“You seem to lead an active life, Mrs. Shearsby.”
She laughed a little self-consciously. “Have you been looking at our snaps? Oh, one must do something in a place like this. Perhaps you recognised one or two of the other portraits? There’s Maud Winterbourne—a great friend of mine. She lives near here, at Weedon Hall. Do you know her?”
“We have met,” said Mr. Tuke non-committally, as he picked up his parcel and cap and moved towards the door.
“She is doing such wonderful work. The life and soul of our war effort here, I always say. Though most of us are doing our bit. I’m a very keen tennis player, as you’ll have guessed, but I gave it up long ago. The W.V.S. was taking up all my time. The evacuees, you know. And now we’re a little less busy, I’m back again with Imperial Sansil. Part time, of course.”
“So you were with Imperial Sansil before?”
“Oh, yes.” Lilian Shearsby giggled in her rather meaningless way. “There was no need, of course, but I think all girls ought to do some work, don’t you? I’m sure I never thought I’d go back, but they’re terribly short of experienced secretarial staff, and we must all put our shoulders to the wheel, as Mr. Shearsby says.”
“I’m sure he does.”
She stared for a moment, and then her lips twitched. Mr. Tuke had preceded her into the hall, and a belated gleam of sunlight, transmuted by some hideous coloured glass in the front door, gave his features a peculiarly devilish if somewhat mottled appearance as she looked up at him. He could see her pale grey eyes now, through her rimless pince-nez. They narrowed as she suddenly put out her hand.
“Mr. Tuke——” She hesitated, and began again. “Mr.
Tuke, what do you think of all this?”
“All what?”
“Oh, you know quite well. These—these deaths, and all the rest of it.” Her hands, in their light string gloves, through which her rings glittered, began to twist together. “A few days ago it all seemed so wildly improbable. But things are different now, aren’t they? I mean, Martin Dresser turning up like this. Why don’t the police find him?”
“They are doing their best. And that is quite good. What do you know about Martin Dresser, by the way, Mrs. Shearsby? Did you ever meet him? ”
“No. And all I know about him is that he robbed a bank, and went to prison. It was soon after Mr. Shearsby and I were married, and he was very much upset about it. Well, naturally. He had his position to think of. All sorts of things might have been said. You know what it is in a town like this, full of old cats with nothing to do but spread scandal.
Luckily, I don’t think anyone here heard the story. Well, then we heard the wretched man had died abroad.”
“Which was a relief to your husband, no doubt?”
“Well, naturally,” Lilian Shearsby said again. “It was a relief to both of us. Black sheep, even if they’re only first cousins once removed, are no help to anyone.” After which artless remark she paused, the blank pince-nez trained on Mr. Tuke’s face, before adding meaningly: “And now he’s alive after all. Well, all I can say is, it may be a good thing for some people.”
“For whom?” Mr. Tuke inquired with unfeigned interest.
A hard expression had come over Lilian Shearsby’s rather faded prettiness, carefully made up for voluntary duty.
“If there’s something queer about these deaths in Mr. Shearsby’s family, well, until Martin Dresser turned up like this there were only Mr. Shearsby himself, and Cecile and Vivien, left to benefit by them. It’s ludicrous ”—was there the faintest touch of mockery or contempt in her voice?—“it’s ludicrous to suspect Mr. Shearsby of doing anything wrong. That leaves Cecile and Vivien. Cecile says someone tried to push her under a lorry Of course, she’s more French than English, and somehow, with foreigners. . . . I mean, they’re not like us, are they? But I’ve nothing against Cecile, and if she’s telling the truth, well. . . .”
A shrug and a pause allowed Harvey to finish the sentence.
“The argument leaves us with Miss Ardmore.”
Lilian Shearsby nodded. “I want to be fair,” she said with an air of candour, belied by the ugly line of her mouth. “But I don’t like Vivten. And she was here at the time of that other poisoning case.”
“The case of the family poisoned by sodium nitrite here in Bedford?”
She nodded again. “Vivien came for the week-end, just after it happened. Naturally we talked about it. She was specially interested because her precious Mr. McIvory, at the Ministry of Supply, handles that sort of thing, and she knows a lot about sodium nitrite. And the Sansil works,” added Mrs. Shearsby carefully, “aren’t the only place the Ministry gets it from.”
Mr. Tuke, theatrically satanic under a blood-red ray from the stained glass, looked at her, his dark brows raised a trifle. She moved restlessly under his gaze, and, as he did not speak, she went on quickly:
“Oh, I know it sounds horrid. But it’s all horrid, anyway, isn’t it? And Vivien wants money. Lots of money. She says so. She’s a snob, and she wants to show off among her smart friends in London, and be able to buy expensive things. And this man she’s engaged to hasn’t much, except his salary, and what’s he going to do when the Ministry of Information comes to an end? Live on Vivien, I suppose.” The words were coming fast, and there was malice and envy in Lilian Shearsby’s voice, under which its refined accents were breaking down. “I dare say I shouldn’t talk like this,” she said defiantly. “But I don’t care! I know how she’ll talk! What’s the good of mincing matters?”
The shining pince-nez quivered in the particoloured light, and suddenly,
