went down to Rachel's room.
It was like that — opportunity for either of them.
And motive, because already by then he loved Gwenda and she loved him.
And there was nobody, ever, who could prove the guilt or innocence of either of them.
IV
A quarter of a mile away, Gwenda lay dry-eyed and sleepless.
Her hands clenched, she was thinking how much she had hated Rachel Argyle.
And now in the darkness, Rachel Argyle was saying: 'You thought you could have my husband once I was dead. But you can't — you can't. You will never have my husband.'
Hester was dreaming. She dreamt that she was with Donald Craig and that he had left her suddenly at the edge of an abyss. She had cried out in fear and then, on the other side of it, she saw that Arthur Calgary was standing, holding out his hands to her.
She cried out to him reproachfully.
'Why have you done this to me?' and he answered: 'But I've come to help you…'
She woke up.
VI
Lying quietly in the small spare-room bed, Tina breathed gently and regularly, but sleep did not come. She thought of Mrs. Argyle, without gratitude and without resentment — simply with love. Because of Mrs. Argyle she had had food and drink and warmth and toys and comfort. She had loved Mrs. Argyle. She was sorry she was dead…
But it wasn't quite as simple as that. It hadn't mattered when it was Jacko…
But now…
Chapter 13
Superintendent Huish looked round on them all, gently and politely. His tone when he spoke was persuasive and apologetic.
'I know it must be very painful to you all,' he said, 'to have to go over the whole thing again. But really, we've no choice in the matter. You saw the notice, I expect? It was in all the morning papers.'
'A free pardon,' said Leo.
'The phraseology always grates on people,' said Huish. 'An anachronism, like so much of legal terminology. But its meaning is quite clear.'
'It means that you made a mistake,' said Leo.
'Yes.' Huish acknowledged it simply. 'We made a mistake.'
He added, after a minute, 'Of course, without Dr. Calgary's evidence it was really inevitable.'
Leo said coldly: 'My son told you, when you arrested him, that he had been given a lift that night.'
'Oh, yes. He told us. And we did our best to check — but we couldn't find any confirmation of the story. I quite realise, Mr. Argyle, that you must feel exceedingly bitter about the whole business. I'm not making excuses and apologies. All we police officers have to do is to collect the evidence. The evidence goes to the Public Prosecutor and he decides if there is a case. In this case he decided there was. If it's possible, I'd ask you to put as much bitterness as you can out of your mind and just run over the facts and times again.'
'What's the use now?' Hester spoke up sharply. 'Whoever did it is miles away and you'll never find him.'
Superintendent Huish turned to look at her. 'That may be — and it may not,' he said mildly.
'You'd be surprised at the times we do get our man — sometimes after several years. It's patience does it, patience and never letting up.'
Hester turned her head away, and Gwenda gave a quick shiver as though a cold wind had passed over her. Her lively imagination felt the menace behind the quiet words.
'Now if you please,' said Huish. He looked expectantly at Leo. 'We'll start with you, Mr. Argyle.'
'What do you want to know exactly? You must have my original statement? I shall probably be less accurate now. Exact times are apt to slip one's memory.'
'Oh, we realise that. But there's always the chance that some little fact may come to light, something overlooked at the time.'
'Isn't it even possible,' asked Philip, 'that one might see things in better proportion looking back after the lapse of years?'
'It's a possibility, yes,' said Huish, turning his head to look at Philip with some interest.
'Intelligent chap,' he thought. 'I wonder if he's got any ideas of his own about this…'
'Now, Mr. Argyle, if you'll just run through the sequence of events. You'd had tea?'
'Yes. Tea had been in the dining-room at five o'clock as usual. We were all there for it with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Durrant. Mrs. Durrant took tea for herself and her husband up to their own sitting-room.'
'I was even more of a cripple then than I am now,' said Philip. 'I'd only just got out of hospital.'
'Quite so.' Huish turned back to Leo. 'All of you — being?'
'My wife and myself, my daughter Hester, Miss Vaughan and Miss Lindstrom.'
'And then? Just tell me in your own words.'
'After tea I came back in here with Miss Vaughan. We were at work upon a chapter of my book on Medieval Economics which I was revising. My wife went to her sitting-room and office, which is on the ground floor. She was, as you know, a very busy woman. She was looking over some plans for a new children's play-ground which she was intending to present to the Council here.'
'Did you hear your son Jack's arrival?'
'No. That is, I did not know that it was he. I heard, we both heard, the front-door bell. We did not know who it was.'
'Who did you think it was, Mr. Argyle?' Leo looked faintly amused.
'I was in the fifteenth century at the time, not the twentieth. I didn't think at all. It could have been anybody or anything. My wife and Miss Lindstrom and Hester and possibly one of our daily helps would all be downstairs. Nobody,' said Leo simply, 'ever expected me to answer a bell.'
'After that?'
'Nothing. Until my wife came in a good deal later.'
'How much later?'
Leo frowned.
'By now I really couldn't tell you. I must have given you my estimate at the time. Half an hour — no, more — perhaps three-quarters.'
'We finished tea just after half past five,' said Gwenda. 'I think it was about twenty minutes to seven when Mrs. Argyle came into the library.'
'And she said?'
Leo sighed. He spoke distastefully.
'We have had all this so many times. She said Jacko had been with her, that he was in trouble, that he had been violent and abusive, demanding money and saying that unless he had some money at once it would be a matter of prison. That she had refused definitely to give him a penny. She was worried as to whether she had done right or not.'
'Mr. Argyle, may I ask you a question. Why, when the boy made these demands for money, did your wife not call you? Why only tell you afterwards? Did that not seem odd to you?'
'No, it did not.'
'It seems to me that that would have been the natural thing to do. You were not — on bad terms?'
'Oh no. It was simply that my wife was accustomed to dealing with all practical decisions single-handed. She would often consult me beforehand as to what I thought and she usually discussed the decisions she had taken with me afterwards. In this particular matter she and I had talked very seriously together about the problem of Jacko — what to do for the best. So far, we had been singularly unfortunate in our handling of the boy. She had paid out very considerable sums of money several times to protect him from the consequences of his actions. We had decided
