One day – it was the second since the discharge of Miss Löwenthal – my dear lady came into my room beaming. It was the first time I had seen her smile for more than a week, and already I had guessed what it was that had cheered her.
‘Good news, Mary,’ she said gaily. ‘At last I’ve got the chief to let me have a free hand. Oh, dear! what a lot of argument it takes to extricate that man from the tangled meshes of red tape!’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘Prove that my theory is right as to who murdered Mark Culledon,’ she replied seriously; ‘and as a preliminary we’ll go and ask his servants at Lorbury House a few questions.’
It was then three o’clock in the afternoon. At Lady Molly’s bidding, I dressed somewhat smartly, and together we went off in a taxi to Fitzjohn’s Avenue.
Lady Molly had written a few words on one of her cards, urgently requesting an interview with Lady Irene Culledon. This she handed over to the man-servant who opened the door at Lorbury House. A few moments later we were sitting in the cosy boudoir. The young widow, high-bred and dignified in her tight-fitting black gown, sat opposite to us, her white hands folded demurely before her, her small head, with its very close coiffure, bent in closest attention towards Lady Molly.
‘I most sincerely hope, Lady Irene,’ began my dear lady, in her most gentle and persuasive voice, ‘that you will look with all possible indulgence on my growing desire – shared, I may say, by all my superiors at Scotland Yard – to elucidate the mystery which still surrounds your late husband’s death.’
Lady Molly paused, as if waiting for encouragement to proceed. The subject must have been extremely painful to the young widow; nevertheless she responded quite gently:
‘I can understand that the police wish to do their duty in the matter; as for me, I have done all, I think, that could be expected of me. I am not made of iron, and after that day in the police court –’
She checked herself, as if afraid of having betrayed more emotion than was consistent with good breeding, and concluded more calmly:
‘I cannot do any more.’
‘I fully appreciate your feelings in the matter,’ said Lady Molly, ‘but you would not mind helping us – would you? – in a passive way, if you could, by some simple means, further the cause of justice.’
‘What is it you want me to do?’ asked Lady Irene.
‘Only to allow me to ring for two of your maids and to ask them a few questions. I promise you that they shall not be of such a nature as to cause you the slightest pain.’
For a moment I thought that the young widow hesitated, then, without a word, she rose and rang the bell.
‘Which of my servants did you wish to see?’ she asked, turning to my dear lady as soon as the butler entered in answer to the bell.
‘Your own maid and your parlour-maid, if I may,’ replied Lady Molly.
Lady Irene gave the necessary orders, and we all sat expectant and silent until, a minute or two later, two girls entered the room. One wore a cap and apron, the other, in neat black dress and dainty lace collar, was obviously the lady’s maid.
‘This lady,’ said their mistress, addressing the two girls, ‘wishes to ask you a few questions. She is a representative of the police, so you had better do your best to satisfy her with your answers.’
‘Oh!’ rejoined Lady Molly pleasantly – choosing not to notice the tone of acerbity with which the young widow had spoken, nor the unmistakable barrier of hostility and reserve which her words had immediately raised between the young servants and the ‘representative of the police’ – ‘what I am going to ask these two young ladies is neither very difficult nor very unpleasant. I merely want their kind help in a little comedy which will have to be played this evening, in order to test the accuracy of certain statements made by one of the waitresses at Mathis’ teashop with regard to the terrible tragedy which has darkened this house. You will do that much, will you not?’ she added, speaking directly to the maids.
No one can be so winning or so persuasive as my dear lady. In a moment I saw the girls’ hostility melting before the sunshine of Lady Molly’s smile.
‘We’ll do what we can, ma’am,’ said the maid.
‘That’s a brave, good girl!’ replied my lady. ‘You must know that the chief waitress at Mathis’ has, this very morning, identified the woman in the big hat who, we all believe, murdered your late master. Yes!’ she continued, in response to a gasp of astonishment which seemed to go round the room like a wave, ‘the girl seems quite positive, both as regards the hat and the woman who wore it. But, of course, one cannot allow a human life to be sworn away without bringing every possible proof to bear on such a statement, and I am sure that everyone in this house will understand that we don’t want to introduce strangers more than we can help into this sad affair, which already has been bruited abroad too much.’
She paused a moment; then, as neither Lady Irene nor the maids made any comment, she continued:
‘My superiors at Scotland Yard think it their duty to try and confuse the witness as much as possible in her act of identification. They desire that a certain number of ladies wearing abnormally large hats
