“Thorough, the late lamented,” observed Sir James. “I always knew she was intelligent.”
“Her intelligence didn’t prevent her from being too thorough,” said Macdonald dryly. “She ended by driving somebody too far. Now, sir, you have a pretty clear idea of the main facts. I put it to you, have you any information which can assist this investigation?”
“No, thank God, I have not,” said Sir James. “I have always carefully avoided any discussion about Sister Monica. I disliked her, and I have told you so frankly, but my wife valued her and wished to retain her services. I left it at that.”
“But you were aware that discussion of deceased might have landed you in difficulties, sir?”
Sir James rose to his feet with an air of finality. “I thought she was a canting old hypocrite, Chief Inspector. I realise that she felt herself a person of importance, that she cherished her position here, and that at one time she threw her weight about too much in the village. But I also believed that villages like this one have the ability to deal with busybodies. The process is slow, but sure. I was not prepared to cause a domestic upheaval in my own house because I disliked the woman. She didn’t seem to me to be important enough to warrant it.” He gazed out of the window for a moment, fingering his stock, obviously in two minds whether to continue or not. Then he turned and faced Macdonald and added: “There are occasions in married life when, for one reason or another, a husband puts his foot down without regard to ensuing recriminations. The same is true of a wife. Sister Monica did not constitute one of these occasions.”
3
“I enjoyed that, Chief.” Reeves murmured his appreciation of the foregoing interview a little unkindly, for as he spoke he was enjoying the colour and fragrance of Lady Ridding’s rose garden. From the clear yellow of Golden Dawn, through the orange copper of Luis Brinas, the flame of Madame Herriot, to the deep crimson of Etoile de Hollande, the roses flamed in a glory of rich colour, their fragrance seeming to quiver on the sun-warmed air of midsummer. “All right, but you can’t pick her roses,” said Macdonald.
“I wasn’t going to. I’m a Cockney. We know it isn’t allowed,” said Reeves, “though if I were going to pick one I’d have the Dutchman . . . Etoile de Hollande. That’s a rose, that is. How much of all that did she know, Chief? She registered surprise quite snappily, but I wasn’t really convinced.”
Macdonald made no answer until they had left the Manor House garden and were in the park again. This time, the two men turned away from the steep narrow path which led down to the mill, and took a diverging path which led across the park to the woodlands.
“I don’t know,” said Macdonald reflectively, “but I think I was more interested in trying to assess how much Sir James knew. He didn’t have to register surprise: his wife had told him the essentials. I can’t judge Lady Ridding. I agree with you that something about her horrified astonishment struck me as accomplished.”
“But she is accomplished,” said Reeves. “You’ve hit on the right word. It means finished, doesn’t it, complete, polished off. Product of a finishing school. She’s got a veneer, and you can’t get past it. Isn’t that what you mean when you say you can’t judge her?”
“Something like that. But I think there’s something substantial underneath the manner, the courage, and the stability which are, to some extent, the result of being very sure of herself. If she did know the real Monica Emily, there must have been some very powerful factor which forced Lady Ridding to accept a situation which would surely have been intolerably distasteful to her. And look at her face, Reeves. Hardly a line on it. It’s the face of a woman who’s pleased to the point of complacency.”
“Umps . . . Yes. There is that. No hair-tearing or nerve-racking about that dame, I grant you. But there’s a type which kids itself by saying, I prefer not to know.’ Turns away and doesn’t look: very careful not to look. And calls not looking good taste.”
“If ever you forget your technique in the witness box and give evidence in your natural idiom, may I be there to hear,” said Macdonald, “but emulating your method, I’d say this. She might say, ‘I’d rather not know. I’d rather not look,’ but she’d know other people wouldn’t be equally accommodating. She’s shrewd, and she’d hate her friends to say, ‘Poor Lady R. How she was hoodwinked.’ ”
“Yes. She’d mind what other people say. She’s found her Warden very useful to her all these years and she didn’t want to lose her.” Macdonald chuckled. “The fivers mentioned by Sir James probably indicate Lady Ridding’s gratitude for extra-mural services, so to speak. You know, in his indirect way he told us quite a bit. And there were the points he didn’t mention.”
“Yes. I’ve got him verbatim. We might chew him over in detail,” said Reeves reflectively as they entered the shadow of the beech woods.
Macdonald added:
“I’m convinced of one thing. Monica Emily had become a miser. She didn’t spend. She hoarded.”
CHAPTER XIII
On the same morning that Macdonald went to see Sir James and Lady Ridding, one of the foresters on the estate went into the bailiff’s office while Sanderson was looking through his letters.
“Yes, come in, Greave,” said Sanderson, “what is it you want?”
“It’s about that hut of mine in Coombe Wood, sir. You’ll mind I spoke of it before. I keep some gear there, because it’s an awkward place to get at. I can’t get a van or tractor up there, and I’ve got a stove and so forth in the hut because it’s right out
