— maybe Lammas was aiming to pick her up somewhere close — she’s seen the fire — she sees the shover coming away from it — so he has to do for her, to keep her mouth shut. And then he dusn’t go back and shove her in the yacht, so he gets rid of the corpse somewhere else.’
‘Which is why he flitted, eh, Dutt? The second corpse wasn’t looking like an accident.’
‘That’s right, sir. Otherwise he’d be sitting tight and knowing nothink.’
Gently grinned feebly at his subordinate. ‘It’s a nice little theory… all it needs to set it up is a bunch of facts and a fresh corpse.’
‘Well, sir… it isn’t to say they won’t turn up.’
‘No, Dutt — but until they do we’d better be good policemen and keep a wide-open mind.’
‘Yessir. Of course, sir.’
‘We’re only halfway into the picture… it’s the other half we may be finding now.’
They had come to the ornate iron gates of ‘Willow Street’. The narrow country road turned sharply to the right, the gates being set in the corner. Beyond them a gravel drive screwed steeply down between luxuriant rhododendrons, now in full bloom, their giant salmon, white and heliotrope flowers seeming to explode against the sombre leaves.
‘Willow Street’ from the landward side presented a different picture to ‘Willow Street’ seen from the broad. It was not entirely a high-built bungalow. The land at this point dropped down to the carrs in a knoll, so that while the front of the building was piled the rest of it was niched into the slope, and the floor was at ground level where the drive came sweeping out of the rhododendrons. It was built in the traditional timber and white plaster, its reed thatch humping over semi-circular loft-windows. A golden vane surmounted the high cone of thatch rising at the broad end.
Hansom had already arrived from Norchester. His car stood parked near the capacious garage and he was to be seen chatting to a tiny dark woman who scarcely came up to his elbow. A Constable stood at a little distance. Gently parked and went over to them.
‘Chief Inspector Gently, ma’am, in charge of the case… this is Mrs Lammas.’
Gently extended his hand.
She was a woman of forty or a little more, but so delicately beautiful that her age seemed to adorn rather than detract from her. Slight in build, her features were pale and small, like those of a Dresden figure, her brown eyes appearing by contrast large and curiously penetrating. She wore a plain black dress too simple to be cheap and on her finger a ring of diamonds and emeralds. Her voice, when she spoke, was low but ringingly clear.
‘I am pleased to meet you, inspector… Inspector Hansom has just been telling me about you.’
‘We are sorry to have to intrude upon you, ma’am, at a time like this.’
‘It cannot be otherwise, inspector… I do not wish it otherwise. Will you come into the house?’
They followed her up the steps and down a wide, parquet corridor.
‘This is the lounge. I trust it will suit your purpose?’
It was a large room overlooking the broad, with French windows giving on to a veranda. Gently cast a speculative eye around the furnishings. Expensive, also feminine. There was nothing in that room to suggest a man had ever lived there.
‘You have a beautiful home, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, inspector.’
‘Your husband must have been in a substantial way of business.’
‘My husband-’ she began and then checked herself, her small lips pressing tight. ‘This is my own house. I built it and furnished it myself.’
‘It does your taste credit.’
She rang the bell and ordered coffee to be brought. Hansom arranged his short-hand Constable at a card- table and made other official dispositions. Mrs Lammas watched him coldly.
‘I suppose you will begin with me?’
Gently shrugged. ‘Would it upset the domestic economy if we started with the servants?’
‘Not really. Do you want the cook or the maid?’
‘We’ll take the maid… she’ll be along with the coffee.’
‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Hansom leeringly when Mrs Lammas had retired. ‘Can you imagine a man turning up a dish like that for his secretary!’
‘It’s surprising what men do.’
‘And money with it — Lammas must have been crackers!’
‘I daresay he has his point of view if you could get round to it.’
The maid came in, bearing the coffee on a silver tray. She was a square-boned, moon-faced girl in her twenties. When the coffee was served Gently bade her be seated and took his place with Hansom at the table opposite.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Gwyneth Jones, it is.’
‘You don’t belong to these parts?’
‘Oh no! I come from Wales, like Mrs Lammas.’
‘Mrs Lammas is Welsh?’
‘Indeed she is — and good Welsh too, at that!’
Gently nodded and dropped lumps of sugar into his fragile coffee cup.
‘Now Miss Jones… we’d like you to tell us exactly what happened on Friday evening from, shall we say, tea- time.’
‘But I’ve told it already, I have-’
‘We’d like to hear it again, if you please.’
The maid gave herself a little shake and then began, as though it were a lesson: ‘The cook and me were sitting in the kitchen, we were, talking about old times at Pwllheli-’
‘Whoa!’ interrupted Gently. ‘What time was this?’
‘Oh, about eight o’clock, or it might be later.’
‘But I want you to tell what happened before that.’
‘There wasn’t nothing happened — it just went on as it always does go on!’
‘Never mind — I’d still like to hear about it.’
The maid gave herself another little shake. ‘Well, there was Miss Pauline had her tea early to catch a bus-’
‘How early?’
‘At half-past five it was, she was catching the quarter-past six.’
‘Does she usually travel by bus?’
‘Oh yess! She’s wonderfully independent is Miss Pauline — not like Mr Paul in that respect, mark you. In the mornings she would go to the office with her father, but when it came to her own affairs it was different.’
‘She was going to a rehearsal in Norchester, I believe.’
‘Indeed — she has always been a one for acting.’
‘Did she usually have tea early when she was going to a rehearsal?’
‘- No, not that I know of. It was the ten-to-seven bus as a rule.’
‘Very well… go on with what you were telling me.’
‘Why, then the mistress and Mr Paul has tea here, in the lounge, and very quiet they were — not the usual chatter at all. And while we were washing the dishes I heard Mr Paul starting up his motorcycle — “Look you,” says I to Gwladys, “there has been a row, or something very much like one”-’
‘What time was that?’
‘Oh, about seven o’clock I’d say, either more or less. “If there has been a row,” says Gwladys-’
‘Did you actually see Mr Paul leave?’
‘Oh yess, I did — the kitchen looks out that way.’
‘And Mrs Lammas — what time did she leave?’
‘Some minutes later — I was going to tell you!’
Gently sighed and resigned himself to be told.
‘“If there has been a row,” says Gwladys, “a quiet one it has been, I tell you,” and while we were talking
