Savernake let it slip out of her hand.'
'Yes, yes-but, of course, it was a very tense moment for all of us. Women are apt to get flustered and-er-drop things.'
Again Inspector Grange nodded. He said:
'Miss Savernake seems a cool, capable young lady on the whole.'
The words were devoid of emphasis, yet something in them made Sir Henry look up sharply. Grange went on:
'Now, do you recognize it, sir?'
Sir Henry picked up the revolver and examined it. He noted the number and compared it with a list in a small leather-bound book. Then, closing the book with a sigh, he said:
'Yes, Inspector, this comes from my collection here.'
'When did you see it last?'
'Yesterday afternoon. We were doing some shooting in the garden with a target, and this was one of the firearms we were using.'
'Who actually fired this revolver on that occasion?'
'I think everybody had at least one shot with it.'
'Including Mrs. Christow?'
'Including Mrs. Christow.'
'And after you had finished shooting?'
'I put the revolver away in its usual place. Here.'
He pulled out the drawer of a big bureau.
It was half full of guns.
'You've got a big collection of firearms, Sir Henry.'
'It's been a hobby of mine for many years.'
Inspector Grange's eyes rested thoughtfully on the ex-Governor of the Hollowene Islands. A good-looking distinguished man, the kind of man he would be quite pleased to serve under himself-in fact, a man he would much prefer to his own present Chief Constable. Inspector Grange did not think much of the Chief Constable of Wealdshire -a fussy despot and a tuft-hunter-he brought his mind back to the job in hand.
'The revolver was not, of course, loaded when you put it away, Sir Henry?'
'Certainly not.'
'And you keep your ammunition-where?'
'Here.' Sir Henry took a key from a pigeonhole and unlocked one of the lower drawers of the desk.
Simple enough, thought Grange. The Christow woman had seen where it was kept.
She'd only got to come along and help herself. Jealousy, he thought, plays the dickens with women. He'd lay ten to one it was jealousy.
The thing would come clear enough when he'd finished the routine here and got onto the Harley Street end. But you'd got to do things in their proper order.
He got up and said:
'Well, thank you. Sir Henry. I'll let you know about the inquest.'
Chapter XIII
They had the cold ducks for supper. After the ducks there was a caramel custard which, Lady Angkatell said, showed just the right feeling on the part of Mrs. Medway.
Cooking, she said, really gave great scope to delicacy of feeling.
'We are only, as she knows, moderately fond of caramel custard. There would be something very gross, just after the death of a friend, in eating one's favourite pudding.
But caramel custard is so easy-slippery if you know what I mean-and then one leaves a little on one's plate.'
She sighed and said that she hoped they had done right in letting Gerda go back to London.
'But quite correct of Henry to go with her.'
For Sir Henry had insisted on driving Gerda to Harley Street.
'She will come back here for the inquest, of course,' went on Lady Angkatell, meditatively eating caramel custard. 'But, naturally, she wanted to break it to the children-they might see it in the papers and with only a Frenchwoman in the house-one knows how excitable-a crise de nerfs, possibly. But Henry will deal with her, and I really think Gerda will be quite all right.
She will probably send for some relations-sisters perhaps. Gerda is the sort of person who is sure to have sisters-three or four, I should think, probably living at Tunbridge Wells.'
'What extraordinary things you do say, Lucy,' said Midge.
'Well, darling, Torquay if you prefer it -no, not Torquay. They would be at least sixty-five if they were living at Torquay-Eastbourne, perhaps, or St. Leonard's.'
Lady Angkatell looked at the last spoonful of caramel custard, seemed to condole with it, and laid it down very gently uneaten.
David, who liked only savouries, looked down gloomily at his empty plate.
Lady Angkatell got up.
'I think we shall all want to go to bed early tonight,' she said. 'So much has happened, hasn't it? One has no idea, from reading about these things in the paper, how tiring they are. I feel, you know, as though I had walked about fifteen miles… instead of actually having done nothing but sit about-but that is tiring, too, because one does not like to read a book or a newspaper, it looks so heartless. Though I think perhaps the leading article in the Observer would have been all right-but not the News of the World. Don't you agree with me, David? I like to know what the young people think; it keeps one from losing touch.'
David said in a gruff voice that he never read the News of the World.
'I always do,' said Lady Angkatell. 'We pretend we get it for the servants, but Gudgeon is very understanding and never takes it out until after tea. It is a most interesting paper, all about women who put their heads in gas ovens-an incredible number of them!'
'What will they do in the houses of the future which are all electric?' asked Edward Angkatell with a faint smile.
'I suppose they will just have to decide to make the best of things-so much more sensible.'
'I disagree with you, sir,' said David, 'about the houses of the future being all electric. There can be communal heating laid on from a central supply. Every workingclass house should be completely laboursaving-'
Edward Angkatell said hastily that he was afraid that was a subject he was not very well up in. David's lip curled with scorn.
Gudgeon brought in coffee on a tray, moving a little slower than usual to convey a sense of mourning.
'Oh, Gudgeon,' said Lady Angkatell, 'about those eggs. I meant to write the date in pencil on them as usual. Will you ask Mrs. Medway to see to it?'
'I think you will find, m'lady, that everything has been attended to quite satisfactorily.'
He cleared his throat. 'I have seen to things myself.'
'Oh, thank you. Gudgeon.'
As Gudgeon went out she murmured, 'Really, Gudgeon is wonderful. The servants are all being marvellous. And one does so sympathize with them having the police here-it must be dreadful for them. By the way, are there any left?'
'Police, do you mean?' asked Midge.
'Yes. Don't they usually leave one standing in the hall? Or perhaps he's watching the front door from the shrubbery outside.'
'Why should he watch the front door?'
'I don't know, I'm sure. They do in books. And then somebody else is murdered in the night.'
'Oh, Lucy, don't,' said Midge.
