They left the pavement and began a slow foot-slipping stroll back to the piers again. Presently they approached two women who were reclining in deck-chairs facing the sea. One, the slighter one, was curled up with her back to Miss Dinmont and the inspector, and was apparently reading. The other was snowed round with magazines, writing-pad, sunshade, and all the other recognized paraphernalia of an afternoon on the beach, but she was doing nothing and appeared to be half asleep. As they came abreast of the chairs the inspector let his glance fall casually on them and then stopped.
“Why, Mrs. Ratcliffe!” he said. “Are you down here recuperating? What glorious weather!”
Mrs. Ratcliffe, after one startled glance, welcomed him. “You remember my sister, Miss Lethbridge?”
Grant shook hands and said, “I don’t think you know my cousin—”
But the gods were good to Grant that day. Before he could commit himself, Miss Lethbridge said in her pleasant drawl:
“Good heavens, if it isn’t Dandie Dinmont! How are you, my dear woman?”
“Do you know each other, then?” asked Grant, feeling like a man who has opened his eyes to find that one more step would have taken him over a precipice.
“Rather!” said Miss Lethbridge. “I had my appendicitis in a room at St. Michael’s, and Dandie Dinmont held my head and my hand alternately. And she held them very well, I will say that for her. Shake hands with Miss Dinmont, Meg. My sister, Mrs. Ratcliffe. Who’d have thought you had cousins in the force!”
“I suppose you are recuperating too, Inspector?” Mrs. Ratcliffe said.
“You could call it that, I suppose,” the inspector said. “My cousin is on holiday from Mike’s, and I have finished my case, so we are making a day of it.”
“Well, it isn’t teatime yet,” said Miss Lethbridge. “Sit down and talk to us for a little. I haven’t seen Dandie for ages.”
“You’ll be glad to have that awful case off your hands, Inspector,” her sister said as they subsided on the shingle. She spoke as though the murder had been just as much of an event in Grant’s life as it had been in hers, but the inspector let it pass, and presently the talk veered away from the murder and went via health, restaurants, hotels, and food to dress, or the lack of it.
“I love your hat brooch,” said Miss Dinmont idly to her friend. “I can think of nothing but hat brooches this afternoon, because we’ve just been buying one for a mutual cousin who is getting married. You know—like getting a new coat and seeing people’s coats as you never saw them before. I have it here somewhere.” She reached for her bag without altering her reclining position, and rummaged in it until she produced the blue velvet box. “What do you think of it?” She opened it and extended it to them.
“Oh, lovely!” said Miss Lethbridge, but Mrs. Ratcliffe said nothing for a little.
“M. R.,” she said at last. “Why, the initials are the same as mine. What is your cousin’s name?”
“Mary Raymond.”
“Sounds like a goody-goody heroine out of a book,” remarked Miss Lethbridge. “Is she goody?”
“No, not particularly, though she’s marrying an awful stodge. You like it, then?”
“Rather!” said Miss Lethbridge.
“Beautiful!” said her sister. “May I have a look at it?” She took the case in her hands, examined the brooch back and front, and handed it back. “Beautiful!” she said again. “And most uncommon. Can you get them ready-made, so to speak?”
Grant’s infinitesimal shake of the head answered Miss Dinmont’s cry for help. “No, we had it made,” she said.
“Well, she’s a lucky devil, Mary Raymond, and if she doesn’t like it, she has very poor taste.”
“Oh, if she doesn’t like it,” said Grant, “she can just fib and say she does, and we’ll never be a bit the wiser. All women are expert fibbers.”
“ ’Ark at ’im!” said Miss Lethbridge. “Poor disillusioned creature!”
“Well, isn’t it true? Your social life is one long series of fibs. You are very sorry—You are not at home—You would have come, but—You wish someone would stay longer. If you aren’t fibbing to your friends, you are fibbing to your maids.”
“I may fib to my friends,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, “but I most certainly do not fib to my maids!”
“Don’t you?” said Grant, turning idly to look at her. No one, to see him there, with his hat tilted over his eyes and his body lounging, would have said that Inspector Grant was on duty. “You were going to the United States the day after the murder, weren’t you?” She nodded calmly. “Well, why did you tell your maid that you were going to Yorkshire?”
Mrs. Ratcliffe made a movement to sit erect and then sank back again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I most certainly never told my maid I was going to Yorkshire. I said New York.”
That was so patently possible that Grant hastened to get in first with, “Well, she thinks you said Yorkshire,” before Mrs. Ratcliffe inevitably said, “How do you know?”
“There isn’t anything a police inspector doesn’t know,” he said.
“There isn’t anything he won’t do, you mean,” she said angrily. “Have you been walking out with Annie? I shouldn’t be surprised if you suspected me of having done the murder myself.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Grant. “Inspectors suspect all the world.”
“Well, I suppose I can only give thanks that your suspicions led to nothing worse than walking out with my maid.”
Grant caught Miss Dinmont’s eyes on him under the short brim of her hat, and there was a new expression in them. The conversation had given away the fact that Mrs. Ratcliffe had some connection with the queue murder, and Miss Dinmont was being given furiously to think. Grant smiled reassuringly
