III

Presently Nash said that he was going to interview Rose once more. Iasked him, rather diffidently, if I might come too. Rather to my surprise heassented cordially.

“I’m very glad of your cooperation, Mr. Burton, if I may say so.”

“That sounds suspicious,” I said. “In books when a detective welcomessomeone’s assistance, that someone is usually the murderer.”

Nash laughed shortly. He said: “You’re hardly the type to write anonym-ous letters, Mr. Burton.”

He added: “Frankly, you can be useful to us.”

“I’m glad, but I don’t see how.”

“You’re a stranger down here, that’s why. You’ve got no preconceivedideas about the people here. But at the same time, you’ve got the oppor-tunity of getting to know things in what I may call a social way.”

“The murderer is a person of good social position,” I murmured.

“Exactly.”

“I’m to be the spy within the gates?”

“Have you any objection?”

I thought it over.

“No,” I said, “frankly I haven’t. If there’s a dangerous lunatic about driv-ing inoffensive women to suicide and hitting miserable little maidservantson the head, then I’m not averse to doing a bit of dirty work to put thatlunatic under restraint.”

“That’s sensible of you, sir. And let me tell you, the person we’re after isdangerous. She’s about as dangerous as a rattlesnake and a cobra and ablack mamba rolled into one.”

I gave a slight shiver. I said:

“In fact, we’ve got to make haste?”

“That’s right. Don’t think we’re inactive in the force. We’re not. We’reworking on several different lines.”

He said it grimly.

I had a vision of a fine far-flung spider’s web….

Nash wanted to hear Rose’s story again, so he explained to me, becauseshe had already told him two different versions, and the more versions hegot from her, the more likely it was that a few grains of truth might be in-corporated.

We found Rose washing up breakfast, and she stopped at once androlled her eyes and clutched her heart and explained again how she’dbeen coming over queer all the morning.

Nash was patient with her but firm. He’d been soothing the first time, sohe told me, and peremptory the second, and he now employed a mixtureof the two.

Rose enlarged pleasurably on the details of the past week, of how Agneshad gone about in deadly fear, and had shivered and said, “Don’t ask me,”

when Rose had urged her to say what was the matter. “It would be death ifshe told me,” that’s what she said, finished Rose, rolling her eyes happily.

Had Agnes given no hint of what was troubling her?

No, except that she went in fear of her life.

Superintendent Nash sighed and abandoned the theme, contenting him-self with extracting an exact account of Rose’s own activities the precedingafternoon.

This, put baldly, was that Rose had caught the 2:30 bus and had spentthe afternoon and evening with her family, returning by the 8:40 bus fromNether Mickford. The recital was complicated by the extraordinarypresentiments of evil Rose had had all the afternoon and how her sisterhad commented on it and how she hadn’t been able to touch a morsel ofseed cake.

From the kitchen we went in search of Elsie Holland, who was superin-tending the children’s lessons. As always, Elsie Holland was competentand obliging. She rose and said:

“Now, Colin, you and Brian will do these three sums and have the an-swers ready for me when I come back.”

She then led us into the night nursery. “Will this do? I thought it wouldbe better not to talk before the children.”

“Thank you, Miss Holland. Just tell me, once more, are you quite surethat Agnes never mentioned to you being worried over anything—sinceMrs. Symmington’s death, I mean?”

“No, she never said anything. She was a very quiet girl, you know, anddidn’t talk much.”

“A change from the other one, then!”

“Yes, Rose talks much too much. I have to tell her not to be impertinentsometimes.”

“Now, will you tell me exactly what happened yesterday afternoon?

Everything you can remember.”

“Well, we had lunch as usual. One o’clock, and we hurry just a little. Idon’t let the boys dawdle. Let me see. Mr. Symmington went back to theoffice, and I helped Agnes by laying the table for supper—the boys ran outin the garden till I was ready to take them.”

“Where did you go?”

“Towards Combeacre, by the field path—the boys wanted to fish. I forgottheir bait and had to go back for it.”

“What time was that?”

“Let me see, we started about twenty to three—or just after. Megan wascoming but changed her mind. She was going out on her bicycle. She’s gotquite a craze for bicycling.”

“I mean what time was it when you went back for the bait? Did you gointo the house?”

“No. I’d left it in the conservatory at the back. I don’t know what time itwas then—about ten minutes to three, perhaps.”

“Did you see Megan or Agnes?”

“Megan must have started, I think. No, I didn’t see Agnes. I didn’t seeanyone.”

“And after that you went fishing?”

“Yes, we went along by the stream. We didn’t catch anything. We hardlyever do, but the boys enjoy it. Brian got rather wet. I had to change histhings when we got in.”

“You attend to tea on Wednesdays?”

