falsehoods was no sign of true repentance.
‘I take it that you are married,’ he said doubtfully, ‘and that Henry is your lawful wedded husband?’
‘Yes,’ said Eva. ‘Dear Henry.’
Poor sod, thought the Vicar but he was too tactful to say so. ‘And you have left him?’
‘Yes’
‘For another man?’
Eva shook her head. ‘To teach him a lesson,’ she said with sudden belligerence.
‘A lesson?’ said the Vicar, trying frantically to imagine what sort of lesson the wretched Mr Wilt had learnt from her absence. ‘You did say a lesson?’
‘Yes,’ said Eva, ‘I wanted him to learn that he couldn’t get along without me.’
The Rev St John Froude sipped his drink thoughtfully. If even a quarter of her confession was to be believed her husband must be finding getting along without her quite delightful. ‘And now you want to go back to him?’
‘Yes,’ said Eva.
‘But he won’t have you?’
‘He can’t. The police have got him.’
‘The police?’ said the Vicar. ‘And may one ask what the police have got him for?’
‘They say he’s murdered me,’ said Eva.
The Rev St John Froude eyed her with new alarm. He knew now that Mrs Wilt was out of her mind. He glanced round for something to use as a weapon should the need arise and finding nothing better to choose from than a plaster bust of the poet Dante and the bottle of Polish spirit, picked up the latter by its neck. Eva held her glass out.
‘Oh you are awful,’ she said. ‘You’re getting me tiddly.’
‘Quite,’ said the Vicar and put the bottle down again hastily. It was bad enough being alone in the house with a large, drunk, semi-naked woman who imagined that her husband had murdered her and who confessed to sins he had previously only read about without her jumping to the conclusion that he was deliberately trying to make her drunk. The Rev St John Froude had no desire to figure prominently in next Sunday’s News of the World.
‘You were saying that your husband murdered…’ He stopped. That seemed an unprofitable subject to pursue.
‘How could he have murdered me?’ asked Eva. ‘I’m here in the flesh, aren’t I?’
‘Definitely,’ said the Vicar. ‘Most definitely.’
‘Well then,’ said Eva. ‘And anyway Henry couldn’t murder anyone. He wouldn’t know how. He can’t even change a fuse in a plug. I have to do everything like that in the house.’ She stared at the Vicar balefully. ‘Are you married?’
‘No,’ said the Rev St John Froude, wishing to hell that he was.
‘What do you know about life if you aren’t married?’ asked Eva truculently. The Polish spirit was getting to her now and with it there came a terrible sense of grievance. ‘Men. What good are men? They can’t even keep a house tidy. Look at this room. I ask you.’ She waved her arms to emphasize the point and the dustcover dropped. Just look at it.’ But the Rev St John Froude had no eyes for the room. What he could see of Eva was enough to convince him that his life was in danger. He bounded from the chair, trod heavily on an occasional table, overturned the wastepaper basket and threw himself through the door into the hall. As he stumbled away in search of sanctuary the front door bell rang. The Rev St John Froude opened it and stared into Inspector Flint’s face.
‘Thank God, you’ve come,’ he gasped, ’she’s in there.’
The Inspector and two uniformed constables went across the hall. Wilt followed uneasily. This was the moment he had been dreading. In the event it was better than he had expected. Not so for Inspector Flint. He entered the study and found himself confronted
