Yes, I think she did some secretarial work for him. He was writing his memoirs of his career in India–I believe commissioned by a publisher at that–and she used to take dictation from him. But some people said–well, you know what they do say sometimes, that perhaps he had got–er–tied up with this girl in some way. She wasn’t very young. She was over thirty, and not very good-looking and I don’t think– there were no scandals about her or anything, but still, one doesn’t know. People thought he might have shot his wife because he wanted to–well, he might have wanted to marry her, yes. But I don’t really think people said that sort of thing and I never believed it.” “What did you think?” “Well, of course I wondered a little about her.” “You mean that a man was mentioned?” “I believe there was something out in Malaya. Some kind of story I heard about her. That she got embroiled with some young man much younger than herself. And her husband hadn’t liked it much and it had caused a bit of scandal. I forget where. But anyway, that was a long time ago and I don’t think anything ever came of it.” “You don’t think there was any talk nearer home? No special relationship with anyone in the neighborhood? There wasn’t any evidence of quarrels between them, or anything of that kind?” “No, I don’t think so. Of course I read everything about it at the time. One did discuss it, of course, because one couldn’t help feeling there might be some—well, some really very tragic love story connected with it.” “But there wasn’t, you think? They had children, didn’t they? There was my goddaughter, of course.” “Oh, yes, and there was a son. I think he was quite young, At school somewhere. The girl was only twelve, no—older than that. She was with a family in Switzerland.” “There was no—no mental trouble, I suppose, in the family?” “Oh, you mean the boy—yes, might be, of course. You do hear very strange things. There was that boy who shot his father—that was somewhere near Newcastle, I think. Some years before that. You know. He’d been very depressed and at first I think they said he tried to hang himself when he was at the university, and then he came and shot his father. But nobody quite knew why. Anyway, there wasn’t anything of that sort with the Ravenscrofts. No, I don’t think so, in fact, I’m pretty sure of it. I can’t help thinking, in some ways—” “Yes, Julia?” “I can’t help thinking that there might have been a man, you know.” “You mean that she—?” “Yes, well—well, one thinks it rather likely, you know. The wigs, for one thing.” “I don’t quite see how the wigs come into it.” “Well, wanting to improve her appearance.” “She was thirty-five, I think.” “More. More. Thirty-six, I think. And, well, I know she showed me the wigs one day, and one or two of them really made her look quite attractive. And she used a good deal of make-up. And that had all started just after they had come to live there, I think. She was rather a good-looking woman.” “You mean, she might have met someone—some man?” “Well, that’s what I’ve always thought,” said Mrs. Carstairs.
“You see, if a man’s getting off with a girl, people notice it usually because men aren’t so good at hiding their tracks. But a woman, it might be–well, I mean like someone she’d met and nobody knew much about it.” “Oh, do you really think so, Julia?” “No, I don’t really think so,” said Julia, “because I mean, people always do know, don’t they? I mean, you know, servants know, or gardeners or bus drivers. Or somebody in the neighborhood. And they know. And they talk. But still, there could have been something like that and either he found out about it…” “You mean it was a crime of jealousy?” “I think so, yes.” “So you think it’s more likely that he shot her, then himself, than that she shot him and then herself.” “Well, I should think so, because I think if she were trying to get rid of him–well, I don’t think they’d have gone for a walk together and she’d have to have taken the revolver with her in a handbag and it would have been rather a bigger handbag if so. One has to think of the practical side of things.” “I know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “One does. It’s very interesting.” “It must be interesting to you, dear, because you write these crime stories. So I expect really you would have better ideas. You’d know more what’s likely to happen.” “I don’t know what’s likely to happen,” said Mrs. Oliver, “because, you see, in all the crimes that I write, I’ve invented the crimes. I mean, what I want to happen, happens in my stories. It’s not something that actually has happened or that could happen. So I’m really the worst person to talk about it.