same subject, dressed in flowing draperies and contemplating a sheaf of lilies. Miss Minton, subdued and scared, was sitting beside a large bed heaped with pillows, in the depths of which Mrs Witherspoon lay, retching weakly and crying like a torrent.
‘Come now, Mrs Witherspoon, pull yourself together,’ urged Miss Minton in her high voice. ‘Here’s a policeman come to see you.’
This brought a fresh outbreak of lamentations. ‘Oh, oh, the police in my house!’ Detective Inspector Robinson was reminded of his Mechanics’ Institute Shakespeare. ‘Oh, woe, Alas! What, in my house?’ he quoted to himself, and Terence Grossmith at his side said, ‘Sir?’
‘Nothing. You wait outside, Miss Minton, if you please. Sergeant Grossmith has a few questions. Now, Mrs Witherspoon, just give me a moment and then you can rest again.’
He drew the curtain and the cool evening light came streaming in. Mrs Witherspoon sat up against her pillows and sniffed.
‘I just need to know what you have been doing today,’ said Robinson, ‘and something about your paying guests.’
‘We rose late, because it’s Sunday,’ said Mrs Witherspoon in a whisper, ‘and we had breakfast at ten. Not a large breakfast, because we have tea at four. It’s what we always do on Sundays, a high tea. Mr Witherspoon used to like it.’ She started to cry again and Robinson patted the plump, veined hand.
‘Of course. And you are being very brave. Now who was at tea?’
‘All of us, except Mr Christopher. Oh, poor Mr Christopher!’
‘Did you know about Mr Christopher’s profession?’
Mrs Witherspoon bridled. ‘Of course. He was a perfectly respectable person and a nice fellow. He couldn’t help the way he was born. And Farrell’s is a very well-conducted show. I was in the theatrical profession myself, you know.’ Her eyes strayed to the photographs. ‘I like theatrical people. Miss Minton is a dancer and Mr Sheridan a stage magician and Miss Parkes is an actress. Perfectly respectable.’
‘Yes, yes,’ soothed Robinson. ‘And was everyone at breakfast?’
‘Yes. And then we went off to our own rooms. I believe that Miss Minton went to church. Mr Christopher usually went too but this morning he seemed worried and said that he had letters to write. His people . . . well, they didn’t meet, you know, that was not to be expected but they did correspond. They’re in Ballarat; very well to do, I understand. Being what he was, he couldn’t stay in the country. People are so cruel. He used to say he was only happy since he joined Farrell’s.’
‘So everyone was here for breakfast. And tea. And they all went out in between. Good. You’re doing well, Mrs Witherspoon.’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Witherspoon sat up a little higher in her bed. ‘Now, sir, is there anything else?’
‘Your guests. What can you tell me about them?’
‘Miss Minton has been here almost a year. She’s between shows, so she’s a waitress down at the Blue Diamond. Just while she’s resting. She’s a bit modern but a good girl. I don’t have any carrying on in my house. Mr Sheridan, now he’s a real gentleman. Mind you, I think his father was a grocer. But a well-spoken man and the words he knows! Good as an education. He’s been here three months and it’s nice to have a man in the house. Houses with all women get, well, quarrelsome. Miss Parkes has only been here a couple of weeks. I don’t know much about her but she’s a quiet body. I’ve had Mr Christopher for three years. He always stays with me when he’s in Melbourne,’ she said proudly and then burst into fresh tears. ‘Oh, a murder in my house! Poor Mr Christopher! Who could have done such a dreadful thing?’
As Robinson had no answer to that, he patted the landlady on the shoulder and regained the hallway with some relief.
‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Grossmith proudly, ‘we found this.’ He held out a long, heavy knife, stained with a gummy brown substance.
‘Good. Where was it?’
‘Miss Parkes’s room, sir.’
‘Was her door locked?’
‘Yes, sir. It was in the wastepaper basket, wrapped up in this.’ The knife was bedded in crumpled pale paper.
Robinson looked at the weapon. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before. Have you, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir. I’ve seen a blade that long but it’s a very heavy hilt. Weighted with lead, I think.’ He turned the knife to exhibit the cross-hilt, made of brass and set with large glass stones. ‘Very theatrical, you might say. But it did the job all right and it’s as sharp as a razor.’
‘Very good, Sergeant. Get it down to the laboratory and see if there are any fingerprints on it. I doubt it; the murderer obviously wrapped all that paper around it to avoid that very thing. Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.’ He sighed.
‘Well, Miss Minton next. Where is she?’
‘I sent her down to the parlour, sir, with the rest of them. That magician chap came out of his swoon pretty fast. Are you thinking the same as me, sir?’
‘Oh, yes, Terry, I expect so. Door bolted on the inside, window open. Unusual strength in the blow. Unusual agility required to get in through that window. The weapon found in her room. And a proven track record. I’ll leave her till last.’
Jack Robinson went heavily down the stairs. He met very few female murderers, because there were very few of them in existence. Usually they had good reason for killing. Miss Parkes certainly had had good reason to remove her husband. But he liked competent women and admired courage. He quite liked Miss Parkes, who had rescued the hapless Constable Harris off the roof with speed and dispatch. He did not like to think of her returning to prison. No, he corrected himself, she would not go to prison again. For Miss Parkes there was the madhouse or the gallows; no other choices were possible. Robinson sighed again, hoping that she was insane. Hanging women was abominable. He went back to the parlour.
Miss Minton had replaced herself in the magician’s arms and was shrill and excited. ‘We saw the blood come through the ceiling. Oh, it was horrible!’ She gave a small sob and Mr Sheridan echoed it. ‘Then I went up to see if it was the bath and Mr Christopher wasn’t there and then your constable went out on the roof and he said . . . he said . . .’
She sobbed again. Miss Parkes had not moved. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were as white as pearls.
Robinson said, ‘Miss Parkes, what did you do today?’
‘I got up for breakfast and then I went back to my room. I took a nap, if you must know.’ Her voice was toneless. Robinson had heard the like before, in prisoners. I fell asleep and I didn’t wake until after three. Then I got dressed again and came down to tea.’
‘Did you see Mr Christopher this morning?’
‘No.’
‘But you knocked on his door,’ said Miss Minton shrilly.
I saw you.’
Robinson looked at her. She had pulled out of the magician’s embrace and was pointing a finger at Miss Parkes. I saw you! When I came home from . . . from church.’
There was a hesitation in her voice, which Robinson marked. He asked Miss Parkes, ‘Did you knock at the door then, Miss Parkes?’
‘No,’ said Miss Parkes. Her eyes avoided the detective’s gaze.
Miss Minton was offended. ‘I tell you, I saw her! I had just come to the head of the stairs and I saw her!’
‘Very well, Miss Minton. Miss Parkes, can you explain this?’
Grossmith, on cue, produced the knife in its wrappings. Miss Parkes stared at it.
‘No,’ she said again. I can’t explain it. Where did you find it?’
‘In the wastepaper basket in your room.’
‘It’s her!’ screamed Miss Minton. ‘She did it! She killed Mr Christopher!’
The magician moved away from Miss Minton. She leapt to her feet. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you kill him? You must have crept through his window and stabbed him. I liked him. He was nice. Why did you kill Mr
