'What about you, Mr Farraday?'
'I think I know probably less about Browne than my wife does. She at any rate has danced with him. He seems a likeable chap – American, I believe.'
'Would you say from observation at the time that he was on special terms of intimacy with Mrs Barton?'
'I have absolutely no knowledge on that point, Chief Inspector.'
'I am simply asking you for your impression, Mr Farraday.'
Stephen frowned.
'They were friendly – that is all I can say.'
'And you, Lady Alexandra?'
'Simply my impression, Chief Inspector?'
'Simply your impression.'
'Then, for what it is worth, I did form the impression that they knew each other well and were on intimate terms. Simply, you understand, from the way they looked at each other – I have no concrete evidence.'
'Ladies have often very good judgment on these matters,' said Kemp. That somewhat fatuous smile with which he delivered this remark would have amused Colonel Race if he had been present. 'Now, what about Miss Lessing, Lady Alexandra?'
'Miss Lessing, I understand, was Mr Barton's secretary. I met her for the first time on the evening that Mrs Barton died. After that I met her once when she was staying down in the country, and last night.'
'If I may ask you another informal question, did you form the impression that she was in love with George Barton?'
'I really haven't the least idea.'
'Then we'll come to the events of last night.'
He questioned both Stephen and his wife minutely on the course of the tragic evening. He had not hoped for much from this, and all he got was confirmation of what he had already been told. All accounts agreed on the important points – Barton had proposed a toast to Iris, had drunk it and immediately afterwards had got up to dance. They had all left the table together and George and Iris had been the first to return to it. Neither of them had any explanation to offer as to the empty chair except that George Barton had distinctly said that he was expecting a friend of his, a Colonel Race, to occupy it later in the evening – a statement which, as the inspector knew, could not possibly be the truth. Sandra Farraday said, and her husband agreed, that when the lights went up after the cabaret, George had stared at the empty chair in a peculiar manner and had for some moments seemed so absent-minded as not to hear what was said to him – then he had rallied himself and proposed Iris's health.
The only item that the Chief Inspector could count as an addition to his knowledge, was Sandra's account of her conversation with George at Fairhaven – and his plea that she and her husband would collaborate with him over this party for Iris's sake.
It was a reasonably plausible pretext, the Chief Inspector thought, though not the true one. Closing his notebook in which he had jotted down one or two hieroglyphics, he rose to his feet.
'I'm very grateful to you, my lord, and to Mr Farraday and Lady Alexandra for your help and collaboration.'
'Will my daughter's presence be required at the inquest?'
'The proceedings will be purely formal on this occasion. Evidence of identification and the medical evidence will be taken and the inquest will then be adjourned for a week. By then,' said the Chief Inspector, his tone changing slightly, 'we shall, I hope, be further on.'
He turned to Stephen Farraday: 'By the way, Mr Farraday, there are one or two small points where I think you could help me. No need to trouble Lady Alexandra. If you will give me a ring at the Yard, we can settle a time that will suit you. You are, I know, a busy man.'
It was pleasantly said, with an air of casualness, but on three pairs of ears the words fell with deliberate meaning.
With an air of friendly cooperation Stephen managed to say:
'Certainly, Chief Inspector.' Then he looked at his watch and murmured: 'I must go along to the House.'
When Stephen had hurried off, and the Chief Inspector had likewise departed. Lord Kidderminster turned to his daughter and asked a question with no beating about the bush.
'Had Stephen been having an affair with that woman?'
There was a split second of a pause before his daughter answered.
'Of course not. I should have known it if he had. And anyway, Stephen's not that kind.'
'Now, look here, my dear, no good laying your ears back and digging your hoofs in. These things are bound to come out. We want to know where we are in this business.'
'Rosemary Barton was a friend of that man, Anthony Browne. They went about everywhere together.'
'Well,' said Lord Kidderminster slowly. 'You should know.'
He did not believe his daughter. His face, as he went slowly out of the room, was grey and perplexed. He went upstairs to his wife's sitting-room. He had vetoed her presence in the library, knowing too well that her arrogant methods were apt to arouse antagonism and at this juncture he felt it vital that relations with the official police should be harmonious.
'Well?' said Lady Kidderminster. 'How did it go off?'
'Quite well on the face of it,' said Lord Kidderminster slowly. 'Kemp is a courteous fellow – very pleasant in his manner – he handled the whole thing with tact – just a little too much tact for my fancy.'
'It's serious, then?'
'Yes, it's serious. We should never have let Sandra marry that fellow, Vicky.'
'That's what I said.'
'Yes – yes…' He acknowledged her claim. 'You were right – and I was wrong. But, mind you, she would have had him anyway. You can't turn Sandra when her mind is fixed on a thing. Her meeting Farraday was a disaster – a man of whose antecedents and ancestors we know nothing. When a crisis comes how does one know how a man like that will react?'
'I see,' said Lady Kidderminster. 'You think, we've taken a murderer into the family?'
'I don't know. I don't want to condemn the fellow offhand – but it's what the police think – and they're pretty shrewd. He had an affair with this Barton woman – that's plain enough. Either she committed suicide on his account, or else he – Well, whatever happened, Barton got wise to it and was heading for an expose and scandal. I suppose Stephen simply couldn't take it – and –'
'Poisoned him?'
'Yes.'
Lady Kidderminster shook her head.
'I don't agree with you.'
'I hope you're right. But somebody poisoned him.'
'If you ask me,' said Lady Kidderminster, 'Stephen simply wouldn't have the nerve to do a thing like that.'
'He's in deadly earnest about his career – he's got great gifts, you know, and the makings of a true statesman. You can't say what anyone will do when they're forced into a corner.'
His wife still shook her head.
'I still say he hasn't got the nerve. You want someone who's a gambler and capable of being reckless. I'm afraid, William, I'm horribly afraid.'
He stared at her. 'Are you suggesting that Sandra – Sandra –?'
'I hate even to suggest such a thing – but it's no use being cowardly and refusing to face possibilities. She's besotted about that man – she always has been – and there's a queer streak in Sandra. I've never really understood her – but I've always been afraid for her. She'd risk anything – anything – for Stephen. Without counting the cost. And if she's been mad enough and wicked enough to do this thing, she's got to be protected.'
'Protected? What do you mean – protected?'
'By you. We've got to do something about our own daughter, haven't we? Mercifully you can pull any amount of strings.'
Lord Kidderminster was staring at her. Though he had thought he knew his wife's character well, he was nevertheless appalled at the force and courage of her realism – at her refusal to blink at unpalatable facts – and
