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Fourteen
INQUIRY
I
Molly lay on her bed. Dr. Graham and Dr. Robertson, the West Indian po-
lice doctor, stood on one side—Tim on the other. Robertson had his hand
on Molly’s pulse—He nodded to the man at the foot of the bed, a slender
dark man in police uniform, Inspector Weston of the St. Honoré Police
Force.
“A bare statement—no more,” the doctor said.
The other nodded.
“Now, Mrs. Kendal—just tell us how you came to find this girl.”
For a moment or two it was as though the figure on the bed had not
heard. Then she spoke in a faint, faraway voice.
“In the bushes—white….”
“You saw something white—and you looked to see what it was? Is that
it?”
“Yes—white—lying there—I tried—tried to lift—she it—blood—blood all
over my hands.”
She began to tremble.
Dr. Graham shook his head at them. Robertson whispered—“She can’t
stand much more.”
“What were you doing on the beach path, Mrs. Kendal?”
“Warm—nice—by the sea—”
“You knew who the girl was?”
“Victoria—nice—nice girl—laughs—she used to laugh—oh! and now she
won’t—She won’t ever laugh again. I’ll never forget it—I’ll never forget it
—” Her voice rose hysterically.
“Molly—don’t.” It was Tim.
“Quiet—Quiet—” Dr. Robertson spoke with a soothing authority—“Just
relax—relax—Now just a small prick—” He withdrew the hypodermic.
“She’ll be in no fit condition to be questioned for at least twenty-four
hours,” he said—“I’ll let you know when.”
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