“Had there been any altercation between them?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think, as I say, she just laughed it off as usual.”
“You can’t say definitely whether she had a knife in her hand or not?”
“I can’t remember. I’m almost sure she didn’t. In fact quite sure she didn’t.”
“But you said just now . . .”
“Look here, what I meant was that if she was in the dining room or in the kitchen it’s quite likely she might have picked up a knife or had one in her hand. Matter of fact I can remember quite well, she came in from the dining room and she had nothing in her hand. Nothing at all. That’s definite.”
“I see,” said Weston.
Tim looked at him uneasily.
“What on earth is this you’re getting at? What did that damn. fool Enrico—Manuel—whichever it was—say?”
“He said your wife came out into the kitchen, that she looked upset, that she had a knife in her hand.”
“He’s just dramatising.”
“Did you have any further conversation with your wife during dinner or after?”
“No, I don’t think I did really. Matter of fact I was rather busy.”
“Was your wife in the dining room during the meal?”
“I—oh—yes, we always move about among the guests and things like that. See how things are going on.”
“Did you speak to her at all?”
“No, I don’t think I did . . . We’re usually fairly busy. We don’t always notice what the other one’s doing and we certainly haven’t got time to talk to each other.”
“Actually you don’t remember speaking to her until she came up the steps three hours later, after finding the body?”
“It was an awful shock for her. It upset her terribly.”
“I know. A very unpleasant experience. How did she come to be walking along the beach path?”
“After the stress of dinner being served, she often does go for a turn. You know, get away from the guests for a minute or two, get a breather.”
“When she came back, I understand you were talking to Mrs. Hillingdon.”
“Yes. Practically everyone else had gone to bed.”
“What was the subject of your conversation with Mrs. Hillingdon?”
“Nothing particular. Why? What’s she been saying?”
“So far she hasn’t said anything. We haven’t asked her.”
“We were just talking of this and that. Molly, the hotel running, and one thing and another.”
“And then your wife came up the steps of the terrace and told you what had happened?”
“Yes.”
“There was blood on her hands?”
“Of course there was! She’d bent over the girl, tried to lift her, couldn’t understand what had happened, what was the matter with her. Of course there was blood on her hands! Look here, what the hell are you suggesting? You are suggesting something?”
“Please calm down,” said Daventry.
“It’s all a great strain on you I know, Tim, but we have to get the facts clear. I understand your wife hasn’t been feeling very well lately?”
“Nonsense—she’s all right. Major Palgrave’s death upset her a bit. Naturally. She’s a sensitive girl.”
“We shall have to ask her a few questions as soon as she’s fit enough,” said Weston.
“Well, you can’t now. The doctor gave her a sedative and said she wasn’t to be disturbed. I won’t have her upset and browbeaten, d’you hear?”
“We’re not going to do any browbeating,” said Weston. “We’ve just got to get the facts clear. We won’t disturb her at present, but as soon as the doctor allows us, we’ll have to see her.” His voice was gentle—inflexible.
Tim looked at him, opened his mouth, but said nothing.
II
Evelyn Hillingdon, calm and composed as usual, sat down in the chair indicated. She considered the few questions asked her, taking her time over it. Her dark, intelligent eyes looked at Weston thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she said, “I was talking to Mr. Kendal on the terrace when his wife came up the steps and told us about the murder.”
“Your husband wasn’t there?”
“No, he had gone to bed.”
“Had you any special reason for your conversation with Mr. Kendal?”
Evelyn raised her finely pencilled eyebrows. It was a definite rebuke.