Do you think it’s my duty?” Valerie laughed.
“Bad luck, Jean,” she said. “As a matter of fact, T believe there’s a quite simple explanation. Pat told me. Nigel came into some money, or something, on condition that he changed his name.
He did it perfectly properly by deed poll or whatever it is, but that’s all it is. I believe his original name was Stanfield or Stanley or something like that.” “Oh?” Jean looked thoroughly chagrined.
“Ask Pat about it if you don’t believe me,” said Valerie.
“Oh-no-well, if it’s as you say, I must have made a mistake.” “Better luck next time,” said Valerie.
“I don’t know what you mean, Valerie.” “You like to get your knife into Nigel, wouldn’t you?
And get him in wrong with the police?” Jean drew herself up.
“You may not believe me, Valerie,” she said, “but all I wanted to do was my duty.” “Oh, hell!” said Valerie.
She left the room.
There was a tap at the door and Sally entered.
“What’s the matter, Valerie? You’re looking a bit down in the mouth.” “It’s that disgusting Jean. She really is too awful!
You don’t think, do you, that there’s the remotest chance it was Jean that bumped off poor Celia? I should rejoice madly if I ever saw Jean in the dock.” “I’m with you there,” said Sally. “But I don’t think it’s particularly likely. I don’t think Jean would ever stick her neck out enough to murder anybody.” “What do you think about Mrs. flick?” “I just don’t know what to think. I suppose we shall hear soon.” “I’d say ten to one she was bumped off, too,” said Valerie.
“But why? What’s going on here?” said Sally.
“I wish I knew. Sally, do you ever find yourself looking at people?” “What do you mean, Val, looking at people?” “Well, looking and wondering, ‘is it you?” I’ve got a feeling, Sally, that there’s someone here who’s mad. Really mad. Bad mad, I mearmot just thinking they’re a cucumber.” “That may well be,” said Sally. She shivered.
“Ouch!” she said. “Somebody’s walking over my grave.” “Nigel, I’ve got something I must tell you.” “Well, what is it, Pat?” Nigel was burrowing frantically in his chest of drawers. “What the hell I did with those notes of mine I can’t imagine. I shoved them in here, I thought.” “Oh, Nigel, don’t scrabble like that! You leave everything in such a frightful mess and I’ve just tidied it.,) “Well, what comthe hell, I’ve got to find my notes, haven’t I?” “Nigel, you must listen!” “O K., Pat, don’t look so desperate.
What is it?” “It’s something I’ve got to confess.” “Not murder, I hope?” said Nigel with his usual flippancy.
“No, of course not!” “Good. Well, what lesser sin?” “It was one day when I mended your socks and I brought them along here to your room and was putting them away in your drawer. .
“Yes?” “And the bottle of morphia was there. The one you told me about, that you got from the hospital.” “Yes, and you made such a fuss about it!” “But Nigel, it was there in your drawer among your socks, where anybody could have found it.” “Why should they? Nobody else goes routing about among my socks except you.” “Well, it seemed to me dreadful to leave it about like that, and I know you’d said you were going to get rid of it after you’d won your bet, but in the meantime there it was, still there.” “Of course. I hadn’t got the third thing yet.” “Well, I thought it was very wrong, and so I took the bottle out of the drawer and I emptied the poison out of it, and I replaced it with some ordinary bicarbonate of soda. It looked almost exactly the same.” Nigel paused in his scramble for his lost notes.
“Good Lord!” he said. “Did you really? You mean that when I was swearing to Len and old Colin that the stuff was morphine sulphate or tartrate or whatever it was, it was merely bicarbonate of soda all the time?” “Yes. You see. . .” Nigel interrupted her. He was frowning.