“Yes. It’s all ready in the drawing room for Mr. Symmington. I just makethe tea when he comes in. The children and I have ours in the schoolroom—and Megan, of course. I have my own tea things and everything in thecupboard up there.”

“What time did you get in?”

“At ten minutes to five. I took the boys up and started to lay tea. Thenwhen Mr. Symmington came in at five I went down to make his but hesaid he would have it with us in the schoolroom. The boys were sopleased. We played Animal Grab afterwards. It seems so awful to think ofnow—with that poor girl in the cupboard all the time.”

“Would anybody go to that cupboard normally?”

“Oh no, it’s only used for keeping junk. The hats and coats hang in thelittle cloakroom to the right of the front door as you come in. No one mighthave gone to the other cupboard for months.”

“I see. And you noticed nothing unusual, nothing abnormal at all whenyou came back?”

The blue eyes opened very wide.

“Oh no, inspector, nothing at all. Everything was just the same as usual.

That’s what was so awful about it.”

“And the week before?”

“You mean the day Mrs. Symmington—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that was terrible—terrible!”

“Yes, yes, I know. You were out all that afternoon also?”

“Oh yes, I always take the boys out in the afternoon—if it’s fine enough.

We do lessons in the morning. We went up on the moor, I remember—quite a long way. I was afraid I was late back because as I turned in at thegate I saw Mr. Symmington coming from his office at the other end of theroad, and I hadn’t even put the kettle on, but it was just ten minutes tofive.”

“You didn’t go up to Mrs. Symmington?”

“Oh no. I never did. She always rested after lunch. She had attacks ofneuralgia—and they used to come on after meals. Dr. Griffith had givenher some cachets to take. She used to lie down and try to sleep.”

Nash said in a casual voice:

“So no one would take her up the post?”

“The afternoon post? No, I’d look in the letter box and put the letters onthe hall table when I came in. But very often Mrs. Symmington used tocome down and get it herself. She didn’t sleep all the afternoon. She wasusually up again by four.”

“You didn’t think anything was wrong because she wasn’t up that after-noon?”

“Oh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hangingup his coat in the hall and I said, ‘Tea’s not quite ready, but the kettle’snearly boiling,’ and he nodded and called out, ‘Mona, Mona!’—and then asMrs. Symmington didn’t answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and itmust have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came,and he said, ‘Keep the children away,’ and then he phoned Dr. Griffith andwe forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it wasdreadful, and she’d been so happy and cheerful at lunch.”

Nash said abruptly: “What is your own opinion of that letter she re-ceived, Miss Holland?”

Elsie Holland said indignantly:

“Oh, I think it was wicked—wicked!”

“Yes, yes, I don’t mean that. Did you think it was true?”

Elsie Holland said firmly:

“No, indeed I don’t. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitive—very sensitiveindeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was very—well, particular.” Elsie flushed. “Anything of that sort—nasty, I mean—would have given her a great shock.”

Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked:

“Have you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?”

“No. No, I haven’t had any.”

“Are you sure? Please”—he lifted a hand—“don’t answer in a hurry.

They’re not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people don’tlike to admit they’ve had them. But it’s very important in this case that weshould know. We’re quite aware that the statements in them are just a tis-sue of lies, so you needn’t feel embarrassed.”

“But I haven’t, superintendent. Really I haven’t. Not anything of thekind.”

She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuineenough.

When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the win-dow.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that! She says she hasn’t received any of these let-ters. And she sounds as though she’s speaking the truth.”

“She did certainly. I’m sure she was.”

“H’m,” said Nash. “Then what I want to know is, why the devil hasn’tshe?”

He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him.

“She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?”

“Rather more than pretty.”

“Exactly. As a matter of fact, she’s uncommonly good-looking. And she’syoung. In fact she’s just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like.

Then why has she been left out?”

I shook my head.

“It’s interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if wecould tell him definitely of anyone who hadn’t had one.”

“She’s the second person,” I said. “There’s Emily Barton, remember.”

Nash gave a faint chuckle.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, Mr. Burton. Miss Bartonhad one all right—more than one.”

“How do you know?”

“That devoted dragon she’s lodging with told me—her late parlourmaidor cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like tohave the writer’s blood.”

“Why did Miss Emily say she hadn’t had any?”

“Delicacy. Their language isn’t nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her lifeavoiding the coarse and unrefined.”

“What did the letters say?”

“The usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated thatshe poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!”

I said incredulously:

“Do you mean to say there’s really this dangerous lunatic going aboutand we can’t spot her right away?”

“We’ll spot her,” said Nash, and his voice was grim. “She’ll write just oneletter too many.”

“But, my goodness, man, she won’t go on writing these things — notnow.”

He looked at me.

“Oh yes she will. You see, she can’t stop now. It’s a morbid craving. Theletters will go on, make no mistake about that.”