Page 70 of Evidence of Evil
“Shall we give up looking and start thinking?”
“We can’t do any worse that we have so far.”
*
Dinner at TheWillows was another slightly tense affair, so Constance decided to ask questions.
She addressed Sir Humphrey. “I don’t suppose you know if Sarah Phelps happens to have had any sick animals recently?”
He let out a crack of laughter. “I shouldn’t think they’d dare. Certainly, I’ve never known any to die, not even her chickens.”
“She cares for them religiously,” Elizabeth put in.
“Then why do you suppose she sleeps in her barn?” Constance asked.
“Carrying eccentricity too far,” Humphrey said. He scowled. “No wonder she’s got a bad chest. Dr. Murray went up to see her today, said she was wheezing like a…whatever it is that wheezes badly.”
“Did she let him treat her?” Elizabeth asked in surprise.
“Lord, no, sent him away with a flea in his ear. She only ever tolerates Laing, so I don’t know why Murray even bothered. But with luck she’ll stop sleeping in the barn!”
“Why would she sleep there, anyway?” Elizabeth asked. “It’s only a step to her cozy little cottage, and it must be chilly in the barn by this time of year.”
It was another nagging, annoying little mystery, but Constance couldn’t see how it affected the main issue of who had killed Frances and put her body in the lake. She meant to spend the evening writing down everything they knew and trying to make sense of it. At first, she had been too eager to absolve Elizabeth, and then she had become too absorbed in the cruelty and tragedy that was Frances’s life to see what must surely be under her nose.
However, the evening turned out quite differently. She and Elizabeth withdrew as usual, leaving the gentlemen to their port. But before she could excuse herself—she was itching now to begin—sounds of disturbance issued from the hall.
“What now?” Elizabeth groaned.
The butler appeared, stiff with outrage. “My lady, the policemen are here again. They seem to imagine you will see them at this time of the evening.”
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, panic flitting across her face. “I suppose you had better show them in.”
“Inhere, my lady?” He seemed even more scandalized by this sacrilege.
“The sooner they’re dealt with, the sooner we may be rid of them,” Elizabeth said, straightening her shoulder. “Show them in, Manson.”
“Perhaps,” Constance intervened, “he should also inform Sir Humphrey?”
A flash of fear crowded into Elizabeth’s eyes, as though she didn’t really want him there, but some instinct told Constance they might need his forceful presence.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said huskily, “do that too, Manson.”
“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed.
Hastily, Constance moved to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa, giving her hand a quick squeeze for strength.
“The police, my lady,” Manson announced with clear distaste, not even troubling with their names.
Inspector Omand eased into the room almost apologetically. But Constable Napier, hard on his heels, positively strode in, passing his superior and issuing a curt bow that was more of a disdainful nod.
“Inspector,” Elizabeth said graciously, wisely ignoring the underling.
“Forgive the intrusion, Lady Maule,” Omand said, bowing with more respect than grace. The constable cast him a glance of contempt. “But new information has come to light, and we are obliged to ask you a few more questions.”
“Please, sit,” Elizabeth said distantly, indicating the solitary chair opposite the sofa.
It was a clever move, establishing her superiority and excluding the mere constable from their circle simply by the placement of chairs. But as Inspector Omand sat, Constable Napier picked up an upright chair and carried it across the room to sit beside his superior.
