rather conscience-stricken. I promised Cora to come and see her, some weeks ago. I usually called upon her once a year, and just lately she'd taken up the hobby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me to look at some of them. My profession is that of art critic, you know. Of course most of Cora's purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it isn't such a bad speculation. Pictures go for next to nothing at these country sales and the frames alone are worth more than you pay for the picture. Naturally any important sale is attended by dealers and one isn't likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other day, a small Cuyp was knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quite, interesting. It had been given to an old nurse by the family she had served faithfully for many years – they had no idea of it's value. Old nurse gave it to farmer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing! Yes, yes, these things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures. She hadn't, of course. Wanted me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked the last year. A Rembrandt! Not even a respectable copy of one! But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi engraving – damp spotted unfortunately. I sold it for her for thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had bought at some sale and I promised I'd come along and see it.'
'That's it over there, I expect,' said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.
Mr Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.
'Poor dear Cora,' he said at last.
'There are a lot more,' said Susan.
Mr Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hopeful Mrs Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, 'Tchk, Tchk,' occasionally he sighed.
Finally he removed his spectacles.
'Dirt,' he said, 'is a wonderful thing, Mrs Banks! It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painter's art. I'm afraid that Bartolozzi was beginner's luck. Poor Cora. Still it gave her an interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her.'
'There are some pictures in, the dining-room,' said Susan, 'but I think they are all her husband's work.'
Mr Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.
'Do not force me to look at those again. Life classes have much to answer for! I always tried to spare Cora's feelings. A devoted wife – a very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs Banks, I must not take up more of your time.'
'Oh, do stay and have some tea. I think it's nearly ready.'
'That is very kind of you.' Mr Guthrie sat down again promptly.
'I'll just go and see.'
In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrist was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea-tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.
'There's a Mr Guthrie here, and I've asked him to stay for tea.'
'Mr Guthrie? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs Lansquenet's. He's the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; I've made a nice lot of scones and that's some home-made strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. I'll just make the tea – I've warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs Banks, don't carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything.'
However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr Guthrie, and they set to.
'Hot scones, that is a treat,' said Mr Guthrie, 'and what delicious jam! Really, the stuff one buys nowadays.'
Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party. Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.
'Well, thank you, perhaps I will,' said Mr Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. 'I do feel rather guilty, though – enjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered.'
Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victorian reaction to this.
'Oh, but Mrs Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. You've got to keep your strength up.'
'Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knew – actually knew – can have been murdered!'
'I agree,' said Susan. 'It just seems – fantastic.'
'And certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, you know, reasons why Cora might have been murdered.'
Susan said quickly, 'Can you? What reasons?'
'Well, she wasn't discreet,' said Mr Guthrie. 'Cora was never discreet. And she enjoyed – how shaw I put it – showing how sharp she could be? Like a child who's got hold of somebody's secret. If Cora got hold of a secret she'd want to talk about it. Even if she promised not to, she'd still do it. She wouldn't be able to help herself.'
Susan did not speak. Miss Gilchrist did not either. She looked worried. Mr Guthrie went on:
'Yes, a little dose of arsenic in a cup of tea – that would not have surprised me, or a box of chocolates by post. But sordid robbery and assault – that seems highly incongruous. I may be wrong but I should have thought she had very little to take that would be worth a burglar's while. She didn't keep much money in the house, did she?'
Miss Gilchrist said, 'Very little.'
Mr Guthrie sighed and rose to his feet.
'Ah! well, there's a lot of lawlessness about since the war. Times have changed.'
Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting-room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.
Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.
'The postman must have been while we were at the inquest. He pushed it through the letter-box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonder – why, of course, it must be wedding cake.'
Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.
'It is!' She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. 'How nice! Now who -' She consulted the card attached. 'John and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no surname.'
Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely:
'It's quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan. I counted up I knew eight Joans – and with telephoning so much, one often doesn't know their handwriting.'
Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns or Marys of her acquaintance.
'It might be Dorothy's daughter – her name was Mary, but I hadn't heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then there's little John Banfield – I suppose he's grown up and old enough to be married – or the Enfield girl – no, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to me…'
She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.
Susan roused herself and said:
'Well – I suppose I'd better go and put the car somewhere.'
Chapter 10
Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King's Arms. They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.
The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention the he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.
