'You gave it to the Clifton children to post,' I said. He laughed.
'Everybody seems to split on me,' he said, 'same as young Lionel splits on everybody, poor kid. Anyway, that particular letter was merely to tell Amabel that I intended to accept her grandmother's invitation to the birthday party, but not to count on me because, ten to one, I should be called out on a case.'
'Ah, yes, to avoid meeting your ex-fiancee's brother,' I thought, 'and you were even more thankful that you had planned an escape route when it was the young woman herself who turned up!'
I thought this, but did not say it, and my silence seemed to put him out of countenance. After a pause, during which we continued to sum each other up, he went on:
'Well, quite early in the evening I was called out. Mrs Collins was having her first and, although I guessed it was a false alarm, I excused myself to Mrs Kempson and hopped off. When I got back, there was all this fuss about Miss Patterson having gone missing.'
'Your ex-fiancee,' I said, deciding at this point to bring my knowledge of his affairs into the open.
'Oh, well, yes,' he said. 'Yes, that's right. It was only a boy and girl affair, you know. Once I had found Amabel it blew itself out.'
'Not, perhaps, from Miss Patterson's point of view.
'Oh, well!'
'But it wasn't well, was it? Miss Patterson took it badly. You had managed to elude her in London, but when her brother received his invitation to Miss Kempson-Conyers' birthday party it included a list of guests with your name on it. Miss Patterson then got her brother to yield up his place to her, knowing that, when she arrived as the chauffeuse of her brother's car, Mrs Kempson would feel bound to ask her to stay. I imagine that a very disgruntled young woman stood about in corners and watched you dancing with Amabel Kempson-Conyers until you thought it best to execute a strategic retreat.'
'No, no! Honestly! I was called out.'
'If that is your story,' I thought, 'we shall find out whether or not you are wise to stick to it.'
He looked at his watch and exclaimed that he was due in the surgery in five minutes' time. From the front window (for my sitting-room faces the village street) I watched him unhitch his horse and canter away. I am reluctant to think of him as a murderer. Besides, even supposing he had killed Merle Patterson, there seems no reason why he should also have murdered Mr Ward unless the latter had been an eyewitness of the first killing, and this, as the medical evidence has now established, is quite impossible, otherwise we might be that much further on in our enquiries.
Doctor Tassall had made one helpful remark during our conversation, although I doubted whether, in the end, it would prove to have very much significance. Even if his call to the pregnant Mrs Collins turned out to be as mythical as I was inclined to think it was, it did not necessarily mean that he had been determined to lie about it in order to give himself time and opportunity to commit murder. I still felt that the call was far more likely to have been for the reason I have already postulated; that is, in order to get out of an embarrassing situation at Hill House. I was prepared, therefore, to keep an entirely open mind on his behalf.
I did not know at the time whether Mrs Collins was a village woman or whether she lived in the town, but I did not think I should experience much difficulty in finding her. I did not want to ask Doctor Tassall for her address, this for obvious reasons, but to Doctor Matters I was unknown and the woman's name and address were certain to be among his files, even though theoretically she was now Doctor Tassall's patient.
A telephone call seemed the best way of making contact with Doctor Matters. I mentioned Mrs Kempson's name, which was politely but cautiously received.
Chapter 17
No Alibis
In the end Doctor Matters suggested that I should call and see him. He said that, owing to his advanced years, he rested for an hour and a half every afternoon while Doctor Tassall was out on the rounds and that he would expect me at a quarter to three.
He lived in a detached, creeper-covered residence about halfway between the village and the town and he received me in a ground-floor room whose furniture had seen better days, but which had a pleasant outlook on to a colourful, untidy, extremely long garden.
He took my hand and then waved me to a chair, took the one opposite, leaned forward and looked me over as though I were a patient he suspected of malingering in order to obtain a medical certificate to remain away from work.
'Well,' he said, 'you look healthy enough to me.'
'Quite,' I replied, 'but it is not about my health that I came to consult you.'
'I don't support charitable enterprises.'
'I am wary of them myself. Allow me to come to the point.'
'Dear me!' he said, his less than benevolent gaze becoming hostile. Are you one of these troublesome women who think they ought to have equal pay with men?'
'I have been adequately paid for some years. I am also, like yourself, a medical practitioner. Perhaps you would care to see my credentials,' I retorted.
'No need,' he said shortly. 'You wouldn't offer them if you didn't have them. What do you want?'
'I want to know whether your patient, Mrs Collins, has had a baby within the past three weeks.'
'Paternity order?'
'Not so far as I am aware. I want to know whether
