they were up to mischief.’
‘They were seeking a hiding-place for some sacks of sprouting rhubarb.’
‘Oh, I see. Preparatory to rendering unto Caesar the things they presumed to be Caesar’s, I take it? Ah, well, since they did not succeed in their object, there is no reason for me to appear in the matter.’
‘I made some enquiries at the inn, and it appears that the presence of an unspecified heap on the floor of the coach would have brought no investigation from the owners, as they never went near it except to paint it every fifth year in order to preserve the bodywork.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you? Any way I can be of help?’
‘Well, I wish I could find some way of meeting the girl’s mother and stepfather. I should very much like to hear what they have to say.’
‘I can arrange that, I think. I shall have to invite them to college after the inquest to collect the poor girl’s things. Then you can meet them on neutral ground, as it were, and under non-suspicious circumstances. Will that do?’
‘Most admirably. I wonder who was the last person to see her before she encountered her death? In the case of a murder by poisoning, the actual killer need not have been on the spot.’
‘We don’t seem able to find out. In other words, I don’t think there was any one particular person. You know how it is in a hostel. The students are almost always in groups, and that is the way we like it. A gregarious student, on the whole, is a happy student. You still cling, I suppose, to the idea that Miss Palliser—I mean, Mrs Coles—was spirited away on that horse Miss Good saw?’
‘I still think that, if she was not, coincidence has an even longer arm than I have ever suspected.’
‘I still don’t know why the parents have troubled the college so little. I wonder what made the mother marry again? It does not seem to have been for financial reasons, from what one can gather. I’ll tell you one thing, though— not that it could have any bearing upon what has happened, but—I don’t like the sound of that stepfather. I wonder whether he has children of his own? I also wonder whether Mrs Coles left a will. Not that I know whether she had anything very substantial to leave.’
‘Are you arguing that the stepfather may have killed the girl to get possession of her inheritance, not knowing that she was married? It is possible.’
Miss McKay wagged her head.
‘Wills cause more trouble and more bad feeling than wars,’ she pronounced solemnly. ‘But, of course, we have yet to discover whether a will was involved. If not, we may have a crime of jealousy, although one can hardly credit that one of our students would be mixed up in that sort of thing. They always seem such pedestrian, ordinary girls.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean, but how can one tell? Of course, pedestrian, ordinary girls do get themselves murdered, I suppose.’
‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed Miss McKay. ‘There goes the refectory bell. I don’t know about you, but at the first sign of trouble I eat like a horse. Come along.’
While the plates were being changed for the second course, the college secretary was called away. She came back with a message.
‘Miss Palliser’s parents are here, and would like to see you.’
‘Tell them I won’t keep them waiting for more than a few minutes. I shall indicate, without actually committing myself to a spoken lie, that you are a member of the staff, if you don’t mind,’ she added, in an aside, to Dame Beatrice. ‘I met the mother once, but not the stepfather. I shall be interested to know what you make of them.’ She finished her meal, drank a cup of black coffee and then, with an apology to the rest of the high table, rose and made her way, with Dame Beatrice, to the visitors’ parlour.
chapter six
Case History
‘These are, I think, guinea-pigs, but of a particular kind.’
« ^ »
The dead girl’s stepfather wore a black armband and a black tie. He was a swarthy Italianate man, short and of stoutish build, with clear, amber, cat-like eyes, a broad nose and a slightly paunched belly. The mother bore no possible resemblance to the dead girl and did not appear to be old enough for the relationship between them. Her first words were in explanation of this.
‘Of course, I was only twenty-three when Norah was born,’ she stated, ‘and I had Carrie at sixteen, although he did marry me later. I don’t deserve this trouble should come upon me.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Miss McKay, in a sympathetic voice. ‘Nobody deserves this sort of trouble. Is there any light you can possibly throw on the matter?’
‘You’re only thinking of the college,’ said the woman, beginning to sniff. ‘But it’s worse for us than it is for you. People are beginning to say my daughter must have been a bad girl.’
‘Was she?’ Dame Beatrice gently enquired. The question was put in such a beautifully-modulated voice that the mother could scarcely take offence at its essential baldness.
‘I don’t know. That’s the trouble. I just don’t know. We’ve talked it over…’ she glanced at her husband… ‘Mr Biancini and I…’
‘So he
