“Still,” pursued the President, faint but persistent, “on the whole you do think that the occasion may be regarded as privileged, and we may go ahead and mention any name we like?”
Sir Charles’s glasses described a complete and symbolical circle. “I think,” said Sir Charles very weightily indeed (after all it was an opinion which would have cost the Circle such a surprisingly round sum had it been delivered in chambers that Sir Charles need not be grudged a little weight in the delivering of it). “I think,” said Sir Charles, “that we might take that risk.”
“Right-ho!” said the President with relief.
VI
“I dare say,” resumed Sir Charles, “that many of you will have already reached the same conclusion as myself, with regard to the identity of the murderer. The case seems to me to afford so striking a parallel with one of the classical murders, that the similarity can hardly have passed unnoticed. I refer of course, to the Marie Lafarge case.”
“Oh!” said Roger, surprised. So far as he was concerned the similarity had passed unnoticed. He wriggled uncomfortably. Now one came to consider it, of course the parallel was obvious.
“There too we have a wife, accused of sending a poisoned article to her husband. Whether the article was a cake or a box of chocolates is beside the point. It will not do perhaps to—”
“But nobody in their sane senses still believes that Marie Lafarge was guilty,” Alicia Dammers interrupted, with unusual warmth. “It’s been practically proved that the cake was sent by the foreman, or whatever he was. Wasn’t his name Dennis? His motive was much bigger than hers, too.”
Sir Charles regarded her severely. “I think I said, accused of sending. I was referring to a matter of fact, not of opinion.”
“Sorry,” nodded Miss Dammers, unabashed.
“In any case, I just mention the coincidence for what it is worth. Let us now go back to resume our argument at the point we left it. In that connection, the question was raised just now,” said Sir Charles, determinedly impersonal, “as to whether Lady Pennefather may have had not an innocent accomplice but a guilty one. That doubt had already occurred to me. I have satisfied myself that it is not the case. She planned and carried through this affair alone.” He paused, inviting the obvious question.
Roger tactfully supplied it.
“How could she, Sir Charles? We know that she was in the South of France the whole time. The police investigated that very point. She has a complete alibi.”
Sir Charles positively beamed at him. “She had a complete alibi. I have destroyed it.
“This is what actually happened. Three days before the parcel was posted Lady Pennefather left Mentone and went, ostensibly, for a week to Avignon. At the end of the week she returned to Mentone. Her signature is in the hotel-register at Avignon, she has the receipted bill, everything is quite in order. The only curious thing is that apparently she did not take her maid, a very superior young woman of smart appearance and good manners, to Avignon with her, for the hotel-receipt is for one person only. And yet the maid did not stay at Mentone. Did the maid then vanish into thin air?” demanded Sir Charles indignantly.
“Oh!” nodded Mr. Chitterwick, who had been listening intently. “I see. How ingenious.”
“Highly ingenious,” agreed Sir Charles, complacently taking the credit for the erring lady’s ingenuity. “The maid took the mistress’s place; the mistress paid a secret visit to England. And I have verified that beyond any doubt. An agent, acting on telegraphic instructions from me, showed the hotel-proprietor at Avignon a photograph of Lady Pennefather and asked whether such a person had ever stayed in the hotel; the man averred that he had never seen her in his life. My agent showed him a snapshot which he had obtained of the maid; the proprietor recognised her instantly as Lady Pennefather. Another ‘guess’ of mine had proved only too accurate.” Sir Charles leaned back in his chair and swung his glasses in silent tribute to his own astuteness.
“Then Lady Pennefather did have an accomplice?” murmured Mr. Bradley, with the air of one discussing “The Three Bears” with a child of four.
“An innocent accomplice,” retorted Sir Charles. “My agent questioned the maid tactfully, and learned that her mistress has told her that she had to go over to England on urgent business but, having already spent six months of the current year in that country, would have to pay British income-tax if she so much as set foot in England again that year. A considerable sum was in question, and Lady Pennefather suggested this plan as a means of getting round the difficulty, with a handsome bribe to the girl. Not unnaturally the offer was accepted. Most ingenious; most ingenious.” He paused again and beamed round, inviting tributes.
“How very clever of you, Sir Charles,” murmured Alicia Dammers, stepping into the breach.
“I have no actual proof of her stay in this country,” regretted Sir Charles, “so that from the legal point of view the case against her is incomplete in that respect, but that will be a matter for the police to discover. In all other respects, I submit, my case is complete. I regret, I regret exceedingly, having to say so, but I have no alternative: Lady Pennefather is Mrs. Bendix’s murderess.”
There was a thoughtful silence when Sir Charles had finished speaking. Questions were in the air, but nobody seemed to care to be the first to put one. Roger gazed into vacancy, as if looking longingly after the
