Prosser would remember that it was Randal March’s private number. On being made Chief Constable of the county he had bought an agreeable small house some miles out of Lenton, installed an elderly married couple to do for him, and developed an interest in the garden, which boasted a tiny stream, a water-lily pond, and a patch of woodland.

As she waited for the call to come through she told herself that she was a fool to ring up, but that she would probably be preserved from the consequences of her folly because as likely as not Randal wouldn’t be there. He might if he was coming home to lunch. But then it was quite likely that he wouldn’t be coming home to lunch. He might even be coming over here-if Superintendent Drake had had time to make his report.

Someone lifted the receiver on the other end. Randal March said, “Hullo!” The colour ran hot to the roots of Rietta’s hair. Why in the world had she rung him up? A most preposterous piece of folly. She heard her own voice say in deep, calm tones,

“Is that you, Randal?”

He sounded warm and pleased as he said, “Rietta!”

Her flush died down. She thought, “He hasn’t heard yet- it’s all right.” She said,

“I just wanted to ask you something. It’s about your Miss Silver. You know she’s staying here with Mrs. Voycey who is an old school friend of hers-”

“So I gathered. Have you met her? Unique, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Randal, how good is she-at her job, I mean?”

He laughed.

“Oh, definitely top of the class! No, that’s the wrong simile. She’s the teacher up at the desk, with the rest of us sitting in a row in the infants’ class.”

Her voice went deeper, slower.

“Do you really mean that? Seriously?”

“Quite seriously. Rietta, why do you ask? Is there anything wrong?”

“Quite a lot.” She slipped into French just in case. “James Lessiter was murdered here last night.”

“So I am informed. I haven’t had a report yet.”

Rietta Cray said, “I’m the chief suspect, Randal,” and rang off.

Randal March looked up from the typewritten sheets which he had just been reading. He went through them without comment until he came to the end. When he let the last page fall Superintendent Drake said,

“Well, sir, there you have it. There’s no denying there’s quite a serious case against Miss Cray.”

March smiled.

“My dear man, it’s absurd. I’ve known Miss Cray since she was a child. She is quite incapable of hitting anyone over the head with a poker.”

Drake stiffened. So that was going to be the way of it. Class-consciousness rose in him, bitter as brine. He had known her since she was a child-so she couldn’t do murder! All these people hung together! His thin nose had a pinched look as he said,

“That’s what somebody always says until it’s proved. A murderer is just like anyone else until you get him on the end of a rope.”

Randal March had the pleasant, even temper which goes with a good physique, good health, and a good conscience, but at this moment a jag of pure rage went through him. It surprised him a good deal. He found it uncomfortably revealing. He was, fortunately, able to control any outward manifestation and merely repeat his former assertion.

“Miss Cray is quite incapable of murdering anyone.”

That pinched look extended to the rest of Drake’s features. One might have said a hungry fox.

“What we have to look at is the evidence, sir. If you will just cast your eye over those statements again you will see that Miss Cray has quite a strong motive. She was engaged to this Mr. Lessiter a matter of twenty years ago or more. She says she broke off the engagement herself, but she declines to say why, and the local opinion is that he treated her badly. I don’t say there’s actual evidence that she bore him any grudge, but she might have done. On the top of that he comes back here twenty years later full of money. Then we come to the events of last night. Mr. Carr Robertson refuses to make any statement. That, to my mind, is a very suspicious circumstance. I wouldn’t think so much of it if he was older. It’s more natural for a middle-aged person to be cautious, but it isn’t natural for a young man of twenty-eight. It’s highly suspicious. He knows something, and he’s afraid it’s going to look bad, either for himself or for Miss Cray, so he’s holding his tongue. But look at Miss Bell’s statement. She makes it perfectly clear that Mr. Robertson went banging out of the house because he had just seen a photo of Mr. Lessiter in a picture-paper with the name underneath. I find they had never met or seen each other, but the minute Mr. Robertson sees this photo with the name under it he recognizes it and rushes off out. Now the local talk is that Mr. Robertson’s wife ran off to France while Mr. Robertson was in Germany. Nobody knew who it was she’d run off with. Then Mr. Robertson is demobbed and comes home. Presently his wife turns up ill. The man she went away with has left her flat. Mr. Robertson takes her in and nurses her, and she dies-a matter of two years ago. The talk is he’s set himself to find out who was responsible. Mrs. Fallow that works for Miss Cray, she’s got some story about a photo-says she heard Mr. Robertson tell his aunt he’d know the man if he saw him because Marjory-that’s his wife-had a photo. Well, that’s just local talk, but it fits in. Now come back to Miss Bell’s statement and you’ll see that no sooner has Mr. Robertson gone out by the front than Miss Cray goes out by the back. She picks up the first coat she comes to-it happens to be her nephew’s-and she goes off up to Melling House, where Mrs. Mayhew hears Mr. Lesiter tell her about the will he made when they were engaged-‘Everything to Henrietta Cray,’ etc. And she hears him say, ‘If young Carr was to murder me tonight, you’d come in for quite a tidy fortune.’ ” Drake paused, pleased with what he felt to be an efficient and convincing exposition.