I
'So locally you've drawn a blank?' said Craddock, offering his cigarette case to Frank Cornish.
'Completely,' said Cornish. 'No enemies, no quarrels, on good terms with her husband.'
'No question of another woman or another man?'
The other shook his head. 'Nothing of that kind. No hint of scandal anywhere. She wasn't what you'd call the sexy kind. She was on a lot of committees and things like that and there were some small local rivalries, but nothing beyond that.'
'There wasn't anyone else the husband wanted to marry? No one in the office where he worked?'
'He's in Biddle Russell, the estate agents and valuers. There's Florrie West with adenoids, and Miss Grundle, who is at least fifty and as plain as a haystack – nothing much there to excite a man. Though for all that I shouldn't be surprised if he did marry again soon.'
Craddock looked interested.
'A neighbour,' explained Cornish. 'A widow. When I went back with him from the inquest she'd gone in and was making him tea and looking after him generally. He seemed surprised and grateful. If you ask me, she's made up her mind to marry him, but he doesn't know it yet, poor chap.'
'What sort of a woman is she?'
'Good looking,' admitted the other. 'Not young but handsome in a gipsyish sort of way. High colour. Dark eyes.'
'What's her name?'
'Bain. Mrs Mary Bain. Mary Bain. She's a widow.'
'What'd her husband do?'
'No idea. She's got a son working near here who lives with her. She seems a quiet, respectable woman. All the same, I've a feeling I've seen her before.' He looked at his watch. 'Ten to twelve. I've made an appointment for you at Gossington Hall at twelve o'clock. We'd best be going.'
II
Dermot Craddock's eyes, which always looked gently inattentive, were in actuality making a close mental note of the features of Gossington Hall. Inspector Cornish had taken him there, had delivered him over to a young man called Harley Preston, and had then taken a tactful leave. Since then, Dermot Craddock had been gently nodding at Mr Preston. Hailey Preston, he gathered, was a kind of public relations or personal assistant, or private secretary, or more likely, a mixture of all three, to Jason Rudd. He talked. He talked freely and at length without much modulation and managing miraculously not to repeat himself too often. He was a pleasant young man, anxious that his own views, reminiscent of those of Dr Pangloss that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, should be shared by anyone in whose company he happened to be. He said several times and in different ways what a terrible shame this had been, how worried everyone had been, how Marina was absolutely prostrated, how Mr Rudd was more upset than he could possibly say, how it absolutely beat anything that a thing like that should happen, didn't it? Possibly there might have been some kind of allergy to some particular kind of substance? He just put that forward as an idea – allergies were extraordinary things. Chief-Inspector Craddock was to count on every possible cooperation that Hellingforth Studios or any of their staff could give. He was to ask any questions he wanted, go anywhere he liked. If they could help in any way they would do so. They all had had the greatest respect for Mrs Badcock and appreciated her strong social sense and the valuable work she had done for the St John Ambulance Association.
He then started again, not in the same words but using the same motifs. No one could have been more eagerly co-operative. At the same time he endeavoured to convey how very far this was from the cellophane world of studios; and Mr Jason Rudd and Miss Marina Gregg, or any of the people in the house who surely were going to do their utmost to help in any way they possibly could. Then he nodded gently some forty-four times. Dermot Craddock took advantage of the pause to say:
'Thank you very much.'
It was said quietly but with a kind of finality that brought Mr Hailey Preston up with a jerk. He said:
'Well -' and paused inquiringly. 'You said I might ask questions?'
'Sure. Sure. Fire ahead.'
'Is this the place where she died?'
'Mrs Badcock?'
'Mrs Badcock. Is this the place?'
'Yes, sure. Right here. At least, well actually I can show you the chair.'
They were standing on the landing recess. Hailey Preston walked a short way along the corridor and pointed out a rather phony-looking oak armchair.
'She was sitting right there,' he said. 'She said she didn't feel well. Someone went to get her something, and then she just died, right there.'
'I see.'
'I don't know if she'd seen a physician lately. If she'd been warned that she had anything wrong with her heart '
'She had nothing wrong with her heart,' said Dermot Craddock. 'She was a healthy woman. She died of six times the maximum dose of a substance whose official name I will not try to pronounce but which I understand is generally known as Calmo.'
'I know, I know,' said Hailey Preston. 'I take it myself sometimes.'
'Indeed? That's very interesting. You find it has a good effect?'
'Marvellous. Marvellous. It bucks you up and it soothes you down, if you understand what I mean. Naturally,' he added, 'you would have to take it in the proper dosage.'
'Would there be supplies of this substance in the house?'
He knew the answer to the question, but he put it as though he did not. Hailey Preston's answer was frankness itself.
'Loads of it, I should say. There'll be a bottle of it in most of the bathroom cupboards here.'
'Which doesn't make our task easier.'
'Of course,' said Hailey Preston, 'she might have used the stuff herself and taken a dose, and as I say, had an allergy.'
Craddock looked unconvinced – Hailey Preston sighed and said:
'You're quite definite about the dosage?'
'Oh yes. It was a lethal dose and Mrs Badcock did not take any such things herself. As far as we can make out the only things she ever took were bicarbonate of soda or aspirin.'
Hailey Preston shook his head and said, 'That sure gives us a problem. Yes, it sure does.'
'Where did Mr Rudd and Miss Gregg receive their guests?'
'Right here.' Harley Preston went to the spot at the top of the stairs.
Chief-Inspector Craddock stood beside him. He looked at the wall opposite him. In the centre was an Italian Madonna and child. A good copy, he presumed, of some well-known picture. The blue-robed Madonna held aloft the infant Jesus and both child and mother were laughing. Little groups of people stood on either side, their eyes upraised to the child. One of the more pleasing Madonnas, Dermot Craddock thought. To the right and left of this picture were two narrow windows. The whole effect was very charming but it seemed to him that there was emphatically nothing there that would cause a woman to look like the Lady of Shalott whose doom had come upon her.
'People, of course, were coming up the stairs?' he asked.
'Yes. They came in driblets, you know. Not too many at once. I shepherded up some, Ella Zielinsky, that's Mr
