But when Miss Pett—who had discarded her red and yellow turban, and appeared in rusty black garments which accentuated the old-ivory tint of her remarkable countenance—had come into the witness-box and answered a few commonplace questions as to the dead man’s movements on the previous evening, Brereton prepared himself for the episode which he knew to be important. Amidst a deep silence—something suggesting to everybody that Mr. Bent’s sharp-looking London friend was about to get at things—he put his first question to Miss Pett.
“How long have you known Mr. Kitely?”
“Ever since I engaged with him as his housekeeper,” answered Miss Pett.
“How long since is that?” asked Brereton.
“Nine to ten years—nearly ten.”
“You have been with him, as housekeeper, nearly ten years—continuously?”
“Never left him since I first came to him.”
“Where did you first come to him—where did he live then?”
“In London.”
“Yes—and where, in London?”
“83, Acacia Grove, Camberwell.”
“You lived with Mr. Kitely at 83, Acacia Grove, Camberwell, from the time you became his housekeeper until now—nearly ten years in all. So we may take it that you knew Mr. Kitely very well indeed?”
“As well as anybody could know—him,” replied Miss Pett, grimly. “He wasn’t the sort that’s easy to know.”
“Still, you knew him for ten years. Now,” continued Brereton, concentrating his gaze on Miss Pett’s curious features, “who and what was Mr. Kitely?”
Miss Pett drummed her black-gloved fingers on the edge of the witness-box and shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I never have known.”
“But you must have some idea, some notion—after ten years’ acquaintanceship! Come now. What did he do with himself in London? Had he no business?”
“He had business,” said Miss Pett. “He was out most of the day at it. I don’t know what it was.”
“Never mentioned it to you?”
“Never in his life.”
“Did you gain no idea of it? For instance, did it take him out at regular hours?”
“No, it didn’t. Sometimes he’d go out very early—sometimes late—some days he never went out at all. And sometimes he’d be out at night—and away for days together. I never asked him anything, of course.”
“Whatever it was, he retired from it eventually?”
“Yes—just before we came here.”
“Do you know why Mr. Kitely came here?”
“Well,” said Miss Pett, “he’d always said he wanted a nice little place in the country, and preferably in the North. He came up this way for a holiday some months since, and when he got back he said he’d found just the house and neighbourhood to suit him, so, of course, we removed here.”
“And you have been here—how long?”
“Just over three months.”
Brereton let a moment or two elapse before he asked his next question, which was accompanied by another searching inspection of the witness.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Kitely’s relations?”
“No!” answered Miss Pett. “And for a simple reason. He always said he had none.”
“He was never visited by anybody claiming to be a relation?”
“Not during the ten years I knew him.”
“Do you think he had property—money—to leave to anybody?”
Miss Pett began to toy with the fur boa which depended from her thin neck.
“Well—yes, he said he had,” she replied hesitatingly.
“Did you ever hear him say what would become of it at his death?”
Miss Pett looked round the court and smiled a little.
“Well,” she answered, still more hesitatingly, “he—he always said that as he’d no relations of his own, he’d leave it to me.”
Brereton leaned a little closer across the table towards the witness-box and dropped his voice.
“Do you know if Mr. Kitely ever made a will?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Miss Pett. “He did.”
“When?”
“Just before we left London.”
“Do you know the contents of that will?”
“No!” said Miss Pett. “I do not—so there!”
“Did you witness it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Where is it?”
“My nephew has it,” replied Miss Pett. “He’s a solicitor, and he made it.”
“What is your nephew’s name and address?” asked Brereton.
“Mr. Christopher Pett, 23b Cursitor Street,” answered Miss Pett, readily enough.
“Have you let him know of Mr. Kitely’s death?”
“Yes. I sent him a telegram first thing this morning.”
“Asking him to bring the will?”
“No, I did not!” exclaimed Miss Pett, indignantly. “I never mentioned the will. Mr. Kitely was very fond of my nephew—he considered him a very clever young man.”
“We shall, no doubt, have the pleasure of seeing your nephew,” remarked Brereton. “Well, now, I want to ask you a question or two about yourself. What had you been before you became housekeeper to Mr. Kitely?”
“Housekeeper to another gentleman!” replied Miss Pett, acidly.
“Who was he?”
“Well, if you want to know, he was a Major Stilman, a retired officer—though what that has—”
“Where did Major Stilman live?” asked Brereton.
“He lived at Kandahar Cottage, Woking,” replied Miss Pett, who was now showing signs of rising anger. “But—”
“Answer my questions, if you please, and don’t make remarks,” said Brereton. “Is Major Stilman alive?”
“No, he isn’t—he’s dead this ten years,” answered Miss Pett. “And if you’re going to ask me any more questions about who and what I am, young man, I’ll save you the trouble. I was with Major Stilman a many years, and before that I was storekeeper at one London hotel, and linen-keeper at another, and before that I lived at home with my father, who was a respectable farmer in Sussex. And what all this has to do with what we’re here for, I should like—”
“Just give me the names of the two hotels you were at in London, will you?” asked Brereton.
“One was the Royal Belvedere in Bayswater, and the other the Mervyn Crescent in Kensington,” replied Miss Pett. “Highly respectable, both of ’em.”
“And you come originally from—where in Sussex?”
“Oakbarrow Farm, near Horsham. Do you want to know any—”
“I shan’t trouble you much longer,” said Brereton suavely. “But you might just tell me this—has Mr. Kitely ever had any visitors since he came to Highmarket?”
“Only one,” answered Miss Pett. “And it was my nephew,
