‘Yes?’ said Miss McKay.
‘But we can’t come to any conclusion. We were relying on you to give us… well, a lead.’
‘If I had had any reason to suppose that your daughter was an undesirable member of this place, she would have been sent down long ago.’ Miss McKay’s voice was extremely firm.
Mrs Biancini burst into tears. Her husband rose from the hard-seated chair he was occupying, went over to her, seated himself on the broad and comfortable arm of hers, and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘O.K. Take it easy, Dee-an,’ he said. ‘So Norah was
‘I have already said so.’
‘You called in the police at once?’
‘Yes. We called the doctor, too, of course, in case there was anything to be done. Unfortunately, there was not.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Biancini, mollified, ‘I’m sure you did everything you could. Shall I—I suppose I’ll be allowed to see her before they nail her down?’
‘Of course. In fact, I’m afraid that you will be called upon at the inquest for proof of identity. Haven’t the police told you that? You must be prepared. It is not a pleasant task, and I’m sorry you have to be called upon to face it.’
‘I’ve been so upset I haven’t taken much notice of the police. They’ve come bothering round, of course, but there was nothing we could tell them about Norah that they didn’t know already.’
‘Did you tell them she was married?’ The question was put by Dame Beatrice in the deceptively dulcet tones she had used before.
‘Married?’ Mr Biancini almost fell off the arm of his wife’s chair. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Perfectly serious. You did not know, then?’
‘Certainly not! Since when?’
‘Since the beginning, or near to it, of the summer,’ said Miss McKay. ‘More probably during her first Easter holiday from college, or at the end of the Easter term.’
‘Did
‘Of course not.’ Mrs Biancini was entirely mistress of herself again. ‘How could I? She never used to tell me a thing. Neither of them tells me a thing.’
‘In other words, she did not care for the idea of your second marriage,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Children are odd, in that respect. They never seem to think that their mothers have a point of view, too. My own son, Ferdinand Lestrange, although a broadminded man and one of some vision, never quite accustomed himself to my second marriage and its aftermath of a half-brother. Children, especially sons, are curiously self-centred, one finds.’
This speech had the effect that Dame Beatrice had anticipated.
‘Sons!’ snorted Mrs Biancini. ‘I don’t know about sons! Daughters are quite enough for me! Norah’s father died when she was ten. I brought her up, working my fingers to the bone, until she was seventeen. Then I met Tony.’
Mr Biancini smirked.
‘It was at a dance,’ he explained. ‘I was bored, frustrated —no, I’ll be honest—just plain bored. Then Dee-an turned up, an older, more sophisticated woman. I fell for her and married her.’
He and his wife exchanged glances of mingled congratulation and caution. Then Mrs Biancini smiled.
‘Just like that,’ she said. ‘Norah, of course, didn’t like it. She adored her mum.’
‘But not sufficiently so to prefer your happiness and sense of security to her own,’ suggested Dame Beatrice.
‘Oh, well, that’s all over now, poor girl,’ said the stepfather. ‘Let’s hope none of it was her own fault.’
‘It couldn’t be suicide,’ said Mrs Biancini quickly. ‘I’ve told you I don’t know whether Norah was a good girl, but she wouldn’t do a thing like that to us.’
‘Do you wish the murderer to be found?’ asked Dame Beatrice. ‘I agree with you that it was not suicide.’
‘Yes, that I do—and punished!’
‘Then tell me all you know.’
The woman glanced at her husband.
‘Perhaps, Mr Biancini…?’ suggested Miss McKay, beginning to rise. Mr Biancini got up.
‘O.K.! O.K.!’ he said, and followed her out. Dame Beatrice and the mother were left alone.
‘Was it that artist boy?’ asked Mrs Biancini. ‘She was always bringing him to the house for free meals. I got quite sick of it.’
‘A Mr Coles?’
‘That’s the one. What’s he got to say for himself?’
‘But little; he is armed and well prepared.’
‘Oh? Prepared for what?’
‘I was quoting from Shakespeare’s
