“I oughtn’t to have mentioned that. Of course, I don’t want her found guilty if she isn’t really.”
“All right. I won’t ask questions. And I’ll try and see Ann. But I won’t try to worm anything out of her. That’s definite. I’m standing by Ann.”
“My dear girl,” said Wimsey, “you’re not keeping an open mind. You think she did it.”
Marjorie Phelps flushed.
“I don’t. Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re so anxious not to worm anything out of her. Worming couldn’t hurt an innocent person.”
“Peter Wimsey! You sit there, looking a perfectly well-bred imbecile, and then in the most underhand way you twist people into doing things they ought to blush for. No wonder you detect things. I will not do your worming for you!”
“Well, if you don’t, I shall know your opinion, shan’t I?”
The girl was silent for a moment. Then she said: “It’s all so beastly.”
“Poisoning is a beastly crime, don’t you think?” said Wimsey.
He got up quickly. Father Whittington was approaching, with Penberthy.
“Well,” said Lord Peter, “have the altars reeled?”
“Dr. Penberthy has just informed me that they haven’t a leg to stand on,” replied the priest, smiling. “We have been spending a pleasant quarter of an hour abolishing good and evil. Unhappily, I understand his dogma as little as he understands mine. But I exercised myself in Christian humility. I said I was willing to learn.”
Penberthy laughed.
“You don’t object, then, to my casting out devils with a syringe,” he said, “when they have proved obdurate to prayer and fasting?”
“Not at all. Why should I? So long as they are cast out. And provided you are certain of your diagnosis.”
Penberthy crimsoned and turned away sharply.
“Oh, lord!” said Wimsey. “That was a nasty one. From a Christian priest, too!”
“What have I said?” cried Father Whittington, much disconcerted.
“You have reminded Science,” said Wimsey, “that only the Pope is infallible.”
Chapter XVII
Parker Plays a Hand
“Now, Mrs. Mitcham,” said Inspector Parker, affably. He was always saying “Now, Mrs. Somebody,” and he always remembered to say it affably. It was part of the routine.
The late Lady Dormer’s housekeeper bowed frigidly, to indicate that she would submit to questioning.
“We want just to get the exact details of every little thing that happened to General Fentiman the day before he was found dead. I am sure you will help us. Do you recollect exactly what time he got here?”
“It would be round about a quarter to four — not later; I am sure I could not say exactly to the minute.”
“Who let him in?”
“The footman.”
“Did you see him then?”
“Yes; he was shown into the drawing-room, and I came down to him and brought him upstairs to her ladyship’s bedroom.”
“Miss Dorland did not see him then?”
“No; she was sitting with her ladyship. She sent her excuses by me, and begged General Fentiman to come up.”
“Did the General seem quite well when you saw him?”
“So far as I could say he seemed well — always bearing in mind that he was a very old gentleman and had heard bad news.”
“He was not bluish about the lips, or breathing very heavily, or anything of that kind?”
“Well, going up the stairs tried him rather.”
“Yes, of course it would.”
“He stood still on the landing for a few minutes to get his breath. I asked him whether he would like to take something, but he said no, he was all right.”
“Ah! I daresay it would have been a good thing if he had accepted your very wise suggestion, Mrs. Mitcham.”
“No doubt he knew best,” replied the housekeeper, primly. She considered that in making observations the policeman was stepping out of his sphere.
“And then you showed him in. Did you witness the meeting between himself and Lady Dormer?”
“I did not” (emphatically). “Miss Dorland got up and said ‘How do you do, General Fentiman?’ and shook hands with him, and then I left the room, as it was my place to do.”
“Just so. Was Miss Dorland alone with Lady Dormer when General Fentiman was announced?”
“Oh, no — the nurse was there.”
“The nurse — yes, of course. Did Miss Dorland and the nurse stay in the room all the time that the General was there?”
“No. Miss Dorland came out again in about five minutes and came downstairs. She came to me in the housekeeper’s room, and she looked rather sad. She said, ‘Poor old dears,’—just like that.”
“Did she say any more?”
“She said: ‘They quarrelled, Mrs. Mitcham, ages and ages ago, when they were quite young, and they’ve never seen each other since.’ Of course, I was aware of that, having been with her ladyship all these years, and so was Miss Dorland.”
“I expect it would seem very pitiful to a young lady like Miss Dorland?”