“Read it.”

With an expression of extreme distaste he read the letter. It was Jane Harden’s.

“If an opportunity presented itself,” Jane had written, “I would not hesitate to kill you.”

Ronald put it down on the desk.

“Now read this.”

The second letter was from Sir John Phillips. Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he got home from his interview with O’Callaghan, and had posted it before he had time to cool down.

“I gather you’re going to cut your losses and evade what, to any decent man, would be a responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or return it. I cannot force your hand, for that would do still more harm to a lady who is already deeply wronged, I warn you, however, to keep clear of me. I’ve a certain devil in me that I thought was scotched, but you have brought it to life again, and I think I could very easily kill you. This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of fact, it is a meiosis.

John Phillips.”

“Have you seen that before?” asked Lady O’Callaghan.

“Never,” said Ronald.

“You notice the signature? It was written by the man who operated on my husband.”

“Yes.”

“Who is this woman — Jane Harden?”

“Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O’Callaghan.”

“No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address, Mr. Jameson.”

“Good God,” said Ronald. “It’s — it’s the nursing-home.”

“Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his operation.”

“But—”

“Will you please take these letters with you?”

“But, Lady O’Callaghan, I can’t possibly show them to the P.M. — the Prime Minister — really!”

“Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.”

“Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these letters and — realising their inferences, have you considered the effect any publicity would have on yourself?”

“What do you mean? What shock? Do you suppose I did not know he had mistresses?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” said poor Ronald unhappily-

“Of course I knew,” she said composedly. “That seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I thought at first that these other people— ” She made a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the desk. “Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to him than that.” Her hand closed over the letters on her knee. “He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.”

“An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you would be given permission.”

“To whom does one apply?”

“One can’t just order an inquest,” Ronald said evasively.

“Who can do so, Mr. Jameson?”

“The — well, the coroner for the district, I imagine.”

“Or the police?”

Ronald winced.

“I suppose so — yes.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”

Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.

Lady O’Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the little heap of letters and opened the telephone directory. The number she wanted was printed in large letters on a front page. She dialed it, and was answered immediately.

“Is that New Scotland Yard?” she asked, pitching her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. “It is Lady O’Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek O’Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to speak to someone in authority, in reference to the death of my husband. No, not on the telephone. Perhaps someone would call? Immediately, if possible. Thank you.”

She hung up the receiver and leant back in her chair. Then she rang for Nash, who came in looking like a Stilton in mourning.

“Nash,” she said, “an officer from Scotland Yard is calling in ten minutes. It is in reference to the funeral. I wish to speak to him myself. If Miss O’Callaghan calls, will you tell her I am unable to see her? Show the officer in here when he comes.”

“Very good, m’lady,” breathed Nash and withdrew.

Cicely O’Callaghan then went to the room where her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island, but was very cold. A nun from the church that the O’Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from the coffin. She did not look up when Lady O’Callaghan came in.

The wife knelt beside her for a moment, crossed herself with a thin vague movement of her hand, and then rose and contemplated her husband.

Derek O’Callaghan looked impressive. The heavy eyebrows, black hair, jutting nose and thin wide mouth were striking accents in the absolute pallor of his face. His hands, stiffly crossed, obediently fixed a crucifix to the hard curve of his breast. His wife, only a little less pale than he, stared at him. It would have been impossible to guess her thoughts. She simply looked in the direction of the dead face. In the distance a door opened and shut. She turned away from the bier, and walked out of the room.

In the hall Nash waited gloomily, while a tall, thickly built man handed him hat and umbrella.

“Inspector Fox, my lady.”

“Will you come in here?”

She took the inspector into the study. Nash had lit the fire, and she held her thin hands towards it.

“Please sit down,” she murmured. They sat facing each other. Inspector Fox regarded her with respectful attention.

“I asked you to come and see me,” she began very quietly, “because I believe my husband to have been murdered.”

Fox did not speak for a moment. He sat stockily, very still, looking gravely before him.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lady O’Callaghan,” he said at last. “It sounds rather serious.”

Apparently she had met her match in understatement.

“Of course, I should not have called you in unless I had material evidence to put before you. I believe the police are aware of the activities of those persons against whom my husband’s Anarchy Bill was directed?”

“We know a good deal about them.”

“Yes. My husband had received many threatening letters which were believed to come from these people. I wished him to let the police see the letters, but he refused.”

“We were informed of the matter from another source,” said Fox.

“The Prime Minister, perhaps?”

Fox regarded her placidly, but did not reply.

“I have the letters here,” she continued, after a moment, “and would like you to read them.” She took them from the desk and gave them to him.

Fox took a spectacle case from an inner pocket and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He looked extremely respectable. He read the letters through stolidly, laying them down neatly one on top of the other. When the last was finished, he clasped his enormous hands together and said:

“Yes. That’s the sort of thing these people write.”

“Now, will you read these?”

She gave him the letters from Sir John Phillips and Jane Harden. He read them carefully, in exactly the same way.

“Sir John Phillips is the surgeon who operated upon my husband. I understand the other letter is from a nurse in the hospital.”

“Is that so, Lady O’Callaghan?” said Fox politely.

“My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.”

“In view of these letters? These two, or the others?”

“I do not know. I am inclined to regard the personal ones as being more important. They definitely threaten his life.”

“Yes. Very vindictive, they seem to be.”

“I wish to have an inquest.”

“I see,” said Fox. “Now that’s quite a serious matter, Lady O’Callaghan.”

A faint redness appeared in her cheeks. Another woman would possibly have screamed in his face.